F-Rank Mimic Chest: My SSS Mimic Skill Lets Me Become Anything

The copper alarm pipe took four blows at once.

Their timing reached Dane through the wall before the sound did: north, south, east, west, each impact driving the pipe toward the same joint. Copper split. A cold spray crossed his sound wheel and struck Marda’s boots.

Water climbed his grain against the slope.

”Gray film,” Orsa called.

Marda jumped before it reached the open cut on her left shin. Her heel landed on Dane’s front rail, light and hard. ”Pump Nine. People go first. Food and shell wait until I have hands for them.”

The held bypass put Dane into the pump house through its west intake. Stone narrowed around his Wagon sides, then released into a room whose shape arrived a piece at a time. Marda’s voice rose from steps across the floor. A heavy shaft turned between them, sending its slow knock through four channels. Orsa named each sluice as she tested its draft and saved the broad north grate for last.

”Rear spillway still shut,” she said. ”For whatever that’s worth.”

Feet and blanket hems moved toward Marda’s east stair while she counted every crossing. She set the calf-wounded survivor on two curved shell plates and put three carriers around them.

”Good heel only,” Marda said. ”Ada is behind me and has decided the floor did this on purpose.”

”It did,” Ada said from the bypass.

The injured adult gave the top plate a dry slap and let the carriers lift. Marda sent them up first, then joined the others by sleeves and blanket hems. When her voice reached twelve, the west intake stood clear for the next group.

Nine more entered in a limping knot. Dane held his dead rail above the creeping film while they crossed behind his broad body. Marda called twenty-one from the stair.

Flat Hands sent the third loose shell plate and the wrapped centipede meat up in separate hands.

The pump answered with four iron crashes.

Every sluice opened.

The west surge struck Dane beneath his sound wheel. He opened a low Door-derived edge against the channel lip. Water climbed it, failed to reach the walking stone behind him, and forced its weight through his old right-quarter split. Rod one took the pressure with a wooden ache.

Three other currents met around the central shaft. Their collision came through floor and axle as a grinding twist. Above it, a chain handle struck the south stop, paused, and struck again with a human shoulder behind the iron.

”Woman at south,” Orsa called. ”Green pump coat. Yellow cord from her right wrist to the handle. The water makes her pull.”

A detached crank scraped out of the north channel. Bare feet followed it in a four-step pattern, forward and back, forward and back. The man pushing it breathed through a gap where teeth should have been.

”Two living workers,” Marda said. ”Both grown. Both looped.”

The south handle hit again. Its new opening sent enough water across Dane’s edge to bow it. Four adults in the next group lost one another behind him.

Marda and Flat Hands caught the first pair. The coffer reached the second with its awake front foot around a belt and its awake rear foot hooked through a blanket fold. The other four feet ran downhill toward the bypass. Cloth tightened across a throat before Lye Scar kicked the coffer’s frame sideways.

”Hold people, not directions,” Marda told it. Then, louder, ”Nine together. Hands inside sleeves if your fingers slip. The east stair is still where I left it.”

Those nine crossed while Dane’s edge kept west water below their boots. Marda counted thirty above him.

Flat Hands cast a guide line over the turning shaft. It struck the far ledge and slid back. The wet rope passed Brant’s body. His right arm stayed strapped low, and the crushed middle and ring knuckles of his left hand hung curled beneath spotted cloth.

”That line needs a grip, and mine is finished,” Brant said. ”Kril, take the shaft ribs. Tie us to the east rail.”

Kril’s boots stopped. His head must have turned toward Orsa at the north rear, because Brant’s next words lost their commander’s edge.

”She knows why you’re moving. Go before the rope does.”

Kril folded both blades. Three quick loads crossed the greasy ribs above the shaft; then he jumped, caught the escaping line, and hauled it high over the east channel. The rope went taut.

The north worker drove his crank toward Orsa. Voss dropped flat on the west ledge and caught its square neck with his one good hook. The man’s shoulders drove on after the wood stopped. His chest hit the handle, and his left thumb folded backward with a pop.

”Don’t pull his arm,” Ada said. ”Make the handle stay.”

Voss set the hook deeper. Orsa knocked the crank’s lower end sideways with her broken half-pole. The man’s trapped hand scraped across wood.

He sucked air through his missing teeth. ”Little finger’s moving. Don’t touch it. Just hold that damned crank.”

Voss bore down until his hook squealed. ”The crank is all I want.”

The smallest finger lifted. The ring finger followed because the man peeled it free himself, nail dragging a wet groove through the wood. His next forced shove arrived with an open side. He twisted into it and shouted once.

Voss tore the crank away.

The man fell into the north channel. Orsa caught his coat on her half-pole and rolled him against the pump housing. After two breaths, he refused Ada’s reaching hand and crawled for Kril’s line on his own knees.

At south, the other worker hauled once more. Her shoulder struck the stop. A crack ran from that impact through the central shaft, crossed Dane’s edge, and reached the raised east stone.

”Exit ledge is opening,” Kril called. ”Six still below it.”

The coffer climbed into the break. One awake foot set itself beneath the ledge’s left corner. The other searched twice before choosing the peeling east rail. Its four habitual feet clawed west, filling the room with useless retreat and dragging the frame away from both choices.

