All the little lost boys and girls (Update: 26/5/12)

[Darth Nostril]

fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

The engine's not using metals and ceramics for it's creations. The engine's been given biological material, probably from the moment it was activated in DROP 47. The "Flytrap" was a biological weapon created by the Engine, expressly for luring the unsuspecting close and killing them.

Well we do know the Imperium liked their bio-weapons ......

[Darth Nostril]

Has anyone considered the fact that the ventilation system could be extruding a Novichok Agent syle nerve gas into the atmosphere onboard the DROP?

No not really, the psychological effects started showing up on the Kerrigan days before they even docked with DROP 47.

[The Vortex Empire]

Fucking hell. That station is even more of a deathtrap than I thought. The fabricator is making these monstrosities? NUKE IT.

[Night_stalker]

I say we take off, nuke the site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure.

[Darth Nostril]

With what?
It's not like Abigail & co just happen to have high yield nukes stashed away in a handy pouch. "Is that a 50 MT fusion bomb in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"
"For you Emily anything"
"Oh Shannon..... *smooch*"
"My little echo"





Sorry I was channeling Shroomy there for a minute.

[Ugolino]

On the bright side, the casualties in this story will be limited to anyone in and around the Mists. No chance of anything nasty getting out. Right? Right?

[Night_stalker]

Nice joke, but don't count on it. Plus, if need be I'm sure that the station's power plant could be overloaded if need be.

[Mr. Coffee]

With what?
It's not like Abigail & co just happen to have high yield nukes stashed away in a handy pouch. "Is that a 50 MT fusion bomb in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"
"For you Emily anything"
"Oh Shannon..... *smooch*"
"My little echo"

I'm telling you, man, it's a bunch of tattood albino space lesbians arm/tentacle wrestling Cthulhu.

[Themightytom]

I'm telling you, man, it's a bunch of tattood albino space lesbians arm/tentacle wrestling Cthulhu.

God you know, there's one in EVERY crowd

Its always tattooed albino space lesbians arm/tentacle wrestling cthulu?

Can't find your keys? its the Spacelesbians, your netflixx doesn't make it back it back to HQ? Space lesbians, your wife leaves you to become an astronaut with her best friend Tina from high school... well ok maybe that was space lesbians...

wow if old Imperium tech is THIS far advanced beyond coalition tech i have no idea how the Imperium lost. you'd think with fabricators described they could have evened the odds easily not to mention being at least 500 years ahead off the coalition in terms of technology.

[Sky Captain]

There is no way these people ever getting out of that place. They are FUCKED

Can fabricator build another functioning fabricator?

PS
Where is that Mulkari killfleet when it's needed the most?

[Ugolino]

Well, if I remember correctly, the Imperium got zerg-rushed to the point where superior tech didn't really help.

So that would be a lot of ships.

On a loosely related note, my subconscious apparently cribbed parts of this fic along with Moffat's "Flesh and Stone" for my dream last night. It wasn't very pleasant.

[Mr. Coffee]

Its always tattooed albino space lesbians arm/tentacle wrestling cthulu?

Makes as much sense as "god did it" or "some housesspace stations are just EVIL", man.

Can't find your keys? its the Spacelesbians, your netflixx doesn't make it back it back to HQ? Space lesbians, your wife leaves you to become an astronaut with her best friend Tina from high school... well ok maybe that was space lesbians...

Don't forget cancer in grandmas, that was spacelesbos. They're also responsible for the fall of Rome, your dog getting hit by a car, the 9/11 terrorist attacks, and they played a key role in inventing Clowns.

[Themightytom]

Don't forget cancer in grandmas, that was spacelesbos. They're also responsible for the fall of Rome, your dog getting hit by a car, the 9/11 terrorist attacks, and they played a key role in inventing Clowns.

WHAT? Not MacGuyver?!?!

[Mr. Coffee]

Don't forget cancer in grandmas, that was spacelesbos. They're also responsible for the fall of Rome, your dog getting hit by a car, the 9/11 terrorist attacks, and they played a key role in inventing Clowns.

WHAT? Not MacGuyver?!?!

No, it was McGuyver, bro. He's one of the Spacelesbo Conspiracy's chief agents.

[LadyTevar]

Guys, back on topic before I split the spam to HOS. This isn't Testingstan

[Teebs]

Has anyone considered the fact that the ventilation system could be extruding a Novichok Agent syle nerve gas into the atmosphere onboard the DROP?

