The elevator descended with a groan that vibrated through Marcus's boots.
Darkness. Then strobing orange light.
They passed the Flight Deck level. Through the mesh walls of the cage, Marcus saw rows of fighter jets. Rusted skeletons. Stripped for parts.
They passed the Gallery Deck. Canteens filled with smoke. Men eating gray slop from tin trays.
Deeper.
The air grew heavy. Hot. Humid.
It smelled of unwashed bodies and burnt ozone.
"Hangar Bay 2," the yellow-slicker guard announced. He spat on the floor.
The cage jerked to a halt.
CLANG.
The doors rattled open.
Noise hit them like a physical blow.
Shouting. Hammers ringing on metal. The roar of generators. Music—thumping bass from unseen speakers.
It wasn't a military bay. It was a city.
The massive cavern of the hangar stretched for hundreds of meters.
It was packed.
Tents made of colorful parachutes were strung between the ceiling girders. Shipping containers were stacked three high, welded together into makeshift apartments.
People moved everywhere. Scavengers in rags. Mechanics in oil-stained jumpsuits. Children running barefoot on the steel deck, chasing rats.
Neon signs buzzed over market stalls.
"Batteries Recharged."
"Fresh Water (Boiled)."
"Spare Parts - No Questions."
A canal of dark water ran down the center of the bay—a leak from the hull, turned into a sewer and a transport lane. Small rafts poled through the sludge.
"Move," the guard shoved Decimus.
They were herded out of the elevator.
The refugees huddled together. They stared wide-eyed at the chaos.
A woman was selling grilled rat on a stick. A man was arguing over the price of a rusted alternator. A group of cyborgs with mismatched limbs were gambling with batteries.
"Where are we?" Lucilla whispered. She clutched her torn dress. "This is... barbaric."
"It's civilization," Marcus said. "Just not yours."
They were marched past the market. Past the tents.
To the far end of the bay.
A dark corner. Away from the lights.
"Quarantine," the guard said.
He pointed to a fenced-off area. Chain-link, topped with razor wire. Inside, the floor was slick with oil. There were no beds. Just crates.
"Wait here," the guard said. "Processing will come."
He locked the gate behind them.
CLICK.
The refugees sank to the floor. Exhausted.
Galen didn't sit. He ran to Narcissus.
The giant lay on a metal pallet. His eye was dark.
Galen pulled a diagnostic pad from his belt. He jacked it into a port on Narcissus's neck.
The screen flickered.
[ERROR: CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE.]
[MOTOR CORTEX: UNRESPONSIVE.]
[HYDRAULICS: LEAKING.]
[CORE INTEGRITY: 12%.]
"No, no, no," Galen muttered. He tapped furiously. "Don't die on me, big guy."
"Status?" Marcus asked. He leaned against the fence, fighting the dizziness.
"Bad," Galen said. He looked up, tears streaking the soot on his face. "His CPU is intact. He's in there. But his body is dead. The fire fused his servos. The leak drained his pressure."
"Fix him," Marcia said. She was ripping strips from her coat to bandage a cut on her arm.
"I can't!" Galen shouted. "I need a Class-4 Fabricator! I need to print new joints! I have a wrench and some duct tape!"
A laugh came from the other side of the fence.
A mechanic stood there. He was leaning on a broom.
He was half-metal. His jaw was a rusted prosthetic. One of his eyes was a camera lens, whirring as it focused on them.
"Class-4?" the mechanic rasped. His voice was metallic. "You dreaming, kid?"
Galen turned. "Do you have one?"
"Me? No," the mechanic said. "Captain does. Up in the Spire."
He pointed a greasy finger upward.
Through the gaps in the ceiling decks, a massive tower rose. The Island. The command center of the carrier.
"Only the Boatman has the good tech," the mechanic said. "And he don't lend it to steerage trash."
Galen looked back at Narcissus.
"He has forty-eight hours," Galen whispered. "Before the bio-gel in his brain rots. Then he's just a computer."
"Forty-eight hours," Marcus repeated.
He looked at the Spire.
"We need to talk to the Captain."
"Good luck," the mechanic laughed. "Entry fee is five hundred amps."
"Amps?" Lucilla asked.
"Juice," the mechanic said. "Power. That's money here, sweetheart. Gold is heavy. Batteries keep you warm."
He walked away, chuckling.
"Processing!" a voice bellowed.
A man approached the cage.
He was fat. He wore a clean white shirt, stained at the armpits. He carried a tablet and a heavy battery pack on his belt.
Two guards flanked him. They held shock-batons.
"I am the Tax Collector," the fat man said. He didn't introduce himself.
He unlocked the gate. He walked in.
He looked at the refugees. He counted them.
"Two hundred heads," he muttered, tapping his tablet. "That's a lot of oxygen."
He stopped in front of Marcus.
"Docking fee," the Collector said. "One hundred amps per head. Plus quarantine tax. Plus... let's say, a hazardous waste fee for the leaking robot."
