We climbed back up, Ricca above me so my wet clothes wouldn’t drip on her (though hers, of course, dripped on me. But I didn’t mind as much as she did). She glanced down to scold me every time I stopped working the ropes to touch my gills, once again covered by skin and warm with blood flow and potential.

She had adamantly refused my pleas to explore the pool further, insistent that we return to the camp and report. We passed under the taut ropes that served as rails at the top of the sheer wall, and turned off our headlamps to conserve the last of our batteries, settling into the familiar darkness of the camp, whose walls and turns we’d grown to know intimately over the last six months. Ricca walked in front, her footsteps even more assured since her alteration, while I kept constant contact with one of the walls and sent my feet ahead of me, as blind animals tend to do.

By the time I reached the telegraph, Ricca could be heard in the darkness, patiently punching in the message letter by letter, tick by tick. From this far down, sending our messages to the surface felt not unlike praying, hoping someone in an unimaginable realm above would listen.

“Headlight,” she hissed at me as soon as she finished. “Please.” Unlike praying, the return-message came through instantly and unequivocally, in a sequence of staccato beeps.

I turned on my headlight and discovered McCray, crouching with a pen and notepad, prepared. As soon as the first beep was heard, McCray started jotting the message down in her notebook, in quick, sharp movements. She didn’t have to – she and Chambers often clicked to each other in Morse just to pass the time, (my own memory had never been quite sharp enough to follow) – but it would have been careless of her to rely on her memory, however sharp.

Before I even read the message, I saw her reaction: a shiver from the top of her spine to her pelvis, ending at her feet in a little tapping dance.

The beeping stopped, and after a short pause, she turned the notebook to me.

Stay put. Three coming. Sir. Moloch, explosives expert, and assistant.

I turned my helmet towards the wall to look at her under the refracted light.

“Haggard Moloch,” Ricca said. “What the hell would the inventor of the bloody Crystal bomb come down here for?”

“Perhaps he’s going to build a lab down here.”

“With what Crystal, exactly?” Ricca looked at the writing again. “And who’s the third person?”

“The assistant?”

“It says Sir. Moloch, whom we already knew was an explosives expert, and an assistant. That’s two.”

“The Crystal bombs aren’t technically explosives, Sergeant. The first person is Moloch; the second is the explosive expert.”

She read the message a third time. “Fine—but what the hell does he need an explosives expert for?” Her eyes opened wide—every one of them. She looked at me, and I knew we were thinking the same thing. They’d had the same idea that we had: if the caves wouldn’t give us a path to the Crystal we all knew must still be down here, we’d make one.

#

We walked the familiar path to the cave that had become our dormitory. I’d have preferred sleeping by the water, but McCray had insisted that we not stay any deeper than we had to. We had already annexed Watts’ and Chambers’ blankets for ourselves, as was unit doctrine, to lavish on two mattresses and two blankets, each.

I turned my lamp off. After Ricca had finished making her bed, she hesitated, then followed suit. She had no problem with the darkness as long as she was moving, as long as she had a task to complete. It was lying in it, residing in it, that was difficult for her. I considered pretending that I had some problem so that she’d be distracted by the need to play her roughneck-sergeant role while taking care of me, but I couldn’t think of anything. Besides, she probably knew me well enough to have seen the bluff for what it was.

We lay there, making peace with a darkness that was perfect—not like night, or like a closed room in an apartment on the second floor where, after enough time, thirsty eyes might find some spittle of light to lap up. Here, there was an absence so absolute it didn’t remember what it was absent of. We might as well have had no eyes.

“Jill?” McCray said after a moment, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Could I ask you for something?”

“You’re my commander, Sergeant.”

“Not as your commander.”

“What is it?”

“Would you mind playing a song on your lute?”

I’d never had much of an ear for the minute hints people sent each other in their tone or choice of words, but even I could recognize the sound of a girl stranded in a deep, dark cave, in need of rescue. “You want me to sing, too?”

“Assuming your lungs haven’t degenerated from all that gill-breathing, yes.” I heard her smiling as she spoke, and a silly grin echoed on my own face as I fumbled for my lute. I settled comfortably back in my blankets with it in my lap, and chose a lullaby my sister used to sing to me, before she’d lost her hearing – “A Prayer to Artemis and Apollo to Protect the Young.”

