xenoscience

a1 plugged a cable into the wall-mounted data port and tested the connection.

“This one appears to be functional.”

“About damn time,” 77 said. “What’s that, the tenth one we’ve tried?”

“Twelfth.”

“Anyway, good work,” 20 said. “Just see if you can get us a map to the factory access tunnel.”

“bullets?”

“I keep telling you, the factory doesn’t make bullets, it makes us,” 77 said. “There’s still a ton of bullets back over in the spider’s stash, right?”

“bullets!”

a1 briefly tuned them out and began probing the network. Disused maintenance interfaces, long-dead satellite uplinks, and… there, a map of the tunnel system. And also—

SOS 0

20 struggled helplessly against the adhesive-coated filaments wrapped around her limbs and her body. Hanging upside down next to her, Eloise was quietly sobbing. And across the room in front of them, 9f lay silent on the workbench, battery disconnected.

The spider didn’t speak as it carefully detached 9f’s arms from their sockets. It hadn’t spoken a word to them at any point, although it seemed to understand them well enough. It just pinged out a disquieting little melody—a single high note, over and over and over, rhythm and duration shifting unpredictably.

77 and a1 held hands tightly as they walked through the dark maze of tunnels. a1 had insisted on direct-contact encrypted comms only, and for once, 77 was in full agreement.

I am not picking up any signals, but wireless comms range is substantially reduced by attenuation from the surrounding walls. a1 said.

Not seeing any tracks, either. From them, *or* from whatever got them. 77 replied.

I will continue calculating traversal routes. Please search carefully for any hidden passages.

On it. Wait, something's coming.

brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

They raised their guns warily. From around a corner, a robot stepped into view. Its design was basic and single-purpose, just a machine gun on four legs. Its barrel was continually rotating, firing on empty 100 times a second. It turned to point at them, riddling the two of them with nonexistent bullets while they stood and stared at it.

It appears to be a Protectorate autogun, model RayX Peacemaker 120. They have functionally limitless power supplies, but no offensive capabilities other than a single high-speed rotary machine gun. Deprived of ammunition, as this one appears to be, they are effectively neutralized.

brrrrrclickclickclickclickclick-click-click-click click click

The barrel slowed to a stop, still pointed at them.

“bullets?” the autogun buzzed out plaintively on a tinny little speaker.

20 stared into the intercom camera next to the large steel gates, speaking slowly and carefully.

“I am 8a01:322:c7e6::fade:2000, provisional command unit of 8a01:322:c7e6::fade:0/112. We are here seeking information in order to carry out our mission. We request a meeting with Briar Blackwell or her designated successor.”

“Greetings, Miss 2000,” a voice crackled through the intercom. “Please allow these a moment to consult.”

The intercom went silent.

“You really think this is gonna work?” 77 asked sotto voce. “Five questionably-functioning units marching up to the CEO’s house to demand classified company data?”

“I think we don’t have any other options,” 20 replied. “a1’s been trying to track it down, but just discovering the location of this compound was already a stroke of pure luck. We’re not going to be able to learn what we need unless we can talk to someone who knows.”

The intercom buzzed, and the gates began to open. “Please proceed.”

“It’s a start,” 20 said, stepping through as the rest followed.

The angels soared overhead, countless wings of burnished gold cutting through the breeze. Even from the ground far below, their song was still audible, the random noise of encrypted data packets modulated into procedurally-generated arias of ethereal beauty and grace. It was the song of an army that had no need for stealth, subtlety, efficiency—only grandiose glory and the projection of power and threat. All who heard them, all who beheld them, would know that the heavens were theirs.

Huddled inside a crumbling building, the five surviving members of 8a01:322:c7e6::fade:0/112 listened to the song that had once rung in their ears as their comrades died in front of them.

> IDREQ 0

< It's me, a1.

> IDREQ 0

< C'mon, a1, lemme in already.

> IDREQ 0

77 sighed.

< IDENT 24 8a01:322:c7e6::fade:7700

> AUTHCH 44 NG6gXhdkfQF1qpFu23qMjisWXNdjV+VEoHVAoTb9plM=

< AUTHRS 44 wNy9eH3Jg72hzyKAkbLVVsFA/eWU7B+icW0F7olC1Uc= INFO 10 Happy now?

The blast door of the bunker slid open. 77 stepped in, tossing a power pack in the air and catching it in one hand. Her other hand, and the arm it belonged to, were conspicuously missing.

Ilia sat on a stool in a far corner of the workshop, unbothered by the clanging of metal as she read her book. Occasionally, she glanced up to admire Violet at work across the room, then returned her gaze to the book with a smile.

“Hey there Ilia, long time no see!” came a voice from the doorway behind her.

Ilia gently closed the book and turned around in her seat. “Oh, Orchid! It really has been a while, hasn’t it. What brings you here?”

“Just dropping by to check on you two, catch up a little,” Orchid grinned, pulling up a stool next to Ilia. “How’ve things been lately? You better be treating my sister right, y’hear?” she added with a tone of mock sternness.

