Eager to test his new knowledge, Douglas lets mana flow from his fingertip as he draws misshapen runes on the white hull.
[ New skill learned; Engraving lvl 1 ]
[ New rune learned; weakness - strength ]
[ New rune learned; softness - hardness ]
[ New rune learned; brittleness - toughness ]
Chapter Thirteen – That's All She Typed
Katarenin Auchinfon Tomat Peezes has lived her entire life in the lap of luxury. She’d normally wake up in a suspended cloud of blankets, soft fluff, and warm masses of springy air. She’d then subvocalize a few commands that would cause her to drift over to the edge of her energy intensive sleeping quarters.
Then her day would be a leisurely affair filled with social visits, long and luxurious dinners and lunches, and the galaxy’s best entertainment. Extravagant vacations like a sun-diving hotel or viewing artistic artificial solar systems dance from the time bubble of a black hole had become boring to her many, many years ago.
Then by the time all the entertainment in the universe couldn’t keep her interest anymore and all exciting business opportunities had been exhausted, she’d schedule another long sleep of a few hundred years.
This is why when she woke up inside a material locker that she wouldn't even dare to use as a spare shoe storage her interest was piqued. It seemed that her useless and short-lived subordinates had done something interesting for once. This illusion was then shattered by the Histaff infection and the skeleton inside a spacesuit.
First, her attention was taken up by the realisation that this wasn’t all an elaborate way to entertain her. The abuse and neglect she has been put through removed that possibility after the second time she really should have died. Her constant, grievous wounds and seeming immortality combined with her new extreme healing rate have had her questioning a lot of other things, too. Technology can keep someone alive for a long time, and everything that’s not a total disintegration can be healed. Still, the way she just reconnected with her lower half without outside aid or loads of supplements have her doubting all she knows about medicine.
The fireball had alerted her to the fact that she remained conscious even without a brain. The reworked monster cutting her in half and all the debris piercing her head had led her to conclude that she needs a full brain to be in control. The moment her nervous system fails is when the other being inside her skull takes over.
Katarenin is afraid she is starting to lose control even when her brain is intact. Moving her body feels oddly difficult at times. Her top of the line, nano-woven muscle fibres and enhanced skeleton should allow her to lift hundreds of kilos with ease. Instead of the supernatural grace she is used to, she feels as weak as a kitten at times, especially when acting in ways that impede that warp-cursed skeleton.
Katarenin flicks her newly slimed hair out of her face and mournfully looks at the remains of the clothes she is wearing. The rather old-fashioned outfit she bought is reduced to dirty rags, the ribbon she added entirely gone. Refusing to let her tormentor see her distress, she looks at the seated figure.
Another one of those complex drawings is projected in the air around him. This one looks similar to the one she saw before when he was freezing stuff with his odd tools. Complex lines and an unknown script intertwine themselves through the air between his hand and the white ship. Each symbol seems oddly similar, though. They all seem made out of two parts smushed together somehow. Katarenin ignores the oddly analytical thought and continues thinking about her problems.
She might be a bit stuck up, she muses, but she is far from stupid. All the odd happenings have led her to a single and pretty certain conclusion. There is someone else in her body. Another person, being, or consciousness is hitching a ride inside her skull, and Katarenin is not happy about it. The feeling of someone else moving her bones, another person having agency over her very own flesh and blood feels incredibly wrong to the woman.
So instead of bothering with the annoying skeleton any further, Katarenin walks towards a nearby doorway. These types of stations are all built according to a certain set of base principles. Katarenin should know, she put some of them down on paper - digital paper with a molecular resolution - herself after all.
This is how Katarenin is pretty sure that a workshop should be nearby, a workshop with a certain assortment of tools. The condition the ships are in, which replacements parts are being used, and the collection of tools available at the workbenches are all clear signs of a certain technology level.
She walks further into the hangar, having spotted the yellow-marked doorway the moment she entered the space. She looks backward while strutting towards the door, seeing the suited skeleton sitting next to the extremely impractical ship.
Katarenin is so annoyed by the being that she spits on the floor. Her fluid glands seem to work on demand now, another disturbing fact that she is consciously ignoring. She casts one last glance at the floating symbols that are now circling the figure before kicking open the door with all her might. The magnetically hinged door slams open with enough force to stir up a small dust storm.
Her beautiful face twists into a frown as she inspects the apparatus and tools inside the workshop. Printers, lathes, and power tools that were ancient when she was born are all she sees. The amount of coatings, scratches, and wear and tear visible on the things is more proof that these are all hand me downs ditched by their previous owners.
Finding the tools unworthy of even spitting at, she walks over to the nearest scanner she sees. A simple ring is suspended between two physical poles. She jabs at the control screen, cracking the ancient glass before she manages to control her irritation, and steps inside.
The fact that the entire thing even needs physical supports or even the fact that it's an actual, physical ring is more than enough proof of its cheapness. This scanner seems to be one of the newer items, and it is a few dozen decennia old at the minimum. Katarenin then performs a herculean feat of mental strength. She prevents herself from exploding as the scanner slowly and arduously rotates around her as it moves up and down.
