As I slithered down the hallway of Fort Marteneiss' command center and into the Brigadier General's office, I wondered if Heggy would have been jealous, had she known what I was up to.

Grinning, Vernon lowered his cap's brim. "Oh, you don't know the half of it," he said. The general's spirit wore a suit befitting his rank: a fine pair of matched khaki shirt and slacks, the latter of which bore his commendations on his chest, alongside the humble plastic buttons down the middle. He walked alongside me, genuinely excited about what was going on.

"Howle," he said, "don't hesitate to broadcast my presence to them if you feel the need for it."

I'll keep it in mind, I thought-answered.

Even though Vernon was out and about, the other wyrms weren't aware of his presence. It was just a matter of tweaking my snout's sonorities, something that I was delighted to learn that the rest of me had figured out while the bulk of me was busy running around in the Vyx network. If I wanted to broadcast Vernon's presence to the other wyrms, I'd need to make a low, vibrating sound that carried the signal to them, something that I'd stepped doing at the general's request.

"I don't want to make this all about me," he'd said.

The commander's office was just up ahead. A wyrm coiled at attention beside the door. Based on the camo-patterned cap speared on one of the wyrm's horns and the rifle in their claws, I had a feeling they'd been a soldier before their transformation, and that they had, and still did, take that duty rather seriously.

Slick and Lt. Dueright took the lead, guiding us through the hallways. We'd passed more than a dozen wyrms along the way. Our escorts had promised to keep quiet about my secrets until I had spoken to their commander about it and, thankfully, they'd kept their word.

Wyrm's honor.

Vernon crossed his arms in dismay. "What the hell did they do to the door?"

Someone had taken down some of the wall next to the office door, in order to make it roomier.

I guess they made it wyrm-friendly, I thought-said.

My escorts stuck their heads through the entryway.

"Commander," Dueright said, "we have someone you really need to talk to."

In my mind, the wyrmsong I heard in response coalesced into a woman's voice. "What is it?" she asked. "Is it important?"

The lieutenant stared at me for a moment, and then turned back to the open doorway. "Uh… we're gonna need several new levels of classification for it."

"Shit," the Brigadier General cursed. "Well, come on then, bring them in."

Dueright slunk back into the hall. "After you, Dr. Howle." He nodded at me, gesturing at the doorway with his claws.

I slithered in—well, I slithered my forepart in. There was a lot more of me than I was used to, after all, and the wyrm-slash-Brigadier-General in the office took up most of the room.

For what it was worth, the office gave me a decent amount of déjà-vu. It brought to mind the moment when I'd stepped into Heggy's office a week and a half ago. That marked her entrance into the insanity that our lives were about to become. I daresay, it felt like a recapitulation, plucked straight out of a sonata-allegro. I just hoped this signaled that my journey was headed toward its coda.

Really, the office room was quite similar to Heggy's, all the way down to the clutter. The walls smiled with framed portraits of past commanders. They were featured alongside many documents of history: letters, photographs, blueprints. Gilded scale models of aircraft both modern and historical graced the corners of the cherry wood desk at the center of the room, around which the wyrmly Brigadier General had coiled several times over.

Despite all that, it was the curtains that really impressed me. Yes, really! The window curtains were drawn open and beautifully folded. It wasn't quite like the swan-shapes that Kasubha folded its cloth napkins in for its hungry customers, but both displays shared the same sense of artful presentation. The curtains, in particular, decorated the room like a badge of honor, embodying the kind of prim and proper decorum you'd expect to see at a modern military facility, and it moved me to think that someone had been diligently maintaining the aesthetic even after the world had ended.

Also, Brigadier General wore a tricorn hat between her horns, made almost comically small by the sheer size of the rest of her body.

I admit, this kind of messed with the seriousness of the curtains, but, at this point, only a jerk would get hung up over a measly indiscretion like this one.

