"So, who's in charge of you lads?" I asked, sweeping my eyes over the ranks of cyber-undead in view, keeping my position between the bridge and the room behind me. All avenues out were basically blocked by corpses with gleaming tech embedded in them, and they were just starting to step forwards when I spoke.
There was a pause, as I'd spoken in Necrus.
I painted the faces into my Visual File, and matched them up with some of the missing, especially when I focused on those looking more preserved. Yeah, there, there, and there were three of the missing Mekkers, and there were another two wearing Mechanist Guild uniforms over there, but their skulls were too mangled for ID.
I scanned for a guy in light combat armor, and found him in the second rank of the zombies in the room behind me. It looked like he'd been sliced into at least six parts, and then welded back into a whole, leaving most of his clothing in tatters. But he still had most of the same hairdo, and the glowing orange eye that was his trademark had been left in place.
So, my Mekker crew and Milder Cogran were now accounted for, and I could technically leave.
Curiosity was keeping me here for the moment.
A sibilant whispering spread through them. They were negatively-charged corpses, animated by necrotech, naturally didn't breathe... but that didn't mean the vestiges of their spirits couldn't generate sounds. Dark pulses ran over them and the machinery stitched through them, conveying information back and forth from the puppet master controlling them.
"Interesting. How do you know this tongue?" a sibilant whisper ghosted in from a couple hundred throats, all of them staring at me eerily.
-He's a freaking show-off,- Chalice /groused, and I laughed despite myself, right in the teeth of all those undead eyes.
"One of my best friends is undead," I replied in the same ghostly language, not made for human throats. Thankfully, how I spoke wasn't exactly tied to my vocal cords. "Are you the rogue this stalker is looking for?" I tapped Chalice on the necrochalcum chassis of the dead killer necrobot.
Sudden, ominous silence.
"Oh, don't be so surprised. It dies, and then you show up... with a bunch of borgzombies, of all things. It's also drifting around The Hole, but not going in... meaning it knows there's a threat in there, and it's either trying to figure out an angle of attack, or it's waiting for reinforcements to show up. Either way, you're the reason it's here, and it was just removing bugs that were potentially interfering with it in the area."
Yeah, the histories talked about rogue AI's, especially those corrupted by the Warp. I didn't think this was one of them, and given the alien nature of the design, it probably had nothing to do with humanity.
But things necrotized into orichalcum shells meant a familiarity with necrotech that exceeded humanity's by a fair chunk. I found it hard to believe these weren't related.
"You seem to have some sort of plan..." Cool, dead amusement, or the approximation thereof, came wafting back from multiple throats. Very chick in an eerie, spine-tingling way. Props for style.
"You want quiet and silence above all things. Let me take this thing back, proclaim it some sort of alien killbot that I killed, with very visual proof that I did so. It can even be posted as a public kill. I presume that standard operating procedure for things like you would include doing a datadump of the easily accessed infosphere. Finding out that a human hacked apart this guy who was popping wanderers down here will go a long way towards alleviating any suspicions of you... especially if it was killed ten kilometers away from here."
UV lights pulsed on the necrotech, like a brain thinking using all the corpses. "That will not preclude them from investigating this area if they come..." the multi-whisper drifted back to me.
"Of course it will, if there is obvious proof that it hung around this area for a time... and then moved on."
"Indicating that it searched this area and found nothing of interest..." whispered the sepulchral voice. S. VoiceS.
"Oh, and make sure you clean up all the bodies there, so The Hole is acting normally by removing anything dead near it."
"Inferring that what is within is either beneath notice or not to be disturbed easily." The ghostly voice sounded even more vaguely amused. "I notice that this leaves you alive to tell the truth. Would it not be more logical to find you dead at the end of this?..." Ominous hinting, but I just laughed back.
"Well, the logical reply to that is 'This human girl just mulched the stalker that was hunting me and supposed to take me out. Just how dangerous is my collection of spare parts strapped together with barbed wire and spit to her, and do I really want her depriving me of all my useful hands?' So, we can have a mutually beneficial partnership and allow things to continue as they are, or do I raise a big stink and hope that when they notice you are here, they send a bunch of these stalkers instead of wiping the planet?"
