12 Miles Below

Tenisent tilted his head to the side, avoiding the machine’s grab. Memories of a lifetime fighting against these enemies flowed through his soul, his body reacting exactly as it had in life.

No, not exactly.

In life he’d treated his body as a weapon, maintaining it like a blade. But there were limits. Always limits. He’d spent a lifetime compensating for those limits.

He knew the correct pattern to eliminate this Screamer after it had missed his head. The way to block its followup attack, and where to slam his hand to crack through the armor and remove the heart. It had been necessary to know the most secure paths to victory.

There was no need anymore. He grabbed the machine’s head, and ripped it off the shell wholesale. To mask the strength, he pulsed the occult around him, making his strength appear as if this was some spell a Deathless had used.

The soul sight revealed to him all enemies lurking around, their concepts like blazing spotlights. His shell’s scanning and optical subsystems confirmed what his inner sight showed. Audio systems picked up every footfall, even down to the grinding sounds of poorly fitted mechanical parts.

A second Screamer tried to spear him from the back, sharpened elongated hands forming as close to a blade as it could.

Pathetic. Doomed to failure.

Tenisent twisted on himself, his kick spearing straight through the screamer’s chassis, shattering the components built to draw power from the machine’s heart, it’s power cell. Secondary systems lit up within, desperately trying to reroute, but the momentary outage still forced the enemy into a small stutter. The human equivalent of having the wind knocked out of it.

He gripped one of the frozen hands, extended it out, then chopped his own hand through it, severing the arm in one clean strike. The Screamer reeled, taking a few steps back.

He stalked after it. The machine tried to swipe at him with the remaining arm, but that hand was quickly caught in a vice grip, ripped off, then crushed in his hand before tossed aside.

It tried to kick him next.

A few jabs in specific locations paralyzed his target, breaking the motors that kept the legs and torso moving. He grabbed the creature’s throat before it could collapse on itself, pinning it against a wall, then began to rip off plate after plate while the machine tried to find new means of fighting back.

Another Screamer raced at him, once more trying to stab him through the back, sprinting at full speed. Not fast enough to avoid a second lighting fast chop, severing the neck off. The limp body crushed itself against the wall, violet lights turning off before the shell could fully land on the ground.

The captive machine’s limp shell stared back at him, likely wishing it had a jaw to bite with. He gave it a few more seconds, letting the surrounding pack be drawn out in rage. He needed to be ruthless. To fight differently than he had been recorded prior. To draw the machine attention away from the convoy, and on him.

The moment he had the pack’s full attention, he nodded to himself. Then snapped the neck and tossed the body aside along with the ripped arms and broken parts.

The remaining pack leaped at him at the same time, howling, snarling, furious.

The body without a head had tried to sprint at him, hoping sheer speed would carry the day. Prior, they’d tried to have one of their own sneak behind. Now they were trying pure numbers from every direction. The pack were analyzing his movements, attempting to adapt to it.

There was no hope.

He watched as they soared through the air, moving so slowly in his sight. He took a step, drew out his blades and slashed through the air. Once, twice, three times. Occult arcs pulsing off each hit, rippling through reality until it struck home on the metal monsters.

They landed back on the ground, skidding to a stop, most ripped apart. Only one was left alive, struggling to stand. Its legs intentionally cut so that it might not escape.

It was time. He’d been fighting like this for long enough. The machine collective here must have its attention on him now.

He sheathed his blades, then pulled off his helmet. Cold, frosty air greeted his changed face. New hair color, changed cheekbones, hooked broken nose and a dark beard twined in a distinct style. It was all just material to him, and his nanite swarms were built to regenerate damage. He simply changed his definition of damage.

It hadn’t been a randomized face. Lord Atius had helped him craft these features from his own memories. Yvain, a friend of Atius and far more importantly - a known Deathless clan lord. One who’d been active underground for centuries before moving to the surface, far far away.

In any case where his helmet was removed and spotted, facial recognition programs could be misled. Atius had recommended using this card situationally. Done too early, and it might draw more questions than answers.

That changed now that they had joined the undersider convoy and became a larger group. Something that would give them more distance from the profile To’Avalis would be searching for.

