The Panzer charging cable fed a harsh, unrefined current straight into my manual override port. It wasn't the pure, restorative warmth of the Light, but to my starved battery, it tasted like ambrosia.
I sat in the dim backroom of Dakota's garage, working my arms to loosen up the artificial joints. Mitch's old military surplus gear was a tight fit. The faded olive-drab combat pants stretched tightly over the thick armor plating of my thighs, and the heavy, scuffed leather duster hung wide open over my chest, hiding the worst of the Vex plasma burns. I looked less like a paracausal god of destruction and more like a heavily chromed Maelstrom ganger who had lost a fight with a blowtorch.
Just as I was lacing up a pair of steel-toed boots that actually fit my chassis, a tiny, familiar chime echoed inside my audio processors.
It wasn't external. It was coming from inside my head.
"Cain? Guardian, are you there?" I froze. A phantom tightness gripped where my organic throat used to be. Echo. I kept my vocal synthesizer offline, routing my thoughts directly to my internal comms. I'm here, buddy. I hear you.
"Thank the Traveler," Echo's voice wavered, sounding incredibly small and distant, like a radio signal bouncing off a mountain range. "I… I can't manifest. The Light is completely hollowed out. There's barely enough of a spark left to keep my core turning. I tried to transmat into the air, but the physical shell won't compile."
Rest. Don't push it, I told him. We broke out. We aren't in the Vault of Glass anymore.
There was a long pause, followed by the faint, digital whir of his internal processing. "I can feel that. The ontological pressure is gone. But Cain… I don't feel the Traveler either. The background radiation of the system is completely devoid of Light. Where are we?"
Earth. Just not ours, I replied, standing up and testing the weight of the boots. Welcome to 2070. Watch your step, everything is corporatized. "2070? Wait, my passive sensors are picking up a localized data network. It's chaotic, heavily partitioned, and leaking background radiation like a sieve. Give me a second, I'm going to tap in."
Be careful, I warned. They have things called Netrunners and black-ICE here. Don't trip any alarms.
A scoff echoed in my mind. "Cain, please. I spent the last several centuries evading the Vex Axis Minds. This network's security architecture looks like it was built with digital duct tape and string. I'm bypassing a dozen military-grade firewalls just by asking politely. Wait… what is a 'Blackwall'? And why is this corporation trying to download a neuro-virus into my shell just to sell me a beverage called Nicola?"
A grin tugged at the corners of my faceplate. Welcome to the NET, Echo. Keep digging, but stay stealthy. Let me know what you find about the local landscape.
"Copy that. I'll start compiling a database. Just… try not to get shot while I'm in here."
I pushed open the door and stepped out into the main garage bay.
Dakota and the two Aldecaldo kids were gathered around the stripped chassis of the Thornton Galena I'd seen earlier. The older kid was covered in grease, wiping his forehead with a rag while Dakota pointed an accusatory finger at the engine block suspended from a rusted, straining chain hoist.
"I'm telling you, the motor mounts are warped," the kid argued. "We can't drop the block in. The alignment is off by two inches on the left side."
"Then get the pry bar and force it," Dakota shot back. "We need this runner operational by tomorrow night for the smuggling run, or the client walks."
"If I force it with the pry bar, the block is going to swing and crack the radiator!"
"Move," a deep, synthesized voice rumbled.
All three of them jumped as I stepped into the light. Even with the coat and pants, I cast an imposing shadow. I walked past the kids, stepping right up to the front grille of the Galena. I looked at the engine block swaying on the chain, then down at the chassis.
Echo helpfully overlaid a projected schematic onto my optical HUD, highlighting the misalignment. The engine was an archaic, heavy piece of combustion trash compared to a jumpship's NLS drive, but the principles were the same.
"The motor mount isn't warped," I said, pointing a heavy, metal finger at the bracket. "The chassis is bent. Someone took this thing off a jump too hard and compromised the front axle frame."
"I told you!" Dakota yelled at the younger kid, who immediately shrank back.
"Can you fix it?" she asked, turning to me, her eyes dropping to my heavy metallic hands.
"I don't need to fix the frame. I just need to compensate." I grabbed the cold steel of the engine block with both hands. "Kid, get under there with the socket wrench. When I say go, you bolt the right side down first."
"But the chain hoist—"
"I don't need the hoist."
I braced my boots against the concrete, engaged the heavy pneumatic servos in my legs and back, and lifted.
The metal groaned. Not my metal—the car's. With a screech of protesting steel, I hoisted the four-hundred-pound engine block up, taking the tension completely off the chain. My artificial muscles whined a high-pitched note, but the load was nothing. I had spent centuries punching two-ton Minotaurs to death; a car engine felt like a toy.
I manually shifted the block two inches to the left, angling it perfectly over the misaligned brackets.
"Go!" I barked.
The kid scrambled underneath, his wrench ratcheting furiously. "Right side is in!"
"Now the left," I instructed, using my sheer weight and mechanical strength to torque the heavy block downward, forcefully bending the steel bracket just enough to align the holes.
"Got it! It's bolted!" the kid yelled, rolling out from under the car.
I let go of the engine, stepping back and dusting my hands off. I leaned over, reached into the engine bay, and bypassed the frayed fuel injector line with a quick splice of wire, tying it directly into the intake. It wasn't pretty, but it would burn hot and run fast.
"Turn it over," I told Dakota.
She stared at me for a second, then climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key.
The engine sputtered, coughed a cloud of black smoke, and then roared to life, settling into an aggressive, thrumming idle that shook the garage.
Dakota cut the engine and stepped out, a wide, genuine grin spreading across her weathered face. She looked at the engine, then up at me, taking in the massive, trench-coat-wearing machine that had just manhandled half a ton of steel without breaking a sweat.
"Well," Dakota said, wiping grease off her hands. "I guess you weren't lying about knowing your way around an engine block, Cain. You just earned your keep for the week."
"Cain," Echo's voice chimed in my head, a mix of disgust and fascination. "I've been reading their history. They fought a war over water. And internet protocols. And something called 'kibble'. I think I preferred the Vex."
Settle in, little light, I thought back, leaning against the workbench. We're going to be here a while.