Scylla's grip was like a steel trap.
She dragged Marcus down the red-carpeted hallway of the Velvet Deck, past the shattered casino doors. The music had stopped. The high-rollers pressed themselves against the mahogany walls, staring at the mechanic being marched to the Spire.
Marcus didn't struggle. He couldn't break her hold anyway.
"Where are we going?" Marcus asked.
"Up," Scylla rumbled.
She punched a code into a heavy security door at the end of the hall. It slid open, revealing an exterior glass elevator.
She shoved him inside. The glass was scratched and cloudy, but through it, Marcus could see the sheer drop to the flight deck below.
Scylla hit a button. The lift jerked upward.
The noise of the casino faded, replaced by the howl of the ocean wind whipping around the glass shaft.
They rose above the smog of Hangar Bay 2.
The true scale of the carrier revealed itself.
It wasn't just a ship. It was a sprawling, rusted mountain range.
Marcus saw people living in the massive radar dishes, their hammocks swaying in the freezing wind. He saw gardens of bioluminescent algae clinging to the hull plates, glowing sickly green in the dark. Smoke stacks belched black exhaust into the sky, powering the jury-rigged city below.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Scylla said. Her mechanical eye whirred, focusing on the slums. "The Boatman built this. From nothing."
"It's a graveyard," Marcus said.
Scylla looked at him. Her human hand twitched toward her massive hammer.
"Careful, little Warlord," she warned. "You're not on land anymore. Out here, you don't burn things. You drown."
[WARNING: RADIATION DETECTED.]
JARVIS's voice was sharp in his head.
[Boss. The shielding on this level is stripped. We are entering a high-rad zone. Ambient levels climbing. Suggesting immediate withdrawal.]
"I can't," Marcus thought. "We need the Fabricator."
He felt a prickle across his skin. A dry, metallic taste coated his tongue.
The elevator shuddered to a halt.
Level 12. The Combat Information Center. The heart of the Spire.
The doors chimed open.
The air here was different. It didn't smell like grease or sweat. It smelled like incense. Heavy, cloying sandalwood, mixed with the sharp tang of ozone.
"Listen to me," Scylla whispered, leaning down. "When you go in there, do not look at his legs. Do not mention the Board. And bow your head. He is a King."
Marcus looked at her scarred face.
"I don't bow," Marcus said.
Scylla sighed. A sound like a venting steam pipe.
"Then I hope your neck is strong when they chop it off."
She pushed him through the doors.
The CIC was massive. It was a circular room, lined with dead radar screens and tactical maps.
But it had been transformed.
Tapestries made from colorful parachute silk hung over the cold steel walls. Braziers burned in the corners, casting flickering orange light over the consoles.
In the center of the room, on a raised dais, sat the Boatman.
He was old. Ancient. His skin was the color of old parchment, pulled tight over sharp cheekbones. He wore a heavy, fur-lined coat that looked like it had been scavenged from a Russian general.
But it was his lower half that drew the eye.
He had no legs.
From the waist down, he was a tangled mass of thick, black cables. They snaked out from his spine, plugging directly into the floor grates and the main tactical console. He was literally wired into the ship.
He wasn't sitting on a throne. He was grafted to it.
He was watching a bank of a dozen flickering monitors.
On one screen, Marcus saw the river escape—the rafts surfing the tsunami.
On another, Marcus saw himself outside Hangar Bay 2, his purple energy shield blazing.
On a third, a replay of the casino. The Ace of Spades sliding into his hand.
The Boatman slowly turned his head.
His eyes were milky white. Blind.
"You," the Boatman rasped. His voice was like dry leaves scraping on concrete. "The Warlord who burns fortresses."
Marcus stood tall. He ignored Scylla's hand pressing on his shoulder, trying to force him down.
"I am Marcus," he said. "Of the Legion."
"Legion," the Boatman coughed a wet, rattling laugh. "You have two hundred half-dead refugees and a broken toy."
He gestured a withered hand toward the screens.
"I watched you surf a wave of fire. I watched you cheat Varrick out of his dignity. You are reckless. You are a glitch in my system."
"I'm a man who needs a Class-4 Fabricator," Marcus said.
The room went still. Scylla tightened her grip on her hammer. No one made demands of the Boatman.
The old man didn't explode. He simply smiled. It was a terrible sight.
"You want me to print a spine for your pet Titan," the Boatman said. "Why should I? He is heavy. He leaks. He eats resources."
"Because he's mine," Marcus said. "And because I have something you want."
"Do you?" The Boatman leaned forward. The cables in his back hissed as they stretched. "You have thirty amps in your pocket. That buys you a sandwich. Not a miracle."
"I have this," Marcus tapped his temple.
The gold lines of the Neural Link flared.
The Boatman's milky eyes seemed to track the light, even though he was blind.
"Ah," the Boatman whispered. "The Board's leash. A Neural Link. Military grade."
"It's not a leash," Marcus said. "It's a key. And it can fix things your mechanics can't even understand."
The Boatman sat back. He was quiet for a long time. The only sound was the hum of the servers and the crackle of the braziers.
"I hate the Board," the Boatman said softly. "They stripped this world. They turned the sky to ash. I built this city to escape them."
He pointed a shaking finger at Marcus.
"But you... you are wearing their skin. You use their magic."
"I use their weapons against them," Marcus said. "I killed Vane."
"Vane is a suit," the Boatman spat. "The Board is a hydra. You cut off one head, they print a new one."
The Boatman sighed. He looked exhausted.
"But... you are correct. You have a key."
He pressed a button on the console grafted to his lap.
A massive set of blast doors at the back of the CIC began to grind open.
They were painted bright red. Warning stripes covered the frame.
A blast of heat rolled out of the dark tunnel beyond.
Marcus tasted copper instantly. His skin burned.
[RADIATION SPIKE.] JARVIS warned. [Lethal dose within 40 minutes if exposed. Boss, back away.]
Marcus didn't move. He stared into the red-lit tunnel.
"That," the Boatman said, pointing to the tunnel, "is the ship's heart. Reactor Core 1."
"It's melting down," Marcus said.
"It's dying," the Boatman corrected. "The control rods are jammed. My engineers go in, they melt before they can turn the valves. The automation is fried."
The Boatman looked at Marcus. The milky eyes seemed to pierce right through him.
"You want your giant to walk? You want your people out of the cage?"
The Boatman pointed his withered finger at the red tunnel.
"Fix my heart, Warlord. Go into the fire. Use your God-Tier toy to override the manual locks. Vent the core."
"That's suicide," Marcus said.
"That is the price," the Boatman replied. "Amps are for the peasants below. Out here, we pay in blood."
The Boatman hit a switch. The red doors began to close, sealing the heat away.
"You have until tomorrow's night cycle," the Boatman said. "Twenty-four hours. If the core isn't vented by then, the ship dies. And before it dies, I will throw you and your people into the sea."
He tossed something to Marcus.
Marcus caught it.
A heavy brass key. An old-world physical override for the Quarantine gate.
"Scylla will escort you back to the slums," the Boatman said, turning his chair away. "Feed your people. Say your goodbyes. Then, go into the fire."
Marcus looked at the brass key in his hand.
He looked at the sealed red doors.
He was trapped. He had survived the burning forests, only to walk into a nuclear oven.
"Understood," Marcus said.
He turned on his heel and walked toward the glass elevator.
Scylla followed, her hammer dragging on the floor.
"You're a fool," Scylla muttered as the elevator doors closed. "No one survives the Core. Not even with a fancy brain."
"I've died before," Marcus said, staring out at the rusted city below. "I'm getting used to it."
He gripped the brass key tightly.
The Warlord had a job to do.