He took a step forward, staring at the dying machine. It tried to struggle, clawing on the ground. An armored boot crushed the machine arm with contempt. He kneeled down a moment later, eye to eye with the lesser monster. “Go back to your puppet masters, demon. And tell them they ought to do better.” Voice changed to match recordings Atius had.

In every way he could practice, he was now Yvain. The Deathless clan lord that had helped settle clan Altosk two hundred years ago.

And Yvain’s face was somewhere in the machine databases. They’d match him.

They’d believe the old retired Deathless clan lord had given up his post and was returning underground.

He stood up from his target, giving it just enough time to transmit video data, then lifted his leg and stomped down on the half-skull head.

Undersider Knights had an interesting way to view clan knights. Figure this - we were the men in the shadows. Bounty hunters. Executioners. The kind of mercenaries hired when the target had the means or resources to fight back, and clan knights didn’t care for local politics. Wealth was wealth. We either escorted our own merchants, or went out to kill people. And there wasn’t a middle ground.

Explained why the undersiders were nervous around us, even after knowing we worked for a Deathless.

Soldiers like captain Atlas here didn’t usually run into clan knights. As he told it, he lived a no-nonsense life, working with Quath for years now. And all these years he’d seen enough clan knights to count on one hand, not two. And when he had, he’d been advised to turn around and walk away, which he did since he’s still alive.

I didn’t really understand just how rare we were to the underground until I spoke to people like Quath and Atlas.

“You clan knights are considered an omen of some kind.” One of the undersider knights said, grabbing a crate beside me and lifting it up on the skiff. “You see a team walking through the streets, you know they’re hunting someone down. Even the way they walk is menacing.” The man stopped for a moment, “Not you folks of course, you’re here with a Deathless. Official good business, nothing for the underlayer of cities. Plus we know you aren’t here for us. Right?”

“They’re not here for us.” The captain said, tapping the last crate and marking where it should be brought to. “Sir Reginald may be a fat bastard with a silver tongue, but he’s our fat bastard with a silver tongue. He keeps his books well documented, and doesn’t chase after rust. Never needed to resort to additional contracts or anything illicit.”

“Flattered you think so highly of me.” Reginald Quath, said the silver tongued bastard, muttered while sitting on the skiff. Tapping at his computer slate as usual. He hadn’t stopped looking down at that thing since we got here. “They’re not after us because of these questions. Clan knights in the business of dealing with the underlayer already have personal experience. That the prime here is asking questions means his clan’s never had to resort to hiring their services out in the first place.”

“That’s… a rather good observation.” I said, realizing my idle talk and questions had revealed more details than I suspected I would have. Stung a little even.

“Oh, I can intuit more than just that.” Quath said. “You have the rank of a prime, but your voice sounds young. Granted I haven’t seen under your helmet yet, but I strongly suspect you’ve only recently been granted the title, likely your predecessor retired early or unexpectedly. Illness or out on expedition?”

“Expedition.” I said, deciding to play along. Father had technically died out in expedition and we’d brought back his armor. Wrath had been the one who dragged back his soul.

“You must have shown great promise or skill, given you've been chosen as the only prime to accompany a Deathless.” Quath said. “I would suspect you’ve done something to prove your skill to the Deathless in such a way that he recommended you personally.”

“You do jump to conclusions quickly.” I said, giving a look over the skiff’s sides to make sure everything was good. A thumbs up to the driver told her all green.

“That is part of a merchant’s intuition. I’d like to believe I’m skilled enough at that. I do notice you haven’t confirmed my last theory, so I will leave it at that. A theory. As for the captain’s prior topic, I have no need to hire clan knights. I’m not rich enough to pay the prices your kind ask for regardless. Armors are still significant expenditures at my level. And neither do I stick my head in anyone else’s business so much that they would hire clan knights to come after me.”

“I’ve seen footage of clan knights in combat.” The undersider captain said. “There’s even a joke of a noble getting his ass handed to him by one in disguise, part of the reason it’s now tradition before duels to reveal helmets and confirm it really is your opponent in there and not some bait and switch. I admit I’m a little curious if the rumors live up to the expectations.”

They hadn’t seen any of us in action, not with Father running loose. I gave him a shrug in answer. “Are you asking to spar?”

“Goddess save me, no.” The captain said with a laugh. “I’m good with a blade in a spar, but only as a passing interest. And the only noble here would be Sir Quath.”

