Long Days of Mortis

In the upper levels of the hive, where corridors were wide and the air never smelled of anything at all, minor inconveniences accumulated. Retainers reported fatigue. Clerks requested extra rest cycles. Medicae logs showed elevated temperatures and unusual tissue response to injury. Nothing alarming, nothing actionable.

In the mid-habs, a dock clerk collapsed at his post after a long shift processing priority cargo. He was helped to his feet by three others, each of them complaining later of chills they could not shake. By the end of the week, all four were back at work. None of them felt quite right. Productivity rose as normal.

Manufactorum foremen noted fewer sick days, even as coughing spread through the lines. Wounds closed too fast. Bruises darkened oddly. Workers leaned on one another more, sharing tools, grips slick with sweat and oil.

Below, in the corpse-stacks, reclamation crews noticed that bodies were… firm. Rigor did not pass as expected. Limbs resisted being repositioned. One crewman joked that the dead were refusing to let go. He stopped joking after his hands began to ache.

Gangs fought, as gangs always did. Blades bit deep. Autoguns barked. But the wounded kept moving. Fighters dragged one another from the dust, hands locked tight, blood smeared across armor and skin. Some victories felt wrong: too easy, too enduring.

Administratum tallies began to slip. Injury reports rose. Fatalities did not keep pace. Survivors returned to duty altered; slower, heavier, more deliberate. Medicae servitors flagged inconsistencies and were recalibrated to stop flagging them. No quarantine orders were issued.

The hive was functioning. More than functioning. It was holding together in ways it should not have been able to.

A junior scribe, reviewing incident maps, noticed clusters that spread along social lines rather than corridors. He began to mark them by hand. The pattern resembled a web of favors, debts, and casual touch. And in its center, the leading class. His supervisor told him to erase it. The scribe vanished the next day.

Across the hive, people slept poorly. Muscles stiffened. Fevers burned low and steady. And in the quiet moments before shift-bells, many felt the same thought settle in their minds—unwelcome, yet comforting: Don’t rest. Keep going.

By the time anyone thought to ask why, the question no longer mattered. The Long Days of Mortis had begun.