Exigency: Worldcarrier Sigma

The Goyermontakon Confederacy’s Epsilon is currently being heavily renovated with classified tech. Kappa, recently purchased by the High Council, mostly relies on antimatter systems: the Highs don’t care about the cost. The Legion’s eight militarised Worldcarriers are a class of their own: their famous Grandcruisers, with multiple HH-fusion generators and weapons batteries to make the most of the electrical output. And it’s said that Worldcarrier Nu, rarely seen and rumoured to be under Paleon control, has a phase unit so advanced that it powers all its subsidiary systems.

Sigma... doesn’t.

A mishmash of ancient wonders and radiation-spewing deathtraps from shortly after the Conglomerate’s collapse, Sigma suffers from the same limitations as other Worldcarriers based off Schismatic relics: the phasedrive is a largely self-sufficient unit, but the miles upon miles of cargo bays and habitation decks are not.

Sigma isn’t the most inefficient of the Worldcarriers, nor is it the most dangerous. But its control decks are largely automated, with vast areas completely off-limits to crew. Even on the outskirts, the deuterium-tritium power core is mostly serviced by cyborgs and Kerenth, to whom the occasional radiation leak is a manageable emergency and not instantly fatal.

A quarter of the ship’s bulk is dedicated to the control decks, situated amidst the vast generators and the famous phasedrive itself: power, utilities, navigation, and the computers responsible for putting the commanders’ orders into action.

This is where the team comes in. Sigma has to replace its reactor’s radiation shielding regularly: huge hydrocarbon slabs, as a DT-fusion generator’s neutron output is hard to contain with mere electromagnetic fields.

Using the scheduled replacement of this shielding as a cover, the team has been hired to enter the restricted area and upload a virus direct to the primary control system: a virus that will unlock all the cargo bays and allow your clients to bleed Sigma dry, having their pick of the deliveries bound for the planet Camblyr.

And for playing their parts in this heist, Kree, Nerves and Dr. Zephyr will be walking away with 1.5 million each in hard currency.

The Bane docks successfully. Your client came through: the authorities didn’t quibble over your clearance. The rest is up to you.

Kree hits the big green button that lowers the docking ramp. It shudders and groans to life, and descends to the deck below. As The Bane's pneumatics fill the hold and the docking bay with an unnecessary but highly cinematic amount of steam, she limbers up.

"Gentlemen, my watch says 373014. If yours doesn't, I suggest you sync it to that for now. It's nearing the end of the ship's day, so we should be arriving right as the shift changes." She jabs the air a half-dozen times, quick viper strikes stirring eddies through the steam. She grins. "You gotta pity a crew which runs on thirty-eight hour days. When this delivery goes under, the ship'll likely go into administration, and probably new management. We might be doing them a favour."

"A ... friend of mine has greased a few palms on our behalf. If things get tense, we've got at least one lifeline in the form of a bent network supervisor watching this sector. His handle is Snake. Probably a machismo thing. I don't know how reliable he is, so I'd rather not have to rely on him. All the same, let me do the talking. And if that doesn't work, well ..." She leaps into the air and scissor kicks a pair of imaginary baddies. "We got other ways of talking."

"How 'bout it, Nerves? Doctor? You know your parts back to front?" She scratches the back of her neck. "You do have the virus, don't you, Nasaius?"

Kree walks with Zephyr down the ramp and accepts being sprayed like a houseplant. "Fortunately for you, neither job requires a medical license, eh? Remember we're a team of nuclear technicians and high-level management strategists. They must have a small army of maintenance workers on that reactor shield, I bet there are dozens of teams like us wandering all over." She looks around the deserted bay and frowns slightly. "I'm a little surprised it's this empty ... but, whatever. Maybe we're getting lucky."

She brushes an imaginary speck of dust off her maintenance uniform and runs a hand across her hair, which is done up into a bun. "How do I look?" She scans the bay for movement, people, elevators, stairs, anything.

A chuckling hiss precedes the arrival of Nerves from the tech bay. The unassuming Kerenthi makes his way out of the Bane and into the hangar. Instead of his usual robes and guerrilla-style utility belts, Nasaius Fritzitch wears a rather slick blue and orange jumpsuit with a high-end multitool backpack and a jaunty little peaked cap perched atop his horns. The colors don't exactly clash with his purple skin and slightly iridescent scales, but it's a startling amount of sensory overload all in one space.

"I hate these corporate outfits so much," Nerves says, his tail twitching back and forth. "Nothing like branding yourself as a slave, when your 'betters' would starve without your genius. And yes, Kree, I have our intruder. Don't you worry, he's a rowdy little bug - I'll be more than capable of directing workflow away from us. So let's get started, eh? I'm quite anxious to be collecting our payday."