“Who is very much not interested.” Quath immediately said, as his skiff began to move behind the convoy. “My weapons are spreadsheets, numbers and profit. My esteemed colleagues may have enough time and fortune to waste away playing with pointed sticks with personal trainers, but I have different hobbies of interest. Not all nobles learn to duel as a pastime.”

“You wouldn’t want to spar with us anyhow.” I said, jogging behind before jumping up on the skiff. “Not much of a fighting chance I think.”

“Perhaps not with a House Prime specifically picked over other primes to accompany a Deathless.” The merchant said, as I took a seat next to him. “I suspect the captain would have better odds against the regular soldiers among you. He’s modest about his talents, but his company is trained to handle outlaws in armor after all.”

I gave a look back at the Winterscar knights in disguise. One looked back and traced a finger over his faceless helmet, quickhand for a smile. “I think you might have less of a chance against them than me to be honest. They’re highly trained elites. Highly trained.”

My own base skills weren’t shabby, about average compared to regular clan knights. I did have Father to train me over a lifetime, so that helped offset my lack of talent. Cathida rated me within the top ten percent of undersider duelists when I’d asked her about it. At least from her time.

Did do wonders for my ego.

“They’re escorts for a Deathless.” Captain Atlas nodded along, “I imagine he wouldn’t hire recruits. I certainly wouldn’t for an expedition further down. And it was a good call, given the local situation here.”

“I admit I am still having difficulty thinking about it.” Reginald Quath muttered, watching as the cityscape passed by. “An entire city being destroyed. All so recently as well. Disturbing times we live in. Less trade, less business, less everything.”

“Not destroyed. Evacuated.” One of the merchants sitting nearby lifted his head, speaking. “Have you considered the opportunity from all this? I can’t be the only one who sees rust from ruin here.”

“New houses need to be built?” One of the Winterscar knights asked. “Or plans for a new city?”

Quath smiled back, “That would be the humanitarian thing to do, sir knight. Unfortunately, my associate here is a known psychopath whose presence I tolerate. He’s implying a far more morbid idea than pivoting to house construction.”

“Additional perspectives are necessary. That’s why you tolerate me. I get results.” The man said with a shrug. Then turned to the Winterscar knight, “A mass exodus of a city means thousands of families likely were unable to load items of sentimental value. They’ll only be carrying with them valuables. Those would have been looted or destroyed in a conquest.”

“But machines are not raiders.” I finished for him, seeing where he was going.

“Your House prime is correct.” The other merchant gave a short nod back. “Machines have never shown any interest in human made items other than to determine if it’s a weapon or not. Those items would thus still be intact and waiting for retrieval. And we have knight mercenaries armed with weapons and experience to survive expeditions like this on hand.”

Quath waved a hand at his associate, as if saying you see? He turned to his captain, tapping his shoulders. “Captain, your thoughts? He does bring up a good market to exploit.”

“We’ll do as we’re paid to.” The captain said with a shrug. “Right now, I’m focused on staying alive and making it to the next city in one piece.”

“That part is resolved.” Quath said. “The Deathless is out there, hunting. You’ve seen what he brings back every few hours.”

“With all due respect, casualties happen when we relax.” The forward captain said. “You hired experience. That’s the experience you paid for.”

And speaking of Father, we saw him round the corner, walking back to us with a new supply of power cells behind him. Given he didn’t have a single scratch on his armor, nor any signs of the shields having gone down according to Journey’s HUD I think our more dangerous chasers had been thrown off as planned.

Or at least, Avalis would have to make some heavy intuitive leaps to have kept up with us.

“Master Deathless!” Quath said, standing up with a wobble on the skiff. “How fared the hunting?”

He gave his traditional grunt, then tossed the rope of power cells off to one of the mercenary knights, who went on to strap it to a skiff filled with the things. “There are no more machines in the sector.” He said.

Father passed by, and took to a jog next to the skiffs.

Wrath could sit on the things without issue because she had anti-gravity tech hidden in her shell. Father didn’t have that built in, and his weight was far more than a normal human in armor. Would have been a dead giveaway to see a skiff dip down for a few seconds before adjusting. That would bring out questions from everyone. And he didn’t want to modify his shell with any kind of flying ability right now.