What's a Novichok Agent style nerve gas?

[Night_stalker]

Soviet style of chem wepaon designed to be fatal, and undetectable, plus makes chem warfare suits all but useless

[Bladed_Crescent]

fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

The engine's not using metals and ceramics for its creations. The engine's been given biological material, probably from the moment it was activated in DROP 47. The "Flytrap" was a biological weapon created by the Engine, expressly for luring the unsuspecting close and killing them.

That's certainly one possibility. There are others as well. Of course, revealing which one at the moment would be a bit... precipitous, yes?

Fucking hell. That station is even more of a deathtrap than I thought. The fabricator is making these monstrosities? NUKE IT.

I think Darth Nostril covered the situation nicely; normally when you board a station you're intending to salvage, you don't plan on blowing it up. It's a bit like a botanical expedition bringing Agent Orange, just in case the local flora have man-eating flowers. Both the cause and effect are something that would never be considered. If the first expedition gets eaten by wolves, you bring some guns, but you don't plan on wiping out the entire landscape.

"Sir, we've sighted some angry ferrets."

"...call in an airstrike."

On the bright side, the casualties in this story will be limited to anyone in and around the Mists. No chance of anything nasty getting out. Right? Right?

[looks at notes and drafts of future chapters]

Uhm... I'll get back to you on that, okay?

Nice joke, but don't count on it. Plus, if need be I'm sure that the station's power plant could be overloaded if need be.

You remember Aliens, where they go into the bowels of the atmosphere processor and power plant, only to find out that the aliens have made it their hive? Or Pandorum, where the mutants all sleep around the ship's own power core?

I don't know what made me think of those things. Of course, DROP 47's core is itself the size of a small moon, so there's lots of space in there. Yyyyep. Looooots of space.

wow if old Imperium tech is THIS far advanced beyond coalition tech i have no idea how the Imperium lost. you'd think with fabricators described they could have evened the odds easily not to mention being at least 500 years ahead off the coalition in terms of technology.

Well, if I remember correctly, the Imperium got zerg-rushed to the point where superior tech didn't really help.

So that would be a lot of ships.

Yep. Think of it like... the Defiant from DS9 and Jem'Hadar bug fighters. Once they had overcome the Dominions 'go-through-shields' technowhatsis, the Defiant was worth 3, 4, 5 bug fighters. The Defiant is bigger, tougher, more heavily armed.... but the Dominion has more fighters than the Federation has Defiants. Say the Defiant can take 3 bugs with no damage, 4 with minimal, 5 with moderate. 6 bugs attack, cause heavy damage, but get wiped out. Before the Defiant can repair, another 4 show up. And another 4 after that. And another 4 after that. It's the same thing with the Imperium and the Coalition.

I'll be touching on that problem more in the future, but the various star nations massively outnumbered the Imperium's resources. They just had their own affairs, grudges, conflicts and problems that they were focused on and the Imperium snapped up nation after nation while their neighbours went 'not my problem'. Remember that both Earth and Halo expected all these nations to eventually wake up and realize that they'd have to stand together or be destroyed piecemeal as was happening right under their noses. They just never expected it to happen so quickly, before they were ready to deal with those kinds of numbers.

It wouldn't matter if an Imperial cruiser could take on, let's say, 5 Coalition cruisers at once. The Coalition had the manpower the resources (and more importantly, the will) to take those kinds of losses. Or for a Stargate Atlantis example: the war between the Ancients and the Wraith. No matter how many battles they won, there just so many enemies that they simply couldn't kill them fast enough and every ship they lost hurt them proportionally far, far more than losing those same 5 ships for the other side.

I could give a more contemporary (though somewhat strained) example: Country A has 5 factories, each of which builds 1 F-22 a month, and an air force of 100 Raptors. Country B has 200 factories, each of which builds an F-15 in 2 months and 3000 Eagles deployed. All else being equal, who wins? The F-22's technological superiority means nothing because B can lose 30 planes for each one of A's, and though its factories are slower and produce inferior products, they're still churning out far, far more than A can ever hope to. The loss of one or two factories can cripple A; B would have to lose dozens.

[Bladed_Crescent]

In this chapter: still no grav plating (:() but the group learns that 'trespassers will be shot' doesn't just apply to hillbilles defendin' thar land from revenooers.

Coming up: grav plating, I swear! Or a flashback. We'll see.

