Day 177. 06:00 hours.
The crater rim.
Dawn.
Yue stood at the cavity entrance.
The marble was back. Not the marble of before. Not the marble of the compound, of the meditation, of the stillness that had been her armor for five months. This marble was harder. Colder. The marble of a woman who had cried for the first time since the Threshold and was now not crying.
Was leading.
Yue was leading the strike team.
The jian across her palms. The marble eyes on the cavity entrance. Steam rising from the wound in the earth. The smell of reptile drifting up from below. The particular reptile of a woman who was waiting beneath the crater. A woman who had been hurt by an anti-tank round through the chest and had healed and was angry and was waiting.
Behind Yue, Mark Jordan. Ifrit's Hell Katana at his hip. His amber eyes on the same entrance. A professor who had been burning walls for three days and was tired. Three days of fighting. Three days of burning. A man whose flame was still hot but whose body was not. Running on coffee and willpower and the particular willpower of a man who was not going to stop.
Behind Mark Jordan, Gabriel. Not bouncing. A woman whose bright was not bright. Was flat. A woman who had watched a man get crushed and had been hit by guilt and was standing. Her wind cage ready. Her Mach 1.5 ready. Her gold eyes flat. A woman who was going to fly into a wound because the captain was sleeping and the twin was holding the rail and someone had to fight.
Behind Gabriel, the woman in white. Her katanas sheathed. Her Glocks sheathed. Her regeneration humming. Her eyes behind the goggles on the cavity entrance. The ready of a woman who loved the sleeping captain and was going to fight for him. Again. Into the wound.
Four people. Yue. Mark Jordan. Gabriel. The woman in white. The strike team. Without the captain. Without the twin.
The crater rim was quiet at dawn. The charcoal-gray sky lighter but not light. The snow falling. Small flakes. Fine. Dry. The particular flakes of minus-seventy that did not accumulate so much as drift.
The ridge group was in their foxholes. One hundred and eighty-eight soldiers. The particular one hundred and eighty-eight of a ridge group that had been two hundred and twelve and was now less. In two days. The foxholes that were not enough. The thermal blankets that were not enough. The soldiers who were cold and tired and afraid and were holding.
Commander Reyes was at the north edge. His notebook in his coat pocket. His dark eyes on the cavity entrance. His dark eyes on the strike team. Four people. Going in. Without their captain. The particular without-their-captain of a commander who had watched a captain get carried out on a stretcher and was now watching four people go back in.
Reyes did not speak. Did not wish them luck. Did not say come back. Just watched. The watching of a commander who had learned that words were not helping. That holding was helping. And holding was what he was doing. Holding the perimeter. Holding the ridge group. Holding the crater rim. While four people went into a hole.
Vasquez was beside Reyes. Two women. Two commanders. The last of Vanguard Six. Vasquez and Corporal Reyes. The particular two of a unit that had been twelve. Was eight. Was four. Was three. Was two. Two women who were holding the north while four people went into a hole.
Vasquez's pale brown eyes were on the strike team. On Yue. The marble. The particular marble of a woman who was leading and was not going to lead loud. Vasquez did not know Yue well. Had met her three days ago. Had watched her fight. Had watched her cry. Had watched her marble crack when Jae-min was impaled. Had watched the marble come back. Harder. Colder. The marble of a woman who was leading because someone had to.
"Strike team." Yue offered, her voice even. Not loud. Not soft. Even. "We go in. We burn the walls. We punch the Snake Woman. We come out. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow. We go in. We fight. We come out."
"Copy." Mark Jordan measured, his voice dry.
"Copy." Gabriel offered, her voice low. Not bright.
The woman in white nodded. Once.
"Strike team." Yue offered. "Move."
The strike team moved. Into the cavity. Into the wound. Into the steam and the smell of reptile and the particular particular of four people who were going into a hole in the ground that held a woman who was not human and was angry and was waiting.
Reyes watched them go. Vasquez watched them go. The crater rim watched them go. Four people disappearing into the ground. Into the wound. Into the war.
The crater rim was quiet. The snow falling. The soldiers in their foxholes. The war below.
— • • • —
Day 177. 06:15 hours.
The cavity.
The tunnel.
The strike team descended. Through the tunnel. Through the organic walls that pulsed and breathed.
The tunnel was narrower than yesterday. The walls were growing. Closing in. The organic material was not just breathing. Was moving. Reaching. For the strike team.
Mark Jordan felt it first. His amber eyes on the walls. The walls that were closer than yesterday. The walls that were not just pulsing. Were shifting. Were moving. Were reaching. Toward them. The particular reaching of organic material that was alive and was coming for them.
"The walls are moving." Mark Jordan measured, his amber eyes on the tunnel. "The walls are reaching. Toward us."
"The Snake Woman." Yue offered, her marble eyes on the walls. "She is growing the walls into the tunnel. The tunnel is closing. She is trapping us. Again."
"Not again." Gabriel offered, her gold eyes on the walls. "We cut through. We do not get trapped."
The walls moved. Fast. Closing. The tunnel shrinking. The passage too narrow. Going to crush them. The particular crush of a tunnel that was alive and was closing around them like a throat.
