Primordial Awakening: I Breathe Skill Points!-Chapter 117: The Final Crack

The one that wasn’t a propagation of existing fracture lines but the resolution of the shell’s remaining structural integrity into the absence of that integrity.

The sound it made was small and total.

Not the sharp report of something breaking—the quiet, definitive sound of something completing.

The shell separated along every existing fracture simultaneously, every crack that had been developing since the side corridor, every hairline fracture and full split and propagating line of structural compromise reaching its conclusion at the same moment, the pieces falling away from his cloth-wrapped hands in the way of something that had been held together by diminishing material for longer than the material had wanted to be responsible for and had finally, with something that felt almost like relief, completed its function.

The pieces fell. Some landed on the floor of the Core chamber. Some caught the dimensional-energy light on the way down and scattered it briefly, small fragments of alien shell throwing brief prismatic patterns across the stone before settling.

The cloth wrapping on his hands was suddenly holding nothing—or rather, holding something that was no longer the egg, that had moved past the category of egg into whatever came after, the transition completed in the space of that small total sound.

The light that poured out was not the warm white of the shell’s internal glow.

It was brighter. Dimensional in quality—not the bioluminescence of the corridors, not the warm radiance that had been pulsing through the fractures for the past hour of running, but something that belonged to the same register as the Core sphere’s output.

Concentrated. Personal. The light of something that had been contained and was no longer contained, that had been becoming and had become, that had been waiting to be seen for however long the facility had been sealed around its prison and was now, finally, visible.

The chamber received it. The Core sphere’s pulse adjusted—not dramatically, not with the facility-wide resonance of the machine’s earlier activation, but with the specific quality of something that had been calibrated to this moment and was recognizing it.

The dimensional-energy shimmer of the chamber’s air changed character in a radius around Zeph’s hands. The physics of the space, which had been doing modified things since they’d entered the Core chamber, did something more modified.

Zeph looked at what was in his hands.

What emerged was a bee.

Not a bee in the sense of the thing the word bee had previously denoted—the small domesticated insect, the pollinator, the producer of honey, the thing that appeared in summer and was regarded with moderate caution by people who were allergic and mild interest by people who weren’t.

A bee in the sense of the form—the body plan, the wings, the compound eyes, the visible stinger—rendered in materials and at a scale that the word bee was going to need to significantly revise its operating parameters to accommodate.

It was the size of Zeph’s fist.

Its exoskeleton was black crystal—the same material as the facility’s walls, as the Harvester’s body, as the shard prison that hung above the Core sphere. Built from the substance of this place as though the place had contributed the raw material and the egg had contributed the architecture, the facility’s fundamental substance shaped into something that was not the facility and was not the Harvester but had been made from the same source that had made both.

The crystal surface caught the dimensional-energy light and did something with it that normal crystal did not do—absorbed some, refracted some, converted some into the shimmer that ran along the edges of the creature’s four wings.

Four wings in two overlapping sets, each pair shimmering at the edges with dimensional energy visible as distortion and shimmer—the same quality of modified space that the Core sphere produced, compressed into the wing surface of something the size of a fist, concentrated in amounts the wing surface should not have been able to contain and was containing without apparent difficulty.

When the wings moved, the air around them moved differently than air moved around wings normally. The space itself participated.

Six legs, blade-edged, ending in points that were the deliberate contact of something that had decided where it was going to stand and was communicating this decision through the quality of the contact. When it landed on Zeph’s cloth-wrapped palm in the first seconds after emergence, the contact had weight beyond the creature’s physical mass—the weight of something that had chosen its position and was not reconsidering it.

The compound eyes found Zeph first.

Multifaceted, glowing with the internal light that was the bee’s own and not the chamber’s, they oriented toward him with the alien attention he had been feeling through the shell for the entirety of the facility.

The curiosity, the hunger, the awareness that had been forming its impressions of the world through the limited media of heat and pulse and the quality of its carrier’s consciousness. It had been learning him through a shell. It looked at him now with no shell between them and the looking had the quality of recognition—the specific orientation of something that knew who had been holding it and was acknowledging this directly.

"Hello," Zeph said.

