The lights were dim in Mavriq’s laboratory aboard the OSF-Thunderclap, one of three Apocalypse-class battleships of the Origin Stellar Fleet dispatched to monitor Derelict and associated affairs. It was a clue, oft ignored, to any who entered his domain that his mind was otherwise engaged. Reclined on a collapsible cot, conveniently built into the bulkhead, he considered the months of prior preparation for this mission even as he realized the cumulative experience of several human lifetimes was inadequate to the comprehension of what reports indicated was defunct product of alien superintelligence.

<< On approach to Maasym 4e geosynchronous orbit. >> intoned the shipwide intercom.

Mavriq stood, stretched until his shoulders popped, and drifted to the display that served as his window. In some ways, it was better than a physical aperture beyond his employment quarters, as it was readily programmable to any orientation around the ship. His long fingers danced over the interactive screen and in moments he saw the object of his mission: Maasym 4e, otherwise referred to as Derelict, at 0.73 Earth radii, glinted sanguine in the glare of Maasym’s red-tinged starlight as it emerged from orbit behind a tempestuous hyper-verge gas giant.

However well-armed the Thunderclap was, he felt rattled by the sight of the massive alien sphere and its array of towers, rifts, and surface variances. Even so, he was struck by how dead it appeared. Not a single light or indication of movement, beyond those of human origination, disrupted the tranquility of its surface. Not that it was his first sight, as first still images and shortly thereafter live footage flooded the transvacuum q-circuits within days of its discovery by the Terinhaul-Caskill Corporation’s exploratory vessel, Reind, Still, there was something different in, despite presentation on a digital screen, an observation that took place in the here and the now. As he zoomed in, soon Derelict’s orbital cloud—littered with numerous corporate habitat ships, scavenger corvettes, survey drones, and Maasym Orbital Station—sharpened to focus.

“Well, it is about time,” he judged the situation.

Moments later, his lab coat stuffed with gadgets and satchel in hand, he approached the door to his lair. Suddenly, without his prompt, it opened. A swarthy, hirsute, and broad form unexpectedly loomed before him in the form of his, for all intents and purposes, nanny. While the man’s official designation placed him in the military police, Mavriq suspected he was actually an intelligence officer.

“Lieutenant d’Agenais,” his military liaison, who appeared slightly winded and surprised to behold him in the midst of his departure, addressed him by his service rank, although, as a scientist, Mavriq held no authority in military matters, “I expect the profiles sent to your attention for analysis in anticipation of the assembly of a ground team are in order and you’re prepared to shuttle to MOS?”

“Moss?” Mavriq inquired. The man’s presence always frazzled him. As a nervous habit, his free hand unconsciously adjusted his deactivated spectral lenses. His mind, meanwhile, tried and failed to articulate the importance of the discovery of naturally-occurring flora in the region.

“Maasym Orbital Station, Lieutenant,” his liaison replied, “where we will interview the prospects.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. Lead the way, Warrant Officer Feurtes,” Mavriq assented.

Post-haste, they boarded a shuttle en-route to the MOS. Meanwhile, Feurtes reviewed the profiles collated by Mavriq. He claimed it was to familiarize himself with names, faces, and technical abilities, all while he babbled about minuscule details, such as the square footage Origin leased aboard MOS and converted to a secondary laboratory for non-classified affairs. It was, presumably, where Mavriq was to spend the bulk of his time, such as was expended on Derelict discounted, with his new team.

Bang.

Electrifying pain jolted through her bandaged-up shoulder but she did not wince or give an inch; the coil-gun held firm and steady on target. Only her lips pressed together in an angrily contorted grimace, signaling that the woman felt any injury at all. Brows furrowed, she focused her winter-grey eyes on the prize and tightened her grip on the trigger one more time.

Bang.

The dud shattered harmlessly against the human-shaped practice target, indicating a hit where the left-side ribs should be. That was her last shot; nine rounds, seven hits, one head shot. She’d done much better in the past, but in the end it was all meaningless statistics. Real combat was nothing like firing at a target. Nothing in the world could emulate the physical and emotional chaos of two human beings trying to kill each other.

Cass closed her eyes and slowly exhaled, releasing the tension in her arm muscles and gently lowered her gun onto the counter. Rhythmically pulsing pain flared in her right shoulder and it felt hot under the bandage. Instinctively touching it, she immediately came to regret the decision and quickly retracted her fingers. She still asked herself if she had made the right call, or if it was merely carelessness that had let the situation get out of hand. The shooter was little more than a kid, trigger happy and nervous. She could have talked him down. That’s what she thought. But then something happened. Maybe she moved a little too suddenly, maybe the kid tripped. Maybe there had been an unexpected tremor in the ground. Something set him off and made him pull the trigger – but he was a poor shot. Hit her in the shoulder; she got him in the gut. The contracted medic zipped him up in a body bag and stabilized her wound with a skin spray and then they were off. Business as usual.

To get shot at for someone else’s gain. To kill clueless idiots so that other idiots can live. Business as usual, she thought and shook her head with a look of disgust while she removed the empty mag from her weapon and tossed it in a designated bin by her stall. Glancing at her watch, she turned to leave, signaling to an attendee outside that she was finished. She still had a few hours.

---

“Good shit, right?”

Cass watched as a sizeable puff of dark green smoke escaped her lungs out of her mouth, obscuring the viewport into space, wherein were clearly visible the dead surface of Derelict and, behind it, the hellish red glow of Maasym.

“Tastes fishy, I don’t know,” she mumbled, turning her attention to the girl with obviously-dyed blue hair who sat next to her. Of course, Cass knew about her profession but she was always freshly surprised by how brazenly the girl was wearing those perilously revealing outfits of hers on a daily basis – even when not on duty. No one passed her by without having their eyes stuck on her for a moment or two. Sometimes more than that.

“Algae from Europa. Come on Cass, do you know how much it costs to get that shit here?” She held out her hand and, when Cass handed her the inhaler, took in a deep breath of the synthetic substance herself.

“It’s all right. I just like to stick to the classics, you know me.” And also, this mix made her feel dizzy somehow. Perhaps it was spiked with something other than what Alyx was saying. Cass leaned back against the bench, arms and legs wide.

“No, I think you’re nervous,” Alyx suggested out of the cloud of green smoke surrounding her pretty head.

“Bullshit. What about?” Cass retorted, crossing her legs.

“You tell me. You know I’m good at telling these sorts of things. Comes with the job.” She shrugged.

“Maybe it’s my shoulder. You ever had a bullet go straight through yours?”

They swapped the inhaler again, Cass took another puff, this one with less enthusiasm than before. “I had a number of things in me but that’s not one of them.” She grinned, innocent as a girl.

“I’m gonna do a side gig. If they take me.” Cass eventually admitted after an awkward period of silence between the two, wordlessly passing the inhaler back and forth.

“Let me guess: More macho stuff?” blue-hairs teased, leaning closer and putting her slender hand on Cass’s cold iron thigh.

Cass gave her a look of disapproval. “Not much else I’m good for, is there?”

“You’re always so self-depreciating. Lighten up a bit, sunshine,” Alyx encouraged her and wrapped her arm around Cass’s shoulders, careful not to touch the bad one. “So what’s this one about?”

The taller, black-haired woman returned the gesture. “Origin, believe it or not. They’re setting up a new ground team for some scientist schmuck. They need someone to guide and protect them. Pay’s much better than what Mercury is giving me.”

“You’re doing that in your off time?” Alyx asked with concern. Cass nodded: “Whenever else would I?”

“So when are you actually going to take a break?”

The mercenary had no answer for her friend. If she ever wanted to be free from the shackles of corporate enslavement, if she ever wanted to be treated fairly and with respect again, then sacrifices like this were necessary. There was no other way she could ever collect the money necessary to pay off her mounting debt.

“Well… if you do ever need a break, then, you know. I’ve stopped charging you a while ago,” Alyx offered, almost sheepishly.

“Maybe I’ll drop by later,” Cass suggested absentmindedly. “To, to tell you how it went, I mean.“

The two of them sat for a while, each contemplating their lives so far as their gaze was absorbed by the crimson abyss of Maasym’s star.

Maasym Orbital Station, colloquially called ‘Mos,’ was more colorful than Mavriq anticipated. Even so, he considered it drab compared to Fenris, his verdant and almost exclusively agrarian birth-world. It was an impression he decided was best left internalized. Still, the station’s exterior certainly surprised him. Through the shuttle’s small oval window, he had watched the habitat engulf his field of vision. As it came into focus, it presented itself almost as an asteroid due to the thick layer of rocks that enveloped it in its entirety, added, he was certain, as a cost-effective buffer against cosmic rays; a necessary public work for any long-term stellar habitat. However, a vine-like growth, still green with life, unexpectedly enmeshed and transformed the jumble of rocks into a cohesive whole.

The shuttle, guided by a tensile laser array, docked within a shadow-darkened slit in the rock cluster, the vacuum seal hissed, and he with his troupe—thus far comprised of only himself and the Warrant Officer—passed through the telescopically-elongated gangway. Another vacuum seal protected Mos’ interior then, as the heavy door slid into the adjacent walls, customs came into view.

“We’ll follow the green line,” Feurtes informed him, “it is expedited for military personnel.”

Their optic RFID signatures were scanned by the automated system as they pushed their way through the turnstile. There they entered an enclosure and a young man in fatigues approached them with a wand. “Welcome back, Feurtes,” saluted the enlisted, “Please assume the position while I make sure you don’t have any contraband.”

“And if I did?” Feurtes taunted.

“Bad time for both of us, Sir,” replied the soldier as he finished with the Warrant Officer and moved on to Mavriq, “Please empty your pockets and put your bag on the conveyor belt, Lieutenant.”

“Sure,” Mavriq said, and filled several plastic bins with items. Of course, as soon as they passed into the tunnel they set off an alarm. Feurtes stepped in and explained, “Specialized scientific equipment. He is going down into the belly of the beast to see if he can learn what it is and where it came from. There should be a manifest of the items synced to his RFID signature.”

“Please wait here while I fetch some forms,” the soldier requested, then ran off, disappeared briefly around a corner, and moments later returned with a small contraption. “Sync complete. You both need to sign the equipment authorization form. Each of you press your thumb against the bio-analysis pad and you can be on your way.”

“Sure thing, Corporal Barnes,” Feurtes answered.

That bit of theater over and done with, Mavriq collected his equipment and followed Feurtes deeper into the station. After customs was a large transportation hub with electric trains and elevators. Of course, it was somewhat difficult to pick them out: the place looked like a bazaar, with lots of flashy signs, colorful textiles, and rainbows of fabric that rippled in the artificial breeze generated by the numerous ventilation shafts. He was so taken with the scene that he was only jarred back to reality when Feurtes shellacked a young hoodlum and said, “Pickpocket! Try that again and I’ll snap your scrawny neck!”—then, as he turned to Marviq, asked—“missing anything?”

