He took that reading and tried to turn it into control. When a dome network spread from one district to the next, he counted the visual intervals. When a transit spine branched to a new cluster, he marked the shift. When orbital density jumped, he recalculated again. His fingers flew, but this time there was method under the speed. Brake at the next infrastructure threshold. Wait for response. Trim anchor. Compensate for lag. Then brake again.

The machine answered with a deep metallic scream.

Every bolt in the cradle seemed to vibrate at once. The controls went heavy in his hands, then loose. One display cracked in a bright spiderweb and sprayed him with glass dust. He threw up an arm, blinked through it, and saw the outside image lurch. The city dropped away into such speed that fixed shapes became color fields: green, white, dark silver, blue water, dark again. His careful marker sequence collapsed in an instant.

"No," he said, and this time there was nothing precise in it. "No, no—"

The failed deceleration did not slow the machine. It kicked him deeper into the future, like missing a step in the dark and finding nothing underfoot.

The force shoved him hard into the back of the seat. His cut knuckle split wider where it struck the edge of the console. Blood slicked his fingers. His ears filled with a high thin whine from the overloaded field rails. Observation. That was all he had left now. Watch. Endure. Hope something broke before he ran past any era that still had an Earth.

He would die with proof in front of him and no witness to carry it.