The two privates drag the maligned by its feet. Frine is still merged to it, his hands flopping as the men throw it onto a pyre. The process occupies Anthem’s entire world, for he can’t deny the relief of never having to deal with the meathead again.

Devitt taps his arm. “Freshly boiled.” He holds a canteen and smiles, showing rows of black teeth. Months before, Anthem thought twice about accepting water from a man who eats swingers, but he takes the offer graciously this time, hoping Devitt stays quiet about Anthem’s absence during the fighting.

“Guess some people consider you lucky.” Unwin slurps up his own and reels back. “This is the Hells itself, Dev. Yeesh.”

Devitt must have taken his time with Anthem’s water, for it is as cold as Kaskit’s winter nights. Anthem gulps it back, wipes his mouth, and watches the flames eat up the maligned, casting Frine to the beyond. A mounting pressure leaves him, only for another to settle in slowly. Everyone saw you.

Unwin smirks at the fire. “LT is going to be pissed we lost an Ape-infused, but he’s off all our chests now. The bastard was too wound up. I dare say we owe you a favor.”

Anthem had planned a subtle injection, but you can only obscure so much when a maligned is pulling at your ankles, and a crazed Ape-infused soldier is trying to feed you to it. From their curious stares and how they reel when Anthem glances their way, he thinks every soul in the platoon knows what transpired. They likely know that, in the moment, he didn’t hesitate.

He tries to rid Frine’s final moments from his mind and turns instead to the Thurmgeist who had leaped from the rooftops and hacked through the maligned. “Who is she?”

After some time, Unwin answers. “I guess you can call her the platoon’s resident Thurmgeist, though she only comes by to take food and weapons. Captain Grace Kanis, though she’s not a captain. None of them are, but who would not listen to one?”

Anthem remembers Unwin had told him that much in their barracks aboard the Rumblehood. “She’s alone?”

“Nope, there’s more. They’re all off on their own, around Lomlen, and further. They say hunting in small groups is easier without us endangering them. ‘Hunt’… they use that word, you know as if the tides are flipped for them.”

They are. Independence and freedom on the battlefield are luxuries Anthem thought he didn’t want until now. “They’re so lucky.”

“I heard they sleep in nests,” says Devitt, sipping from his canteen. “Where else for illegals?”

Unwin sips as well. “I don’t blame them too much. Some men don’t have the best intentions.”

That puts a spin on it. Maybe Anthem would do the same if he were a woman.

“If we had enough of them, though,” Unwin continues, “then we’d wipe out the whole archipelago, down to only the Minds, running like puppeteers with no puppets.” Unwin stretches his hands and snaps a few fingers like some Ox-infused do. “The maligned do the same to us, though. If a Mind walked into Kaskit, we’d have to abandon the whole city and herd it out. Can you imagine that?”

Anthem could, and the chaos such an event would cause. “So why didn’t we see any on the Rumblehood?”

“Stowed away? It’s the same formula every time a transport gondola leaves Kaskit. The Thurmgeists stow away on board, and the Corps finds them, usually a few weeks from the city, too far to reverse the cord. The Corps always promises to give them back when the gondola returns.”

“But they never do.”

“Right, and why would they? They’re juggernauts. Besides, it’s probably better than being in an incubation vat, don’t you think?”

Anthem’s never seen one of them, but he’s heard stories. They are probably exaggerations. “Still, she should be sent back home.”

“You believe that?”

Anthem nods. “If it were me, I’d consider it my social responsibility to be an incubator and advance the human race, regardless of the… conditions.”

“So easy to say, zoo man. And do you not think we ‘advance the human race’ out here?”

It had felt the opposite for the months before today’s attack, but he doesn’t tell Unwin this. “It’s different. The Decree can’t protect a Thurmgeist from rock slides, avalanches, or mudslides. It can’t pull a woman out of a rubble heap. Glancing blows, too. They’re not invincible, so being out here is a huge risk.”

“Well, share your sentiments with the others, and we’ll see who agrees.”

Anthem doesn’t plan to. “So, ‘therm’ like heat? Thermal?”

