Submantle- The Alpha Key

by Patrick Lane

  “And there shouldn’t be any, at least for the next thousand years, according to engineering reports from the Helix,” replied Scotty. “Now focus, son. No doubt our friend in there got a little too close to one of the machines.”

  Nifty took the launcher from his hip and locked the cylindrical device it into place on on Riot's haft, just above the bats pommel. A green light flashed to show it was ready, so he selected the mapping function. With a nod from Scotty he launched one of its ten discs out into the chamber. Three blade-like wings sprang out along its edge as it spun its way down into the storage bays. It made a long loop before circling back up to the men.

  Thrusting out the bat, Nifty caught the disc back into the launcher. He pulled back the sleeve of his jacket to expose his mantle watch and fished out a short connector probe. Within seconds, an orange and blue image appeared on his wrist, a tiny version of the chamber below. He began expanding portions of the three-dimensional image, scouring it for anything out of the ordinary.

  “Nothing moving and the dead body isn’t in this section. The racks look to be in order, so it should be safe to descend,” he commented, as he did his final checks of the images. “We should get better readings once we climb down, though.”

  “Ryder, where is Floe and the body of the poor unfortunate?” Scotty asked.

  Ryder glided down and landed on Nifty’s shoulder, gesturing towards the far end of the storage bays.

  “Of course she is,” said Nifty with a sigh. “Let’s get you loaded.” He set his shoulder bag at his feet, and retrieved a small kickback canister and harness.

  The duster hopped down from Nifty’s shoulder and stepped into the harness; he then cinched it tightly around her sleek abdomen and ran small control cables along her front legs. With a few deft movements, she made a quick test; a burst of aerosol fired from the nozzle at the rear of the canister.

  “Good,” said Scotty, packing his far-scope away. “Now don’t go dusting everything in sight like Dart is apt to do.” He paused for a moment, frowning. “Actually, do you mind just riding on Nifty for now? It would make me feel better to have you close.”

  Yes, yes, she signaled enthusiastically. Me like mans, me like stay, and with that, she quickly hopped up and perched herself on Nifty’s helmet light.

  Nifty began feeding line through the pulley, down to the opposite side of the gate and into the bay below. He snapped a lever on his heel and the climbing wheels swung to the back of the boots. He grabbed the rope with a gloved hand and jumped over the edge. The wheels gripped the gate’s surface, slowing his descent slightly as he sped down towards the storage bays below. A shower of sparks erupted from his heels as he intermittently leaned back to apply the brakes, further slowing his descent.

  Less than thirty feet from the ground, Nifty shifted his weight onto his toes and pushed himself free of the gate. Holding the rope tightly to slow his final descent, he landed lightly on the floor.

  Once inside the protective walls, the heat from the falls became almost imperceptible, and he felt as if he had been plunged into a pool of cool water. Retracting his shroud and removing his gloves, Nifty assessed the wide boulevard and was more than a little surprised at what he saw.

  The use of heat-stoked flooring seemed to have stopped at the gates and everything, both metal and stone, was deeply etched with ancient numbers and letters. Every inch of every surface was covered by these enigmatic runes; he doubted a flicker flea could find a path across any surface without encountering the deeply-gouged script. The effect as a whole was eerily beautiful.

  Nifty heard Scotty grunt in protest, as he landed heavily behind him. His shroud was already retracted, and once again he held the far-scope to his eye, searching the area.

  Lowering the scope, the big man crouched down to run a bare hand across the engraved surface at their feet. “What do you make of this, lad? I’ve never seen anything like it before; it’s very detailed – look there.” He pointed to the almost-perfect grid pattern which wove its way across the floor.

  “I have no idea. Do you think the ancients did this?” asked Nifty, removing his boot wheels and placing them in front of the door, ready for a running stomp-latch if they needed a quick escape.

  “Doubtful,” Scotty replied. Un-holstering his power pick, he fell into stride beside Nifty as they made theirway down the boulevard. “I recognize the numbers, but I don’t understand the sequences. It doesn’t look recent, but it’s impressive enough that we should consider whatever may have made it as dangerous, and possibly still about.”

  “Well, whoever it was seems to have had no shortage of time on their hands,” Nifty speculated, taking out the launcher so they could once again to check for any other strangeness.

  Satisfied with the mantle watch’s readout, they made their way deeper into the storage area.

  As they passed by the racks of equipment, Nifty was tempted to take a closer look at their contents. He wondered if Ryder had remembered his request to search for Scotty’s present, the airiron. Chances were that she may have already forgotten the code word tool, given all the excitement of visiting the Gears.

  The wide passage finally opened out into an immense work space, just in front of the machine room doors. It was designed to allow unhindered access once the doors were open. Dotted across the floor were stacks of dust covered metal crates, lined up neatly, awaiting storage. They passed the bay’s control tower to their left. A cylindrical structure made from glistening marble, banded with interwoven metal casings. The structure flared out from the base, like a tulip, up to a platform nearly a hundred feet across that was situated for the best possible view along both aisles. Warily, they approached the machine room doors, searching cautiously, well aware that whatever caused the demise of the chamber’s most recent explorer could still be lurking nearby.

