Chapter 100
Chapter 100
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: uly
Chapter: 100
Chapter Title: Kill the Alien
-----------------------------------------------------------------
# 100
After finishing with one, I took a look at the remaining three aliens.
Each of them had their own distinct strengths.
One was transparent all over, with features like a soft-bodied creature, allowing it to slip through even the tiniest gaps.
It was a pretty unusual alien.
But it was so alien that it was hard to find any traits worth applying.
Still, it felt like it could yield something useful for research, so I made sure to gather all the data.
There was also an alien capable of underwater breathing and one with exceptional regenerative abilities, but I judged them unnecessary and just collected the info.
I exited the isolation chamber and initiated the incineration process.
Fierce flames lingered in the room for a while, burning the aliens inside down to their bones.
Once the corpses were completely reduced to ash and I'd performed the secondary chemical treatment, the interior showed no trace of alien contamination.
I watched the whole scene until the end, then turned away.
“Nothing out of the ordinary?”
-Beep!
As I approached, R3D3, which had been blocking the passageway, quickly crawled up my leg and reattached to my left upper body.
The familiar weight brought a sense of psychological stability.
I stepped out, scanning the surroundings.
The mutants had already been collected by the mercenaries and were gone.
Same with the area outside.
Aside from one mercenary guarding the entrance, the captured researchers, experimental equipment, and everything else had vanished.
“Where are the others?”
“They all rushed off to grab anything worth money.”
“Haha.”
That was part of the deal from the start.
Everything except research-related items belonged to the mercenary company as spoils of war.
It was standard practice, so no surprise there.
I had no interest in the miscellaneous equipment they were eyeing anyway.
“Don't you need to go too, sir?”
“They already set aside my share. But since the employer's here, I should head out now.”
“Yeah. Don't mind me—get to work.”
“Got it.”
The mercenary gave a military-style salute, thumping his chest twice with his fist, then vanished.
I reviewed the activity logs as I left the lab.
In another two or three hours, cleanup would be complete.
I had no intention of leaving any traces behind, so I planned to destroy the place entirely.
Even if anyone was hiding, unless they were in an exceptionally sturdy shelter, they'd oxidize along with the lab.
Before that, I decided to spend more time with the mercenary leader.
He was sitting alone on the nose of the spaceship, gazing quietly at the horizon.
I plopped down beside him and said,
“You're more poetic than I expected.”
“...It's just a habit of mine, checking the operation site. Everything go smoothly?”
“Thanks to your help.”
The mercenary leader glanced at me, then turned his eyes forward again.
His mercenaries were busy hauling valuable gear right now.
Some items were too heavy for individuals, so they were deploying large equipment.
“How are the injured?”
“They'll all recover fine with treatment. Only the dead ones have reason to feel cheated.”
“Sorry about that.”
“It's par for the course in this line of work. We expected casualties like this. Considering the scale of the op, it's actually light.”
His face looked a bit sullen, but his voice was steady.
The two of us shared a moment of silence.
In that quiet, the satellite's surface—even after today's massive operation—felt almost peaceful.
After a while, the mercenary leader stood up.
“Fancy a drink?”
“I enjoy it in moderation.”
“Come on. It's still mid-op, so nothing to get wasted on, but I'll pour you one.”
I followed him.
The spaceship was an old vessel, long past its prime.
We'd ridden it here for the covert op, and while it was well-maintained, it wouldn't have been strange if it'd been retired.
To my eyes—used to cutting-edge ships, alliance-operated shuttles, or comfy regular liners—it looked unreliable.
'Money's tight in these times, as expected.'
They earned plenty.
It just cost even more.
That was why the mercenaries outside were so desperately scavenging anything valuable.
“Nice.”
“One of my guys brewed it himself. You must've seen him on the way in.”
“Oh, the bald guy?”
He did look like a drinker type.
Not because he was bald.
Just the vibe.
The mercenary leader chuckled lightly and nodded.
“You know your stuff. That's his nickname.”
A few rounds loosened things up.
Neither of us got tipsy from a couple drinks, but alcohol has its magic.
I tossed out a casual question.
“Why dive back into the fray, becoming a cyborg in the process?”
It wasn't easy for someone from the instructor corps to live with mechanical parts grafted on.
