Chapter 156
Chapter 156
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Vine
Chapter: 156
Chapter Title: Lead and Silver Coins (10)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
****
The dissected cyborg soldiers numbered two.
They were equipped with a different type of gear from the ones seen before in the Dome's main power plant in Sector 47.
“I was wondering how they solved the power issue, at least...”
“This isn’t progress in technology—it’s regression. And they’ve buried it deep in the ground, piled high with violations of human dignity and morality.”
As heard before, cyborg conversion procedures were obsolete technology. Not simple prosthetics, but reactive electrodes and machinery connected deep into the spine and other areas caused massive rejection reactions that killed the user. And to produce enough output for the original purpose, they had to carry power plants including fuel—riddled with drawbacks.
The Raptor Society’s technicians had solved this in an utterly simple way.
‘Empty out what’s unnecessary and fill what’s needed.’
In the dissection reports prepared by the station officer, the cyborgs’ abdomens had their stomachs and kidneys removed, most of the small intestine excised, replaced by a cold, gloomy power unit.
“Ugh, I think I’m gonna puke.”
“Puke if you have to. The station officer said he’s sending this to the Dome anyway, so you can access it from the Audit Department if needed.”
I ignored the pale-faced Ezel and focused on the reports.
Five types of narcotic painkillers detected near lethal doses. In the remaining 15% of the small intestine, finely ground starch that didn’t need digesting.
So, they hadn’t replaced internal organs with advanced machinery like in some sci-fi novel for high-function substitutes. They’d just ripped out everything removable. Feed them lifelong mush that required no digestion, so gut out the stomach and most of the small intestine. Regular maintenance anyway, so filter waste with dialysis instead of kidneys. Cram the power unit needed to move the mechanical arms into the empty space.
“Urk... What I don’t get is, if they treat their own people that harshly, how does the group even hold together? If someone ordered me, ‘From now on, eat mush forever, carry a piss bag and empty it constantly, live pickled in painkillers and daily dialysis!’ I’d go full Rambo on the spot.”
“If forced, sure. But my personal take? These cyborg soldiers all volunteered for the procedure.”
Ian continued, frowning deeply, to Ezel who had returned even paler, as if he’d actually vomited.
“The Raptor Society isn’t like normal groups you imagine. Even as a collective of people, in some ways it’s wilder than living in the wasteland. It’s a place where might makes right. For the lowest laborers who can’t even make it as Dome grunts. They eat bug paste or food scrap sticks daily anyway, so lifelong mush is practically a reward. Succeed in the procedure, and they leap from kidnapped enemy laborer scum to elite special forces. Get any woman they want, wield absolute power over civilians in the Nest. Their rank’s right under Pack Leader—pretty high. No need for complicated assumptions, though. Because...”
Tap tap.
Ian tapped the part about the five types of narcotics.
“The Raptor Society’s full of drug addicts. Some hooked willingly, others slipped into supply smokes for forced addiction. Most kidnapped civilians are addicts, no exaggeration. Give ’em drugs, they’ll do anything.”
“...Used drugs as bait for the procedure.”
“Yeah. If it was just for rejection suppression, you’d see one or two types at most. But two dissections, both with five or six narcotics? Means they blended high-dose painkillers not just as meds, but for pleasure. ‘Get cyberized, get free unlimited drugs!’ Kyaa—junkies who’d sell their own kids can’t resist. Dome’s cyber survival rate was 30%?”
Nods.
“From the state of these, Raptor’s improved version’s under 10%. Yet they roam the wasteland like this—shows how many volunteers they have.”
“...”
“Brace yourself, homo buddy. Your main enemies are a psycho group beyond human common sense.”
Ezel gulped, scanning the cyborg dissection diagrams at Ian’s words.
“Whew. Alright. So these guys are prowling near Sector 42?”
“Yeah. Maybe several times more than last year, linked to fiercer, more numerous mugglers. Distance from 43 to here?”
“Let’s see... Straight line’s way farther than 47 to here, but factoring the detour around that ancient tree mutant barrier, travel distance is about the same.”
As expected. If they wanted, the guerrillas based in 43 could easily reach here.
