A stalemate held, vibrating on a knife's edge. The enforcers didn't fire. The Syndicate's sonic countermeasures continued, but Lysander's fluid choir adapted, shifting frequencies like a murmuration of birds evading a predator.
Valentine, sweat beading on her forehead, looked up from her terminal. "I have it. A harmonic map. A feedback loop of our own." She showed Sage the screen—a complex, rotating model of interlocking soundwaves. "If we can lock the resonators into this pattern, the system becomes self-reinforcing. It draws ambient vibrational energy from the Chamber itself. It won't need our Vitae to sustain it."
"Can you upload it?" Sage asked, hope a dangerous flare in his chest.
"The resonators are analog. They need to be tuned. Manually. To precise frequencies. And it has to be done simultaneously."
Sage looked at the dozen-odd people around the shaft, each holding their unique, fragile note. He thought of the Aquifer's riddle. Hold the space for the song to return.
He stood. "Lysander! We have a score. We need to tune the choir. All at once."
Lysander understood instantly. He began moving, speaking quickly to each of his people, explaining the needed frequency shift.
"They'll see what we're doing," Valentine warned. "The second our harmony consolidates into a new, stable pattern, it becomes a single, targetable threat again."
"Then we do it fast," Sage said. "And we hope the new pattern is strong enough to survive the hit."
He took his place back at the bronze Spin, the conductor before his ragged orchestra. "On my mark! From current note to the new frequency! Ready…"
He met the eyes of each resonator-holder. The janitor. The old hydrologist. The young apprentice with singed eyebrows. He saw fear, and determination.
"NOW!"