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| − | [ST] Iscal the Coward and Red Rashalla stand on a narrow ledge. Around them, a circular ventilation shaft yards across rises and descends into gloom. Somewhere above, perhaps the Fourth Scale is eating a meal, or mourning the death of Soldas, or celebrating it, or fighting for their lives. In any case, they are far from those stranded on the ship in mood if not in physical distance.
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| − | [ST] Half of Fancy Simon lies nearby, a congealed puddle of blood pooled around it. Beyond the lip of the platform, on the other side of the ventilation shaft and several yards lower, another pair of platforms nestle, one on each side of the shaft. In the faint light of their glowpanels, one can spot a swirling yellow mist that gathers densely below. An occasional wisp rises up on errant drafts to
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| − | [ST] the platform where the two stand, stinging the eyes.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal looks expressionlessly upwards. "No use putting it off," he says eventually.
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| − | [ST] "Don't know where to go from here," Rashalla admits with all the reluctance of someone confessing a violated taboo. "Bridge is one level down, but I've never been through those passages. Smoke down there stings like hell. Stinks. Hard to see. You sure you still want to do this, pretty?"
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| − | [ST] From the passage the two just exited comes a thin, fluid-choked moan. One of the things they killed has reformed enough to cry out.
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| − | [Iscal] He crouches down, feeling her gaze on his back like the prick of a knife. "No other way." He contemplates Fancy Simon, who really had been pretty. Poor bastard. Maybe Rashalla would have liked him better. He twitches at the moan.
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| − | [Iscal] He gathers himself and makes an awkward leap across the ventilation shaft, arms pinwheeling through the open air.
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| − | [ST] Perhaps Iscal misjudges. Perhaps he moves too quickly. Perhaps he just lacks the strength. Whatever the case, his outstretched fingertips strike the platform hard enough to numb them as he tumbles backwards off the ledge into nothingness.
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| − | [ST] A moment later, he strikes something... soft.
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| − | [ST] He is on his back, staring up at the platform he just missed. It's maybe five feet above him. The surface he has landed on shifts, giving slightly under him. The stench of rotting flesh crowds close, and in the ambient light of the photo-resonant gel, Iscal can see that he has landed on a giant plug of slowly twitching flesh that fills the entirety of the shaft.
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| − | [ST] Polyp-like structures inflate and deflate, expelling clouds of the yellow gas. Lungs.
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| − | [ST] "What's going on down there?" Rashalla calls out. Her attention still focused on the passage they just left, she probably didn't even see him fall.
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| − | [Iscal] He lies there gasping for a second, having time to feel thankful for the matter of Simon's death, until he sees a vile yellow-colored frond waving, level with his eyes. He scrambles to his feet, the gas squeezing his lungs strangling a scream. "Weather's- fine- down here," he chokes out to Rashalla.
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| − | [ST] Another moan sounds from above. "Let's get movin', then. These fuckers're pulling themselves together up here."
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| − | [Iscal] The flesh quivers under his feet. "Gods. Lets. Pull me up."
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| − | [ST] A shadow flits momentarily over Iscal as Rashalla leaps across the shaft, landing on the platform just above him with a thud. A moment later, her head appears over the lip of the platform. He can't see her face, but the confusion is clear in her voice, even as she reaches a hand down to him.
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| − | [ST] "What in the hells is that?"
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| − | [Iscal] He cltuches at her hand and together they heave him up onto the platform. "A- plug- maybe? One of them grown large to keep the cold- out of their lair." Disoriented, he doesn't let go of her hand. "Hell, maybe it's their mother."
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| − | [ST] She gives his hand a brief squeeze before releasing it. "Guess it doesn't matter. I don't want to know anything about these things but how to get away from 'em. Let's go. Prettiest first."
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| − | [Iscal] The strap of his satchel cuts tight against his throat. "Wait." He rearranges the bag more comfortably and rummages around until he finds the repeater, remembering the burn scar on the wall. "Be ready to run." He closes his eyes and fires downwards at the fleshy plug.
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| − | [Iscal] At least they'd find out if the gas was flammable.