Their implants were unusual too. Not chainsaws or hydraulic pistons—obvious combat gear—but at the mech arm ends... rammers? Spring-loaded metal plates like those for compacting earth at construction sites.
‘Definitely not combat types—special purpose for sure. Dome’s already started underground bunker construction in 45. Weakened Raptor’s bound to act...’
Zzzing—
No proper intel surfaced no matter how hard I thought, so I shut off the viewer.
“Let’s stop speculating. Acting on unconfirmed info and it turning false can doom you. From the station officer’s data, three confirmed facts. Fall season aside, before the transport stirred trouble, mutant aggression and numbers spiked here. Raptor’s full of crazy bastards. And their drugged-up super soldiers are plotting something nearby.”
“No intel from the advance transport team?”
“Just brief contact passing through. They left fully equipped for exosuit ops, so better breakthrough and firepower than us. Means no resupply needed to get here.”
Got intel, resupplied. No more business here.
“Let’s roll. If Raptor’s scheming, faster is better.”
With that, the four rose.
****
Resupplied and intel gathered, the group saw no reason to linger at the station. Ignoring the station officer’s pleas to rest more and the quartermaster’s wails over his emptied stocks, they drove north. Unlike south of the Working Cane barrier, north was somewhat cleared by stations and local scavengers’ efforts. Passing mounds of butchered mugglers, they reached where their first customer awaited.
“Thanks for the good wares. Caravans these days lack grit—slight danger, they shut shop and hole up. You opened my airways.”
Sector 41, base of the largest scavenger crew around, ‘Hydra.’
Diego Alejandro Peña Gonzalez... the unmemorizable name, one of Hydra’s three heads, admired the six gun cases neatly arrayed on the sandalwood table.
“Heard valuable intel from my info broker, paid up front figuring I’d get scammed. When it was Dome easing tech export limits, you know what I thought?”
“...A chance to massively boost Hydra’s forces?”
“No, no no no... Nah, Dealer.”
The one-eyed man, face more scarred than skin, lifted the sniping coilgun from its case. Satisfaction bloomed on his face as he sighted down the remaining eye.
“Thought the info broker was finally cashing out and ditching me. Especially after I tried grabbing him before. Figured he linked faulty Dome leaks to me, siccing their horrific Metal Giants on Hydra’s neck. Hm, this is prime gear.”
Click!
Savoring each transitional weapon in the case, Alejandro eyed the prosthetic hand cannon then his two-fingered hand, grinning through scar-twisted lips.
“And the deal lead’s some unheard-of new caravan. Bought the info, so placed the order to not waste it, but didn’t expect you’d show. Truly... unexpected. Impressed, Dealer. You moved me.”
“The Hydra’s second head moved by this little... So. You know how merchants show thanks?”
“Of course.”
Snap!
Scarface snapped fingers; green-hooded scavengers behind him set a large crate before Ian.
“Paying in goods?”
“We don’t value intangibles. Even pre-war farm ops, payments always gold. Open it.”
Creak, squeak!
At his word, waiting scavengers pried nails with bars, flipped the lid.
“I love my family’s traditions, but not dumb enough to prep useless gold just to keep ’em.”
“...Ra Em. You impressed me this time.”
“Eye for eye, tooth for tooth. Just returning the favor.”
Inside: the solar generator the Professor’s group had long sought.
“Found in Sector 37 housing six months back. Bringer died of radiation, but too good for his life’s worth. Satisfied, Dealer?”
“...You enjoy rigged questions?”
“Hahaha! I like it... Oh yes, I like it.”
Similar smirks shared, they shook on the deal and rose. Ian inwardly sighed relief at the risky trade’s close, praying no funny business till the end.
“Y’know... Next time, wish your gutless leader with no balls to come this far joined you. Shame such a man’s trapped in that small vessel.”
“...Tch.”
Click!
Click! Click! Click! Click! Click!
Alejandro’s parting words: a huge revolver leaped from Ian’s coat, surrounding scavengers’ muzzles swung to his head.
“Did I say wrong, Dealer?”
“Foolish words, Ra Em.”
Tense standoff. Ian jammed his barrel to Alejandro’s forehead, pulled the trigger without hesitation.
Click!
Flinch!
Empty chamber rang; muzzles on Ian slowly rose. Bring weapons, but empty chambers—their tradition honored first, so no shot till head ordered.
