A Cost in Copper

The heat behind Brono Kraznik’s ribs felt less like blood and more like hot tallow poured into dry copper pipe. If he didn't allocate his two new attribute points and pick a skill before the kill-shock wore off, his racing pulse threatened to cook his lungs from the inside out.

"Breathe through your teeth, Captain," Yevzkov muttered, nudging a severed crawler leg with the scuffed iron toe of his boot. "The first swallow of essence always tastes like lime wash and panic. Don't waste it on panting."

Brono leaned his shoulder against the cracked brickwork of the aqueduct pier, his broadsword resting point-down in the grit. He focused his intent, and the pale blue grid snapped into focus across his peripheral vision.

The numbers were brutal in their simplicity. Fourteen units of essence looked like wealth to an unranked recruit, but against the cost of active skills, it was an illusion.

"They offer you something loud?" Yevzkov asked. The veteran scout leaned against a rusted iron water conduit, scraping monster tallow from his knuckle-guards with a short bone pick. "Something with fire? Or a leap that shatters flags?"

"Cinder Lash," Brono said, his voice dry. "And Kinetic Burst."

"Pick the flame and you’ll burn your own eyebrows off before the second crawler gets within ten yards," Yevzkov said with a dry snort. "Two swings and your pool is dry. When an anomaly catches you on zero essence inside the grid, your knees lock up like rusted hinges. That’s how half the mercenaries from the river barges end up as fertilizer in the lower cisterns."

Brono had already done the arithmetic. Kinetic Burst cost eight essence. With a pool of fourteen, he could fire it once, risk a partial second attempt, and then drop to zero. In a real melee, relying on a skill that ran dry after a single heartbeat was suicide.

Edge Calibration was different. One essence every three minutes meant forty-two minutes of continuous combat enhancement on his current pool. More importantly, it stacked with the physical repairs he had learned in the imperial armories. A soldier survived on tolerances and sharp steel, not theatrical bursts.

He focused on the prompts and made his allocations.

The feverish pressure behind his sternum eased immediately. The hot tallow sensation cooled into a steady, rhythmic hum that ran down his right shoulder, through his forearm, and into the grip of his sword.

Along the scarred length of the steel blade, faint indigo lines traced the hairline folds of the metal, tightening the balance toward the hilt. When he shifted his grip, the sword felt three ounces lighter and distinctly more eager to bite.

"Smart," Yevzkov grunted, noticing the faint, disciplined shimmer on the blade rather than a blaze of fire. "You're dull, Grunt, but at least you aren't theatrical. The grid loves vanity. It feeds on fools who think they're warlords after killing one bug."

"How long does the essence stay?" Brono asked, rolling his neck. The tight ache in his lower back had faded, replaced by an alert sharpness.

"Until it leaks," Yevzkov said, pocketing his pick. "The ruins aren't a storehouse; they’re a sieve. Every hour you spend inside Sector 04, the ambient field bleeds about one unit of essence out of your skin just to keep your interface awake. If you don't kill, or if you don't harvest, you run dry. Run dry out here, and the system shuts down like an unbanked furnace."

"And if we step back past the border pylons?"

"It drains to zero the second your boot clears the iron posts," Yevzkov said flatly. "You go back to being an ordinary man who owes two months of back pay to a squad of cutthroats."

The old scout reached into the grease-stained breast of his leather coat and pulled out a rolled piece of stiff canvas. He tossed it through the air. Brono caught it with his left hand, feeling the grit embedded in the heavy weave.

Unrolling it, Brono found a detailed topographical sketch of the subterranean conduits beneath Sector 04. It was marked in faded red carpenter's wax, with crosshatches over collapsed galleries and small, sharp triangles noting anomaly nests.

"That’s the intake line for the primary pumping vault," Yevzkov said, pointing a crooked finger toward a dark, square culvert twenty yards down the alley. "The Old Empire ran imperial copper conduit through those maintenance galleys. Three heavy couplings will buy enough flour and salt pork at the market wagons to keep Brezinya from slitting your throat in your sleep."

Brono looked from the map to the gaping black mouth of the culvert. Cold, stale air drifted from the opening, smelling of stagnant water, mineral oil, and old rot.

"And what’s guarding the couplings?" Brono asked.

"Trip-wires from the third evacuation," Yevzkov replied with a thin, jagged smile. "Spring-loaded iron bolts, pressure plates that haven't rusted through yet, and whatever nested in the dark after the water stopped flowing."

The veteran stepped back, settling his weight into the shadow of the broken aqueduct arch.

"Your patrol is waiting at the boundary pylons, Captain," Yevzkov said softly. "You can take your new level, walk back out, and tell them you survived a crawler. Or you can take that broadsword down the chute and prove you can feed them."

Brono rolled the canvas tight, tucked it into his belt beside his whetstone, and tightened the strap on his gauntlet.

"Lead the way," Brono said.

"Not a chance," Yevzkov said, crossing his arms. "I'm the instructor. You're the one holding the sharp piece of iron. Move."