The wakehound chose between Jiang and the open duct with its teeth already spread.
Jiang had no good wing stroke left. Blood crowded his ears. He hung beneath the old rail while the animal tasted fresh oil through the water and remembered what white metal had taught it to do.
Behind the hunter, cilia bent into the duct like pale grass in wind.
They all pointed inward.
The wakehound lunged at Jiang.
He released the rail before its jaws closed. Current took him sideways, not toward the surface, and the teeth clipped the rigid leg he could not pull clear. Pain traveled up to his hip in a bright sheet.
Jiang struck the animal's exposed throat with his good foot.
Its changing call broke into the blood.
The duct answered by opening wider.
Pressure rolled out of the Bellmother's wall and caught the wakehound broadside. For once, the animal stopped following Jiang. Its sound fin spread into the push while the folded one dragged uselessly against its scars.
