Chapter 161
Chapter 161
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Lead and Silver Coins (15)
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****
The road to the Dome in Sector 38 was far smoother than anything they'd faced so far. It went without saying— this was Dome territory. Just as the Dome folks in Sector 47 kept a tight grip on the surrounding area, the ones here patrolled constantly to safeguard their safe zone.
The difference was,
Pewt!
Pewt! Pewt!
"...That didn't sound human just now."
"I saw it. They were holding a placard saying 'We are people too.' Definitely human."
Here, what they protected wasn't people— it was the territory.
The massive blue shield that symbolized the Dome, and beyond its boundary, the personal shelters clustered together like barnacles.
Outside that dense shelter district, watchtowers stood at regular intervals, and the sounds now filtering through the directional mic were from those towers— suppressed sniper rifles picking off any nearby signs of life.
From what they could tell, their marksmanship didn't discriminate between survivors and mutants.
Static—
"This is... weird. That's not a large scavenger group up ahead— that's the Dome. They're supposed to stand for freedom and justice, the restoration of the old world's order! Something's gotta be wrong, right? Maybe during the recent chaos, a third force took over the Dome..."
"Ezel."
"Or like in our Sector 47, one department shook hands with the Raptors, turning it into a puppet state in all but name..."
"Ezel."
"I... I can't accept this. Sure, we've killed out of necessity, but never civilians. In the fifteen minutes we've observed the Dome, I've seen five civilian casualties— five! All ordinary folks who fled here with whatever savings they had! The Dome was made for people like them to survive in!"
Static—
"Angel. This is the wasteland."
"...Bex is right. Even if the Dome's values center on justice, in a situation like this, the collective action they have to take as a group..."
"The Dome exists to escape that wasteland! At the very least, we can't... we just can't!!!"
The voice of Ezel, plunged into confusion, crackled over the comms. The guy had a naive, earnest streak somewhere in him. For someone who purely believed in the Dome's righteousness, this spectacle must have hit like a shockwave.
[...What do you think?]
At Hide's question, the Professor recalled the Dome's scene he'd captured through the scope.
The enormous Dome shield, surrounded by small shelters packed without a single gap. An unusually high number of greenhouse attachments on those shelters.
Some had as few as two, others had up to five greenhouses per small shelter.
'Greenhouse modules guzzle a ton of power. If they've expanded them that much, there's barely any electricity left for the shelters themselves. Packed in like that, almost all the pumped water must flow straight into the greenhouses. Those shelters aren't built for people. They're built to house the greenhouse management modules.'
[So, no one's living in all those shelters— just running the farms? That's inefficient as hell.]
At Hide's words, the Professor let out an uneasy sigh.
'No way the Dome, the ultimate sticklers for money and efficiency, would run things like that.'
He cranked the scope to maximum zoom, focusing on a shelter with signs of life amid the harsh cold, its heat lamps blazing brightly. A grubby boy, staggering as if even holding a small watering can was too much, his parched lips starkly contrasting the vibrant crops soaking up water.
'...Whatever the case, best to ditch any notion that this is the same kind of group as our local Dome.'
Feeling an ominous premonition, the Professor stepped out and pulled a large flag from the truck bed, hoisting it on the vehicle. Prepared before departure, it bore the Dome's mark and caravan insignia.
As the big white flag proclaiming them a trading convoy fluttered, the gunfire aimed their way miraculously ceased.
****
"Wow, crossing that brutal wasteland over six sectors in a time like this. We truly can't praise the friendship of Sector 47's Dome enough! Welcome, BDSM folks!"
Lies.
"It's such a tough era, isn't it? Sector 38's environment makes it hard to move freely, so food's always in short supply. Then suddenly, a flood of mutants caused a massive refugee wave. Of course, as fellow humans, we'd love to take them in... but refugees with no food or production base of their own are biohazards that'd drain our stockpiles and spark chaos in a heartbeat. As leaders, we had no choice but to pick the second-best option. Truly heartbreaking."
Lies.
"As for the core components case, we have nothing to say. We were raided. Out of nowhere, mutants swarmed in numbers dozens of times normal, followed by those Happy Blind fanatics. We desperately held the central power plant, their target, but the eastern sector took devastating damage. That's when they stole the weapons from our inspectorate armory— along with the box prepped for Sector 47. Oh, it's got a special lock, so unless they smash it, they can't open it. Believe it or not, that box is a repurposed pre-war black box for top military secrets. No modern tech can crack it without the right method."
Lies, lies, and more lies.
They'd tensed up upon hearing the inspectorate chief was coming as they passed the personal shelter zone into the Dome's interior. Even half of their local chief, Alexander Young— a sly fox who could devour you whole without warning.