More UV flashes on the tech. "You are a threat to my security. This is unacceptable..."
"Highly untrue. You should be able to calculate that the Mentats up above have deduced who and what you are long ago. The fact they have not disturbed you is recognition not that they fear you, because they certainly do not, but they fear what might be triggered if they did act against you, or make your identity public.
"I have no doubt whatsoever that information about what you actually are doesn't exist in any electronic database anywhere, only unverified, rampant, and probably heartily encouraged speculations.
"You are an unacceptable threat to the city's survival, and all within it, and your life means no more to us than ours do to you. Yet we've let you live here for three thousand years. I don't think it's a logical action to stop that relationship. If you like, you always have the option to leave. But we don't have the option to evict you without drawing some unwanted attention, and I doubt we could catch you if you had to flee. I also presume that trying to cover your tracks would only reveal the fact you were here to your pursuers, and give them another thread to trace you by."
Silence, more UV lights processing, calculating. "Your method is acceptable for the moment. There will need to be a trail firmly established, and signs of a fight at the far end..."
Yay me and supragenius intellect and fast tongue. Not that I wouldn't have minded a bit more of a scrum, purely for speculative purposes. "I'm presuming your maps of the terrain are better than mine, and you can better calculate what kind of route he took. Faking killzones is easy enough, as anything like that is going to be cleaned up by morlocks, scavs, or maintenance crews in short order regardless." Most likely the first two, as proven by thousands of years of history. Dead were food. "I'm sure interested parties upstairs will be happy to invent more odd disappearances, complete with family histories from many ancestors ago to abrupt disappearances and death benefits being paid to grieving families."
I was sure the Umbrans could handle that. Mostly it would just involve rewriting an existing history into one more convenient... although I was sure this thing was perfectly willing to off a whole bunch more people just to lay a better paper trail.
Like a perfectly coordinated wave of motion, the borg-zombies began to withdraw, moving with unnatural power and grace despite their conditions, and of course they were perfectly in synch.
A map and course popped up on my Band. I looked at it, and started moving, dragging my trophy behind me. I did note that all the dead Steiners were now missing entirely...
I AM WATCHNG, scrolled across my Band, and I grinned despite myself. Someone else might be worried about that, but the fact was I believed the thing was paying marginal attention to everyone and everything on the Boole all the time, so that didn't bug me at all.
Rather, it meant that it knew that I knew, and so we had communication established, of a sort.
I trotted off to get to my destination, following signs of 'artificial kills' to be planted along the way, which would then intersect with the attempted ambush by the stalker, and I could timestamp and download it to my Band for my report, complete with location coordinates.
Of course, I was going to have to tell Philius to get some stuff ready. With Umbrans guiding Mekkers and whatever this necrobot thing in the shadows watching and tweaking approvingly was, an air-tight net should be woven about this thing if they decided to investigate.
Neither of us mentioned the fact that the target of interest on the kill was likely to shift from The Hole to me. How had a lone human chunked one of their flying, intangible, multi-armed space-ripping murder machines?
Indeed, that very fact is probably what prompted this thing to deal with me. I had obviously proven I could kill one of them very fast, by surprise, without harm to myself. It was indeed something to be wary of.
I wondered how much I was going to be paid for this, and sighed. The Umbrans would very publicly compensate my 'experimental warbot' without a shred of a doubt, and I'd get paid a pittance of a finder's fee in return. We'll see how curious everyone was about the fact I could kill one... which, since I could, was an indication of something, they just didn't know what. And they had to be curious enough to look.
After all, I was just a Termite, not even a mercenary...
-------
I handed the mission files back to My Queen, who took them with barely a glance. "Do you know what a Tekron is?"
His unsettling tan eyes lifted to me, narrowed. "Rumors. Nothing substantiated."
"That thing I killed was a Tekron Hunter-Killer. It was searching for a rogue Tekron which has been hiding in The Hole for the last three thousand years. The highest authorities of the city know about it, and have been aware of it for almost all of that time, and haven't made a move on it, because doing so might cause those looking for it to come here en masse and wipe the planet casually as they attempt to find it. There is no electronic record of it existing here, and everyone prefers it stay that way until it decides to leave."
