Chapter 158
Chapter 158
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 158
Chapter Title: Infiltration and Engine Sabotage
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I'd successfully sneaked aboard the ship and secured a safe spot.
So, what now?
I need to wreck the FTL engine.
This ship belongs to the Star Union fleet—a warship. Once the battle ends, it'll head back to its original space station for repairs. If that happens, we're all done for.
But if the FTL engine breaks down, it can't move.
The pinnacle of superscience, the FTL engine is a finicky beast befitting its incredible performance. A busted one is as dangerous as an overloaded reactor. It can dump a ship mid-jump into completely unexpected territory.
And if you're unlucky, right into a star.
In games, failing an FTL jump and plunging into a star means instant death—no matter your top-tier gear, traits, or ship class. I've died that way myself, forcibly warped into a star's core during a fight with Vortex One.
Reality's probably no different.
Dropping into a star due to a glitch mid-transit is an extreme case, but not impossible. They wouldn't risk it unless they'd already lost the battle.
I pressed an auxiliary organ against the wall inside the waste disposal bay. Along with intermittent vibrations, I could feel a powerful surge of energy flowing along the ship's side.
The rockets up front and the bow were heavily damaged, leaving this ship unfit for combat. It'd probably hang back in the fleet rear, dodging Cult attacks.
No telling when the battle will end...
But it wouldn't drag on long.
That cyborg flagship I spotted earlier.
Three times bigger than the others, it was a model I recognized.
Z2-class Heavy Battlecruiser. Looks modified, but that's it.
Star Union battlecruisers all carry anti-ship torpedoes as standard.
Gremlin Torpedoes.
Among Star Union inventions, these stand out for their devastating performance. True to their name, they're nanomachine torpedoes that devour metal on contact. The ones on the flagship are specially modded—you can designate the metal type they target.
For instance, set one to moon silver, and it won't stop until every bit of moon silver near the impact site is gone.
And there's only one faction here that builds ships with moon silver.
In a chaotic melee, no one bats an eye if you fire one off.
Their only downsides? Sky-high cost and vulnerability to EMP.
But the Cults can't use EMP.
Unless they've got a psychic as skilled as Specimen 026 or a Cult Prophet, standard shields won't stop a Gremlin Torpedo.
They'll wait for an opening and fire on the Imperial Mothership.
Once that torpedo launches, the battle's over. I need to handle the engine before then.
Target set. Time to move.
[Zzt zzzt zzt zzt (I'm heading out for a bit)]
"Where to? I'll come with."
"Me" "Too"
"Hold up, both of you. Morph... ahem, Big Baby's got business."
"Business?"
[Zzzt zzt zzt (Just scouting around. Play nice while I'm gone)]
"Okay! See you!"
"Me" "Bye"
"......"
Watching the Mother of the Sky blush at her own unprompted words was pretty amusing, but no time for that. I told the kids to stay put and crawled out of the waste bay.
Normally, I'd bring them along, but not this time.
Stealth op, after all.
Full rampage with everyone comes once it's safe.
From the bay, I scuttled upside-down along the ceiling. Cameras lined the corridors, but none spotted me.
Thanks to my fur sagging downward and the 'Unknown Creature's Fur Pelt' trait.
A cyborg would've jumped if they saw me.
It's stealth against detection gear, traits, and tech, so regular cyborgs should see right through me. Androids and drones? Jury's out.
Test that later.
Better not run into anyone for now. Sticking tight to the ceiling with my eight limbs, I picked paths free of androids and drones.
Luckily, most were tied up with repairs—corridors were robot-light.
The engine room drew closer... until something big moved in the distance.
Walker?
Nope, revised that quick. The closer it got, the surer I was it wasn't.
To avoid it, I ducked into a side passage and hugged the wall.
Soon, a spider-like machine emerged from around the corner. Human head and torso, but six robotic legs where arms and legs should be.
A Screamer.
The grotesque Screamer wheezed through the tube in its mouth. Tubes plastered to its mouth and back pulsed chemical solutions, sending cold sweat streaming nonstop from its body.
Its bloodshot eyes scanned the hall, then its skeletal metal legs clicked away somewhere.
So that's where the sweat smell was coming from.
Thought it was nervous half-done cyborg grunts. Didn't expect a Screamer.
Screamers perfectly capture the Space Survival devs' twisted tastes. In short: penal unit from old communist regimes.
Star Union turns nasty criminals and dissidents into Screamers instead of prison. Waste not, want not—they recycle the useless into war machines.