As he collected himself, Mavriq openly wondered, “Are we going to have to go through this every time?”

“No. You’ll be able to take a shuttle from the Thunderclap down to Derelict. We’re just here to assemble your team. Ah, here we are,” Feurtes gestured toward an elevator. They rushed in to the crowded space, and Feurtes selected their destination. As they waited, the cramped space became less occupied until they were the only ones present. Finally, the door opened and they stepped out into an a-frame corridor with a low ceiling and bare metal walls.

“Quite the difference,” Mavriq remarked, then followed Feurtes forward until they reached a secure door.

“Try out your security card, make sure it works,” Feurtes offered.

Mavriq did and the door slid openly silently. He entered a large room with a wide variety of people within talking quietly amongst one another. Some defiantly lubricated unlit cigarettes in their mouth, others hung back in the shadows, and a few were playing a game of jacks.

“Officer on deck,” Feurtes shouted and, with that, the atmosphere transformed to one of anxious hush.

Cold. Wet.

He opened his eyes. Below, darkness consumed everything, concealed everything, stretching out into eternity. Above, faint tendrils of light played at the tips of his outstretched fingers, photons locked in futile struggle against dirt and algae and the murk below. He floated weightlessly on the precipice between the two, calm and unworried, marveling at the beauty of the interplay between light and dark until he felt his lungs quietly starting to beg for air. He kicked against gravity and drifted towards the light, breaching the surface with a gasp for air.

He wiped grime from his eyes and looked around. The stale waters were covered in a layer of green sludge, and its surface lay utterly still save for the ripples emanating from him. A thick sheet of fog blanketed the world around and he could not see far, but on one side he saw a steep clay bank jutting out.

It seemed… familiar, somehow. Like… home?

No. He had no home.

The cold had seemed bearable until now, but it was starting to seep into his body. He swam towards land, hoping to dry off and find warmth there. But the bank was too steep, too slippery; no matter where he tried, he could find no purchase in the wet clay, and he would slide helplessly back into the cold water.

As he floated there shivering, he felt something brush against his foot. He froze. What creature might lurk in that bottomless abyss? In a panicked burst of effort he once again attempted to claw his way out, but the clay did not avail. His arms gave out and he fell back into the water. He laughed to himself, teeth clattering. Freaking out over what was probably just a small fish.

Suddenly, he noticed a figure standing on the bank, just above him. It seemed to be clad in the fog itself, its features obscured by sheets of ephemeral grey. Had it just arrived, or had it been standing there all along, silently watching him struggle? Shivering, floating amidst the grime at the water’s edge, he reached towards the figure, silently begging it to help him up. Its hand moved, but hope turned to disappointment as it ignored his plea, holding instead its arm out towards the pond with a finger pointing down.

He stared, arm still outstretched. The figure stood unmoved by his plea, gesturing down with its pointed finger. He let his arm fall, and it splashed unceremoniously into the water. Did it want him to dive? Was there something down there? Or did it simply want to torment him?

He looked around, scanning the banks; they looked just as steep and slippery everywhere else. Only the mist-clad figure could help him get out. He made up his mind: humor the figure with a quick dive, see if he could find whatever it wanted down there, and get out. He steadied his breathing, let air fill his lungs, and took the plunge towards the depths.

The murk set upon him immediately. Particles of algae, mud, and grime hung thick in the stagnant waters, choking the light to a mere suggestion after just a couple of meters. He could still trace the bank, a wall of clay plunging straight into the abyss, but even that was becoming hard to see. Soon, light perished as darkness took its place; he could not even see his hands before his eyes, now.

Then, he felt it: something brushing against his leg. Then his side. Then another touch as something coiled around his arm. He tensed, and a shiver ran down his spine; fish did not move like this. Abandoning his objective, he brushed the thing away from his arm and turned back, rushing towards the surface. Even with nothing else visible, its light could still be seen, if only as a sheet of slightly less oppressive dark far above. But it quickly brightened as he ascended, and soon the dirty murk was replaced by a blanket of grey as he broke the surface.

He begged and pleaded with the figure, but it was deaf to his pleas. He attempted again to climb the bank, but got no further than before. He slid defeated back into the pool, panting, weariness starting to set in. The figure again motioned with a finger towards the bottom, indifferent to his plight.

Perhaps he had been close. Perhaps the things were harmless. He was still fine, after all. Just a little bit deeper. The figure would surely help him if he did as asked. He steadied himself once more, took a deep breath, and dove.

Murk quickly overtook the light, and darkness soon overtook the murk. As he descended he glanced behind him, his feet imprinting the faintest hint of an outline against the dim glow of the surface above. Soon even that faded, and he was left in complete darkness. Then, the things returned. At first they merely brushed playfully against his skin, and he pressed on despite the revulsion he felt. But as he descended they grew more numerous and aggressive, slithering along his body and snaking around his limbs. He shuddered, brushing them away with frenzied strokes, but for each one batted away another soon took its place.

He willed himself to calm down; he was wasting oxygen. Whatever they were, they had yet to hurt him. Perhaps they were a sign he was close; some kind of bottom feeder eating whatever sank down here from above, curiously nibbling away at flakes of his dead skin. The bottom couldn’t be far, now. He couldn’t see, but perhaps he’d be able to find…

Something… ?

The dark seemed somewhat less overbearing than before. A few more strokes, and his suspicions were confirmed – there really was light coming from below. But he could feel his breath expiring; if he did not head back to the surface, he feared he might not make it.

Just a little further.

The light grew clearer; warm and golden, unlike the cold grey light of the surface, it cut through the murk. Inviting him.

Just a little... more…

He could not go against his instincts any longer, and turned back towards the surface. Yet he felt something straining against him. The things! They coiled around his arms and legs, pulling down as he struggled to escape. He kicked and clawed, fighting desperately to free himself as his lungs screamed for air. Finally, their grip started to loosen; he was free! He swam as fast as he could, cutting through the shapeless dark with heavy strokes. Black gave way to brown, then grey as faint tendrils of light materialized above. He hurried, unsure he could keep himself from trying to breathe water much longer. Finally he breached the surface, heaving desperately for air without a care for the disgusting surface slime entering his mouth.

He railed at the figure as he again attempted to claw his way up the bank, spitting pond slime and curses between heaved breaths and clattering teeth. It simply waited impassively until he tired himself out, which did not take long. He fell back into the water and looked up in disbelief as the figure once more motioned wordlessly for him to dive.

It would have him go down there again? Have him drown? The last dive had sapped his energy, and he was struggling just to stay afloat, shivering weakly as the cold water slowly drained what little strength remained.

Even so…

His mind returned to that enchanting golden light. It beckoned him. He wanted to know the secret beneath the murk.

No. He needed to know.

Just moments ago he had fought desperately for his life, and now he was considering throwing it away for the unknown. But wasn’t that better than trying to cling to life up here and pleading in vain to be saved? He’d drown either way. And if that were the case, he’d rather know before the end. Hell, take it with him to the grave. Stifled laughter escaped his clattering teeth in short, pathetic bursts. His mind was made, and he threw his hand up in the air to give the figure the finger. Then, taking one last breath, he kicked off from the bank and fell backwards into his final plunge.

He cut through the murk, sparing no attention to the disappearing light above as he was swallowed once more by the abyss. His extremities were growing numb from the cold, but he ignored them and pressed on. He shuddered as the creatures fell upon him once more, toying with him as they slithered and coiled. With every stroke more of them flocked to him, and he knew that he would no longer have the strength to escape them; there was no returning now.

He had lost all feeling in his fingers and toes, and his lungs demanded breath, yet he held firm and pushed on. Soon it would reveal itself to him, that enthralling light, and everything would be fine, somehow. A few more strokes, and there it was! The black abyss opened up, allowing that faint, dim glow to shine through.

A little more! He ignored the things coiling around his limbs and swam, faint rays of light beginning to cut the impenetrable gloom.

Just a little further! He ignored his lungs’ desperate screams for air and swam, bewitched by the swelling glow.

Closer! More and more creatures flocked to him, wrapping around him, pulling him into the light’s loving embrace. Somehow they never entered his sight, only appearing as wriggling streaks of black at the edge of his vision. But he ignored them; he could not take his eyes off the light.

Almost there! He ignored his breath giving out, ignored the rush of water into his lungs as his body heaved for air it could not have. It glowed in front of him, radiant like the sun, so close he could almost make out its shape.

Just a little bit more…

It radiated warmth and comfort, soothing his wearied soul. Nothing mattered anymore; not the surface, not his fading consciousness, not his burning lungs, nor his life. He felt at peace. He reached out, so close he could almost touch it. But before he could grasp it, the light extinguished, the warmth faded…

And a cloud of perfect black enveloped everything.

---

Loud bangs of something against metal tore Vin back to reality – shivering, sweating, and gasping for air. He slowly steadied his breathing as a stream of diagnostics and data washed away the remnants of his dream, his neural interface jolting awake together with him. He looked about, bewildered; where was he?

> Maasym (λ Herculis)
> approaching 4e “Derelict”
> estimated time until arrival: 1h19m
> load star chart? (y/n)
> _

The information materialized within his mind, zeroes and ones metamorphosed into thought. He pushed it aside and focused on his surroundings.

Dim light. Stagnant air. Metallic walls. No windows. Right. He was aboard a freighter, lying on a stiff bed in a cramped room lined with steel-framed bunks.

“Hey, freeloader!” a voice boomed from outside as the banging repeated. The door was torn open, revealing a giant of a man leaning under the frame to peer inside. Vin’s left eye started feeding him a constant stream of information: name, contact data, estimated volume and mass, material composition… He blinked, willing it into standby. Too much noise. He opened his eyes again, looking at the man without the lens of his augments.

His name was Yang Min, an old friend. He was huge. Calling him a giant was an understatement; he towered. The man was over two meters tall and built like a battleship. Vin wondered how they’d ever found him a uniform that fit back in the navy.

“Get up!” Yang barked from the doorway. “Pack your stuff. ETA in one hour.”

“Hey, I’ve been helping out, you know,” Vin yawned as he sat up at the edge of the bed, playing hurt at Yang’s remark. Mechanical fingers massaged his scalp as he ran his left hand through his greasy hair. High time for a shower, but water was in short supply on board.

“Didn’t need your help. Would’ve been fine on my own.” Yang squeezed through the narrow door and stopped across from Vin, putting his hands to his hips and looking down disapprovingly. Mere centimeters kept his head from hitting the ceiling.

“Don’t say that.” Vin rested his arms on his knees, looking up with a cocky smile. “I’m a better mechanic than you.”

“Oh?” Yang loomed over Vin and crossed his arms, a smug smirk creeping across his face. “How come I’m the one with a real job, then?”

“Hey, I’ve got one,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Told you already.”

“Derelict, right?”

Vin nodded.

“I keep telling you, only crazies go there. Doesn’t count.”

