May 7, 2017 8:21 pm
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.
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.