They come upon the decrepit bullwheel like it’s a mecca at the end of a religious journey. The colossal spire is one of Hyrnlak’s few ropeway terminals that once belonged to the intercontinental line. Still, all hopes of reconnecting it to civilization are dashed when the men discover that it sprouts from a pit of maligned infestation. Mounds of pink and blistered organic material are strewn about the crater, and straight through its center runs the indent where the ropeway cord fell after its support towers collapsed.

There are children taller than Lieutenant Colonel Tatlock, but no man on the Hyrnlak Archipelago commands such a presence. He is the fiend who marches the 1st battalion feverishly through this great incinerator. “This is going to be a problem,” he utters. “What are our options?”

Underneath a command tent next to the crater’s lip, Tatlock gathers his captains and their lieutenants. Private James Anthem is called to join, though it’s anyone’s guess why he’s needed. Nedland is in attendance, bringing Unwin and Watse along. The latter man’s skill set is still unique in the 1st battalion. Paulson rounds off the men from the 3rd squad, his disdain for Anthem plain as cannon fire, avoiding eye contact and sticking to the opposite side of the tent.

“We could go around it,” proposes Lieutenant Foston, who commands the 1st platoon. He is the most malnourished officer Anthem has ever seen in the Corps, possibly due to his strands increasing his caloric requirement. The apparent lack of fat and muscle does not inhibit him, but Anthem still feels a skeleton has joined the briefing. “Jubilee is only a day’s march away.”

A map of Hyrnlak leans on an easel. A red ‘X’ marks the RLZ at the southern edge of the archipelago, while a fist-sized circle denotes the bottom of the northernmost island, where Jubilee resides. A dagger with a feather tipped at the end has been stabbed straight into the map at their current location, inches away from the circle marking the great temple. The sheer magnitude of the distance crossed is lost on Anthem, for all the days have mixed in a strange soup flavored with inoculations and death.

“If we do that,” says Lieutenant Nedland, “then we risk the maligned hitting our flank when we’re assaulting Jubilee.”

“The Minds have already moved most of them to the temple,” says Orey, and then quiets as he realizes he’s spoken out of turn. When Tatlock doesn’t protest, the scout continues. “We’ve confirmed sightings of a migration. The Minds have been ordering them around us in the night. They could have swarmed us, but they didn’t. My guess is because the Thurmgeists held them off.”

“That’s why it’s been quiet,” murmurs Foston, as if those thoughts haven’t already decorated everyone’s sleepless nights.

“I’m not counting my blessings yet.” Tatlock pulls the dagger from the archipelago and points to another freshly drawn map showing the crater and surrounding forests. Anthem looks outside to get a sense of scale and finds the other tents and the men hastily erecting cannon emplacements.

The sky darkens. A clap of thunder pounds the air. Raindrops patter atop the tent. Anthem looks between their gaps towards the towering bullwheel and finds what appear to be twelve-foot snakes thrashing down from it. They resemble the swinger that picked up the soldier during the march to the tunnel and engorged him.

Tatlock taps the blade end of the dagger on a table, louder than the thunder, and continues. “What’s in front of us now is a maligned nest. This one is the closest to Jubilee, so we must clear it. The Gash is underneath, and the maligned eat the raw ground sprouting from it. They’ve been doing that for years.” Tatlock places the dagger on a table and folds his arms. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“A fusillade,” says an officer Anthem hasn’t spoken to before. His insignia matches Nedland’s, placing him as Lieutenant Lawther, leader of the 3rd platoon. “I dare say we have an abundance of ammunition since we’ve had little contact on the march.”

“That would be daring to say indeed, Lieutenant, and stupid. No, we won’t shoot that thing full of holes in the hopes of hitting the innards. Even with such accuracy, we’d have to hit all the hearts simultaneously.”

The hearts; every maligned nest has a few, for the nest itself is just a giant stationary organism that requires sustenance, as all living things do. You can imagine a myriad of hearts pumping maligned blood through vessels to the different parts of the nest. The size of the hearts varies depending on the size of the nest, and Anthem has read of some nests in the Abscess that are as large as lakes. He isn’t sure if it’s true, but the sketches, the schematics, the cross sections are enough to churn his stomach. Maybe in some other reality he will study these constructions.

The nests being living creatures, they also possess standard bodily functions: digestive systems, a urinary system for waste elimination, nervous and sensory components, and the one that concerns Anthem the most, an immune system.

Against us, the contagion.

“How many hearts?” Anthem means to think it, but he’s eager to voice it.

“I was just getting to that,” says Orey. “We found at least twelve.”

Anthem’s jaw opens. Twelve hearts? “Jubilee has got to be the only place with more than that.” One heart can power as much as a one-kilometer-squared area, which is why the Abscess requires thousands to keep it alive. That they are even seeing 1% of that surface area now makes Anthem’s knees quiver.

Unwin bumps his shoulder, his expression saying it all. It’s not your turn to talk, zoo man.

