The Crater Chronicles

Welcome to the Machine

Never let it be said that those of us who walk the Crater are idiots. We may not have all the technology and records of the Troglodytes, but we sure know how to make due. Having nothing to work with breeds an incredible form of improvisation that forms the premise of inventions those below could only dream of.

The look on Cyril's face was priceless, and by the time he got around to asking what he was looking at, he was stammering almost as bad as I was. He seemed unable to process the concept of a mechanized vehicle standing before him.

"How? G-Gasoline went stale decades ago! Rocket fuel t-too!"

"N-No gasoline, Cyril," I walked around the back of the retrofitted tank, and showed him the boiler strapped to the roof. "If there's one th-thing we've got plenty of, it's stuff that b-burns."

"Steam powered?"

I nodded. The entire design was genius. Two widened steel skis mounted to the sides; the treads centered in the back, and hooked up to an army of massive steam pistons. The world's deadliest snowmobile, as its creator liked to call it.

On the plains surrounding Sierra Ceniza, it was indispensable. The distributed weight allowed it to ride over the compacted snow and ash as if it weighed a mere fraction of its actual weight, and even the reduced armour plating on the sides provided ample protection from any decaying weapons the buzzards might have--if they were foolish enough to so much as approach such a behemoth. The main turret had been rendered inoperable long ago thanks to the freezing of its moving parts and a lack of ammunition, but its hatch provided an excellent sniping spot, and the mounted machine gun beside it was far from retirement age--though it had been modified to conserve precious bullets.

Most importantly, the boiler that provided power to the whole thing heated the interior. Even if the fuel ran out, the thick metal sides insulated the thing so that surviving a night was feasible, if uncomfortable.

"It looks liable to explode," was Cyril's only comment, skeptical bat that he was.

"Anything can explode if you j-jam enough A'a in it."

"Please don't try that on me."

"I'm defunct, not c-crazy," I replied, grinning like an excitable idiot. "You g-got the chip?"

He pulled the flattened chunk of metal from his jacket pocket, the cool blue light thrown up from the ice reflecting off it at a thousand angles. "I still don't know why he wants this thing."

I shrugged. "Some computer g-giz for a tank. It's a skewed trade, b-b-but so long as it's skewed in our favor, I'm g-gonna' accept it."

"It just seems fishy. Why would he sacrifice something like that, for... this?"

"Everyone up here's got a whole legion of grudges. Wouldn't s-surprise me if he thinks it'll h-help him settle one of 'em."

Cyril held the device at eye level, inspecting it with a furrowed brow, "This thing's probably dangerous. Who knows what he might do with it."

"Doesn't matter. Let's just give it to him and be on our way."

"Kit, we don't even know what it is!"

"What d-does it matter?"

"It matters because he might seriously hurt people using it!"

"So?"

"So!?"

I met him with a scowl. Precious time was ticking by, and he cared to waste it arguing the ethics of giving Donovan, who we would likely never cross paths with again, a computer chip.

"So."

"You only care about yourself, don't you!?" he snarled, "If our roles had been reversed, you would have left me to bleed out, right? You're no better than the buzzards!"

This was pointless. "Buzzards? In case you've forgotten, the Vultures are on our tail. You c-care to wait around for them to show up while we d-debate morality, or do you want to keep your eyes?"

"Fine!" he barked, defeated. "But if this turns out badly, it's your fault."

So be it. What's another crime on my shoulders? The pile had reached the sky long ago.

As we walked to Donovan's workshop, I turned to him, toying with the ring on my middle finger--my favorite finger, I might add. "Y'know. You're not wrong. About me b-being no better than a buzzard. Old habits d-die hard."

Cyril said nothing.

-Excerpt from the journal of a "Marin Kitania" found tucked away inside a large backpacking pack containing several other oddities. Undated. Assumed to be chronologically subsequent to previous excerpts.