The Elen-Tron slowed as it glided into the outskirts of Kypro. Orion piloted the craft into an underground channel heading toward the Transport Maintenance and Mechanic Core: Ren-Celor, under Central Kypro. Celli sent a request to the tran-com and, four seconds later, received a reply which she passed on to Orion. The pilot brought them through the access tunnel, into Ren-Celor, then into an empty dock on the east side of the Core. He settled the Elen-Tron in its berth, secured the clamps and powered down the engines. They sat in their plush seats on the bridge savoring the last sliver of serenity they might know for some time.
None of them had been to this place - the Mechanic Core. The Kyprans had heard about it and Fel had always wanted to visit, however, that desire was no longer present. A large part of them wished they could have stayed on the Antarious, or taken their families to live with the Regala – out of harm's way – and not return to any com-zone until the threat of the weapons test was neutralized; or untill the catastrophe had passed.
Fel took the holographic projector out of his pouch, holding it firmly in his right hand. He drew a deep breath and placed the palm of his left hand on the central jewel and three fingers on three of the smaller jewels. The hologram came to life. They could see the position of their ship clearly marked in green; they could see the entrance they had come through and they could see a series of red dots marking the path they should take.
The dots pointed west and continued off the edge of the projection. Fel touched one of the jewels and the images in the projection contracted as it zoomed out. They saw where the red dots ended – on the far side of the mechanic core, which was vast. They would have to take some form of transport to reach their first mark.
They gazed out through the front window in the direction the diagram indicated but poor visibility would not allow them to see the west side. What they were looking at was an expanse, like a plain; like a endless field – a scene that was nightmarish for the uninitiated; a dimly-lit world of metal and machines with a high ceiling at least thirty meters above them, barely visible except when bright flashes from welders illuminated small sections of it at random.
It was difficult to distinguish between man and machine as both species of workers moved and labored within the maze of metal; a hellscape which they would have to traverse.
The young Ophilion turned to look at eachother, seeing in their companions' faces what they felt: uncertainty and apprehension, even fear; but also, raw determination – and that would have to suffice. They retrieved their back-packs and chest pouches from the hold, strapped them on, and unhurriedly walked out of the command deck, through the service passage, past the med-lab where Menaro had lain, then stopped when they reached the main hatch in the entrance lounge.
It was a somber quartet that prepared to descend the plank, hoping they would accomplish the mission and not fail at some crucial juncture. They seemed to feel the weight of the planet pressing down on their shoulders. They thought of the Antarion; would they notice them here, so deep under their com-zone? Would they help them in some way if they encountered serious trouble? The four teenagers stood watching the main hatch, gathering the courage to walk down the plank and into the field.
It was Fel who reached over and pressed the sequence. The door opened, inward, to the right, as the barding plank lowered and came to rest with a clang on the grimy metal floor of the dock. With wide eyes they took in the confusion and cacophony before them. This subterranean world of metal, grease, noise and constant movement seemed to go on interminably.
Thousands of human mechanics as well as thousands of droids of every kind labored over an uncountable number of transports and parts. There were roadways and elevated-rail transports, caldrons of boiling liquid and piles of metallic debris. The odor of grease and chemicals assaulted their senses; the noise was deafening – or so it seemed after being on the Antarious for the last four porthen.
"It'll take a while to get used to this again," Fel said, squinting his eyes against the noxious atmosphere.
Orion nodded his agreement, the feeling he had was the same as when he decided to take the Twister, or when he boarded the ship bound for Portos-Caas: if he didn't do it now his fear would get the better of him; cage him; he might not have the guts to go through with it. He swallowed hard and started down the plank followed by Fel, then Jenna then Celli. "We better get a droid going on the plasma relays," he said in a hesitant voice, once they had reached the end of the plank and stood on the greasy dock.
Orion walked to the ship and pressed a sequence of buttons on the keypad beside the control panel. The small covering slid upwards revealing a screen and another set of buttons. The pilot pressed the red one and the docking plank began to retract, then the door closed and sealed with a hiss.
Orion walked back to where his friends stood, looking up at the main hatch of the Elen-Tron. He watched the door along with them, then said: "Well, I guess this is it." The others nodded, still staring at the door.
They waited in a huddle beside their ship, feeling vulnerable, wondering where to begin. Somebody brought up the plasma relays, but nobody knew where to go to get it started. It was difficult to start moving away from the Elen-Tron: it was their safe haven; their escape route; their way back.
Two minutes passed when a sinewy older man who looked like he had spent the better part of his life in this metallic underworld approached them. "You guys need some help?" he asked smartly. Orion nodded mutely. "Well, you're not going to get it standing there," he walked past them, clearly pressed for time, "you gotta check in with the control droid," he called out and pointed with his thumb to a large orange block, two meters square, which sat twenty meters behind him, "it's that one over there." He picked up his pace, disappearing behind a shower of sparks from a welding machine.
The four Ophilion stared at each other for a few seconds, then turned in the direction of the orange block. Not at all like Tur-Lam, Fel thought critically.
Checking in with the orange box was easier than they had anticipated: Orion placed the request and received a message – pink on black – on the small dirty screen; repair droids would start work replacing the power conduits for the life support system – which were not in need of replacing – in three hours. The work would take about six hours to complete.