Lieutenant Colonel Tatlock, however, doesn’t seem to mind. He points the dagger Anthem’s way, but not with malice. “What’s your name?”

“James Anthem, sir.”

“Ah. The ‘zoo man’ I’ve been hearing about.”

Hells, even the leader of the Emergence Corps likes the phrase.

Tatlock doesn’t turn to the others when he asks his next question. “What would you consider your professional opinion on the best assault formation to disable this nest, zoo man?”

“Strike them all at once,” Lieutenant Foston interjects, who had been keen to go around the nest before. “Divvy up the platoons if we need to. Say… half a platoon per heart—four squads. A well-timed volley from all of our men is all we need.”

Foston probably doesn’t remember the fusillade is a poor idea from the start, even with a dozen discharged at once.

“Your math doesn’t work,” says Orey. “Some hearts are deeper than others. You don’t need as many men to kill a heart closer to the surface. Hells, why are we deliberating? You could do this with twelve men, so long as they have the right tools and know where to go.”

That, Anthem knows, is on the opposite end of the infeasibility spectrum, relying on far too few men for the task.

“A scout would propose that option,” says Foston. “You’re just going to walk inside, too? Sneak about like they’re night watchmen?”

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Orey folds his arms and says nothing.

Anthem continues to stare, perplexed at the men and their terrible solutions.

“I believe this question was intended for the zoo man,” says Tatlock. “Let’s give him our undivided attention, shall we?”

The invitation could be a challenge, a chance to prove Anthem’s worth in front of the highest-ranking officers in the battalion. More likely, it is an opportunity for the highest of the higher-ups to witness his failure. No doubt Paulson would enjoy that. “By formations, sir,” Anthem starts, “you mean with men?”

The tent quiets. Tatlock squints as if regretting putting Anthem on the spot. “Yes, Private. Soldiering formations.”

“You would send men into that thing, sir?” The question earns silence and gazes of confusion. Anthem knows it’s redundant, but it’s the best way to illustrate how stupid that idea is.

“What would you commit, Private? Horses? Squirrels?”

Laughter erupts but is lost on Anthem, for he thinks they should be looking inwards at their half-baked ideas. He frowns. “What about the Thurmgeists?”

“The Thurmgeists took enough supplies with them to last until Jubilee,” says Tatlock. “They’re not returning, and I won’t rely on them. What else, Private?”

Paulson sneers, though Anthem doesn’t bother turning. No doubt it has something to do with Anthem’s discussion with Kanis. “How did the other platoons clear the hearts, sir, without the Thurmgeists?” Anthem asks. Nedland’s platoon—formerly Fletcher’s—has been marching independently since Lomlen, occasionally meeting other platoons. Anthem doesn’t want to ask how many men died from that heat wave.

Orey looks ready to answer, but Tatlock enjoys indulging this zoo man. “With men.”

Hells. “And what were the casualties?” Blinks all around. The officers shuffle their feet as if trying to dig out the answers buried in the dirt. “Serious question.”

“Serious casualties,” says Foston. “As are expected in such an operation. It is unavoidable.” He holds an arm out. “Have you seen the thing?”

“None this big,” says Anthem, “but we’ve raised some nests in labs at Galt Alese, and I know their anatomy as well, just like I know that your Olm strand isn’t giving you the calories you need to survive, and you may be dead before we reach Jubilee. Sorry, that is not a threat.”

Anthem notices Nedland’s beaming eyes in the proceeding silence, a smirk forming on the lieutenant’s lips. Get ‘em, his expressions seems to say.

“Would you walk into a bee’s nest to get the bees out?” Anthem asks the room. “Imagine if the bee’s nest was underground and the size of a small town, and the bees were as large as you. Would you walk into that nest?”

Paulson speaks up this time, seeing half of where Anthem is going. “I doubt we have the sap to spare for a whole nest.” It’s his only contribution to the discussion so far, and it’s weak. “What else, zoo man?”

Everyone, even Tatlock, feels the heat of such a remark. “Lieutenant Nedland,” he says, “it seems a lot of bitter men come out of the 2nd platoon, specifically. Do I have you to thank for all the infighting, or did you sods bring that upon yourselves?”

“I wouldn’t call these men bitter, sir,” says Nedland, not skipping a beat. “Opinionated is a more accurate term.”

“Why would that matter?”

“Because, sir, we have to consider what my men have experienced and what they know to have formed these opinions. They are a passionate lot, and I think the battalion could use more of that.”

Nedland’s statements form what is perhaps the best launching point Anthem could have asked for. He rides it, not waiting to be addressed. “The heart pumps blood to the entire nest. If you kill a heart, the other ones will compensate, try to repair and restart each other, and often will.” He hasn’t seen any of this in the field yet and is only extrapolating, but he continues when no one contradicts him. “One of the first things a heart will do is trigger the immune system.” Maligned anatomy texts flood back to him. “They start by separating the threats—us—into manageable pieces. They can close entire veins, create caverns, and trap people inside. The hearts can release torrents of corrosive acid that can eat down to the bone.” Anthem has seen this in miniature in the labs and posits the differences are insignificant when upscaled. “That is not an environment we should ever send men into.”