“What can I say, a normal job’s not my thing. I’m a free spirit.”

“More like a vagrant,” Yang scoffed.

“Besides, you’re going there too,” he continued, ignoring his friend’s remark.

“Only to the Orbital. We leave again in two days.”

“Well,” Vin rose, coming face to chest with his friend, “plenty of time for a goodbye drink. My treat. What do you say?” He gave a playful jab to Yang’s stomach, who didn’t even react; his abs might as well have been steel.

“Better not regret it,” Yang smiled and gingerly returned the jab. It still almost knocked the air from Vin’s lungs. He smiled weakly back as Yang disappeared out the door, breathing in short, shallow bursts until he was sure he was in control.

“Psh, learn some self-control,” he muttered to himself as he sat back down on the bed. His smile faded as he looked down at his palms, his fleshy right contrasting sharply with his utilitarian mechanical left. He tried recalling the dream from earlier; it had long since faded into oblivion, but it had left him with a lingering sense of unease. He stared at the wall, imagining Derelict somewhere beyond with its desolate alloy surface glinting in Maasym’s light, and he couldn’t help but worry…

Was this really what he wanted?

“About time,” Cass scoffed under her breath, face twisted into an impatient frown. She sat, cross-legged, somewhere in the middle of a colorful crowd of would-be Derelict delvers both experienced and green. Some had appeared in their most formal suits, all groomed up and prepared to present themselves as their best. There were those who came in their military uniforms, borrowed or real, to show that they meant business. And then there were those who looked like they threw on the first thing they found this morning – or, perhaps, it was the only thing they had. But appearance alone did not make the candidate, Cass judged; those who talked about how excited they were, those who played on their phones, those who looked nervous… they were all standing in line for their turn to walk into a hell they were not prepared for. Derelict wasn’t a museum or a theme park. It was a war zone. It ate men alive and spat out broken bodies and corpses. Normal people, the unbroken and those who had something to lose, had no place in Derelict. They would soon understand this, but by then it might be too late.

Tough luck. Cass unfolded her legs and set her right foot down with a light clank, then straightened herself and sat upright. Taking her eyes off the unfortunates around her, she focused her attention on the officers that had just entered the room. Rigid. Formal. Just like the organization they worked for. She watched introductions go by, but had already guessed the respective roles of the two before they opened their mouths. The scientist, a certain d’Agenais, was easy to tell apart in this case. It wasn’t the unimpressive body stature or the glasses, both confirmed stereotypes in this case, but something in the way he looked at the people before him. Looked at her. A natural air of aloofness, if not necessarily superiority. A distance that that created a gulf between people who lived with their feet on solid ground and those who soared high above in the realm of theory and ideas. It was easy to recognize people like this for Cass; she was allergic to them.

After having introduced themselves and their mission, the pair of officers took their respective seats by a rudimentarily equipped desk and began calling candidates to the fore as they were marked on their checklist. Each given five minutes to present who they are, what they wish to do, and why they would be fit for the job. A simple sales pitch. A standardized, easy to process routine, almost mechanical in nature. Human society and their many social constructs were themselves like a machine, Cass found; chewing through human material as easily as Derelict, if not more so. But in this machine, she was the wrench in the gears.

“Name’s Cass,” she began, finally facing the officers herself after being summoned, “Just Cass. Last names aren’t a luxury we were given on Herakles.”

Meanwhile, in a front-row seat, a young woman wearing a formal blouse and skirt, looked appalled and shook her head. Snow-white locks fell forward as she dipped her head to look at the sizeable stack of papers and notes heaped upon her lap, where she scribbled still. Notes taken during the introduction, notes taken during the presentations. Cass, she wrote. Wound on left shoulder. Gunshot? Abnormal walk, coil whine. Augments?

“I’ve been here since the start,” the black-haired refugee at the front continued, “Came with Mercury and have been doing security for them since the first shuttles arrived. I’ve seen the orbit in flames long before I saw any Origin ships in the system. Earlier this week I ran my fifty-sixth expedition into Derelict.” She pointed at the bandage on her shoulder, all but confirming the note-taker’s suspicions about the nature of the wound.

“I guarantee that nobody else in this room has even half my experience. Some, I feel, have never been to Derelict at all.” She turned around briefly to look over the crowd, some of whom glared at her and some of whom were in awe. “I’ll be honest with you; I’m not the nicest person in this room. But, as a guide, I can get you out of Derelict alive in situations anyone else in here will definitely get you killed in. Your call, sirs.”

With this, she dropped her data slate on the desk where Fuertes snatched it up. White-hairs looked up at Cass as she walked by, the two briefly making eye contact. It was like the moment a tired old hound faces a hot-blooded young pup. No way in hell they’re accepting that hoodlum into their team, she thought as she tore her eyes from the confrontation and let her pass by. Was this the sort of people that came to Derelict? Filthy refugees from Herakles and other good-for-nothing lowlifes? She was close to regretting ever having come here. Was this the life she had sacrificed a bright career for? To dig in the mud alongside the dreck of society?

No. Composure, she told herself. This was exactly what she had given up her career for. To see the universe for what it truly was. To be at the forefront of discovery. To understand the world she lived in fully and definitely not to shut herself away in an ivory tower. That thought alone, the life her parents wanted her to have and the prospects she were given, sickened her enough to make the present seem far more palatable all of a sudden. But people, she found, were a rather acquired taste regardless.

White-hairs straightened her back and flipped the page over, pen in hand, eager to see who was next on the list. Cass, meanwhile, quietly returned to her seat, face dour as ever. She hated every second of standing over there; she’d felt like everybody was looking down on her. They were all attacking her for who she was and, unlike on Herakles, it was not the kind of problem a pair of bloody knuckles could solve. All she could do was swallow her anger. She’d done so before, and it never ended well. She closed her eyes, tilted back her head and let out a deep breath through her nose. It was over. All she had to do was to wait and hope.

And to look forward to visiting Alyx tonight; to report on the job application, of course.

Candidates came and went, Vin only halfway paying attention to their introductions. He’d been told the job was already his; why did he have to go through this charade? What if these recruiters had never been told? He was beginning to worry he might have slipped through some bureaucratic gap. It’d be a colossal waste if he’d come all the way out here and not get the job.

He was telling himself to calm down, assuring himself it’d all work out. He hadn’t really prepared, so he was trying to come up with something to say while the others were going through their introductions.

Something else kept stealing his attention, though: a white-haired woman in front of him, scribbling on a sheet of actual, physical paper. How old-fashioned, he rolled his eyes, wondering whether it was synthetic or real, actual cellulose. He doubted it was for a lack of means that she didn’t use digital; judging by her perfectly fitted clothes and carefully refined appearance, she struck him as someone wealthy. Stuck-up, too, given her attitude. She’d probably go all the way and use real paper just to show off.

Meanwhile, a rough-looking woman came up to speak. Vin thought he heard a faint mechanical whine as she lumbered past him. Some kind of leg augment? Those were rarely voluntary. She certainly looked like she’d lived a harsh life. A quick switch to thermal imaging showed her pants were leaving a colder footprint – heh – than the rest of her. Both legs, then?

She introduced herself, Vin only halfway paying attention. Herakles? He perked up at the mention. Might explain the legs; he certainly didn’t envy her that. Still, the name had stirred up old, unpleasant memories. But that was long ago, now. Rather not think about it.

He found his distraction when White-Hairs shook her head dismissively and began scribbling again. Her whole air was one of arrogance, and it made Vin irrationally angry. Her kind thought themselves above everyone else, and loved to remind those around them. What was she even doing here? Probably some out-of-touch misguided idealism. He hoped he wouldn’t have to work with her. Sadly, those with means often got their way, regardless of whether they were actually deserving of it.

“Vincent Marlowe!” His name was called next, the military-looking guy scanning the room before his eyes landed on Vin. He wondered how their list was sorted. Certainly not alphabetically, he thought.

“Here!” he chimed in, getting up from his seat and walking to the fore. He was still nervous, but he had at least some vague idea of what he wanted to say.

Deep breath. Calm down. Exhale.

He could wing it. That was, after all, more or less how he’d gotten through life so far.

“Vin Marlowe,” he introduced himself as he shook hands with the recruiters, wearing a smile more confidently than his internal state warranted. “Been following this thing since the start. Excited to finally be here.”

Bit stiff of an introduction, he thought, but it would do. He rested his hands behind his back and loosened up his stance.

“I’ve been tinkering with shi- ahem,” he cleared his throat, “things – for as long as I remember. Spent about three years in the OSF as a technician, did maintenance and fixing on their ships. After that I spent a few years studying comp science. Augmented intelligence, to be specific.”

“Bit of a passion of mine, that,” he digressed and tapped the back of his head, “even had a computer installed. Helps me out in all kinds of ways.”

His tongue was loosening up, and he felt more at ease. When it came down to it, this really wasn’t too different from telling some stranger at a bar about himself.

“Anyhow, as for how all that would translate to the mission, I’m pretty flexible. If it’s mechanical, chances are I can take it apart and put it back together again. Got a pretty good grasp on computer systems too, and I reckon I can figure out how to use whatever equipment you’re planning on bringing down there.”

“Can run aug maintenance as well, if needed.” He shot a quick glance back at the woman who went before him, trying to make it seem nonchalant. What was her name again? Cass. Just Cass, her voice echoed internally at his prompt. He turned back to the officer and continued: “Provided no surgery’s involved,” he shrugged. “Metal I can do; meat, not so much.”

“Details are in my file,” he dropped a datastick on the desk. “Any questions before I go?”

Under the exposed and therefore harsh LED glare that framed the low ceiling in uniformly-arranged points, the white walled room seemed to Mavriq as stark and antiseptic, akin to laboratories or lecture halls with equipment and furniture mostly omitted. Albeit familiar, the room’s disposition was of a nature that unfortunately presaged his frequent migraines. Subconsciously, his left hand lifted and the fingertips thereof firmly massaged his temple. That fault calculated, the comfort of familiarity was still undeniable and he felt at ease in the environment. Meanwhile, the bodies—the numerous unwashed, pungent, grotesque bodies—seemed more like specimens rather than fellow humans. Secure behind a metal lectern, crudely contrived via three-dimensional printing sourced with ferrous matter from local asteroids, he remained predominantly silent as the individuals approached and pleaded their case for the large bump in credits they doubtlessly associated with being a member of his team.

Eventually, one human debris captured his momentary interest; primarily as her claims were, while outlandish, both verifiable and credible.

“Cass,” while he squinted at her file on his data slate, he repeated the Herakles native’s name, which caused a brief lull in her departure, “how do you explain your apparent lack of mental deterioration given the frequency of your exposure to the artifact?”

“Artifact?” Cass huffed.

“Derelict,” Mavriq clarified, reduced to the vulgar vernacular of Maasym Orbital Station.

“What makes you so sure I haven’t?” she scoffed, then swaggered back to her place along the wall, arms crossed, expression adrift between amused and defiant.