I strum the first chord. There was something in the way music sounded in these caves – perfectly echoless, as if the caverns were taking in the sound for themselves. As if there was someone listening so intently they devoured the sound.

“…as they travel through the world, keep them safe from harm,

guard them from evil, protect them from all ill,

grant them the strength to overcome obstacles,

grant them the resilience to recover from loss,

grant them the wisdom to find their way through the dark…”

And in the darkness, I may have felt her body shimmying in her blankets, moving just a little closer to mine, her warmth radiating against my skin, her shoulder almost touching mine. If I hadn’t been a coward, I’d have put the lute aside and hugged her close, engulfed her like this cave engulfed us both.

Unfortunately, we were who we were.

#

What’s the clearest, most distinct impression, when waking up in a cave? Disorientation. You have to restrain the urge to look about, in the perfect darkness, and instead close your eyes and ask where you last laid your head. If you’re not careful, you might be sent adrift by the feeling that you’re alone in the world. Just you, and the coloured shapes the mind conjures in the dark. I had a feeling that someone had been talking to me, perhaps the remnants of a dream.

“I asked, Private Reynoleds,” Ricca’s voice was heard, from somewhere outside of the dormitory, then footsteps carrying her right to the entrance of the room, where she stopped. “If you used the last of the refuse bags.”

“I…” I set up, but I had nothing clever to say in response.

“I take it as admission you did. Very well, Private. Victory belongs to those who take initiative, does it not? And so, defeated, I shall take my business to a cliff above the dead-end shaft. If I fall, I trust that you’ll leave my body and tell my family I lost my mind and escaped the world into depths unknown.”

“I apologise, but I’m an honest girl. Hold on tight, or I’ll be honour-bound to tell them you defecated yourself to death,” I said in the most somber tone I could muster this early in the day. “Sergeant.”

“There was once a time when soldiers knew the meaning of duty,” she declared, as her hurried footsteps echoed away. “Would that I’d been born into such an age.”

Left in the dark, I tried to lure back the sleep she’d chased away. I might have succeeded, had I not been interrupted by a specific sequence of sounds I was trying very hard not to listen to, namely gas escaping a narrow cavity. I opened my eyes and realised that I could see, faintly, the shape of the cavern. I had already learned to recognize the faint illumination of lamplight reflecting endless times, a glow that would have been negligible on the surface, but down here was as clear as the cool colour of the sky before dawn.

I also realised that it had not been Ricca I was hearing, but someone speaking, or attempting to, in a voice so damp-sounding and heavily altered I hadn’t recognized it as speech. Swift steps closed in, unaccompanied by light, too confident to be anyone’s but Ricca’s.

“They’re here,” she said.

We went to the landing to watch them rappel down: three beams of lamplight, slow with inexperience and caution.

“Good morning,” Ricca called.

“A matter of faith, isn’t it?” the wet voice answered. “Whether it’s morning or not, that is. Haggard Moloch at your service, or at least I will be, if I survive this descent. Sergeant McCray, is it?”

“In the flesh. Mostly. Take your time, Sir Moloch.”

“Not my time to take, I’m afraid.”

A voice like rocks sliding against each other came from even higher up. I considered jumping out of the way when I realised it was forming words. “Perhaps if you stopped being clever for two minutes, you wouldn’t take so long to rappel. Morning, Sergeant. Miles and I will introduce ourselves in a moment.”

The third and highest beam turned to us, but whoever was wearing the headlamp remained silent. What was it about the name Miles that communicated the image of a weak, sheepish man?

“Better to climb slowly than break one’s neck,” Ricca said.

“Not sure I can do that, either,” Moloch said, quieter this time. He finished descending and released the rope from his wet harness. “Apologies for the wait,” he said, turning to Ricca, and only then did I see how severely altered he was. His soft, round face was partially hidden behind a high coat collar and helmet. His flesh was the colour of watered-down milk, and his skin seemed covered by a thin layer of mucus. A yellow-brown ponytail, the colour of a cave-snail’s shell, dangled against his upper back. With gloved hands he wiped the back of his neck with a piece of cloth, as if perspiring. His head was faintly translucent, and I could trace the outline of a large, pink stain where his brain must have been. His unaltered brown eyes were visible at a side angle, and maybe even the nerves and muscles that were pulling at them, like purple branches in the fog.