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| − | [ST] The gun jumps violently in Iscal's grip, jerking his arm up nearly over his head. For the briefest of moments, the interior of the ventilation shaft becomes as bright as day as the weapon births a miniature sun. When the light fades, a sizzling crater a foot across and twice as deep has been burned into the plug of flesh. It quivers, and then, from somewhere far below and very far away, there
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| − | [ST] is a titanic, pained bellow. The rotting flesh bubbles in agitation, lung-polyps spitting gas erratically.
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| − | [ST] A moment later, it is answered by thinner, fainter shrieks that come from above, below, ahead, behind - the closest from the wounded creatures above.
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| − | [ST] "I... don't... know if that was a good idea." Rashalla says, her tough persona quite forgotten for a moment.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal studies it, until the howls around distracts him . "Big," is all he says. He presses his palm to the glowing plate by the ventilation shaft.
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| − | [ST] The shaft's grille vibrates and slides out of the way. Above, the series of cries continue, multiply. They appear to be getting closer.
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| − | [Iscal] He puts away the repeater with rather more care than he had taken it out.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal ducks into the ventilation shaft. "Close it behind you," he says, pausing to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the gloom.
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| − | [ST] The shaft stretches ahead into the gloom. The air is thick, choking, already causing his eyes to sting. Visiblility is greatly reduced - Iscal can see, at best, five or six feet in front of his face. Behind him, he is aware of Rashalla crowding in, her height and bulk giving her some difficulty. The grille closes behind her. An instant later there are a series of thuds, followed by
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| − | [ST] glottal screams, and the scrape of tentacles on metal. The creatures begin to swarm, dropping from other passages into the main shaft.
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| − | [ST] Howls echo deceptively through the ventilation system - they could be miles away, or around the corner.
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| − | [ST] "Go," Rashalla urges. "Go. Go. Now."
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal goes, more unnverved by her nearness and the smell of her sweat than the noise of the monsters around them. He raises the damp cloth he had worn around his neck to his face as he runs.
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| − | [ST] The path ahead soon narrows, contracting until the two of them are forced to crawl again. Rashalla does not attempt to turn around to cover the escape, but advances recklessly, ramming into Iscal in her haste. He can smell the panic on her. She almost seems to be trying to crawl OVER him.
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| − | [Iscal] He freezes, wasting precious seconds. It takes a bruising reminder from her elbow to get him started again, a fixed look in his eyes. Soldas depended on him, he reminds himself firmly, scrabbling as quickly as he could across the metal floor. He looks for exits from the narrow hell.
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| − | [ST] The pair pound through choking, stifling passages, cries rising all around. Iscal passes a number of branching passages, but in the gloom and oppressiveness of the mist, it is impossible to tell whether they lead forward, or backward, or nowhere at all. He is faced with blind choice after blind choice. Rashalla's breath is hot on his neck.
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| − | [ST] Somewhere behind them, there is a metallic shriek, a scuttling.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal risks a look behind. "May have to stop to thin them out."
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| − | [ST] Iscal can't see much in the gloom but Rashalla's terrified face. Tears glimmer unshed in her eyes - a powerful panic has seized her.
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| − | [ST] "Just go! J-just- can't you hear them? They're..." And behind her comes a scream, a furtive clatter. The things are gaining.
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| − | [Iscal] He should feel sorry for her, or annoyed- or terrified on his own behalf. Instead all he is conscious of is a sense of vicious satisfaction. "At least it will be quick," he says consolingly. He wastes precious seconds putting his hand to her cheek and brushing his lips against hers. They were presesd that close together. "Did I ever tell you, you remind me of someone I used to know?" he says conversationally, just
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| − | [Iscal] before he draws his dirk and stabs her viciously in the thigh.
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| − | [Iscal] He plunges forward, leaving her half-hamstrung behind him. His heart pumps fast with fear and elation.
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| − | [ST] Rashalla yields to Iscal's kiss with an overwhelming clumsiness, an almost girlish squawk of surprise emerging from her throat and, a moment later, turning into a grunt of pained surprise. She is not expecting the attack at all, not from him, and he has kicked free and made it several feet away before she lunges at him, her fingers scrabbling against metal, meeting nothing.
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| − | [ST] A low moan escapes her.
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| − | [ST] "Please!" she screams after him. "Please, Iscal! D-don't leave me!" So she did know his name.
