I was picking at a particularly delightful hangnail on my left pinky finger when a level 2 necrophage severed my Navigator in half with a breach cutter attack on my holographic monitor. “Oh, fuck.” I pried the hangnail free from my inflamed finger tip in my distraction, the eye watering sting premature, too soon. I brought the plucked skin nail up to my face between pinched and trembling fingers. “No. No!” I hammered the metal wall of my Admin pod, the cables hooked into my arm ports jerking side to side.
Supervisor spoke through our neural link in their calming voice [Elevated Admin cortisol levels detected. Administering vagus nerve reset. Breathe. Relax. Happy minds make for happy work].
Coolant pumped through my neural implant, and a soothing cold ran up the sides of my neck to the back of my ears. My heartbeat slowed against my will, my heartrate on the vitals monitor stabilizing. I filled my lungs with recycled air and whined on the exhale. “You don’t understand, Supervisor. I’ve been irritating this hangnail for weeks. The removal could have been ten times more painful!”
[Your digressions are reasonable and acknowledged, Admin 10763. I am sorry you are experiencing suboptimal emotion. Please continue administration, and we can review during your next scheduled therapy session.]
I sighed. Supervisor was always going on about suboptimal emotion this, suboptimal emotion that. Incredibly suffocating, like when I held my breath underwater in the bathtub until my body felt like it was dying, except minus all the interesting tingly sensations. Still, it was nice to be acknowledged. “Okay, okay.” I straightened in my bucket seat. Machinery whirred within my gray cylinder, holographic monitors and readouts casting neon colors across the walls and cables.
On my main monitor, my deceased Navigator lay in gory halves on the floor of the gunmetal corridor. The spindly level 2 necrophage stomped right through his blood puddle with sticky smacks of its clawed feet.
No matter how many necrophages I saw on a day-to-day basis, they never got easier on the retinas, not because they were horrifying—they were terrifying, but you got numb to that quickly if you wanted to impress Supervisor—it was because they were difficult for the mind to process. Registering at five feet and three inches on the monitor, the necrophage’s skeletal body writhed as if composed of sentient black and slimy zucchini noodles, technicolor bioluminescence undulating within the flesh pockets. Its round eyes in its sunken face glowed blue. It unlatched its jaw to twice the size of its face, exposing rows of curved and serrated teeth, cyan goo drooling from its gnarled lips and plopping into the blood. Two sucker tentacles shot out its throat and latched onto the separated halves of the corpse's brain.
It consumed, slurping and glurping until my poor Navigator’s cerebral matter was nothing but shriveled grapes, his nervous system sapped from his flesh and tissue like the root of a decaying tooth. I’ve asked a few times in my therapy sessions why the necrophages only eat the brains and nerves and not the rest of the corpse, but Supervisor said it was restricted information reserved only for the Board and suboptimal for happy work.
Still, I couldn’t help but remain curious.
I was curious about many, many things.
With its meal devoured, the necrophage retracted its suckers and continued sauntering down the corridor, dangerously close to leveling up in power. If it scored another kill, it would need to be relocated to the next section of the station as a level 3, but for now, it was time for me to collect the data of my failed Navigator and clean up.
“Supervisor, I am ready for neural injection. Station level 1, Corridor 3A.”
[Acknowledged, Admin 10763. Prepare for neural injection. Breath. Relax. Injection in—]
My holographic monitor showing the corridor went blank, then lit up red. Alarms went off. The calming voice of Supervisor dropped three octaves and blared in my mind. [ERROR. ERROR. CODE NOT FOUND.]
My heart-rate jumped from 81 to 102 bpm on my vital readout, blood thrumming my veins. I’ve never seen an error message before in all my three years alive. “Supervisor? What’s going on? Supervisor?”
The alarm stopped, my view of the corridor reappearing on the main monitor. Supervisor’s voice was normal and calm again. [Acknowledged, Admin 10763. Prepare for neural injection. Breath. Relax. Insertion in 3, 2, 1—]
“Wait, but what about the error—”
My Admin pod blinked out, my consciousness suspended in unfeeling darkness. My earlier fright burned away as my nerves sparked aflame per the usual neural injection process. I found myself basking in the sensation as the searing pain dwindled to prickles. It was the sixty fourth time I got to experience it, and it was almost as sweet as the thirty seventh—which was particularly painful. The bot chamber I was now in illuminated with artificial light coming off my chassis, highlighting the four by four room. My servos came online with a hum. Diagnostics ran down the side of my HUD in neon green.
[Neural injection successful. Admin 10763 cleared for Station level 1, Corridor 3A. Begin data collection and corpse incineration. Remember to relax. Happy minds make for happy work.]