“Fire cleanses all,” says Devitt. “Though, it turns out it’s not a good idea if your breeders wield flames.”

“And ‘gheist’ like ghosts,” Unwin adds, “or spirits, or phantoms, at least how the maligned would see them. They come and go like ones.”

That makes a sort of literal sense to Anthem.

Devitt looks over to a swinger tree and passes between the two men. “Be back, gents!”

Unwin and Anthem leave the inner courtyard and head to the entrance of the cannon wall, where Nedland gathers the rest of the 3rd. The ground beyond is a butcher’s floor littered with rotting flesh, pools of red and black blood congealing into sticky puddles. Paulson’s uniform is unmistakable as he presides over a length of tentacle that could have fallen off any maligned, but judging from the medic’s rapt fascination, it came from the one that took Frine.

“Protocol?” Anthem asks Unwin unsteadily.

“Not usually.” The Ox-infused squints and doesn’t say the next part, but Anthem hears it as loud as the bullwheels screeching above Kaskit—war crimes.

Well, no one had tried to save Anthem either. They were not innocent; they had all watched Frine transform like some gruesome carnival act. There’s no way anyone would prosecute Anthem for self-defense.

Sergeant Nedland is examining a report when he greets the two. “Meet our new privates.” He nods to three men, two of whom belonged to Frine’s squad under Hallisey. They regard their new allies and settle on Anthem a little longer. “At sixteen, our squad is packed, but it’s nothing I can’t handle, so long as you pricks don’t make it difficult for me.”

Anthem can’t tell if these new squadmates were the ones who fitted him into the heavy shell, but he asks the question out in the open for all to hear. “What happened to Hallisey?”

“Dead,” says Nedland. “Frine was reassigned in the battle.” He doesn’t mention the fate of the meathead that everyone knows.

Oh. Hallisey going is worse news than Frine, but the two had no doubt conspired to put Anthem in that heavy shell. Such damage is collateral, and he won’t miss either of them.

Nedland continues. “We’re sending teams later today to comb the RLZ and find potential Gashes. Tatlock seems to think today was the bulk of the forces in this region and has ordered us to expand while the Minds reassemble.”

Tatlock. Lieutenant colonel, battalion leader, and two ranks above Fletcher. Anthem has only seen snippets of the man, and though he works in the shadows, over map tables, and behind reports, he may be why they are alive today.

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“We hope that in the coming weeks,” Nedland goes on, “if we can hold off enough maligned and receive the final reinforcements from Kaskit, we can march to Jubilee and retake it.”

A realization settles over the group. They had all known this was coming and had anticipated it for months. The reinforcements had been stepping off the transport gondolas with the intention that they’d join the push to the temple’s gates.

“The final reinforcements,” Nedland had just said. No one clarifies if that means the final for now or ever. Yet one thing is abundantly certain: for many here, this will be their last march. After so many months on the archipelago, with the raw ground spreading throughout and the maligned swelling in numbers daily, the chance of another successful retreat back to the RLZ is almost zero.

“Now,” Nedland continues, “before we get started, we have to-” He looks up. “What is it?”

Paulson joins the group and drops his gloves into a fire. He says something to Nedland before the sergeant perks his head up.

“Private Anthem,” Nedland calls, “with us, please. Unwin, take charge.” Nedland gestures for Frine’s men to join as well.

A cold sweat runs down Anthem’s neck. This is it, then—the meathead’s retribution.

Anthem follows the group to a stack of crates near the southern side of Cliff House’s square, facing the archipelago’s only bullwheel terminal, which still turns despite no transport gondolas on the horizon. Lieutenant Fletcher looks out to it, speaking to a messenger before sending him away and eying Anthem. “You’re quite unscathed, Private.”

Anthem stands at attention and salutes—the dagger in a maligned’s back. Then he points at his leg. “Kinda stings.”

“Sure it does. I heard you were on the wall for a long time.”

Shit. “Got lost, sir.”

“Got lost?”

Anthem manages a “sir” and nods.

It seems Fletcher doesn’t want to push the point further. He addresses the group. “Casualties were quite low, given the size of the attack, so Hells spare us for that. Our cannon emplacements were prepared. We only lost three of the fourteen.”