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| − | [Iscal] "You'll last longer if you turn and fight," Iscal advises her cooly, just before he turns a corner. She'd slow them down longer, anyway. If he were in her position, he'd slit his own throat first- but he doubted she would have the presence of mind to think of that.
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| − | [ST] "You fuck!" she screams after him, crawling clumsily. He can hear the scrape of the dirk against the walls of the shaft, but can only imagine the trail of blood she must be leaving behind. "You fuck! Hare! Hear my prayer. Punish this traitor, Iscal. Punish him, kill him. Kill him. Please-" And her voice becomes plaintive, pleading, to Iscal or some god or Creation istelf.
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| − | [ST] "Please. Please. M-M-MUH-MOMMAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" Somewhere behind Iscal, her words become one long, agonized scream.
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| − | [ST] It goes on for a long time.
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| − | [Iscal] He can't suppress the smile that curls his mouth.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal moves more quietly now, slightly more slowly, so that the noise of his knees scrapping the walls is muffled by the sound of her death.
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| − | [ST] The death is a long time coming, but the feasting, or butchery, or whatever the things are doing seems to draw their attention. Iscal moves forward, and the sounds of pursuit fade away, then diminish.
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| − | [ST] He moves through the passages for what might only be minutes, or might be hours. At length, the passage begins to brighten, and he realizes he is crawling parallel with the deck's main hallway. From time to time, he passes an opening into the hall. Some still have their grilles, but most have been torn open, providing many points of entrance or egress.
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| − | [Iscal] He breathes only through the wet cloth, but the acrid gas stings his eyes. Worse, the memory of the map is fading in his mind. He grits his teeth. The main control room surely lay at the end of the corridor.
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| − | [ST] It is difficult to see through the choking smoke, but features do occasionally appear. The walls are lined with clusters of dead flesh, respirating and poisoning the air. Discarded clothing and weapons lie here and there on the blood-smeared floors. Many of the glowpanels have burned out, making the gloom all the worse.
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| − | [ST] At one point, a holographic sign catches Iscal's attention. It indicates a side passage. EXIT.
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| − | [ST] If Iscal's calculations are right, this is the other side of the locked door in the ice that he and the others investigated... hours ago?
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| − | [ST] Another plug of flesh stretches across the hall, blocking it completely, shuddering slightly as it respirates.
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| − | [Iscal] Just as well things had happened as they did.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal continues his cautious course forward. He would be getting blisters on his knees at this rate.
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| − | [ST] "[[GROOOOOOOOOOoooOOOOOO]]"
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| − | [ST] A call unlike anything Iscal has heard in this place so far suddenly echoes down the hallway to his left, forcefully enough to rattle a loose grille near him.
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| − | [ST] For a moment after the call, there is silence. Then, a loud, somehow wet thump. And another, and another. And another. Thump. THUMP.
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| − | [ST] The sound grows closer, louder.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal stills, breathing shallowly as he waits for the thing to pass.
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| − | [ST] He sees it only dimly, walking on the edge of the illumination from one of the glow panels. It is huge, far larger than any of the others. Perhaps half as tall as a yeddim and nearly as wide, the thing stomps down the hall. It is quadraped, with four massive, stumpy legs, forward-slung shoulders, a low, broad head. It is made of bodies, dozens of bodies melted and melded, as if some
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| − | [ST] hideous sculptor had formed it from corpses.
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| − | [ST] Faces emerge, attached to heads drawn together, atop necks bundled and braided, with torsos intertwined and arms interlocked, legs wrapped and joints bent and warped. Skin flows and clings, veins throbbing and straining among obscene patches of hair, runny pus and melanoma splotches. Bones have grown together, muscle has wrapped and reformed.
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| − | [ST] A trio of massive tentacles, made of interlocked arms and legs, sway above its back. It opens its mouth to call again, the sound nearly deafening this close, and Iscal spots hundreds of human teeth, interwoven with jagged shards of bone.
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| − | [ST] Dozens of eyes, milky with death, sprout from all over the creature. A long, ropy, tongue-like protrusion of cartilage emerges from its open mouth, probing the air, tasting.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal stops breathing entirely. That thing looked like it could punch straight through the vent.
