Exigency: Worldcarrier Sigma

The tram makes two more stops and then pulls into a station that dwarfs everything that came before. This is the very heart of Sigma. Generator stacks the size of skyscrapers, wreathed in rings of vapour, all emitting a constant hum.

The team changes trams, leaving Ferrin to continue on with a small handful of technicians. The next transport is little more than a box of rust. It accelerates down a winding slope, grinding and rumbling, eventually drawing to a halt in complete darkness. Then the systems detect the ten human workers and engage the lights.

It's very warm, contrasting oddly with the icy-blue lighting. As much as they might want to shed layers, all the workers are nonetheless in hazmat gear. Even the walls seem to be sweating with condensation. A supervisor taps something into a console, and the cramped and oppressive interior unfurls. Hatches and struts fold away to reveal pipes, chutes... and banks of computers.

"All right people," shouts a short bald corporate supervisor with a voice that shames megaphones, "we have thirty minutes, then we're moving on to shaft 2A. You've probably heard about the Association absences, and we'll make a complaint about that, rest assured, but right now we're down five and we'll have to work tomorrow too—" at this, the assembled technicians groan. The speaker waves a hand sympathetically— "but it can't be helped. We won't be off-peak forever, and they need this core back online before—"

A gunshot rings out. The supervisor slumps forward. People shout, scream, and there's another shot, and another, bursts of fire lighting up the chamber in pulses of red. Only four people remain on their feet at the end of it.

The "technician" puts his plasma repeater away and removes his helmet. Shaved head, targeting ocular in place of an eye. Typical Mercenary League, or ex-League. "I'll be glad to get out of this pit," he mutters. He jabs a finger at the most distant computer console. "Now go upload the virus. We've got five minutes. Then there'll be work for whichever one of you has the neural interface: the pilot, the drone controller, whatever you are." He looks at the party as if trying to determine who is who. "And if we're lucky we won't need your doctor at all."

The client made no mention of any of this.

Technically it's five; as the shooting begins, Kree grabs the closest falling body to use as a shield, until it becomes clear he's not an immediate threat. She frisks the body out of habit and dumps it to one side. Then she sees her mistake and grimaces. "Now I've got blood on my hands, and I didn't even spill it."

Inwardly, she's thinking up a whirlwind, amped by the cool glaze of neural augmentation: "This clown blew our cover. Killed civilians. He knows who we are. He knows our plan intimately. So there are other cells on site with more situational awareness of the Plan than us. Or they're not even on our side. Either way, he's gonna frag us the second we're not useful."

"If they got on our network they might've sniffed out our little package on the way down the pipe, Doc. Our friend here did us a favour. Your name was ...? And what's this work for a drone controller?" She says this as she dutifully follows his gesture to the console, hoping Nasaius is going too.

Kree isn't exactly poker-faced, but she doesn't give the impression of bone-rattling nervousness either. The Merc nods at her statement. "Your pilot has the right of it doctor: the techs were a liability. Good luck working under their noses.

He indicates the console again. "The virus will disable the security requirements but it also disables automated processes. We'll need someone to tap into the interface and direct the drones and cranes." He waves a hand at shadowy shapes folded away in corners and above rafters. "The radiation shielding won't remove itself.

"And me? You don't need to know me, and I don't need to know you. You're the doc, pilot, and tech. I'm just a man with a gun."

The transport slides away into the depths of the complex. It's making way for another arrival: the rumble of a distant elevator platform can be heard from far above.

"That'll be the rest of our team," says the man with the gun. "Like I said: we've got five minutes to clear the way for them."

Kree blinks slowly. "You want to remove the radiation shielding from the main reactor?" She looks at Dr. Zephyr incredulously and back to the merc. "Are you insane?" She folds her arms. "I'm fine with collateral damage. Hell, I love it. But when did this smash and grab become a smash grab kill 'em all?"

The man smiles, wrongly assuming he knows what the party's issue is. "Relax. Once we have terminal access, you can remotely control the drones and cranes from a safe distance. The shielding slabs are kind of like an airlock, see? You don't remove every panel at once, we're just going to make a little opening and then reseal it. And if we do get some rads, well, nothing we can't treat. You've got a doctor with you after all."

The way the (ex)Merc talks it's as if he expected to have to explain the plans all along. The client must have given him a far fuller picture of this operation.

He indicates the elevator shaft. The sound of a descending platform draws ever closer. "And the device? The device is on a cart, it'll wheel itself into position without us having to go into the reactor proper. We'll be long gone by the time it activates."

The workers' schedule called for the elevator to bring down the replacement shielding slabs one by one. Instead, by the sounds of it, it's bringing down the rest of the client's operational assets. From context the "device" sounds unpleasantly like a bomb.

Caught completely off-guard, the operative staggers backwards... into nothing. He plummets into the depths, his cry of shock drowned out by the rumbling of the approaching elevator.

They should really have a handrail there.

Dr. Zephyr hurriedly whips up an improvised precision charge and detonates it. One of the arm-thick supporting cables snaps. But low-tech as it is, it's nevertheless a very robust platform: it's slowed for a moment, but still continues. Dr. Zephyr has bought the party an extra minute at most.

Kree fiddles with the communicator, wishing the previous owner had had the chance to organise their home screen. While the technician lacks any significant system access, she does download their map: the lift is indeed the main entrance/exit to this deck but the area is a honeycomb of supply caches and maintenance hatchways. Should the party wish to hide, it wouldn't be difficult.