The Abyss Surrounds Us by Emily Skrutskie Page B

feet wide. By my estimates, the pup’s probably around two hundred pounds, almost twice my weight. As soon as this thing gets free, it’s going to have a mind of its own, and it’s up to me to get out of the way before it gets any ideas.
    Santa Elena seems aware of this. I can see it in her smirk as she declares, “Have at it.”
    I kneel, the water seeping into my shorts, and grab the sac by its bottom. The pup’s awake—its paws press at the leathery womb that surrounds it. Still trembling, I press the blade into the purse until its point punctures the skin. A bubble of amniotic fluid oozes out, and I press harder until the knife’s hook makes it inside the sac. I yank back.
    The blade’s sharp, but the membrane is tough. It doesn’t make a clean slice like it ought to. The edges are ragged. I grit my teeth and pull harder until I’ve sliced all the way across the sac’s bottom. The syrupy fluid gushes out, drenching the front of my shirt as I lean over the sac and reposition it, this time so that I’m kneeling at the top.
    This is the part I’ve been dreading. This is why it takes so many hands, why my own two won’t be enough, why I stand a good chance of losing one of them.
    I hook the knife in the middle of the first incision and start to pull back, carving a T-shaped gash in the membrane. I try my best to lean back, to get out of the way. The pup twitches, and one of its— his , I can see that now—rear legs stretches out into the open air, kicking for the first time without any resistance.
    I glance down to find that his reptilian eyes have slid open. His gaze is fixed on me, and for a moment he reminds me far too strongly of Durga. The lines that shape his body are unfamiliar—clearly he isn’t one of my mother’s constructions—but he’s a terrapoid through and through, and it’s enough to rattle me. She’s gone. She’s really gone.
    Breathe , I remind myself. What comes next?
    â€œMake it fast,” my mother told me. “The quicker the cut, the slower he’ll react.”
    I pull too hard. The blade dips against the pup’s skin, flaying the purse membrane wide open as he rushes toward me, and all of a sudden the baby Reckoner is free.
    And he’s pissed .
    He lunges up, his beak snapping, and before I can react, he’s got a chunk of my hair locked in his bite. The deck behind me comes alive, Santa Elena shouting as her crew draw their guns and point them at me and the pup. He twists viciously, his stubby limbs flailing, and the sharp edge of his beak shears off some of my hair.
    The rest rips right out of my scalp.
    But I’m free. I stagger backward as the baby continues to thrash, rolling off his back and into the water. He lets out a nasally squeal as if the world he’s been born into has already offended him.
    â€œLower your guns,” I shout, using the partition to haul myself to my feet.
    The crew doesn’t obey me—of course they don’t—but after a nod from Santa Elena, they stand down. The baby Reckoner runs up against the tank’s barrier and bounces off, still squalling. His stumpy tail thrashes against the water.
    I lunge for the bellows and the thermometer. I’ve got mere seconds to get this done before the pup locks onto me again. There’s some part of me that’s gone raw and wild and animal, and I let it loose as I rush toward the beast. The Reckoner wheels, but I hook my fingertips under his keratin plating and swing myself around onto his back before his jaws can reach me. He bucks and screams, his eyes rolling. I drive the bellows into his primary blowhole and squeeze them, forcing the noise back down his throat and then sucking it right back out.
    I toss the device to the side, not caring where it lands. But before I can get the thermometer placed, the pup rolls on his back, plunging me underwater. I choke on the putrid mix of saltwater