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| − | [ST] "[[GROOOOoooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOO]]" Iscal can smell its breath, rank and rotten. For a moment, the world seems to stand still. And then, the thumping resumes as the creature walks on. Its feet are clusters of gnarled hands and feet, rupturing beneath its enormous weight as it walks, regenerating with every step, leaving a bloody trail of flesh and offal behind it.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal moves slowly forward along the vent, still breathing carefully. Fear makese him clumsier and noisier than he should have been. Never- not even in Great Foroks, not even in Ragged Red's wake - had he ever seen anything like that.
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| − | [Lynx] Lynx breathed shallow, quick, the fabric of his hood sucking in and out slightly against his lips. He could hear whoever it was approaching. He had talked, they had talked, before the second one had died. THe things didn't talk, so he wasn't one of them. But he still killed people.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal reaches the cross section of the vent, and pauses, unsuspecting. He had lost some his wariness- the things always made plenty of noise when they moved.
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| − | [Lynx] Lynx hisses quietly, and pokes the man just behind the shoulder with his spear, arm still crooked, still more reach to drive it forward. "You broke my home." His voice is cracked with disuse.
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| − | [Lynx] He talks quietly, and with odd pauses spread every so often in each sentence, interrupted periods of silent observation.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal stops moving. "What?" he says, mercifully calm. Prick meant a speear- spear meant a person- a person meant Once Dead. No one else, certainly, could survive this hell. "I'm a Raven."
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| − | [Lynx] Iscal can see his head and shoulders - and most of his back, he is a thin thing, not taking up as much of the vent. He can see the shape of them anyway. His head is covered over with a cloth hood, and everything is covered with a liberal layer of filth. The smell might have warned him if everything didn't smell.
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| − | [Iscal] "Who are you?" Iscal speaks carefully and rationally, as one might to a Haltan savage, or a Haslanti child.
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| − | [Lynx] He hesitates, then "you aren't my scale," he says, some heat in his voice, accusing. "And I know you are a liar." He must have lied to the woman, or something like it. He had listened, curled round his spear, as they argued and he left her to die. Left her to die right outside his home, left her to fight the things that came for her, and burst the fake cover he had walled off his vent/home with.
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| − | [Iscal] "I'm not a liar," Iscal says with the same carefulness. What had Lynx seen? There was a limit to what Soldas could protect him from. "I'm from the Third Scale. We're your relief." He cracks a smile at that.
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| − | [Lynx] He thinks for a moment, just the quient sucking of his breath against the hood. "Wheres the rest of the scale?" Iscal can see that his shoulder isn't tense anymore - not enough energy to keep ready to strike, or lulled into some sense of security. Not a veteran then, or one pretty far gone.
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| − | [Iscal] "Above. My small party...fell through the ice." Some of the tightness leaves Iscal's chest. He could manipulate this one, he thinks. "There's not much more time. The gas build-up- it's reaching toxic levels-" he checks himself. Lynx had survived for weeks. "How did you last this long?"
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| − | [Lynx] "Don't breathe the gas," he tells him, as though it is obvious. "We don't have long 'cause you're riling them," he says, accusingly.
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| − | [Iscal] "No, no," Iscal says soothingly. "I had it from the ..from the spirit of the ship. The gas is like the thing's...shit. It piles up, gets worse and worse, until you'd rather sleep in the snow and freeze rather than endure it anymore."
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| − | [Iscal] "Someone got out," Iscal adds tantilizingly. "They overrode the bridge. If we can reach it, we can escape too."
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| − | [Iscal] "The bridge is the control room for the whole ship," Iscal adds. There was a certain emptiness in the other's man's gaze that was disturbing.
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| − | [Lynx] It probably would have been really useful to see his expression, but the smooth cloth covered everything, a blank wall sucking in and out itnermittently as he breathed. "We can escape . . ." he trails off. His voice sounds sort of hopeful, thought it is hard to tell since it is so rough and soft. It definitely sounds less than hinged. The lump of his head gives a quick shake.
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| − | [Lynx] "You're riling them, they can smell that something that isn't them yet is around.
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| − | [Iscal] "I can't help that. Help me, if we can access the main bridge, we can get out, before we starve to death."
