96: Chapter 97 There Shouldn't Be Light in the Ruins

TW-078 did not like quiet.

Gunfire and explosions at least tell you where the enemy is. Quiet tells you nothing.

It just crouches in the darkness, waiting for you to make a mistake.

Manila Fortress was quiet.

They had arrived at these ruins three hours ago.

Setting out from the Pacific Ocean coastal camp, they traveled south along a road plowed by artillery fire, passed through two scorched jungles and a half-collapsed bridge, and finally saw the outline of Manila Fortress.

Or rather, what was left of its outline.

The artillery fire of the Unification War had not spared this place.

The gantry cranes of the shipyard lay tilted on the docks, steel cables dangling, swaying gently in the sea breeze.

In the harbor, some cargo ships were half-sunk, revealing their rusted hulls; others had been blown in two, their broken sections facing the sky.

Seawater had flooded the holds, making dull gurgling sounds during high tide.

The residential district was even worse. The outer walls of buildings had been turned into honeycombs by Bolter fire, all the windows were shattered, and rows of black, gaping openings faced the streets.

The streets were littered with broken bricks and glass shards, along with some cloth strips bleached white by the rain, indistinguishable as to whether they were clothes or flags.

No people.

Not a single living soul.

TW-078 crouched on the roof of a three-story building, scanning the entire ruins with binoculars.

Behind him stood his deputy, TW-290, a rookie who had been operational for two weeks, gripping his Bolter.

The mission briefing stated that the Sun Warriors might have hidden heavy equipment in the direction of Manila Fortress before their withdrawal.

Nathan Doom's intelligence pointed here.

"Report," TW-078 said, lowering his voice.

Replies came from each squad over the comms.

"Squad One, northern sector cleared. No contact."

"Squad Two, eastern sector cleared. No contact."

"Squad Three, harbor area cleared. No contact. But..."

Squad Three leader TW-188's voice paused.

"But what?"

"The door to Warehouse Three in the harbor is open."

"Open?"

"Not blown open. Opened from the inside. There are fresh lubricant traces on the hinges."

Fresh lubricant. In a harbor abandoned for at least three months.

"Squad Three, hold position. Do not enter," TW-078 said. "Squads One and Two, converge on the harbor."

He lowered his binoculars and turned to TW-290.

"Stay close."

Fifteen minutes later, they crossed the residential district and reached the harbor.

Warehouse Three was a massive corrugated iron structure, approximately eighty meters long, forty meters wide, and fifteen meters high.

There were a few bullet holes in the outer walls, but the overall structure was intact.

In some places, the iron sheets on the roof had curled up, revealing the steel beams beneath.

TW-188 stood by the warehouse entrance, his gun aimed at the half-open iron door.

TW-078 walked over, crouched down, and examined the door hinges.

TW-188 was right. There was a thin film of lubricant on the hinges, its color fresh, not yet oxidized. He scraped a bit with his finger and smelled it.

Industrial lubricant.

Military-grade.

"Any footprints around?"

"Yes," TW-188 pointed at the ground. "At least three distinct sets of boot prints, heading south from inside the warehouse. About two to three days old."

Two to three days ago. Nathan Doom had ordered the Sun Warriors to scatter and withdraw about five days prior. The timing matched.

TW-078 stood up and looked at the half-open iron door. Darkness lay beyond the crack.

He didn't like this.

The door was open, the lubricant was fresh, but the people were gone.

Either they left in too much of a hurry to close the door, or it was left open on purpose.

But the mission briefing was clear: conduct a thorough search, register all heavy equipment regardless of condition.

"Let's go in," he said.

He was the first to walk in.

The warehouse was dark.

The only light sources were a few beams of sunlight leaking through gaps in the corrugated iron roof, thin shafts of light piercing the dust-filled air.

The air smelled of machine oil and rust, with a faint burnt odor—the residue of welding.

TW-078 switched on the light on his helmet. The beam swept across the interior of the warehouse.

