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Deceleration Syndrome ... otherwise known as the jarring impact at the bottom of a free fall. Everyone knew a drop didn't kill you.
    The sudden stop at the end though, that tended to send you off to meet your maker. "You'll process the scene up here while we're dealing with all that?"
    "Yep," she looked back over the open rock face and off into the pines. "As much as I can."
    "Good." I'd had my fill with looking at Anya. Plus, I knew that soon my view would be up close and personal. I turned and headed toward Kabe, who'd hung back a ways. "Now," I jabbed my finger at his chest, "I don't want you to do nothing." I slid my Berghaus Arete Pack off my shoulders. "I don't want you to touch nothing." Lighter versions flooded the market, but I liked this one 'cause it balanced a damn decent capacity with a real rugged exterior. Given all the gear I needed for a rescue—my climbing harness, rope—lots of rope—various carabiners, camming devices and wired stoppers ... it wasn't someplace I wanted to skimp. "I just want someone with experience and both hands to have my back." A derisive grunt was all my instruction seemed to merit. While I, and I'm pretty darn sure Kabe, could have 44

    Hard Fall
    by James Buchanan
    taken this wall with chalk and finger holes, body recovery ain't for the grins.
    I shucked my shirt, stuffing down the momentary welling of panic as my undershirt became visible. There's big sins, small sins and ones that are there only because we need to remind ourselves that we're different, have a covenant with the Church to be honored. And I know it don't rightly make sense, I'm lusting after a man's meat and worried about a shirt. But it's drilled into you from the time you're taken in as an adult into the Temple— don't show it at all . Never, not even the sleeves, not the edge of the neck under your shirt. Like a horse that gets zapped every time it touches an electric fence. It learns to shy away and soon you don't even need the fence no more ... it just won't go near the spot, the habit's so deep.
    If I didn't make a big to-do out of it, maybe no one else would neither; my under-shirt looked normal enough until you got up close. God'd likely rate me a pass on this, ... and modesty, well if I came back with the inseam of my pants intact it'd be a miracle.
    If I came back with my morals intact after being around Kabe, it'd be a miracle.
    So that I didn't dwell on baring my soul with my shirt problem, I mentally went over the rappel and climb. Trad climbing with anchors, cams and a sturdy belay set up wasn't easy work and dead weight, even if it's alive, doesn't move well. A good gust of wind and I'd be the rescuee instead of the rescuer. Seen a few of those in my time and I had no 45

    Hard Fall
    by James Buchanan
    desire to live through that kind of embarrassment. The other option being dead ... well, I didn't much cotton to it, neither.
    Somehow, I managed to toe out of my boots and shove my feet into my climbing shoes without falling over. My clothes might not have made the trip—since they were sitting on the top of the dresser after my last load of wash—but my shoes always stayed at the top of my rack. After that, I stepped into my climbing harness, yanking it up around my middle and thighs. I got my Rhythm, stupidest name on the market—sounded like Mormon birth control—but suited me fine. I like the buckle set up, the sling fits my butt, racking holsters instead of clips. It's really technical and everyone has their favorite knot, sling, or anchor.
    Climbers are picky to the point of religious about their gear. Come 'round next Saturday afternoon I'll argue the finer points of a half circle grigri 'till the cows come home with anyone who wanted a go. Right now I just needed a good belay to keep me from taking a two screamer. 'Cause that face, looking over the edge, if a rope cut loose I'd have enough time to draw in a breath for a second bout of terror as I fell.
    Threading the rope through my hand,