Brant filled his lungs. ”You have three breaths.”

On the first, two civilians crossed the guide. The ledge’s left corner dropped onto the coffer’s chosen foot and bowed it until shell joints clicked. Three habitual feet lost the floor; the fourth found Marda’s boot and tried to run up her leg.

She kicked it loose without breaking her count.

On the second breath, the next pair went across locked inside one blanket. The east rail peeled from stone. The coffer’s other awake foot followed the rail down one finger-width and stopped it there while its four blind habits beat chips from the west floor.

Brant drew the third through his teeth.

The last two adults crawled over the cracked lip together. One lost a knee. The other caught the back of their trousers and shoved until Kril had both sleeves.

From the stair above, the calf-wounded survivor struck shell with a palm.

”Thirty-six. Stop sending me people.”

The ledge broke loose.

The coffer’s awake feet released in opposite directions. Flat Hands and Lye Scar hauled its body onto the pump housing while all four habitual legs kept running in the air. Coughs and hurried feet filled the east throat; no civilian remained on the pump floor.

The south worker remained chained below them.

Water had reached her ribs. Every forced pull opened the door another notch, but she turned her face toward Marda’s voice and shouted over the chain.

”Give me a dry edge. I can make the next pull miss.”

Marda threw a thin offcut of centipede shell. The worker trapped it against her chest with her free left hand, worked the edge beneath the wet yellow cord, and waited through one full shoulder-first strike. On the return, her right arm dragged toward the handle while her left sawed in the opposite direction.

The cord parted.

Her right hand completed its learned arc and closed on empty water. She drove that fist into the south stop before the loop could find the chain again.

”Missed you,” she told the handle, breathless and furious.

She splashed to the pump housing and put her shoulder under the north worker’s good arm. Together they started for Kril’s line.

Behind them, the rear spillway gave Dane its first warning. Iron groaned through the north foundation. Older water joined the four currents without crossing any open sluice, and its cold carried the same mineral rot that had climbed Marda’s boots.

One bar bent. A second struck it.

”Scarred forearm through the grate,” Kril called from east. ”Only the arm. His body is still outside.”

Orsa’s half-pole clattered away.

”He’s got my right wrist,” she said. The strain in her voice traveled farther than the words. ”He’s setting my old sounding step. Left foot—”

Her wrapped knee hit the north channel. The impact entered Dane through the floor, followed by the hard scrape of her moss knife turning toward the rear seal.

Marda moved north. A fresh grate-scream drove her back from the spillway, and Orsa’s knife point grated across iron beside her.

The two freed workers had reached the guide. The woman stopped there instead of escaping. ”That shell. Throw it back.”

Marda kicked the offcut across the wet housing. The worker caught it beneath her boot, snapped it upward, and sent it skittering to Orsa. Orsa caught the dry edge against her knife wrist. For one heartbeat Torven’s wet grip slid.

It was enough to change where her left boot landed.

”He wants the rear seal open,” Orsa said. Her breath steadied. ”Clear the shaft. I’ll give him more than the seal.”

She quit wasting strength against the cut. Torven drove her right hand down; the moss knife entered the seal. At the same instant, Orsa found the central release wedge with her left boot and kicked it free.

The shaft dropped.

Its first fall hammered every floor channel at once. The four steady sluice blows became a stagger as gear teeth met half a tooth out of line. Iron snapped in the east channel, then south. The falling shaft caught the knife blade inside the opened rear seal and dragged Orsa’s captured hand toward the grate.

The grip on Orsa’s wrist kept pulling.

The next gear strike tore the seal sideways. A bent grate bar crossed the trapped grip with a wet ripping sound, and human blood reached Dane through the water. The forearm’s pressure vanished beyond the bars. From east, Kril shouted that the broken knife handle had gone with it.

The central housing split northward.

Stone and iron loaded Dane’s low Door edge from beneath. The same plane that had held the west channel bent upward until its top grain caught a slab under Orsa’s right hip. Pressure reached the limit of his old quarter split. Rod one drove against it and held.

Marda seized Orsa’s vest. The freed woman caught Marda’s belt; her fellow worker braced them with his good elbow. All three pulled while Dane lowered the slab one grain at a time.

Orsa came free.

The pump shaft punched through its lower bearing. Broken gears followed it into the rear spillway, taking the bent grate and Torven’s wet route down with them. Gray water poured through the hole. Each sluice shuddered once and stayed open.

Pump Nine was unusable.

Marda got Orsa onto her right leg. Blood warmed the wrap around Orsa’s reopened left knee, but she remained standing. The two workers crossed east first: the man holding his injured thumb against his palm, the woman keeping both hands open when she passed the drowned chain irons.

Brant leaned his shoulder blade into the cracked exit frame. ”The room is empty. Bring our people out.”

Orsa struck the wall with her broken pole. ”Gray water is climbing over there. The outer mouths still have a pull on us. Close them, and then ask me to leave.”

Marda gave no answer. She turned toward the thirty-six adults and started them farther up the corridor.

Dane followed. The black seam under his sound wheel pulled inward with a long stone growl. Mortar touched both wounded Wagon sides at once, and the east corridor lost the width of his hand.