Rising, Ian left Alejandro’s gaudy room.
“I came alone because you’re not worthy to meet him.”
“Worthy... Me, Alejandro of Hydra, biggest force across 40-42?”
“Yeah.”
Fwoosh—
Door open, chill wind rushed in; Ian finally removed his skin mask from talk and drink, lit a smoke.
“To meet our caravan leader, gather your three snake heads and request. Cut the petty games.”
“Overconfidence?”
“Not hubris—service for a big client. Advice saves a potential repeat customer’s life—profitable.”
Whooo—
Stepping out, Ian wrinkled his nose at the lingering odd scent in the air.
Small incense burner in Alejandro’s room corner.
“...Filthy high-paying client... Tricky.”
If memory served, an aphrodisiac/excitant. Common in Raptor brothels.
****
Static—
“So. Sold all six transitional kits and a third of standard firearms?”
Back via vehicle radio, I marveled at the trailer’s slimmed profile in the mirror hearing Ian.
When coat-vested-hat Ian insisted solo, thought him mad. Caved to stubbornness, waited long, spent two hours stopping Ezel and Bex from sneaking after.
Far off, Ian returned coat billowing beside scavengers hauling his big crate. Once loaded and they left, he panted, urging quick escape. Paid up, no more business. Bad luck, their ‘voluntary loyalty’ scavs might raid solo.
“Yeah. Bought way over order—holding turf in this mess needs lotsa guns.”
“...Chance it all goes to Raptor?”
“Doubt it. Hydra’s bats. Ally for profit, betray same. Currently cozy with Dome, won’t flip easy. Unless ‘too much money to refuse.’ But that’s not our worry. Dome sold expecting some leakage.”
Fled Hydra base north one hour. Feeling out of strike range, braked hard at Ian’s deal payout reveal, dove trunk to check.
“A generator. Mid-size, pristine no less...”
“Told you leave trading to me. Flesh-eater clients like these? Hit emotions over logic sometimes—hard without knowing traditions/culture.”
Ian grinned, slicking sweat-matted hair.
“Still, one generator... Huge margin, no?”
“Khuhuhu. They only do profitable deals. Not thanks—calculated payback.”
Tap tap!
Feigning calm but tense, Ian swigged from hip flask, thumped the spotless processed generator.
“We head deeper, they jumped to barter. Claimed their sector clean, but bet we die inside. If we croak, snatch leftovers. No sealing that, so sturdy type survives truck rolls. Inside, they’re praying we drop dead. Transparent bastards.”
“Sheesh... What’s out there they all think we’re goners...”
“Business maxes profit with risk. Already one mid-genny. Sell rest inside, flip these in 47. Might snag most village needs this run.”
Bump! Bump bump!
Chatting as we drove, armed truck began shaking on rougher road.
Wasteland life hones spotting faint human traces: shoe-pressed sand stones, rough digs/tears, tiny blood specks.
Traces thinned post-rough road. Not auditory silence—sensory hush.
No word, but three vehicles slowed. As if knowing breaking it taboo.
“Check bubbles. Masks stay on. As planned, avoid combat inbound. Win or lose, fight’s fatal loss. Lead Hummer spots anything, signal pronto. Especially Bex.”
Static—
“Got it.”
“Ezel, burn disposables to 38. Echo radar on. Signal detector max. If advance team hit, they’d ping rescue. Prioritize route signals up. Panels linked to driver?”
Static—
“Confirmed. Post-run, radiation cleanup pays lifelong leisure.”
Ezel, joking in this.
Vehicle radio crackled, then Ezel again.
Static—
Beep-...... Beep-.....
“Linked. Hear that? One dead ahead our path. On track—”
Beep-. Beep-. Beep-. Beep-.
“Uh...”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Faster. Digitized distress signals popped one by one, flooding Ezel’s cab with beeps.
“Wh-what the...”
Static—
“...Volume down, Ezel. Unless you wanna join those signals.”
Professor bit lip amid electronic inferno.
Scraaape, hack, scraaape, grrrrk, grrrrk, grrrrk.
Station Geiger counter needle danced savagely with its scrape.
Sector 41’s end. True radiation zone began.
****