Chapter 22:

“I think I just got a boner.”

Emily and Ramone just stared quizzically, but Louis shook his head at Abigail’s utterance. “You would.”

“Don’t judge me, Nine. I know about that thing with the gas mask.”

“There was no ‘thing’!” Louis protested. “Those assholes Luger and Tassiter wouldn’t let me back in my quarters unless I... and those fuckers had a camera, too! Ah, forget it.”

Abby chuckled. “Sure, Nine.”

They’d made it to North Engineering. There’d been some traps, a busted elevator and a few close calls with more of those things, but they’d made it.

Of course, nothing on this God-forsaken station could be easy. Someone had sealed the entire section – probably the same someone who’d infested every access route into Engineering with traps and, if Shannon was right about what one of those symbols on the map meant, sentry guns. Luckily they hadn’t tempted fate by going to see if her guess was accurate. It had been enough for Abigail to dodge traps and jump across an open elevator shaft with Ramone clinging to her back. That had been fun.

And naturally, the main doors had been locked. It was another crude-but-serviceable mishmash of Imperial technology and cannibalized parts, but between Shannon on the software and Abigail on the hardware, the lock hadn’t had a chance.

Grinding open, the heavy double doors had withdrawn, letting warm orange light spill out into the corridor in welcome. There’d been no hurricane of defensive fire, no outraged screams of inhabitants, no wet slurps and gargles as monstrous once-human things registered the presence of prey. There’d only been the mechanical thrum of active machinery.

North Engineering. Machine shops, assembly lines, fabricators and tools. And it was all still here. Still powered, still intact.

“Sweep and secure,” Shannon ordered. “This place was sealed recently; whoever was here probably left then, but don’t take it for granted. I don’t want any nasty surprises waiting for us.”

~

Emily moved cautiously down a flight of grated-metal stairs, listening the to the pulsing of the machinery around her, a constant cyclic throbbing, like the heartbeat of some great beast. The beam of a flashlight swept by several feet over her head as one of the mercenaries scanned the level above her. Everything that wasn’t covered in the orange glow of emergency lighting was illuminated by functional – functional, not flickering or dying – overhead glowpanels. Workstation computer screens presented DROP 47’s rotating emblem as they awaited input. They had been locked down, but that they were working at all...!

There were still signs of decay here. Slapdash repairs to some of the systems and modified systems and devices that were what Shannon and Abigail had started to call ‘CBS’; crude but serviceable. Rust on some machines, stress fractures and cracks in others. Some had broken down completely. Some were on the verge of crumbling. Whoever used this place was fighting a losing battle to keep it operational, but it was one that would still be fought long after the small group of survivors was gone...

Stop that. You’ve made it this far. You can hold out until rescue gets here.

Isn’t that what Primal’s people thought?

Shut up!

~

Abigail ran the tips of the gauntlet over a metalworker. They came up slick and oily. “This was cleaned recently,” she noted, taking in the scent of the grease, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. “CBS. More particulate than it should be, but a decent effort.” She gave the large machine a thump. “This should be a foundry, something to hammer out large metal parts, but it’s been modified extensively.” The tech shook her head, glancing over at Shannon. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to do now. Most of factory floor is completely useless. The more complicated machines were the first to fail. It looks like the station’s own maintenance bots tried to keep them running, but some of them were cannibalized themselves.”

Hayes nodded. “These units have been kept operational, though.”

“Yeah. It’s all more patchjobs, though. Here and there I can spot work from someone who knew what they were doing, but it doesn’t last.” Abigail ran her hand over a crudely-welded stress fracture. “Someone knows enough to keep these things working, but they don’t have any real understanding of how. Big obvious things are fixed – look at these broken treads – but the smaller problems are ignored. See? Here – this thing is about to break down again. All you’d need is some experience, an hour and a handful of parts to hold it off.”

Shannon cocked her head, considering. Her first impulse was to say this was Imperial technology, that even the Coalition had never gotten a handle on everything Earth had built, but that idea didn’t hold up. This was just a subsidiary engineering section – there shouldn’t be anything too exotic here. That was precisely why these sections had been built, so that less-complicated functions, ship repairs and outfitting could be ‘outsourced’ while still leaving Main Engineering and the fabricator engine free to operate, produce and deal with more complicated systems and technologies.