But nope? The man who appeared before my taut nerves was a spineless bamboo pole of a punk.
Not even a hint of scheming— a total amateur who couldn't lie straight.
His face screamed "liar" so badly I wondered, 'Is he doing this on purpose? Drop our guard, and bam— the real deal shows up?'
"...Thanks for the warm welcome. We'd love to unload the goods right away, but as you know, it's been a long haul. Mind if we rest a bit before talking business...?"
Snap!
"Of course! We've prepped the best lodging for outsiders— rest up fully, trade as much as you want, then head out!"
I subtly signaled it wasn't ideal right now, and Sector 38's inspectorate chief backed off without a word. Something hard remained in his gripped hand. A small external chip for connectors, and a memo.
[1,000,000 sil]
[For both our sakes, the main trading caravan should go with 'Lochhead Coin.']
"Ha, what a joke."
No doubt some convoy tied to that bamboo pole. The inspectorate chief, in charge of internal security and regs, acting like this.
Two possibilities.
Sector 38's Dome was rotten beyond saving.
Or, like their sector, one branch— inspectorate, admin, or enforcement— had seized all power, propping up a puppet.
I passed the memo to Ian; he glanced, struck a match, and lit his smoke with it.
"If it were just a bribe request, fine— but that idiot's pulling threats just 'cause he's chief. 'For both our sakes'? A measly million to a six-sector long-haul caravan. That punk's small-time. Not worth anyone's head."
"Agreed, it's off, Hepburn. A chief's high up, but that guy had no ink stains on his hands. Our Sector 47 chief's middle and index fingers are callused and twisted from nonstop signing. That one... no signs of a boss at all."
Me, Bex, Ian too.
"Alright, three votes locked. Ezel, anything to say on the situation?"
"...We'll watch."
"That's four. Anyone can see that bamboo's a puppet. We treat that meeting like it never happened. Head to lodging first— wide parking for the caravan, open area."
"Make it the highest spot here while we're at it. Their snipers are decent from what I saw. Can't relax at chokepoints."
"Obviously. We'll scout geography too— circle around and find one."
Treating the inspectorate guide as invisible, the crew drove straight into Sector 38 Dome's streets.
No one suggested staying at the provided lodging. Not even Ezel.
****
It sucked, but given the situation, they'd tentatively pegged Sector 38 Dome as 'enemy.'
'What, mutants and fanatics swarmed, and those meat lumps overwhelmed them, letting some breach? The Dome, of all groups?'
Bullshit squared. Just those massive bluff cannons poking over the walls proved it.
"Bluff cannons... Been a while. Gave us headaches in the war and Raptor days."
"This sector rarely saw big Raptor invasions. Main foes were mugglers, Type 2 mutants, Happy Blind— so defenses geared toward biological threats over gear."
Bluff cannon. Official name: Expanded Lethal Shockwave Suppression Gear.
As the name implied, originally riot gear for police. A type of electromagnetic launcher firing compressed air— induced vomiting, headaches, dizziness in targets, but near-zero lethality.
Scaled up massively, it was the infamous 'infantry sweeper' or 'China's nightmare' from the Great War. Simple to use: mount on a heavy armored truck, charge enemy infantry clusters, blast away— blood poured from every orifice as they dropped.
Year two of the Great War, a beggar-chicken slugfest dumping all supplies. Not medieval, but 21st-century 'full plate soldiers'— patchwork ballistic fiber— proved cost-effective for assaults. China-India alliance churned endless cannon fodder via sheer numbers and recycled quality, until bluff cannon trucks swept them like autumn leaves.
Not just infantry— crippled tank crews too, racking up merits.
Sector 38 Dome's walls bristled with bigger, burlier ones than those old models.
"As long as compressed air holds, it'd stop a million mutants cold."
"Or that many scavengers. Faced one once— maxed tank shield, still got shocked inside. Nosebleed, vision blurring. Not even direct hit— proximity kills aim. Area-denial slaughter gear, plus trained snipers. One-sided beatdown setup. Defenses match our Sector 47 Dome at least."
"Above all, those area shockwaves counter bubble shields hard. Even unhit, one blast nearby kicks off radiation exposure. No wonder scavenger traces vanished on entry. Not 'too strong'— 'fight means die' level. Even psychos back off. Insane defense net. Perfect for this place's vibe."
Minus short range, an impenetrable fortress no one nearby could challenge.
Staring at it made the city's look even shadier.
Rattle-rattle-rattle—
Passing ruins and scorch marks flickered by the windows.