Five whole irritation filled minutes later, she huffily steps out of the machine and squints at the readout.
Her pale face loses the last bit of rosiness as she flicks through the diagrams of her body. The horror of what she sees takes a few moments to percolate through her mind.
She collapses onto the ground, not moving for hours as she lays there, paralyzed by shock. She displays no tears, no sobbing, not even a change in facial expression. Katarenin processes the news by falling into perfect, unthinking, and unmoving catatonic apathy.
Her entire life she believed the galaxy her oyster. She bossed around people many times her senior. She played the business game on such a level that she controlled the financial fate of billions with but a word. Galactic policy, fashion, and regulations were all her playthings as she spent her time with her hobbies.
Katarenin might seem like a standard spoiled brat, but the education she received cost enough to feed entire planets. Her tutors were warped in from around the universe. Her father - or whom she believed to be her father - had doted on her, spoiled her and wished nothing but the best for her. She was given control of companies that spanned entire sectors just because she asked.
And now this…
Many hours later, Katarenin stirs. Her limp, unbreathing body shudders as she takes in air once again. She slowly stands, a slight bit of fire returning to her eyes.
“Okay. I’m going to make a new one. You can keep this one. I will embrace my nature.”
She nods once, firmly and decisively. Then she moves like the wind. Slight flicks of her finger calls up holographic displays. She requests the station’s data feed, brute forcing the weak encryption with her implanted computer. The network security that spans the entire ring-shaped space station collapses immediately as her integrated computer brings up all data available.
She stands still for but a few seconds. Instead of pas
sively watching things happen, she takes stock, plans, and calculates. She concludes that the power and stock reserves available to her should be sufficient. The only resources she lacks are some of the rarer elements. Then again, there is a hangar filled with exotic engines and warp drives just through that door.
She will need to demolish those ships to get at the precious resources inside, but her current strength is insufficient. No matter how enhanced she is, there is only so much that can be done without outwardly changing things, and she hasn't been able to use her full strength, anyway.
Katarenin strides out of the workshop, a fire in her eyes. Faint trails of blue are trailing through her flowing, dried slime covered hair as she struts back the way she came. The dust swirling behind her as the workshop door slams against the wall violently gives her a mystical and proud demeanour.
No-one sees the impressive visuals as Katarenin is lost in thought while Douglas is still ogling the white, calcium-based ship like a bony pervert. She strides past him, ignoring the growing cloud of glowing runes that surround the seated spacesuit. Her quick stride only slows when she reaches the door leading to the mall. Instead of kicking it open, she peeks through a small gap. She doesn’t spot the reworked bone beast, much to her relief, and walks into the dirty mall. She does wonder why the mall specifically is covered in beast and slime when the hangar is still rather clean.
Instead of pondering such useless things, she concentrates on moving softly and swiftly. The only sound she makes is the rustling of synthetic material against non-stick flooring covered in biological goop. The soft ‘swish’ and ‘splash’ sounds don’t attract any unwanted attention as she scours the stores. She slides past Histaff monsters, slime, and piles of wreckage for ten minutes before finding what she wants.
The store is relatively clean, the display models only moderately dirty. The same four suits are proudly displayed once again. She ignores the other display models and walks over to the desk. She is about to viciously slap down her hand on the counter but stops herself in the last second. She softly makes a few gestures on the holographic display, presses her hand against the payment box, and waits.
The large metal container arrives just like the previous one, trash, bones, and slime preceding the large container. She elegantly dodges the deluge of filth and opens the package quickly. A sturdy and rather yellow Brickad Fekston helmet looks up at her. She takes it and puts it on her head.
Knowing what she now knows, activating the suit is rather straightforward. Its onboard computer seemed unable to recognise the skeleton as a living being. Katarenin still finds this rather odd, as the inbuilt scanners should recognise even non-biological beings. She ignores the potential implications completely, not finding it in herself to care.
The bulky, yellow suit clicks closed around her, pistons and mechanical seals hissing and whirring into motion. She deftly controls the onboard computer, commanding it to enter its silent mode.
Katarenin grudgingly admits that the suit is of decent quality. These types of universally used items have been perfected ages ago. Economics never were Katarenin’s strong suit, though, so the exact reason why these mass produced items need to be of such absurd quality eludes her. These things are so far beyond the technology levels of this station that it's almost comical. That includes even those trashy nWear suits the skeleton seems to be in love with.
One of these things made by hand would cost more than all the ships in the hangar. The only reason they are so cheap is because of galactic regulations and the solar system spanning scale on which they are produced. Every single space-faring air breather needs a suit, after all.
Katarenin then makes her way back to the hangar, slightly less elegant as she silently moves in the bulky, yellow exoskeleton. Douglas ignores her as she tiptoes inside. He doesn’t even look up from the ship as Katarenin puts the suit through its paces, sprinting across the hangar at superhuman speeds while turning on a dime.
She stumbles as she overestimates the stopping power of the suit’s magnetic clamps and crashes into a ship. She peels herself free from the crumbled hull and awkwardly dusts herself off, metal alloy grinding on yellow paint. The skeleton still ignores all.