Bowing her head—for she didn't have enough room to bow much more than that—she pressed the claws of one hand to what would have been her human chest. "Hello," she said, "I am Brigadier General Amity Watterson, commander of what remains of Fort Marteneiss and its personnel."

Vernon crossed his arms from where he stood at my side.

He liked doing that when he was bemused.

"I thought Becksand was in charge of this place," he said.

I voiced his query. "I was under the impression that Becksand was the commander of Fort Marteneiss," I said.

"Oh, you're knowledgeable about military affairs?" Watterson asked.

"Some of my spirits are."

Nodding, Watterson began to sing, though the sound quickly dwindled into a slow, ever-shifting background chord. A human being would have probably felt the sound as much as they would have heard it, judging by the cymatic patterns that quivered through the spore dunes piled up on the floor.

As Slick and the Lieutenant had been telling us, the wyrms of Fort Marteneiss had figured out the trick to adjusting the acidity of their spores.

"We might not be able to stop making them," Lt. Dueright said, "but we can certainly stop them from causing any property damage."

A moment later, the Brigadier General's song took effect; a military official appeared beside her, in a pleasing, gray uniform. He wore a commander's hat, with a white top and navy blue brim that stayed stiff, even as he saluted me.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said. "I'm General Corbin Becksand, former chief of command here at For Marteneiss."

Vernon leaned toward me and patted my forearm. "I know him, Genneth."

Gosh, it was like a little doll hand.

Nodding, I started a song of my own, sharing General Marteneiss' presence with the nearby wyrms.

Eyes wide, Becksand clapped his hands and reared back in a hearty laugh. "Oh, you gotta be shittin' me! Fricken' Vernon Marteneiss!" He walked right through the desk and locked Vernon in a stalwart handshake. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Corbin," Vernon said, "you lucky dog!" He smiled. "I can't believe you finally did it!"

Many—though not all—of the postures of the wyrms in attendance stiffened once they realized they were in General Marteneiss' company.

"You two gentlemen know each other?" I asked.

As I spoke, I suddenly understood why wyrms needed to have so many holes in our snouts: multitasking! Each hole was like a separate mouth, and with as many as I had, I could sing multiple songs simultaneously, communicating to my spirits and to others while also sharing spirit and mind-world data with any nearby wyrms I desired to share them with.

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"We go a long way back," Becksand said. "I've known Vernon here since my Academy days."

Vernon looked at me askance. "Last time Corbin and I saw each other, he was trying to talk me out of serving on Gant's national security council."

Becksand nodded. "Yeah, because you're too good of a man to be wasting your time polishing turds, least of all Gant's. But…" Becksand shook his head and clicked his tongue several times over "…it's like they say, Marteneisses gonna Marteneiss."

"People say that?" I asked.

Vernon groaned. "Unfortunately." Then, smirking, he pointed a thumb at his chest. "I didn't realize you'd been given command of Fort Grandpappy," he added.

Becksand looked around the room with a fondness that defied the bleak atmosphere. Even before Watterson broadcast windows into Becksand's scenic nostalgia, it was clear to me that the man was seeing the base as he remembered it, and not as the run down joint it had become.

"Since I was little," Becksand said, "it's been my dream to work in Fort Marteneiss' aeronautics program." He shook his head wistfully. "Problem was, I was a pilot first, and an engineer, well, never. So, you can imagine, when I'd finally risen through the ranks to the point that I could request this leadership position, I was dancing on the Sword." He smiled, but that smile fell along with his expression and the droop of his neck. "Two months after that, the world ended."

I lowered my head in closed-eyed sympathy. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Don't bother," Becksand said. "You could turn every grain of sand on the beach into an apology and it wouldn't make a dent in the hell that the Green Death unleashed on us."

"What happened here?" Vernon asked.

"I'll be happy to share that later," Brigadier General Watterson said, "but first, my men tell me you've got quite a story for us, Dr. Howle."

I nodded. "Yes, I do."

