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“Brakk says it may connect to the launch cradle access.”

Brakk’s voice cuts in, tinny and frantic. “I said it might connect, because this whole place was apparently designed by drunk extradimensional architects with commitment issues.”

Sira speaks over him, calmer but strained. “Ghar, the crawlspace is unstable, but I can see a partial route through the anchor map. When you reach the junction, take the lower right passage.”

“The lower right passage may be vertical,” Brakk adds.

“I will adapt.”

Anita’s breath catches over the comm. “You better.”

The corridor twists hard. Gravity shifts. I fall against the wall and nearly slide into a gap that opens beneath my feet. I drive one clawed hand into the stone and hang there for a moment with empty dark below me and collapsing light behind. My ribs flare with pain so bright I taste bile.

“Ghar?” Anita says.

“I am still here.”

“Your voice sounds bad.”

“My voice is fine.”

“Your voice sounds like it got hit by a building.”

“That also happened.”

A wet laugh breaks from her, and it trembles into something dangerously close to a sob. “Do not make me laugh while I’m planning to murder you for scaring me.”

“I would prefer you delay murder until after evacuation.”

“Maybe.”

I haul myself up and stagger forward. The service crawl appears on my left, half-hidden behind a panel of black stone that opens and closes in irregular pulses. It is much too small for me in armor. I tear what remains of my damaged chest plate free and throw it aside. The movement nearly drops me to one knee, but the crawlspace is already shrinking.

I dive through.

The space beyond is narrow, dark, and alive with heat. My shoulders scrape both sides. Jagged conduits rip at my scales. The air smells of burned insulation and old mineral water, and my breath comes too loud in the cramped passage. Behind me, the entrance collapses with a flash of white light that singes the soles of my boots.

For several seconds, I crawl like an animal through the belly of a dying world.

“Lower right,” Sira says through the comm. “Do you see a split?”

“I see three splits.”

Brakk groans. “Of course he does.”

“One is glowing blue,” I say. “One is leaking black dust upward. One is making a sound I dislike.”

“Lower right should be blue,” Sira says.

“Should be?” Anita asks, voice dangerously sharp.

“Blue is least wrong,” Brakk says.

I turn into the blue-lit crawl. The floor drops away immediately, and I slide down a steep conduit slick with frost and dust. My wounded ribs strike a raised seam. Pain detonates, and my vision goes gray at the edges. I dig my claws into the conduit walls to slow my descent, sparks flying as metal shrieks under my grip.

The chute spits me out above open air.

For a moment, I fall.