The glow from the Essence Core in his pocket was a dead giveaway, a shining bullseye in the oppressive dark of the corridor. Isaac moved with a new, acute tension, the pistol a cold extension of his will. Every shadow cast by the ghastly moss-light now seemed to twitch with potential life. The slow, grinding death of the Amalgam had not been quiet. In a place this dead, noise was an advertisement.
He reached the barricaded archway without incident, the silence somehow more threatening than any skittering sound. He squeezed back through the gap into the blessed, sterile light of the Core Chamber. The violet pulse of the central crystal felt like a heartbeat now, a sign of fragile life in a carcass of a fortress.
He went straight to his salvage pile. Fourteen point eight units of stone and metal. He needed five. The System offered no bags, no carts. He'd have to carry it.
He found a relatively intact surcoat from one of the skeletons, its fabric brittle but still whole. Laying it flat, he began selecting pieces. Not the largest stones, but the densest, most manageable chunks. He filled the surcoat, creating a lumpy, heavy bundle. He tied the sleeves together to form crude carrying handles. Hefting it, he guessed it was around forty pounds. Manageable, for a trip. He tucked the notched short sword through his belt on the other side, balancing the weight.
Salvage (Stone/Metal): 5.0 deducted for projected use. Remaining: 9.8.
The System was keeping a real-time ledger. Good.
Now, the Essence. He placed the large, fist-sized core on the ground beside the bundle. He still had the three tiny cores from the swarmlings in his pocket as well. A total of eighteen Units. The Barracks repair would take ten. He'd be left with eight. A reserve. For what, he didn't know. Medical treatment? More pistol charges? He couldn't afford to think about it. The Barracks was the priority. Manpower was the ultimate force multiplier.
He slung the heavy surcoat-bundle over his shoulder, the coarse fabric digging in. He picked up the large core, its hum vibrating up his arm. Then, pistol in his free hand, he turned back to the dark archway.
The return trip was a study in controlled agony. The weight on his shoulder made his steps heavier, noisier. The core in his hand illuminated his path in a soft violet sphere, banishing shadows but also painting him as a perfect target. He felt utterly exposed. Every creak of his boots, every scrape of the bundle against the wall, sounded like a scream in the silence.
He passed the empty dormitory, the looted armory. The corridor seemed longer on the way back.
He reached the Barracks door—or what was left of it. The twisted metal and shattered wood lay in the entrance. He paused, listening. Only the faint, angry sizzle of the damaged Control Node came from within.
He stepped inside.
The room was as he'd left it, a monument to his desperate victory. The crater from the Amalgam's demise was the centerpiece. He moved to the sparking console, its screens now dark, only occasional arcs of blue energy jumping across its dented surface.
He dropped the salvage bundle with a heavy thud and placed the large Essence Core on top of it. He laid a hand on the cold metal of the node.
Facility: Barracks (Level 0). Status: Critical. Required for repair: 10 Essence, 5 Salvage (Stone/Metal). Resources available. Initiate Repair Protocol? Y/N
Yes.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the Essence Core on the bundle began to glow brighter. Tendrils of violet light, like liquid electricity, streamed from it into the console. Simultaneously, the chosen pieces of salvage within the surcoat shimmered, their outlines blurring. They didn't melt, but seemed to dissolve into a stream of particulate matter—a mist of stone-dust and metallic particles—that was drawn into the console's vents and cracks.
The process was silent and eerie. Isaac watched as the core shrank, its light dimming, its mass being consumed. The salvage bundle deflated as its contents were telemetrically deconstructed.
The console began to change. Dents smoothed themselves out with a series of soft pops. Cracks in its housing sealed with lines of molten-looking light that cooled into seamless, grey alloy. Shattered screens darkened, then flickered to life, displaying scrolling lines of unfamiliar script and schematic diagrams of humanoid forms. A low, powerful hum filled the room, vibrating up through the floor.
It took less than a minute.
The last of the Essence Core vanished. The surcoat lay empty. Where a broken machine had been, there now stood a pristine, monolithic console, its surface a dark, reflective slate, humming with contained power.
Barracks (Level 0) – ONLINE.
Functions Available: Basic Infantry Production. Unit Type: Militia.
Production Cost per Unit: 2 Essence, 1 Salvage (Stone/Metal).
Production Time: 10 Minutes per Unit. Queue Limit: 1.
Alert: Barracks is operational at minimal capacity. Further upgrades (Level 1) require Essence, Salvage, and Leyline Synergy.
Isaac let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He had a factory. Now, he needed a product.
He had 8 Essence left. And 4.8 Salvage in the core chamber (9.8 remaining minus the 5 used). He could theoretically produce four Militia. But he needed to keep a reserve. And he needed to get the salvage here.
"Start with one," he said aloud, his voice flat in the humming room. "Test the product."
He interfaced with the console. A simple menu appeared in his vision, overlaid on the physical screen. He selected Militia. A prompt asked for resource allocation. He confirmed.
Militia Unit – Production Initiated. Essence: -2. Salvage (Stone/Metal): -1 (Remotely allocated from Core Chamber stockpile). ETA: 00:09:59.
