Eland picked up the flight recorder, turning it over in his massive hands. "The suit wasn't attempting communication. Think of it more like... a browser attempting to cache data."
Blake's brow furrowed. "What kind of data?"
"Navigation records. Star charts. Maintenance logs. The recorder is designed to preserve mission-critical information." Eland tapped the orange cube with one thick finger. "Your suit recognized compatible data structures and attempted synchronization."
"Attempted?"
"The process requires energy - mana, specifically. Your reserves are..." Eland's head tilted. "Limited. The suit drained what little you had before it could establish a proper connection."
Blake's shoulders loosened. The knot in his gut began to unwind. "So no distress signal?"
"No. The recorder itself is still active, but it's likely one of hundreds on this planet." Eland set the cube down. Besides, even if it wanted to, the suit lacks the power to broadcast anything meaningful without hijacking a proper comms array. You'd need years of cultivation before your core could generate the power needed to fire off interplanetary messages without assistance."
Blake scanned the horizon, squinting against the glare of twin suns. "You're sure we're clear?"
Eland nodded.
"Though..." Eland's voice took on a deeper timbre. "Your instincts serve you well. If the Empire were to discover you with that suit..." His massive head turned toward Blake, those large eyes fixing him with an unblinking stare. "There are fates worse than death. The Empire has perfected several of them."
"Fun for the whole family," Blake deadpanned. "I'm more tired than I've been in years, and my skull feels like it's going to split in two. Can I assume that's because of the suit?"
Eland's eyes softened as he studied Blake. "You're experiencing mana exhaustion. We call it the Dregs."
Blake massaged his temples. "Dregs, huh? Like sludge at the bottom of a barrel?"
"Precisely," Eland said. "Your body is depleted of mana, and it's trying to recover. With time, rest, and proper mana cycling, you'll feel better."
Blake frowned. "I don't know the first thing about cycling mana."
"You'll still be fine. It's like having a hangover without painkillers," Eland explained. "Water and sleep will help you recover, but it won't be as quick or pleasant."
Blake let out a sigh of relief mixed with frustration. "So, I'm stuck feeling like this until my body sorts itself out?"
"Essentially," Eland nodded. "Let's head back for the day. You need rest."
Blake gave a curt nod, and they began their trek back through the junkyard, the harsh suns casting long shadows behind them.
"If nothing else, I think there's actually some good news in all this," Blake said as he forced his legs to keep moving. Eland made an inquisitive noise, prompting him to continue.
"All of that started after I thought about actually wanting to wear that suit. It had felt cold, the afternoon is hot, I thought it'd be nice. But it was only after that everything went haywire."
Eland nodded along as he spoke. "You think the suit only tried to manifest because it sensed you calling to it?"
"Yeah, like subconsciously. The nanites you gave me do all sorts of interpretation on their own, I think this is the same way."
"And if that's the case," Eland said, trailing off to allow Blake to voice his own conclusion.
"If that's the case, this damned suit might actually listen to me."
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The metallic tang of rust filled Duri's nostrils as he pressed against the twisted hull of an ancient freighter. His fingers traced the rough edges of his perch, careful not to disturb any loose debris. The towering Stokrine and his human companion picked their way through the scrap field below, their heads bent in conversation.
Duri pulled a small device from his belt pouch. The metal creature sat in his palm, no larger than his thumb, its segmented legs folded against its body. He pressed the activation sequence into its carapace. The construct's legs unfolded with a soft click, and its sensor array pulsed with a dim red glow.
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He held the device up to eye level. "Follow them. Stay out of sight."
The construct scuttled across his palm and down the wreckage, its movements precise and deliberate as it navigated the treacherous terrain. Its camouflaged surface shifted to match the surrounding metal and rust.
Duri watched the construct disappear into the shadows cast by the looming piles of debris. A smile crept across his weathered face.
"Rax will want to know about this."
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Mara traced her fingers along the corrugated metal wall of her workshop, following the patterns of rust and wear that decorated Nahren's outer ring. The scavenger settlement stretched out before her - a sprawling maze of interconnected structures built from salvaged ship parts and ancient machinery. Steam hissed from vents, and the whir of recycling units filled the air.
A group of children darted past, their feet clanking against the metal walkways. They wore patchwork clothes made from scavenged fabrics, faces smudged with the ever-present grime of the junkyard.
"Get inside," she called after them. "Meeting's about to start."
