Somewhere, refugees who thought they'd bought a ticket to paradise disembarked from their transport into the welcoming arms of slavers. Somewhere, smugglers loaded a hundred kilos of hab cut with industrial solvents into shipment crates destined for rich kids on Turaxis II. The junkyard city hummed with activity, an insect-like buzz that gave the illusion of budding life to a place trapped in perpetual decay. Muted sunlight crawled across the twisted ship hulls, metal beams, and other discarded trash that formed the arterial streets of Deadman's Port. A gray miasma hung thick overhead, stretching out as far as the eye could see. ![]() He allowed himself a brief moment to acclimate to the environment, his sensory organs taking in the new day. The port grub named Vik bolted out of his system runner, sealing the door behind him with a set of maglocks. He slowly said his own name: "Vik." It was easy to forget sometimes when the days bled into one long string of near-death experiences. The grub slid them over his head, and the metal pressed against his chest, cold and strong and reassuring. His hand emerged from the darkness holding a pair of gold pilot wings attached to a length of rubber cord. He scuttled up to the system runner's corroded control panel and reached into an open compartment. The urge to leave, to obey Ivan's call, was strong, but the ritual wasn't over. He sifted through the disemboweled electronics strewn across the floor, scavenging for an emergency ration pack. Dull lights flickered on overhead, illuminating the grub's home: a crumbling system runner cockpit. ![]() The grub rolled off the moldy pilot seat where he slept and squirmed into a grimy jumpsuit reinforced with a hair-thin layer of neosteel threading to ward off shivs. Blood cells rich with oxygen surged through muscle tissue as he began the rituals of awakening. Twin adrenal glands juiced his veins with nature's own brand of stimpack. ![]() Instinct seized control, issuing orders to the grub's body. The transponder implanted in his wrist cried its shrill alarm at five-second intervals. The port grub awoke in a cold sweat, as usual.
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