As the team approaches the deserted bay's lone exit, it opens, framing a Gef woman in a Maintenance Association supervisor's uniform. This wasn't planned. You were only supposed to encounter corporate hirelings. But Sigma does have a very small Association presence.

The supervisor seems as surprised as the party. She's not that tall for a Gef, but is nevertheless well over six foot. Her ID badge reads "Deputy Supervisor Haley Barres".

"Who are..." The Gef takes in the uniforms. She deflates. "Sorry. Didn't realise you were more corp temps." Barres shakes her head. "Absolute chaos here. Nine Association technicians called in sick. Nine. I bet they all ate at that new Hindoch place on habitation 4A..."

In truth, they all accepted substantial bribes to stay away from work today. The Association has a reputation for being incorruptible, but there's no such thing. The team's client has a lot of money to throw around.

Barres reads something off her wrist computer and grimaces. "By all rights it should be mechs doing the brunt of the work, but half our heavy drones are dealing with a fire in one of the ecodomes."

Again, the work of your client. A small forest fire is just the kind of emergency to force the reallocation of assets.

"So who are you with exactly? Haegtnol? Limmen·Stellar? Or one of the other corps?" Her eyes drift towards The Bane. "That's, uh, an interesting ship..."

Kree steps across Dr. Zephyr to stand companionably next to Barres and admires the ship with her, grinning. She offers a handshake. "Isn't she a beauty, Barres? Little bonus for a job well done a few months back. One of the jobs where troubleshooting becomes an unfortunate pun, y'know. Only got her for just the little while, but hey, flaunt it while you got it, right? It's true what they say about the private sector."

Kree starts walking out the exit, hoping to draw the woman into her wake with her natural charisma. "Ever thought of, hah, jumping ship? Now I know you Maintenance Association lot are a bit of a cargo cult but believe me, the grass is greener. Which way to the reactor, by the by?"

"Oh, um, I don't think I could leave the Association, I've got six years worth of accumulation in my loyalty fund..."

Maintaining the handshake for as long as practically possible, Kree drags an increasingly flustered and babbling Barres away from the bay and down towards the transit station: just one of the hundreds riddled throughout Sigma. A rapid-fire mixture of queries and compliments ensures the deputy supervisor completely forgets what she was suspicious about in the first place.

Transports of all different varieties and brands are crammed into the narrow spaces between support struts and mysterious machines of indeterminate age and purpose. Sleek Jaoshijean trains dangle from their overhead rail, while underneath bulkier, more primitive magnetic trams are sat at a dozen different platforms.

The Gef indicates a tram that's already starting to fill up with an assortment of bored technicians and engineers. A couple of rad-belt Kerenthi in Haegtnol uniforms give Nerves a nod of acknowledgement.

"The C-line will take you straight to the primary reactor," Barres continues, "but I couldn't tell you where to go from there. You'll have to report to whichever corp rep is on duty." She notices something, and points to the front of the tram. "In fact, that's Ferrin. The Kerenthi woman, leaning on the railing there? Friend of mine, she's one of Haegtnol's human resources liaisons. Whoever you're meant to be reporting to, Ferrin will know. She knows all the different supercorp hierarchies around here."

Someone calls out to Barres. She excuses herself, and moments later is holding her own in a four-way argument with a gaggle of other technicians.

Ferrin is wearing a black hazmat suit, sleeves rolled up to reveal scaly dark-orange skin. She's missing a tail, possibly due to injury or a quirk of her genes, but has three large horns, swept back over her head like a bent trident. Seeing as she can't wear a helmet and doesn't really need additional protection from radiation, it's likely the hazmat suit is simply her uniform.

Her eyes are glowing blue, but they soon dim as she banishes her augmented-reality overlay and examines the party.

"If you're bound for the primary reactor, you'd better get on-board," she says simply. "We depart in two minutes." Then her eyes light up again as she returns to her work.

An unchallenged ride straight to the heart of operations? Kree almost can't believe their good fortune. She picks a spot downwind of Ferrin and relaxes on the railing. Under her breath she says to Nasaius, "cute horns. Bet you five hundred credits she'll respond if you flirt with her. Fifty thousand when we get paid."

Kree repositions herself next to Dr. Zephyr. "Relax, Doc. Remember we're supposed to be bored experts on our way to a boring gig. Here, let's look at some data or something." She projects basic information about Sigma's reactor above her comm unit and gestures to it for the benefit of anyone watching. "Data, data, data. I'm gonna fix it up real good. Point is, we already stand out a little bit. If we sit in a corner with our guns pointed at the door, figuratively speaking, they're gonna notice."