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| − | [Lynx] He pauses. Won't tell him about food. He would die of the gas before he needed it anyways. Well, before he really needed it. "Lot of peope died in teh bridge, but probably walked off a while ago," he mutters, thinking. "You have to smell right, then we can go," he tells him, decided for now. Hope seemed to have won out over distrust.
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| − | [Iscal] "What do I have to do to...smell right?"
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| − | [Iscal] A roll among the corpses?
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| − | [Lynx] "Best thing is, find a body that hasn't finished turning yet. You can use one of the flesh piles, but you gotta be sure you aren't cut." He says this with authority, whether it is true or a personal talisman is less obvious.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal grimaces. It sounded...plausible."Lead the way."
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| − | [Lynx] He hisses again, quiet but definite. "You."
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| − | [Iscal] "Certainly," Iscal agrees after a pause. He wiggles along the corridor and emerges, with much poking his head out the great and around to check for monsters.
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| − | [ST] The corridor, as far as Iscal can see through his watering eyes, is clear, at least in the nearby stretch.
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| − | [Iscal] He crawls out and to the nearest pile of rotting meat. He moves rapidly, pulling on gloves and then slapping the gunk over his coat, smearing it quickly over every inch of cloth. He wouldn't risk infection through the skin, whatever the grotesqurie from the Third Scale thought. The fleshpile moves revoltingly, even when he doesn't touch it.
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| − | [Lynx] He waits for the other man to clear the intersection, then crawls out behind him, carefully out of the range of a kick, but close enough to spit him if he wanted to.
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| − | [Lynx] He pokes his head out of the vent and nods approvingly, gesturing to his back, and miming rolling his back over the pile with his two hands.
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| − | [Iscal] This Iscal does, swiftly, to get it over with. The pile squelch squelches. When he is as coated as he feels he can stand, he returns to the vent. The stench is even more overpoweirng close to Lynx, who was rather more enthusiastic. "Enough, we go."
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| − | [ST] From somewhere down the hall comes a long, booming cry. "[[GROoooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOO]]!"
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal flinches. "Down the vent, lets go."
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| − | [Lynx] He nods, scrunching himsefl quickly back, to let the other man in the vent, eyes wide behind the mask at the noise.
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| − | [Lynx] "One of the mothers," he whispers.
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| − | [Iscal] "Mothers?"
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| − | [Iscal] He begins his slow progression again, leery of remaining near the open vent.
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| − | [Lynx] He waves a hand at the tunnel-side of the vent, the motion circumscribed by the cramped space. "It spawns them," he whispers, almsot louder in whispering than his normal tone.
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| − | [Iscal] "How?"
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| − | [Lynx] He doesn't say anything, but reaches a hand to scoop some of the rotting gore off a shoulder and plop it down on the vent-floor, then molds it a bit with his fingers, making it look nothing like whatever he had intended. "Like that."
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| − | [Lynx] He scoops it back up and reapplies his camoflage, a great believer in overkill.
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| − | [Iscal] "Ah." Iscal speeds up his progression through the vent.
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| − | [Lynx] He crawls after, a quiet stinking ghost among the rotting dead.
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| − | [ST] With the skilled (or mad) Lynx in the lead, the pair of Once Dead navigate the maze of vents almost smoothly. Though they hear movement within the walls several times, the creatures do not draw near. At length, the pair make one last turn and find themselves nestled at the mouth of one of the vents overlooking the bridge.
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| − | [ST] The bridge is striking - the entire front wall is transparent. Whether this is some clear First Age material or merely a projection of the outside of the craft is unclear. In either case, the entire front wall is taken up by an unbroken expanse of ice. It is dark now, not even the faintest bit of light penetrating. Night has fallen above. The bridge itself is a marvel of technology and the
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| − | [ST] scene of incredible violence.
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| − | [ST] Consoles line the walls and dominate the center of the room in elegant curves, holographic displays flickering fitfully above them. Towards the rear of the bridge, directly below the elevated vent where the two men crouch, is an elevated platform with a console and a high-backed Orichalcum throne. If one could pry the thing up, it would probably be worth half of the average Haslanti city.
