In a dark tunnel deep underground, a mountain of a man stirred. He sat up and raised his right arm. At first it appeared to be flesh, but the more he looked, the more machine he saw. Instead of mere fingernails there were retractable claws that doubled as fingernails and he quickly noticed the skin of each finger folded back to reveal a set of tools including a knife and several drills with screwdriver bits as well as bits for drilling holes. His feet were a metallic silver, but seemed as flexible as any feet should be. By feeling his head he could tell there was a bare metal plate instead of a skull. And then there was the light he was using to see. It took a bit, but he soon realised the light was coming out of his own eyes.

Who am I? He wondered, what am I? Am I human? Machine?

“I am...” he told himself the only thing he could remember; “Operational Cyborg 1.”

* * *

A hydroponics farm is a large chamber dominated by several multi-tiered frameworks of platforms. On the platforms were tables of plants. Lamps provided light for the plants while a system of pipes and sprinklers provided water. Walking space around the tables of plants was limited, but it allowed workers to bring fertiliser and to harvest the plants when ready. The entire room was bathed in red light: since plants use red light most efficiently, the lamps all gave off red light to minimise waste light and electricity. Stairs made platforms accessible from above and below.

Several of these frameworks stood side by side in the chamber, each growing different vegetables. At floor level were doors leading in and out of the farm as well as rooms for tool storage and a mechanical room where the generator was housed.

Currently, the farm was empty except for a lone woman in mechanic's coveralls holding a toolbox. She looked up and saw where the problem was: high on one of the upper tiers, the lights had gone out. Kyanite made her way all the way up there and examined the lamps.

“Well now, what's wrong with you?” She asked the malfunctioning lamps. Whatever the problem was, it wasn't immediately obvious. Fiddling with the bulbs and replacing some of them did nothing. “Hmm...” She muttered, “must be the wiring...”

A quick check revealed the wiring job was the worst Kyanite had ever seen. Someone obviously wanted to get the job finished as fast as possible without caring how well the job was done. It was even worse than the makeshift splicing jobs common back in her home station. “Ah, there you are!” She exclaimed to herself after digging through a mess of cords to find the culprit; the wire connecting the whole platform to the main line coming from the generator was badly frayed.

“I'll have to turn the power off to replace you. No time to waste!” Kyanite ran down the stairs only to trip, fly over the railing, and sail onto the floor of the next platform over, where she unceremoniously curled into the fetal position and sucked her thumb for a few minutes.

Recovering from her freak accident, Kyanite stood, dusted herself off as if nothing had happened, and continued running down to the mechanical room. The generator was unnecessarily user-friendly: enough to make a trained mechanic hit it with a wrench until it did what she wanted it to.

Once the power for the offending part of the farm was off, Kyanite switched on her flashlight and started to make her way back when the outside doors opened and two farmers entered. Seeing Kyanite's light, they immediately rushed over.

“What's the meaning of this? Why'd you turn off the power?” one of them demanded;

“Do you want your lamps fixed or not?!” Kyanite shot back, waving her wrench violently in the air, “I need the power temporarily off to change the wire, or do you want a fried corpse instead of fixed lamps?!” The farmers, taking several steps away from this wild, wrench-waving maniac, replied,

“Calm down. A wire needs to be fixed? Are you the mechanic? Nobody told us you were in here. You can understand our alarm when the power went off; if it stays off too long, our entire crop will wither and die. Let's take a look.” The farmer glanced at Kyanite's wrench, “And please put that away if you're not using it.”

After the farmers had accompanied her back up, Kyanite gesticulated fanatically at the broken wire and shouted; “You see!” With the power off, it was a simple matter of cutting out the bad wire and splicing in a new one. One of the farmers went down and turned the power back on: all the lamps lit up beautifully.

“Great! Thanks for your help!” the farmer said to Kyanite, who glared and fumed;

“Where did you get that wiring? This whole setup is atrocious, I'd think about redoing the whole thing before it all goes haywire. It's the worst wiring I've seen in a while!”

“We got it installed by Ragnarok Habitational Services. I know they're not the best, but they got the job done.”

“Really? And how much did they charge you?”

* * *

When Grennow was first surveyed in preparation for the earliest mining colonies, it was divided into a number of zones, called Areas, which were to function as provinces under the central Planetary Administration. One area, distinguished by the number 51, was near the north pole. The capital, Ragnarok, was originally settled as a half-way station on Express Line 42, which ran between two other, much bigger Areas. Area 51 was found to be rich in mineral deposits and so it quickly grew to include 21 primary line tunnels, 2 ring line tunnels, and one hundred and forty stations with a collective population of a few million.

Stations were where the inhabitants of the Devil's Basement lived out their lives. Ragnarok began as a large area dug out of the rock and dirt. Girders and pillars were built to support a steel-reinforced concrete ceiling holding up the miles of rock above. Catwalks accessible by sketchy elevator or even sketchier ladder were built around the girders for maintenance purposes.