The bee regarded him with its glowing compound eyes and communicated something that was not language but had structure, had content, had the quality of a response.

The alien attention he had been feeling through the shell—the curiosity, the hunger, the continuous awareness of its carrier—was now directed at him without mediation, and it was considerably more present without the shell between them.

He was being looked at by something that had spent its entire existence learning him and was now applying that knowledge directly, with compound eyes that caught every angle of him simultaneously and processed all of it at once.

It was, objectively, a lot of eye contact.

"It’s looking at you," Kael said.

"Yes," Zeph said.

"Like it knows you."

"It does know me. It’s been getting to know me for hours through my palms."

"Is that—" Kael paused. "Is that normal?"

"I have no reference point for what is normal for this specific category of situation," Zeph said. "I am going to assume no."

Nobody else said anything for a moment, because nobody else had anything useful to add and the bee was currently the most significant thing in the chamber and everyone in the chamber was processing this fact at the pace that the fact permitted, which was not fast.

The chamber contained a pulsing fifty-meter alien power source, a shattered Harvester prison hanging above it, twelve prophecy tablets that had just distributed several categories of paradigm-altering information, and now a fist-sized crystalline bee of apparent cosmic significance that had hatched from an egg they had been carrying through a lethal facility.

Any one of those things would have been a significant amount to absorb. The full inventory was its own category of experience.

Tank was the first to break the silence. "Wow," he said. A pause. "It’s a bee."

The surprise was evident in his voice. He said it the way a person said something when the expected conclusion of a situation turned out to be different from every conclusion they had modeled and they were updating their model in real time.

"Yes," Zeph confirmed.

Tank looked at the bee. The bee did not look at Tank.

The bee was still looking at Zeph with its compound eyes and the specific quality of attention that something had when it had decided its primary relationship was established and was not currently revising that determination.

"The weapon," he said. "The weapon is a bee."

"The tablets said the Warden’s final weapon," Marcus said.

He had been looking at the bee since emergence with the expression of someone whose professional function was information and who was receiving information that was revising several categories of prior assessment simultaneously.

"Chronos and Void United. The bee that ends all hunts."

He looked at the creature on Zeph’s palm and then at the Core sphere behind it and then at the shattered prison above the Core sphere and then back at the bee.

"I confess that when I read ’the bee that ends all hunts,’ I was interpreting the word bee metaphorically."

"It is not metaphorical," Kael observed.

"No," Marcus agreed, with the specific quality of someone confirming a fact they had not wanted to confirm because confirming it meant the thing was true. "It is not."

Kael stood with his sword in his hand and looked at the bee on Zeph’s palm with the expression of someone performing a very rapid recalibration of what the next several minutes were going to look like tactically. He had been recalibrating continuously for hours. He was practiced at it. He did it now with the compressed efficiency of someone who had made recalibration a survival skill and was applying that skill to a situation that included, as its primary new variable, a fist-sized crystalline insect of apparent dimensional capability sitting on the palm of the person who had been carrying it since a chamber several corridors ago.

Seris stood beside Whisper and looked at the bee with the expression of someone encountering something that was genuinely beyond the framework she had been applying to the facility’s contents—a framework that had been substantially revised over the past several hours and had not anticipated requiring further revision.

"It’s beautiful," she said.

Whisper, standing under their own power in the limited way that cracked ribs permitted, looked at the bee with their head tilted slightly in the way they looked at inscriptions that were particularly complex or particularly significant—the reading posture applied to something that was not inscribed stone but that warranted the same quality of attention.

The bee continued to look at Zeph with its compound eyes. The recognition in those eyes had not dimmed. The acknowledgment of its carrier was complete and ongoing and was not being revised by anything else currently in the chamber.

Then the temperature dropped.

Not gradually—the immediate drop that announced specific things in this facility, that preceded the Harvester’s direct presence the way thunder preceded lightning, the cold that arrived before the thing that produced it as a function of how the thing moved through the facility’s walls.

The bioluminescent light of the chamber shifted its cycle fractionally in response. The breath of every person in the chamber became visible in the suddenly colder air.

The bee looked at the wall...it knew what was coming.