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| − | [ST] Signs of recent violence litter the bridge - torn bedrolls, discarded weapons, some shattered, smears of blood. For Iscal, they are nothing but abstract signs of struggle. Lynx may remember that the broad red streak on the front wall was made by Scalelord Jelial's severed head, and that Three-Fingered Lenny was the cooking rice in that overturned pot when Salome reared up and tore his face off.
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| − | [ST] None of the creatures is present, although a small flesh hive nestles above the door, noisily respiring.
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| − | [Iscal] "Can those things call alarms?" Iscal whispers, indcating the flesh hive.
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| − | [Lynx] "They shriek when you cut them, and purr when you pet them. Can't see or smell you." This is a longer statement than most, and so maddeningly fragmented by his pauses. Nothing moves when he does it, although inside the mask his eyes are darting. His stillness would be eerie, under other circumstances.
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| − | [Iscal] "Right." Iscal swings himself out of the vent, holding onto the edge with his fingertips and carefully dropping down onto a console below. He winces at the sound, and steps more quietly onto the floor. He takes a swift survey of the consoles, reading the labels and the markings on the buttons.
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| − | [Lynx] Lynx is more practiced in leaving the vents. He makes it down without the sound, not caring that he left a streak of putrid grime behind. They wouldn't notice a thing like that. He stared around with dismay and memories.
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| − | [Iscal] "Diagnostics," Iscal mutters to a console screen, staring at it intently. Absently, he takes a white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes a long wide smear of blood from the screen.
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| − | [Lynx] He wanders after Iscal, afraid to let him get too far away, now that he had found another person, acknowledged that he wasn't alone. He hunched down against the wall near where the man was working, half sitting, half curling around the shaft of his spear.
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| − | [ST] A chime sounds, and a familiar figure appears on the holographic display. SESIIS, six inches tall and shamelessly nude, takes several slow steps and looks over her shoulder at Iscal, fluttering eyes the size of beads. "I am SEmi-Sentient Intelligent Interface System. I am here to serve you. am a class four limited artificial intelligence, legal under provision 44 of Meru law 33-A.
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| − | [ST] Several problems demand attention."
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| − | [Iscal] "What problems?"
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| − | [Iscal] They had been through this before, SEIIS and him, but perhaps the bridge version was more capable.
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| − | [ST] SESIIS stands up, squaring her shoulders smartly and whirling to face him like a soldier. Whoever created her had a sense of humor. Its worth is perhaps less evident.
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| − | [Lynx] He watches the woman-apparition, drawing back slightly, but focused, fascinated. He had been alone for far too long, an animal in the tunnels, and she was close enough to real to make him uncomfortable.
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| − | [ST] "Quarantine mode has been activated. Main power offline. Emergency Power at critical levels. Rupture in the Starboard Hull. Starbord engineering compartment flooded. Starboard Essence engine non-operational. Temperature fluctuations outside acceptable norms. Air contamination on Deck Two. Severe air contamination on Deck One. Food Replicators disabled. Entertainment suite disabled.
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| − | [ST] Armory damaged. Causality Shield offline. Smoke detected in Hydroponics. Biological abnormalities. Rupture in biotic labs..." She continues for some time.
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| − | [Iscal] He cuts her off. "How can I clear the air contamination?"
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| − | [ST] "Removal of contaminants is the preferable option." She tilts her head to the side and smiles. "Failing this, an emergency flush of the ventilation system may clear most of the contamination, at least briefly. Unfortunately, such an action cannot be attempted on emergency power."
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| − | [Iscal] "How do I restore full power?"
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| − | [ST] Lynx's movement jars something on a console next to him, knocking it to the floor. It is a book, its cover declaring it to be a collection of Haslanti Prayer-Songs. It's just the sort of production a Greenfielder would make and a tribesperson would hate - perhaps this explains why its pages have been torn out, but it does not explain the clumsy message carved in its leather back with a knife.
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| − | [ST] "The starboard essence capacitor has been damaged. In addition to fueling the ship's engine, it provides energy to the rest of the craft collected from the environment. Most likely, it has been disabled by the flooding produced by the hull breach. Emergency pump cannot be activated on current reserves of power. Manual override must be used." SESIIS gives a neat bow.
