1 / 2 Biomass
1 / 3 Mechanized
-Nanofactory Operational-
I punch the com channel open, broadcasting on an open Technocracy line. Then freeze, uncertain how to mimic the tone Kerrigan used earlier. I can’t exactly copy my own voice and her diction was a bit off.
“Hey, wait a second. Factory was already making suits, got a new one. You got lucky. Come back and I’ll get your tubes replaced, at least then you won’t be down to your last fifty bullets.” Says Kerrigan.
She’s mimicking my voice perfectly. The single most freakish way to show off her bioweapon nature. I should distance myself from her, there is no way of guessing what parts of her once childish brain remain. Or if there is even a girl left inside her reprogrammed mind.
“Make up your mind woman! I ought to report your instability.” Says the Juggernaut pilot, returning so quickly the bunker’s concrete entrance sheers off two tubes.
Steel plaps into the mud behind him. Twenty foot long missile tubes sink into mud like discarded ribs. Now mangled beyond recognition. I signal to Kerrigan, gesturing for her to lay down behind the factory and be silent.
“Damnit man! Just look at this mess!” I snap, taking over communications.
I stomp out of the shadows, picking up a spare missile tube in one hand. The tube is some ‘economical’ alloy of steel, only a few hundred pounds. Practically nothing in this Technocracy power armor. The Juggernaut rotates in place, one tread rotating forward while its agonist moves in reverse until his rear is facing the nanofactory. We have a clear view of his most sensitive bits, and I send two orders, one to the zergling, and one to Kerrigan.
>Athena: Grab all the spare rations you can Kerrigan.
>Kerrigan: Yay! Chocolate meats!
My throat clenches. What is Kerrigan going to become? Will she be one of those insane bioweapons who kills in seconds then orders her allies to die?
An alert appears on my internal HUD, the option to warp a Tulverian plasma rifle off planet to Alaea.
Good boy! I think, activating the option. Finally, I’m armed and dangerous. Heart thundering as I claim the first antitank weapon. So happy that I hop aboard the Juggernaut, kicking spent missile tubes off the tank like Santa’s best worker elf.
Sable Yurten has replaced missile racks before, and this suit of power armor is built for engineers. Holographic instructions guide my hands as I reload two hundred tubes, dropping some of the odd caliber autocannons in favor of more missiles. Easy as LEGOs, especially since this suit even has bundles of powered graspers hidden under armor plates, allowing me to deploy them and reach things my encased fingers otherwise cannot.
Tentacles have never been so handy. Like, they can really get in there deep.
I recognize a few of the dropped autocannons as American made M2 machine guns, .50 BMG weapons with a little help from rollmarks like ‘Property of United States Army” engraved on them. Jim must have sold gear to both sides. I’m not surprised at the taxman’s mercenary trend. Just exasperated. Is there anything he hasn't touched? Another hologram counts remaining rounds for the autocannons, finding no reserves on the planet and labeling them as scrap metal. A smile crosses my face as I crush the guns on accident, taking pleasure in deformed steel. A few less guns for the Technocracy.
I’m not surprised in the least. At this point, I’m just waiting for another betrayal. Maybe I’ll win ‘Backstabbed Bingo’.
Thirty minutes pass as I move roughly twenty thousand pounds of missile tubes and missiles. Oh, and we can’t forget my assistant’s contributions. Ling1 managed to move a dozen bricks of explosive, stashing them on or in the Juggernaut’s access panels with some help from your friendly neighborhood warpgate. My new name for the teleportation system. One might ask how a zergling -with claws and no hands- opens a two inch access panel, a good question. Turns out these tentacles are great at unscrewing things while my hands are busy. There is even a cluster of tentacles under my calf armor complete with an adjustable wrench, perfect for opening access panels.
Stolen novel; please report.
