(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

It smelled like water and plastic and ozone.

“Not much to speak of at all, I'm afraid,” said Bob as the others filed into the room. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the sparse chaos of a place that had been hastily abandoned. There were over a dozen computer terminals in the room, assembled on small tables. These were prewar machines, towers like cinder blocks and monitors with huge humpbacks. A few of the screens were cracked, and hissed with static and snow if they did anything at all, but most were in good shape. On the working monitors, fields of white dots streaked across a black background from a central point, a crude simulation of flying through the depths of space. A whiff of stale coffee and cigarette smoke hung in the air.

Bob conducted a brief tour. “There are some old computers and a small amount of dry goods, but the room looks to have been cleared out. I'd guess the survivors evacuated years ago, with no intention of returning. It's a bit of an odd setup, though. Antique computers on most of the tables. There's a counter in the back, with an espresso machine at one end and a couple of glass cloches at the other. Under the counter are mounts for hidden weapons, but the weapons are gone. Two rooms off to the side appear to have been water closets at some point. It almost looks as though they were using a cafe as a cover for the bunker. An innocent-looking facade. The entrance to the bunker proper, I found beneath a rug in the corner. It's a trapdoor leading down to at least one lower level. I only went down the stairs and back up, but there don't seem to be any traps. Awaiting further orders, sir.” He stood at attention by the trapdoor.

“Yes, fine,” said the Colonel. “Just stay out of the way for now.”

“It's an Internet cafe,” said Steven.

“What's an Internet cafe?” said Bob.

“This bunker. It's an Internet cafe.”

“No, I mean, define 'Internet cafe.' I know what Internet was, and I know what a cafe is, but that phrase doesn't make any sense.”

“Well, as you know, Bob, Internet was a precursor to the Web,” Steven explained. “In the Nineties, before the war, not everybody had computers at home. So people would go to coffee shops that had computers connected to Internet. For a fee, they'd get a cappuccino and a few minutes of Internet time. When the Wai-Toukay virus was released, Internet was partitioned to keep it from spreading. Cyber Resistance fighters gathered in Internet cafes. They became bases of operation, so they reinforced the buildings and turned them into bunkers. After the fall of Internet, they repurposed some of the old pathways so Resistance cells could communicate with each other.”

“They used these primitive machines to communicate?” said the Colonel. “It's a wonder the rebels lasted so long. Is it possible we could use these to send or receive transmissions?”

“These are of great historical interest, but largely useless,” said Chad. “Even if we can find or assemble a single working unit, these computers are hardly more than calculators.”

“Are you kidding me?” said Steven. “Where I'm from, this kind of stuff is all we have. We were issued Churlian tech after the war, but that was well before I was born. Any time it breaks down, we have to fix it with what we've got on hand. Either that, or build our own from scratch. For the most part, we're working with prewar bits and bobs. We could do all sorts of stuff with this junk. I could even get us on the Web if the Cloud wasn't blocked.”

“Yet it is,” said the Colonel. “So tell me, how does any of this help us?”

“Well, it might not get you a line to headquarters, but it could get us halfway there. I figure the Arterians found a backdoor into the Cloud, and sent in a virus that took the whole thing over. Sort of like what the Churls did to Internet at the start of the war. The thing is, everything made by Churlia is designed to work together, efficiently and quickly, and with almost complete security. But the same design that lets them work that way also makes them vulnerable to this kind of attack. There's failsafes that are supposed to protect the system, but they're not perfect. If you have a good team of hackers or the right kind of virus, or both, you can take over the whole system. Once Plumwine's hackers found the backdoor, that was all they needed.”

“Again, I ask, how does that information help us now?”

“Well, it won't help us get into the Cloud. But we don't have to. We can bypass the Arterians' jamming signal entirely, because it's only jamming Churlian equipment. You remember the T.V. in that nice family's house that you burned down? I noticed it when we searched the place. It was old. Not Churlian. Everybody I know with a T.V., it looks like that. A big chunky box with a glass screen. The Arterians want non-Churlian tech to keep working, especially T.V. and radios. They're banking on it to get their message out.”

“Yes, I know that much. But we don't use non-Churlian equipment. You're suggesting I send a telegram a telephone.”

“You don't use non-Churlian tech, but you monitor it,” said Steven. Everybody knows you do. What's more, you've been doing it since the war.”

“Longer,” said Bob. “Since Marconi. Since Gauss and Weber, some say.”

