The First Technomancer

by G Aliaksei C

  “That’s your plan to deal with the Nova? To openly fight them under our walls?”

  “Fight them, and then beat the shit out of them, yes. They won’t be expecting that.”

  The General looked at her four recruits. “Beat a Nova detachment with nineteen Class 8 units, four recruits, a Corporate engineer, some low-Class fortifications and myself?” She paused. “I can try.”

  “Then I must excuse myself, I have a small army to rearm and refugees to examine.”

  I wanted to go home and pace. Instead I headed out the south gate to examine the guests of my fine establishment. “Fort, any chance of spies being among our guests?”

  “Negative, Commander. They all appear to know each other quite well. No outlying characters.”

  “How are they doing?”

  “They are setting up and digging in, sir.”

  By ‘setting up and digging in’ the AI meant the refugees literally digging trenches and putting up large tents and metal shacks, unfolding a kitchen and setting up small fires across the camp. Around a hundred people worked tirelessly, cooking or building. I figured the food dispenser produce we sent out for them was not popular, and remembering the tasteless bars I knew exactly why.

  The thought that the people with technology to build ringworlds didn’t deploy decent food fabricators on said ringworlds crossed my mind. The only notable effect of this deficiency was that it forced people to rely on more basic means of feeding themselves - farming and hunting. Fort reported that several groups went orbit and counterorbit, bringing back several dead Beasts for food.

  I was amazed by the news. These were true Waste Ringers - going out into a Class 8 zone, in a firestorm, to hunt for food. Looking beyond the roaring explosions beyond the Dome I tried to imagine hunting in those conditions.

  One by one the refugees stopped what they were doing and started moving towards me as I passed by. Several ran ahead to bring the survivors from the other side of the camp. By the time I reached center tent, a crowd surrounded me.

  “Knock knock!”

  “Who’s there?” Came a distracted voice from inside. I didn’t think anyone bothered to notify the leadership of my march on them.

  “Vazanklav! Open up!” Then, in less theatrical voice. “The General sent me to ask some questions.”

  The crowd began to whisper among themselves until the tent flap flew open. A bald, bearded man with blue eyes stared out at me.

  “Vazanklav, did you..” His eyes landed on my forehead and as I turned to face him, and he changed his tone. “Hello, nice to meet you. I’m the Chief of the survivors.”

  “You can call me Mr. Frost. I need a report on the enemy. What is their strength, and what do you think the Nova will do next?”

  “Vallow!” Yelled the chief, then explained to me. “Vallow is our strategist. Graduated from an Ice Ring war academy!” He said that as if it were to mean something to me. I faked a nod of understanding.

  “Yes Chief?” A smaller Slime of Humanoid shape walked out of the crowd. The child-sized thing sounded like a thoughtful cat.

  “How do you think things are going to develop?”

  Vallow made a serious face. “Nova forces cannot hold the Gate longer than four to five days. They need to leave in three before Union military retakes the town. But I have no idea why they would take it in the first place.”

  “They needed a foothold,” I said.

  “What for? We don’t have anything of value nearby.”

  “Your Gate was nearest to us.”

  Vallow frowned at me, “You have something of value? Out here? In a Class 8 zone?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  The strategist considered, “They cannot retreat back up the Gate chain and off the Ring, so they will be forced to march out. With the forces we saw, it will take them four days to reach here. If the Raiders are in cooperation with you, that could be stretched out to over ten days with ease. They, in turn, will leave automated traps and warbots to slow down the Union army behind them.”

  “That surely would leave them starved and tired by the time they reach the valley!” The Chief seemed pleased with this explanation.

  “They are not fools, they have planned for the trip.”

  “I don’t think they did,” They looked at me, “You see, this wasn’t a Class 8 zone until a few days ago.”

  “Really?” The Chief looked excited for a moment, then concerned. “So you are only recently dealing with this environment? Are you evacuating?”

  “Evacuating? No. We are staying right here.”