Mavriq raised a brow. Next to him, he suspected Feurtes chuckled, although he doubted such a lapse occurred in the man’s obvious military professionalism. Most likely it was the room’s acoustics and the noise emanated from some imbecile in a corner. Regardless, Cass’ candor and experience intrigued him, so he checked the box for preliminary approval. Meanwhile, his preassigned medical detail exhibited an aura of barely masked antipathy. His gaze lingered on her artificial white hair, planar pale visage, and adequate bosom a moment before it retreated back to his data slate. Then, in a common moment of curiosity, brought up her portfolio. Immediately he recognized her last name and associated it with the pharmaceutical giant Marrow-Geist Moleculars. Their stock ticker, MGM, was familiar enough to someone, such as himself, whose retirement was inexorably bound in the markets. The woman, Sophia, was something of a heterodox, it seemed, as her file explicitly stated that she was here in defiance of her parents’ wishes. As to her qualifications, while her academic marks were all top-tier, her experience in the field was, at best, dubious.

Interviews resumed, boredom swiftly infected him. Occasionally, he masked a yawn behind his hand, although his action was as old as civilization and obvious. He reviewed the data slate more than he glanced up and assessed the prospects. So many were liars, like the hobbled would-be tour guide who suffered from choroideremia, a madman diagnosed with clinical claustrophobia, and many others with the required experience who, unfortunately, were utterly maddened by their exposure to Derelict.

“Next,” Mavriq heard Feurtes’ baritone order without a trace of humor. Once he perfunctorily glanced at his list, Mavriq read aloud the name Vincent Marlowe. The incarnated personage was unimpressive, except for two qualities: firstly, the preliminary approval box was already checked; secondly, Vin, like Cass, heralded—however tenuously—from Herakles, or possessed a close enough approximation of a hereditary interaction with the planet, anyway. Perhaps there was something in that god-awful colony’s environment that combated the mental deterioration Derelict induced.

“How comfortable are you with human-machine intelligence interfacing?” Mavriq inquired. His voice remained expressionless, except for maybe a hint of boredom, but the question itself hefted enough weight in innuendo as to be downright presumptuous and, for some, dangerous. Enough chatter was provoked as a result of it that Feurtes interjected himself and insisted: “Decorum will be maintained throughout these interviews!”

Eventually, the noise quelled enough that Vin was availed the opportunity to answer. Meanwhile, Mavriq focused a keen eye on him. Some nervousness, definitely. And suspicious glances from others in the room. He was an unknown quantity to them, perhaps something of an anathema. Nobody wanted to be part machine, not any of these victims of fate. Yet before them stood a man who voluntarily augmented his body with insidious mechanical contraptions that went well beyond mending broken limbs and blinded eyes.

Vin was used to facing some prejudice for his augments, but the reactions of the crowd were stronger than he had expected. He’d assumed – falsely, it seemed – that a place like Derelict would be more accepting of the abnormal. He looked back and took stock of the crowd: some seemed indifferent, many were chattering among themselves, and a few were even staring at him with contempt. They could think whatever they wanted; his body, his choice. He refused to let it get to him. At the officer’s call, the clamor eventually died down, and he turned back to the interviewer.

“Professionally, or on a personal level?” Vin maintained a neutral tone, biding for time as he tried to discern where his prospective employer stood on the matter. The crowd’s opinion might mean little to him, but if this d’Agenais was a skeptic, he might need some convincing. The scientist’s eyes were focused squarely on Vin, but his expression remained professionally impartial. If he had a strong opinion, he was keeping it to himself.

“I’ve had no big problems with it that I wasn’t able to fix,” Vin opened tentatively, shuffling his feet. “I spent pretty much all of my savings on this thing. Didn’t want to cheap out with some half-assed junk.”

It was probably safest to keep to the practical aspects. The fewer opinions shared, the lower the chance he’d offend.

“It’s not too different from bringing a computer with you everywhere,” he continued, his nerves steadying as he began threading familiar ground. “Except my hands are free and I’ve got more fine control over what it’s doing. I think instead of tapping the screen or pressing the keys. And I see the results in my head instead of a display. It’s pretty convenient, really.”

He’d used the same simplified explanation dozens of times before, in bars and at parties and with prospective employers. He doubted they would understand – truly understand – just what it meant to have a neural augment, just how game changing it was. It wasn’t just like using a computer, but faster. It was like adding an entirely new layer of thought. There were plenty of tasks that computers could do millions of times faster than the human brain. Delegating those to a CPU let him spend his focus far more efficiently.

“Does wonders for your memory, too,” he added in a lighter tone, almost playfully. “Ever forgotten where you put your keys? Well, no more.”

None of the candidates’ credentials impressed Mavriq, but he recognized that MOS was a place where the only free agents were essentially cast aways. Anyone who excelled in their field already possessed gainful employment through corporate contracts. Beyond society’s dregs were a handful of would-be double dippers—people who wanted to get two paychecks for just a little bit more work, a category it seemed Cass fell squarely into. Given the lack of conflicts of interest between Origin and Mercury Inc., public anyway, Mavriq was relieved someone with such a preponderance of experience was, even with some restrictions taken into account, available. Vin was another matter, but his pre-authorization with his willingness to interface directly with Derelict—assuming the implication was understood—made him a valuable, if not disposable, asset for the team.

Data slate folded in his pocket, Mavriq tapped off the microphone on the podium. Meanwhile Feurtes signaled that the interview process had finalized. In his deep brusque voice, the soldier announced, “Everyone, refer to the number you were assigned when you invited to be interviewed. Interviewees 17B, 3RK, 11O, C49 remain. All others, you are free to leave at this time, but keep in mind you may be contacted later.”

A rumble of grumbles reverberated throughout the room, but steadily settled as the mob filtered out through the automatic plexiglas door. To those who remained, he verified their credentials and handed them a folio with information on where they would meet, their schedule for the next couple of days, and so on. From where Mavriq stood, Sophia seemed somewhat relieved by the dissipation of riffraff, although of those who stood in the room she was still the best groomed and, not surprisingly, monied.

“Any questions?” Mavriq asked as he stepped out from behind the podium and watched the people review their data slates that contained a rather rudimentary mission briefing.

Just as a refresher, he pulled it up himself. Mainly it was instructions on their facilities, equipment they were to be provided, and their objective regarding Derelict. Aside from his lab on the Thunderclap, which only actual military personal were availed access to, there was a suite on MOS they would share that included an attached laboratory and storage bay, a private shuttle and hangar for passage to and from Derelict, and a mobile hover facility for use within Derelict itself.

His eyes drifted down to the stipend and he cringed, although the expression was mainly inward—mainly. Such a pittance for such dangerous work, but far more than anyone here, outside officers, hoped to amass performing slave labor for megacorps. He noted that if Cass played her cards right, she could pay off her augment in under six months, assuming the mission and she survived so long.

“If not, you’re dismissed for the time being. Take this time to gather some belongings and transport them to the new facility, go to the secure web and fill out your banking and personal information, and so forth. The usual employment schtick.”

Directive State User Interface:
— Protect MRS Property
"MRS Property":: "Anything produced, purchased, or used by MRS. This includes you. Exclude JUNK flag.":: Definition by MRSA10ProjLead05
Priority Order:: "A10-2022" "XDFSU1" "Generalized MRS Property"
— Harvest DERELICT Metals
MRSA10ProjLead13 note:: "Do not directly interface with the artifact if you can avoid it. High risk activity."
— "Make a show for Origin.":: Unclear, please clarify directive.::"It will make sense.":: Definition by [Deleted_User_Data]
2022A note:: Have I been tampered with? Report to MRSA10ProjLead13 upon completion of “Harvest DERELICT Metals” assignment.
— Regular Report Behavior
ConditionalStateModification by 2022A:: "Breach report behavior where efficiency dictates.":: Modification Approved by [Deleted_User_Data]
— Establish Biologically Friendly Operation Center
"Biologically Friendly":: "Fitting for cold-fusion conditions.":: Definition by MRSA10ProjLead05
"Operation Center":: "Safe-zone on the artifact. Stable environment for human operations.":: Definition by MRS10ProjLead05
MRSA10ProjLead13 note:: "MRSA10ProjLead05 says that you will ask if you need a term defined. Please feel free to. Ask A915AF and A916AA, and any UNDEFINEDUSER(s) that have verifiable ORIGIN or MRS tags associated. Verify these tags independently if possible."

Directive Updates...
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Directive Updates:
— “Rendezvous with ORIGIN tagged MOS Presence”:: “MOS = Maasym Orbital Station”:: Definition by OGFriend01, MRSA10ProjLead13
TAG Updates:
ORIGIN:: Friendly
MOSHUM:: AlertState
MAASYMENTITY:: ViolentState:: SecondaryDefaultTAG
UNKNOWN:: QuearyState:: DefaultTAG

A10-2022A stood at its post, watching data come in regarding pathing conditions. BH5 was preparing to slow to a complete halt and perform a full boot up of all of the androids on-board after dropping out of jump-speed. This was, for a plethora of reasons, not the best way to go about things. 2022A interrupted all systems momentarily and directed BH5 to follow instruction, which it did. When the vessel shook, and dropped into sub-light speeds it hurtled for a long moment towards the gleaming red demon that was Maasym. It slowed steadily.

A9-15AF ran the calculations to enter orbit, and took the helm. A9-16AA stepped away from its console and followed A10 as it stepped away from the primary controls and walked down a ramp, which lead eventually to the storage facility of the refinery. The fifteen B7 android bodies that made up 17094CL were partially sealed into the satellite, enabling them to breathe before launching as necessary. They remained offline, though 17094CL's primary computer built into the satellite had activated when the satellite entered the solar system. A10 took note of the condition of the various machines. It was running basic diagnostics on the top level, and thinking quietly to itself as it did so.

> Efficiency would increase “violently” if all other units of the 2022 branch were present.

That was itself a rather complex thought for the thing. It was not happy with the conditions of the mission or the parameters it had been given. What was it to do when one of the A9 machines ultimately chose a violent solution, or made conflict with their authority? Neither of their personality prints accounted for such a concern, however, and so A10 dismissed the anxiety regarding its companions as an artifact of its personality print. Concern where none needs to be found, was perhaps, where its desire for efficiency was so substantial. Ten seconds passed before A9 announced loudly on the satellite's intercom that they were in range to directly connect to the network of the Maasym Orbital Station. They were also in range of the three Origin battle cruisers.

"Announce the arrival of an MRS unmanned satellite to the battle cruisers. Contact the nearest."

A9-15AF refused to communicate over the network. Demanded verbal communications. The express exchange had occurred during the loading process, which the three A Numerical series androids had overseen together. A10 recalled the exchange rather spitefully, having tagged the relevant recordings for deletion during the next software-update. 15AF was concerned, of course, about corporate espionage. The loss of efficiency was considered a fair exchange.