“Maybe it’s been ritualized?” she suggested. “Barnes said there were other people here. If they’ve been subject to these conditions over an extended period of time, they might only have a rote idea of how to maintain these systems.” She frowned. “Or the people who did know how to maintain the machines died off and their descendants were left with trial and error.”

“That’s possible,” Abigail replied, shifting her attention to a lathe. “But from what I can see,” she paused, trying to think of how to express it. “I’m starting to think that there is some understanding here. This patch job – this is good. It fixes the problem with the attenuator and,” she stuck her head into the machine, her flashlight between her teeth. “Yeth. Ith altho fixeth a pwobwem inthide the thtructure.” Hutchins pulled out. “So it’s not just simple by-the-numbers operation. Someone has kept it together. I’m not sure I like that.”

“No,” Shannon said as she knelt. When she came to her feet, she was holding a massive sword across both hands. “I don’t either.”

Abigail whistled. “Someone’s been having fun with metalworking.” The blade, such as it was, had more in common with a cleaver than a sword – only one end had been sharpened. It was widely serrated – each ‘point’ was six inches or more apart. It looked as if he had been cut from a pre-existing piece of metal, its cutting edge whittled into shape. The Darkknell reached out to test the blade’s sharpness, but Shannon caught her hand.

“Don’t. Look – just to either side of the blade. You see those holes?”

Abby frowned. The blade hadn’t been carved from something else; it had been forged and crudely sharpened. “Some imperfection in the metal?” she wondered aloud. “Air bubbles trapped in the blade?”

“No. It’s lighter than it should be, Abby. And the hilt is hollow. Those holes are to let poison seep out.”

Abigail’s head came up. “What?”

“Look, here – you pour it at the base of the hilt and it runs down through the interior of the sword. When you swing it, the force of your swing and the impact draws the poison out, splattering into the wound you’ve just made.”

“That’s insane – they’d compromise the structure of the whole thing!”

“They probably compensated for it by using such thick metal in the first place. Besides, what if you don’t intend to hit something hard with it? Armour, another sword – I’d bet this isn’t intended to be used on anything but flesh.”

“Son of a bitch,” Abigail swore as her mind followed Shannon train of thought. “This is a God-damned monster-killing sword.”

“Which means the poison they’d use might just be something that can kill – or at least retard the regeneration – of those things.”

“Son of a bitch,” the tech repeated, accepting the sword carefully, testing the feel of it in her hands. It was clumsy and the balance was off – whoever had made this had never intended for it to be used any other way that simply hacking at an opponent.”

“There’s no toxin left on the blade itself, but I think we should try and find some ourselves.” Shannon huffed a sigh. “I don’t know where to look for it, but even if only slows them down, it would be worth having.”

“Definitely,” Abigail agreed.

“As for the blades itself... given how strong some of their bony protrusions seem to be, I’m not sure it’s anything other than a failed experiment,” Shannon continued. “If it’s not just some metalworker’s dementia in action. But it does tell us that the people here are capable of thinking and developing things on their own.”

Abigail gave the sword another look, then let it drop back to the floor. “No,” she repeated. “I’m not sure at all that I like that.”

~

“What’d you find?”

Louis was beaming as he held up his new prize. A shotgun. Blocky and unwieldy, it was nonetheless functional. Abigail arched an eyebrow, taking the weapon from Nine’s hands and inspecting it. “It’s not going to explode the first time you fire it?”

“Nope. Ah looked et over good, ma.”

“You’re hilarious,” Hutchins tossed the weapon back to Hernandez. “Now go find some cartridges for it.”

~

She’d wandered off. She wasn’t supposed to, she knew. But she needed some time away from the group, just to breathe and relax. Besides, the engineering section was safe. Whoever sealed it had taken precautions against those things getting in; the air vents were covered with thick plates, salvaged from some of the wrecked ships in the hangar, and except for the main doors on each level, each entrance was barricaded and booby-trapped. Obviously someone didn’t want visitors.

She’d found a small lantern, using it to light her way as she wandered through the back areas of one of the rest sections. The lights in this section were off, save for the occasionally glimmer or flicker from dying glow panels. Obviously, maintaining this part of engineering had not been a priority. That’s what it looked like. But that was a lie. Stained work clothes lay piled in corners – not covered in dust. Sinks were filthy, but there were still droplets of moisture in the basins. CBS tools – not anything that had come from a ship’s existing kit – were hung on racks. No, people had been here. Recently. She could smell it in the air, burnt metal and sweat.

