Outside the cave, they plant a stick and tie a scrap of Lieutenant Fletcher’s tunic to it, the only remaining vestige of the man. Hamill’s mound sits beside his, though they dare not return and recover any bit of the boy. Nedland spends his early minutes as a lieutenant with his hands crossed beside the mound, head dipped. Anthem reads on his face, and everyone else’s, the confusion at the events that transpired in those dark passages. This pocket of the Hells is real and surrounds them all.

Lieutenant Nedland marches the 2nd platoon onwards to Jubilee. Now led by Sergeant Unwin, more by unspoken agreement than official assignment, the 3rd squad is silent as they trudge towards the great temple. There is no excitement, apprehension, or fear in their footsteps but rather a mix of all of it, an inhibiting concoction that fends off madness and every emotion.

Before, when they would march at night under torchlight, Tatlock now deems the battalion too small to risk such a maneuver. Not even heat waves will stop them from reaching the temple.

Marching during the day does not stop the shadowed corners from darkening nor stem the paranoia flowing over the column. The Minds monitor the nearby maligned, slinking the things past the attention of the scouts, keeping them out of sight of the broken men. The Thurmgeists search for them anyway, a dozen women or so coming and going at their leisure, aloof and absent for days. When even the women can’t find most of them, the column surmises that the things amass in the most obvious place, the singular destination: the temple where lives will be snuffed out.

The Twin Pales form blisters on their necks, cheeks, and foreheads, but the presence of such doesn’t stop the men of the Emergence Corps from admiring the zoo man’s work, now on display for all to see. His outlandish theories decorate conversations, his curious experiments, and his performance as a ghost working feverishly to complete its life’s work while staving off the inevitable.

Despite their attention, not a single medical zoologist stops to greet Private James Anthem. He conducts experiments in the most public venues, gathering the same crowd of battered, beaten faces, hoping that someone will step forward and correct him on his technique, inquire about reagent combinations, or reveal the topics they once studied. He searches supply nets for zoology equipment that could belong to someone else. He even looks for men wearing spectacles as if such a fact implies one’s profession, but still, he comes up short. Perhaps Hyrnlak has filed away its medical zoologists into hardened soldiers, leaving the memories of themselves back on land. Could Anthem pick himself out of a crowd anymore? He eventually deems the search futile, consigning to the reality that if he is to leave this place, he’ll have to do it on his own.

That yearning carries into his wakeful nights, his dry noons. He constantly reminds himself and ingrains the idea that if his determination withers, he won’t go home. He presses on, for any other option will leave him like Fletcher, like Hamill, like that meathead Frine, and the hundreds and thousands of others that have fallen here and will never get up. Anthem holds the keys and must walk through a forest of fire to reach the door where he’ll insert them.

He will leave this archipelago no matter the cost.

----------------------------------------

Under a tent, Anthem slumps against a tree stump, drifts out of slumber, and realizes he is doing so. In his hand, a carafe holds traces of a neutralizer he’s been prototyping, a mix of Marker and Olm. These two strands, he learned on the march, can be eradicated with a precise combination of different plumes of cotinga feathers.

Knew those things were valuable, he thinks, inhaling a whiff of gas from his vesicle. The tank resting nearby belonged to a private in another squad who handed it over in his last heroic act before dropping all his things, walking in the opposite direction of the column, and never being seen again.

Raw ground fans out a few feet away against the tent’s tarp wall, like splaying fingers against an incinerator’s window, before flicking the switch. The Gash is somewhere near, but on the march, they’ve only focused on clearing the raw ground blocking their path. The Flung’s fire seed will destroy everything in the archipelago, even the unstudied life.

To Anthem’s right is a supply tent where two men are seated, one of whom is Watse, the 2nd platoon’s unofficial meteorologist.

“Three to a man,” murmurs Watse.

“What?” asks the other.

“Three to a man. Two on the belt, one on your chest for easy reach. Imagine all those fireworks.”