“Yes, and so does Plumwine,” said the Colonel. “Which means that any airwave communication is out of the question. Even assuming we could transmit from this place, we'd be giving away our exact position. There may be another possibility, though. You said they used these to communicate with each other. What about submariners? Called themselves Cuttleships. The Resistance had many vessels in the sea that caused our ships no end of trouble. Nearly managed to attack the Isle itself, while it was submerged and cloaked. I seem to remember something about them coordinating attacks with forces on land and in the air, using underwater cables to communicate.”

“They were a pretty impressive bunch,” said Bob. “They designed their ships after cuttlefish, with the ability to change shape and color. Not quite as good as a cloak, but better for some things. It turned the tide of the war when our spies got their hands on that technology. Victory for the Empire was all but assured at that point. Our navy still use the designs to this day.”

“Pipe down, Jaut,” said the Colonel. “Nobody asked for a history lesson.”

“From what I understand,” said Chad, “the Cuttleships tapped into underwater cables that carried Internet between land masses. They even installed long-range transmitters on the cables, so they could tap in from leagues away. That turned out to be a tactical error on their part, but it's possible some of the transmitters are still in place. There was little incentive to destroy them after a certain point in the war.”

“It's likely the Isle is still submerged in the Atlantic,” said the Colonel. He tapped one of the computers. “If these machines are connected, through underground Internet tubes, to a cable in the Atlantic Ocean, could we use one of those underwater transmitters to send and receive transmissions between this room and the Isle?”

“That's a lot of ifs, but if all the ifs are true, I don't see why not,” said Steven.

“If there is any way at all to do it, I want it done,” said the Colonel. “And I want it done this afternoon.”

“It's a tall order,” said Steven. “These are old machines. Tubeless. Tube hacking is way easier.” He grinned. “But easy's not as fun. If it can be done, I'll do it.” He sat down at one of the keyboards. “I'd be glad to have an extra pair of hands,” he said, looking back at the Colonel and Chad. “In case I need to do some tandem hacking.” The Colonel nodded. Chad took a seat next to Steven.

“Just get me a signal,” said the Colonel. “But don't transmit anything unless I order it. And don't wreck the computer, if you can help it. I want to plumb their files.”

Steven moved the mouse a smidge. The field of stars disappeared, replaced with a login screen. “A roadblock already,” said Chad. “How are we to guess their password?”

“I'll just hazard a guess that they didn't expect anybody to make it inside the bunker,” said Steven, “and didn't need much security on these.” He typed something and hit the enter key. “We're in.”

“That's amazing,” said Chad. “You guessed it in one try. What was the password?”

“Password.”

Zeck took a sniff. “ It smells, and I don't mean this as any sort of qualitative judgment, but it smells like a hot shoe.”

The Colonel had ordered them to stay put while he explored the lower level on his own. Steven and Chad were hard at work on the ancient computer, so the rest of them lugged in a water tank and John took the opportunity to test the longevity of the cafe's espresso machine. “ A hot shoe's not too bad for thirty-year-old beans and a machine we found in a bunker in the middle of the woods,” he said. He blew on his espresso and took a sip. He grimaced.

“How is it?” said Zeck.

“Tastes better than it smells,” said John. “And anything beats the tar out of plain water.”

“There's also a hint of tar in there.” Zeck took a tentative sip. His face twisted into a mixture of disgust and euphoria. “ Ugh, it's like drinking a sour campfire,” he said. “But I haven't had coffee in weeks.” He took another sip.

“I like it,” said Bob. “It reminds me of Wheatum.”

John looked at Zeck. “Don't ask him-”

“What's Wheatum?” asked Zeck.

“Oh, you've never had Wheatum? It's a roasted wheat beverage we had at the academy. Tastes like coffee, but contains no caffeine.”

“We had something like that in the States before the war,” said John. “I tried it once at my grandparents' house when I was eight or nine years old. I thought I was being sneaky, drinking something I wasn't supposed to. It was the worst thing I'd ever tasted, but I loaded it with sugar and drank it anyway. I figured out a few years later that it really didn't taste anything like coffee.” He held up his espresso. “Although now I can see the comparison.” He took a long sip. “This kind of reminds me of this diner my brother and I would go to whenever we were hungover. Terrible pancakes; the exact texture of a couch cushion. Powdered eggs. Soggy bacon. Their coffee smelled incredible, like my childhood memory of the bean grinder at the grocery store. But it always tasted three days burnt, even out of a fresh pot. I miss that place.”

“Oh, Strauss,” called the Colonel from the foot of the stairs. “Come here for a moment. There's something I'd like to try.”

“That sounds a bit ominous,” said Zeck. He tossed back the rest of his espresso and grimaced. “Here's hoping that's not my last cup of coffee.”