  Vallow was squinting at me with blank eyes, counting something in his head, then spoke up. “They are bringing at least thirty teams, ten of which are Class 7 Siege Tower teams. One and a half volley from one of those towers will collapse a single Comfort Dome, and your RAM-Ds are not quite high-Class enough to damage the towers back. Two volleys from ten Siege Towers will level every defense you have. The other teams will move in, secure anything of value, pack and ship it with a lifter to a cargo ship overhead. All equipment of value will be sent up as well, and the troops will commit suicide. That, most likely, is their plan.”

  According to the Rules, no non-Corporate could leave the Rings. Automated transport ships moved between Rings freely, dropping and picking up cargo, but living beings could only move about conventionally or through Gates - no craft would lift out of the atmosphere with a living being onboard. Jim had to be delivered via airship at the foundation of the fortress, while the rest of the base was brought in from space. It meant that Nova could send out their loot and supplies, but not retreat their troops. Not that they had a need for that, since death would move them instantly to a Respawn point of choice, likely in the safety of their own Ring and nation.

  This was a robbery. A forward, heavily armed theft.

  Vallow looked up, at the raging soup of fire above.

  I agreed with his unspoken idea. “I am sure the weather will cause more wear than they intended. Have you met the Hacksaw on your way here?”

  “What’s a Hacksaw?”

  “Large, lots of sword-legs, armor and flesh, teleports, Fusion Lance for a face, had a Slipstream?”

  “We don’t know, Mr. Frost. We set out with twice as many people and vehicles as you see now. After we entered the storm, we started losing contact with them, one after another.”

  “Also,” someone from the crowd raised a hand, “I saw a Dragon on our way here, but no one believed me. Do you…”

  The speaker was silenced by a push from another bystander. “Shut up!”

  But I had heard the question. “Yeah, we have a Dragon.” The crowd snapped into silence. The Chief stared at me with wide eyes. I explained. “It’s… neutral? We don’t know, it’s being debated amongst experts.”

  After a period of thoughtful silence a murmur spread through the crowd. At first I thought the refugees were discussing my revelations, but noticed that they were all looking at their Menus.

  As the noise turned into a roar someone called out. “Chief? We have Waypoint connection. Check HS One.”

  The Chief hastily opened the Menu browser, and connected to ‘Hell Station One’, the central Union news channel. I leaned over his shoulder, watching the video feed on the holographic screen. I felt weaker with every word the speaker uttered from the Menu.

  “…and, amongst the list of Nova targets, a particular location has come to the attention of numerous research and combat organizations. One of the Nova invasion units has taken Gate Town ‘Mullinger’ and are using it against what is believed to be the first permanent outpost in a Class 8 Zone since the First Colonization Effort. The outpost has, so far, reported at least two new Beast types previously undocumented by the Archives. The same outpost is also responsible for a section of the latest combat-data updates on the White Specter, a mysterious Beast thought to reside at the core of every Waste Ring Hotzone.

  “This outpost holds the name Vazanklav, and is confirmed to have a well-known Cha
mpion of Hades Ring, the Lady of War, in its employment, as well as at least one Corporate. Rumors are circulating that Vazanklav is also the source of the Firebolters and Black Ammo shipments that have shaken up the weapons market in these last few weeks. The outpost is thought to house the inventor and only manufacturer of these resources, the Technomancer…”

  “Void damnit!” I yelled into the sky.

  3 : The Short War

  Day 92

  The night before the battle, I had a dream.

  It was a rare occasion for me. Before my first death, back on Earth, there was too much stress and work pressing down every waking moment to dream. Since I arrived on the Rings I managed to relax and slow down my marching mind, allowing for the energy one often needs to dream.

  This dream was clear and short. Through the armored faceplate of my powered armor, through the radioactive snow and wind, under the dark, raging skies of Earth, I saw the Hive, the capital of the Corporation I spent most of my life in. It was an incredible structure, a pyramid with a base just over two kilometers on each side and reaching a kilometer into the sky. Ruthless wind bashed away at the Durasteel and stone walls, alternating directions every few hours. The ice-covered surface occasionally erupted in an explosion, a projectile blasting out of the walls to destroy a distant target.

