Limitless Evolution As a Snake

The guards waved my pod away until I showed them the empty sample-collection slot on its permit, then waved me closer because apparently paperwork remained stronger than basic suspicion.

I had turned the locker camera off on the public display. Dazza stayed behind the opaque lining, chewing his last strip of metal while I explained through the speaker that the depot wanted its boundary sample collected before their test started.

None of that claimed I worked for Hansen. It merely gave busy men an explanation they preferred over delaying a supervisor who already looked ready to bite somebody himself.

[System: Beautiful, mate. You’ve turned up to rob a smuggling operation with a hungry dog in the boot, like the world’s shittest family holiday.]

Dazza had behaved better than several actual family members, and I wanted that included in any official comparison.

The controller stood beside the intake frame on a wheeled service cradle. Its serial matched my photograph, and the bright removal handle suggested the manufacturers expected people to swap it without becoming engineers or losing fingers.

The intake hadn’t started pumping yet. A powered coupling locked the control cradle to the frame, while a separate mechanical lever kept the test pipe’s supply valve open.

I parked the pod beside the cradle, close enough to see the controller clearly through the side window. My theft skill had cooled long before we reached the basin, but the cabinet wouldn’t fit inside my sealed cabin without displacing the person currently enjoying the air.

The external sample tray could hold it, provided something dealt with the coupling first. I considered the manipulator’s lifting limit, considered Dazza’s relationship with steel and recognized a terrible idea that deserved immediate practical research.

I used the arm to drop a scrap beside the coupling, then opened the locker door facing the cleared service lane. The cabin stayed sealed, and my interference display climbed as Dazza unfolded toward breakfast.

Three guards turned at the grinding noise. One saw the teeth and ran before deciding whether his employment contract included dental disasters, which struck me as excellent career management.

Dazza ate the offered strip, caught the coupling in his next mouthful and began working through it with the enthusiasm of a dog discovering a sausage underneath the sofa.

The supervisor shouted for the intake to start. I grabbed the mechanical lever with the manipulator and pulled it closed, then tore its removable locking handle free and dropped that into Dazza’s reach as well.

His appreciation sounded expensive. The control coupling separated, the supply valve locked closed and the crew lost the two things they needed to begin their test without fetching replacement parts.

I selected the freed controller and considered placing it on the empty external tray, then stopped before activation because the destination did not touch my coils. Sitting inside the pod did not make every piece of its equipment part of my body.

The skill required my coils, not a vehicle I happened to be sitting in, which was an annoying time for reading comprehension to become relevant.

[System: Good catch, champ. Imagine explaining that you opened a radioactive window because the bloody theft button needed a cuddle. Use the arm like a normal criminal.]

The cradle and tray were level. I hooked the controller’s pull handle with the manipulator and slid it across rather than lifting its full weight, then latched the tray’s restraint over it.

A guard fired into the pod’s outer wheel housing. The shot cracked a cover without reaching the cabin, and the damage warning made it very clear that another lucky hit could strand me beside my own terrible choices.

Dazza followed the noise toward the guard’s truck and bit the exposed bumper. The guard abandoned his weapon, while the supervisor grabbed the truck door and discovered his getaway now had a creature enthusiastically removing its front end.

I needed Dazza back inside. Shouting his name produced several swiveling eyes and absolutely no movement away from the better meal.

The manipulator still held the last section of coupling. I scraped it against the sample tray, backed the pod toward the open locker and repeated the noise that had interested him earlier.

He followed the offering after one more bite of truck. I waited until every visible tentacle cleared the seal, closed the compartment and watched the suppression light return to green before driving out through the empty access lane.

Behind us, the supervisor tried starting a vehicle whose front axle had become a chew toy. I would have enjoyed watching longer, but the damaged wheel made a new noise every time I suggested turning.

We cleared the basin with the marked controller secured and its operating intake disabled. Old Mate paid the objective only after the last guard disappeared behind the survey wall.

[System: Nine thousand EXP and fifty IP, mate. Your dog ate the getaway, your rental looks rooted and you’ve still somehow brought home the most expensive bit. Proud day for terrible parenting.]

Thirty-seven thousand five hundred EXP and one hundred and eighty-five IP looked excellent beside the damage warning. At the depot, the operator looked considerably less impressed by either number because he couldn’t see them.

He took the pod into the isolated service bay, checked its seals and ran the decontamination cycle before letting me leave the cabin. Dazza stayed in the locked compartment while a rated holding pen was prepared behind a ceramic barrier.

The deposit went toward the broken wheel cover. Another three hundred covered repairs, and one hundred paid Dazza’s first day of containment, leaving eleven thousand three hundred and seventy available.

I called Bridget, admitted the costs and promised to return for feeding and a supervised walk. She called him my teeth thing without sounding pleased about the bill, which felt dangerously close to progress.

Then the controller’s status screen connected to its paired rig and displayed a new instruction: the coastal machine had already launched, and somebody had switched it from testing pressure to clearing very specific targets.