Screamers lose all bodily control, reduced to puppets with just their minds. Hence the nickname "bio-drones."
They promise restoration to regular cyborg at sentence end, but most die on the battlefield first.
Screamers on an elite fleet ship? Weird.
From the Machine Committee's view, they're all criminals—no place in prime fleets. I heard of an all-Screamer elite unit, but this ain't it.
Screamers are a pain. Stay sharp.
Like androids, no fear; unlike them, combat prowess off the charts.
They latch on like rabid dogs. Real nuisance for stealth hunting.
Later, I spotted two more. Had to take long detours around their patrols to reach the engine room.
Cost extra time, but not wasted.
Call it prepping—learning the ship layout.
Snagged intel on comms security, thruster aux terminals—key for assaulting this vessel.
Finally hit the deck above the engine room.
Why not straight in? Simple: too risky.
Warship engine rooms are locked down way tighter than that old research ship from my hatchling days.
This ship's crown jewel: guarded by 10 heavy-armed androids and 20 combat drones, 24/7 vigilance to hive intruders.
Corridors to it? Sensor heaven.
Fur pelt fools cameras, sure—but not infallible. Motion/vibration sensors would ping me.
So, no direct assault.
Wreck the supporting systems instead.
Cooling rigs, reactor power lines, whatever.
I tweaked the overhead cameras, dropped to the floor, landed soft, then pressed my chin aux organ to the deck plating.
From the dim gray inner wall: intense heat, subtle but stronger vibrations than elsewhere.
This is it.
Cameras rerouted—no eyes here. I clawed the plating carefully with sharp nails, mindful of noise.
Soon, a hole revealed tangled wires and tubes. Mouth agape over it...
Melted's hard to fix, right?
Acid fungal gland between throat and esophagus kicked in. Corrosive fungal blobs spewed from my maw.
"Hoo..."
Kainesque sighed, eyeing the feed from the ship's cables.
Center screen: what used to be the Imperial Mothership.
The Cults' vaunted superweapon, 'Judger of Gormos 03,' was sinking after a Gremlin Torpedo hit.
"That was brutal. Really."
As the melee dragged, the mothership started playing defensive—knowing a Gremlin was coming. Other Cult ships shielded it from torpedo range.
More trouble than expected.
Cults sacrificing themselves forced tricky torpedo shots on the flagship.
"Tch, should've run sooner, you morons."
With Cults dragging it out, Nemean Fleet acting commander Sanada F went full Star Union: slammed torpedoes on their own ships, coated 'em in nanites, and rammed the mothership.
Cost 10 ships, but nailed it.
That's the feed Kainesque was watching.
Short battle over. Kainesque had no clue the ripples it'd cause.
Not my problem anyway.
Bigwigs in the Machine Committee decide. Acting commander Sanada F might catch some heat.
"Order repair drones back, prep FTL engine."
Ship 98's computer relayed the order. Meanwhile, he checked the 'special machines' aboard.
Tch, why test new Screamers on my ship?
Star Union Screamers are normally managed by Machine Committee android Pyra Eleven.
Usually they'd handle tests, but this time? Higher-ups wanted to see if Screamers mesh with regular troops on a warship.
Prototype deployment trial—Kainesque's ship was one of the testbeds.
Why load criminals on my vessel?
No captain likes criminals roaming—even fully controlled. Constant observation and reports? Worse.
But Kainesque couldn't complain.
Pyra Eleven outranks everyone—Nemean Fleet supreme commander, Machine Committee top brass, same level as Nemean Five. Way above acting commander Sanada F. No shot talking back.
"Sigh, orders are orders. 98, how much longer? Why no launch?"
"What? What's wrong?"
"What the—? Bullshit!"
FTL was fine moments ago. Kainesque was baffled.
Then, a ping from the flagship.
"Uh, FTL issue. Jump now risks 63% failure. Too dangerous."
"Got it!"
Comm cut, Kainesque hailed 98 again.
"Nearest system from here?"
"Good. Head there, repairs first..."
As he issued the order, the holo-feed blanked. Situation room lights died fleet-wide.
"What? 98? What's happening?"
Silence from the ship despite his yells.
Power flickered back in the sit room. 98 messaged via cable.
"What? EMP out of nowhere? Cause?"
"Link Starlink, investigate."
"Damn it! What the hell?!"
Comms down. One meaning: distress.
Stranded in enemy turf, fresh from battle. FTL busted, now lagged behind.
And worse.
"...Inside?"
Kainesque's neck prickled with ice at 98's report.
Lagging was bad enough. Now something unknown lurked among them.