"What if— just what if— that bamboo was right, massive mutant horde hit, including the 'artificial Type 3' from Dana's vid? Could it breach that?"
"...We consider the possibility. Type 3s are wild cards ability-wise. But personally? Ridiculous. In the vid, transformed folks turned aggressive on fanatics right away. Can alter, but controlling's iffy."
"Could induce aggression, herd 'em sacrificing one."
"Not the horde— damage focus. Mutants target attackers by default. Even if some withstood bluff cannons, real city penetration means eastern gate cannons wrecked. Looks like two, three at worst— singed, burst, fixable."
Ian's take as streets grew war-torn.
Mutants didn't do this.
'Happy Blind then? Religion numbs reason. Infiltrators disable cannons, sneak horde through...'
Clunk. Clatter!
"...? Hey, Ezel! Where to! Stick together till we confirm—"
"Gotta check something!"
Mid slow crawl through ruined eastern streets, Ezel spotted something, leaped out, and bolted.
"Hepburn, he's been off since we got here."
"...Cut him slack. His whole worldview's shaking."
By the time they parked, scanned, and walked over, soot-covered Ezel stomped out, fuming.
"...Not fanatics either."
"What?"
"Who did this! Not mutants like Ian said, not fanatics!"
Ezel hurled a small metal rod, voice thick with rage. Familiar tool: multi-tool with tweezers, ruler, knives for inspectorate sampling and evidence.
"Proof?"
Smack!
Ezel's finger jabbed a less-destroyed building.
"Arson points, minimal explosives tied to building fuel cells, fire spread patterns! Too... familiar. Exact methods taught to inspectorate and enforcement agents!"
Still rattled but eyes alight, Ezel wiped soot from his face.
"For whatever reason, local agents massacred civilians, trashed the city. All staged! That chief's words, mutant tale— all—"
"Shh. Too loud, Ezel."
I clamped his excited mouth, shoved him into the truck.
Once all aboard, vehicle-only comms activated. Military unit— short-range worked even in jammed 30s sectors. No eavesdrop worry.
Sigh—
Hellish mutant den pierced, thought Dome meant mission clear, rest easy.
Frustration gripped the comm hard.
"...As of now, we assume Sector 38 Dome is enemy territory. Evidence upper echelons, or some, collude with Happy Blind. Our mission goal... likely handed to them via self-sabotage play. One more: the parts box we seek... might be the same as the fanatics'."
.
.
.
.
Static—
"Enemy territory. Finally here, and shit hits the fan. Last bit means Sector 47 fooled us too?"
Static—
"Not trust. Common scavenger trick. Seals mean deal off, says food but ammo for turf wars. Sector 47 chief didn't trust us. Thought we'd turn guns with mutant device power."
Static—
"Bull! Don't lump us with their corrupt asses! I'd stake my neck our chief ain't like that!"
Static—
"Then stake it. We're neck-deep already."
Static—
'...Was gonna keep it till certain.'
Adding Sector 38 to chief doubts sparked crew chaos. Hated revealing, but hoarding info in this mess was suicide. Battlefield survival 101: trust those at your back.
As voices rose, mouth to comm.
"Shut up, all. We're equals, but can't have multiple drivers in this. Caravan leader order: zip it. I judge. Hate it? Bail."
Static—
"..."
Silence. Good, agreement.
Authority locked— uproot suspicion seeds first.
Static—
"I spoke knowing this because I trust this crew 100%. Don't know chief's intent sending us with mutant device. But Ezel likely roped blind— post-Raptor, always outer patrols. No mutual suspicion or talk from now. Can't flinch at allies' guns? Vent emotions here. No fuckups later."
Static—
...Sweat slicked the comm hand.
Static—
"...Roger. Sorry for my temper, Ezel. Bad history with allies turning foe. If offended, apologize."
Static—
"I... was just confused. Still am. No hard feelings toward you guys."
Ian's grumble, Ezel's subdued tone followed.
'Good. Crew rift sealed.'
Allies turn enemy— one crewmate tied to it. Must draw lines, kill confusion, or lose who’s real ally. Ezel? Known months. Soy Sauce Gaybar? Over five years by calendar.
My take: good-hearted dummy. Skilled, eager fool. Easy mark.
Static—
"From now, trust no one but us four. Suspect all met, gather intel, watch actions. Civilians first— can't trust inspectorate info. Local survivor spills what went down. Start there."
Static—
"Roger."
"Roger."
Static—
"...Roger."
Ezel's hesitant affirm, then they rolled again.
'Spy games... What a headache.'
The Professor shook off an unbidden 'If Dana were here...' thought.
****