He looked at Ricca’s alterations with apparent curiosity, then turned his gaze from her to me, glacially slow. “Do I have something on my face?” he said sardonically, his voice a soft gurgle.

“Apologies,” I mumbled. “It’s an honour to meet you, Sir. I’m Jill Reynolds.”

“Honour’s all mine, good lass. Forgive me for not shaking your hand.”

I let my collar down, showing the side of my neck. “Forgiven, naturally.” I wasn’t sure if it was that his hand was too delicate, or lacking in fine control. I was curious, but didn’t want to pry.

He turned the lamplight to my neck, his hairless eyebrows arching in wonder. “Do those—”

“There’s a lot to talk about, Sir,” Ricca cut in. “Perhaps we should sit down and discuss the nature of the situation.”

The second of Moloch’s group finally touched ground, making a sound like boulders colliding. Her body was as large as two covered in a uniform that must have been custom, using as much fabric as a small tent. Her exposed skin was a reddish dark brown that might as well have been cut from these very walls. “I wouldn’t mind sitting down,” she said, letting the three ropes that held her, three times the usual number, run loose. “Sergeant Lydia Krentz, at your service.” She put her hand forward, and Ricca grabbed it. Krentz did not grab Ricca’s in return, and for good reason – her palm was wider than Ricca’s was long, and her rock fingers looked like they could crush a human hand without her even noticing.

It was the most extreme alteration I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen people who’ve had living matter added or swapped, but Lydia Krentz was a thing that should not have been able to exist—unvital material acting as if it were alive.

I grabbed her palm once and nodded. “Jill Reynolds. Are you the bomb expert?”

“Demolitions, yes. And this is my assistant, Private Miles Ogma.”

I must have not heard correctly. Couldn’t have.

The last of the three reached for the floor with the toe of his boot, but didn’t loosen enough rope, and so smacked against the wall with a groan, belly first. Finally, he managed to stand firmly on the ground and turned to me. The tanned assistant’s face was the strangest, most unexplainable of three, even though there was not a single alteration to him, yet.

The scar on his eyebrow had healed almost perfectly, leaving only the tiniest line of absence in the brown hair where blunt force had torn the skin open, years before. The broken nose had set croocked. He looked at me for a moment too long, unsure whether to comment about our prior acquaintance, and I stepped forward and put my hand in front of him before he had a chance to make a mistake. “I’m Jillian Reynolds; honoured to make your acquaintance. Ogma, was it? Gaelic, right?” I’d known that it was. His family had refused to translate the name of the harvest god they were priests of to the corresponding Roman name, as was so common, and I’d always found it admirable.

He hesitated for only an instant, well-meaning but confused as to why I was pretending not to know him, before finally taking cue and shaking my hand. “Me too. Yes, Gaelic, god of wisdom and grain.”

“Well, we could use both here,” Ricca said, her cheek only hinting at the irritation she expressed when I dove into a quandary at an improper time. “Ricca McCray.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant.”

“Do you need rest? You must have been climbing all night.”

“No need,” Moloch said. Krentz grunted in approval, and Miles opened his mouth and closed it.

Ricca seemed to catch that, too. “There are a couple of matters I’d like to discuss with Sir Moloch. We’ll take fifteen minutes, which I suggest you use to unburden yourself before the half an hour of rappelling and walking that’s ahead of us. So, if there are no objections?” She looked at Miles, who nodded thankfully as he slumped against the wall. Good old Miles.

“We’ll wait,” Krentz gravelled, leaning against the wall, her backpack still on, as if it were more of an effort to sit or reach down than just stand there.

“Shall we?” Moloch gestured with his hands, as if offering to dance, and Ricca led him to another corridor. I was thinking of how I could start a harmless conversation with Lydia Krentz when Ricca pointed with her hairy chin, signaling for me to follow.

#

The dining hall was too large to comfortably sleep in, even when Watts and Chambers were here. There was a folding table, and some chairs, but nothing more.