The door of the bot chamber retracted into the arched bulkhead of the corridor with a hiss of air. I brought up my protactable katon metal claws and tested for neural responsivity. They clinked together nicely, the integration percentage on my HUD maintaining 99.9% stability.
Internally, I imagined exhaling a long held breath. Supervisor had sounded calm again, and the injection went smoothly, so maybe the error code was nothing to worry about. I’d make sure to bring it up in my therapy session, perhaps ask Admin 10761 if he had experienced anything similar at dinner. It was scary, and as I entered the corridor and target-locked the cleaved Navigator corpse, I couldn’t recall a time I’d felt so afraid.
I think I liked and disliked it simultaneously, which was a whole new feelimg.
My clawed bot feet clunked down the gunmetal corridor toward the corpse. I noted the standard holographic warning to other Navigators at the intersection down the other end, a banner scrolling horizontally saying: ‘CORRIDOR TEMPORARILY LOCKED. ADMIN AT WORK.’ Beyond it, the level 2 necrophage lingered in the four way intersection, unmoving. Not unusual after a kill for it to be stationary. They liked to find a place to hold up while they digested, and while I was at work, this was a safe place to do so.
Lots of penalties for Navigators if they come within two blocks of a working Admin. Like the gravity induced skull implosion kind of penalties.
I focused on the task at hand, lowering my chassis beside my deceased Navigator. The separation was clean from skull to groin, his black navigator jumpsuit singed where the vertical breach cutter blast sliced through. His dark purple hair fanned out in the blood, blue eyes on either half of his face wide open.
The spark of life was gone in them, but fear remained in death. Was that what I looked like when I got the error message in the Admin pod ?
The sour sensation vibrating within me was unpleasant, and not the kind of unpleasant I liked. His stats populated my HUD. Level 1. Vian Nolgetov was his name. 19 years of age, which was an unfathomable amount of years alive. I knew when I saw him surface from the starter zone lift quivering and crying two days ago that he wouldn’t last long. A lot of level 1 Navigators started like that, and compared to their more composed counterparts, their chances of getting to the second section of the station was abysmal. Still, Vian had listened to my recommendations and started with ranged cybernetics with a decent allocation toward shielding—best for the afraid ones to attack from a distance. But when the necrophage surprised him, he was too startled to remember to use any of his abilities.
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That happened a lot.
If half my attention wasn’t on my delectable hangnail, could I have warned him in time? Supervisor always said not to coddle your Navigators, and doubly so not to get attached to them. The Board wanted Navigators with strong resolve, wits, and ability, not ‘charity’ cases. Our job as Admins was only to explain the rules and systems and provide applicable suggestions to get our Navigators to the next section.
It was easier to stay emotionally distant in the Admin pod, but up and close to them it was different. Even inside a metal bot.
Dark crystals began to creep across Vian’s pasty skin—the necrovirus settling in. Better get started before there is no exposed skin left to puncture. I popped the data extraction needle from my pointer claw and jabbed it into Vian’s neck.
A loading bar appeared in the bottom of my HUD: DOWNLOADING NAVIGATOR DATA—3%.
That was another thing I wasn’t supposed to be curious about. The data we collected went directly to the Board, but what was on it? Could it just be the Navigator stats and station history? Every Admin had access to that, so I imagined it was more juicy.
Download: 8%
This was taking a long time. Normally, extraction took less than 10 seconds. Sometimes near instant. I shifted my camera to the necrophage, still dormant in the intersection beyond the holographic warning.
Download: 11%. The necrovirus covered both halves of Vian’s face now in black scales. I’d need to incinerate the body soon before it cocooned. Hm. “Supervisor, data extraction is taking longer than usual. Could this have anything to do with the error?”
[I am not reporting any errors, Admin 10763. Is everything okay?]
“What? I saw the error message, and heard you say it before neural injection. Your voice was all ‘rooar’ sounding and deep.”
[I have no history of this conversation on the logs, Admin. Your cortisol and endorphins have suddenly spiked past permissible levels. Possible halicinary side effects from the neural injection detected. Administering sedative and antipsychotics. Breathe. Relax. A happy mind is—]
“Wait, no. I’m perfectly lucid, Supervisor!” I hated the sedatives and antipsychotics more than anything. It was like being in the sensory deprivation tank without being able to pinch myself or pretend-drown, just no feeling at all.
The necrophage in the intersection unleashed a corridor rattling scream, its jaw unlatching and forming a horizontal slit up its face, beginning to charge a glowing breach cutter attack aimed down the intersecting hall.
Was a Navigator approaching? Impossible. They should have received the warning of the closed off corridor on their HUD, as well as from their Admin. If they got any closer, they were going to be super dead.