  Lining the walls to either side of the doors rested countless wheeled machines, ranging in size from a couple of feet tall to well over fifty. His best guess was that they were cargo loaders and sorters of some kind. He could feel waves of heat radiating from braided tubing that ran from the walls to each loader, channeling magma that kept the machine’s Flux cores constantly charged. Much like the floor, most of the machines had been etched with the same peculiar lettering across their metallic limbs and chassis. Surprising Nifty that somehow something as simple as the geometric patterns seemed to lend each one a feeling of a distinctly different personality.

  Most of the loaders were mounted on single gyrocasters, but some of the larger machines required half a dozen or more. The gyrocasters were dynamic, metal clad wheels of varying sizes that contained their own internal drive and balancing system; they could be locked onto nearly any machine that required transport and had the necessary coupler. Used independently or in groups, they had been invaluable tools for the ancients. Unfortunately, the scourge had tainted many of the gyrocasters, rendering them highly unpredictable and dangerous. Though they continued to be built, the post Scourge machines lacked many of their predecessor’s unique functions.

  Nifty felt a pang of discomfort as he inspected the loaders. He was aware that they were simple machines, hardly more complex than a child’s mechanical toy, yet he couldn’t shake off the feeling that they were watching him, returning his scrutiny.

  “Impressive,” commented Scotty, as he appraised the machine room’s studded, silver doors.

  Nifty followed his gaze. It was difficult to gauge their height, as the top disappeared into a thick, brooding mist far above. Hunched to either side, like slumbering Brunt grizzlies, were the doors’ giant drive engines.

  “Impressive, but dangerous,” Nifty concurred warily, slowing his pace, beckoning Ryder onto his arm. “Could you dust the door engines and the first few loaders, please? Or whatever they are...”

  “The ones up there, on two gyrocasters, with large pincers, are top loaders, with a linked tread for climbing between the racks,” Scotty volunteered, re-holstering his pick. “Those ones with the big drums
on top are called Trussing machines, if I recall correctly. They carry thermosilk spools in those containers, for wrapping some of the more sensitive parts. I think those smaller ones, that look like pickle barrels with two arms, are cleaners...”

  “...What about that one?” Nifty interrupted, pointing to a particularly complex silver and blue machine. It towered over the cleaners, its four mechanical arms limp at its sides, and ran on a set of four gyrocasters. At its crown-like head, if you could call it a head, were four sensor discs, one on each side. It was the only machine of its kind he could see, or had ever seen, for that matter.

  Scotty considered the bulky unit for a moment before answering. “I can’t say. Something I seem to remember wants me to call it a Dominion. I think it may be the problem solver for this storage zone. The Ancients designed them so they wouldn’t have to enter the racks every time an issue arose.”

  “It sounds like you just made that up,” Nifty snorted, raising an eyebrow at the senior Ranger.

  Ryder took off, and he turned to call after her. “Is Floe up there?” He pointed to the towering operations platform.

  “Yes,” the duster signaled, swooping through the air, as she headed towards the machines.

  She made a low pass in front of the gate engines and dusted a fine mist across each one. The chemical released from the kickback canister was a broad combination of Flux strains, each one carefully selected to give the spray the maximum chance to react violently, or kickback, when in the presence of the virus or a corrupted Flux deposit.

  When neither engine reacted from the aerosol, Nifty nodded to Scotty, and they crossed the courtyard to the control tower.

  Suddenly, a winged shadow streaked across the floor, startling Nifty, Looking up, he caught a glimpse of two sizable ripwings as they glided through the air towards the racking system.

  “Scrap! That’s the last thing we need. They must be roosting up there.” He craned his neck trying to see where they went. “They’ve seen us for sure, so let’s get a move on in case they decide to get more adventurous.”

  “They’ll not bother us,” Scotty reassured him, worming his hand into his pocket to retrieve his notebook, scratching away on it for a brief moment. “They’re no match for either one of us; even the wild ones are sure to be intelligent enough to know better.”

  “Tell that to Buttar,” Nifty scoffed, appraising the racks. “The gouges on Buttar’s rump were made by claws much larger than the ones on the ripwings we have back home.”

  “Well, if they circle around, we’ll give them something to squawk about,” Scotty countered, putting his notebook away. “A couple of shield-slashes should do it.”

  Nifty tried to work up a nervous smile, but the sudden appearance of the ripwings had brought to mind the corpse on the platform, and he began to wonder if the duster’s description of the cause of death was wholly accurate.

  Stalking across to the tower, he stepped onto the floating staircase that spiraled around the cylindrical base. Climbing two at a time, Nifty noticed that they hadn’t escaped the stamped runes. Six spirals up, Nifty arrived at an open platform that provided a clear view of the entire storage bay down below. He could even make out the upper outline of the engine room doors through the mist. Three long banks of instrumentation panels were arranged in a loose triangle at the center of the platform, with larger units lining the edges. Each bank was dominated by a tall spire of winding metal that intertwined with its neighbor and disappeared up toward the ceiling nearly a mile away.