  I knew the Hive by heart. I saw into the pyramid, into every level and compartment, tracing the elevator shafts and passages in my memory. Within the thick walls of armor and defenses I plotted out every cannon and launcher.

  The world exploded. Thousands of stealthed nuclear hellburners struck in a grid of absolute destruction, turning the frozen forests and lands of Siberia to ash. The firestorm lasted only a few seconds in my memory, but I knew that in reality the forest burned for hours before the frozen winds put them out. In my dream I felt the ground stop shaking, and wiped the faceplate off with my armored glove. In the red glow of annihilation the Hive stood, unbreached. It was a memory of the hopeless Syndicate assault, entirely ineffective against the impenetrable defenses of the Corporate capital. I felt the radiation melt away the suit, then me, and I knew great weakness in that moment, knowing that I was not strong enough, not as absolute as the burning structure before me.

  My eyes opened when I was already standing over my bed, reaching for the pistol on the workbench next to me. I forced my hand down and let out an exasperated breath. So much for a relaxing nap before the battle.

  I remembered the day from my dream as I brushed my teeth and shaved. I was rushing around to secure equipment as the world shook itself apart around me. Even standing within it I never doubted that the Hive would survive the attack, the intimate knowledge of the structure I was in keeping my mind at ease, trusting the engineering and thought that went into it.

  I used to live in hell, I realized. When I slept, I slept with a gun in my hands and a sword at my side. When I lived, I lived to kill and to survive. Every second I had to be aware and alert, seeing every detail around me, prepared to survive any assault on myself or my comrades.

  My current life was heavenly, in comparison. Death was temporary. The enemies were not genocidal. The allies were, mostly, true.

  The white dwarf was shining through its dark halo in the clear skies, unclouded by deadly ash. The grass was growing under the Comfort Dome, the absolute radiation I was accustomed to lacking in the fertile soil.

  So the only thing I felt as I climbed into my armor was excitement. Clamps locked the shell of armor to my limbs, humming and glowing as I took a testing step.

  I had, without a moment of regret, stolen Corporate designs from my time. The Class 4 suit was an amalgamation of my work. I stood, and the additional joints below my feet extended, making me tower in the center of my workshop. It was like having another bone and knee below the foot, or as if the foot itself was longer, like in several species of wild Old Earth cats.

  I used my solar furnace, an unstable source of power under these weather conditions, to create a steel-Durasteel alloy. Durasteel was rare, like gold on Earth. The villagers had personal stashes of it, lifetime savings of up to a few kilograms each. The younger villagers had less than a few grams.

  I used up all of it.

  Part of the produced mass went into Flying Armor, some into laminating Gray, Inna and Mr. Ember, and some was used up on my own suit. My method of production allowed for unfractured, continuous armor plates that tightly fit onto the exosuit around me. Even more pure cash was required for shipping - to launch the mass into orbit, only to have it returned to me in but a few days.

  The Enchanter did an excellent job. Every snow-white plate and piece now glowed with durability and deflector Runes. There was a certain discomfort in utilizing technology I didn’t understand, but it was a necessary advantage that I couldn’t avoid exploiting.

  I still hadn’t figured out who the Enchanter was, how they knew me, and why they were so predisposed towards me. I didn’t even have a guess as to why they were willing to do so much work for me for such minimal compensation. But my discomfort towards the mystery wasn’t about to stop me from using the Enchanter’s willingness to help.

  Armored bulbs on the wrists and ankles hid another rushed job of mine - thrusters. No chemical engine could hope to be efficient or powerful enough to be useful without vast fuel reserves, but these engines different - they reacted matter with antimatter, a process that allowed for low physical volume and mass while producing great thrust. I had spent the last two days training a low-level AI to balance the suit without tripping and crashing, and now felt quite comfortable - as comfortable as one can get while surrounded in a rushed prototype of experimental materials and several nuclear warheads worth of antimatter.

