Submantle- The Alpha Key

by Patrick Lane

  “But this is a freelance mission, you even admitted that yourself,” protested Nifty, cringing at the whining tone of his voice. “You’re even bending the rules by deciding not to check in with a patrol.” Even before the words left his mouth, Nifty cursed himself for another costly misstep. Provoking the old Ranger usually caused more harm than good; he needed to be guided gently into a decision, like coaxing brood bison into a lichen-bath.

  “Careful, Niftmire,” warned Scotty, with an arched eyebrow. It was an expression Nifty knew well, it meant the subject was no longer open for discussion.

  Scotty pushed himself out of the chair, but stopped halfway up, turning to stare at Nifty, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Are those song-potters in Ragnatex part of the ceranite guild?”

  Dross and double dross, Nifty cursed to himself, fussing over some controls he’d already shut down in an attempt to hide his inward cringe. Scotty knew! It was uncanny, the way he always managed to do that.

  “I take it by your silence that it’s a ‘yes’...” The old Ranger glowered at Nifty, though it was apparent he was suppressing a grin, clearly amused. “Shame on you, young Niftmire! Using your mother’s good name so you can sneak off to waste your earnings on, well, let me guess, ceraniron castings? For your boots?” He shook his head, his hand brushing his chin. “No, Rocktower Rangers already have the best. So that leaves your shatter bat or combat garb for those games you seem to be obsessed with lately.” He waited for a few moments, letting Nifty shift and stew uncomfortably. “Well, spit it out, lad!”

  Nifty sighed in defeat, and Scotty sat back in his seat, attempting to angle his head in such a way that his victorious smile would be hidden by his mustache.

  Swiveling his chair, Nifty’s gaze fell on the bat, strapped to the side wall. Even from this distance he could almost feel the Link he shared with it. He had been making modifications to it for nearly a year. Without further enhancements, there would be no chance of winning more than a couple of events, a notion he’d just been painfully reminded of by Chellena at the Rocktower sparing circle. That meant there would be no chance at all of improving the ranking of his Orediten family name in the Rocktower archives.

  “It’s for the bat, she’s too heavy. Makes her slow,” Nifty answered, still embarrassed about how easily Scotty had seen through his charade. “Brockam Lodearm’s shatter bat is like a whip-wasp’s tail now that he has ceraniron castings on the haft and crank cover. I can’t compete with that kind of speed.”

  “More reason to focus on your upgrade submission, lad, and end this silliness.”

  Nifty sighed deeply. Though he didn’t agree with his friend in the slightest, he knew the old Ranger could not be swayed once his mind was set. A vision of Lulu’s piercing green eyes staring at him, in that considering manner she often used, steeled his resolve. He had intended to get the gift for his mother; that was always part of the plan.

  It just so happened that it coincided with the bat’s upgrades, he rationalized guiltily.

  Nifty opened his mouth, about to argue the point further, but instead he snapped it shut again when he suddenly remembered a little something, a something that set his mind racing. Casually, he reached his hand upwards, bringing it to rest on his breast pocket, feeling the small item within. In the chaos of the preceding events, he had almost forgotten about the pendant. He hadn’t expected to be visiting a Gears so it hadn’t crossed his mind until now.

  Deciding not to argue the point further, Nifty instead resolved to find something significant on their trip to get them ahead of the competition, no matter what it took. Or, maybe a quick poke around for airiron wouldn’t hurt either, and Scotty’s rules be slashed when he did! If nothing else, he would be getting that tea set, and that was that!

  As the silence grew more awkward, Scotty slapped his hands down on the arm rests and pushed himself up with a groan. “You seem to have this well in hand. I will see to Grunt and Snort. They’ll no doubt be angrier than a pimple on a whip-wasp’s tail after the ride we’ve had. I’ll try to calm them down and saddle them up, so we can be on our way as soon as you’ve activated a pair of repair solutions and set them to work on that damaged engine.”

  Scotty grabbed his grey Ranger’s jacket from the back of his chair and headed into the hallway. As the clanking of his heavy, metal footsteps faded so too did much of the knot that had formed in Nifty’s stomach.

  After performing a few more checks, Nifty stood up, threw on his own dun-colored jacket and secured the double row of silver buttons. He whipped his broad utility belt around his waist, fastened it firmly in place, and then retrieved Riot from the wall.

  He flipped Riot easily from one hand to the other, testing the weight and balance. Even powered down, he could feel his Link. The thought that he might not get her any upgrades before this year’s games was upsetting. With a final flip, he swung Riot over his shoulder and let her slide into the jaws of her holster, the bats glowing pommel extended slightly out over his right shoulder, adding to an already dangerous appearance.

  He smoothed out the front of his jacket, subconsciously lingering over his left breast pocket, where the Rocktower Ranger’s badge of office was embroidered in silver and blue. Finally, squaring his shoulders and inhaling deeply, he felt ready to face the perils of the Gears. However, before that could happen, he had another kind of peril to face, one much closer to hand—a pair of agitated pushsnouts, who, despite Scotty’s best efforts, were undoubtedly still eager to express their displeasure at his piloting skills.