Emily held the lantern up to a bulkhead, illuminating the words scribbled on it. Victories of the forge, the script proudly proclaimed. She didn’t know if that referred to those killed by the smiths or their weapons, not that it mattered. She was just hoping that there would be something useful amongst those trophies.

There; she could make out the flickers of orange light ahead. Not artificial: neither the inconstant white or yellow of the main lights, nor the sweeping haze of orange emergency lights. These were candles. She didn’t want to know what they had been rendered from, but they were set along the sides of a large tiered table. One the wall above them, someone had painstakingly – if not altogether skillfully – painted a macabre theater mask of a great, leering feline face. One ear was drawn as broken and its whiskers were uneven.

Circular script spiraled into the middle of each eye, but she couldn’t read what it said. The rest of the ‘mask’ decorated with artful sweeps and curves of various colours, but its mouth was wide-open in a Cheshire grin, almost cruel. Someone had written a prayer or invocation of some kind – almost a nursery rhyme, even – on the wall, each stanza bracketing the mask with the final verse inside its smile.

As we all dance within the gates of hell,
tell me, tell me – are you feeling well?
Do you hear them and does it sting?
Then soon you won’t feel anything.

When there’s hungers they must sate,
the masks we wear shield our fate.
We know each other, this is true,
but it separates us from you.

It wasn’t that much, just a little prick,
tell me, tell me – are you feeling sick?
Is it warm, do you have the shivers?
Check your skin; there may be slivers.

In the sky, you see the Mists,
as you sleep you feel their kiss,
they whisper truths that you must hear,
listen to them darling, and do not fear.

Don’t you move, stay quite still,
tell me, tell me – you look quite ill.
I can hear you cough and your skin is burning,
I think that you’ll soon be turning.

The garden grows and the hunters stalk,
and so this culls you from the flock,
when your turn comes (as you know it will),
dance away, dance away into hell.

Your eyes my dear, they are red,
tell me, tell me – you’ll soon be dead.
Don’t take offence but this is goodbye,
I’d rather not be the next to die.

The eyes watch you and they know your smell,
and what comes next? (but you know this well)
They find the strong and they’ll find you,
And then they’ll do what they always do.

As we dance within the gates of Hell,
I’ll tell you, tell you – I’m not feeling well.
My lungs are burning and it’s getting hard to breathe,
I think I’ve gone and got R-3.

Others question, bemoan and cry,
beating their breasts and asking ‘Why?’
Never question what we lay upon,
for we are the children of Acheron.

Grisly trophies were laid out upon each of the table’s levels; a skull with a bullet hole in the forehead, a red handprint smeared over its face. Weapons from other expeditions. An otherwise undamaged EVA helmet with a knife stuck up through the chin plate. There were several other helmets mounted on iron spikes that had been themselves welded to the tablet. One helmet in particular caught her eye and she reached out, tracing the smooth, sleek predatory lines – what remained of them, anyways. The helmet was heavily damaged – there were at least three bullet holes, many dents and cracks due to bludgeoning and even what looked like thermal damage, including a scorch line from a laser. Someone had painted a design on the helm, but the damage had destroyed anything more than a splash of out-of-place colour here and there.

Delphini’s lips twitched upwards. Shot. Burned. Stabbed. Beaten. Made them work for it, didn’t you?

She looked at the rest of grisly souvenirs. There were department and organization badges from other expeditions, officer’s epaulettes, rank markers. Most were marred in some fashion. Disfigured and either torn, or hastily cut off the clothes they’d been attached to, and as often as not, stained with various fluids. Another little reminder of the thousands of people that DROP 47 had swallowed. Treasure hunters and mercenaries, archaeologists and researchers. Consumed body and soul and only remembered by the tidbits collected by their killers.

The doctor’s eyes widened with recognition and she picked up one of the decals, studying it carefully. She quickly looked over her shoulder before she swept it and the rest of the familiar badges to the floor and kicked them deeper into the shadows, out of sight.

Turning her attention back to the rest of the trophies, Emily’s eyes were drawn to the top shelf. Sitting upon someone’s attempt at a gun rack was the centerpiece of this macabre collection, a rifle or carbine of some kind, but obviously broken. Savage in appearance and painted a dull matte black, it had obviously been made by someone with an impressive industrial base. But it wasn’t what she looking for. None of this was.

