22. Rhykor
RHYKOR
For an agonizing hour, I stand near the compound's subterranean access hatch, my comm unit straining to maintain Elias's relay frequency.
The last thing we heard was Junia's frantic, static-choked transmission from deep within the tunnels—Cassia was trapped behind a collapse, and Junia was navigating the drainage network back to our coordinates.
Then, the heavy iron bulkhead finally grinds open. Junia hauls herself up and collapses onto the freight bay floor. Her left forearm is in a bloody field bandage while she gasps for air. Thick, gray stone dust coats her entire body.
"The machines," she croaks, spitting grit onto the concrete as Britt rushes to support her. "They targeted her specifically. They let me through the opening and dropped the ceiling behind me on purpose." Junia coughs, her bloodshot eyes finding mine. "Whatever's down there, it wanted Cassia alive."
The last fraying tether of my control snaps.
The freight bay walls groan as my body temperature spikes out of control. I lunge for the hatch.
Varrik hits me, driving me into the ground just as I reach for the opening.
He throws both arms around my torso, casting his entire weight against mine.
His bad leg collapses as the impact drives us both into the freight bay wall hard enough to buckle the sheet metal.
I barely feel it. Every instinct I possess is screaming.
A white-hot urgency drowns out the pain.
Strategy and the old war captain shouting directly into my face fade into nothing.
"Rhykor—stop—you go down there blind; you collapse the tunnels on top of her?—"
My internal temperature skyrockets. The wall behind me groans and scorches where my palms brace against it, and the floor plates warp and blacken.
Somewhere behind Varrik, Britt shouts at crew members to clear the freight bay.
Dessik grabs a fire suppression canister and aims it at the nearest wall, where the paint bubbles.
Cassia’s resolve bleeds straight into my own consciousness—fast, disciplined, and resolute in her absolute determination to face a terrible threat and survive. She's alive, but underground, trapped, surrounded by machines that have been hunting us for a significant time.
I can sense that much. And it's the only reason the freight bay is still standing.
"Commander," Varrik's face fills my vision, his eyes boring into mine, near enough to feel the heat coming off him.
Both hands grip my shoulders despite the heat radiating through the fabric.
"Look at me. Cassia is alive. Junia confirmed her position—the overflow pipe, south of the deep junction.
The collapse sealed the corridor, but the structure held.
She has her med-pack, her pistol, and the wrist comm.
" He shakes me once, hard. "She is alive, and she stays that way only if you use the brain she fell in love with instead of burning through rock and burying her under the rubble. "
The heat fades. Slowly, degree by degree, it forces itself back through layers of discipline that feel threadbare and scorched at the edges.
My claws retract from the wall. The glow in my palms dims to a faint shimmer, then dies.
My breathing is harsh, each inhale carrying the copper taste of adrenaline pushing past its useful threshold.
Varrik releases my shoulders and steps back, leaning on the cane Dessik shoves into his hand.
The freight bay bears heavy witness to my outburst. Scorch marks stretch across two walls near a warped floor panel requiring replacement, while a dozen crew members cram against the far entrance, the faces wearing a frozen stare as they rigidly ignore the terrifying display they witnessed.
The information slots into the analytical framework still functioning amongst the fury.
Legion identified Cassia through the bond.
It understands the connection and understands what she is to me, and it uses that understanding to set a trap—isolate her and draw me underground into territory the machines control completely.
"I'm going after her," I state, the declaration stoic and final.
"Obviously." Varrik plants his cane. "The question is whether you go smart or go dead. Because right now, the thing sitting under this district has every advantage; it chose the terrain and set the trap. It counts on you charging in burning. Which is exactly what you almost did thirty seconds ago."
I stare at him. A frantic, demanding frequency thrums through my blood, pulling me toward the maintenance hatch with such force that standing still is like trying to hold back a tide with my bare hands.
"How long?"
"Give me four hours." Varrik speaks with the measured gravity of a tactician who has planned worse operations with fewer resources.
"I'll assemble a strike team, map the viable entry points, and coordinate with Nysera for military access.
We go in with a plan, or we feed the machine exactly what it wants. "
The number thuds in my gut like swallowed iron.
Cassia is alone underground, with the thing that fused human corpses into mechanical nests and called her by name.
And I have to wait four hours.
"Three," I grind out. "You have three hours, Varrik."
He gives a brief salute and shuffles toward the comm station, already barking orders.
I spend the first hour in the interrogation bay.
Two captured extremists, the remnants of the anti-Kraaj cell that operated near the tunnel access points, have been held in the compound's detention block since Britt's crew intercepted them fleeing the collapse zone.
Their flight from the tunnels right as the ceiling came down confirms their foreknowledge of the trap, indicating outside coordination.
The first one breaks in under ten minutes.
He's young, mid-twenties, a district rat with hollow cheeks and darting eyes who joined the extremist cell for food and purpose.
I pin him to the wall with one hand and let the heat from my palm seep through the concrete beside his head until sweat runs down his temples and the paint blisters.
"The tunnel charges," I demand, keeping my tone level. The contrast between calm words and searing heat has always produced results faster than shouting. "Who planted them?"
"We were just—the cell leader told us to clear the area before?—"
"Who planted the charges?"
"Daxos's engineers!" The name tumbles out with frantic speed as a man chooses survival over loyalty.
"Military demolition units came through two days ago.
They wired the overflow pipes with thermal charges—the deep ones, beneath the junction.
We were told to stay clear and report when the tunnels were occupied. "
"Report to whom?"
"The cell leader relays through an encrypted channel.
I've never met the handler, but the cell leader said the orders came from Kor-Viir.
From the General's office directly." He's crying now, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime.
"They said the tunnels were going to be purged.
Everything underneath, the civilians, the shelters, all of it.
Sealed and burned from below to drive the survivors up to the surface for the orbital strike. "
The admission lingers in the air. Military demolition units came through two days ago.
“How?” I demand, my claws extending. “The sub-levels are a Legion hive. How did Kraaj engineers navigate miles of hostile, super-intelligent machines to plant charges without being slaughtered?”
The answer hits me with force before he even stammers a reply. Daxos never fought the machines down there. The general coordinated with them instead, possessing a cipher that gave his engineers safe passage right through the heart of the nest.
My claws extend slightly in reflex. "When?"
"It’ll happen soon. The charges are already set. Once Daxos confirms the underground network is occupied, he triggers the thermal sequence remotely. Hours, maybe less."
I release him, and he crumples to the floor.
The second extremist corroborates the story under less pressure.
Daxos has wired the entire underground tunnel network with military-grade thermal charges.
He executes a catastrophic sabotage campaign to bypass the recertification delay caused by my escape.
His goal is to seal the tunnels and detonate the charges.
Incinerating the entire subsurface layer containing the machines, civilians, as well as Cassia will be hidden behind an official Legion containment protocol.
I leave the interrogation bay with my hands burning and the last shreds of patience turning to ash.
The freight bay fills within the hour.
Word travels through District Seventeen via whisper networks and market stalls. Frantic emergency frequencies also carry the news as desperate people share life-saving information. Rhykor is building a strike team. Rhykor is going underground. The Dragon needs bodies.
They come in ones and twos at first. Britt's crew, the ones who've served under me long enough to follow orders into collapsing buildings, assembles at the eastern perimeter, their anticipation of my needs absolute.
Dessik arrives with three scouts from the outer sectors, their armor battered, their faces grim.
Maddis shows up carrying her modified shotgun and enough ammunition to supply a small army, cursing steadily under her breath in a monotone that's like a compound anthem.
Then the others start appearing.