"Move." Yue pressed, her voice even. "Move. Now. Through. Before the tunnel closes."
The strike team ran. Through the narrowing tunnel. Four people running because the walls were closing and the tunnel was shrinking. The organic walls brushing their shoulders. The walls warm. Wet. Pulsing. The particular warm-and-wet-and-pulsing of organic material that was alive and was touching them and was reaching.
Mark Jordan burned a section. The Black Hell Flame in his palm. The wall incinerated. A gap. They ran through. The gap closing behind them. The tunnel healing. The particular healing of organic material that was regrowing as fast as it was burned.
Yue Blinked. Thirty meters. Ahead. Through the narrowing. Into the chamber. The particular into-the-chamber of a woman who could cross thirty meters in a single step and was through.
She saw the Snake Woman.
— • • • —
Day 177. 06:20 hours.
The cavity.
The chamber.
The Snake Woman was different.
She had been hurt. Really hurt. An anti-tank round through the chest. And had healed. And was not the same. Was more.
She was twelve meters tall. She had been ten. She had grown. From the hurt. From the anti-tank round. From the healing. The particular healing of a woman who used pain as fuel and grew from it. The particular grew-from-it of a thing that should not have been possible and was.
Her arms were not eight. Were twelve. Twelve arms. Twelve cables. She had regrown the six that Jae-min had severed and had added four more. A thing of arms and cables and reaching. The particular reaching of twelve arms that were each a weapon and each a cable and each a threat.
Her scales were different. Thicker. Harder. The scales that had been pierced by the anti-tank round had healed thicker. Had learned. Were not going to be pierced again. Not by the same weapon. The particular not-by-the-same-weapon of scales that had been pierced and had grown armor. From the piercing. The particular armor-from-the-piercing of a woman who adapted.
Her eyes were yellow. But different. Not just yellow. Gold. The gold of eyes that had changed from the hurt. From the healing. From the dying and the coming back. The eyes of a woman who had been killed and had come back and was angry.
Her hair was different. Longer. The black strands that had been past her waist were now past her knees. More strands. Thicker. The strands that had been two hundred were now three hundred. Three hundred steel cables. Hanging. Waiting. The particular waiting of a weapon that had not been used yet and was going to be.
The chamber was smaller. The walls eaten. The Snake Woman had consumed more organic material. Had grown. The chamber that had been forty meters across was now thirty. The Snake Woman filling half of it. Twelve meters of titanium-scaled, twelve-armed, three-hundred-cabled, gold-eyed, fanged woman. Filling the chamber.
"Welcome back." The Snake Woman offered, her voice low. Deeper. The deeper of a voice that had changed. From the hurt. From the healing. "Welcome back to my home. I have been waiting."
Yue looked at her. The marble steady. The steady of a woman who was leading and was not going to be afraid.
"Strike team." Yue offered, her voice even. "Engage."
— • • • —
The Snake Woman moved first.
Not the way she had moved before. Not the cables from eight arms. Not the spawn of minions. Not the acid gas. She moved differently. A woman who had learned. From three days of fighting. From the anti-tank round. From studying the strike team. Their patterns. Their weaknesses.
She moved fast. Twelve meters tall and should not have been fast and was fast. Across the chamber. Twenty meters in a heartbeat. In front of Yue. Reaching with twelve arms. Grabbing.
Yue Blinked. Thirty meters. Gone. Reappeared behind the Snake Woman.
But the Snake Woman was learning. Had studied Yue's Blink. The Blink that disappeared and reappeared. Thirty meters. Always behind. Predictable.
The Snake Woman spun. Twelve arms. All twelve. In a circle. Around her body. A wall of cables. Moving. A circle of steel. Thirty meters in radius. A wall that was going to hit anything within thirty meters.
Yue was within thirty meters.
A cable hit her. From the right. The cable connected with her ribs. Steel on flesh. On bone. The impact traveling through her body. Through her ribs. Through her lungs. Through her spine.
The ribs cracked. The ribs broke. The sound sharp, wet. Bone breaking through intercostal muscle. Rib fragments driven inward. Into the lung. Into the liver. Into the spleen.
Yue coughed blood. Dark. Frothy. The blood of a lung that was punctured and filling. A woman who had been the marble and was broken. Again. The marble that had cracked when Jae-min was impaled and had healed and was now cracked. Again.
The cable sent her. Across the chamber. Into the wall. A body hitting organic material at speed. The wall dented. The particular dented of organic material that had been struck by a human body at velocity. The wall absorbing the impact. The wall not breaking. The wall holding. The particular holding of organic material that was alive and was stronger than a human body.
Yue stuck. Pressed against the wall by the force of the impact. The particular pressed of a body that had been launched and had hit and had not bounced. Had stuck. Against the organic wall. The particular against of a body that was held by the force of the impact and was not falling.
She fell. Off the wall. To the floor. The particular to-the-floor of a woman who was down. A woman whose ribs were cracked and whose lung was punctured and who was coughing blood. Dark. Frothy. Drowning in her own blood. On the floor. Of the chamber.
"Yue!" Gabriel screamed. From above.