By then we'll be who-knows-where, Orion thought, offering his shoulder to the blue laser scanner which automatically deducted the credit from his account. Paying for something so expensive gave him a peculiar feeling. Jenna felt even stranger having a com-chip for the first time in her life. She unconsciously rubbed her shoulder as Orion finished the transaction.
They turned and headed west in search of the nearest transport to the far side of the field. They hadn't gotten far when a loud buzzer sounded behind them. They spun around to meet a large transport droid which barked an order for them to stay clear of the trans-way. Moving aside, they almost bumped into another droid which was repairing a spent gravity repeller.
"How can we cross to the west side exit?" Fel asked over the din. The droid looked down at him with its three eyes and replied with technical jargon they did not understand. "It's a whole different word!" said Fel, throwing up his hands in frustration, "The droids at our plant aren't like this; I don't understand these things!"
A human mechanic glanced over at the young people who were clearly lost. "You guys look lost," he stated amusedly. "Where you headed?"
"West side sorting belt," Fel said as confidently as he could, but he still sounded lost.
"Which one? There are four."
Fel pictured the map in his mind, trying to recall the layout of the Core. "The second one," he said, hoping he was right.
"Then you gotta take the elevated personnel transport marked 'West-2', there's no use trying to walk through this, it'll take you forever, and you'll probably get killed on the way." The man cocked his head and pointed down his outstretched arm as if taking aim with a rifle. "You see that red building sticking up there?" They nodded in unison supposing he meant the grayish-brown building with a few patches of red paint still clinging to the wall on the second floor. "Make your way around the delivery ports – and watch for the trans-droids," he pointed an admonishing finger at them." Once you get to the building, climb the stairs to the roof and wait for the transport, there's one every ten mec-tah."
"Thanks," Fel said, and the others gave him a friendly smile. The man seemed pleased that he was able to do something for another human being for a change.
***
As they rode the aging suspended tram along with an assortment of mechanics from the field, Orion couldn't help but feel a sense of hopelessness settling over him. There were so many people, so many com-zones, what could they really do about all of this. Could there really be a catastrophe of the kind they told them about? So many lives! He thought about what Maria had said: Do what you can and that's it. We're a team – we look out for each other. We'll support you. He sighed deeply. I don't know – I don't know.
They came to the stop marked "South-2" and found a secluded corner amongst stacks of discarded flight engines. Fel activated the projector. They were pleased to see a new target, and even more pleased to see that it was close. The red dots mapped a path from where they stood, through an operations zone and to the edge of a precipice – that is as far as it indicated. They looked at each other, wondering if anyone understood the instructions.
Their only option was investigation. They walked down a footpath lined with piles of stacked parts which towered above their heads, then the scene opened up and they saw their target; it was a docking port for the massive hovering scrap metal barges that transported parts to processing plants throughout Kypro. A yawning cavern led away from the dock, curving gently to the left.
They could see a small, battered, light-blue service transport – dwarfed by the mammoth tunnel – flying slowly towards the dock. This location was the only place in the mechanic core where a vertical shaft rose to meet the ground level of the com-zone. The shaft was large enough to admit a medium-sized freighter; the huge scrap barges were restricted to subterranean hauling only.
Through the vertical shaft a column of natural light entered the underworld giving the enormous industrial transport tunnel a hallowed appearance – like the ruins of an ancient cathedral. The light-blue service craft was briefly illuminated as it crossed the shaft of filtered daylight, then plunged back into shadows on the other side. There were no barges or large ships in the dock at the moment so they could see how the system worked.
They stood, gazing at the dock three hundred meters away from them. Between where they stood, on an elevated footpath, and the dock, was an impassible debris field. The floor of the debris field at their position was four meters below them, but it angled down, disappearing below the dock where it was over ten meters lower. The debris field was one of Ren-Celor's zones of oblivion, where truly unnecessary objects were cast, never to be redeemed. Metal that had outlived its usefulness and was now truly dead. Like other zones of oblivion, no one considered it necessary to clear the area, instead, such places were left to decay in their own way, in their own time.
Looking at the dock from this angle they realized that in order to reach their mark they would have to return to the mechanic area, circling the debris field, and approach the dock from the east. The problem was the operations zone: it was an extensive scrap metal sorting operation - not a safe place for soft-skinned humans.
The entire floor leading to the edge of the dock was a maze of conveyer belts and containers and piles of metal. The zone was as large as a verner game stadium. Hundreds of droids, most of them stationary, analyzed and sorted metallic parts and placed them somewhere on the unending labyrinth of conveyors. Hundreds of droids working in perfect harmony to process junk – valuable junk that would be used to make new parts for transports; new parts made at factories like the Tur-Lam 64. They used to make those parts, or scrape garbage from the sides of the factory's compactors, or program the factory's computers. They were all somehow connected – even Jenna, who was now linked to the Kypro central com through her newly acquired com-chip.
Fel contemplated crossing the sorting zone from the east side of the dock but, watching the droid in motion, realized the folly of such a venture. He remembered the reprimand they had received from the mechanic. They would be caught and perhaps expelled from Ren-Celor if they tried climbing through the maze of conveyers. Not to mention it was a life-threatening project. Sorting droids were always shut down before mechanics mingled with them. Powerful robotic arms swinging large, jagged pieces of metal through the air: an unacceptable risk.