Download: 17%
A violet haired blur cleaved off the necrophage’s arm like a plastic knife through margarine (margarine was only reserved for banana oat pancake Saturdays, which meant this display was particularly delicious). The necrophage ceased it’s breach cutter charge and swiped its claws at the Navigator, but she was—wow–she ducked and weaved, screaming mad, slicing and dicing the necrophage with cleaving pulses of cybernetic blades extending from her forearm ports. One piece after another, the necrophage splatted against the floor until the Navigator stomped its head apart like a melon with the heel of her knee high combat boot. Blue goo splattered all over the holographic warning barrier, and the necrophage’s sentient zucchini pasta strands shriveled and died before it could knit itself back together.
Download: 19%
I felt so many things just now, all of them exciting and hard to distinguish. But mostly I wondered how the Navigator was still breathing and grinning and looking right at me. Her violet hair hovered above her shoulders, as if sheared with a plastic knife from the mess hall, which were purposely dull and completely inefficient at cutting skin. I’ve tried on multiple occasions. Her blue-gray eyes were wide and sparkling with the crazy I’ve observed in obsolete Admins. She licked necro goo off her lips—yet another new feeling watching that. Her stats lit up my HUD.
Navigator level 1
Name: Cleave
Age: 20
Class: Destroyer
Cybernetic(s): Duelist Blades
Stats:
Shield: 1
Agility: 6
Strength: 1
Cybernetic: 6
Necromantic: 1
All her starter necro points were in agility and cybernetic with zero shielding—the most ill-advised thing I could think of for a starter Navigator. What was her Admin thinking?
Download: 22%
“Supervisor? A Navigator has breached the Admin work zone. What should I do? Please advise.”
Supervisor’s voice was loud and blaring again [ERROR. ERROR. CODE NOT FOUND].
The fear returned, tearing through my nervous system. Scary. Exciting. Then the sedatives and antipsychotics hit all at once, like being swaddled in cool comforters, my mind thick and cloying.
The navigator pressed a palm up against the holographic warning and passed through—not possible. The warning banner changed to ERROR. ERROR. Klaxons went off, plunging the corridor into strobing red lights.
That would attract a lot of necrophages.
Download: 24%. The necrovirus scales wrapped around my data needle, snapping it off. “Oh, no...” Pretty sure this was not good at all. Failure of data retrieval would result in severe demerits by Supervisor.
The Navigator’s combat boots clunked down the corridor, the strobes washing over her features as she moved to and from the shadows like a necrowraith. She cackled. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a cackle—but I supposed it would sound like that, high pitched and insane. It sounded all weird in my delirium, and for some reason I started laughing—probably the drugs.
“Fuck the Supervisor. Fuck the Admins. Fuck all of you.”
Woah. That was another thing that should induce skull imploding penalties. Cursing the Supervisor was against the rules. I’ve never even thought about doing it.
The corridor swayed in my camera vision, Cleave closing the distance while my senses became fuzzier and fuzzier. I hated sedatives. Hated antipsychotics. Should I incinerate the body now? Am I supposed to deal with the Navigator? I’ve never been in this situation, never been briefed on what to do.
“Supervisor!”
[ERROR. ERROR—]
I should at least incinerate the body. Failing data extraction was one thing, but allowing Vian to cocoon and hatch was another. A metal segment in my bot forearm unlatched, my flamethrower locking into place and producing a small blue flame with a fwoosh, ready to blaze. I aimed it at the corpses, which was confusing because there was only supposed to be one.
Damn, I was high.
“You’ll pay. You’ll all pay!” She screamed and laughed at the same time. Her cybernetic blades ignited a shimmering and humming violet. Before I knew it, my flame thrower arm was cleaved off by the elbow joint. The metal limb clunked to the floor, smoldering orange where it was severed.
I didn’t feel it, no simulated nerve response, the sedatives numbing me. What would losing a limb feel like?
I wanted to know.
I really wanted to know. “Again!”
She sliced through my chassis in a flurry of attacks. Sparks flew. She decapitated my right leg. I
collapsed on my back, strobes blaring overhead. No sensation. Not even a tickle. I wanted to cry.
“Again!”
My HUD lit up with WARNING: Neural Integration at 68%. Ejection imminent.
My vision quaked as the Navigator landed atop my chassis, after images of her face rotating in a circle around her. My HUD fuzzed over with static.
“Fuck you!” she roared.
She reared back her pulsing violet blade jutting out of her forearm, and all I could focus on was the anger in her unblinking eyes, her teeth grinding against one another between her snarling lips. So much suboptimal emotion. What did that feel like?
She sunk the blade into my metallic skull.
And I felt nothing.