The airlock sealed with a hydraulic hiss. Karl's retinal display superimposed Emma's personnel file over the cockpit glass - her latest promotion to logistics coordinator glowing like a taunt. [Combat survival probability: 3.2%] West calculated helpfully.
The H4's cockpit embraced him like a battered exoskeleton. Every centimeter screamed corporate austerity: frayed neural interface cables snaking beneath the pilot's seat, the mineral scanner's cracked display patched with conductive gel. Yet the startup sequence flowed with military precision:
**// SYSTEMS CHECK //**
> Unit: 2781
> Operator: Karl (Bio-signature confirmed)
> Muscular density: 9.7σ (Civilian avg: 6.2)
> Neuroflex response: 9.3τ
> Core energy reserves: 100/100 TU
> West-Core H2: Operational (3.7U/s)
> Plasma drills: 93% integrity
"Initiate ignition sequence."
The mining skiff's reactor whine climbed through octaves as lunarcrete blast doors retracted. Pre-dawn wind ripped through the hangar, carrying acidic particulates that pinged against the hull.
"Skiff 2781, you are entering restricted sector G46." The comm crackled with Tower's automated warning. "Subsurface stability index at 41%. Meteorological alerts active for--"
Karl muted the channel. Through the cockpit's radiation-treated glass, Ceres' pockmarked surface unfolded - a necrotic tapestry of corporate greed. Sensor logs blinked with grim statistics: 2.1 million mining-related fatalities last quarter, 84% in small-claim operations like this.
The H4 banked sharply, its mass drivers humming. Below, temporary habitats clung to sinkhole rims like metal barnacles. EarthConsortium's "Reclamation Initiative" remained conveniently unfunded, buried beneath 370 billion registered souls (plus 300 million off-grid colonists turned raiders).
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
West projected the revised flight path through Karl's optic nerve. Target coordinates pulsed where memory and geological surveys aligned - the exact stress point where tomorrow's riches would become today's tomb.
"Adjust drill frequency to 88MHz," Karl ordered, fingers dancing across the modified control panel. "Override corporate safety limiters."
[Compliance requires H3 clearance.]
"Authorization code: Warden-Epsilon-9."
The skiff shuddered as its drills extended, glowing white-hot. Somewhere in the machine's primitive AI, West was learning its second lesson about reborn timelines:
When digging graves for corporate demons, use their own shovels.
The corporate monitoring grid classified planetary zones in clinical terms:
1. **White** - Nursery slopes for rookies scraping iron oxides
2. **Blue** - Residual deposits with 0.3% profit margins
3. **Amber** - Where real miners worked (87% fatalities occur here)
4. **Red** - Tectonic tantrums with bonus hazard pay
5. **Black** - CEO sightseeing tours only
"Final warning: G46 sector requires Liability Waiver Epsilon-9." The contract scrolled across Karl's retinal display, its clauses glowing with predatory legalese. *Article 4.2: In event of liquefaction-induced death, next-of-kin forfeit 30% severance pay...*
Karl thumb-signed the docu-feed. Six months. One hundred seventy-three of these blood contracts. The H4's log showed he'd spent 89% of his lifespan in amber zones.
The skiff pierced the sinkhole's thermal inversion layer. Sensor ghosts swarmed his display - seventeen other mining teams crawling through the chasm like radioactive ants. West's geological overlay pulsed with false reassurance:
[Stress fractures: 0.12% beyond baseline
Atmospheric stability: 87%
Collapse probability: Updates every 6.3 seconds]
"Bullshit metrics," Karl muttered. He knew the truth in his marrow - how tectonic plates groaned under corporate greed, how rainwater would seep into microfractures at 07:23 exactly, how Martinez' laughter still echoed in the quartz veins.
The H4's belly lights carved through methane fog. Three hundred meters down, bio-luminescent strobes pulsed through the gloom. Karl's enhanced retinas zoomed - two retrofitted H3 skiffs and a corporate survey drone chewing through bedrock where the lanthanum vein should've been dormant.
"West. Spectroscopic analysis."
[Energy signatures match Consortium-grade excavators. Mineral depletion rate: 9.8kg/sec.]
Karl's knuckles popped against the control yoke. Memory glitched - this wasn't how the timeline unfolded last iteration. Unless...
The skiff's collision alarm shrieked as a mining charge detonated below. Through the particulate storm, Karl caught the insignia on a pressure suit's shoulder pad: Aex Corp Security Division.
West helpfully highlighted the corporate mole's face in Karl's HUD. Recognition struck like a mass driver round - the same smirking bastard who'd later authorize the G46 cover-up. The man currently stealing his future.
"Adjust trajectory to bearing 278-X." Karl disengaged safety protocols, his H4's drills whining to combat-grade frequencies. "And West? Mute all distress channels."
Some timelines needed pruning.