I shared nearly everything, omitting mention of only the Sword. Suisei was right: the sacred blade was too important to risk it falling into the wrong hands, especially when I scarcely knew who the right hands were. That's not to say I sensed any immediate reason to distrust the Brigadier General or her wyrm brigade. Rather, I just wanted to play things safe.

After what happened with &alon… let's just say I'd made a decision to be more circumspect from here on out.

Instead of sharing my tale in the wyrmsong-translated version of the words I'd use to tell it, I repeated what I'd done with Slick and Lt. Dueright, directly converting all the pertinent information into wyrmsong. Feeling no reason to privilege the Brigadier-General's eyes over anyone else's, I let my carrier wave get picked up by any wyrms in ear-eyeshot, and, just like BG Watterson, they immediately understood everything I'd meant to share.

"Holy…" Amity shook her head. "By the Face… you…" She pointed a claw at me.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck," one of the guard wyrms said, in a long, drawn out tone.

Becksand stared at me in awe. His eyes were practically bugging out of his skull. "And you're a psychiatrist?"

I corrected him with a single, raised claw. "Neuropsychiatrist," I said, "but otherwise, yes. I'm deeply aware that things have gone really, really, really far beyond my job qualifications."

"Damn it, Genneth," Amity said, "I do not envy you."

"If you don't mind me asking," I said, crossing my arms, "what happened here?"

I wiggled the middle of my body a little. The broken sides of the doorway kind of chafed.

"Do you mind if I tell you the old fashioned way?" she asked.

"No, take your time," I said. "Though, I'm curious: is there any reason why?"

She nodded. "Right now, my brain feels like you just wrapped it around a brick, drenched it in lemon juice and tossed it into a wall. I want to get my mind off the insanity you just unloaded on all of us."

I bowed apologetically. "Yeah, I know the feeling."

Watterson sighed out long, green plumes. "Well… by the time the Green Death arrived," she said, "most of our personnel were already deployed to the cities by order of the Prefectural Governor. It meant that pretty much the only ones of us that were still here were researchers like myself, the reserve forces, the engineering teams, our trusty flight testers," she pointed her snout at General Becksand, "and Fort Marteneiss' leadership. What remained of it, anyhow."

She made a sound that I understood as a mournful cry. She shed sonic tears, turning her snout toward her former superior. "General Becksand here gave me a field promotion right before he died. He made me Brigadier General, of all things! Can you believe it? Before this, I studied fog and wind de-icing."

"Don't sell yourself short, Amity," Becksand said. "You've got more aplomb and less nonsense than a lot of the soldiers I've seen in my time."

Watterson's song warbled briefly. "Th-thank you, sir."

She sighed, snorting out spores. The spores tumbled over her cherry desk's edge like sand in miniature.

"Anyhow…" she continued, "it was only a couple days later that I and everyone else who had been… chosen… finally finished our changes." Amity looked out one of the windows. "They locked us up when it first started, you know? Told us we couldn't serve our country and the forces of evil at the same time." She shook her head.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"It's not your fault," she replied.

"You ended up with a pretty nice promotion, though," Vernon said.

BG Watterson shook her head once more as she turned back to face us. "I'm not spiteful enough to get away with gloating," she said. "Since then, I've been letting any Norm in need of shelter park themselves at Fort Marteneiss. And, more than that, I've been trying to give folks a chance to serve their country one last time, for whatever good that's worth."

Lt. Dueright saluted her. "It's worth more good than words can say, Ma'am."

"Well, at least it beats sitting around being angry all day." The Brigadier General snorted out spores, clearing her throat.

Obviously, I would have loved it if there was some way to avert future hostilities with the Vyx, but, for the life of me, I couldn't find one. That being said, right now, keeping my family safe was my number one priority, along with avoiding annihilation at the ontological level at the hand of the Darkness. The point was, at the moment, the chance I'd be able to get Pel and the kids out of here safely was tinier than even a single one of my spores. Fort Marteneiss was the safest, sturdiest place I'd encountered so far in my travels across the apocalyptic fungusscape my country had become, and I wanted it to stay that way. I could keep Pel and the kids here while I did whatever things I needed to do to try to end the &alon-Vyxit conflict, at least until I could safely assimilate their spirits into my network. But none of that would be an option if the Vyxit blew Fort Marteneiss to the far side of Paradise.