Empty. Most of the space was empty. Oil stains and tire tracks on the floor indicated that vehicles or heavy equipment had once been parked here, but they were gone now.

But at the very back of the warehouse, there was a door.

Not a corrugated iron door. It was a heavy metal blast door. Sturdy and solid, completely out of place in this simple iron warehouse.

There was an electronic lock on the door. Its indicator light was green.

Unlocked.

TW-078 walked to the door and paused for two seconds. He glanced back at the men behind him, then said to TW-188, "Squads Two and Three, stay up here and guard the exit. Do not leave under any circumstances."

"Understood."

He reached out and pushed.

The door opened.

Beyond it was a set of stairs leading down. Concrete steps, metal handrails, emergency lights embedded in the walls. The lights were on, emitting a dim yellow glow.

An underground facility.

Someone was supplying it with power.

TW-078 led Squad One, ten men, down the stairs.

Each step echoed in the narrow stairwell as their boots hit the concrete.

The air grew cooler and damper, carrying the musty smell unique to underground spaces.

They descended about three stories' worth of stairs before reaching the bottom.

The bottom opened into a corridor. Not wide, about three meters, with concrete walls on both sides and exposed pipes and cables overhead.

Emergency lights spaced every five meters cast a dim, oppressive yellow glow along the corridor.

At the end of the corridor was another door.

Also open.

TW-078 slowed his pace.

Both doors were open.

Electronic locks unlocked.

Emergency lights on. Someone was maintaining this place, and recently.

He raised his gun and slowly approached the door.

The nine Thunder Warriors behind him followed, their boots hitting the concrete in a uniform, heavy rhythm.

Beyond the door was a large underground space.

The moment TW-078 stepped inside, the beam from his helmet light swept across the entire space, and his footsteps halted.

This wasn't a warehouse.

It was a workshop.

The underground space was about half the size of a football field, with a ceiling at least six meters high.

The space was lined with rows of workbenches, tool racks, welding equipment, and hydraulic presses. Tracks ran along the floor, with several flatbed carts parked on them.

Parts were scattered on the workbenches. Metal parts. Some he recognized: power armor joint components, Bolter magazine casings, helmet visors. Others he didn't: oddly shaped metal blocks with intricate engravings on their surfaces.

TW-078 walked to the nearest workbench, picked up a part, and examined it. The cut surface was fresh, the metallic luster not yet oxidized. It had been machined no more than a week ago.

He set the part down and continued inward.

Then he saw the thing at the very back of the workshop.

A walking vehicle.

Six legs. Deep red armor.

Approximately four meters tall and three meters wide.

Its six hydraulically driven legs were folded against its sides, crouched on the ground. On its back was a turret, mounted with a tubular weapon covered in heat sinks.

TW-078 stared at the walking vehicle for a long time.

He remembered the Void Crusher on the Bridge of Sighs. This vehicle was a smaller version but structurally similar. Six legs, heavy armor, a back-mounted weapons platform.

The Sun Warriors weren't running away.

They were preparing for war.

"Commander," TW-290's voice came from behind, trembling slightly. "Look over there."

Following his pointing finger, TW-078 looked.

On the side wall of the workshop was a row of storage lockers. The locker doors were all closed, but a note was stuck to one of them.

TW-078 walked over and tore off the note.

It was written in Terra's common language, in messy handwriting.

"You're too late."

The signature was a single letter.

TW-078's fingers tightened. The note crumpled in his hand.

He spun around abruptly.

"Everyone—"

The words died in his throat.

Because the emergency lights went out.

All the lights went out simultaneously.

The underground workshop plunged into complete darkness.

TW-290's breathing suddenly grew heavy. Someone's gunstock knocked against a workbench with a metallic clang. TW-078's helmet light was still on, its beam cutting a cone of white light through the darkness.

Then, from the depths of the darkness, came a sound.

Not a human voice.

It was the sound of metal joints activating. The hiss of hydraulics. The hum of servo motors.

The six legs of that six-legged walking vehicle were slowly extending.