His tired eyes didn't waver. "And why are you telling me this." He didn't sound particularly impressed.
"Because you deserve to know," I replied simply. "Also, making sure some spot-on analysis doesn't happen to the report you kick upstairs."
He grunted, as if such a thing was too much work for him. "Noted. Umbrans talked to you." His period-questions were holding out in style. Had to admire the man's consistency.
"It wasn't a talk on my end, but sure. The damn thing was made of necrochalcum. They gave me less than a thousandth of what it was worth, told me to be happy, and snaffled it up all mysterious-like."
"About what a high-end HK bot is worth," he noted, and I had to smile.
"That is true." Keeping up appearances and all. Ah, well, there was more money out there. "Got any more light jobs for me that stay high? I've got things to make." And more people to recruit. Trindi was already wondering if it would be okay to come Downspire to train more effectively, and get into a career that didn't mean catering to wealthy snobs and drunks. She'd rather be one of the wealthy snobs and drunks. From there it was a step to inviting some of her friends in to be part of this, and then getting into more active work...
It went without saying that the boys were attracting attention after what they'd done to Sharkey's men, too. Other young lads who didn't want to end up cannon fodder in turf wars or pushing pills for the zwilniks were making inquiries...
My Queen considered me for a moment, reading deeper. "There's always Termite work somewhere, but extermination jobs come in waves. If you want steady employment, you need to seek alternatives."
"The Backlog isn't endless," I agreed. "I am working on alternate sources of income." But of course, the Backlog was freaking huge... which meant a good amount of money was tied up in it. And most likely a lot of secrets. Resolving these two files was actually some pretty damn good pay for the time, and knowing more were coming was a Good Thing.
Training had continued full force while I was down below. I'd inherited a few broken jaws and cracked ribs among other bumps and bruises, which healing up. Approved heartily.
He transferred me over a couple light jobs, something for a newbie. I'd had the boys sign up to run jobs, focusing on the area around Habberblok. Practical experience and exposure were all good things.
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So, the dead bot was the exact opposite of a sentry...
"Hey, Pops, got a minute?"
The flimsy came down, the stogie smoke puffed, and Head of Blok Security Pawlie stared at me and the boys behind me suspiciously. "You again." He sounded defeated. "What, the ghosts up top aren't enough to keep you busy?"
Naturally we were the talk of the blok for living up there. When I'd turned on the water supply to 160, tremors ran through the blok's employees. I really did live up there...
"Hey, I'm setting up hydroponics up there. Enough with the attitude, or you won't ever get any of the fresh squash."
He looked at me, thought about that, and in pragmatic manner, set down the flimsy, leaned forwards on his chair, and set his cigar aside calmly. "Well, bribery is always the way to my heart," he said, completely serious, folding his hands on the other side of the security wall. "What do you want, Miss Rantha?"
I indicated the boys behind me. "Part-time jobs for the lads as Blok Auxiliaries. I checked the standard blok hiring protocols, and you've got room for a few dozen deputies, and scores of part-time auxiliaries. They aren't up for full-time yet, they'd need proper training, but they'll do fine as extra eyes and ears, and muscle where needed."
He frowned at me, chomping on his mustache. "You making some sort of play, girl? I don't want no gang wars starting up in my blok."
"The ghosts upstairs don't really like some of the elements in the blok here, so we're gonna clear things up. What makes the ghosts happy, makes the blok happy. And besides," I snapped my fingers.
Six green mindblades rose up behind me, and flared with Nimbus empowerment. He stared despite himself.
"I'm gonna be training more of these fellows. You know psis. They tend to loathe zwilniks, and they like peace, quiet, and discipline. There'll probably be some fighting, and then there'll be quiet, and more people will be moving in."
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. His pay was based on the number of blok inhabitants, after all, supposedly to encourage him to have a good, prosperous blok. If someone else was willing to do all the hard work, he certainly wouldn't mind reaping the rewards.