"We have no... amps," Marcus said.
"Then you have debt," the Collector said. "We put you to work. The reactor needs scrubbers. Life expectancy is three weeks. But it pays well."
"We are not slaves," Lucilla stepped forward. She drew herself up. "I am Lucilla of House Vane. My family owns this sector. I demand to speak to your superior."
The Collector looked at her.
He smiled. A wet, ugly smile.
SLAP.
Backhanded. Hard.
Lucilla spun. She hit the floor.
"Lucilla!" Marcia started forward. The guards raised their shock-batons. They crackled with blue lightning.
"Board credit is zero here," the Collector said, wiping his hand on his shirt. "Your name means nothing. Vane means nothing. The only thing that matters is the charge in your pocket."
He looked down at Lucilla.
"Next time you speak out of turn, I charge you a talking tax."
Marcus helped Lucilla up. Her cheek was already bruising. She was trembling with rage and shock.
"We can pay," Marcus said.
The Collector raised an eyebrow. "Oh? With what? Your good looks?"
"Information," Marcus said. "We know Vane's plans. We know about the clones."
"Information is cheap," the Collector said. "I can't eat information. I can't heat my cabin with it."
He turned to leave.
"Wait."
Marcus unclipped something from his wrist.
His Energy Shield Generator.
It was a small, sleek device. Board tech. High-grade military hardware.
"This," Marcus said. "It's a Field Emitter. Level 5. Worth a fortune in components."
The Collector stopped. He looked at the device.
He snatched it.
He inspected it. He turned it over.
"Battery is dead," the Collector noted.
"But the tech is pristine," Marcus said. "Recharge it, and it stops bullets."
The Collector weighed it in his hand.
"Three days," he grunted.
"What?"
"Three days of rent. Oxygen. Water. No food."
"That's robbery," Marcia growled.
"That's the market," the Collector said. He pocketed the generator.
He pointed at Narcissus.
"Keep the scrap metal in the corner. If he leaks on my floor again, I'm charging you extra."
He turned to the guards.
"Lock it up."
The Collector waddled away. The guards slammed the gate shut.
CLANG.
Silence fell over the cage.
Marcus slumped against the wire mesh.
He felt naked without the shield generator. Vulnerable.
"You gave him our best defense," Marcia said. She sat beside him.
"It was dead anyway," Marcus said. "And we bought time."
"Time for what?" Galen asked. He was wiping oil from Narcissus's face.
"To hustle," Marcus said.
He looked at his wrist.
The Neural Link pulsed faintly.
[BATTERY: CRITICAL. 2%.]
[SUGGESTION: FIND A CHARGE PORT. OR DIE.]
"JARVIS," Marcus whispered.
[I'm here, Boss. Running low power mode. I feel like I'm thinking through molasses.]
"Can you scan the ship?"
[Limited range. 50 meters.]
"Scan the Spire."
[Scanning...]
[Target is shielded. Heavy encryption. But I detect a massive energy signature at the top. Nuclear. Unstable.]
"The Captain," Marcus said.
He looked around the hangar. At the poverty. The desperation.
People were trading scrap for mouthfuls of water. A child was licking the inside of a nutrient paste wrapper.
"This isn't a ship," Marcus said. "It's a dying animal."
"And we're the fleas," Marcia said.
"No," Marcus said. He stood up. He forced his legs to lock.
He looked at the Spire again.
"We're the virus."
He turned to the team.
"Galen, keep Narcissus stable. Use whatever you can scrounge."
"Lucilla," Marcus said. She looked up, holding her cheek. "You know how the Board thinks. This Captain... he's hoarding tech. He's paranoid."
"He's a warlord," Lucilla said bitterly. "Just like Vane. Just like you."
"Marcia," Marcus said. "Watch the guards. Learn their shifts. Find the weak link."
"And you?" Marcia asked.
Marcus looked at his empty wrist.
"I'm going to find a way to make some money."
He walked to the edge of the cage. He gripped the wire mesh.
Through the gloom of the hangar, he saw the mechanic with the camera eye watching him.
Marcus stared back.
The mechanic nodded. Once.
A connection.
"JARVIS," Marcus thought. "Flag that guy. He's our way out."
[Flagged. Subject: 'Ratchet'. Probability of bribe acceptance: 89%.]
The lights in the hangar flickered.
A siren sounded. Three short blasts.
"Night cycle," a voice announced over the speakers. "Curfew in effect. Any movement will be met with lethal force."
The main overhead lights died.
Only the red emergency lights remained. And the neon signs of the market.
The shadows grew long.
In the darkness of the cage, Narcissus lay silent. A statue of war, rusting in the belly of the beast.
Marcus sat beside him. He put a hand on the giant's cold metal arm.
"Hold on, brother," Marcus whispered. "I'm coming for you."
He closed his eyes.
He didn't sleep.
He planned.