The central plaza filled with people, their shadows stretching long in the artificial light that filtered through the dome above. Some wore the red bands of Rax's followers around their arms, the fabric pristine despite the grime that coated everything else. Others dressed in the practical garb of independent scavengers - patchwork coveralls and utility belts laden with tools. The crowd parted like a rusted gate swinging wide as Rax emerged from his quarters - a converted cargo hold decorated with salvaged religious icons and military trophies. The metallic smell of recycled air grew sharper with the press of bodies.
"Brothers and sisters," Rax's voice boomed across the plaza, echoing off the curved walls. "The defilers grow bold. Yesterday, they dared to tread upon our sacred grounds." His hands swept through the air in practiced gestures, each movement calculated for maximum effect.
Mara's stomach tightened, a familiar knot of dread and anger. More poor wanderers, dropped here by the Forerunners like discarded parts, lost and confused in a maze of metal and machinery. And Rax had the audacity to make them the aggressors, twisting their desperate arrival into another excuse for violence. She could already see heads nodding in the crowd, drinking in his words like the precious filtered water they rationed.
"The Salvage provides," the crowd chanted with fervent intensity, their voices echoing off the metal walls. "The Salvage protects."
Rax thrust his chrome-plated cybernetic arm skyward, the polished metal gleaming like a beacon. Mara fought back a sneer, knowing he'd spent hours buffing that arm to a mirror finish just for this little show. She'd caught him rehearsing his rabble-rousing speeches when he thought no one was watching, preening like an actor before a performance.
"And what do we do to those who would steal from our divine refuge?" he bellowed.
The red-bands erupted in a feral chorus: "Purge the defilers!"
Bile rose in Mara's throat as she watched the crowd, their faces contorted with zealous bloodlust. These weren't strangers - she recognized too many of them. Former neighbors, traders, people who'd once welcomed outsiders with open arms. Now they wore those blood-red bands and howled for violence, transformed by Rax's poisonous rhetoric into something that barely resembled people.
The old woman next to Mara muttered under her breath, her papery voice trembling with regret. "We used to trade with other clans." She glanced nervously at the zealots. "Before all this holy ground garbage."
"Shut your mouth," barked one of Rax's thugs, muscling his way through the press of bodies.
Mara stepped between the thug and the old woman, planting her feet wide on the metal grating. "Leave her be, Korrn."
The crowd shifted, bodies pressing closer. A dozen pairs of hands reached out, pulling the old woman back to safety. Children slipped through the gaps between people, forming a barrier of small bodies around Mara. Their eyes blazed with defiance, chins lifted high.
"Got something to say, outsider?" Korrn's breath reeked of synthetic protein paste.
Jem, the master welder, pushed through the crowd. Plasma torch still hanging from her belt, face streaked with carbon scoring. "Yeah, she does. And so do we."
More figures emerged - Tarn the recycler, his massive frame towering over the zealots. Sara from hydroponics, dirt still under her nails. The mechanics' guild, tools jangling at their hips. They formed a loose circle around Mara, shoulder to shoulder.
"These are my people," Mara said. "The ones who keep this place running while you play dress-up with your armbands."
A chorus of agreement rippled through her supporters. The children pressed closer, small hands gripping her coveralls. One of them stuck their tongue out at Korrn.
"The salvage provides through our work," Tarn rumbled. "Through our trades and crafts. Not your 'purges.'"
Korrn's hand twitched toward the shock baton at his hip, but he thought better of it. Too many witnesses. Too many skilled workers whose cooperation Rax still needed.
A piece of scrap metal pinged off Korrn's shoulder. He spun around, face twisted in rage. More debris rained down - nuts, bolts, bits of wire. The children darted between legs, pelting him with whatever they could grab from their pockets.
"Defiler! Defiler!" they chanted, mimicking Rax's zealots with high-pitched voices.
Korrn's face flushed red. He grabbed for the nearest child, but his hand closed on empty air as the boy slipped away, cackling.
"That's enough," Mara said, but she couldn't keep the smile from her voice.
Korrn backed away, dignity in tatters. "This isn't over."
"It never is with you lot," Tarn said.
The children continued their assault until Korrn disappeared around a corner, their laughter echoing off the metal walls.
Mara clapped her hands. "Alright, you little troublemakers. Back to your families."
They scattered like startled birds, some pausing to hug her legs before darting away. She watched them go, heart heavy. Their giggles faded into the constant hum of machinery.
The crowd thinned. Mara's fingers traced the rough welds on a nearby support beam. Somewhere out in that endless sea of salvage, confused survivors were stumbling through the wreckage. Lost. Afraid. And Rax's zealots would hunt them down like animals.
She had to find some way to help.