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“I already touched it.”

“Of course you did.”

She sealed the membrane in a sample pouch and scanned it with the infirmary reader. Protein chains unfolded across the screen—too regular for ordinary mold, too adaptive for simple corrosion.

“It is alive,” Tavi said.

“Barely. Engineered to digest seal polymers.”

“Imperial?”

“Likely.”

“Rath?”

“Maybe supplied by him. Maybe planted to make us blame him.”

Tavi crawled farther under the intake housing. Kesta caught his ankle. “Where are you going?”

“To see whether the bypass is open.”

“Not alone.”

“I fit. Dreven does not.”

“That is not a complete safety plan.”

“It is the first half.”

The housing groaned. Kesta pulled hard. Tavi slid backward as the support rail above him snapped. Metal struck the platform where his head had been. The second rail gave way as Tavi twisted clear, but a falling pipe caught his shoulder and drove him against the stone. Kesta heard the joint dislocate before his face went gray.

“Do not move.”

“I was not planning—” His breath hitched. “—to dance.”

Kesta shouted for help. Dreven arrived first. He lifted the pipe alone, muscles standing hard along his arms while Kesta dragged Tavi free. Keth and two mechanics secured the remaining frame. The red film streaked Dreven’s palm.

“Wash that now,” Kesta ordered.

“I am not injured.”

“It may not care.”

He obeyed without argument. In the infirmary, Sera sedated Tavi while Kesta reduced the shoulder. The boy woke halfway through and insulted both of them in three languages.

“Good,” Sera said. “His mind remains unpleasant.”

Kesta cleaned the cut at his brow. “Who knew you were inspecting the bypass?”

“No one.”

“Tavi.”

He avoided her eyes.

“Who?”

“A mechanic from lower row said the gauge was wrong.”