“No man’s gonna throw this shit. Looks like I pissed in it.”

“It worked before. On Fletcher, and that thing that almost got Kanis—you weren’t there, but you would have seen.”

The other man fills the camp with his laugh. “That bitch got scared, is all. Turns out they’re only human, just like us. Who would have fucking thought?”

“That’s not what happened at all.” Despite his words, Watse’s head sinks, the expression visible to Anthem as a sullen puppet in the dark.

It’s the first time Anthem’s heard anyone discuss the events in the cave since marching away from it. Did they doubt what he was doing here? His neutralizers hadn’t saved Fletcher, Hamill, or anyone else on the march, but he had killed those maligned. His squad is behind him, and as the other men of the platoon distance themselves from this raving lunatic of a zoologist, considering his theories bizarre and infeasible, those few men in the 3rd have become the only driving force Anthem needs.

He shoots out of his sleeping bag, leaves the tent, and finds Watse alone at the crate table, a deck of playing cards in front of him.

“Sorry, mate,” Watse says. “You heard any of that?”

Anthem nods. “You shouldn’t be alone out here.”

“You shouldn’t be either, zoo man.”

That is true. Anthem had been sleeping in the corner of the encampment, far from the roaring fire at its center where most other squads not on watch gather. He reasons that if he carves out a piece of the archipelago, it will keep the thoughts away that slow him, that prevent him from reaching home.

“Right,” says Watse, looking around but not at the squads near the fire. “Can I ask you something?”

Anthem sees Paulson talking to one of the privates. “Go ahead.”

Watse coughs. “What happened there? I mean, really? We all saw it. Everyone in our squad, and Kanis, too. She lived it. That’s why she was sobbing. I would be, too.”

The incident with the screamers had planted itself in Anthem’s memory and has not left, and now he’s sure Watse couldn’t shake the image either. There is no sense hiding it, for the rest of the company won’t believe it anyway. “That screamer dropped from the ceiling and almost got her.”

Watse lets out a long breath as if from the bowels of that cave. “It’s just that no one’s talking about it. We can’t ask her anything; she’s always with the other Thurmgeists. Like they’re on some stupid rescue mission.”

“They’re hunting maligned.”

“Yeah? How do we know? They come back with bloody blades? I could find a dead borer pup and build the same ruse. No, I think they’re just fucking off, waiting for the Flung to carry them back home on their palanquins.” Watse gathers the playing cards and shuffles them. “You think they know something we don’t?”

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“Probably many things.” Anthem squints and considers a possibility too strange not to voice. “It could be that she was targeted, I guess. By that screamer. But the Decree…”

“Decree be damned, zoo man. Maybe it’s all a fucking ruse, and the maligned have been baiting us all this time.”

“Oh, it’s real.” Anthem dips his head and recounts the events for Watse: how Evi Haricot had rushed onto the stage during the lecture, how the maligned had sneered at her but was otherwise helpless. It would have lunged at any man and turned them, breaking the glass to get at the soft flesh. Anthem takes the deck and sifts through the cards. “The cat couldn’t move at all. It wasn’t a physical barrier, but the thing couldn’t overcome its indecision.” Anthem compares his own words against what he saw in the cave but draws blanks. “It did seem like that thing was going to turn Kanis.”

Watse nods. “There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that if you missed that thing with your neutralizer, she would have been turned.” The man stares off somewhere. “Are you stringing me along, zoo man?”

The question throws Anthem off guard, and he waits for his thoughts to settle. “I would never lie about anything related to medical zoology, Watse. Ever. I have no reason to obscure anything. I want out as badly as you do.”

Watse nods and seems to believe it. While he mumbles to himself, Anthem catches Paulson looking at them from the fire.

“He should have talked to Kanis already, right?” Watse asks, nodding to Paulson as the medic focuses somewhere else. “Seen if she’s wounded or anything?”