A woman who was flying and had seen. Had watched her wife. Her sister-wife. Get hit. Get launched. Get broken. The particular broken of a woman who was on the floor and was coughing blood and was not getting up.
Gabriel dove. Mach 1.5. At the Snake Woman. Not thinking. Not calculating. Angry. The particular angry of a woman who had watched Yue get hit and was not anything. Just angry. The bright was not bright. Was dark. Was rage. The particular rage of a woman diving at Mach 1.5 and going to hit the Snake Woman with everything.
Gabriel's body was a blur. Black and gold. Her knee-length black hair streaming behind her. Her gold eyes not bright. Dark. The dark of a woman who was rage and was diving and was going to hit.
The Snake Woman caught her.
Twelve arms. Reaching. For the diving woman. Faster than Mach 1.5. Arms that were there. Arms that grabbed. Gabriel. A woman who was diving and was caught. In the grip of twelve arms.
The Snake Woman squeezed.
Gabriel's ribs bent. The ribs giving. Cracking. Snapping. The sound sharp, wet. Bone breaking. A ribcage compressing. A chest getting smaller. A woman being crushed in twelve arms.
Gabriel screamed. Not a word. A sound. The sound of a woman whose ribs were cracking and whose lungs were compressing and whose body was being crushed. The sound of bones snapping. The sound of air being forced out of lungs that were being compressed. The sound of a woman who was being broken.
The wind cage exploded.
Not a cage. A bomb. Compressed air releasing all at once from inside the grip. Expanding. Pushing outward. A bomb of wind that hit the Snake Woman's arms from the inside. Blew the arms open. Forced apart. Twelve arms released.
The particular released of arms that had been holding and were now not. The particular not of a grip that had been crushing and was now open. The particular open of twelve arms that had been forced apart by a bomb of compressed air from inside.
Gabriel fell. Out of the grip. Free. Her ribs cracked. Her lungs compressed. Falling to the floor. Hitting organic material. Down. Coughing. Lungs re-expanding. The particular re-expanding of lungs that had been compressed and were now not. The particular not of lungs that were filling. With air. With pain. With the particular pain of ribs that were cracked and lungs that were bruised.
But the Snake Woman was not done.
She spat. Not acid gas. Not venom. Something different. A liquid. Dark. Thick. Not acid. Not dissolving. Sticky. The particular sticky of a substance that adhered. To Gabriel's skin. To her clothes. To her legs. To her torso. Bonding. Hardening. Solidifying.
The liquid was on Gabriel's legs. On her torso. The liquid becoming a shell. A hard shell. Rigid. On Gabriel. Trapping her. The particular trapping of a woman whose legs were encased in stone. Whose torso was encased in stone. Whose arms were free but whose body was trapped.
Gabriel could not move. Her legs encased. Her torso encased. Her arms free. But her body trapped. In a shell of hardened liquid that the Snake Woman had spat. A shell that was mineral. Calcium-based. Stone.
"Gabriel!" Mark Jordan measured. Not dry. Afraid. A professor who had watched Yue get launched and Gabriel get caught and was seeing. Understanding. The Snake Woman was not the same. Was more.
Mark Jordan drew Ifrit's Hell Katana. The Black Hell Flame igniting along the blade. A professor who was going to burn the Snake Woman. Angry. Not measuring. Burning.
He charged. The katana raised. The Black Hell Flame blazing. Fifty-five hundred degrees on a blade. A man who was fire and was charging and was going to cut.
The Snake Woman saw him. Twelve arms reaching. For Mark Jordan. Arms that were there. Arms that grabbed. Mark Jordan. A man who was charging and was caught.
Not squeezing. Not crushing. Holding. Positioning. Mark Jordan held in front of the Snake Woman's face. Looking at yellow-gold eyes. At fangs. At a mouth that was opening.
The Snake Woman spat. The liquid. Into Mark Jordan's face.
The liquid hit his eyes. His nose. His mouth. Sticky. Hardening. Becoming a shell. On his face. Covering his eyes. His nose. His mouth. Sealing his airway.
Mark Jordan could not breathe.
His mouth and nose sealed by a hard shell. His lungs full of air that could not get out. And could not get in. Suffocating. A man being held in front of a Snake Woman's face and suffocating in a shell on his face.
The panic hit. The particular panic of a man who was fire incarnate and could not breathe. The particular could-not-breathe of a man whose flame could burn anything organic and could not burn the stone on his face. The particular stone of a substance that was mineral. Calcium-based. Not organic. Not burnable.
He activated the Black Hell Flame. Not on the blade. On his face. Using the flame to burn the shell off. Fifty-five hundred degrees on his own face. The particular on-his-own-face of a man who was willing to burn himself to breathe.
The flame hit the shell. Surface-of-the-sun heat. The heat that had been burning organic walls for three days. The heat that incinerated everything organic it touched.
The shell did not burn.
The shell was not organic. Was mineral. Calcium-based. Stone. The flame burned organic matter. The shell was not organic. Was stone. The flame could not burn stone. The particular could-not-burn-stone of a substance that was immune. To the flame. To fifty-five hundred degrees. To the particular fifty-five-hundred-degrees of a fire that was the hottest thing in the chamber and could not burn the stone on a man's face.
