Page 25 of Fated, Allegedly

Caleb runs the roster. Sixty-one Stillwater adults, thirty-one from Bracken and Marrow Creek who can fight, nine more who insist and get put on water and stretchers instead. Owen takes the old trucks apart and builds spare fuel out of a farm tank. Isla organizes the compound as a casualty station with my mother, and she does it with a class list, because it's the only system she's got and it works.

Erin walks the yard twice a day with her clipboard, and by Friday people are bringing her problems that have nothing to do with biology. Where to put the Bracken kids. Whether the north bunkhouse stove will hold. She solves what she can and writes down what she can't, and nobody in this valley has stopped to notice that she isn't one of us. She calls me into the long hall on Friday night with the whole table covered.

"I've been running the wall-water chemistry from the drift," she says. "The sample I took at the face. Nash, sit down, because I've checked it three times and I still don't believe it."

"Say it plainly."

"It's got a dissolved profile I can't source. Sodium chloride at seawater concentration, six hundred feet under a freshwater lake in a granite basin with no marine sediment. That's already impossible. Then there's the temperature." She turns her notebook around. "The rock at the face was eleven degrees above the local geothermal gradient. Something down there is producing heat. Consistently. And it's producing it inside a volume they've been drilling toward for four years."

I glance at her column of figures and think about Hazel saying well.

"Hazel's people have a word for it," I say. "She won't use it."

"Then let's use mine." Erin plants both hands on the table. "It's a source. Not a deposit, not a reservoir, a source, generating something continuously, and the entire biology of this basin is downstream of it. Your population's metabolic rate. The healing. Every one of those is an energy demand nothing in my discipline can pay for, and they're all sitting on top of an opening in the ground that's eleven degrees too warm."

"And they're drilling into it."

"They're not drilling. They finished drilling. The core library I found was the characterization phase and it's four years old." She sits down heavily. "You don't build that much of drift under a lake to take samples. You build it to install something and run it. Nash, they're extracting."

Hazel's been in the corner the whole time with her knitting. She sets it down.

"Ask her what happens to us," Hazel says, "when they take the well out from under the basin."

Erin doesn't soften it, which is the kindest thing about her.

"If it's the source, everything above it fails. Not quickly. Outward from the middle, the same as the fish did." She meets Hazel's eyes. "Whatever's living within its radius."

I spend Saturday on the radio and Sunday in a hayfield forty miles south, and by evening I have allies I didn't have on Friday.

Marrow Creek's Alpha comes because she's already lost her ground. Bracken comes because they're sleeping in my valley. The hard one is the Loon River lot, who've been on their own for a hundred years and don't take invitations.

They come. That's the part that surprises me. What convinces them isn't me, it's a photocopy. Erin sent me south with the polygon map and nothing else, and every leader who looks finds their own settlement drawn, coded, and counted, with a population estimate more accurate than the one they'd give you themselves.

"Who made this?" the Loon River man asks.

"Somebody local, over years, talking to people who trusted him."

He hands it back with hands that aren't steady. "Then we're not coming for you. We're coming for the pencil."

Erin briefs Alphas and elders in the hall on Monday, and I've never watched anything like it.

She doesn't perform. She stands with a marker and treats a room full of the most territorial people alive as though they're the children she taught to log ducks.

"The tunnel is hardened," she says. "You go in the front, you die in a bottleneck. So we don't fight for the door. We use it." She draws the three points. "Their ventilation is their weakness. That drift is below datum and over two miles long. It cannot run without forced air. If the fans stop, the face becomes uninhabitable in under forty minutes, heat, diesel exhaust, and whatever is off-gassing."

Marrow Creek's Alpha leans forward. "So we hit the fans."

"If you do that at the tunnel, they'll switch to auxiliary. But there's a second surface plant, the vent, which they built for the far end because they had to. Kill both and they have no atmosphere at all. That's not a battle. That's a lease on the underground, and it's ours for forty minutes."

"And in those forty minutes?"

"A small team goes down the old raise at the vent, past the works they abandoned, into the laboratory level from behind." She sets the marker down. "Documentation, sabotage, and every captive we can get on their feet."

Nobody disagrees. The Loon River man stares for a while and then asks the only question that matters.

"Whose team?"

"Mine," I say. "And hers."