  It was not an addition designed for flight. It was, instead, a means to compensate for my lack of a Slipstream and agility.

  All this was, initially, designed to combat Hacksaw, but Inna claimed it would do fine against Humans as well. The Heavy Firebolters in the wrists, deadly and upgraded versions of my earlier work, were a last-minute addition for that specific task.

  On the back, mounted with a jointed frame, was my Chini chaingun. In the last days it proved effective, not against Hacksaw shields but rather against their Ballistic Durasteel armor.

  The Class 4 felt incredible after months of practice with a Class 2 and 3 exosuits, smoother and faster than anything I had ever used, before or after The War.

  Managing not to hit anything on the door frame I stepped out into the light, dragging with me my final prototype.

  A sword, by definition is a ‘long metal blade and a hilt with a hand guard, used for thrusting or striking’. I had created something that, while matching the definition, was definitely not a sword.

  For one, it was not meant to be lifted, even with the help of powered armor. It was over two meters in length, several centimeters thick, and its ‘cutting’ side had a ninety-degree edge.

  That dull edge was powered, however, designed to crash and melt through armor rather than cut through it. This ‘sword’ also had shields, electronic countermeasures, a mid-grade AI, and engines. I activated those now.

  Several bricks extended from the sides. Columns of blue fire erupted out of them, lifting the tip of the weapon off the ground. Taking a moment to find its balance in my hand the weapon gently pulled itself free, rotated into a vertical position, and hovered to my side. The roaring of the matter-antimatter engines quieted as the mufflers tuned in, suppressing the noise. Stable as the Monument this sword now levitated besides me, adjusting to my every movement.

  This was a project I had worked on since establishing antimatter production, and was no less refined than the Chini on my back.

  “Flight Sword,” I said. The Flight Sword didn’t respond. I patted Gray who hovered on the other side. He smiled at me, projecting a hologram onto his freshly laminated armor. I turned towards the Monument, beginning the short, armor-assisted jog towards the meeting point. The extended joints had me moving at speeds that a tank wo
uld have trouble matching.

  The base changed for the better in the days before the Nova assault. Foam-concrete bots turned the octagon of my base into a partial octagram, digging trenches around the perimeter and using the excess material to thicken the walls and add to the mass required for the Inner Fortress.

  The Inner Fortress, only partially complete, consisted of a smaller hexagon of wall within the Outer Fortress, with one with only a one kilometer radius. Parts of the wall were beginnings of grand buildings where the medical equipment, Respawn Point, mailing driver, Aegis Generator and other valuables were moved to. Two of the buildings were fully finished, complete with domes of plastic that shielded the radar and sensor arrays inside.

  Of the two complete buildings, one held Fort, while the other housed our new Deflector Dome. The actual projectors for this dome were wired into the walls, connected to the central generator by a web of armored cables.

  The RAM-Ds underwent a complete overhaul. Just as a firearm requires a swap of nearly all important parts to improve its performance, the RAM-Ds had to be taken apart almost completely. Class 5 parts were replaced with Class 6 variants, changing the look of the vast weapons completely. These new monsters had proven themselves once already, penetrating the latest Shield-Strider’s deflector field, exterminating the entire force of Hacksaw before they got close.

  Around the RAM-Ds, atop indestructible foam-concrete pedestals, batteries of smaller weapons rested. The final millions of my savings were sunk into giving Vazanklav a maximum of protection and firepower. Each of the eight mini-forts the corners of the octagonal wall had their own combat deflectors, jamming and anti-jamming equipment, and enough firepower to take down a mountain.

  The Dragon didn’t seem to care. As if tempting Fort it circled Vazanklav several times a day, unconcerned by the deadly weapons tracking its vast mass, as if the terrible turrets were harmless to the Class 9 boss.