The Snake Woman had learned. Had watched her walls burn. Her minions burn. Her children burn. For three days. Had understood. The flame burned organic. The flame did not burn mineral. And so she had made the shell mineral. Calcium-based. Stone. A shell that was the one thing the Black Hell Flame could not burn.
Mark Jordan's amber eyes went wide. Not from pain. From understanding. The shell was mineral. The flame burned organic. The flame could not burn mineral. He was not able to burn the shell off. He was suffocating in a shell that his flame could not touch. A man who was fire incarnate and was not enough.
The amber eyes. Wide. Desperate. The particular desperate of a man who was suffocating and could not burn his way out. A man who had always been the one who burned things and was now the one who needed to be broken out. A man who was not enough.
The Snake Woman dropped him. A man who was suffocating. On the floor. His hands on his face. On the shell. Clawing at stone. Fingernails scraping. The particular scraping of fingers on stone. The sound. The particular sound of fingernails on calcium. The sound of a man who was trying to break stone with his bare hands and could not.
The Black Hell Flame deactivated. A flame that had tried and failed. The katana on the floor beside him. A weapon that was not in his hands. A man on the floor. Suffocating. Shell on his face. Sealing his airway. His hands clawing. His body convulsing. The particular convulsing of a body that was running out of oxygen. The particular running-out-of-oxygen of a man whose lungs were empty and whose brain was dimming and whose hands were slowing.
Mark Jordan was down. Suffocating. The shell on his face. Killing him. And the flame could not stop it.
— • • • —
The woman in white moved.
She had been waiting. Watching. Yue launched. Gabriel caught. Mark Jordan caught. And had not moved. Was still. Calculating. A woman who thought in pictures and was seeing. The Snake Woman was not the same. Was more. Was going to require a different approach.
She did not charge. She flanked. Moving to the side. To the right. Circling the Snake Woman. Not in front. To the side. Behind the Snake Woman's peripheral vision.
She drew the Glocks. Both. Not the katanas. The katanas did not pierce the scales. Only bruised. The Glocks. Standard 9mm hollow points. She did not have Wormhole Guided Bullets. Did not have the void. But she had been on the Snake Woman's back. Had seen the scales up close. Had memorized the gaps.
The gaps. The places where the scales overlapped and left openings. Small. But there. If you knew where to look. And she knew. She had been on the Snake Woman's back for three days. Had driven katanas into the scales. Had felt the scales resist. Had felt the gaps. The particular gaps where the scales did not cover. The particular did-not-cover of places that were exposed. Vulnerable.
She fired. Both Glocks. At the Snake Woman's back. At the gaps. At the base of the arms. Where the arms met the body. Places that were exposed. Gaps that were small but there. Gaps that the bullets found.
9mm hollow points entered the gaps. Went through. Not through the scales. Through the gaps. Inside the Snake Woman's body. Bullets that had bypassed the armor.
The Snake Woman screamed. A woman who had been shot from behind. Through the gaps. Bullets that had bypassed her armor. Hurt. Really hurt. Shot in the back. At the base of the arms. Where the arms met the body. Bullets that severed tendons and ligaments.
Two arms dropped. Arms that had been connected and were now not. Arms that fell off the Snake Woman's body. Hit the floor. Wet. Heavy. The particular wet-and-heavy of arms that hit organic material and splashed. Dark fluid. The particular dark fluid of a body that had been opened. At the joints. Where the tendons had been severed.
Twelve arms became ten.
She fired again. Both Glocks. At more gaps. At the base of more arms. Places that were exposed. Gaps that the bullets found. 9mm hollow points inside the Snake Woman's body. Severing tendons. Severing ligaments.
Two more arms dropped. Hit the floor. Wet. Heavy. Splashing.
Ten arms became eight.
But the regeneration. The stumps healing. Regrowing. Arms coming back. Not staying cut. Regenerating. Faster than before. A regeneration that had learned from the anti-tank round and was quicker. Keeping up.
And the Snake Woman was angry. A woman who had lost four arms and was not retreating. Was advancing. At the woman in white. Fast. Twelve meters tall and across the chamber. In front of the woman in white.
A hand grabbed her. Fast. A hand that caught the woman in white. In the grip. Lifting. Raising the woman in white off the ground. Held at the Snake Woman's eye level. Looking at yellow-gold eyes.
"You." The Snake Woman offered, her voice low. "You are the one. The one who has been on my back. The one who stabs. The one who shoots. The one who will not stop. You are persistent."
The woman in white did not answer. Could not answer. Did not struggle. A woman held in a hand that was squeezing. Not crushing. But squeezing. Compressing. Her ribs bending.
The ribs cracked. Bone that gave. Ribs that bent. Ribs that broke. Sharp, wet. Bone breaking. A ribcage compressing. A chest getting smaller. A woman being crushed in a hand.
The regeneration kicked in. Cells rebuilding. Ribs healing. Bone knitting. A ribcage being rebuilt as fast as it was being crushed. Racing the crushing. A body being broken and healed at the same time. Ribs cracking and healing and cracking and healing. A loop of pain. Of healing. Of pain.