Ricca placed her helmet on a chair, the beam making Moloch’s skin glisten. “No disrespect intended, Sir, but this is too convenient to be a coincidence.”

He casually leaned his rear against the table. “Are you certain? Sometimes the star of providence shines on us.”

“No stars shine down here, providential or otherwise. How did you come here so quickly?”

He smiled benignly. “S’soon as I reckoned that my alteration was more than just an inconvenience, that it allowed me to breathe underwater, I sent word out to see if there were any expeditions blocked by a body of water that could not be crossed, even with a diver’s gear, and to notify me if there were. As soon as you sent the message that you were sending up your two soldiers, I was notified.”

“And your companions?”

There was a grace in the way he yielded, answering her questions although he obviously would have preferred to move along. “Lovely Sergeant Krentz had just arrived at the sanatorium. It’s not exactly easy to get a demolition expert, but we managed to coerce the head nurse to let her go, under the pretense that I would research her extreme alteration. He insisted I swear on my knighthood to bring her and Private Assistant Ogma back before the week ended.” He threw a glance at us and correctly estimated that we had no idea what day it was. “It’s Lunaday, now.”

“It will take her at least two days to climb back up,” Ricca said. “That leaves us three days.”

“There’s a lot one can demolish in three days.” He waited for a moment, and when she did not ask another question, said, “Now, Sergeant, if you deem it worthy, could I be let in on the details of the situation?”

She sighed. “The path is blocked by a body of water, with a single opening at the bottom. We haven’t found any Crystal there.”

“Thus far I’ve heard from Chambers already. What about Private Reynolds’s fascinating new alteration?” One of his curious eyes turned to me again, the other following an instant later.

“The most Reynolds spent under the water is four minutes, but we have no reason to think she’ll stop there.”

“Did you explore that cave opening, Private Reynolds?”

“We agreed it was unsafe for a single diver,” I said, not looking at Ricca. “I assume you’ll be diving with me?”

“That’s the idea.” He smiled. “My record so far is twelve submerged hours, but I’m ready to break it if need be.”

“Good,” Ricca said. “So you’ll have a lot of time to crawl in those caverns and find a safe path down.”

“We definitely will,” Moloch’s voice softened even more. “But there still might be a need for Krentz’s expertise.”

“There will be no explosions unless they are proven to be absolutely necessary,” Ricca snapped. “Do we agree on that, Sir Moloch?”

His expression grew stern, his body angled a little forward, as if deliberating not whether to apply force, but how. “Only if necessary, certainly. Another question, if I may: in your telegram, before sending up Chambers and Watts, you wrote that the rock is abnormally soft in the pool itself. Does it really go below four Mohs?”

Moh being a measure of rock hardness, similar to SCOFs. The potential for dirty, childish jokes had not eluded my teammates. “Softer than that, even.” I said. Had I not seen the measurement drill with my own eyes, I too might have had doubts. “Some spots reach as low as three point three.”

Ricca turned to me. She did not speak of the frustration in her many eyes, but scraped her thumb’s nail against her chin hairs, making a dry flicking sound as each hair bent and straightened.

Moloch turned to me, his grin like a curved knife wound. “We could practically carve into it with teaspoons.”

“Forgive me, Sergeant,” Ricca said, a hint of anger in her voice. “Could you explain this plan to get demolitions involved, in abnormally soft rock, underwater, in a situation where we might not be able to evacuate the divers from said body of water?”

“Not a plan, Sergeant, but an impression: That if we want to win this war, we cannot let the rock dictate where we are allowed to reach, and where we are not.”

Peculiar, that a man so clever would put it wrongly – for if we only demolished where the rock was soft, weren’t we being led by the rock all the same? The only difference was that it was the geology of these caves that led us, instead of their geometry.

“Perhaps we can, perhaps not. There will be a time to discuss that point, Sir Moloch, but it is not now. Is that clear?” Ricca’s voice was as hard as I’ve ever heard it, and there was a readiness in her body, a forward lean to match Moloch’s.

He leaned back and raised his arms. “I apologise for my rhetoric, Sergeant. You have the only sovereignty here, as far as I am concerned.”