“If he has, he hasn’t told me or anyone.” It isn’t hard to see why, as Paulson has given Anthem the cold shoulder since he’d defended himself against Frine. He can still feel the press of that tentacle wrapping around his boots and how close it had come.

“Hold on,” Anthem says as a thought arrives. He rises and checks his packs near the spot he’d been sleeping, near the encroaching fingers of raw. He carries back to the table an object wrapped in an old shirt. He unveils it for Watse, who reels back. “Don’t worry,” Anthem says, “it’s dead. I checked.”

Watse stares down at a chunk of the maligned tentacle and takes a puff of his vesicle, Anthem doing the same. It’s as large as their hands, and its source becomes apparent a few seconds later. “That’s the one that latched onto her foot, right?”

“You mean my foot?” The bushes rustle, and Grace Kanis steps out, a machete in hand but bone dry. “Talking about people behind their backs is bad for morale.” She plants a boot down on a crate and ties the laces. Everyone at the fire perks up at the Thurmgeist’s arrival. Anthem hasn’t seen her for days.

“Can’t blame us that you’re never here,” says Watse, scanning her and sneering. “You’re quite the hot topic.”

Kanis raises her eyebrows. “And you’re disgusting. Your nose looks like a cat’s, but I don’t fucking talk about it when you’re not around.”

This appears to be a deep cut. “I’m sure you tell your little cadre of whores everything.” He looks over to her. “None of you have lent a fucking hand of help since the cave. You just come and go and steal our food.”

“We burned two nests yesterday. How many did you clear? Or have you all just been falling over like the useless sacks of shit you are?” The Thurmgeist prattles her fingers on the machete’s hilt. It’s sheathed for now. “One more word, and I’ll cut that fucking nose off your fat little face.”

Watse exhales, eyes wide. “I’ll need this nose to keep smelling your dirty cunt from a mile away, so I can be ready to leave whenever you skulk back like nothing happened—like the platoon didn’t need you.” He shakes his head and gets up. “Your purpose is to kill these things or birth children. There’s nothing in between. But since you’re not doing the former, when you get back to Kaskit, and we’re all rotted into the fucking raw, I hope the Second Signature chains you to an incubation vat until you’re old and withered and no man would take you even if you paid them.” He heads to the fire to join the rest of the platoon, nearly pushing the Thurmgeist out of the way.

Kanis doesn’t run after the man and deliver on her promise to gore him. Instead, she draws her machete and places it beside a crate. “I am not indebted to you at all. Any of you.” Anthem is the only one in earshot. She glances his way as if to spare him from her earlier scorn—as if she remembers. “What?”

The dead tentacle sits between them like some rotted peace offering, something that he could hand over to ensure her blade doesn’t come down on him. He decides on the blunt approach. “That thing went straight for you. What happened?”

Kanis looks down as if a script is open below her, and she’s searching for her lines. Her eyes flick to the tentacle, then away. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. The whole squad knows, and maybe no one else believes it, but we do, and you do as well. You must.”

Kanis shrugs. “Oh yeah, the cave. We got cornered.” She frowns. “You want recognition for saving my life, then, is that it? Eh? Alright.” She raises a hand as if a glass of wine should be there. “Pretty good fucking shot, zoo man.” She gulps the imaginary drink down. “You know how the Decree works. I didn’t need you. That thing wouldn’t have touched me anyway.”

“That is how the Decree works,” Anthem says, “but do you believe it was working?” The question sounds strange, even from his mouth.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” She squints as if remembering something. It takes her a long time to speak. “I’ve seen a lot of strange things in this place, zoo man, things that would make you question how you’ve even survived this long. The maligned are capable of some incredibly disgusting things. Leave the real eradication to us and stay in your column.”