She could hear footsteps on the grating above her and her comm clicked, spitting out the customary distorted burst of static that was the only thing that got through the jamming. Still, it meant that Shannon was calling for her, but Emily didn’t answer right away. There, placed to one side of the useless carbine was something she’d never expected to find. Hands shaking with the sudden rush of adrenaline, Emily picked it up off the table. It was a small thing, really. And without knowing what it was, it would be just a curiousity like the other odd bits of junk on the table. A random item that had come from an enemy – worthy of being displayed, but that was all.

Emily turned the device over in her hands; there was some damage and its batteries were long depleted. But if... If Oh, if...! She quickly slid it under her coat, into a tunic’s pocket, taking a few moments to look over the rest of the trophies. There was nothing else of note and if she didn’t get back soon, one of the mercenaries would come looking for her. But maybe I have time to-

“Emily.”

Delphini jumped and yelped, spinning around to confront Shannon. The Halo was standing patiently in the darkened hallway, faintly backlit by the light from the main work areas. “Jesus!” the doctor panted. “You scared me out of a year’s growth.”

“Sorry,” Hayes apologized. “But you weren’t answering.” She cocked her head, looking at the candlelit display.

“Sorry,” Emily mumbled contritely. “I got a little distracted.”

“I can see why. I guess this section isn’t as abandoned as we thought.” Shannon stepped up to the table, examining its ugly treasures. Emily found herself biting her lip and cursing herself for forgetting the mercenary’s night-vision systems, hoping she didn’t take notice of the handful of badges on the floor.

“No,” she said, directing the other woman’s attention to the more obvious trophies. “It looks like some kind of display. Maybe to honour the people who work here for what they’ve done...”

“...or what their weapons did,” Shannon finished the thought, picking up a skull. The lower jaw had deformed considerably; it had split in two, each side lengthening into a large, sharp hook, while the teeth in the upper jaw had lengthened into pointed fangs. The tips of the lower jaw bones were discoloured and very tough, much like the tail-blade or scythe-arms of the other creatures. Shannon looked at the bottom of the jaws; there were scars for muscle attachment on either side. Like a nymph, then? When prey gets close enough, the jaw springs out to hook them? Those muscles would have to be strong... She set the grisly trophy back down; there didn’t appear to be anything useful here, just bits and pieces taken from various victims. She didn’t want to focus too much on them. Didn’t want to have to remember them, think about what they meant.

“Come on back up,” she said to Emily, eyeing the broken gun on its pedestal. “I think I found the jammer. Abby and Louis are taking a look at it.”

Emily nodded. “Yes. Sorry I wandered off.”

“It’s all right. Just be more careful next time.”

“I will, I promise.”

~

Louis scratched his chin; his five o’clock shadow was starting to itch. At least, he assumed it was a five o’clock shadow. He thought he’d shaved before landing, but maybe he hadn’t. It seemed so long ago. Or maybe they’d been here longer than he thought... either way, his chin itched. “So that’s a jammer, DROP 47 style,” he said aloud.

“That’s a jammer,” Abigail confirmed. Behind her, Shannon and Emily were coming up to meet the rest of the group, the former having tracked down the latter. Hutchins shook her head. Last thing we need is to start having to wrangle civvies. At least Ramone knows enough to stay in sight. The older doctor was taking a much-needed breather, crouched on a dented, beaten toolbox and tugging on the collar of his shirt to circulate air through it. “One of them, anyways.”

True to type, it was CBS, though Abigail couldn’t even begin to guess how anyone kept it working, let alone how it worked to begin with. It was a monstrosity, almost four feet high and built right out of the innards of another manufacturer along with whatever pieces its builders had found along the way. From her first cursory examination of it, there were components from least three different comm systems, an insane mixture of printed circuit boards, wiring and molecular circuits as well as parts from what she believed was some sort of food processor. It was fed from three separate power conduits that had simply been torn out of their mountings and hooked into the jammer. What displays it had were all meaningless; numbers that could mean anything and a fluctuating line chart that could represent power consumption, signal strength or something else entirely. “Credit where it’s due,” she said. “Necessity is the mother of invention and this thing is one proud mother.”

“Do you know how to shut it down?” Ramone asked from the sidelines.

“Oh yeah,” Abigail said. “No problem.”

“How?”

Abby shouldered her carbine and ambled off a short distance, picking up a massive pipe wrench, hefting it across her shoulders as she walked back up to the machine. “Well, I might not know precisely how it works, but I can tell you how to make it stop working.”