“Hey, sorry about being a cunt. It’s just that my squad ditched me then artillery nearly cut me in half just before you arrived. Worst of all, I can't even call them assholes, something killed em first. Suit’s dickered right to hell and I don’t have the tools I need. Ah, guess my chips must have been damaged from the shockwaves. I’ll run diagnostics and have them recalibrated when I link up at base.” I radio.
“Get that checked out before the next reload.” Responds the Juggernaut, absolutely zero emotion sullying his voice.
I can’t tell if he is pissed, furious, or just tired, in fact I have absolutely no idea what is running through that half robotic brain of his. My only hope is he bought Tychus and hasn’t picked up on the deception. Job complete I seal the last access panel praying to yellow trinity that steel plates won’t block the signal for spontaneous disassembly.
Then he is gone, exiting the bunker and driving up the ramp. I’ll need to time this perfectly, in case Kerrigan is still loyal to the Technocracy. She can’t know what I’ve done. Hard to imagine her cute purple eyes would stab me in the back, but it’s even more difficult to imagine a world where a Technomancer builds a bioweapon without failsafes. One wrong word and her head might pop.
Simultaneous with my reloading work, Lingling2 is busy gathering Tulverian gear, including helmets and ammunition bandoliers. The warp HUD makes this possible. Still, it’s like driving two cars at once. The throttle is linked to both but each has its own steering wheel and gear shifter. My saving grace is how the buttons seem to press themselves if I focus on them. So fluid I have to wonder if our hive mind invented telekinesis. Allowing simultaneous usage of Singularity, Technocracy, and warp HUDs. Time rumbles through the world pounding artillery shells and the occasional dropship to smithereens. Strategic information I uncover by tapping into the Juggernaut’s prediction subroutines and a connection that will be lost when I press the detonator.
I look at the detonator, ready to pull the trigger then pause. Not yet, I think, locking its safety latch over the switch. Too many people have touched it and the bombs, I have no way of knowing what exactly will explode or if we got every linked brick of C4 in the bunker. Ling1 drops a brick near my feet, looking up at me like a puppy who just delivered slippers. Okay, we might have missed a few bricks.
“No way am I blowing my ass off early. We’ll leave first then detonate.”
Alerts appear on two helmets, torrents of information rattle around my face. Blinding me with a hundred pinpricks of information that erode my patience. I can feel pressure building behind my eyes, a migraine in the making.
Okay, slow down. Work the problem. Solve one step then move to the next. Look, I’m halfway there. We’re in stolen armor, with a rolling sabotage as a distraction.
But I’m only one person… My hand trembles, recalling the pain of being shot then healed. Frontlines are where people die, this cannot be where I fight. In the past hour artillery has cut me in half, nearly tore off my arm, and should have blown me sky high. I’ve been stupid. Sloppy. Bumbling around a toxic world without a clue.
>Terran Thena: Hey Hygieia, I have hardware but no soldiers. Help a poor girl out?
>Matriarch Hygieia: send biomass
Of course I’ve forgotten the core part of our agreement. I feel stupider than when ‘NOT ENOUGH MINERALS, MINE MORE MINERALS’ appears on screen. It's a simple matter for me to warp the dead technicians to Hygieia. Simple as dragging the icons and dropping them into the recycling bin. Or collecting your daily free roll in a gatcha.
>Executrix Alaea: Hey Hygene, I’ll give you the same HUD. I’ve got my own door problems.
>Terran Thena: Door problems? Damn problems?
>Executrix Alaea: NO.
>Matriarch Hygieia: is it clever if i thought of it too? :P
>Matriarch Hygieia: I see your spare suits.
>Matriarch Hygieia: will manufacture wetware
>Matriarch Hygieia: estimated time to completion 1 hour
>Matriarch Hygieia: product will be defective
>Matriarch Hygieia: entering combat
>Matriarch Hygieia: no time for better
“What the hell does defective mean?” I shout, warping out a stack of singularity helmets and rations.
Kerrigan is still eating chocolate bricks, blissfully blind.
Well, that’s something.
At least I can make one girl happy.