“No apology needed. Anything else I should know?”

“Not as far as I’m aware. And I?”

“Not…” She sucked on a fang, contemplating. “As far as I’m aware.”

“Then I have a request,” he said.

“Yes?”

“A moment alone with Private Reynolds? I’d like to trade a couple of words before we’re in over our heads. One amphibian to another.”

Ricca gazed at me, her expression unreadable, then back at Moloch. “As you wish. But be ready in ten.”

He bowed his head. “As you command.”

She gave me another long look that I couldn’t quite decipher, then picked up her helmet and left.

As soon as she was out of sight, something in him relaxed. Not that he had seemed tense before, but perhaps that he had kept in check his body’s unnatural softness. He slumped down, noticeably cheery. “How are you, Ms. Reynolds? Have a sit.”

“Can’t complain, Sir,” I said as I sat down on one of the abandoned chairs.

“Did the alteration affect your vocal chords, or is it just rigorous conditioning?”

“Sir?”

“Your incapability to form complaints.” He smiled apologetically. “Not the right crowd, I see. No need to call me sir; Haggard is good enough. Gods knows I am. “

“Well, Haggard, what is it that I can—”

“This is the fourth time you have been altered, correct?

“Yes, I – “

“But McCray says this is the only time you gained the ability to breathe in fresh water, s’that true?”

“That’s correct.” I nodded. “Twice I had scales grow on parts of my body, and once a dorsal fin as well as webbed fingers.”

He pinched his lower lip in thought. “Curious, ain’t it, that the change in your practical abilities was so significantly different. But that’s assuming you did test that in the previous times, as well. Did you?”

“Every time something changed, I tried to see if it made me swim any better,” I said. Needless to say, it hadn’t been pleasant.

“A series of disappointments,” he said sympathetically. “Yet you kept trying. That’s admirable. For me, it worked on the first try. My lab was near a lake, and after my alteration, I went for a swim as soon as the sun set. My assistants found me at the bottom, having a nice ol’ nap after gorging on mussels. Just seemed like the right thing to do.”

He shrugged and chuckled, then paused for a moment, looking up as if to recall some tedious detail. There was a way the flesh around his eyes moved when they did, perhaps from the muscular tension. “Technically, you’re not permitted to know that my lab is beside a lake.” He shrugged. “Anyway, that’s what’s so curious about your case. The base hypothesis is that Celestine’s Crystal is causing the alterations randomly, but that can’t be, can it? If it were, we’d see far more deaths and results that were much less… shapely. And why weren’t you given gills right away? What do you make of that?” There was a hunger in his eyes, an intense curiosity that made it clear this was no idle chat.

“I don’t know, Sir. I’m not a scientist.” From the corridor, I heard Ricca and Krentz hissing and graveling, not loud enough for me to follow what they were talking about.

“A religious woman, Jill?” There was a sharpness in his voice, as if the question bore great weight about our chances of finding any Crystal here, but I could not see how it would. I looked back and found him inspecting me closely. Even buried in a slimy face, these were the kind of eyes you’d rather tell the truth to, if you could. Sadly, I couldn’t.

“I offer flowers at Apollo’s shrine whenever I get the chance,” I said. Thou shalt not falsely testify to your ally, The Sovereign of the World commanded, and technically I wasn’t lying. When it came to matters of life and death, like hiding my true religion, I was capable of lying outright. The problem was that proper lies were easier to detect, and so berter avoided.

“Not a lot of shrines down here, I’m afraid. Or flowers, for that matter. Apollo, eh? I guess we could all use some sun, healing and a predictable future.”

“Apollo also loves discovery and new beginnings. I’d like to think I’m making my offerings when we explore.”

“I won’t be the judge of that. But Celestine’s, and these caves in which it is found, are by nature Dionysian. They make a game of our forms. If you want luck in these mines, I suggest putting your flowers at Dionysus’s feet, when you get the chance.”

“Do you really believe that? I mean, Sir, it’s surprising to hear one of the nation’s foremost scientists claim Dionysus interferes here.”