  Well, here goes nothing, he thought, trying on a grin as he left the cockpit.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Before Nifty traversed the long hall that led to the cargo hold, he took a brief detour to the cramped engine room. It was filled to bursting with cables, pipes and dozens of readouts that flashed angrily with reports on the torpedo damage.

  Four large clear vats lined the wall, each containing over a thousand gallons of repair solution. Far simpler and safer versions of the Jax’s original Fluxbot dependent creations, these solutions, at their core, were an artificially-intelligent, metallic liquiform that enveloped machines or devices, adding or removing particles at an atomic level, to help with maintenance and repair. Given enough time it could super heat metal and bend it back into shape. Unfortunately, due to their current time constraints, the solutions could probably only complete a fraction of their work before it was time for Eos to leave the station.

  He pulled purge levers at the bottom of two of the vats and watched as their contents oozed out. Without any prompting from Nifty, their programming took over and both repair solutions fanned out across the floor, directing themselves towards the access tubes that would lead them to the damaged engine.

  Nifty returned to the hallway and continued down to the cargo hold. Centuries ago, when the delve-train had first been built as a freighter, the hold had been used to house valuable cargo while less valuable goods were stored in lighter-hulled freight pods pulled behind. But such was the scale of the interior retrofit that, other than the robust outer hull, the train now housed so many military upgrades it barely resembled a freight vessel at all.

  In the cargo hold Scotty was fastening down Grunt’s saddle. Nifty nodded to each pushsnout and received some less than enthusiastic squeals in reply. Crossing to his workmate, Snort, Nifty performed a routine inspection of the saddle and packs, despite knowing they were in good order. Unlike Scotty’s elaborately-carved equipment, his was quite stark by comparison. Nifty preferred the standard-issue gear–he had even swapped some of the more decorative straps and clasps from his saddle, as well as Snort’s harness, for more streamlined gear.

  “Did you get a chance to nap?” Nifty asked Snort with a laugh, finishing his inspection.

  Snort snorted angrily and stomped a hoof in response.

  “Sorry about the last bit there, I’m not going to have to clean out your stall am I?” he mocked, making a point of checking behind the pushsnout, barely managi
ng to dodge Snort’s irritable attempt to crush him against the hull.

  No funny. No funny, the pushsnout signaled. Help friend Grunt, his stomach too much excited.

  “I said I was sorry,” Nifty replied. “It couldn’t be helped. You’ll see when we get outside, the hull is in a terrible state.”

  Snort leered at him for a moment before signaling. When new food we try?

  “Sorry Snort, we’re taking a bit of a detour. No special treats until we reach home again.” Both boars moaned loudly. “Easy there, friends, all in good time.”

  Scotty checked his power pick, holstered on Grunt’s saddle, to make sure she was still fully charged. Much like the rest of Scotty’s gear, it was a time-worn, but well maintained. Another family heirloom, it had been handed down to the oldest child for more than ten generations. The pick had a single blade; the other side was fitted with a hammer carved to look like a cresting wave. The weapon had been aptly named Surge. Although elegantly machined, the pick was bulky and its power rod was nearly double the size and weight of the newer, standard-issue picks. Scotty wisely opted to leave the weapon where it was.

  Satisfied that everything was secure, the stout Ranger unhooked his work helmet and moved to stand in front of the pushsnouts, his back straight, helmet under his arm. “Dusters, attend.”

  Six dusters descended from the ceiling, three landing on Snort and three on Grunt.

  “Thank you, ladies,” said Scotty, nodding to each in turn. “Sorry again for bringing you back on duty early. Couldn’t be helped, we really need your assistance.”

  “I need you all on task, and we don’t want any dillydallying today. Drifter, Swirl, Lilt, take our flank; Dart, Ryder, Floe, you three will be taking the lead,” he instructed, pointing a calloused finger at each trio, “and please, watch your elevation. These older stations are rife with opportunistic predators and we don’t need any errant entanglements today. Any creature, or any Flux strangeness, should be reported immediately. Floe, Lilt, you know what I mean,” he added sternly, donning his broad-rimmed helmet.

  “Any questions?”

  Ryder waved her front two-bladed appendages frantically and made a series of popping sounds. Where are we?

  “Oh, sorry, Ryder, straight to the point as always,” said Scotty. “We are at the Gears of Terraport. We’re not going to cross the threshold into the Helix, but we’ll need to cross to the other side of the station to the machine rooms. Nifty here will point the way. It should be a standard reconnaissance mission, we just want to investigate the doors to the machine room. A complete assessment shouldn’t take more than half a day.” He walked towards a bank of levers at the back of the storage bay, next to the exterior door.

  “Half a day?” blurted Nifty. It would probably take the dreadnaught at least that to recover its men and get re-organized for the hunt, but he’d thought it would take a few hours at most for a return trip across the gears so they could study the keyhole. “I mean, yes, absolutely, half a day sounds about right, with a dreadnaught at our doorstep,” he grumbled, putting on his helmet and gloves. They may as well just hand over the bounty to Belle and Lulu right now.