Zeck met the Colonel at the bottom of the stairs. The light was dimmer down there. Half of the fluorescent bulbs were out, and the rest flickered erratically. “This way,” said the Colonel.

“I suppose it's too much to hope that I'm being rewarded for the excellent job I did getting us in here,” said Zeck.

“That all depends,” said the Colonel. He led Zeck to an armored door at the end of the hallway. The door had been locked, but not warded. It had taken the Colonel almost no effort to wrench it open. “After you,” he said.

The room was clearly an armory, though its shelves and racks were nearly empty. A row of lockers hung open, displaying the voids within. Nine chests of mismatched size and shape lined the walls. They were filled to varying degrees with an array of items, ranging from standard grenades to homemade arcane devices. All of the chests were open, save one.

“I've had no trouble opening any of these,” said the Colonel. “And there may be something useful among the junk. But I'm more interested in this one.” He tapped the lid of the chest. “This one remains stubbornly locked. It's proven resistant to prizing.”

“What about smashing?”

“We're not cavemen, Strauss,” said the Colonel. “It may contain something of value. I wouldn't want to damage it.” He gestured toward it as if he were presenting a prize on a game show. “It may be warded. It may be a clever puzzle. It may simply be locked. Open it.”

“I'll give it a try,” said Zeck.

“No,” said the Colonel. “Don't try. Open it.”

“It might help if I had my satchel. I have a locksmithing set in there, as well as some other tools that might be useful if-”

“I don't expect you'll be needing those,” said the Colonel, “but if it comes to that, I'll let you have your satchel and keep it on your person from here on out.”

Zeck approached the chest in the center of the far wall. “I haven't blown up so far,” he thought. He knelt to examine it. It was rather plain, made from dark wood and reinforced on the corners with brass. It was flat on top, with no markings other than a single glyph in the exact center: a broken eggshell.

“It looks like a fairly simple lock,” he said. “I might not even need-” as soon as he laid a hand on the chest, the latch popped open. “Well, they don't call me Locksbane Strauss for nothing. Or at all.” He lifted the lid. Inside the chest, nestled in protective foam, was a single right-handed gauntlet. It was lobstered, as if it belonged to a suit of armor, and covered with delicate silver filigree.

“Put it on,” said the Colonel, peering over his shoulder.

Zeck hesitated. “Shouldn't we scan it or something first?”

“No,” said the Colonel.

“It doesn't really match my outfit.” Zeck felt a tug in his yoke. He was sure that if he didn't put the gauntlet on, the Colonel would override his yoke and force him to. “Rather a fool than a puppet,” he thought. He picked it up with his left hand. It was lighter than it looked. The interior was lined with a silk-like fabric. It tingled gently when he slid his hand inside, like a thousand tiny static shocks. It didn't fit like a glove, not at first. Once his hand was fully inside the gauntlet, the lining contracted around his skin, squeezing gently. It was just slightly tighter than snug. He had the feeling that if somebody else tried to pull it from his hand, it wouldn't budge, but if he did it himself it would slide off easily.

“What does it feel like?” the Colonel asked. “Give it a wave.”

Zeck held the glove upright and did a parade wave. As he turned it from side to side, he felt the lining tighten and undulate. He yelled in surprise. He held the gauntlet in front of him and moved it more slowly this time, like he was petting an imaginary horse. “Interesting,” he said.

“Don't keep it to yourself,” said the Colonel. “Share your thoughts.”

“I'm not certain, but...” Zeck stood so he was about six feet away from one of the open chests. He held his right hand in a 'stop' gesture. He could feel the lid of the chest, just as if he'd laid his hand on it. He couldn't sense fine details, like the grain of the wood or the coolness of the metal, but it felt just like he was touching it through a thick mitten. He moved his hand back and forth, and it felt like he was running a gloved hand over the lid. He curled his fingers and pulled his hand toward himself. The lid slammed shut. Mouth agape, he turned to look at the Colonel.

Before Zeck could make another move, the Colonel issued a silent command to his yoke. Zeck froze in place. Unbidden by his own will, he pulled the gauntlet off his hand and set it back in the chest. He took a few steps back, and the yoke relaxed.

The Colonel stepped forward and picked up the gauntlet. He peered inside. He tried to put it on over his own, but of course it wouldn't fit. With his back to Zeck, he removed his own right gauntlet with a hiss of escaped pressure.

While the Colonel was occupied examining the glove, Zeck sidled over to one of the open chests. He glanced at the contents. He knew he had a few seconds at the most before the Colonel turned around. “Assuming he can't see me already,” he thought. He shrugged and scooped a handful of junk out of the chest. He squirreled it away and stepped aside just as the Colonel turned to look at him.