She’s skirting around something, and Anthem wants to press her further and learn what she’s seen. He’s not an expert at reading people, but it’s clear Grace has secrets of her own. “I don’t know everything out there,” he says, “but I do know what I saw at the cave, and maybe I can find out more about it.” He looks down to the chunk of feeler sitting on the crate. “I can run some tests and figure out what it is. If a strand caused you to be attacked, there’s a chance I could identify which one. If that maligned hurt you, though, I should know.” He checks her body for signs of scarring or wounds.

She sees his eyes and turns to the side. “So I can be a sample?”

“That’s not at all what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean, zoo man? You want me to be a guinea pig? How about a slave? How about a whore?” She shouts the last point, causing the men around the fire to rise, including Paulson.

Anthem thinks Watse left the conversation at a good time. “Do you not feel any obligation to these men? At all?”

“None. And none to you either, despite yourself thinking you saved my life.” She grabs her machete and sheathes it. “You focus on keeping these useless sods alive, zoo man. That’s not my duty anymore. My girls are my only concern.”

Anthem perks up, remembering something Watse said. “Let me talk to one.”

“You’d love to sink your fingers into one.” She smirks and smacks her blade against one of the crates. Then she points the sharp end at Anthem. “Stay the fuck away from my inoculations, too, alright? My vesicle as well. You know how to work the compressors. I don’t need you contaminating my supply with your experiments. I know you’d love that.”

“I had no intention of doing any of that.” Are all the Thurmgeists as disagreeable and impatient as Grace?

Anthem’s about to ask more when Paulson makes his way over from the fire, having felt the need to force himself into the situation. “Everything alright?” he asks.

Paulson, the Gallant. Paulson, the Woman’s Savior. Paulson coming to carry this woman off the Hyrnlak Archipelago and to his bed. Anthem keeps those thoughts to himself, understanding Watse’s words now.

“Was just telling the zoo man why keeping memorabilia is dangerous.” Kanis dips her chin to the chunk of tentacle still sitting dead on the crate.

Paulson’s eyes widen when he sees the maligned fragment, and before Anthem registers what’s happening the medic runs and grabs the chunk. “Experiments?” he asks. “On maligned appendages? Live samples?”

“Dead samples,” Anthem corrects him. He tries to swipe the tentacle, but Kanis steps in his way. “It’s inert!”

Paulson’s face tightens, and he walks off, back to the fire where the other men gather, standing and curious about the commotion. Anthem runs after him, but he’s already entrenched in the press of men, the ones who won’t believe that flesh belonged to a maligned who tried to attack a woman. More than likely, they are part of Paulson’s gallant army, defending their prize of women from men who would do her harm.

The medic sneers at Anthem before throwing the tentacle into the flames. It crackles, melts, and fades away. Some men regard it with straight backs as if the piece will transform into a larger maligned and swallow them. Then, their ire turns on Anthem.

“That was important,” he says.

“Not as important as the health of our platoon,” says Paulson. “Don’t let your little experiments dull your obligation to the men here.” He looks around him. “Or maybe you want to describe to everyone exactly why you are compromising their health for your gains?”

“My gains?” Anthem fumes, feeling the press of a neutralizer carafe on his belt—how easy it would be to smash it into Paulson’s face and be done with the man. “My gains are your gains.” He scans the surrounding men. “I’ll say it. I killed Frine. There. I fucking killed him. I made a standard Ape neutralizer agent because I knew he would try something, and I was right.” He searches their expressionless faces for any rebuke, but none comes. “I don’t regret a fucking thing about it, either. You know why? Because it worked.” He unclips the carafe from his belt and shows them. “What’s in here works.” He points at Paulson. “And what you just threw in there would have made something else work. Get it? So start taking me seriously. Holding me back holds us all back.”

He steps away while facing the men, suppressing every urge to throw the carafe into the fire and see where the shrapnel lands. His feelings are loose now. I killed Frine, and I would do it again if he returned. And again. And again. I wouldn’t fucking stop until I’m out of here.

Anthem leaves the men, returning to his corner of the camp, far from the confused murmurs and doubt, while sleeping with one hand on the carafe.