Rinne's Endless Nags and Mastema's Riddle
Fallen Angel—thudududu—
Rabe, you haven't completed your rehabilitation exercise routine yet. Please return to the designated area.
"Shut up…."
It had been just a few days since I'd first seized this mobile hangar. Time hadn't passed much, but even that little was already wearing me thin. It stuck to me constantly, nagging about this and that.
"Now it's saying I need to pick up a delivery…."
I muttered in a tired voice as I opened the hangar's hatch. Pssshhh— As the hatch slid open, the faint rotor noise grew harsher, and a fierce blizzard seeped in.
External temperature: -15°C. Recommend cold-weather gear….
"Gotta move the parts, so prep it."
Extended outdoor activity over 10 minutes carries a 40% risk of bodily dysfunction….
"Then I'll just handle it quick. You move fast too. While you're yapping like this, time's—cough, ticking away."
Rinne made me talk more than anything. Even ignoring it, the mechanical ping drilling into my skull was enough to drive me neurotic. I irritably rubbed my raspy throat and watched Rinne manipulate the devices. It was interacting with the Hermes Logistics transport drone nearby, pulling out the parts I'd ordered.
No storage space available for parts.
"Oh, right."
Looking at the hangar area, I saw armaments piled up in jagged silhouettes like mountains. Seeing that made me think I needed a proper hangar, but I hadn't even looked yet.
"Just shove 'em in a corner for now."
This may encroach on living quarters. In non-living areas, it could interfere with Nexus movement.
"Then…." I waved my hand dismissively, short of breath. "Obvious. Put it in the living quarters."
Not recommended.
"…Why?" Common sense said interfering with Nexus movement was the bigger flaw. Having to shuffle things every time I went out would be more annoying.
Shrinking living quarters will prevent securing space for rehabilitation routines.
"That's no big deal."
It was a pilot assist program, after all. Its main goal should be helping me operate the Nexus. I wanted to tell it to prioritize the Nexus over me a bit.
Without rehab in your current condition, lower body muscle degradation and….
I didn't argue because I'd already tried it a few times before. It just nagged endlessly about taking care of my body. In the end, neither Rinne nor I pretended to listen. I dragged my wheelchair back into the mobile hangar.
As soon as I entered, Rinne operated the device and slammed the hatch shut like it had been waiting.
Internal temperature dropped to 12°C. Redirecting reserve power to emergency heating….
I wasn't sure if this was good or bad. Personally, it was hell, but rationally, nothing Rinne said was wrong.
'Dying in the Nexus is one thing—dying from sickness or starvation is just pathetic.'
In that sense, forcing me to care for my body wasn't the worst. It was oddly obsessive for a mere AI, though.
'Whatever, doesn't matter.'
Mealtime overdue. Pre-calculated energy intake plus seasonings like sugar are vital for mental acuity….
"Rinne."
But one thing I couldn't tolerate. Cohabiting awkwardly meant dealing with it.
"Cut down on the talking."
Currently relaying only essential info for pilot life support. Do you want reduced frequency?
"Yeah, that. My ears are bleeding."
…….
Rinne fell silent for a long time (exuding reluctance like some emotional AI). Finally, it spat out a single line.
Alarm frequency reduced from 7 to 3.
Did it even have that setting? Whatever. Mimicking was fine.
Only then did I move to have the breakfast Rinne mentioned.
I spent the afternoon blankly staring at the space book from Hermann. As the sun began setting outside the window…
Dinner time.
I finished a simple energy bar dinner and climbed into the Nexus. I wasn't looking for jobs, but…
'Feels empty if I don't.'
Unlike at the Nest, the Nexus was always inside the mobile hangar, right by my side awake or asleep. The distance naturally closed, making it routine like eating. Boarding the Nexus no longer felt special. It was just daily life, no need to sneak around.
With nothing else to do in the hangar, it killed boredom too. Simulations, internet—whatever. I booted the Nexus system absentmindedly and poked around the control systems meaninglessly.
'Mail's here.'
As expected, the inbox was packed with new messages. Rankers got that. About a dozen maybe. Mostly corporate requests.
'This one….'
One familiar request stood out. From NE Valhalla Worldwide: seizing an enemy corp's network platform.
'Sent to me too, huh.'
It was a player request in the game too. "Designated request," they said—now I got it. Blast it out to everyone, take whoever bites.
'Not for me.'
Players could handle it. If not, oh well. Not the client's problem. I wasn't hunting jobs anyway.
I skimmed the queued requests like pulp fiction. Destroy enemy facilities, mine surveys, observatory seizures, terror groups—blah blah. Some intriguing ones, but not today. I scrolled down, down…
"…."
Suddenly, I froze at the very bottom—the oldest unread mail.
A name that shouldn't be there. Not from right before I wrecked him—it wasn't there when I checked the Don Quixote takedown request. Sent long after I scrapped him.
Possessed by a ghost?
'Nah, probably not.'
Logically, someone hijacked or impersonated his pilot ID. No idea what sick bastard, but…
'Why bother? Me and Mastema—what relation do we even have?'
Just enemies once. No guarantee I'd care about a mail from his name.
But…
"Hm."
A mail from a dead guy's name piqued my interest. I opened it.
"…?"
5436... Gibberish numbers everywhere. Soon I realized it was encrypted data. The format felt familiar.
'Seen it somewhere.'
Once I confirmed encryption, I had Rinne analyze it on a whim. Surprisingly quick result.
Coordinates pointing to a plateau about 2000km from current position. No registered or observed facilities.
"……?"
Mysterious mail, mysterious numbers. What the hell was the intent?
'Coordinates mean "come here," right?'
No real reason to go by normal standards, but…
'Eh, nothing better to do.'
Funds were ample, supplies decent. I could run the Nexus freely for a while.
'Let's check it out.'
Too convoluted for a trap. Simpler baits existed.
'Treasure hunt? If someone's scheming that hard to hook me, might as well bite once.'
Worst case, I had the Nexus. Just peek and leave—not a bad call.
"Rinne, set mobile hangar course adjustment."
Decided. The hangar, drifting aimlessly under the night sky, turned toward the coordinates.
The mail with coordinates had text too. Unlike the numbers, straightforward sentences easy to read at a glance. Problem was scrolling way down to find it. I only spotted it the next morning and read slowly.
Riddle-like words. As expected. Too convoluted and unpolished for a trap.
"Hmmm…."
Whatever waited, I'd have to see for myself at the destination.