  Scotty flipped up his collar and retrieved his breather tubes from his jacket. He fastened one end of the tube to a built-in water line in the jacket, and the other between his nostrils and mustache. He took a couple of deep breaths and checked the level of the water reservoir at his hip. He activated the transparent, gauze-like heat shield in his helmet, and it dropped from the helmet’s rim, bridging the gap between the rim and jacket collar.

  Without waiting to see if Nifty was ready, Scotty pulled down hard on two of the levers. A shuddering rumble reverberated through the hull as the train’s access portal at the side irised open and a ramp telescoped out to meet the chamber floor.

  Nifty was forced to quickly adjust his collar and helmet as a wave of heat washed over the group. The familiar sulphureous odor of molten lava filled his nostrils. The six dusters, nearly immune to the heat, swept from the train’s hold and out into the Station. With a nod to Snort, Nifty flicked a recessed toggle on his belt buckle, powering up his work boots and activating the jacket’s heat reflectors, and then leapt into Snort’s saddle.

  Scotty hauled himself up onto Grunt’s powerful back. He took a moment to check the harness and saddle and then, with a quick, clucking noise, they rode out into the sweltering heat of the Gears.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Rangers and their companions entered the enormous chamber. Besides the dull roar of the lava falls, which echoed across the vast space from an escarpment at the far side, all was eerily silent. A lazy, swirling haze rose from the lava pools below, its smoky tendrils snaking upwards, coalescing into a thick layer of smog that shrouded the rocky ceiling, nearly a mile away.

  At the edges of the station, and at each elaborately carved entry tunnel, were millennia-old light globes—still casting their cool-blue glow across the buildings, contrasting eerily with the fiery radiance pulsating from the magma falls.

  The dusters returned from their initial security sweep, circling the Rangers and chittering to each other. Ryder dropped down from the flock to land on Nifty’s outstretched arm.

  Good, clear, good clear, Ryder signaled, flailing her legs excitedly.

  Nifty sat in his saddle, surveying the city-sized station. They were in the docking section, on the topmost platform, and from here he could make out the first transit cog and its carved access ramp. After a quick glance at Scotty to make sure he was still busy assessing the damage to the train, he burrowed his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and retrieved the small pendant of a bird in flight, no more than half the size of his thumb nail.

  “Ryder,” he whispered, “This is a secret, so don’t tell Scotty. If you find more of this airiron on your way to the gates, let me know. Just signal ‘tool’ to me.”

  Why? She signaled questioningly, running her antennae inquisitively across the fragment. We look trouble, not tool.

  “Secret gift for Scotty, that’s why,” he lied, trying his best not to look suspicious as Scotty turned Grunt in their direction. “So just remember to signal tool if you find some.”

  I like man Scotty, I like gift, man Scotty, tool, tool. She signaled, and took off, spiraling up into the air then sweeping out over the station.

  Nifty watched her go. As usual he was not quite sure if he had made himself clear. Though intelligent, the duster’s grasp on language was at best tenuous. It was worth a try, but he doubted she would find any traces of the precious metal. Even the modest station stockpiles would have either been ravaged by the virus or pilfered millennia ago. But if Scotty was reluctant to make any stops on the way home, he could hardly fault Nifty for trying alternative solutions for his problem.

  “The train’s looking bad,” Scotty said from behind his veil as he nudged Grunt closer. “We’ll need to do some work on it with my pick before we leave, see if we can free her up. It’s doubtful the repair solutions will be much help, the thrust generator has sheared off completely.” He sighed, shook his head. “The lads back home in engineering will be none too pleased with us. You may just get your wish lad, we may have to stop in at Ragnatex on the way home for temporary repairs.”

  Nifty nodded, holding back a smile. He pulled back his sleeve and checked his mantle-watch for the route to the machine room. Unlike Scotty’s pocket version, Nifty’s formed a bracer which covered almost half his forearm. He flicked down a lever, and a pair of flaps opened like tiny doors, revealing a miniature three-dimensional display. He scrolled through several small, floating images until Terraport’s Gears appeared. The map revealed a long, hexagonal chamber, roughly four miles across and two miles wide, with multiple levels that stepped down like a coliseum, into the station. He maneuvered the image until only the engine room was highlighted.

  Nifty beckoned to Floe and she landed on his shoulder. Of all the dusters she had always shown the strongest aptitude for navigation and map reading. Expan
ding the image, he directed the duster to the area he wanted them to search. With an agreeable chirp Floe leapt in the air; she would lead the way for a reconnaissance party.

  The pushsnouts let out eager squeals as they trotted quickly to the edge of the platform, both Rangers letting them choose the route that suited them best. As they made their way down to the machine room they passed all manner of machines and buildings, including an array of gigantic, air-purification vents and power generators. Even after all these years they managed to clean and humidify the station’s air, sending out languid plumes of steam into the sweltering Gears.

  Nifty took some time to study the chamber more closely. From the upper platforms, it was easy to see where the chamber got its name. Apart from the upper transit ledge of the station, the entire floor was comprised of over a dozen interconnected cogs lying flat. The largest one, down at the middle of the room, was over a mile in diameter.