The Colonel raised his right hand, adorned with the strange glove. He shoved it at Zeck, as if to push him. Zeck flinched, but nothing happened. The Colonel raised his hand in a choking motion. Zeck didn't flinch a second time. He didn't feel a thing. No phantom hand around his neck, not even a tickle.

“Probably defective,” said Zeck. “Or maybe it needs to recharge? It has been sitting in a box for three decades.”

“Hmph.” The Colonel looked down at his armored palms, as if weighing something in his mind. “You've been most helpful, Strauss. You may go upstairs now.”

“That's it!” said Steven. “We've got a signal!” He held his hand up for a high-five.

Chad held his hand up in a mirror of Steven's gesture. “Excellent work, Master Broyle,” he said.

“Don't tell me they don't have high-fives in Churlia,” said Steven.

“Oh, of course. Forgive my manners.” Chad gave Steven's hand a stiff pat. “I really am impressed,” he said. “Where did you learn to do things like this?”

“Dunno,” said Steven. “It's just a thing I can do. I've been hacking since I was four years old.”

“With skills like that,” said Chad, “you could have a job at any tech company in Churlia. Or if you joined the Cyberguard, you could really make a name for yourself, defending the Empire from malicious hackers. If we had more people like you, we may have prevented Plumwine's takeover of the Cloud.”

“Nah,” said Steven. “I'm a rogue. A lone wolf. I could never be happy working for The Man. Anyway, you're not bad yourself. I wouldn't have been able to stop that worm from bricking the hard drives without you tandem hacking alongside me.”

“Well, I wasn't born with it,” said Chad. “It comes from years in the Academy, and the Junior Academy before that. Precise motor control and lateral thinking skills are essential traits for a squire. You never know when you might need to repair a delicate piece of equipment, or perform surgery on a moment's notice, often during stressful situations.”

“You're a surgeon?” said Steven. “You can't be much older than me.”

“Battlefield medicine,” said Chad. “I couldn't perform a kidney transplant, but I can stitch up a wounded soldier as well as anybody. Ideally with mechanical assistance from a medihorse, though I've had rough survival training as well. It was required in order to graduate in the top tier. I've been training for this since I was very young, just as you've been working with computers. I just want to be the best squire I can be.”

“And you like squiring for the Colonel? That's what you want to do with your life?”

“It's a stepping stone. In a year, I become eligible for the officer training program. I could be a colonel myself someday. Or a general, if I decide I'd rather have a desk job. I still have a while to think about it. Or I could choose the other path and pursue a knighthood. Not many Churlian knights around these days, but there's no nobler calling.”

“And those are your only two choices? Knight or military bigwig?”

“Not the only two. I could pursue a career in the private sector. I could also remain a squire for another decade or so, take early retirement, and pursue a degree in higher education. That's what my cousin Aaron did. He squired until he was thirty, went to the University of Churlia, got a degree in international law, passed the certification trials in all three courts, and now he sits on the advisory council with the Emperor himself.

“I have a friend back home who's gonna be a lawyer,” said Steven. He absentmindedly patted the empty cigarette pack in his pocket. “But he wants to be a public defender.”

“There are many ways to serve the Empire,” said Chad. “Of course, there's always a chance I end up like Captain Jaut.”

“Bob? What do you mean?”

Chad glanced over his shoulder. Bob and John were grimacing over their second shots of espresso. “I shouldn't have said anything. It's not my place to criticize others.”

“I won't tell anyone. Anyway, it's clear the Colonel's not too keen on Bob. I'm sure he'd have plenty worse to say than you do.”

“It's just- The Imperial Guard. They tend to be people who went through the Academy and then, for some reason or another, couldn't go any further. Or sometimes they start out well, but the pressure and stress of the military are too much for them. They're assigned to the Guard because they can't do anything else. I've said too much. I shouldn't make assumptions about Mr. Jaut.”

“What about Sheryl?”

“The Lieutenant? It's really not my place to speak about her situation. That's another story entirely. And now I really am on the verge of saying too much. We should finish up here. The Colonel will be pleased to know we've succeeded.”

The tree shuddered. Captain Solomon had managed to pull herself and Corrigan up into its branches. The chimera was too big to climb after them, but it didn't give up easily. It kept shoving and rubbing its body against the trunk. Each vibration threatened to toss them from their perch. Solomon looked down at the trunk. Even if they managed to hang on, they couldn't wait forever. The creature's armor plating was hard and rough. Already, a large gash had been worn into the wood. If the creature persisted, the tree would fall.