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| − | [ST] "For underwater operation, this unit recommends Resplendent Carapace of the Manse Physician. 0 units located onboard."
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| − | [Iscal] "Where is the manual override?"
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| − | [ST] "The manual override is located in the starboard engine compartment. Compartment is currently flooded."
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| − | [Lynx] He leans over the empty cover. Just like the moisture from his breathing, his tears bead on teh smooth ncloth of his hood, and roll down the slick inside, soaking unnoticed into his collar. After a quiet moment, he nudges Iscal's elbow with the cover. It sounded like what hsomething he needed to know.
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| − | [Iscal] "How far is the manual override from the nearest uncovered portion of the ship-" He glances, irritably, at Lynx, and then the book in his hand.
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| − | [ST] SESIIS derezzes, and an image of the ship emerges, turning and warping. It appears that to get from the nearest dry compartment to the override will require a jaunt of some 200 yards.
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| − | [Iscal] Martha hadn't survived.
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| − | [Iscal] "Lynx...." Iscal says slowly, eyeing the cloth covering the man's head- the cloth that had kept him alive for weeks, apparently, in poisonous gas- "With that thing, can you breathe underwater?"
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| − | [Lynx] He hesitates, then nod slightly. "Not long, just the air trapped in it. It'll be cold." Water was always cold when it wasn't ice, up north. Of course the ship was warm, way too warm. The things had been moving more since it had warmed up a bit recently. But hte water would be cold, of course.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal claspes his hands together, pacing. "We can make it warmer." He still had four bullets left, besides the essence batteries. "SESIIS, are lights operating in the flooded compartment? What is the temperature of the water?"
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| − | [ST] "Water has corrupted the Essence Circuits. Glowpanels 1-10, 13, 15-30, and 32 are disabled. The water temperature is 30.35 dragonnes."
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| − | [Iscal] "Is it possible to vent emergency power out of the essence circuits in that compartment, without damaging them?"
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| − | [ST] "With Essence circuits disabled, power cannot be sent into the area at all."
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| − | [Iscal] "Where is the nearest weapon's locker?"
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| − | [Lynx] He hated it when he talked in whatever that was. It made him feel alone. "You think we can restart the system?"
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| − | [Iscal] "Yes," Iscal says in Ice Tongue. "I think we can." He grins, his heart soaring. Soldas would be pleased with him, would recieve the credit due a commander.
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| − | [ST] "Armory is located on Deck Three. Emergency supplies locker located on Deck Two." SESIIS winks. A section of the map flashes, indicating a room down the hall from the bridge. The direction, in fact, that the mother went.
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| − | [Iscal] "What is the inventory of emergency supplies?"
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| − | [ST] "Essence Cannon (Small) - 5. Ashigaru high-mobility armor - 5. Fuel Bolt Launcher - 2. Fire Pearls - 5 cases. Resplendent Nourishment Bulbs - 10 cases." SESIIS shakes her finger mockingly. "Warning. Inventory records severely outdated."
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal holds up a single essence battery. "How much power can this release?"
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| − | [ST] She studies it for a moment. "Variable. Maximum capacity is twenty motes, but example has degraded with age. Essence seepage has likely occurred."
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| − | [Lynx] He could feel his stomache protesting, but he didn't want to let the man know he had food. He sat stoically, almost glad for something to be distracting from the naked woman gibbering by his shoulder.
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| − | [Iscal] Iscal nods seriously. "Lynx, I think we can do this. I can warm the water slightly. The pumps will start work immediately once the power's online, the water should drain fully within a minute or less."
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| − | [Iscal] "I can fashion an airbag for you, to give you a few more minutes of air."
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| − | [Iscal] "Several airbags," he amended, glancing at wineskins scattered about the chamber.
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| − | [Lynx] He stared at the man, thinking, the direction fo his gaze only apparent by the slight peak of his nose against the fabric, and the sucking of his breath. "I can swim," he decides to offer.
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| − | [Iscal] "Good." Iscal nods solemnly. "SESIIS, can you show a picture of the override?"