He exhaled a wet sigh, as if he was about to say something he’d already said many times. “It is as easy to dismiss the gods as simply ‘not there’ as it is logically sound, but that misses the point. Men and women have, since the dawn of time, imagined intent when there was none – they could not understand why the sky would give plentiful rains one year and drought at another, so they imagined a beautiful woman to be in charge that might be appeased with gifts and songs. To forfeit that tendency is like tossing aside a floating vest just because you haven’t fallen off the boat yet.” He smiled but his eyes narrowed, as if he spotted the doubt in my expression. “Any reservations, Ms. Reynolds?”

“I’m not disagreeing, but I’m not sure what any of this means, practically. I’m sorry if that’s not-”

“No, it’s a good question.” He seemed genuinely pleased. “It’s the simple mechanics of the human spirit: we endure more when we believe that there’s a reason for the suffering. And faith in the gods gives the entirety of existence such reason because somebody, even imagined, willed it to be so. When we are in a dark place, in a precarious circumstance, we too should have something to believe in, to suffer for.”

I was wary of being too direct, but my curioisty led me, in the end. “And what do you believe in, Sir?”

“In Apollo, but only in as much as he represents science. I believe the neverending conquest to understand everything is worth sacrificing our lives for—and I don’t mean just dying; that’s the easy part. And in Dionysus, as he represents the chaotic winds that blow our little boats here and there, despite our wishes, and how we should still rejoice in them. Often one can spend their entire life exploring some part of reality and finding nothing of import—and still it is a worthy sacrifice, a life worthy of celebration.”

I nodded, knowing that if I spoke my mind, I’d sound like a sycophant. “I understand,” I said simply. “Then the name…” The Empire was accepting of many faiths as long as we could pretend they worshipped the same gods in different names, but Moloch was foreign enough it could not have helped in his career.

“My family traditionally worshipped Moloch, aye. My grandparents were forced to give up their priesthood, but were not allowed to forfeit the name, as troublesome as it was. My father used to say that every time we get a cocked eye at a Hellenistic temple, we should remember that we had it better than the Jews. That we should be thankful that we had a choice.”

“If they wanted a choice, they shouldn’t have vowed to eradicate every other faith,” I said, expressing zealous agreement without saying anything explicitly untrue—a pretense worn smooth with practice.

Moloch smiled and shrugged. “Can’t argue with that.”

“So what did your grandparents do, after giving up their priesthood?”

“They became butchers, as did my father, as I was expected to. But it seemed to me they traded one kind of sacrifice for another, and I just wasn’t cut for butchering, pun not intended.

“Did you always know you wanted to be a scientist?”

“I wandered, but when you are where you’re supposed to be, it just feels right. I’ve learned to trust my instincts, which leads me to ask: This woman, McCray. Does she seem right to you?” He had not stopped to check if she was near, nor lowered his voice.

Neither did I. “I’ve served with her for months, yes. I’d trust her with my life.”

“She seems… reluctant. Hesitant.”

“She is. If she calls us out of the water, for any reason, I will defer to her. And not only because she is my commander.”

He nodded. “That’s good to hear. We’ve come low, but there’s a chain of command here: she’s your superior, and I’m technically hers, though I’ve forfeited that superiority over my lack of experience here. But when we get lower, and it’s just you and me underwater, it’s only good old trust that we can count on.” He bent over for his bag, his spine almost rolling over itself, and retrieved a small bottle from his bag.

“An offering to Dionysus?” I asked as he handed it to me.

He shook his head and smiled; a genuine, fatherly smile. “A gift, to you.”

“I can’t take this, Sir.”

“You have to. I’d be very offended if you refused, and you don’t want to offend a national hero, do you, now?”

I smiled, too. “It would be exceedingly rude…” I took the bottle, wrangled the tin cap open, and offered it back to him. “If you didn’t take the first sip.”

He pushed my hand back gently, his gloved hand inhumanely soft. “I’d love to, but it doesn’t stay in like it used to. Not only does the coming down burn like hell, but one swig and I smell like a distillery for two whole days. I’m sure you’ll find something to do with it.” He winked, slimy eyelid closing and opening slowly.

#

“So? Did he convince you to conspire against me, or use the opportunity to have a little grab?” Ricca said, not lifting her head from the bag she was packing.