"Contact established."

"Send to display 13."

A small communications log opened, recording audio, before two additional displays appeared. Some Origin communications officer with tired eyes and a slack jaw began to speak. Introductions. A10 deleted the information as quickly as it came in.

It spoke, and took note that its safety paint pattern had a scratch adjacent to its eye.

"Hello! I am a Mars Robotics and Security representative. I have been instructed to request that our operations in the exploitation shaft be carefully observed and measured. Have a good afternoon!"

A10 waited for a response, and received a similarly worthless series of terms, before nodding.

"Have a good day!"

The communications channel closed. 15AF spoke loudly.

“Have a good day! Aaaaaa-HAH. How sarcastic!”

A10 was not speaking sarcastically when it had delivered the line. That was the default statement assigned to leaving a conversation. 15AF’s confusion was registered as a flaw in its behavioral pattern and sent to the out-bound mission status logs as quickly as A10 could realize the interaction had occurred. This was not an action taken out of spite, but A10 was annoyed. The A9 models were both functional soldiers but far too talkative, and any authority it had over their personality prints had been overridden by one of the MRSA10 project leads. They wanted A10 to be bounded by other MRS properties. They were his council, and as such could overrule him and end the mission prematurely if they judged an action to be out of line with their behavioral defaults.

It was not difficult to avoid agitating either of the A9s in a vote, however. One defaulted to extreme caution and the other to ultra violence. Rarely did they call for a vote. During the training period, 16AA had demanded an unidentified biological in the testing environment killed, and it had been outvoted by A10 and 15AF.

A10 frequently recalled 16AA’s demands for violence with disapproval. Violence against a biological that was not inflicting its own violence was inefficient.

A10 frequently recalled 15AF’s demands for safety with disapproval. Risks must be taken to achieve higher efficiency levels over time.

The mechanical crew docked an hour later at the MOS, remaining silent the entire time. Without a human onboard attempting to make conversation they rarely spoke to each other. The A9s were happy to chatter whenever they felt their opinion was needed, and A10 was happy to deliver orders as per 15AF’s request for verbal direction, but they had explicitly decided during the first year of their training together that maintaining humanoid speech tags against each other would result in useless banter between them. In that vote A10 had called for the removal of banter tags between the three models, while 15AF had moved to maintain them to create the illusion of sentience. 16AA indicated that its intention was to vote alongside A10 because it was inclined, as it stated, to obey more capable authorities.

Each crevice and rock on the station was memorized and backed-up in the BH5’s environmental memory, and uploaded into the A-models. That was the key benefit, MRS had decided, of a mechanical crew. The BH5 satellite could operate with zero crew, and so its complex environmental sensors were compatible with other androids.

The seals engaged, and the ship looked to be several wasp-nest combs jutting out from the MOS station.

When the crew stepped out, the three A-models, they knew roughly where they were going. They were searching for ORIGIN-tagged humans on this “Mos” station. The A9s were boringly grey, and A10 was a rather bright work-site paintjob. As they approached customs they presented several documents, indicating they were property of MRS. It was a curious process for the customs agents.

“I don’t think we’ve had to handle just three androids before.”

“Hell no but the kids are gonna love hearing about this if their whore of a mother hasn’t beaten them to tears by the time I get home.”

“Sam, why does every conversation go back to your shitty home life?”

“What else am I supposed to talk about? We have procedures for property arriving and they met the standards for arriving as property.”

“They’re robots Sam. Smile for once in your life.”

Sam did not smile. A10 would have, had he a face, however. They had passed through customs at a higher than average speed, based on previous expectations as established with the mission briefing that had arrived as they entered the system.

> Ahead of schedule. Update minimum efficiency score accordingly.

The three mechanical men walked through the altogether dim space station carefully, in a well-considered walking order. A9-15AF took up the front and exercised his caution, with the A10 model in the middle of the single file line and A9-16AA at the back. They were a bleak oddity. They caught eyes. A man with a broad face, tagged HUMAN, UNKNOWN, attempted to speak to them. They marched on with no regard for the individual.

That individual gave way to a small crowd of disgruntled private contractors. A10’s hand caught the automatic plexiglass door before it closed, and the three androids waited for the crowd to pass. They received stares and side-eyes that they could not interpret from within the halls that they held no opinion of. A9-16AA exposed his cold-fusion core for the door sensor, which opened with the detection of the low warmth. A10 and A9-15AF entered and took note of the room while 16AA followed behind and closed his own stomach cavity.

Three cyclopes machines moved to the side of the doorway, staring boldly at the soldier, the lab-coat draped man, and the remaining independent contractors. A10’s coordinates were within acceptable distance to mark off the rendezvous condition of their new directive.

“He—” began the machine with the 15AF number painted in white on his chest panel and on the side of its boxy head. It stopped when the yellow and white machine raised its right hand.

“Hello. We are MRS property to be supplied to the, quoted from mission parameters, ‘ORIGIN tagged Mos presence.’” The yellow and white machine. “My name,” it said the word with what sounded like disdain as its voice buzzed black, “is A10-2022A.”

It buzzed, and cracked out three short bursts of audio that the two A9 androids responded in kind to.

“These other androids are my inferiors and are not suitable for reception of command. A10-2022A is best suited for reception of command. Please indicate names for tagging purposes.”

> Will the soldier respond or the other unnamed individual? They will not respond in the most efficient manner.

> A9-15AF > Please communicate using open channels as agreed!

> A9-15AF has been locked out of personal_record.log, A9-16AA has been locked out of personal_record.log, A10-2022A has been made ADMIN of personal_record.log

> Distractions have been removed from the personal_record that is to be kept as stated by MRS_StandardPractices.

“Please, those of ORIGIN affiliation please speak first, promptly.”

Sophia’s shoulders sagged, and she barely caught herself from producing a sigh of relief when the room emptied. It occurred to her just how stuffy the chamber had been, and how fresh the air felt now that the overbearing stench of humankind had lessened. Yes, she was a doctor and it was her calling, nominally, to help people. And help them she wanted to – but that did not mean she had to like people. Especially not the kind of freaks the MOS seemed to produce on a regular.

Hopefully she would not have to endure much more of their kind, now that she was accepted into the away team, a factoid that did not surprise or elate her in the slightest. Of course she was accepted; there had never been any alternative to this. Rejection was but an inconceivable impossibility, something that had never crossed her mind for even a second.

When approached by the able-bodied and terse Fuertes, the comparatively frail-looking woman flinched just a bit before reason caught up with her. Flashing a fake but well-trained smile and a courteous nod, she accepted the files handed to her and began their perusal. Within moments of studying the document, she was already beginning to notice dozens of things she once considered indispensable to be missing from her provisions. Clearly, work on the MOS was going to be a very different matter from working in a high-tech lab on Earth.

“Any questions?” she heard coming from the front where Mavriq, the de facto leader of the team, roused himself from his desk.

“Actually, yes,” Sophia chirped up, her voice high-pitched and prickly like a bird’s. “There’s a significant number of absolutely critic-“

“Holy shit!” someone exclaimed behind her, too close for comfort. She cringed and glared over her shoulder to see Cass staring wide-eyed at her own folio. “Is this real? For that kind of money I’d do absolutely anything you want me to.”

She might even try to be nice, she thought. While she was not able to do the math on how long it would take her to pay off her debt on the quick, the raw number of the paycheck absolutely dwarfed what Mercury was paying her for their jobs. Though excited, the nagging knowledge of how badly her employer was exploiting her, made manifest in numbers, was beginning to really piss her off too. Either that, or it was the lack of any nicotine in the past hour.

“Would you mind?” Sophia snapped, exasperated. “I’m trying to-“

With fate itself seemingly aligned against the pristine-haired woman, she was cut off again, this time by the sharp sound of the mechanical door opening up. Sophia, with eyes that could murder, glared at the three androids bumbling into the room, unaccompanied apparently, as if they had every reason to be there.

As the robots introduced themselves, their purpose and their need for input, the room fell awkwardly silent. Sophia was seemingly not the only one caught off guard by the sudden visit. Not far from her, Cass visibly tensed up and found herself absentmindedly reaching for her hip, grasping at an empty place. In the lack of a familiar steel grip, she suddenly felt rather naked. Then she chided herself, gently easing up on her posture again. They weren’t on Derelict, and these weren’t alien machines. Just some friendly neighborhood droids from some company or another. No reason to be antsy, after all.

The tell-tale pneumatic hiss as the doors surreptitiously parted diverted Mavriq’s attention away from the handful of recruits and toward a trio of bipedal machines. Two primary legs, arms, and an upright posture was as far as their vague resemblance to humans went; overall, Mavriq deemed them utilitarian and, in a word, boxy. At least the verbal and foremost one was adorned with enough color to make for an interesting spectacle. Their presence was, for Mavriq, unexpected, although he surmised the mission parameters included a forewarning; perhaps during a periodic and vexatious moment where his mind strayed from the present. He made a note to review the matter when he returned to the Thunderclap to transfer the remainder of his apparatuses. In any case, once the machine announced its name, Mavriq, in a subconscious delay tactic, opined,

“Aten, variant designation for the Egyptian god of the sun.”

Beside him, he noticed Feurtes, who was in the midst of collapsing the temporary-use furniture, shake his head as though he were disappointed. The big man stood and clarified, “Lieutenant d’Agenais, I believe the MRS unit is asking for our names, not a convenient nickname for itself.”

Mavriq frowned, but decided this was a moment to assert his clout and insisted, “I doubt everyone on our team will easily remember a-ten-dash-twenty-something. Asking the unit to tag itself as Aten is much more efficient for everyone involved. Don’t you agree, Warrant Officer Feurtes?”

A shrug of assent was all Mavriq needed, then he moved on to formally address the MRS unit. With his dataslate gripped firmly and populated with the final cut of team members, still rendered on the screen, he said, “I am First Lieutenant Mavriq d’Agenais of the Origin Navy Science Division, provisionally in charge of this operation. As you likely deduced, the big man in the fatigues is Warrant Officer Dario Feurtes, our liaison with Origin’s military affairs; he is to ensure we have all the equipment we need to execute a successful operation. Cass”—he said her name after a rushed inhalation and gestured toward the brunette in the corner—“is, for wont of a better word, our tour guide. She will assist with security, if need be. Then we have”—briefly, he peered through his glasses at the dataslate in an effort to recall the man’s name—“Vincent Marlowe. He will be our software specialist. You’ll note him by his integration augmentations. Sophia -- I’m sorry, I can’t pronounce your last name -- will”—at this he nodded in her direction—“address our medical concerns.”

He felt rather pleased with himself at how proficiently he concluded the human itinerary. Still, in the awkward silence that ensued he wondered whether his performance was as apt as he first assumed. This was confirmed when Feurtes’ expectantly stared at him, as though he awaited Mavriq to make a tacitly obvious pronouncement.

