"How many?"

She passes the telescope back to Roben. "I count at least fifty."

He swears. "We'll have to move on."

They are hiding in the tower of the corn exchange building; one of few standing structures that remain. The Neverwere mill below; ephemeral and colourless, like glass blown crudely into the shape of men.

"Are they really so dangerous?" With the sun streaming through them, they look almost beautiful.

Roben shudders. "They're harmless enough, but when you get a big group of them like this it creates an instability. A time slip is inevitable. I don't want to lose the others."

His words bring her to her senses: Kastral is waiting back at camp. They hurry down the broken staircase; the rope that ties them together is pulled tight.

"It's a shame," Roben breathes. "It was useful having the well water."

"We'll manage," she says shortly, never one for crying over what could have been. She is about to open the broken door at the base of the tower when the howl goes up. All the hairs on the back of her neck rise in time with the ululation. The colour has drained from Roben's face, the whites of his eyes showing. He puts a finger to his lips, not daring to speak. His terror is clue enough as to the source of the sound.

A Meanwhile.

She gestures with two fingers. Stay here?

He shakes his head. Run, he signs; two fingers as feet. He crosses his hands twice: T. T.

The tunnel. It's almost three kilometres away. She wonders how fast Meanwhile can run.

Roben holds up three fingers, draws a breath and counts down the digits. Two. One.

He opens the door soundlessly and they run. They are evenly matched, the line between them loose as they race down what used to be the main street of town. Around the first corner a group of Neverwere twinkle in the midday sun. She falls in behind Roben, before the rope snares the unsuspecting dead.

Perhaps that's not the right way to think of them; as dead. Can something without a beginning be truly said to have an end? But the fact of their existence here makes her wary of considering them lightly. If they truly never were, why do their glassy echoes cast shadows in her world? Why do they mass on the edges and fault lines of the temporal plates, drawn to the chronodyne energy like plants leaning towards the sun?

They turn another corner and Roben skids to a halt; she almost clatters into the back of him. The Meanwhile is standing at the end of the former street, facing away from them. Roben jinks sideways, down an old alleyway, but it is too late. The Meanwhile turns. It looks Gallifreyan; normal enough, although there is something unsettling about the eyes.

I know you, she thinks, as the rope bites into her hips. She is almost pulled off her feet; Roben has not stopped, she must run or be dragged. Remembering herself, she sprints after him once again.

"Did it see you?" he gasps, as they dodge and weave through the ruined town.

"I don't know, I think so," she manages. She glances back over her shoulder, and almost screams. "Yes!"

He risks a look back too, something in her yelp compelling him. The Meanwhile is running after them, footfalls silent on the sand, unbelievably fast. There is blood around its mouth, she realises. She finds another gear somewhere; rockets after Roben.

The gap between them is closing as they race out of town. Ten feet, eight, seven. Her lungs are burning and sweat is running into her eyes, but she keeps up the blistering pace. Head down, arms pumping. Trying and failing not to lose valuable seconds by glancing behind. Five feet. Four. It can almost touch

The buzz of an engine sounds; mosquito whine over the ragged gasp of her breathing. She runs on, not daring to hope for rescue, even as the sound drones closer.

Over the crest of the sandy hill they appear, swift dark shapes on anti-grav speeders. The sort they used to laugh about the teenagers driving, before the war. Now they can mean survival; a precious resource those in the wasteland will kill and die for. Their appearance does not spell salvation.

The lead rider whistles, an ear-splitting sound, and the three riders move out of formation. The first is headed straight for them, curving down the mound of the hill. There is a razored lance lashed to the front of the AG, red with rust, aiming to strike. Sen has nothing left to give. She closes her eyes as she sprints on, awaiting the inevitable crunch of collision.

She hears the sickening wet noise of metal tearing into flesh; the animal howl, but it is not given from her throat. They have speared the Meanwhile. She staggers, running into the returning Roben. He clutches her instinctively as the second rider swings his scythe with murderous efficiency, brutally decapitating their pursuer.

The riders kill their engines and dismount. Roben is shaking under her hands, neither of them quite able to speak yet. The lead killer removes her helmet, shaking loose shoulder length red hair. "Do not fear, travellers!" she calls commandingly. "We mean you no harm."

She is well armoured as well as armed; black bodysuit crackling with occasional sparks of blue static. A personal shield. The breastplate has been hand-painted with a symbol of some kind; a red fist on a white shield.

Instinctively Roben and Sen place their hands behind their heads; the universal signal of submission. "We aren't armed," Roben manages, still winded. "You can take our canteens but water is all we have-"

"I said do not fear," repeats the woman, a touch softer as she swaggers close. "I meant it. We're not here to rob you."

"Who are you?" Perhaps the question is rude, but Sen has no patience for niceties these days. The world is ended; manners can go to hell with the rest of it.

"My name is Kamel," says the rider. "We are Outriders of the King. You are welcome to return with us to the citadel. There is plenty of water there; food and shelter too."

"That you would share?" Sen scoffs.

Kamel grins, teeth white against the grime of her face. "Believe it or not, sister, we have surplus."

"Thank you, Outrider," says Roben quietly, ever the peacemaker. "We are grateful for your rescue. But we do not desire to serve under the King."

Kamel looks genuinely taken aback by this, but bows her head. "Your choice, travellers. I wish you luck on your journey. Though I pray your end is close at hand; this is not the first Meanwhile we have seen on the hunt today."

"We are not far from home," Roben replies evenly.

"Good. Fare well." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out two red discs; coins that also bear the mark of the clenched hand on her chest. "If you should change your mind and find yourself near the Citadel in future, these tokens should grant you safe passage. My offer of sanctuary still stands."

It is Roben's turn to bow deeply. Sen follows suit, although her neck itches as she bares it to the silent scythe-wielder. She stands again, miraculously whole, and they watch the Outriders re-saddle. They zip away in cloud of dust and growling engine. Roben pockets the red coins.

"What in the name of Rassilon's tits was that about?" Sen spits, when they are mere specks on the horizon.

Roben snorts. "They sound pretentious but the citadel is pretty impressive."

"So what's the catch?" She falls in to step alongside him as they make their back home, to the tunnel.

"What do you mean?"

"If it's so great, why did you say no?"

He shrugs. "I don't think things work out well. I found the citadel, a few months after lifeboat day, from my perspective. Didn't get very far inside but it was clear their plate had travelled a lot further than mine. They'd been surviving there for years. Had hydroponics working, even. I was going to sign up as an Outrider… and then I found this when I went back to my tent to pack."

He reaches into his ragged pack and pulls out a folded strip of cloth. There are words on it, gobbledygook as far as she is concerned.

"What is it?"

"It's a code. One I made up, a long time ago, with my sister."

"What does it say?"

"Under no circumstances should you pledge fealty to the King. Your life depends on it. Trust me on this."

"… She wrote this?"

He shakes his head. "Unlikely. I buried her three weeks after Lifeboat Day."

"Damn it, Roben, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he lies. "Anyway, I assume at some point I'm going to teach that code to someone else; they'll end up in my past and pass the message on." He cannot quite conceal the naked hope he feels at this imagined scenario. She bites her lip, considering her words. Roben has gambled his life on this garbled nonsense; if the timeline deviates even a little events will unfold differently and he might become Neverwere. All the scruffy survivors of the tunnel he has helped to keep alive undone in an instant, turned to colourless glass.

Or worse.

"I have a feeling that it might be someday soon," she says carefully.

"Oh?"

"Yes," she continues, banging on the tunnel hatch to signal their return. "Because that note is written in my hand-writing."