Construction then began on the city. Apart from the lack of a sky or natural lighting of any kind, it looked like a normal city with parks, and blocks of buildings with alleys between them. Buildings had concrete foundations dug into the rock beneath them while the structure itself was typically made of bricks. Bricks were produced by tightly compressing Grennow's yellowish dirt and crushed rocks in a tamping machine. Millions of tons of dirt and rock was always leftover from mining activities as well as from hollowing out spaces to build new stations or expand existing ones, so it was a readily-available and cheap building material. Hauling it to the surface to dump it was expensive, so as much of it as practical was used for other purposes.

Streets consisted of wide sidewalks with two to four railroad lines in the middle—railroads being the most efficient and therefore primary mode of transportation in the Devil's Basement. Lights lined Ragnarok's streets and avenues. In the absence of a sun, the street lights were on a timer that automatically dimmed the lights at “dusk” and brightened them again as “dawn” arrived. From street level, the ceiling was invisible—plunged in darkness as it was—but from time to time tiny lights could be seen eerily bobbing and waving around as maintenance workers checked on the status of the girders keeping the ceiling from crashing down on the people below.

To give residents something to look at besides depressingly grey concrete and dirty yellow bricks, occasional splashes of green were added. Some streets were lined with trees or bushes, supported by sunlamps. Public parks dotted the station, complete with grass, flowers, trees, and park benches. Flower gardens were very popular across the inhabited parts of the Devil's Basement, often appearing both in public workplaces such as office buildings as well as in people's yards and under their windows.

These sights didn't interest Travertine. Standing at the edge of the sidewalk next to the rails, he gazed out at the concrete pillboxes and protected gun emplacements that comprised the Armistice Line separating the People's Republic of Ragnarok from the Collective Union of Ragnarok.

In the ten years since the armistice that ended the Second Line War, little had been done to rebuild the ruined sections of Ragnarok; instead, rubble had been cleared to make room for more bunkers and gun emplacements. The capital had once been home to slightly over half a million people, both humans and zene, but most had since been killed or fled, leaving whole neighbourhoods completely abandoned. Tens of thousands of soldiers and dozens of armoured trains manned the line, staring each other down all day every day since the armistice. Investors didn't seem too keen on sinking their money into such a place for some reason. Worse, negotiations for the final peace treaty were due to begin soon, but mounting tensions between the two sides made the prospects of successful diplomacy look bleaker and bleaker.

The only section of the city still doing well was the Neutral Zone, which had been under the control of the 1st Ring Cooperative since the conclusion of the First Line War, when the People's Republic and Cooperative had been allies and split the station between them. The Cooperative had remained aloof of the bloodshed of the Second Line War.

As Travertine stood there, the regular broadcasting on the public telephradio (since radio signals don't reach far underground, dwellers of the Devil's Basement aired music, talkshows, and news on speakers over one-way telephone party lines and dubbed it “telephradio”) blaring in the streets was interrupted by a breaking news bulletin:

“Breaking news:” Began the male zene voice; “A few hours ago, there was an explosion in one of the deep mineshafts under Ragnarok, trapping over one hundred miners behind an avalanche of rock and dirt. Rescue workers are already on site, but fears are running high there might be another bomb to trap the rescuers like there was last month. This is the fourth bombing in the past three months, and people are getting more and more concerned. They demand to know what the legitimate authorities of Ragnarok are going to do to protect us. With me now is Gneiss Hyaloclastite, spokesperson for the mayor's office. Mr. Hyaloclastite, what do you make of these terrorist attacks?”

“It's just appalling. That anyone would carry out such attacks on civilian mines, and at this point in time, tells me that not only do the perpetrators have no respect for life—human or zene—but it also tells me they want to disrupt the peace process.” It was the voice of a human, in a classic Unionist propaganda ploy. Humans were frequently used as spokespeople for Unionist government departments as part of their campaign to bring humans and zene together in support of their political line.

“Why do you say that?” Asked the news anchor,

“The deadline for re-negotiating the armistice is coming up in a few weeks. If anyone wanted to ruin hopes of continued peace and eventual demilitarisation of the Armistice Line, carrying out bombings like this latest attack would be just the way to do it.”

“What could be the result if these attacks continue?”

“It's hard to underestimate how bad of an effect this has on prospects for peace. The People's Republic won't clarify their position on the attacks or the perpetrators but these terrorists, these 'Red Wolves,' have only attacked mines belonging to companies based in the Collective Union. Now, I don't know about you, but for me, I don't see how we're not supposed to conclude that the People's Republic is behind all this.”

“Is that the general feeling at the mayor's office?”

“Oh, not just the mayor's office, it's the general feeling in the military and with the government over in Serenity. Chancellor Hellbringer said as much in his speech after the last attack. If the Republicans don't denounce the Red Wolves—denounce them hard and denounce them soon—I don't see how else we're supposed to interpret what's going on.”

“Are you saying this could lead to a Third Line War?”

“I'm saying exactly that. We can't sit idly by while they kill our people again and again. Our government and military must act to protect the lives of the people of Ragnarok!”

“And it can't act too soon, at this stage. That's all the time we have for today. Thank you for your insight, Mr. Hyaloclastite.”

“Thank you for having me.”