Fourteen. It’s news to Anthem that there are even that many, and then it dawns on him that the attack must have been spread out across the whole of the RLZ, past the shooting ranges and beyond.

“Unfortunately, Sergeant Hallisey and some of his men were our greatest loss,” Fletcher continues. “The 3rd has absorbed most of the 2nd, and the 9th is becoming the 2nd now. Go figure.” The lieutenant finds Anthem. “I understand you saw Sergeant Frine in his final moments, private?”

Anthem shuffles his feet, the lines running through his head. He starts with a “yes, sir.” Then, when the lieutenant seems unsatisfied, Anthem continues. “He confronted me, just like he had at the shooting range.”

“The hazing?” Paulson interjects.

“It wasn’t hazing.” Anthem runs through exactly what happened.

The lieutenant looks nonplussed, sharing a look with Paulson as if they’re in the presence of an angry child. “What did you mean exactly when you said Sergeant Frine ‘confronted’ you?”

Here we go. “He waited until I was alone and decided to finish what he started at the shooting range. He took his chance, like the Ape he is—was.”

“That doesn’t seem like him.” Fletcher shrugs. “In either case, you should have been with your men.”

Anthem intends to convince the others that he was on his way there, but Paulson speaks first. “Initially, Private Anthem, we believed the maligned that took Frine had been partially burned.”

Anthem nods, clenching his teeth shut to keep them from chattering. It seems Paulson had not witnessed what happened to Frine, though it wouldn’t take him long to find out.

“Upon further inspection,” Paulson continues, “I found traces of an Ape neutralizing agent, with the greatest concentration coming from Frine himself. Also, this.” The medic dangles Anthem’s discarded syringe in front of the group. “You realize that we do not have any medical zoologists in this platoon, and probably not the battalion, to our knowledge.”

Everyone had seen it. Why skirt around the point? He’s cornered, as he thought he would be.

One of Frine’s squadmates chooses that moment to step into the circle and point at Anthem as if he’s heralding an apocalypse. “He killed him! I saw him making the neutralizer last night! In the courtyard. He was mixing stuff in a can. Orange stuff. I thought it was juice until he put it in a syringe and stabbed Frine with it.”

Anthem shrugs and says nothing. All these points would come out eventually, so he lets the conversation run its course.

“Settle down,” Fletcher bellows. “Is that true, Private? Did you make a neutralizing agent without authorization?”

“Who would have authorized it?” The words fall out of Anthem, spilling his confession and intent simultaneously. He swallows back any further retort. “I did, sir.”

“Why did you feel compelled to make an Ape neutralizing agent?”

Because I knew the maligned attacking us the following day would be predominantly Ape-infused. Of course, Fletcher wouldn’t believe an ounce of that. “I did because I knew Frine would come at me again. I was preparing to defend myself.”

“With a neutralizing agent?” Fletcher asks. “Not a tranquilizer or a paralyzer, but a neutralizing agent? Really?” The lieutenant folds his arms. “You were entirely aware of its capabilities.”

Anthem was, of course. He would do it again if he had the chance. “I could not have sorted anything out with that meathead prick. He’s had it out for me since I got here for some stupid reason.” Anthem wants to slam his fists on one of the nearby crates, break it open, and spill the contents over Fletcher’s uncomprehending face. “He held me down while that maligned almost killed me!”

“That’s not true!” It’s one of Frine’s lackeys blurting out. “I saw it. A bunch of us saw it. Right? Frine was trying to save this guy.” The remaining two of Frine’s squadmates nod.

“Save?” Anthem almost can’t speak after the absurdity of Frine’s men lying to save the image of their dead friend. “Go ask the others! They’ll know.”

“Enough.” Grace Kanis, the Thurmgeist, speaks, taking place in the circle of crates as if ordered to. “No need to keep pestering him, LT. Frine got himself killed. I saw it all happen. His men are lying pigs and should be shot and skewered appropriately.” She looks straight at Frine’s squadmates, who scowl back before erasing their expressions. “The man got what was coming to him. Hallisey, not so much, but what can you do?”