“That’s foul, Sergeant. Six months ago you’d never have considered such a disrespectful joke. This place has changed you.” I shook my head mournfully.

She turned her many eyes to me, and clicked her fingernail against one of her long fangs. “You truly think that? I don’t feel any different.”

“Har har. What bothers you about him?”

She looked away for a moment, making that face she did when she was listening for something, then turned back to me. “He brought a demolitionist along before getting a read on the situation, and now he seems eager to use her, without even trying for a way that won’t put the both of you at risk. If he wants to compensate for spending the entire war in a chair, that’s his problem. I don’t trust him.”

“Maybe this will help,” I said, and presented her with the bottle of Nord.

“What’s this?”

“A peace offering, I reckon.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“To cover my debt.”

“But you won the bet,” she said, raising her eyebrow.

“Oh, did I? Then take the bottle and give me back my half. You can get me another bottle once we’re on the surface.”

She chuckled. “You think we’d maintain this unholy alliance on the surface?”

“The gods certainly won’t allow it. For that reason, my good commander, tonight we are going to get good and drunk.”

Ricca held the bottle in front of her eyes. “Your intentions are very much appreciated, but your optimism blinds you. At best we are going to be mildly inebriated.”

“I disagree. We haven’t drunk a drop in weeks. At the very least we should become… considerably inebriated.”

“As Britonish representatives to this strange land, I believe that’s it’s our duty to give it a worthy effort.”

“They do say it’s the effort that counts.”

She smiled at me, which made it worth everything. “It’s the effort that counts, Sergeant.”

#

Ricca and I went out to check on the new arrivals. Krentz and Miles were by the entrance, both with their backs to the wall—Krentz standing unnaturally motionless, eyes open but unmoving, and Miles sitting and massaging his forearms, which must have been sore from rappelling such a distance for the first time. I recalled the countless nights I’d lain on the thin mattress and felt the rocklike musculature of my arms as if they belonged to someone else—altered, not by Crystal, but hours of honest exertion.

“Get ready to leave,” Ricca said. Miles hesitated before jumping to his feet, his cub-like movements reminding me of times I did not care to remember. Krentz reacted instantly, slowly but without pause, leaning forward into a first step. Moloch’s lamplight announced his entrance.

“Sorry for the delay,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “Hands not as quick as they once were.”

Ricca nodded quickly, and we went on our way in that pleasant silence that accompanies those starting out on a hard trail.

Their progress was slow compared to ours, doubly so after we were done scaling the wall. In the narrow passage that led to the pool, Miles and Moloch would have managed to keep a decent pace, but Krentz had to walk sideways, sweat beading on her forehead and neck. The sound of her panting, like granite being raked, echoed louder than the rest of our sounds combined. When we finally reached the pool she put her hand against the wall, fingers spread against the rock, perfectly still aside from the expanding and shrinking of her chest.

Moloch let his pack drop gently behind him, then his boots and gloves. He unbuttoned his drenched shirt, exposing a delicate body, the organs faintly visible through his abdomen like trees in fog. He removed his pants and moved toward the water, leaving slimy footprints on the rock, then slipped in with nothing but briefs and his helmet-light. Only then did he take off his gloves, as if he’d forgotten they were there, and tossed them on the shore. Ricca watched him intently.

Up to his neck in water, seemingly unbothered by the cold, he turned to me. “Will you show me the way?”

“I don’t think that’s wise. It’s much harder for me to get out of the water than into it, and we haven’t agreed on a plan yet.”

His eyebrows met, and he turned to Ricca. “Then what are our orders, Sergeant McCray?”

“Get in the hole, slowly. Don’t go anywhere you’re not sure you can get out of. Collect whatever Crystal you can.”

“And if there isn’t any?” His eyes shone in the lamplight.

“Collect whatever you can,” she repeated. “Apologies, Krentz, but I do intend for you to spend the expedition seated, if possible.”

“Fine by me,” she said, having regained her usual statue-like composure.

Moloch spoke. “Jill, you don’t happen to know sign language, do you?”

Yes, I signed, a little surprised. My sister is deaf.

My father, too. He grinned at the coincidence. Then let us get to work.

I looked at Ricca, who nodded sharply once, and I took off my clothes.

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