Very good, panic the Chigan
On the promenade, towards the end of the afternoon, passers by were mildly startled when a section of the floor opened. Violently. Erupted, perhaps, the better term.
Seven feet of Wheatfields hauled itself out of a maintenance tube, eyes wide, slamming the hatch behind him. As always, the seal with the decking was perfect; the thin line all but disappearing to view.
Wheatfields didn't care. He was undergoing a rare emotional state-- given how many years since he'd felt anything but numbness, mild rage, homicidal rage, suicidal rage, slightly alcohol-flavored rage and a general misanthropic loathing for all hominid life under Jurisdiction and the bastards out in Gonebeyond in the bargain, the existential fear pervading him now was strange and novel.
He had to find the AIs, or that Nurail-sounding engineer (Chotti? Skoti?) and shake them until they understood that something very worrying was happening.
Seven feet of Wheatfields hauled itself out of a maintenance tube, eyes wide, slamming the hatch behind him. As always, the seal with the decking was perfect; the thin line all but disappearing to view.
Wheatfields didn't care. He was undergoing a rare emotional state-- given how many years since he'd felt anything but numbness, mild rage, homicidal rage, suicidal rage, slightly alcohol-flavored rage and a general misanthropic loathing for all hominid life under Jurisdiction and the bastards out in Gonebeyond in the bargain, the existential fear pervading him now was strange and novel.
He had to find the AIs, or that Nurail-sounding engineer (Chotti? Skoti?) and shake them until they understood that something very worrying was happening.