"Auxiliaries, huh?" Having some ex-bangers working for him... the idea was funny, but those mindblades were not. Where had she found a bunch of blade boys like this? "Well, that doesn't sound like a bad idea." He reached down, the door buzzed and opened. "Step on in and let's work out the particulars..."
---------------
Dr. McMikal was the primary medicae for Habberblok. As expected for a doctor who worked in a building capped by multiple ghosts, he was something of a character.
A former combat medic for the Imperial Legions sponsored by Janus Prime, he had mustered out after putting in his time, and had been assigned to a blok as caretaker, both collecting his pension and getting put back to work in a place where his brand of medicine was in need. Most combat medics, coming as they did from the lower-classes, usually ended up back in the same strata they came from, tending to their fellow low-class citizens' ills.
Medical technology had come a long way over the millennia, and even basic medical care was at a far higher standard. Birth vaccinations and immunizations, anti-viral compounds put into everyday drinking water and food, and even released into the atmosphere, kept most lower order diseases under control. Genetic weaknesses and imperfections had long been weeded out of the genome, and if they were occurred, were generally a sign of Warp mutation and something nasty coming along with it.
On the flip side, the human genome had also been profoundly mucked with over the centuries. Slave soldiers modified with the genes of animals, bioengineering for specific traits, cross-hereditary stamping, unisexual reproduction, cosmetic and combat modifications, environmental strains, and psionic shifting, along with all the interesting stuff the Warp did, meant a weird host of things could occur to the human population, and discerning what caused them and why was most of the doctor's job, as fixing it after that point tended to be pretty easy.
On top of all of this was the drug problem. Low-end food tended to be full of mood suppressants, rendering those who ate it more accepting of their state of mind. On top of that, many low-end workers relied on drugs instead of video games for release from the tedium of their existence, and used mood enhancers to get through the drudgery of their work day.
As a result, the drug trade was a reality of life, and standard Juris largely ignored it, because it was so endemic. The addicts were going to get their fix, one way or another, and with the number of users and the amount of money at stake, there was great pressure from both above and below to just let it ride. The reports of zwilniks hitting one another in their endless quests for territory and power were basically the evening's entertainment, and talked about like favorite sport's teams.
The addicts didn't much care who supplied them, so sweeping one group away and coming in to replace them was a thing. Don't offer a good price, however, and your business would drop like a rock as they went and found another readily available pusher.
Dr. McMikal ran a unique service. He tested all drugs brought to him for a nominal fee, basically the cost of the time of the man who ran the service. He figured that making sure people got what they paid for, and not some crazyass concoction that would get them killed in short order, kept them generally healthier and took care of them better. It also kept the zwilniks honest, as cutting their drugs with the wrong shit could have really bad side-effects, and getting caught at it meant their entire cash cow could walk away. On the other side, a contaminated supply could kill off that cow, and they didn't want that to happen, either.
So Dr. Mick ended up catering to both sides of the equation, with both suppliers and buyers getting tested at the office adjacent to the main medicae treatment center. The blunt honesty of the results had ended up resolved more than a few times with shootings on the spot, or shortly thereafter, which also generated occasional business. He was the most trusted man in the blok, fully capable of shooting a batshit crazy addict coming in demanding a hit, fixing the guy up, negotiating payment with him on the surgical table, and if he didn't pay it, shooting him in the head once he was all fixed up. He'd fixed up and then shot more than a few gangers that way, and any of them who threatened him in his place had ended up as examples of What Not To Do. The two punks who'd threatened his staff and died over the course of a week while tied up in the glass showcase rooms while turning into black mushrooms had made an impression on a lot of people. When the punks showed up at his door bleeding out, no matter how desperate they were, they were polite and brought their money with them.
Naturally it was time to make an acquaintance with him. So, I called up and made an appointment for lunch, asking if he liked pasta, a time was set, and here I was now, showing up with a pot in my hand.
Had to go Upspire for the flour, and make my own noodles, and buy some real tomatoes on the sly. Was an experience.
"Hey there, I'm Sama. Here for my lunch appointment with the doc."