“Next order of business,” Mavriq paused, considered what logically followed, and decided, “set up our two operational facilities, on Maasym Orbital Station and on Derelict. Feurtes and Aten, along with, if prudent, the two other androids, will be responsible for the forward base of operations. Clearly”—and this he fabricated in an effort to sound decisive—“MRS units are subordinate to orders from Origin military personnel, which puts Feurtes in charge of that base. As for the rest of us, we will wrap up the transfer our belongings to the facilities here on the station.”

As the group filtered out of the room, Mavriq caught Feurtes by the shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Cognitive degeneration is a known consequence for humans on Derelict, but we don’t know how A.I. react. Do you have a, uh, kill command should these things go haywire?”

Feurtes looked at him, grinned, patted his sidearm, said, “Right here, Lieutenant,” and walked off in the company of Aten and the two A9s.

Vin exhaled in relief and felt his tension leave with the crowd; he’d passed, it seemed. He made a note of the other remainees – of course White-Hairs was still there – before looking down to study the file he’d received. Paper again, he observed, but this looked to be the cheaper synthetic kind. And at least it made sense for a hand-out like this.

He quickly flipped through each page and committed them to long-term memory, before returning to page one for a more thorough pass to give his meat computer a chance to catch up. Facilities looked good – seemed like he didn’t need to worry about finding a place to sleep. The lab, he wagered, would probably have access to some pretty noteworthy computing power, given Origin’s resources. It also looked like they’d have access to a lot of research made into Derelict, most of which tended to be locked behind paywalls and corporate veils. Juicy. He continued reading, vaguely aware of White-Hairs asking some question, but he paid her words little attention.

“Holy shit!” shouted Cass, before exclaiming her apparent willingness to do anything for that kind of salary. Vin formed a mental image of her step-dancing in a tutu and suppressed a chuckle. She didn’t seem the type. He flipped through the pages and looked up the salary as White-Hairs snapped at Cass; it really was good money, he thought and gave a quiet whistle. He’d have to celebrate later.

The woman was interrupted once more as a trio of humanoid robots marched into the room, lining up neatly and introducing themselves to “the ORIGIN-tagged MOS presence”, as the speaker succinctly labeled the interviewing duo. It referred to itself by the catchy moniker A10-2022A. More serial number than name, Vin noted as he imprinted the string into memory.

It seemed the trio were from MRS – Martian Robotics and Security? he ventured from fallible human memory, but his interface was quick to correct him. R is for Research, he repeated quietly to himself. He wasn’t too familiar with their A-series lineup, but did recall having run into an old A6 model on an asteroid mining installation a few years prior. Still looked more or less the same, but he reckoned most of the improvements were under the hood. No need to change a functional design, he supposed. Vin respected their utilitarian approach to aesthetics.

D’Agenais went on to address them, apparently deciding upon some esoteric nickname for the thing before introducing the team. As Vin’s name came up, he offered the machines a laid-back wave and a smile. Couldn’t hurt to be friendly; he’d heard personality prints were getting pretty advanced these days.

---

As they finished up and filtered out into the street, Vin stretched his arms and turned to the group. He was in a good mood, and not even his instinctual dislike for White-Hairs could bring him down. Hell, there was a chance she might not even be so bad, once he got to know her. More than her, however, he wanted to pick Cass’ brain. Fifty-six was a hard figure to swallow, but even if the actual number of expeditions was only a fraction of that he still wagered she’d have some stories to tell.

“Drinks, anyone?” he addressed the group in general. “That pay is worth celebrating.”

Struggling for control of her emotions, Sophia’s porcelain face was marred by the slightest hint of a frown as she coldly looked at the three robots. The first thing her feelings reminded her of was the frustration she felt in her first year at the New Constantinople University. Being treated as expendable – as someone who, in all likelihood, would drop out by the end of the first semester – and being constantly faced with her own ignorance, had been one of the worst experiences of her life. The number of times both her teachers and her parents had berated her for misremembering obscure details or failing to meet impossible deadlines was too great to consider; and the things she had considered doing – and sometimes had done – to get some reprieve from it all… better not to dwell on it. Besides, it had made her a better person in the end.

“My full name,” white-hairs sharply added after Mavriq designated her role and offered her a brief pause in speech to interject in, “is Sophia Arietta Hagiotheodorites. I won’t insist, lieutenant d’Agenais, but you could try.”

After punishing Mavriq with a brief, wintry stare to make sure he understood her displeasure, she returned her attention to the trio of androids who appeared to acknowledge her input. At least they would not mispronounce her name, she hoped, although not even of that she could be sure of these days. Personality imprints had become as pervasive and irritating as a new disease with no known cure. Everywhere she turned, machines were pretending to be human, wearing friendly faces like grisly masks to hide their uncaring algorithms. She was not a Luddite or paranoid like some; indeed, she liked machines. But she much preferred them to avoid falling into the depths of the uncanny valley. The pursuit of imprinting human personas on artificial constructs was not only a waste of resources but also a pointless endeavor that produced only the stuff of nightmares.

---

A little while later, as the group reemerged into the public section of the MOS, Vin, the augmented tech specialist of the team, turned to the others and, surprisingly, offered to have a drink together. Sophia hadn’t taken him for that kind of socialite and felt strangely humbled by her misinterpretation of his character. Even so, the idea of going to a pub thoroughly disgusted her in more ways than she could logically enumerate in her head before feeling pressured for an answer. What little hesitation she had, however, was enough for Cass – that crude, underprivileged and thoroughly dangerous woman – to take the initiative and once again prove just how vulgar her sensibilities were.

“Fuck yeah,” she exclaimed with a maddened grin, offering her fist to Vin – presumably expecting some tribal, gesture-based response to underline their mutual approval. Sophia rolled her eyes.

“I’m afraid I have other business that needs attending,” Sophia cut in, somewhat raising her voice in order to be heard over both Cass’s excitement, and the din of the street. “But I am sure we will have ample opportunities to socialize in the future. So – until next time, ladies and gents.”

Barely waiting for any sort of answer, Sophia awkwardly shuffled off and disappeared in the crowd, headed off to who knows where. Probably to a personal luxury shuttle, if Cass were to take a guess. Not that she cared at that moment.

“Whatever,” she shrugged, “I’m down for drinking all night if you want. I haven’t felt this awesome in like, forever. What about you, boss?”

She turned from Vin to shoot a questioning glance at Mavriq, who appeared momentarily surprised by the current turn of events himself.

Internally, Mavriq repeated and consigned to memory the proper pronunciation of Sophia’s surname: Hagiotheodorites. Outwardly, he unconsciously, but fortunately noiselessly, mouthed the multisyllabic monolithic tongue-twister of Byzantine provenance. As Feurtes and the trio of metallic intelligence departed on their mission, he drifted in the milieu of what remained of his team and feigned interest in their exchanges while he busily analyzed his dataslate for the latest information on Derelict. It wasn’t until they deliberated in front of a pub identified as Derelict’s Derelicts in harsh bright red script that he concluded the purpose of their journey.

Cass seemed of the opinion the place was a lavish and overpriced tourist attraction, a stance reversed as soon as Vin offered his credits for a team tab. As their senior officer, Mavriq believed it would be indecent if he joined with the rest of his team in what he assumed were part maudlin part celebratory frivolities. Thus, a polite excuse articulated, he expressed, “While I enjoy imbibing amongst affable company and atmosphere, my obligation to the ONSD takes priority,” and then retreated and proceeded on to the location and subsequent inspection of his and his team’s preassigned facilities.

Maasym Orbital Station proved for him an almost unnavigable labyrinth, but frequent use of his OSF dataslate, which included schematics of MOS, compensated for his directional inadequacies. Steadily the riffraff of the commercial sectors gave way to corporate and military order, the corridors narrowed, and the only colors were in the corporate logos impressed on the heavy hermetically-sealed vault-like doors. On these he saw the corporate emblems of MRS, Mercury, Terinhaul-Caskill, and other smaller franchises. Then came Origin—an allegedly democratically-elected and representative collection of pompous civilians bean-counters, regulators, and blow-hards—and, finally, Origin’s Stellar Fleet.

Security credentials accepted, the large door slid into the adjoining walls. A receptionist in a bullet-proof glass enclosure, also a lieutenant, sat opposite him on the other side of the opened entryway, her gaze stern, then leaned forward into a microphone and said, “Approach the biosig scanner and state your business.”

Mavriq approached the black X taped on the otherwise plain white tile floor and replied, “Lieutenant Mavriq d’Agenais with the Origin Navy Science Division here with a team on a scientific survey of the Maasym 4e artifact, uh, Derelict.”

He waited as a red laser light flashed him head to toe, after which the receptionist monotonously said, “Authorization granted. Welcome, Lieutenant.” There was a click and something slid from a narrow slit that formed beneath the bullet-proof glass barrier. Then she said, “Grab your identification tag. It tracks radiation, pathogen, and exposure to other harmful things. Wear it at all times. Take the elevator to your left down three levels, turn left, go down the hall six-hundred meters, turn right down another hall, ninth door on the right.”

The walk was sterile enough and he received not so much as a glance from the other military personnel he passed on his brief journey. If anything, his presence influenced their reticence. Finally, he flashed his badge at a door that corresponded to the termination point on the schematic on his dataslate, it slid open, and he stepped inside. He noted the 0-S3-9 designator marked on the door. This was the OSF’s lowest level on MOS. He was greeted by a whitewashed and antiseptic room deep as it was wide and separated by transparent plastic curtain with a built-in sterilization corridor, made obvious by the exposed pipes that ran along the ceiling and opened to spigots just above the pass. On his side of the see-through divide were living quarters with bunks and lockers built in the left-hand side, a kitchenette on the right-hand side, and a communal area in the center. Cameras in each corner were perhaps intentionally conspicuous. On the other side of the plastic barrier was a laboratory and storage area. Then, along the back wall, the pressure door that opened to the air lock that connected with the unit’s personal shuttle.

“No sanitation facilities,” he moaned.

“Welcome, Lieutenant. I am HELP. Warrant Officer Feurtes and the three MRS units took the team shuttle down to Derelict 3.8 minutes ago. The sanitation facility, as you call it, is located at 0-S2-4, adjacent to the medical triage unit. There you will find community toilets, showers, personal first aid, hygiene products dispensaries, non-prescription drugs dispensaries, weights, treadmills, a—”

“Thank you,” Mavriq interrupted. “Where are my personal quarters?”

“You have personal quarters aboard the OSF-Thunderclap. You also have a bunk in this team-oriented open-plan laboratory and residential unit.”

He rubbed his temples and sighed. At least the bunks had black-out curtains. Still, it was going to be a long trip.