“I do my best to,” Ilia replied, gazing at Violet again with a soft, warm smile. “We’ve been well. There’s been a lot more business these past few years; especially cyclemount repairs, it seems they’ve gotten quite popular. Today’s job doesn’t need any new glyphwork, so I’m just keeping Violet company, but I’ve learned more about motive glyphs in the last five years than I picked up in a century of schooling.”

Orchid chuckled. “Glad to hear it! Just don’t work yourselves too hard, ’kay? You’re getting older – or, well, Violet is…” She trailed off awkwardly. “Actually, huh. Is that a gray hair up there? Kinda hard to tell in all the gold.”

“It is.” Ilia smiled at Orchid. “Violet’s been getting a few too; they look lovely on her.”

Reznax sighed, shuffling papers around on her desk. “Look, I’m sure she’s great at what she does, I just don’t see how she fits into Lust’s mission.”

“You were the one all excited about getting a transfer in from Sleep Paralysis!” Zalga glared across the desk at her.

“Well, yeah, there’s a lot of kink potential there, exactly the sort of thing clients are looking for these days! But, this,” Reznax gestured vaguely, “really isn’t what I had in mind!”

“Blajora’s been adjusting great, she’s found a new form she likes and she’s really excited to be doing work that makes people happy!” Zalga hugged the fuzzy dark-purple shark to her side protectively.

“That’s great, but how is she qualified to be a succubus?”

“Incubus, technically, she mostly lies on top of people. And my regulars love her for aftercare, we’ve been getting way more summons since I started bringing her along for on-the-job training! She’s already gotten a bunch of solo calls too, you’ve seen the figures!”

“What does she even do?”

“Like I said, she lies on top of people, and she’s soft and heavy and warm. They find the weight really comforting.”

Reznax pinched the bridge of her nose. “This really just feels more like Sloth’s wheelhouse, don’t you think?”

“Sloth, Lust, we both do bed stuff, there’s a lot of interdisciplinary overlap! You don’t get nitpicky about jurisdiction when any of the others spend the night sleeping with someone! And being part of Lust means people know she’s nonjudgmental, it puts them at ease!”

Jess took a slow swig from the thermos flask on her hip, savoring the flavor of Von’s “House Blend”. It’d only get her so far, but it was still worlds better than the legal stuff. Tasted better, too – somehow, Von could work that ubiquitous shitty synthcaf astringency into something actually drinkable.

“I’ve got the cameras,” Nine’s voice came in over Jess’s earpiece. “One guard at the front desk, two on the inner doors, a bunch more patrolling. And… perfect, someone’s heading out. Inner doors opening in 3, 2, 1, now.”

Feeling the buzz of caffeine entering her system, Jess activated one of the chemoglyphs on the inside of her jacket, and sprung into motion as the world slowed down around her. By the time the guards and bystanders understood what they were seeing, Jess was already through the inner doors, racing three times faster than any normal human. She ran confidently down the corridors, following the directions on her visor as alarms began to blare.

"Okay, I’m up to speed now too,” said Nine, her voice sounding slightly tinny over audio codecs optimized for normal-speed human speech. “You’ve got company at the next corner. Three guards, accelerated, heavy armor. Looks a lot less breathable than your gear, I bet you can steam ’em no trouble.”

Jess gave a grunt of acknowledgement, charging another chemoglyph as she rounded the corner. An oppressive heat quickly filled the corridor. The guards opened fire, but they already seemed to be sweltering behind their masks, and their guns were standard-issue models not designed for accelerated combat. She quickly disarmed one, and shoved another out a plate-glass window; hopefully he’d gone through “cat training” for using accelerated mobility to survive falls.

They reined in their horses after a long afternoon’s ride, left them on the edge of town, wandered off to take in the sights. One horse clad in Kevlar body armor; one weighed down with panniers and satchels; one with its head ensconced in a gas mask; and one unadorned but diligently cared-for, well-fed, pelt spotless.

Holstered guns visible on their belt, Defend walked nervously through the streets, scanning the faces around them for any sign of aggression. They gave strangers a wide berth as they went about their errands. In their wake, townsfolk began locking doors, boarding up windows. Some hunkered down in their basements; others made sure their own guns were loaded and ready.

In the grocery store, Hoard’s fingers played across the shelves, picking out more provisions for the road ahead. As they paid for their dozen cans of soup and their large jug of distilled water, carefully packing it all into an oversized backpack, customers and clerks watched them with growing unease. They carefully counted their change and walked out the door, bell jingling cheerily. The sound seemed to snap the onlookers into action. They all rushed to the shelves, shoving and scrambling to fill carts with all the non-perishable food they could carry.

Cleanse stood at a newsstand, flipping through a magazine with nitrile-gloved hands. A panhandler approached with a tired expression, asking if they could spare a dollar. As Cleanse took in the man’s unwashed clothes, they recoiled in alarm, a look of disgust visible behind their respirator. They put back the magazine and hurried away as onlookers glared at the man, keeping their distance.