The nurse had a gyropistol in her drawer and a shotgun under the desk. I noticed the section was configured for easy replacement, and the fire lane was kept carefully clear of other obstructions.
"You're the one who lives in the Top Fifty?" Despite herself, the middle-aged woman was wary.
"That's me!" I agreed, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "Very quiet up there. Nobody bugs me when I need to rest."
She gave me a really weird look. "I'm supposed to confirm that you really do have pasta with you."
I set the pan on her desk, flipped out a disposable plate, a plastic fork in sterile wrapper, opened the top of the pan, smoothly scooped out a piece of lasagna with the spatula in my other hand, set it on the plate, and pushed it in front of her.
She looked at the gooey mess of tomatoes, herbs, faux cheeses, and layers of pasta, and almost started drooling right there. She bent her head down just so she could smell it.
"Go right in. Hallway left, second hallway on right, first office on the right." She stripped off the fork, and sliced off a small piece, bringing it up to her mouth and then sitting back just to enjoy it.
There were three other people in the waiting room, waiting for a nurse to come help them with various ills and stuff, and they were all staring at her with wide eyes.
She slid the drawer of her desk open with her other hand, but didn't stop enjoying her meal.
I strolled on past as she buzzed the door open, taking the pan with me. Nobody got up to ask her for a taste of her lasagna.
---
(For all those reading this on other websites, the original is at webnovel.com. Please read it there and leave comments! All the Q&A you are missing happens there!)
As she said, it was left, pass, right, first door. I knocked on it and said, "Your pasta is here!"
There was a click as the reinforced door unlocked, and I stepped inside.
Doc Mick was of average height and stout build. He kept himself in good shape, the better to manhandle some of the punks who he ended up dealing with, and because current medical tech made it easy to do so.
He had an artificial eye, boosted reflexes for better motor control, and an artificial hand, legacies of twenty years of fighting the enemies of the Empire. At least, I didn't think he'd added any since he'd come back home. His hair was black and thick, his six-hour beard was thicker than most men's full day, and his eyes were dark and assessing.
And zeroed right in on the pan I was holding.
"You have my time and interest, for as long as the pasta holds out!" he stated with no compunctions.
"Ah, the pharma reps still bugging you?" I asked, setting down the pan and bringing out the disposable tablewear. "I'm surprised they even want to visit you here."
"They keep their eyes on the floor," he just laughed, and stuck out his hand. "Doctor Mack McMikal, but everyone calls me Doc Mick."
"Sama Rantha." I took it, he applied pressure, I applied it back, and he pursed his lips and decided not to test his servos. "Nice grip!" he said.
"Nice model. Five years old?" I asked, and he glanced at his hand, then at the dripping goo coming off the lasagna's many layers.
"Six, but who's counting?" He waved away the plastic knife, opening up a drawer behind him with a set of silverware in sterile confinement. He formally offered me a real fork and knife, I accepted, and I sat down in the chair there with my own plate.
"You'll have to excuse the cheeses. Getting the real stuff is nigh impossible, it's pretty much all snapped up by Upspire eateries and households."
He waved it off. "I am unfortunately familiar with the reality of the situation." He sucked in a long string of melted neocheese, chomping happily. "Excellent noodle texture, the sauce is wonderfully balanced. Did you mix it yourself?"
"Yes. There's a couple eatery levels up in the Top Fifty, with loads of some very high-end cooking equipment. I had to play around with the stuff a bit, but it came out okay." Yay for four Ranks in Cooking! I was the equivalent of a Master Chef, if not world-class. "I'll get better. I'm gonna start putting in hydroponic gardens up there, grow some real food."
"There won't be any side effects from the spirits?" He glanced at the ceiling warily, looked at his lasagna, then shrugged and dug in again.
"Growing things are one of the ways to naturally disperse tremendous concentrations of negative emotions like that. Plants are Nature's recyclers, after all. It'll probably take a few centuries, but if the Top Fifty is converted into acting gardens, we can get rid of the Tau Rating just by growing good food and planting flowers."
"Really." He seemed impressed. "Well, that's definitely cheaper than trying to hire it done."
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