“How’s that?” Salvador pressed.

“This,” Abby swung the wrench into the jammer’s flank, caving in the plate she struck, popping its rusted bolts and spot-welds open. The displays flashed abruptly, a red warning light starting to pulse. The mercenary smashed the machine a second time, so hard that she tilted it to one side. The chart started to peak and fall rapidly and the warning light increased its flashing. A third swing smashed circuit boards, ripped wires out of place and carved a path of blunt force destruction through the delicate internal workings. Caught on something, Abby gave the wrench’s handle a savage twist. Something snapped inside the machine and the wrench was free.

The red light flared for a few seconds then winked out as the machine died. Abigail dropped the wrench, looking back to Ramone, who simply stared back at her. “What?”

“Weren’t you afraid it would explode?”

“Jammers aren’t usually packed with plastique,” she shrugged. “Besides this way, they have to build it over again instead of just playing with the settings. And it felt good.”

“Let’s see if your exuberance paid off,” Shannon replied. “This is Corporal Hayes to all Artemis personnel. Report.”

Static, but it was weaker.

“I say again, this is Corporal Hayes. All personnel from the Kerrigan, respond.”

“...ayes...” an unknown voice crackled back. “...at you?” Other voices broke into the channel, but Shannon could only make out the occasional syllable.

“...can’t he...”

“...terfere...”

“...one there...”

“...espon...”

Shannon’s shoulders slumped. She didn’t think that this would be enough, but she’d been hoping for more than an errant word here and there. We’ll need to take out at least one more jammer. “If you can hear this, make your way to the next stop on the tram network. Get to the third tram station. We’ll try and take out the jammers. Hayes, clear.” She looked up at her people. They were tired and sore. She didn’t want to keep pushing them, but she had no choice. “We have a mission,” she announced. “We know others survived. We know they’re out there. We can find them. But we have to be able to reach them. We’re going to find the other jamming centers and we’re going to shut them down, okay?”

They all nodded. With resignation or determination, but it didn’t matter. They were going to get through this.

She hoped.

“Okay. We’ll head back to the tram station. Abigail and I will see if we can narrow down the search area for the next jammer, but until we do-”

The intercomm screeched with a blare of static so loud, Emily, Louis and Ramone dropped to their knees with their hands over their ears and Abigail and Shannon shut off their autosenses before they could be deafened. The scream dropped in pitch and volume; it wasn’t electronic – someone had been screaming into a mike so loudly that only static came out. It wasn’t a scream of pain or fear – it was anger. Pure, undiluted rage.

“Thieves!” The voice shrieked. “Thieves and vandals! Trespassers and usurpers! Bitches! Whoresons! You shouldn’t be in here! This is ours! Not yours! Ours ours ours ours! Who sent you? They sent more, didn’t they! This is ours! Not theirs! Not yours! You can’t have it!” Eventually, the speaker seemed to be able to get control of themselves. “More new people, wriggling through my guts like worms. Ugly, filthy worms.” A pause. “Are you enjoying yourselves, are you mighty looking upon my works? Is it not glorious?”

“Who are you?” Abigail demanded. “Identify yourself!”

“Who am I?” the voice mocked. “I am all around you, little worm. I am everything you see here. I am DROP 47.”

[Darth Nostril]

Oh poo.

[The Vortex Empire]

That's not good. Maybe the jammer was a good thing, since now the station will be trying to kill them.

[Darth Nostril]

The station has already been trying to kill them, only now it can taunt them while it does.

[GrandMasterTerwynn]

A very Bioshock-esque moment, that. For some reason, I can't help but imagine the voice of DROP 47 being that of Sander Cohen.

[EdBecerra]

wow if old Imperium tech is THIS far advanced beyond coalition tech i have no idea how the Imperium lost. you'd think with fabricators described they could have evened the odds easily not to mention being at least 500 years ahead off the coalition in terms of technology.

Suicide tactics.

When you get right down to it, it only takes one man, willing and eager to die, to destroy a world, provided you give him the right tools.

Add in an attitude of "Extinction before Enslavement!" and you have a Coalition that's even more frightening than DROP 47. Easier to understand, but more frightening in the longer run.

Don't care how many monsters the author throws into the story - the greatest monster we'll ever face is the one we see in the mirror.

Ed.

[Ugolino]

Well, that actually explains a lot. It seems the only thing not trying to kill Our Heroes at this point is the air filter...