No matter how good the steel and oil body, it couldn't surpass the original flesh.
But it wasn't incomprehensible.
If someone like the mercenary leader suffered major limb loss, implanting an artificial body for treatment caused a sharp drop in ability.
Commonly called Downgrade Balancing, it stemmed from the imbalance between the implanted body and the original's internal-external energies.
Recovery was simple: train until it came back.
The problem? No one knew how long it'd take.
Years? Decades?
For major losses like his, it might never happen, no matter the effort.
Opt for cyborg surgery instead, and no Downgrade Balancing worries.
Performance held, power stayed intact.
But depending on the replaced parts, it might fall short of the original—which had to be accepted.
Still, most chose prosthetics and retrained, so their decision pointed to other reasons.
“Got injured, realized I needed money. Maintaining this ain't cheap.”
“Not exactly pocket change, huh?”
“Damn calibration costs a fortune. Seriously.”
His gripe was valid.
The field wasn't advanced, even now.
What existed was mostly combat machine tech repurposed.
Hence the price.
Plus, his were combat-grade parts, unlike civilian ones.
From what I knew, combat versions used different materials and tech, costing at least ten times more.
Top-tier? A hundred times.
For mercenaries in rough work, factoring repair costs, scraping by on pocket change wouldn't cut it.
I smiled faintly.
The Metal Gear mercenaries grew after solving these issues in-house.
With deep ties to instructor corps and martial factions, their solid core made growth inevitable.
“How's the response time on your prosthetic's IFS (information-feedback system)?”
“Averages 0.02 ms, from what I hear. Feels like ten times that, though.”
He answered with a dissatisfied look.
IFS response time was crucial for stably controlling linked mechanical parts.
0.02 ms sounded fast—like two milliseconds in a second—but real-world application lagged.
Signals weren't one-way outputs.
Actions needed feedback.
Sensations mid-action dictated force adjustments, plus cybernetic instability errors stretched it out, just as he felt.
“Must be tough.”
“Almost died a few times because of it.”
For someone with his elite physique, those two mechanical arms must feel like lead weights dragging him down.
Naturally, he'd crave better tech.
I got to the point.
Fontana's MS invention for me boasted optimized info I/O speeds for individuals.
Per my deal with Sahim, we'd set up a joint lab for practicalization—now underway. I exaggerated a bit.
As expected, the mercenary leader's eyes widened.
“Seriously?”
His already sharp eyes looked fiercer with the frown.
I held back my answer, and he looked ready to snap from impatience.
Smiling, I nodded.
“Yeah. Needs more research for rollout, sure—but just time and money. It'll happen.”
Greed shone unmistakably in his eyes.
No wonder.
Simple body control signals—unlike MS's precise inputs—could process faster with new tech.
Projected IFS? Over 100x current.
Ultimately, handling mechanical arms like natural limbs.
“Overcoming time lag... Any way to try it sooner?”
“Haha, well. I've already spilled plenty of classified stuff.”
I played coy.
Luckily, he wasn't oblivious.
He cut straight to it.
“...You want something from the start. Let's hear it, straight up.”
No offense taken, from his tone.
Felt more intrigued.
“I'm recruiting combat crew for my ship.”
“Combat crew? Heard you haven't even formally enlisted as a superhuman yet.”
I explained in detail to the skeptical leader.
My battleship's displacement, crew scale, future plans.
“Sign on, and you'll become alliance special forces. Command authority stays with me, naturally.”
“You sure we can trust that?”
I nodded.
This went beyond money.
Handing me their lives demanded scrutiny—blind trust would make me wary.
No forcing belief.
“Yes. You can. But trust isn't built on words alone, right?”
“...Fair.”
“First year: trial contract to get to know each other. Cancellable anytime.”
“You get an out too?”
“Of course? Gotta test the fit both ways.”
I grinned.
“Sign, and we handle all maintenance. Upgrades for subpar parts too.”
“That's standard treatment.”
“Right? And you'll access that new tech first.”
Maintenance alone wouldn't lure a Metal Gear outfit.
They could afford it from gigs.
Combat crew pay wouldn't beat mercenary hazard rates either.
Might balance with bonuses, but stability was the cap.
The leader pondered deeply.
Clenching and unclenching his fist, long silence.
It wasn't just tech lust driving his hesitation.