“Our prayers go out for the miners still trapped, and we'll keep you posted on any new developments.”

* * *

The Stretching Ivy Plaza was an open area covered in grass with dirty yellow stone walkways winding between high trellises entangled in ivy supported by sunlamps, with benches scattered throughout. Workers from the nearby office buildings spent their smoke breaks here, alongside local riff-raff who had nowhere better to be. It was then that the news about the explosion broke. Immediately, the mood on the plaza changed.

I've seen this before. Rook thought to himself. Whether it's the government or some upstart “revolutionary,” people are always at each other's throats. Lounging on a bench, the ageing man watched people's reactions. Snatching hurried glances as they went about their business. Police eyeing each passerby with suspicion as if a pickpocket could be the spark to ignite this powder keg.

When the Great Uprising first started, the Ragnarok Colonial Council had used this trick more than once; planting a bomb here and there reminded people of who was going to keep them safe. Rook knew because he'd helped plant some of them. This place could blow at any moment. The stress isn't good for my bones. I should get out of here.

Rook put out his cigarette in an ashtray, drew his long coat around his body and pulled his fedora low. But I've got a job to do.

* * *

Across the plaza was a row of stores. Kyanite leaned against a street light smoking her own cigarette. She glanced up at the clock at the centre of the plaza. Her appointment was still hours away. Convincing the farmers they should replace their wiring had taken some doing, but when she made it clear the risk they were running with such terrible wiring, they slowly began to agree. Ragnarok Habitational Services (RHS) had obscenely over-charged them on their shoddy work; she had replaced the wiring for a fraction of the original cost, which lightened the farmers' mood. She had promised to come back in a week for a free check-up.

Although she hadn't spent long in Ragnarok, she was beginning to build up a loyal customer base. With them spreading the word about RHS, small businesses might actually have a chance to get off the ground without selling their souls to the big conglomerate.

Crushing her smoke under heel, Kyanite headed to a store nearby called “The Yelling Mechanic's Life Support Shop.” Inside, staring her in the face as soon as she stepped in was a whole shelf full of parts for air scrubbers, all of them with a clear, crisp, “RHS” written on them.

“Admiring the RHS section?” Boomed the voice of the proprietor from behind a another shelf; “It's the latest stuff on the market!” Kyanite snorted and glared at the shelf in response. “My name's Scoria by the way.” Continued the proprietor, oblivious of Kyanite's displeasure, “Speaking of RHS, I just sold a big batch of RHS ventilation equipment to the Collective Union military for their frontier outposts on the border down in the warrens below the station. Mechanics are out there installing them now.” Scoria paused to breathe; “You look like a mechanic yourself. If you have time, I had a four-man team heading out tomorrow, but two of my guys got sick.”

“Hmm...” Kyanite didn't like the idea at all. There was no telling what might happen being so close to so much RHS equipment all in one place, and probably installed improperly to boot. On the other hand, going out now could help get her foot in the door to service the outposts when the equipment inevitably broke down.

As the mechanic weighed her options, the door opened. A huge creature walked in. At almost seven feet tall, he stooped slightly to get through the door. Kyanite was speechless at the sight. She had never seen anything like it: human and machine seamlessly woven into a single creature.

“I'm looking for work.” Spoke the man-machine. Scoria recovered much more quickly than Kyanite;

“That's great! I was just telling this young woman I need people to go install new ventilation equipment down in the warrens. How much experience do you have?”

“None. But I'm a fast learner. My name is OC-1.”

“Excellent! I still need someone with experience to fill the junior mechanic position...” The proprietor glanced expectantly at Kyanite:

“I'll do it!” She responded immediately.

* * *

Almost an hour's train ride from Ragnarok, Travertine arrived at the scene of the explosion. Space had already been cleared for them in the mine office complex, so Travertine and the other arriving staff set up a makeshift clinic right away. It took several hours for the rescue workers to finish clearing a path, but when they did the patients poured in and all the staff were running off their feet. Triage nurses decided who would see the doctors first based on the severity of their injuries while other nurses bandaged those not too badly hurt and orderlies ran for whatever the doctors needed. But, thankfully, there was no second bomb.

One patient—a female zene—was brought to Travertine unconscious and in critical condition. Having been hit in the head by a falling rock, then spending hours without proper medical attention wasn't good for her health. However, Travertine was a well-trained and experienced surgeon, and he and his team managed to bring the zene to a stable condition.

Late that night, after things had calmed down somewhat, Travertine was checking on his patients. When he went into the curtained cubicle that served as a room for the unconscious zene, he found she had awoken.

“I saw them.” She said without looking at him. Travertine's eyes narrowed. He closed the curtain and approached the makeshift bed on the office desk;

“Saw who?”

“Two men dressed like mechanics.” She replied, turning her stalk eyes toward the surgeon, “Humans. They put something—I couldn't tell what it was, something like a big tool box—in the tunnel and left. I thought they were just doing their job, you know, they were at one of the ventilation pipes at the side of the tunnel. But then it exploded.” She went on to give Travertine a description, as best she could remember, of the two suspects before losing consciousness again.