No one objects, but Tatlock nods. “This is academic,” he says. “What I want to know is, how do we bring this thing down quickly and thoroughly without destroying my whole battalion?” The implication is clear: some of it can go—some of you.

No one speaks as they wait for Anthem to take the bait. He does. “We don’t have to use firestarter sap.” He removes one of his bottles from his haversack and holds it out for Tatlock to inspect. The men of the 3rd adopt their best look of surprise. “This is a general neutralizer agent made with common ingredients I found on the march, some that I see in the forest surrounding us.” He hasn’t seen anything of the sort yet, but he is confident they would find the ingredients if the whole battalion searched. “We can sprinkle the whole crater with this, and it will eat away more efficiently than any sap. Maligned build their nests downwards in a cone shape, and as the neutralizer eats away, we will let gravity work.”

The boldness of the claims seems to fall on deaf ears when Tatlock inspects the carafe and huffs. “One bottle can do all that?” He knows the answer and doesn’t bother drawing it out. “How much of this do we need to eradicate the entire nest?”

Anthem checks the maps, eyeballs the distance between their tent and the nest, and estimates. He arrives at an approximate volume of the nest, which he predicts could be wholly eradicated using a standard neutralizer. He says the number before he thinks about its implications. “20,000 liters.”

The only sound is a choice pounding of thunder. Paulson smirks in Anthem’s periphery, holding the gesture when their eyes lock.

“How much of that is water?” asks Nedland, throwing a life preserver in that awkward sea of silence.

“Most of it. This extreme concentration will allow us to get away with maybe 19,000 liters of water. Minimum.” That 5% savings seems inconsequential, but it’s enough to spare one liter for each man in their battalion of nearly 1,000 men.

“We have 30,000 liters for the rest of the march and assault on Jubilee,” says Foston. “We spend 4,000 a day on the march. It’s not uncommon for us to go through twice that. Meanwhile, we can only boil 500 liters daily, maybe 1,000 max. Typically, it’s been closer to 250.” The lieutenant rubs his eyes. “How in the Hells do we justify spending most of our remaining water on neutralizer for one nest?” He nods at Anthem’s bottle as if it’s some repulsive creature.

“We might get away with less,” Anthem says, “if we can reliably inject the neutralizer into the nest’s veins, but… no, sorry. That is too complex and will require men to know the anatomy of a nest intimately.”

“You already need the men to make the neutralizers,” says Paulson, stepping forward when no one stops him. “Did you think of that? How long did it take you to create 100 liters in secret?”

The medic’s last two words are a child’s last-ditch effort to pin the blame on their sibling, and they are lost on the group. Anthem hasn’t even made 100 liters of neutralizer, yet there are so many factors this ignorant field surgeon isn’t considering. Of course, Anthem has already thought about it, too—he has thought about everything.

“It will take too long to teach them,” Paulson adds and turns to Tatlock. “The plan won’t work, sir. It’s too impractical. We don’t have time, and we’re not risking water our men desperately need. The wounded require even more water, and their number grows daily.”

“I don’t have time to care about the wounded,” says Tatlock, and the words hang like an executioner’s cleaver. He does not speak for half a minute, his eyes shifting between Paulson and Anthem. “That I am considering plans from privates as well already implies how desperate we are.” He studies the table. “You’re correct, medic, that we don’t have enough time to train anyone, but we might not have to. We have one able medical zoologist here and sixty 500-liter tanks on the backs of our strongest water mules. We can spare forty of those, and I’m sure those Ox-infused won’t mind being free of the load.” Tatlock finds Anthem. “They’re not bottles, zoo man, but do you think you can work with forty tanks?”

Anthem only has time to nod before Lieutenant Foston interrupts him. “You can’t be serious! If our men don’t die of thirst when they reach Jubilee, then they will after. What about after?”

Tatlock spins and finds the lieutenant, the dagger in his hand. He doesn’t point it or bring it down; instead, he places it on the closest map table. The blade touching the wood sounds like a falling corpse. “There is no ‘after,’ Lieutenant. Hyrnlak will burn with us on it or not. Our only job is to bring down all the gates and open all the doors to ensure a thorough incineration. That is all Kaskit needs us to do.” He stares at another table where a spotted mycorrhizal mushroom sprouts from an open crate atop a bed of brown soil. “There won’t be any mouths to drink that water after we’re done. We will use all 20,000 liters, and if we have leftover neutralizer, we will bring it to Jubilee. Understood?” He looks around. “Is that understood?”

Nods all around, grunts of “sir” but nothing more committal. The issues of this strange plan have not been squashed yet and may never be, but the orders are clear.

“What do we tell the men?” asks Foston.

“We tell them exactly what’s happening.” Tatlock points to Anthem. “But in case you forget, remind them that our medical zoologist will be why we make it to Jubilee alive or don’t.”