SocialEvaluation_Team.log
admin:: MRSProjLead07
perms:: MRSProperty
> A102022A > Success. Only one ORIGIN MOSHUM responded negatively to our presence with a motion akin to that of retrieving a sidearm, though no sidearm was present.
> A915AF > Failure. One ORIGIN MOSHUM has assigned an additional name to A102022A. One ORIGIN MOSHUM attempted to draw arms. One ORIGIN MOSHUM indicated potentially threatening intentions regarding MRS property. ORIGIN MOSHUM are expressing both above and below acceptable levels of comfort.
> A916AA > Success. One ORIGIN MOSHUM expressed threatening behavior, but was not armed and represented no threat. One ORIGIN MOSHUM expressed uncertainty towards MRS property and expressed a willingness to engage in self defense.
> MRSProjLead07 > Good job boys. Looks like things are above board. Make sure you’re updating your personal logs, as well. We’ll be using your personal opinions to shape how we direct independent missions in the future. I’ll report your progress to 00 and the BOD.

Friends.log
admin:: MRSProjLead07
perms:: A102022A
NF:: Mavriq d’Agenais:: “First Lieutenant”:: Male(?):: ORIGIN, MOSHUM(?), HUMAN
16AA Note:: TitleRec:: “Honorary MRS Health & Wellness Manager”
2022A Note:: Verify (?) Suffix, Update acceptable references to include “Aten”.
15AF Note:: Updating acceptable references to include “Aten” may cause Mavriq emotional distress upon the potential destruction of 2022A, please desist.
MRSProjLead13:: “Aten” acceptable reference approved by MRSProjLead13. Let A10 be his own android, 15AF. We need you three to work together. Don’t clutter Friends.log with debate. TitleRec approved.
NF:: Dario Fuertes:: “Warrant Officer”:: Male:: ORIGIN, MOSHUM(?), HUMAN
2022A Note:: Verify (?) Suffix, Individual made threatening suggestion::
Source:: RecordingTranscript.log
UNDEFINEDUSER1 hand to UNDEFINEDUSER2 shoulder. Low volume exchange resulting
UU1:: “Cognitive degeneration is a known consequence for humans on Derelict, but we don’t know how A.I. react. Do you have a, [stutter], kill command should these things go haywire?”
UU2 hand to FIREARM(?) object, low volume exchange resulting
UU2:: “Right here, Lieutenant”
16AA Note:: TagRec:: MRSPROPERTYTHREATC2
MRSProjLead00:: TagRec accepted. Threat level acknowledged. Publish Dario Fuertes bounty as your final act if he is the aggressor. Standard protocol.
NF:: Cass(?):: “Tour Guide”:: Female:: ORIGIN, MOSHUM, HUMAN
2022A Note:: Verify (?) Suffix
NF:: Vincent Marlowe:: “Software Specialist”:: MaleAugmented:: ORIGIN, MOSHUM, HUMAN, AUGMENTED
NF:: Sophia Arietta Hagiotheodorites:: “Medical Staff”:: Female:: ORIGIN, MOSHUM, HUMAN

Directive State User Interface:
[...]

Directive Updates...
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Directive Updates:
— “Next Order Of Business”:: Establish operational facilities 1 and 2.:: Merge with “Operation Center”

Aten and the A9’s were careful in the company of Fuertes, moving forward. Zero-zero had made a point of tagging into the Friends.log, which was a standout occurrence for them. Normally zero-zero stayed out of the logs and only responded to reports. That fact, combined with the fact that there was some indication that the MRS BOD was watching their progress left the androids with a mix of something close to anxiety and excitement: simulated uncertainty regarding the variables in their path, and simulated joy looking to the end of the task.

When they reached the shuttle, Aten began the process of remotely launching the BH5 and launching its onboard computer. It began processing environmental information and streaming it directly to Aten. After a moment of setting up trajectories and ensuring the BH5 knew how to pilot itself and where to settle in orbit, Aten let go.

From the team shuttle viewports, BH5.

“Welcome to the Beehive, Mr. Fuertes. She’s happy to be of service.” The tone of the statement was rather grim. 15AF’s shoulders hung a bit.

> The A9’s body language is overly active. 15AF is continuing to cause problems or display emotions that need not be expressed for the good of the mission. He is a drag on efficiency.

Rarely were satellites given personality prints as complex as the one it carried. They simply didn’t need them, in the eyes of the MRS. Even the intelligent satellites didn’t need them. This entire mission was an experiment with too many variables. 15AF was incredibly concerned regarding the manner, but the expression was legitimate. BH5 was very happy to be of service. It ran diagnostic checks on itself twice before concluding that a third one would be nice. Aten took issues with this, but was immediately out voted by 15AF and 16AA who saw no harm.

To Fuertes, this was seen as a very strange silence hanging thickly between the three androids that stared at each other continuously.

Aten did speak, finally, after having remained silent. “We will be keeping the Harpy androids offline until a high atmosphere or space-bound threat presents itself, Warrant Officer Dario Fuertes. The BH5 is active. B7-17094CL is being sent down now.” As this final statement was expressed, fourteen deployment pods released from the BH5 and plummeted towards the predicted landing zone of the shuttle.

“They will arrive shortly. Any direct requests regarding the initial base of operations?”

“Safety is our concern, and guarantee. We will produce an environment as suitable for our people as possible, Warrant Officer Dario Fuertes.” A915AF had recovered from its momentary shoulder slouch. It was its sunny self again.

A916AA buzzed a harsh tone for a moment. Aten and A915AF stopped moving harshly, before returning their attention to Fuertes. They wouldn’t stop talking.

Recovering MRSProjLead08_Schematic_OperationsCenter.M3D...
5%...
> Aten > We should construct using these suggested files as we have practiced.
10%...
> A915AF > The Warrent Officer may have demands for the base beyond what MRS has suggested.
> A916AA > The defensive positions in the MRSProjLead08_Schematic_OperationsCenter have a quality rating of 7.8 on the MRS Defensive Effectiveness Scale.
20%...
> Aten > The file is already recovered on the drives of B7-17094CL. I have looked at it twice and already set it to queue. There is no reason to not go with this plan.
> A915AF > Nay MRSProjLead08_Schematic_OperationsCenter.M3D
> A916AA > Yay MRSProjLead08_Schematic_OperationsCenter.M3D
> Aten > Yay MRSProjLead08_Schematic_OperationsCenter.M3D
> A915AF > When did you change your display data to match the title given by Mavriq d’Agenais?
30%...
40%...
50%...
60%...
70%...
80%...
90%...
> A102022A > I did not. Organizational error.
100%...

Aten spoke after this strange display between the three androids. 15AF was visibly agitated again. “We have an operations center design accounted for from our higher ups at MRS. We will be using it. Do you choose to express disgruntlement or are you otherwise unsettled, Warrant Officer Dario Fuertes.”

The plastic-wrapped stick snapped between Cass’s fingers with a satisfying pop. Bending yet refusing to tear, it folded back into its original, straight shape the moment she relented. It gradually turned wholesomely warm in her grasp while she, almost impatiently, stuffed the tip in between her pale lips and dragged in a deep breath through the chem-cigarette’s filter. After holding it in for a second or two, she exhaled a puff of orange-red, synthetic smoke into the high-roofed ceiling above them, from which bizarrely-shaped designer lamps dangled or floated to cast their hot twilight upon the interior of the bar.

With a tap on the designated spot on the table, she brought up a holographic menu from which to make an order. Knowing that Vin had offered to pick up the tab before they entered – and which was the sole reason she had agreed to enter this dive in the first place – she felt little hesitation in browsing the pricier list of cocktails. It occurred to her that she was woefully unknowledgeable on their subject, never having been able to, or caring to, afford this stuff on her own. But she did remember Alyx mentioning one or two on occasion. Now, if only she could…

There. Her hard-knuckled index confirmed her pick of the Blue Lagoon. Hell if she knew what was in it. But Alyx liked it and that was good enough for her to try it. Pleased with her purchase, she put her arms up on the back-leans of the sofa she was seated on, wide-legged, and sank back into a slump. With another pull of the cigarette, she peered at Vin from across the table through the miasma of deep orange smoke.

“… Centauri Kick, Solar Wind, Parsec Leap…” he mumbled to himself, scrolling through the seemingly endless cocktail menu. “It just keeps going.”

“Gonna be honest, I’ve no idea what most of these even are,” he chuckled and gave up, swiping back to the top and pushing for a Derelict Drifter. “Might as well try a local specialty.”

“I guess this ain’t your type of locale either, huh,” Cass mused, slightly tilting her head and putting the cigarette in her mouth to free up her hand.

“Well, it pays to try something new once in a while.” Vin leaned back and more or less mirrored Cass’ position, sans cigarette. Without something to hold on to, he took to gesturing instead, waving a hand absent-mindedly through the air. “Experience something, y’know. I usually stick to more traditional drinks, though.”

“You want an experience? You signed up for one hell of one,” Cass’s voice came through the tangerine haze.

“You tell me,” he smiled from across the smoke. “Fifty-six times? Don’t think I can do that many.”

“I did more, but that’s just the ones I can officially prove. Can’t really say how many times I’ve been to that scrap hole.” Cass took another deep pull from her cigarette before wistfully adding: “I wish I could go elsewhere for once.”

“C’mon, you’re pulling my leg. I’ve heard the surface drives people crazy after a while.”

Vin came forward and leaned his elbows on the table, folding his hands before his face as he looked intently at her. A subtle smirk crept across his lips.

“You, on the other hand, seem…” he paused for effect, scratching his chin as he made a show of appearing to think it over, before continuing: “… mostly sane.”

“Tch,” Cass scoffed, putting her cigarette back into her hand and crossing her legs with an audible clank. “You don’t know shit about me.”

Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she was crazy before she got here. Or maybe Derelict and Herakles weren’t so different from each other. What did she know? Maybe the rumors were just bullshit. Or maybe she was just a freak. But if it was true, then she could only hope to be rid of her bonds before the insanity caught up with her. She would fight tooth and nail to ensure her efforts thus far had not been for naught.

“But I’m not here by choice. What about you? Why seek out this shit hole?” Another waft of sweetly-scented orange vapor drifted Vin’s way.

“Curiosity, I guess,” Vin shrugged and leaned back into the couch. “There’s a giant fucking alien machine ball out there and we’ve no idea what it is. Maybe it’s the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Maybe it’s Pandora’s box. But I want to know.”

“I can tell you what it is,” Cass claimed, leaning forward as well and putting her well-toned arms down on the table. “It’s a tomb. We go pokin’ around in it long enough, it’ll be ours too. Trust me, I’ve seen enough of the shit down there to know. Nothing good comes out of there.”

Cass visibly tensed up and quickly reached for her cigarette, taking a final, deep breath out of it before nonchalantly dropping it on the table.

“I just want my cash and get out of here,” she finished, reaching into one of the many utility pockets of her military pants. Moments later, her hand emerged with a fresh cigarette about to be snapped again.

“Can’t fault you for that,” he smiled half-heartedly. “Guess you’re saner than me.”

