Primordial Awakening: I Breathe Skill Points!-Chapter 108: The Refusal (2)

The refusal was involuntary and total—the hand making a unilateral decision, overriding every instruction his brain was sending about the importance of not dropping the only weapon that could stop the Harvester, acting on the more immediate and personally compelling input from its nerve endings.

His grip opened. The egg shifted. Tilted. Began the specific arc of something that has been released by one hand and has not yet been caught by the other.

For approximately three-quarters of a second, the facility’s fail-safe, the last surviving counter to a creature that had killed nearly a thousand people, the object the Harvester had been hunting across several hours of death and stone and stolen faces—was falling.

The sound that six people made simultaneously was not a sound that any of them would later be comfortable discussing. It occupied a register that human beings did not typically access outside of very specific circumstances, and those circumstances had one thing in common: the complete, instantaneous suspension of everything except the single most important fact currently available.

In this case the single most important fact was that the egg was falling!

Tank made a sound that had never come from Tank before and would hopefully never come from Tank again. It was not a word. It was not a syllable.

It was the sound of a man whose composure had been built over years of deliberate practice and who had just watched that composure bypass every available exit simultaneously in the space of three-quarters of a second.

Tank did not make sounds like that. The fact that Tank had made a sound like that communicated more about the severity of the situation than any description could have managed, and everyone in the corridor received this communication whether they wanted it or not.

From Kael, a scream escaped . It was brief. It was involuntary. It was the sound of a person who had decided some time ago that they had exceeded their capacity for surprise and had just discovered that the capacity had additional room they hadn’t known about.

Seris’s hands shot forward from feet away with the reflexive futility of someone whose body had acted before their brain had finished explaining that the distance made intervention impossible.

The hands moved. They reached. They found no purchase on anything, and by the time this information completed its journey from her hands back to her brain, the moment had already resolved itself by other means.

Aria Chen produced something that was technically a word in that it had syllables and was generated by the human vocal apparatus, but which communicated nothing except the existence of an emergency and the emotional state of someone experiencing that emergency without adequate preparation.

The syllables were present. The meaning was not. It was possible that there had not been a meaning available and she had produced the word anyway because the alternative was silence and silence was not something any part of her was willing to offer in this particular moment.

Marcus, the composed information broker who had walked into a facility of mass death as a deliberate professional choice, who had maintained throughout their acquaintance the unshakable equanimity of someone who had decided that composure was a professional requirement and had not since revised that decision, made a noise. Not a word. Not a sentence. A noise, emerging from somewhere below the level at which professional choices operated, in the register where the body kept the responses it didn’t check with anyone before producing.

From the ceiling, Whisper conveyed their feelings via an extremely emphatic silent gesture. The gesture was immediate, unambiguous, and communicated in the compact visual language they had developed over several hours of not being able to speak, a language that had become surprisingly expressive under the pressure of necessity. The gesture communicated something in the territory between a warning and a prayer and the specific exasperation of someone who is twelve feet above the floor and cannot do anything useful from twelve feet above the floor and is very aware of this fact.

Zeph caught the egg with his right hand.

The catch was not elegant. It was not the coordinated, confident catch of someone who had planned the maneuver in advance and executed it with precision.

It was the catch of someone who had committed every available resource—muscular, neurological, whatever portion of fortune could be accessed through sheer desperation—to a single outcome, and had achieved that outcome, and was now standing in the aftermath of achieving it with his right hand burning, his left hand already burning, and the egg secure in a grip that he was applying with a thoroughness that left no margin for anything to go wrong again.

The whole terrible event had concluded in the span of a breath that nobody in the corridor had taken.

For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The corridor held the seven of them in a silence that was different from the silence of waiting—this was the silence of seven people who had just collectively experienced something their nervous systems needed a moment to file before normal operations could resume.

Then, in the specific order that exhales happen when seven people have been holding their breath, the corridor filled with the sound of air being released.

"I have it," Zeph said.

The statement was unnecessary. Everyone present could see that he had it—the egg was visible, the grip was evident, the crisis had resolved itself in the one direction that permitted them to continue.

But the statement needed to be made, because something that significant needed to be verbally confirmed before anyone’s heart rate was willing to begin its return journey from wherever it had gone in the past three-quarters of a second.