Now angry for a slightly different reason, Katarenin stomps away. Deciding to vent her anger on the nearest ship, she starts methodically ripping the thing apart. The suit’s inbuilt construction - or, in her case, deconstruction - tools have all kinds of inbuilt safeties. Express proof of ownership needs to be supplied before the suit will allow its wearer to demolish high-value items like space boats or ships.
Katarenin overrides the safeties with a contemptuous sneer, using her advanced implants to brute force the suit’s computer. A grim smile is plastered on her face as she cuts a ship’s hull open, panels of alloy with their edges glowing orange falling to the floor as she carves her way towards the power core. The short but fiercely glowing blades of pure energy extending from the suit’s hands cut through metal panelling, alloy beams, and fabric upholstery with ease.
At first, her cuts are clumsy and enthusiastic. This changes slowly as her moves become faster and cleaner, needing less movement with each subsequent barrier. Her face twists into a fierce grimace as she finally finds a physical obstacle to overcome, something to fight.
The shielding around the warp core is the thickest yet, but she carves through the hermetically sealed barrier with savage strokes. Tears start running down her face as she vents her frustrations on the innocent ship. So lost is she in her internal struggle that she fails to stop in time.
The glowing blade cuts into the power core milliseconds after she realises she really shouldn’t do that.
The ship explodes into fragments as fail-safes disintegrate the warp core. Its industrial secrets are saved from sinister forces by forceful and immediate detonation. Katarenin is launched through the tunnel she cut, the still glowing edges deforming as she slams through the ship's interior. The explosion is rather powerful but largely dampened by the ship itself, the sturdy hull concentrating the explosion as she flies off like a bullet.
She spins around a bit as more frustration wells up in her heart. The fact that she now knows it’s not really her heart only exacerbates her internal pain. She slams against the wall with quite a bit of force and lays there for a minute or so. She calms down rather quickly, the lack of pain or other true physical feedback sobering her up quickly.
The previously bright yellow suit is now blackened in front, the shining scratches contrasting with the soot stains. Katarenin slowly rises to her feet again, looking at the blackened and smoking ship. Dark smog pours from its many holes. She resolutely ignores the wrecked boat and walks over to another one. Some banging and tearing sounds come from far away, but neither pissed off woman nor oblivious skeleton pays the noise any heed.
The second ship is carved into with a bit more finesse, stopping when she reaches the core, putting her hands on the items, and allowing her implants to hack it before cutting it apart. Avoiding the inert safety mechanisms, she skilfully carves the item open. She pulls the fuel rods from the thing and straps them to her suit.
She slogs over to another ship and repeats the procedure. Three ships later, the storage area on her suit is full, and she walks over to the workshop. There she dumps the gathered resources into a printer’s hopper and starts programming the primitive molecular weaver. She taps away at the keys when her implants fail to connect, the protocols and communication lines too old to be backward compatible with her modern hardware.
All the stiffness in her bones and the clumsiness in her movements seems gone. This is not merely due to the heavy spacesuit Katarenin is wearing, but she consciously tries not to think about that subject. A model forms slowly, hovering above the low-resolution holographic display pad. She forms a skeletal frame at first, adding cords of synthetic muscle and layers of supple, metal mesh as she designs a replica of her own form.
Katarenin first thought that the flickering and grainy hologram was a
new trend, some retro fad that has made old school holograms popular once again. Then she realizes that the hologram is just that old and worn down. She starts feeling a headache but realizes that it’s probably just an illusion. Her headache worsens.
Then the printer gives her a warning, telling her that material stock is low. She walks off, her bulky frame stomping out the door with loud steps. She only pauses long enough to grab a floating mag cart, dragging the resisting floatation device behind her.
More ships are cut up as she scans the various hulls for the raw components she needs. Metals are rather abundant, but some of the trace elements needed in the finer equipment take her some scavenging. One destructive acquisition action later, she has returned and starts loading the still glowing pieces of hull, frame, and other ship components into the printer’s hopper.
The old machine then starts spewing out parts one by one. The printing bay is too small to print the entire thing at once. It also lacks the needed functions and features to support printing all the components at the same time.
The fog of loose atoms spraying onto the printing bed slowly forms a single item. The separate particles are all guided to their proper place, printing the part slowly. Katarenin stares at the item forming through the grubby glass. She grabs it the moment it's done, places it on a workbench, and punches a few buttons. The printer starts forming another part as she starts tinkering with the first.
Slowly more parts are added, and slowly the object she is constructing takes shape. She first forms a rough human skeleton, a technological facsimile of the skeleton who has been putting her through so much abuse. Katarenin spends a few minutes cursing and punching a workbench after she realizes this fact.
The printer’s chime indicating that another part is finished wakes her from her destructive haze. She dejectedly continues working on the object, slowly adding metal bone, synthetic connective tissue, and mechanical muscle.
She starts designing an alloy mesh that will take the place of skin but somehow can’t start the printer on that task. Something inside her refuses to move, refuses to start the task that will clad the metal body in fake skin. Instead, she spends some time putting together a nasty looking spike.
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