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| − | [Lynx] He realized that one of the bodies - he recognized him, but didn't let himself think about it - was sprawled on top of something, very close to where they had kept the food supplies in their brief encampment. If he found food, he wouldn't have to let slip that he had other food. He slipped away from the wall, moving soundless, the soles of his feet as well as his elbows and knees free of the filth so that he would not squ
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| − | [Lynx] would not squelch.
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| − | [ST] "One moment." The woman takes a step back and seems to vanish into thin air, as if disappearing behind a curtain. "Here." Instead of the woman, the image forms a crude diagram of a wall, an indentation, and a square lever within. After a moment, the lever moves out and down, and then returns. "The system is designed for ease of use."
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| − | [Iscal] "Do you have any information on any debris or other obstructions that may clog the underwater portion?"
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| − | [ST] "Diagnostics are unavailable. I am only a limited intelligence."
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| − | [Iscal] "So I've been told," he mutters. "Show a map of the underwater portion, indicating closely out-of-water portion of the compartment and the shortest route to the override."
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| − | [Lynx] He tugs at the man's sleeve. "If the water goes out, won't I go out with it?" he asks in a quiet voice. A river could pull a man down, keep him down long enough until he died, especially in the north where most of them only stayed water since they were moving.
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| − | [ST] A glimmering route appears. It looks fairly straightforward - whoever goes down there will have to advance down a long corridor, down a flight of stairs, and through a series of small rooms to the main engine chamber and the override switch.
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| − | [Iscal] "No. This system was designed by the ancients- the shields will raise and the water will be funnelled out through a series of small holes. You might be pulled against a wall, so it wouldn't be foolish to hold onto something."
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| − | [Lynx] He examines the man's eyes from behind his cloth-wall, and decides he would rather trust him than the alternative. And letting someone else wear his hood wasn't an alternative. He had enough of the air in the small breaths he had to suck while he ate.
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| − | [Lynx] He nudges the body off of whatever it was lying across, not caring that he had added yet more putrid filth to his hands, and looked down on the remains of a bag of rations. Rice, most of it, with some dried meat mixed in. And blood now, blood that he really couldn't eat.
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| − | [Lynx] He pushed it out of the way, and found a bit mroe of the same, spoiled food and uselessness, until he pulled out a small bag full of something mroe important. He smailed and slipped it into his overcoat. He had run out of salt a few days back, had had to be even more careful to avoid fights after that. Witha bit of salt he could sting them and run while they wailed, far enough that they couldn't pick him out again.
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| − | [Iscal] "I'm looking forward to venting the creatures," Iscal says as he begins to scavange for additional air supply among the trash. He's less bothered by the gore than one would expect, but then, "I'm a doctor. Have you any wounds? Broken bones? Anything that would hinder you?"
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| − | [Lynx] He shakes his head. "I don't let them see me," he adds, in a superior tone.
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| − | [Iscal] "Very wise." He pulls a beatuifully-embossed sealbladder wineskin with a grunt of satisfaction, then sees something under it. He smiles, and pulls out a simple filter mask, just straps on the face but enough to keep him alive. If it worked, anyway.
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| − | [Iscal] When he's satisfied there's nothing else to find, he turns to Lynx again. "I have something to add a glow to some object to light your way. And another potion that will strengthen your skin, and may help with the cold." He says it at random, staring at the map, wondering what else he could do.
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| − | [Lynx] "Thought there wasn't anything down there, don't need strong skin." He didn't want to ahve to wipe away the blood. It was hard to find the right corpses to ge tthe smell right, especially now that he was almost the last one left. The flesh piles were more dangerous.
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| − | [Iscal] "I think it might help you resist the cold water. The creatures hate the cold, none of them will be down there." Of course, it belatedly occurred ot him it had turned part of Pixy's stomach to stone; stone sank; it might be inconvenient.
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| − | [Lynx] He was thinking the same thing. "Rocks get cold too. And they don't swim fast.
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| − | [Iscal] "You know best," Iscal says gravely. And if any of the creatures came at him on the shore, well, he'd have skin like stone.
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| − | [Lynx] He didn't fully understand what the man was telling him it would do, but it didn't sound good. Besides, he ahd seen waht happened to some of the others that had experimented too much with the stuff they found on the ship. Had to be real careful. Even the man with the fire-staff died burning with it.
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