From the base of the console, a panel slid open. Within, a basin of swirling, silvery-grey liquid—a nanite slurry or something more mystical—bubbled gently. A framework of light constructed a humanoid skeleton within the basin. The liquid flowed over it, building muscle, sinew, organ analogues. Then, a skin of pale, seamless material formed. Last came the equipment: simple, sturdy boots; tough, dun-colored trousers and tunic; a leather jerkin; and a rounded, unadorned steel helmet. A basic, flintlock-style musket with a fixed bayonet materialized in its hands, along with a bandolier holding paper cartridges and a short, utilitarian knife.
The figure was of average height and build, its features bland and forgettable beneath the helmet—neither young nor old, handsome nor ugly. It was a template. A tool.
The liquid drained away. The figure's eyes, which had been closed, snapped open. They were a clear, empty grey. It stepped out of the production basin with a stiff, practiced motion, its boots clicking on the stone. It turned to face Isaac, brought its musket to its side in a parade rest stance, and stood perfectly still, waiting.
Militia Unit – Production Complete. Unit Designation: M-001.
Status: Optimal. Armament: Smoothbore Musket (20 rounds), Bayonet, Combat Knife.
Isaac stared at it. It wasn't a person. There was no curiosity in its eyes, no fear, no recognition. It was a machine in flesh. A drone. The weight of what he was doing settled on him—creating life, however rudimentary, to die for him. The ethical calculus was monstrous, and he pushed it aside. Survival had its own morality.
"Unit M-001," Isaac said, his commander's tone returning by instinct. "Report status."
The Militia's head tilted slightly. Its voice, when it spoke, was genderless and monotone, devoid of inflection. "Systems nominal. Awaiting orders, Commander."
"Primary order: Secure this doorway. Do not allow any non-human entity to enter. Use lethal force. Conserve ammunition where melee is practical."
"Acknowledged. Securing perimeter."
M-001 turned with crisp efficiency and took up a position beside the ruined entrance, its back to the wall, musket held ready, its blank eyes scanning the dark corridor beyond. It did not fidget. It did not breathe heavily. It was a statue with a gun.
Isaac felt a fraction of the tension leave his shoulders. He had a guard. He had ten minutes before he could produce another. He needed more salvage.
He looked at the empty surcoat, then at M-001 standing sentinel. He couldn't leave the Barracks unguarded while it was producing. But he couldn't afford to wait idly.
An idea formed. He approached the console again. There was no option to halt production. The unit was building.
He focused on the Salvage resource line. The System had remotely pulled 1 unit from his stockpile in the Core Chamber. Could it do more? Could it move salvage?
He placed his hand on the console and concentrated, visualizing the remaining pile of stones in the hall, willing them to be transported here.
Error: Logistics Depot required for automated resource routing. Manual transport necessary for bulk quantities.
So. No teleportation. He was still the delivery man. But now, he had a guard for the factory.
He waited out the remaining production time, his eyes darting between the silent M-001 and the hypnotic swirl of the production basin as it began to form a second unit. The process was identical. At the ten-minute mark, another Militia, identical to the first, stepped out.
Militia Unit – Production Complete. Unit Designation: M-002.
Essence: 4. Salvage: 3.8.
Isaac now had two units. And four Essence left—enough for two more, but he'd have no reserve.
"M-002," Isaac commanded. "You are with me. We are proceeding to the Core Chamber to acquire materials. M-001, maintain your post."
"Acknowledged," they replied in unison.
With M-002 following a pace behind, musket at port arms, Isaac led the way back into the corridor. The difference was profound. He was no longer a lone, vulnerable point of consciousness. He had a weapon that could think (in a limited way) and react. He was a unit.
They retrieved the remaining salvage. It took two trips. M-002 carried triple what Isaac could, moving with an automaton's steady, untiring pace. They brought it all back to the Barracks, building a new stockpile in the corner of the drill hall.
Salvage (Stone/Metal): 12.6.
Isaac stood before the console, M-001 at the door, M-002 beside him. He had 4 Essence. 12.6 Salvage.
He could produce two more Militia, leaving him with zero Essence and 10.6 Salvage. A dangerous gamble.
Or he could produce one,keeping 2 Essence in reserve for emergencies, with 11.6 Salvage.
The commander in him knew the value of a reserve. But the besieged survivor knew the value of numbers.
"Produce one additional Militia unit," he ordered the console.
Militia Unit – Production Initiated. ETA: 00:09:59.
As the basin hummed, Isaac turned to his small force. Two blank faces regarded him. They were not an army. They were a seed. And this dark, ruined drill hall was the soil.
He had paid the price. He had his army. Now, he needed to figure out how to make it grow. The Core Chamber was secure. The Barracks was operational. The next objective shimmered in his vision, a cold, logical next step.
Primary Objective Updated: Scout and Secure the Immediate Bastion Interior (Sectors 1-3). Identify threat concentrations and resource nodes.
He looked at M-001 and M-002. "Get ready," he said, though they were always ready. "We're taking the hallway."