Fletcher rubs a hand over his eyes. “Why are you telling me this now, Thurmgeist?”

“Cause I like watching men bicker over useless matters? Reminds me why we’re still here cleaning up your shit. This private was smart enough to defend himself.” Kanis straightens and turns to Frine’s men. “Good riddance.”

Fletcher’s annoyance writes itself all over his face. “Private Anthem?”

Anthem is aware his mouth is open. “She’s right.” The whole situation is laid bare now, and nothing more needs to be said.

“That settles it.” The lieutenant sits up from his crate. “Take these men back, Sergeant.”

Anthem waits for details of punishment, a dismissal, perhaps even a promise to hang him from Cliff House’s roof, but as the seconds drag on, his worries evaporate in the heat. It worked. Hells, did it ever.

He turns to go with Nedland and the rest of Frine’s squad mates.

“Hold on, Private,” Fletcher calls. “I’m not done.” He reads another report before handing it to a waiting messenger. “What you did was a few steps off of a war crime. That you defended yourself does not absolve you of anything. If I catch you making another neutralizing agent, I’ll march you off the side of the archipelago. I won’t have you settling grudges with lethal neutralizers. Is that understood?”

Anthem stops in his tracks and, at that moment, realizes he is not like other men. Most soldiers in the Emergence Corps would have saluted, nodded, or, at worst, kept talking with their heads down. Some would have stormed off, while others would have placated and apologized. Maybe Anthem is worse than others in the Corps, or perhaps he exists in a plane above them, but he is certainly different; he had the courage, foresight, and perseverance to rid the Corps of a liability.

Emboldened by this realization, Anthem says, “It worked.”

Paulson perks up. Grace Kanis straightens her back. Fletcher stares headlong at him. “Pardon me, Private?”

“It worked. I brought an Ape-infused Corps soldier down, and the maligned that turned him with only one vial of a rather simple neutralizer. I found the ingredients around the camp, and I only added water and a bit of heat.” He exhales, too far in to stop. “My only regret, sir, is that I didn’t do it sooner.”

No one in the circle moves. Fletcher stares Anthem down, and it’s at that time Anthem surmises he will be dead come nightfall, either with daggers in his back from Frine’s squadmates or by Fletcher’s orders to be hung.

Instead, the lieutenant nods. It is a shallow gesture that a father would direct to their child when all lines of discipline have crumbled away and when the only feasible action is to acquiesce, let nature run its course, and let children make mistakes and learn from their consequences. It would be condescending if Anthem were a child, but he isn’t. “You have your orders, Private,” says Fletcher. “Get the Hells away from me.”

Everyone else leaves the circle. He stares at the ground, not denying he’s relieved to be out of Fletcher’s piercing stare.

“I commend you,” says Kanis a time later.

He thought he was alone. “For?”

“Getting rid of that ‘meathead,’ as you called him. I wouldn’t have stood for that shit, either.” She glances at Anthem before going. “Just a word of advice, though: don’t try that trick again. Fletcher has shot men for less.”

Anthem takes those words with him, will never forget them, and rejoins his squad, relieved and infused with potential and the truth of the command structure here.

“I see you’re still in one piece,” says Unwin.

“Supposedly.” Anthem’s attention is focused elsewhere, on possibilities. Fletcher had bent to him. Others may not see it that way, but Anthem knows.

“Boys,” Nedland buts his head into the group, having just spoken to a messenger. “Fletcher has orders from Cackles himself. Says it’s important.”

The entirety of the 2nd platoon gathers in Cliff House’s courtyard, now cleared of the refuse of an attack. Murmurs rise, men lean on rifles or crutches, eighty or so heads, with more under the surgeon’s tents. Paulson is nowhere to be found.

Lieutenant Fletcher stands before the lines, reads a report, and thrusts it upwards. From it, Anthem can see the green emblazoned seal of the Emergence Corps denoting a high-priority order straight from Kaskit. “Gauss’s word is in,” he says, blotting out the noon’s shine with the news. “The Far Flung is coming.” He spins, his grin gleaming. “We march for Jubilee with a wall of fire behind us!”