He had been late. Three minutes late because the water pumps in the Lower Tiers had failed, and a man had to choose: save his son’s flower or save his son’s life.
The inner hangar of the Strafgericht opened like a steel jaw. And there he was. Colonel Koldy, the architect of the chrono-dilation. Sitting in a custom-built mech shaped like a ticking pocket watch, each hand a plasma blade. sine mora nsp
“Bonto,” Koldy’s voice was a grandfather clock’s chime. “You’ve used the NSP 147 times. Do you know what that means? You have lived 147 extra deaths. And each time, you have forgotten a little more of the love that made you angry. You are no longer a father. You are a loop . A broken gear.” He had been late