Solomon thought about leaping or swinging to another tree, but with Corrigan to carry, she wasn't sure she could move faster than the chimera. Besides, it wasn't safe to move him so much with that ghastly wound. She didn't have any choice. She'd have to kill the beast. If she could just get a blade into one of its eyes, or between its armor plates, she'd have a chance of taking it down fast. She sat Corrigan up against the trunk, with a rope of web to hold him in place. She perched on a branch, watching the creature's movements. She'd have to be fast and micron-precise with her attack. Its electroreceptors would make it tricky, but that was just a matter of reflexes and speed. Its tail was the real problem. It was long and fast and unpredictable. She was sure those needle-sharp antlers secreted some kind of venom. Maybe she could slice off the tail, then go for the face. She extended her wrist blades. She was gauging her jump when she heard a thundering crash from the treeline.

Ouroboros whinnied as he galloped into the woods. The chimera heard it, and turned to face the destrier. Sheryl and Captain Irving were astride the horse. When they drew near, they stood and jumped into the trees straight from Ouroboros's back.

Captain Solomon opened a radio channel to Sheryl. “Stay clear of its tail,” she said. “It has electroreception, like a shark. It can sense you without seeing you.”

“Stay put,” said Sheryl. “This won't take long.”

Ouroboros didn't hesitate. He trotted right up to the chimera. The creature backed up a step, baring its teeth with a hiss and thumping its tail against the forest floor. Ouroboros reared back on his hind legs. One of his belly guns swiveled toward the open possum mouth. A stream of fast-hardening resin sprayed out, filling the beast's maw and clogging its throat. More covered its nose. It pawed desperately at its face, trying to scrape the stuff away and clear its air holes, but the resin had already set. The chimera turned away from Ouroboros, swinging its tail wildly. The deerhead struck a glancing blow on the horse's flank, but his armor deflected it easily. With his four hooves back on the ground, Ouroboros snorted and lowered his head. An eighteen-inch blade extended from a sheath hidden beneath his mane; a shimmering, double-edged unicorn horn sword. He stood his ground as the chimera's tail swung back in his direction. At the last second, he raised his head. The blade was unmoved as it sliced through the swinging tail, letting the dearheaded flail sever itself against its razor edge.

The tail's stump flopped and writhed like a ribbon in the wind, spraying blood like a garden hose. The chimera pawed desperately at its face, but soon its movements slowed. The tail settled to a frantic twitch.

“Ouroboros, kill,” said Sheryl out loud. Ouroboros sheathed his blade, then trotted over and crushed the chimera's head under his hoof with no more ceremony than stamping out a cigarette. A loud crunch ended the creature's twitching for good.

Captain Solomon lowered Corrigan's body from the tree via two ropes of web. His suit was still rigid, though he was clearly conscious and struggling to move. Solomon jumped down after him once he'd reached the ground. Captain Irving jumped from her tree and joined the party, too.

Sheryl issued a blanket command from her helm, opening radio communication between herself and the others. Corrigan's screams pierced like an icepick. She muted his output. “How was he wounded?” she demanded.

“The chimera,” said Solomon. “Its tail, that false deerhead, it caught him in the shoulder, picked him up, threw him. I'm pretty sure it's venomous. The silk on his shoulder compressed like it should, but a lot of it was torn away. He's losing blood. I stiffened his suit. Had to get him out of the way.”

“That's enough,” said Sheryl. “Give me the long story later. Go get the deerhead. Don't touch it; use silk. Wrap it well. Get a sample of the chimera's flesh, too. Something from the torso. Muscle, skin, a selection of organ tissues, and hair.”

She knelt by Corrigan and pulled the medikit from her utility belt. First, she cut the damaged silk away from Corrigan's shoulder. With the compression gone, the wound bled freely. His shoulder was a soup of blood and viscera. She cleaned it as well as she could, then sprayed the area with Clot-erize and covered it with a pad of medical silk to hold everything in place.

“Listen to my voice, Leonard,” said Sheryl. “You're going to be all right. This will hold you until we get you back to camp. Then I'll stitch you up good as new. We've got medigel and Brack to supplement your blood.” She unmuted his mouthpiece, but all that came across the radio channel was a coughing fit followed by more screaming. She muted him again, then loosened his suit just enough so she could pose him on Ouroboros's back. She climbed on behind him. “Captain Solomon,” she said.

“Aye, Lieutenant?”

“Ouroboros and I will be taking Captain Corrigan back to camp for medical attention. As we can't go full speed without exacerbating his injury, you and Irving will accompany us on foot. On the way, you'll have plenty of time to tell me exactly what happened here.”