She did not scream. Could not scream. Did not give the Snake Woman the satisfaction. Silent. Even in pain. A woman whose voice was behind the balaclava and whose pain was behind the silence.
The woman in white drew the left-hand Glock. Her right hand pinned by the grip. Her left hand free. Moving to the holster. Drawing the Glock.
She pressed the Glock against the Snake Woman's thumb. The thumb that was holding her. Against her ribs. A thumb that was a joint. A gap. A place where the scales overlapped. Exposed.
She fired. Point-blank. 9mm hollow point against the thumb. At the gap. The bullet entered the gap. Inside the joint.
The thumb severed. A digit that came off. The particular came-off of a thumb that separated from the hand. The particular separated of a digit that had been attached and was now not. The particular not of a thumb that fell. Into the chamber. Hit the floor. Wet. A digit that had been part of a hand and was now waste.
The grip loosened. A hand that had lost a thumb and was not gripping. The particular not-gripping of a hand that could not hold without a thumb. The particular could-not-hold of a hand that released.
The woman in white dropped. Out of the hand. Free. Fell to the floor. Hit organic material. Down. Her ribs cracked and healed and cracked and healed and were whole. A regeneration that had kept up.
She rolled. Away from the Snake Woman. Five meters. Distance. She stood. Her ribs whole. Her body healed. A woman who could regenerate and was not staying down.
But the katanas were on the floor. Where she had dropped them when the hand grabbed her. She had the Glocks. Both. In her hands. Armed.
But the team. She was seeing. Yue on the floor. Coughing blood. Gabriel in a shell. On the floor. Mark Jordan on the floor. Suffocating. Shell on his face. A shell that his flame could not burn.
The strike team was down. Four people who had entered the chamber and were now three on the floor. And one standing. The woman in white. The last.
— • • • —
"Retreat." Yue coughed, from the floor. Blood. Dark. Frothy. A woman whose lung was punctured and whose ribs were cracked and was leading. Even from the floor. "Get them out. Get Gabriel out of the shell. Get Mark Jordan out. Get everyone out. I will cover."
The woman in white did not hesitate. Moving to Gabriel. First. At Gabriel's side. Seeing the shell. Hard. On Gabriel. Trapping her. The shell that was mineral. Calcium-based. Stone. The same shell that was on Mark Jordan's face. The same shell that the flame could not burn.
But the woman in white did not have the flame. Had bullets. 9mm hollow points. The particular hollow-points of bullets that could crack stone. Not burn. Crack. The particular crack of rounds that hit stone and shattered it. The particular shattered of stone that broke under kinetic energy. Not thermal. Kinetic.
She raised the Glock. At the shell. On Gabriel. Point-blank. The particular point-blank of a woman who was standing over her teammate and aiming at the stone that was trapping her.
She fired. Three rounds. Into the shell. On Gabriel's legs. The shell cracked. The particular cracked of stone that was hit by 9mm hollow points at point-blank range. The particular point-blank of rounds that hit stone and shattered it. The shell broke. Pieces falling off. Gabriel's legs free.
She fired again. Into the shell on Gabriel's torso. Three rounds. The shell cracked. Broke. Pieces falling. Gabriel's torso free.
Gabriel gasped. The particular gasped of a woman whose body was free and whose lungs were expanding and whose ribs were cracked and whose body was hurting but was free. The particular free of a woman who could move. Could breathe. Could live.
'Gabriel.' The woman in white did not say. Could not say. But her hands. On Gabriel. Lifting. Carrying. Moving to the tunnel. Getting her out.
She came back for Mark Jordan. At his side. The shell on his face. Still. Sealing his airway. His amber eyes on her. Wide. Desperate. The particular desperate of a man who was suffocating and could not burn his way out. A man who needed someone else.
His hands had stopped clawing. His body had stopped convulsing. His amber eyes were dimming. The particular dimming of eyes that were running out of oxygen. The particular running-out-of-oxygen of a brain that was shutting down. The particular shutting-down of a man who was dying. Slowly. In stone.
The woman in white raised the Glock. At the shell. On Mark Jordan's face. Point-blank. The particular point-blank of a woman who was aiming at stone on a man's face and could not miss. Because missing meant hitting his face. And hitting his face meant killing him.
She fired. One round. Into the shell. On his face. The shell cracked. The particular cracked of stone that was hit by a 9mm hollow point at point-blank range. One crack. Not enough. The shell held. The particular held of stone that had cracked but had not broken.
She fired again. Second round. Into the crack. The crack widened. The particular widened of stone that was giving. The particular giving of stone that was breaking. The shell split. The particular split of stone that separated. Into pieces. The particular pieces of stone that fell. Off Mark Jordan's face. The particular off-his-face of a shell that had been sealing his airway and was now not.
Mark Jordan gasped. Air. The particular air of a man who had been suffocating and was now breathing. The gasp of a man whose lungs were filling. With air. With oxygen. With the particular oxygen of a man who had been dying and was now not.