"Besides, I've noticed our comrade's performance spikes under pressure." She gives the thumbs up to Nerves.

"You are a crass woman, Kree," Nerves growls. "However, your challenge is accepted."

Nerves smooths his suit a little bit, readjusting the hang of the backpack, before attempting to saunter over towards Ferrin. Clearly however, Nerves is not the sauntering sort, and gives it up after a few steps to instead just boldly march towards the Kerenthi.


"Excuse me, Haegtnol human resources liaison, if I may be so bold at the beginning of a work period - where is it that my fellow technical subcontractors might procure libations after the work period has ended with our fellow technical subcontractors?"

Nerves grins solidly. He knows he's got a winning line here.

Kree's eye twitches ever so slightly as Nasaius' voice floats back down the tram. If she really is his type, and Kree does think he has a type, it might actually work. He's full of surprises.

She imagines fifty thousand credits frying on the overcooked slabs of reactor shielding.

Ferrin doesn't dismiss her AR overlay this time and continues staring into space. "Whichever bar is closest and accepts ration allowance as payment. I wouldn't know. I just head home to my quarters and hope nobody bothers me." She doesn't say anything else. The silence hangs there until the tram's engine begins to start up.

Nerves seems puzzled for a second, and adjusts to the silence before nodding towards Ferrin and backing away two steps. Then he stops and brings his wrist-mounted datatool up, punching a few holographic keys. A friend request is sent to Ferrin for one of the standards of Kerenthi extranet gaming - Time Lords of the Republic, a third person perspective fight-fest known for its character specialization and cross-play of various Kerenth Republic species and mutations.

With another nod, Nerves turns away from Ferrin and makes his way back towards the group.
"Bleh. Romance," he mutters to his compatriots.

Kree rests her head and arms on the safety rail and watches the tunnel lights flash past. "Nothing typical about it, Doc," she says glumly. She surreptitiously slips Nasaius a credit chit.

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.

Nerves is so absorbed in his work that the elevator is practically upon the party before he realises it. Dr. Zephyr makes an executive decision and rips Nerves away from the terminal, depositing both himself and the Kerenthi in the hollow behind a dormant power regulator. Kree has taken up position nearby, shielded from view by a plated cable thicker than her torso.

The platform finishes descending, clamps loudly locking into place. Immediately, five troopers step off it and scan the area.

They're carrying some serious hardware. League-issue plasma rifles, belts of concussion grenades, and most noticeably completely grey and emblem-free combat armour.

These are what the underworld call Grey Mercenaries. A team that just so happens to have Mercenary League and/or supercorporate equipment that doesn't come with identifying colour schemes or digital tags. Professionals, but professionals operating in open violation of the Vursoun Treaty.

Not that they seem particularly professional at this moment. There's a lot of consternation at the bloodbath that greets them.

"Where the hell is the prep team?"

"Maybe some of these bodies are theirs."

"They should fucking hope so! Look at this mess."

One of them, perhaps the leader, mutters about amateurs. Then he shakes his head and begins barking orders. "No matter. We've got a job to do. Tomas, secure the perimeter. Palsiet, access that command terminal. Havers, disable this elevator so we don't get any unexpected guests... and Olec? Stay with the device. We've got 900 seconds before the generator begins its reboot: and we do not want to be inside the chamber when this thing starts up."

Discarded technicians' uniforms hang off the elevator's railings. In its centre, a mess of glass tubes and pulsing lights rests under the close guard of a heavy-set Grey with a scatter rifle. Various warning symbols for toxins and chemical hazards are plastered all over its canisters.

The squadron springs into action. One of them heads to the terminal, unfolding an expensive-looking computer tablet as she walks. She hasn't noticed the party yet.

As Tomas passes her cable, Kree grabs him in a sleeper hold and drags him behind her cover.

Between the mesh layer on his neck and his heavyset build Kree practically has to apply bone-snapping levels of force to keep Tomas subdued. Eventually, the Grey goes limp. Kree drags him to the now uncomfortably crowded hollow behind the cable.

Kree keeps a death-grip on Tomas, heart pounding, as she yells to his friends. "Hey, assholes! I'M what happened to the prep team! And I just made a new friend - Tomas, right?" She shakes his body limply to answer her own question. "Right. Your perimeter is NOT secure! Wanna fight about it?"

She hopes her distraction gives the others an opening.

Wordlessly the Greys converge, weapons trained in Kree's general direction. The squad leader gives a hand gesture, indicating that they should advance. They're very alert now... but shaken all the same.