  “Floe?” Nifty called. “Location?”

  Floe flickered her wings, catching Nifty’s eye. The duster was looping above one of the consoles on the other side of the platform, facing the machine room doors, and he started towards her.

  Scotty’s thick hand grabbed his shoulder before he took the second step. “Easy, lad –let Ryder do her work first.”

  Ryder zig-zagged her way across the platform, dusting each machine with a fine layer, before landing next to Floe.

  “Nothing,” Nifty commented puzzled, watching Ryder’s trail. “Not a single reaction, either here or below. This is making very little sense.”

  “Agreed! I was expecting a couple of mild reactions at the very least,” Scotty offered, moving past Nifty towards the dusters. “Let’s retrieve the poor chap and be on our way. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  As he wound his way through the consoles, Nifty kept an eye on the racks, watching for sign of the ripwings, still not convinced they were gone. He had covered about half the distance to the dusters when he was accosted by a sickly rotting odor that even managed to cut through the pervasive smell of magma. The stench was so foul that he had to resist the urge to cover his mouth and nose. Nifty warily made his way to where Scotty had stopped near the far console, wincing in disgust at the sight before him.

  The body was badly charred and beyond decay and barely resembled human form. Whoever this man was, he had been dead a dozen days or more and was almost unrecognizable as a Submantler. He was slumped over the control panel with one arm buried up to its elbow in an elaborate cylindrical shaft right in the middle of the console. Along with everything else in the room, the machine was scarred with the same etchings as the bay below.

  “Scrap! What do you suppose did that?” Nifty uttered, his Ranger training reflexively scanning the platform yet again.

  “I don’t know. But whatever did this may still be around. We need to get this body, or what’s left of it, out of here and back to the delve-train,” Scotty insisted, bending over to examine the corpse more closely.

  He stopped suddenly, his untamed eyebrows arching upwards, and he pointed to a long rectangular badge above the shaft with the poor man’s arm stuck in it. “I think my eyes may be playing tricks on me – can you read that under all that stamping? Does that say door?”

  Nifty leaned in to get a better look, and almost gagged as a wave of rot washed over him. “The middle one says machine, and the last one says doors, if I’m getting the translation right.” Staring at the badge, his mind started racing through all the possibilities. “Was he trying to open the doors?” He stood upright, pointing definitively from the body to the console. “Is this the keyhole?”

  “I think it is.” Scotty said, his eyes lighting up. “I’ll yank him out so we can take a closer look.”

  He hooked his pick around the charred torso so he could pry the body out of the way.

  “Seriously?” Nifty protested, slapping Scotty’s pick to the side. ” Remind me never to drop dead while you’re around.” He scowled at the senior Ranger, annoyed. “If this was one of your boys, you wouldn’t be treating him like a sack of potatoes that was in your way,” he chided, reaching into his pouch for a thermosilk wrap.

  “Sorry, lad, I was letting my impatience get the best of me,” Scotty replied in feigned contrition, and yet, he got his notepad out once again and started scribbling. This time, from what Nifty could see, he was broadly sketching the layout of the console.

  Nifty quickly laid out the thermosilk on the floor, slipped on his gloves, and began the unsavory task of peeling the corpse off the console, starting with the arm. He tugged at it gently, trying to remove it from the keyhole, but it resisted his initial attempt, stuck and twisted in the shaft as it was. So he found a better grip, and gave it a harder yank. The arm un-expectantly popped out of the controller, making a sickening, slurping sound, sending Nifty stumbling back, causing the arm to rip away at the shoulder, and send out a spray of gore.

  “Niftmire!” Scotty exploded, throwing his hands up a little too late as a thin stream of fluid was splattered across his face and chest. “What’s the matter with you? What happened to treating him with respect?” he spluttered, pulling out his handkerchief and water bottle, desperately trying to rid himself of the stinking mess.

  “Sorry,” Nifty stammered, torn between the horror of what he’d just done to the poor body and trying desperately to keep a straight face as he watched Scotty.

&n
bsp; While trying to wash the inky liquid off, Scotty somehow managed to get some of the run-off into his mouth and breathing tube, and was rinsing and spitting frantically, spluttering between mouthfuls. “It tastes like month-old goat’s milk, you careless dross-wit!”

  The console activated suddenly, and thoughts of apologizing again vaporized as both men stopped and starred suspiciously at the flashing controls until, without prompting, the console shut itself down.

  With a shrug to Scotty, he returned his attention to the amputated limb. It felt heavy in his hands, and Nifty noticed that it had remained untouched by the charring, most likely because it had been lodged in the keyhole. An interesting silver mantle-watch was fastened at the wrist. Keeping it as far away as he could, Nifty turned to put the leaking limb on the thermosilk.

  “Stop!” Scotty barked through a spray of water. “That band on the forearm, what is that? That is not a mantle-watch.” Fumbling the flask back to his hip, he held out his hands eagerly to inspect the arm, the overwhelming stench all but forgotten. “I think that’s the Key, lad – I think that’s the Key!”