The words were not information. They were a signal. They said: the thing that almost happened did not happen. You can come back now.

Nobody spoke for three full seconds after that.

The three seconds had texture. They were not empty seconds. They were seconds occupied by six people performing the internal exercise of returning from the place that three-quarters of a second of falling egg had sent them, the exercise of reinstating the version of themselves that was functional and operational and capable of continuing, rather than the version that had just produced involuntary sounds in a narrow corridor because an egg had tilted.

"You," Tank said, , in a voice that had stripped itself down to its absolute load-bearing minimum—the voice he used when he had identified an action that needed to happen and was communicating this identification in the fewest possible words. "Are going to wrap your hands."

It was not a question. It was not a suggestion. It was a statement of what was going to occur, delivered in the register that Tank reserved for things that were going to occur regardless of anyone’s feelings on the subject.

Zeph looked at his hands. At the egg, which continued to pulse at seventy-five beats per minute with the complete serenity of something that had no awareness of what it had just put seven people through and would feel no remorse about it if it had.

The egg was not sorry. The egg was not capable of being sorry. The egg was approaching one of the most significant moments in its existence and was focused on that, and the question of whether its carrier could maintain his grip was not a variable it had any interface with.

He looked around the corridor for something to wrap with, before he had finished looking, that the collective staring of six people who wanted this resolved immediately and permanently was already producing results.

Marcus produced a strip of cloth from somewhere within his observer’s coat with the speed of someone who had decided, in the aftermath of the near-drop, that contributing practical solutions in real time was the most effective available strategy for restoring the group’s confidence in his continued presence. The cloth appeared. It was offered. There was no discussion.

Seris had already torn fabric from the inner lining of her sleeve. She had done this while Marcus was producing his strip, the two actions occurring in parallel with the efficiency of people who had identified the same problem and were solving it simultaneously from different directions. The fabric was substantial. It was warm from her body. She held it out with the expression of someone for whom this was not optional and who was not going to say so because it didn’t need to be said.

Aria Chen offered both her hands to assist with the wrapping and her expression communicated the rest.

He wrapped both hands. Thoroughly, in the layered way of someone who had just received an extremely clear demonstration of what happened when thoroughness was treated as optional. The cloth went around his palms and between his fingers and across the contact surfaces that the egg’s shell would press against, layer over layer until the barrier between his skin and the egg’s temperature was something the heat would have to work considerably harder to penetrate.

He picked the egg back up.

The warmth came through the wrapping—present, building, with the patient persistence of something that was going to become a problem again at a point he could not accurately predict. But it was manageable. The wrapping had bought him something, even if what it had bought him was only time, and time was the thing they needed most and had least of.

He did not say this. He thought it, and kept the thought internal, where it would do the least damage to the collective operational capacity of the corridor’s occupants.

Whisper descended from the ceiling—briefly, efficiently, long enough to work—and joined Marcus in setting the construct cores. Six of them, recovered from constructs dismantled in the levels above: the crystalline processing units that powered the facility’s automated defensive systems, each carrying enough stored energy that the facility’s builders had housed them in reinforced casing and marked them with warnings. Repurposed as proximity mines, 5 of them were arranged along the corridor approach in two staggered rows, at intervals that ensured anything moving through the entrance would cross at least three trigger radiuses before reaching Tank’s position.

The Harvester would phase through them. They all knew this before the last mine was set. The mines were not designed to stop it—nothing they had was designed to stop it, a fact established comprehensively by recent events and not in any need of reestablishment.

The mines were designed to tell them it was coming, because the alternative was finding out when it was already in the corridor, which was worse.

They had all agreed, without discussing it, that this was worse.

Whisper returned to the ceiling. Marcus took his position. Aria Chen moved slightly closer to Zeph than she had been, in the specific way of someone who had processed the available spatial options and selected the one adjacent to the only working weapon in the room—

Zeph looked at his cloth-wrapped hands around the egg. At the cracks in the shell. At the thing moving patiently inside. He could feel the heat building through the wrapping with the patient persistence of something that was not going to stop and was not going to ask his permission before it became a problem again. He estimated twenty minutes before the wrapping stopped being sufficient. He thought the egg might hatch in less than that. He was not certain of either estimate.

The corridor settled into the specific silence of a place that seven people were trying very hard not to disturb.

Then they waited.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​