Speaking of which…

"You were able to take down one of the Vyx's starfighters," I said. "Not only that, you've still got plenty of war machines in reserve. I can't imagine your stores of spirits have any shortage of experienced military personnel. Is there any reason you haven't been letting them help out?"

General Becksand jerked his head forward in surprise. "You can do that?" He looked at the other wyrms, who were just as startled as he was.

"You didn't know?" Vernon asked.

Watterson shook her head. "It just never occurred to us to wrap our spirits in magic to make them solid."

"Why not?" Vernon asked.

"Why did it take thousands and thousands of years for people to realize that the lift generated by a wing is proportional to the product of the wing's area and the square of its velocity?" Watterson asked. "It's just because! Not everyone figures out everything." She pounded a clenched fist on her coils. "Still, damn, I gotta say, using spirits like that is a really good idea."

"I'd be happy to help you coordinate with your spirits to get everything up and running again," Vernon said. He glanced at me. "If Dr. Howle is up for it, that is."

"Gladly." I nodded. "I've got some soldiers of my own. They'll be happy to get back to work."

Particularly Lt. Adam Kaplan, who I'd eaten alive, not that I said that out loud.

"Well," Amity said, silently pressing her hands together, "this has been surprisingly helpful, especially considering the circumstances."

"Yes?" I asked.

"Dr. Howle, this is the part where you tell us what you want?" Amity asked me.

"What do you need?" General Backhand said.

Honestly? So many things. A ridiculous number of things. Fortunately, I had no trouble deciding which to prioritize. "First and foremost," I said, "I need a safe place for my family to stay before I… you know."

Amity tilted her head to the side. "They're not…?"

"No, not yet," I said. "But, soon… I hope." I lowered my head in shame. "Gosh, that makes me sound like a bad person, doesn't it? It's something &alon might say."

"Don't compare yourself to her," Amity replied.

"Is there anything else you need?" Lt. Dueright asked.

"Yes, actually. I need to track down an infected Vyx ship, preferably one that's getting wyrmy. To that end, I could use whatever help you can provide."

"So, you're gonna hook up with that Network of theirs again?" Slick asked, craning his head and neck through the doorway, above my spines.

It was getting really cramped in here.

Again, I nodded. "I need to rescue Dr. Horosha, and I need to figure out a way to stop the Vyx from firing the Lodestars, and… if there's any chance of getting them to stop fighting with &alon—even for a little bit—that would be just wonderful."

"You're tellin' us!" Slick said, taken aback in amusement.

"Well," Lt. Dueright said, "I wish you luck with those first two endeavors, but… I hope you're aware that there's no chance in hell the Vyxit will ever consider a ceasefire." He shook his head. "They're vicious and relentless."

"Considering what you've accomplished so far, Dr. Howle," Brigadier General Watterson said, "if anyone could find a way to pull it off, it would probably be you."

"You're too kind," I said.

There was a pause, during which I looked around the room to the best of my ability. "So… what now?"

"Vernon and I will get the other spirits rolling," General Backhand said. "Once that's taken care of, we'll send a detachment to help you find and take down a Vyx starfighter."

"We just need to find one that's infected," Lt. Dueright said.

"Or we could, like, make one," Slick suggested.

I shook my head, my spines bristling. "No! I won't condone—"

"Out of the way! Out of the way!"

Suddenly, a new voice shouted from down the hall. I immediately pulled out of Watterson's office and backed into the corridor. A moment later, a panicking wyrm floated around the bend and stuck his head through the expanded doorway.

"Ma'am, we're under attack!"

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