He coughed. The particular coughed of a man whose throat had been sealed and was now open and was clearing. The particular clearing of a throat that was expelling. Mucus. Saliva. The particular mucus-and-saliva of a body that had been suffocating and was cleaning. The airway. The throat. The particular the-throat of a man who was breathing. Again.
The amber eyes. Bright. Not dim. The particular bright of eyes that were getting oxygen. The particular oxygen of a brain that was coming back. The particular coming-back of a man who had been dying and was now alive.
She lifted him. Carried him. To the tunnel. Out.
She came back for Yue. At her side. The leader. On the floor. Coughing blood. The particular blood of a lung that was punctured and filling. The particular filling of a lung that was drowning. The particular drowning of a woman who was alive and was coughing and was not getting enough air.
Yue's marble eyes were on the woman in white. The particular on-the-woman-in-white of a woman who was being lifted by a woman she did not know. A woman who had been a rumor for five months. A woman who had joined the strike team. A woman who had fought. Had carried. Had saved. Three people. Out of the chamber. One at a time.
"Thank you." Yue offered, her voice not even. Not marble. Raw. The particular raw of a woman who was coughing blood and was being carried and was grateful. The particular grateful of a woman who did not do grateful. Did. For this. For the woman who was carrying her. Out.
The woman in white did not answer. Could not answer. Did not need to answer. Carried Yue. To the tunnel. Out.
The Snake Woman watched. Ten arms. Regrowing. Not pursuing. Letting the strike team retreat. Amused. A woman who had the strike team in her chamber. Broken. And was letting them go.
"Go." The Snake Woman offered, her voice low. Amused. "Go. Take your broken. Take your hurt. Go. I will be here. When you come back. I will always be here."
The woman in white did not look back. Carried Yue. Through the tunnel. Out.
— • • • —
Day 177. 07:00 hours.
The crater rim.
The strike team came out.
Not walking. Being carried. Three people on stretchers or on the woman in white's back. A woman who had carried three people out of the cavity. Up the tunnel. To the crater rim. One at a time. Three trips.
The woman in white was the only one standing. The only one who had gone through the blender and was whole. A woman whose regeneration had kept her alive and standing and carrying. The reason the strike team was out.
The crater rim saw them. The soldiers in their foxholes. The commanders at the perimeter. The doctor at the field hospital. The twin at the cot.
Alessia was there. The field hospital. Her blue eyes on the strike team. Four people who had gone in and were now broken.
Her blue eyes went wide. Four patients. One pair of hands.
"Yue. Collapsed lung. Cracked ribs." Alessia pressed, her hands on Yue. Assessing. Clinical. The clinical of a doctor who was seeing four patients and was not going to feel. Was going to work. "Gabriel. Cracked ribs. Compressed lungs. Shell residue on legs and torso. Mark Jordan. Near-asphyxiation. Mineral shell on face. Airway was sealed. He is breathing now. But the oxygen deprivation. I do not know the brain. I do not know."
She looked at the woman in white. "The woman in white. Cracked ribs. Healed. Regeneration. She is fine."
She paused. Her blue eyes on the four patients. "The others are not."
Alessia worked. Four patients. One doctor. Not enough. But everything. The field hospital held. Barely.
She started with Mark Jordan. The near-asphyxiation. The oxygen deprivation. The brain. She did not know. She checked his pupils. Dilated. Both. The particular dilated of eyes that had been deprived of oxygen. She checked his pulse. Rapid. The particular rapid of a heart that was compensating. She checked his breathing. Labored. The particular labored of lungs that had been sealed and were now open but were not working right.
"Mark Jordan." Alessia pressed, her voice clinical. "Can you hear me."
The amber eyes. On her. Not focused. The particular not-focused of a man whose brain was not getting enough oxygen. The amber eyes trying. Trying to focus. Trying to see. Trying to be the professor who measured everything and was now not measuring. Was not seeing. Was not.
"Alessia." Mark Jordan breathed. His voice not dry. Not measuring. Just a voice. The voice of a man who had been suffocating and was now breathing and was not sure he was alive. "I could not. Burn it. The shell was. Stone. I could not."
"I know." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. Not gentle. Not soft. Clinical. "I know. The shell was mineral. The flame burns organic. You could not burn it. It is not your fault."
"Not my fault." Mark Jordan breathed. The particular breathed of a man who was processing. The particular processing of a professor who had been fire incarnate and had been defeated by stone. The particular defeated-by-stone of a man who was not enough. And the not-enough was not his fault. And the not-his-fault was. Was. Was something he could hold. For now.
Alessia moved to Yue. The collapsed lung. The cracked ribs. The same injuries as Jae-min. The particular same-injuries-as-Jae-min of a doctor who had treated one collapsed lung and was now treating another.
"Yue." Alessia pressed, her voice clinical. "Your lung is collapsed. I need to insert a chest tube. Like Jae-min's. The tube will drain the blood. The lung will re-expand. You will be able to breathe."
"Do it." Yue offered, her voice not even. Not marble. Raw. The particular raw of a woman who was coughing blood and was on a cot and was not the marble. Was the patient. The particular patient of a woman who had been the leader and was now the wounded.
