22. Rhykor #2
A scavenger crew from Sector Eight arrives, consisting of five humans with salvaged weapons and tunnel maps they've been hoarding for years.
A pair of Kraaj mechanics from the eastern compound approach.
They are young and terrified, gripping plasma cutters they've modified for combat.
Three black-market runners who've supplied my operations for months step through the service corridors, carrying crates of signal jammers and EMP charges Junia requisitioned from her hidden stash points.
And then the civilians join in as well.
Tomek, Cassia spoke of him once, explaining that she stitched up a wound of his, walks through the freight bay entrance with a dented pipe wrench in one hand and a tight grip on his patched gear, his face carrying the grim determination of the scavenger who remembers exactly who stitched his wounds in the early days of the outbreak.
Behind him stands a line of shopkeepers alongside laborers and district survivors who have no business anywhere near a military operation.
These are the people Cassia stitched up and fed medicine to before shielding them from armed extremists
"We heard she's trapped down there," Tomek announces, his gruff delivery cutting through the background noise. "Doc Ward saved my skin when the first sector fell. She saved half this district. So either give us tasks to carry or get out of the way."
I look at this assembly—humans and Kraaj standing together in a freight bay that still bears scorch marks from my outburst an hour ago.
Scavengers stand beside soldiers, and civilians beside black-market runners.
The divisions this district has maintained for decades cease to exist by the shared decision that one medic trapped underground is worth the risk.
"Everyone who walks into those tunnels needs to understand what's down there," I address the room, pitching my tone to carry.
"The machines are coordinated. They adapt, and they've had time to build infrastructure in the deep levels, and they've been studying our movements since before the first outbreak.
This is their territory, and they know we're coming. "
Nobody leaves or flinches.
Varrik steps forward with a structural schematic projected from his data-pad—tunnel blueprints alongside safety reviews, showing the entry points Junia mapped before the collapse.
"Three viable routes to the overflow pipe where Cassia was last reported.
The primary approach through the drainage network is compromised; the collapse sealed it.
Secondary access runs through the old maintenance shafts beneath Sector Nine, which are tight, unstable, and crawling with malformed relay nodes.
The third route"—he taps a branching corridor on the blueprint—"drops through the condemned water processing plant on the eastern edge and connects to the deep infrastructure through a series of pre-occupation service tunnels. "
"Route three gives us the widest corridors and the most structural support," I observe, tracing the path on the projection. "But it runs directly through Legion's expansion zone. Every machine from here to the core stands in our way."
"Which is why we split the force." Varrik shifts the projection.
"Strike team alpha goes through route three, heavy combat, breaching charges, your thermal output leading the way.
Strike team beta enters through the Sector Nine shafts and flanks toward the overflow pipe from the north.
If alpha draws Legion's attention, beta has a clear approach to Cassia's position. "
"I lead alpha."
"Obviously." Varrik's mouth twitches. “Britt leads beta while Dessik coordinates surface support and maintains comm relay through Elias's signal array.”
A clear, precise announcement dominates the briefing, carrying the absolute authority of someone accustomed to dominating any environment she enters.
"You'll need these."
Nysera steps through the eastern access with a satchel slung across one shoulder.
Her appearance is different. The polished composure I've known for years has vanished, stripped to raw operational focus.
Dark circles hollow her violet features, while her scuffed armor remains travel-worn in ways that tell me the woman hasn't slept in a facility with running water in days.
Moving between installations on forged transit authorizations, Nysera trades on the intelligence division's autonomy until someone at Kor-Viir notices the pattern to revoke her clearance.
From the tight rigidness of her stance, the operative knows exactly how many hours she has left before that happens.
Having spent the last several hours personally running extraction details to secure the civilian underground shelters—overriding two military checkpoints with forged authorization codes and physically escorting three families past a Kraaj patrol that tried to turn them back—her posture reflects a cold fury.
She traverses through the crowded freight bay with fluid precision.
Her eyes sweep over the assembled force, registering the diverse composition of soldiers and civilians without a flicker of surprise.
She drops the satchel on the meeting table and pulls out a data chip.
"Military access codes for the deep infrastructure security grid.
Override protocols for the automated defense turrets installed in the lower levels.
And"—she produces a second chip—"the deactivation sequence for the thermal charges wired through the tunnel network. "
The freight bay goes quiet.
"Command rigged the tunnels to blow," I state, offering a confirmation rather than a question.
"The entire underground network is rigged.
Thermal charges embedded in the structural pylons at fifty-foot intervals, remotely detonated through a secure military frequency.
" Nysera sets the second chip beside the first. "These codes override the detonation signal.
Plug them into any relay junction in the deep infrastructure, and the charges go inert.
Without the override, anyone can trigger the sequence from Kor-Viir the moment he confirms the tunnels are occupied. "
"How did you get these?"
"By being very good at my job and very tired of watching men like Daxos bury civilians under military necessity.
" She meets my stare, her gaze unflinching—one of the only people alive who can manage that.
"The extraction shuttles are holding at Sector Four.
My teams have cleared the deep junction shelter, and the families are being loaded now.
When you go underground, the remaining evacuation paths must stay clear. That's the sequence."
I pick up both chips and close my fist around them. The metal warms in my palm.
"Thank you, Nyx."
"Don't thank me. Bring her back." Nysera turns and walks toward the eastern access, pausing at the threshold.
"And Rhykor, the access codes will get you through the security grid, but they expire in six hours.
After that, the automated defenses in the lower levels reactivate, and the override chips become scrap metal. "
She disappears through the access door. The freight bay exhales.
The final hour is logistics.
Weapons are distributed while comm frequencies get assigned.
Breaching charges are packed into reinforced carry cases.
Rebreathers are checked and double-checked.
Junia, operating from the comm station with her injured arm strapped to her chest, patches through to Elias's signal array and establishes a relay network that will maintain contact through the upper tunnel levels.
The deeper we go, the more the signal degrades, but Elias has spent three hours optimizing the array for exactly this scenario, his consistent updates on the channel carrying the fierce, focused faith of someone who believes technology can solve anything if you run enough iterations.
I check my own gear in the quiet of the armory.
My tactical vest is reinforced with salvaged plating.
My sidearm is holstered at my hip as a backup, mostly, because my hands are the primary weapons and always have been.
The thermal output registers at full capacity, banked and waiting; the reserves I've been building through hours of forced stillness are ready to ignite the moment I need them.
The ceremonial markings ache. I sense a phantom pressure where her palms rested hours ago in a ruined penthouse thirty stories above a burning district.
The shared rhythm of our hearts moves through the old injuries she’s traced—those jagged lines of history her mouth has mapped, proving that what I once thought was ruined, she finds beautiful.
I will get her back.
The vow sits in my chest with the immovable weight of bedrock.
This reality exists beyond strategy and analytical reports.
It supersedes the predetermined odds that Varrik presented during the briefing—a forty percent chance of reaching her position, which drops lower if Legion adapts faster than we breach and plummets if Daxos triggers the charges before we reach a relay junction.
The numbers are terrible. The vow remains.