Apparently he had opinions when it came to flying that were not shared by Wrath or I.

“We are an hour off from the wall.” He said to the captain. “Once you cross the threshold, we will part ways.”

The man nodded, then turned to Quath. “You should talk to the merchant, he’ll have your information prepared by now. He’s had nothing better to do than that.”

The man scoffed. “Hardly. Business never rests, forward captain. And you should be thankful for that! Without business, there’s no pay at the end of the road. A mutually beneficial agreement.”

Quath reminded me a lot of a bubbly merchant who could be just a generally happy person about even the most mundane topics. Or one that would stab you in the chest while giving you that same mild smile. And I had no idea which side he ended up on right now.

“As for the matter of maps, I have spent some time trimming out the old versions we have on hand and merging them with the updated pathways we’ve seen firsthand. I believe I’ve done a good enough job, though the actual location will likely have shifted slightly. This is all under the assumption that the mites didn’t tear down the terminal completely.”

“Does that happen often?” I asked.

The forward captain shook his head. “No. Mites generally do not move map terminals, unless a new colony came through and terraformed the entire land. Buildings may shift, terminal locations do not.”

Father nodded. “The coordinates will do. Your map is unneeded.”

Quath scoffed back. “Hardly. Master Deathless, a more detailed map is the least I could supply compared to simple coordinates. We have another hour to go, the map will be done at that time.”

He went back to his slate, and the convoy continued its steady pace onwards.

Officially, I was on rotation from marching at the side and taking a rest on the skiff here. Unofficially, I was jumping from project to project on my HUD.

The undersider jump jets, that’s my next project to crack. Wing-like boosters held on the hip, that would trigger when leaping forward. It let knights jump around as far as Feathers could. Only issue was that they were extremely power hungry. Lifting up a few hundred pounds of metal wasn’t too difficult, but doing that fast was where the exponential curve began to hit.

Hence why Undersider police were trained with it, not soldiers. It was limited by logistics. Inside a city, easy to replenish the packs. Outside the city, not so much.

“Wrath, can you bring up where we left off for the jump jet project? I think I have some new ideas to explore, specifically want to research more about cone shapes for engines and how they affect efficiency.”

Schematics appeared all across my HUD while I shifted through a few dozen technical documents Wrath had generated after taking in my suggestions and crunching the numbers for me.

Was I jealous of Wrath being able to fly around? Or preparing in case Abraxas made good on his threat to throw me off a cliff? Why, yes, I absolutely was. And I was going to find a way to make a better version of it. Because I had access to machine archives from the golden age, and the best calculator in the world to talk to about it.

Also there was next to nothing else to do.

Father had been out there, terrorizing the local machine population and leaving absolutely nothing for the rest of us. I thought maybe a pack or two might find a way to go after us while he was away, but turns out the machines all hated him enough to focus him down.

Earlier a single drake had showed up in the distance, and it had been instantly spotted by Wrath, who’d pointed it out for Sagrius to open fire. Too far away for us to recover the body as well, not without splitting up.

That’s about the most she’d been able to do the whole day, other than listen to my insane ideas, and do rapid theoretical prototyping for me. All done while staring at the crate she knew food was locked behind. Food she couldn’t eat until we set camp somewhere she could take her helmet off without worry of being spotted.

Honestly, she could have patched that issue up easily. Father had.

But Wrath was a prideful creature, and the thought of having to change her more baseline features she’d grown to like about herself was too much of a stretch. She’d rather keep her helmet on and stare at food in wait. Pride over gluttony.

So here I was, twiddling my thumbs and scanning through documents because our plan had worked too well. “You think the aerospike engine might be a good lead on all this? I haven’t done much reading there yet.”

“There may be potential. I can forward you my database on that engine category for light reading.”

“Thanks, appreciate it.” I said, humming as I watched the schematics getting downloaded on journey’s HUD. “I’ll see if I can get Quath to hand over that food crate as a bonus. Father said I had to practice diplomacy after all.”

She didn’t answer but I could see her wiggle around on her side of the skiff. She’d probably been thinking about how to get her hands on those new food staples before they left with the merchant for good.

Honestly, it'd been a surprisingly good start to a world changing expedition.