Alessia inserted the chest tube. The scalpel. The incision between the ribs. The tube. The blood. Dark. Frothy. Draining. Into the collection bag. The particular collection-bag that was filling with Yue's blood. The same bag. The same blood. The same procedure. As Jae-min. The particular as-Jae-min of a doctor who was treating the same injury in a different patient and was not feeling. Was working.
Yue gasped. The lung re-expanding. The particular re-expanding of a lung that had been collapsed and was now filling. With air. With oxygen. With the particular oxygen of a woman who had been drowning and was now breathing.
Alessia moved to Gabriel. The cracked ribs. The compressed lungs. The shell residue. The particular shell-residue of mineral stone on her legs and torso. The stone that the flame could not burn but the scalpel could chip. The particular chip of a doctor who was cutting stone off a patient with a scalpel. The particular scalpel-on-stone of a doctor who was not a mason. Was a doctor. And was cutting stone.
"Alessia." Gabriel offered, her voice not bright. Not flat. Just. Low. The particular low of a woman who was on a cot and was not flying and was not bouncing and was not bright. "Yue. Is she."
"Yue is alive." Alessia confirmed, her hands on Gabriel's ribs. Assessing. "Cracked ribs. Three. The lung is bruised. Not punctured. Not collapsed. Bruised. The ribs will heal. The lung will heal. You will fly again."
"Fly." Gabriel echoed. The particular echoed of a woman who was not flying and was hearing the word fly and was holding onto it. The particular holding of a woman whose bright was not bright and was hearing fly and was. Was. Was something.
Ji-yoo was there. Beside Jae-min's cot. Her hands on the rail. Her dark eyes on the strike team. A twin who had stayed with her brother while her team went through the blender.
Her dark eyes went wet. The wet of a twin who had seen her team broken. Chewed up by the Snake Woman. A twin who had not been there. Had been here. Holding the rail. Guilty.
"Oppa." Ji-yoo breathed, her dark eyes on Jae-min. Her hand on his. The particular on-his of a twin who was holding. Her brother's hand. A captain who was sleeping. A captain who did not hear. "Wake up. They need you. I need you. Please. Wake up."
Jae-min did not wake. His dark eyes closed. His mouth bloody. The chest tube draining. The traction splint holding. The morphine working. The captain sleeping.
The void bond hummed. Not with words. With presence. A twin who could feel her brother was alive and was not coming back. Not yet.
"Oppa." Ji-yoo breathed again. Her fingers tightening on his. The particular tightening of a twin who was holding and was afraid and was guilty and was not letting go. "They went through the blender. Without you. Without me. Yue is down. Gabriel is down. Mark Jordan is down. The woman in white carried them out. All three. By herself. She was the only one standing. Oppa. The team is broken. The Snake Woman is bigger. She has twelve arms. She has a new weapon. A shell. Mineral. The flame cannot burn it. Mark Jordan was suffocating. The woman in white shot the shell off his face. She saved him. She saved all of them."
She paused. Her dark eyes on his face. The sleeping face. The bloody mouth. The closed eyes.
"She is real, Oppa." Ji-yoo breathed. "The woman in white. She is real. She fights. She saves. She carries. She fights. And she saves. And she is the reason the team is alive. She is the reason they are out. She is."
She paused again. Her dark eyes wet. The particular wet of a twin who was holding her brother's hand and was telling him about the woman in white and was not sure he could hear.
"Wake up." Ji-yoo breathed. "Please. Wake up."
Jae-min did not wake. The captain was sleeping. The twin was holding. The void bond was humming.
The woman in white stood at the edge of the crater rim. Her back to the team. Her eyes on the frozen city. Her katanas retrieved. Her Glocks holstered. Her regeneration humming. Her ribs whole. Her body healed.
She was the only one standing. The only one who had gone through the blender and was whole. The only one who could go back in. If the Snake Woman came. If the minions came. If anything came.
She stood guard. At the edge. The rear guard. The last line. A woman who loved the sleeping captain and was fighting for him. Again. Still. Always.
— • • • —
Day 177. 07:30 hours.
The crater rim.
Reyes and Vasquez stood at the field hospital. Two commanders who had watched the strike team go in and come out. Broken. On stretchers. Carried by a woman in a white coat.
"Doctor." Reyes offered, his voice low, his dark eyes on Alessia. "The captain. How is he."
Alessia looked up from Gabriel's ribs. Her blue eyes clinical. Her hands bloody. The hands of a doctor who was working and was being asked about her husband and was not going to be the wife. Was the doctor.
"Captain Del Rosario is stable." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. "The chest tube is draining. The lung is re-expanding. The femur is cracked. The traction splint is holding. The morphine is managing the pain. He is sleeping. He is not conscious. He is healing."
"Healing." Vasquez echoed. The steady of a captain who was asking about another captain and was hearing the word healing.
"Healing." Alessia confirmed. "But slowly. The lung was pierced by a steel cable. The tissue is damaged. The lung is re-expanding but is not fully functional. He is breathing with one lung. The right lung is still draining. He needs surgery. Real surgery. Not field surgery. He needs a hospital. He does not have a hospital. He has a field hospital in minus-seventy at a crater rim in a war."
