Nobody's Servant 1.0

Dominion [vore]

When you work in necrotech, you get good at moving cadavers. And under Maxim Directorate law, everyone contributes to research, performing one last service even after they've drawn their final breath. There is always someone to move. Today, it was what remained of the two scavengers who thought they might take us as a prize. Their scrapper team began to mill about semi-autonomously after the end of Suraokh's session, let's call it, but they seem responsive to his instructions. It tidily solved the problem of getting the barge in motion again.

As much as Suraokh would have liked to use his submarine, a craft he was far more familiar with, it rests now in the middle of the deck, torn open and mangled beyond repair. It will be difficult to explain what we're doing with a scavenging craft painted in Prelature colors when we try to dock in Dominion territory, provided they don't blast us on sight. I try not to think about that; I have to trust Suraokh has a plan even if he's dodgy about sharing details with me. As the remaining scrappers pay me no mind, least of all as I wear a spare raincoat like theirs, I take my time among the salvage, finding some finishing touches for my cudgel. Waste, most of it; metal teeth broken off the tools they had been using to cut through the bones of what's left of a mostly organic warkite on deck. They'll suit my needs just fine if I can find the tools to implement them.

"Suraokh," I call through the broken window of the bridge, "I'm going below to look around."

He waves in acknowledgment. No reason not to let me out of his sight if there are only so many places I can go. It's not that big of a ship. The interior below leans claustrophobic to me, I can only imagine what a squeeze it must have been for its previous occupants. I can't read any of the faded signage but there aren't many places to check as it is. I luck out and find a small workshop fairly quickly, though it's clear the room has served many purposes judging by the stains exposed by the harsh lights shining from high on the walls.

There is little difference between surgery and repair where undeath is involved, so it neither comes as much surprise nor holds my attention for very long. Instead, as I search for tools, I'm drawn to the shelving units, their contents kept bundled by cables and cords in that way advised against by every product manual. I never paid that part very much mind, either. I spy paired clamps among the coils, containing my excitement until I can follow them to their source and confirm my suspicion. I had expected, rather hoped, that it would lead to an ARC battery, but there are actually several of the boxy devices mostly relegated to one crate. Republic models too, universally compatible and all of them have a little bit left to give. I instinctively check over my shoulder, as if those who acquired them aren't already settling into the finest accommodations the seafloor has to offer.

Fending off any trace of shame, I hook up the telltale clamps of the first's leads to the nodes of the second, transferring the precious phantasmal substance within. In no time at all, they've all been connected like this, combining their sum into a single battery, which I pocket; it'll be a good replacement for the one I lost. At least I won't have to worry about affording the essentials now, and it's not like anyone else was going to be using it. I still feel a little gross thinking of it that way but if there was ever a time to be pragmatic, it's now.

But that's not what I came here to do. I move along to the workbench and turn out the pockets of the raincoat to scatter all those slotted metal teeth I had collected. I set my cudgel on the table, and set to transforming it into something more elegant and familiar. It takes me a while, but with a little bit of finagling I've got a nice single serrated edge to work with, consisting of stiff blades socketed into slots in the wood. As a basic safeguard, I scratch a simple warding sequence near the handle; I'd hate to have it pulled out of my hands by a spell. It holds a passing resemblance to grandmother's macuahuitl, or half of it, anyway.