"And the strike team." Reyes pressed. "Without the captain. Can they fight."
Alessia looked at the four cots. Yue. Gabriel. Mark Jordan. The woman in white standing at the edge. Four people who had gone through the blender and were now. Three on cots. One standing.
"The strike team is broken." Alessia offered, her voice clinical. "Yue has a collapsed lung. Cracked ribs. She needs a chest tube. She needs rest. She cannot fight. Gabriel has cracked ribs. Bruised lungs. She cannot fly. She cannot use the wind cage. Not with cracked ribs. The cage requires compression. Compression requires intact ribs. Her ribs are not intact. She cannot fight. Mark Jordan has oxygen deprivation. The mineral shell sealed his airway for. I do not know how long. The brain. I do not know. He is breathing. He is conscious. But he is not. Not right. Not yet. He cannot fight."
She paused. Her blue eyes on the woman in white. Standing at the edge. The only one standing.
"The woman in white is the only one who can fight." Alessia offered. "Her regeneration keeps her whole. She is the only one. But she is one. One person. Against a twelve-meter, twelve-armed Snake Woman with a new weapon and thicker scales and gold eyes. One person is not enough."
"One person is not enough." Reyes echoed. The echo of a commander who was hearing the words and was calculating. One person. Against a Snake Woman. The particular one-person-against-a-Snake-Woman of a commander who was understanding. The strike team was broken. The captain was sleeping. The war was not stopping.
"When will the captain wake." Vasquez pressed.
"I do not know." Alessia offered. "The morphine is keeping him under. Four auto-injectors. I cannot reduce the morphine until the lung is stable. If I reduce the morphine, the pain will wake him. And the pain will kill him. The morphine stays. He sleeps. Until the lung is stable."
"How long." Reyes pressed.
"Twenty-four hours." Alessia offered. "If the drainage continues. If the lung re-expands. If there is no infection. Twenty-four hours. Maybe more."
"Twenty-four hours." Vasquez echoed. The echo of a captain who was counting. Twenty-four hours. Without a strike team. Without a captain. Against a Snake Woman who was growing and adapting and getting stronger.
"The strike team." Reyes pressed. "Yue. Gabriel. Mark Jordan. How long until they can fight."
"Yue. Days." Alessia offered. "Collapsed lung. Cracked ribs. She needs the chest tube. She needs rest. Days. Gabriel. Days. Cracked ribs. Bruised lungs. She needs the ribs to heal. Days. Mark Jordan. I do not know. The oxygen deprivation. The brain. I do not know. Days. Maybe. Maybe not."
"Days." Reyes echoed. The echo of a commander who was hearing days and was counting. Days without a strike team. Days without a captain. Days against a Snake Woman who was not waiting.
"And the woman in white." Vasquez pressed. "Can she hold. Alone."
"She can hold." Alessia offered. "She can regenerate. She can fight. She can hold the tunnel. If the Snake Woman sends minions. The woman in white can cut them. She can shoot them. She can hold. But she cannot attack. She cannot go into the chamber. Alone. Against the Snake Woman. She would die. And regenerate. And die. And regenerate. A loop. Of dying. She cannot kill the Snake Woman alone. No one can kill the Snake Woman alone. The captain could not kill the Snake Woman. The strike team could not kill the Snake Woman. The woman in white cannot kill the Snake Woman. She can hold. She cannot win."
"Hold." Vasquez echoed. "Hold. For twenty-four hours. Until the captain wakes."
"Or until the strike team heals." Reyes offered. "Days. Maybe less. Maybe more."
"Days." Alessia echoed. "Days that the Snake Woman is also using. To grow. To adapt. To get stronger. Every day we heal. She heals. Every day we rest. She grows. Every day we wait. She waits. And she is better at waiting than we are."
The three stood. At the field hospital. Two commanders and a doctor. The doctor who was praying. The commanders who were counting. The numbers that were going down. The time that was running out. The Snake Woman that was growing. The captain that was sleeping. The strike team that was broken. The woman in white who was the only one standing.
"Hold." Vasquez offered, her voice steady. "We hold. For twenty-four hours. Until the captain wakes. Or until the strike team heals. We hold."
"We hold." Reyes confirmed, his voice low.
"We hold." Alessia confirmed, her voice clinical. "Now let me work. I have a lung to drain and a brain to assess and a prayer to finish."
Reyes and Vasquez left the field hospital. Walking back to the perimeter. Two commanders walking through a battlefield that was quiet. For now. The quiet of a war that was not over. The quiet of a war that was breathing. The quiet of a war that was going to continue.
The woman in white stood at the edge. The katanas drawn. The Glocks holstered. Her eyes on the cavity entrance. The steam rising. The smell of reptile. The particular reptile of a woman who was below. Waiting. Growing. Adapting.
The woman in white stood guard. The rear guard. The last line. The only one standing.
Twenty-four hours. The countdown was ticking. The captain was sleeping. The strike team was broken. The woman in white was the only one standing. The Snake Woman was in the chamber. Waiting. Growing. Adapting.
Everyone holding. Until the captain woke. Until the twenty-four hours. Until the prayer was answered.
The war was on.