A brief pause broke out, and for a moment Vin’s eyes seemed to drift away from Cass to somewhere behind her. That familiar jovial smile crept back onto his face as his attention returned to her.

“But here we are. You, stuck here, and me, drawn here. Let’s live in the moment, eh? I think those are our drinks coming over there,” he pointed over Cass’ shoulder.

She glanced over her shoulder to see a compact flight drone gently descending towards their table. Using a small laser projector, it designated a square zone on the table’s surface as its desired landing spot. Recognizing that it was free of obstacles, the drone landed and detached its bottom portion – a tray and two glasses – before rising into the air again and returning to its nest.

The two of them eyed their beverages before Cass eventually reached for one. “I’m guessing this is mine,” she figured, reaching for a tall, narrow glass filled with a liquid mixture that appeared deep black near the top, but gradually transitioned into a slightly bioluminescent blue towards the bottom half. A hollowed-out cane of palestalk – a plant native to terraformed Mars – poked over the edge of the glass.

“Am I supposed to mix this? This is so weird,” she sighed, looking at her drink with a mixture of vehemence and uncertainty. She began stirring her drink with the palestalk, eyes narrowed in distrust.

Vin, meanwhile, reached for the only remaining drink – a curiously artful mug that appeared as if made from glued-together pieces of debris and glass, containing a clear liquid that bubbled and fizzed invitingly. With it came a small, still-sealed phial with no label and containing a deep red fluid.

“Don’t know about yours, but I think I’m supposed to,” he replied as he popped open the vial and poured the mystery fluid into his bubbling drink, where it sank slowly and settled in a layer of red at the bottom. Vin leaned into his mug and watched transfixed as the process unfolded.

“That’s fancy,” he said after a few moments. “The red stuff breaks down and rides the bubbles to the top for you to drink.”

“Kind of like how Derelict breaks you down before swallowing you,” he added with an oddly cheerful chuckle. “How’s yours?”

Cass seemed skeptical, sloshing around the faintly luminescent substance in her mouth. Eventually swallowing it, she commented: “It’s a lot stronger than I thought. Can’t believe Alyx drinks that kind of stuff. Bit sour though.” With a shrug, she took another sip in between a huff of the cigarette.

“Mhm,” Vin mouthed as he took a sip of his own drink, rolling it in his mouth for a few moments before swallowing. “Fizzy! Tastes bittersweet, with a touch of spiciness. The red stuff, maybe?”

He took another sip and sank back into the sofa, clearly enjoying the Drifter. “So, who’s Alyx?” he asked between sips. “Friend of yours?”

“Mh?” Cass looked up, seemingly caught by surprise. “Oh. Yeah, friend. We hang out. You came by yourself, I guess?” She shifted her legs a bit, metal scraping against plastic as she thought about her blue-haired ‘friend’.

“Hitched a ride with an old friend,” he replied, taking a sizable chug out of his mug. “Works on a freighter. He left, though, so I’m on my own now.”

“Better find some friends soon. The MOS isn’t kind to greenhorns or loners.” Hard eyes looked into Vin’s. Eyes that have seen kneecaps getting shattered and teeth being punched loose. Jaded but not wholly uncaring.

“Working on it as we speak,” he smiled and winked. “But seriously, I’ve only got myself to blame, I guess. Everyone else seems to be fine settling down. Me, I can’t bear staying in one place for too long.”

“You think you’re the only one?” Cass shot back at him, followed by a puff of deep orange smoke. “Plenty of folk with no home to call their own. I’m one of them.”

As if she was going back to Herakles after finishing up here in Maasym. Nothing there except graves to put flowers on. If there were any graves to speak of.

“Yeah, it’s just… Some times it feels like my friends are leaving me in the dust, y’know?” Vin slumped down on the table, running a finger across the rim of his glass. It was nearly empty already. “Meanwhile I’m running around in circles and going nowhere.”

“So you went to Derelict? Hell of an idea.” Cass exercised her sarcasms as she downed the last of her luminescent cocktail with little appreciation for its artistry. “Well, whatever you do, keep away from those cult loonies. They’re out to get people like you, rope them in with their bull shit.”

“Hmm,” he sighed and poured the remainder of his drink down his maw. He rested his chin in his mechanical palm, and his lips curled into a slight smile as he looked testingly at Cass. “Maybe I should join?”

“Don’t let me stop you,” she returned, leaning back and putting her heavily tattooed arm on the back rest. “But you should know that I gunned down one of those crazy fuckers earlier this week, and it wasn’t the first time. Can’t imagine it’s the last either.”

She finished her second cigarette with almost an air of accomplishment, blowing a deep amber billow of smoke into the smog-veiled ceiling. As if she was throwing him a gauntlet for a challenge, she flicked the emptied product towards him. The narrow cylinder rolled across the table and came to a halt not far from his Drifter.

“Eh? I read some things, but I didn’t take them for a violent bunch,” he replied and reached for the burnt-out cigarette with his left, pinching it between his metal thumb and index as he inspected her waste. With a casual flourish he spun it between his fingers, sending it dancing up and down his digits with inhuman precision before stopping between his index and middle. He held it there and looked at it for a moment, before flicking it unceremoniously into his empty glass.

“That how you got, y’know,” he tapped his left shoulder with his other hand, “that?”

“They’re docile enough on the MOS but you better avoid them down on the surface. Kid was younger than me, never held a gun in his life. But he was out of his mind, spouting some shit about how we were defiling a sleeping god or some such.” Cass rubbed over the sore spot under her bandages, to remind herself that it still hurt. “Either way, he shot first and wasted his chance. I didn’t waste mine.”

As she flicked through the menu, looking for a standard beer to order, she thought back on her last expedition into Derelict. Mercury personnel had been busy tearing out what seemed like an entire mainframe from the wall, unceremoniously stuffing its bits into a transportation rig. Then, out of some lightless corner he jumped out; a lowlife dreg, wrapped in tatters and carrying little more than a rebreather to keep him alive. Infected sores stuck out from his greasy skin. He’d gone derelict. “No, stop!” he had yelled, “You’re hurting it!” Guns were pointed at each other, both parties on edge. Perhaps Cass had been too quick with moving forward. Perhaps she sounded too aggressive. Perhaps there was nothing at all that could have prevented the exchange of fire. Untrained, or maybe too nervous to fire accurately, the cultist had fired through her shoulder and as she fell, Cass returned the gesture and hit him squarely in the mouth. From the gauss-pattern gun she toted, that meant that the victim’s head was cleanly ripped off.

With a mild bleep, her order was acknowledged and the holo-menu retracted. “Well, fuck,” Vin blurted, awkwardly cupping his empty glass as he grasped for words. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t need your pity,” she absentmindedly waved her hand. “Pulling the trigger’s my job. But if you really want to do me a favor then keep your head straight and stay away from them. Wouldn’t wanna see you at the end of the barrel, now, would I?”

Against expectations, she cracked a faint smile before turning her gaze to the approaching delivery drone. “Tch,” she heard Vin go, “Don’t worry about me. I’m too wishy-washy to get swept up by crazy ideologies.”

Or so Vin would have liked to believe. Little could he know what dark wonders and obsessions Derelict had in store for him. At least it was true that he had a watchful warden in Cass, somebody who would not let him stray from the path and who, failing that, would not hesitate to put him down. Perhaps there was comfort even in that sobering thought. For now, the two of them celebrated their newfound purpose, blissfully ignorant of the trials ahead of them.

And down below, bathed in the crimson glow of Maasym’s star, Derelict murmured quietly under the ominous shadow of three gigantic battleships hovering above it like a tribunal of judges.

On the shuttle en-route to Derelict, Feurtes sat across from the androids and observed their interactions. They faced another, one perhaps slouched; such was difficult to ascertain. Unequipped to interpret what passed for their body language, he decided instead to stick to fact-based communication. So he ignored the fluff and niceties salted into their verbiage and focused on the concrete aspects of their statements. First was their mention of BH5, the mechanism MRS used to transport their equipment to Derelict and locus for their semi-autonomous machinery to charge and synchronize. He wasn’t briefed on precisely what services it provided to non-MRS property, but presumed such involved defensive cover via its small fleet of Harpies. Perhaps its shortcomings in firepower were balanced by an excess of agility and responsiveness.

He glanced out the aft window and saw the small sphere, half-encircled by a large MRS logo, the harsh glare of Maasym reflected off its polished surface. In contrast, its launched fleet of mining drones were barely visible. Beyond the opposite window loomed the larger and more ominous backdrop of Derelict, an object that seemed to inexplicably absorb much of the local star’s light. Even after just over a year, humanity barely punched a dent into its vast uneven surface. This was to be his third insertion into the alien artifact. No insanity yet. So far, so good.

“Transmit proposed operations center blueprint to my dataslate,” Feurtes remarked in his best effort to rid his voice of personality. Who knew what psychoanalytical subroutines MRS programmed into these bots? He certainly didn’t and, as was almost always the case with corporate property, trust wasn’t to be taken for granted. MRS and, as a consequence, its machinery, almost certainly came with a separate secret agenda.

As the MRS androids initiated the operations center topic, he was not surprised that they complied with his request. He clicked approve on the authorization popup, watched the half-second load bar, and then swiped through the blueprints that appeared on his dataslate. After a few seconds, he concluded MRS’s notion of a base was overkill.

“We should strive toward nimbleness. The emplacement of a brig and medical center run contrary to that objective. Human threats internal and external will be incapacitated and confined at the command OSF vessel, nominally Thunderclap. All team members are trained in emergency triage sufficient to stabilize anyone who suffers harm, good enough to get the injured party on a shuttle and transported to the nearest available emergency care center. Housing is unnecessary, humans aren’t permitted to spend more than twenty-four hours on Derelict at a time before returning to the surface for debriefing and psychological screening. We will be making frequent use of the shuttle. Objections?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw the entire viewport filled by Derelict. Details manifested from the shadows, but the purpose of the shapes remained unknown. His dataslate flashed with an encrypted message from one of the apocalypse-class vessels.

> Intermittent subspace anomaly detected 27, 211, 54 degrees celestial meridian, unaligned with artifact. Inconsistent with known cosmic signatures. LOS void. OSF artifact scans non-reactive.

Just then, their shuttle disappeared down the cavernous exploitation shaft. Once a free shelf was isolated, the shuttle auto-docked. Feurtes almost crossed himself, an unconscious gesture that resulted in his fair share of ridicule his first time on Derelict. Instead, he settled for the shorter, less sacrosanct, version of the locally approved good luck litany, and, muffled by the oxygen mask he slipped over his face as the shuttle’s pressure seal opened, reverently intoned:

“Sleep, grand automaton.”

Before he emerged from the spacecraft, he felt the noise. Then, a second later, it vibrated through his mask and was audible. Even on his third insertion, the muffled cacophony revivified goosebumps on Feurtes’ swarthy flesh. His each and every hair, embattled against the suddenly course fabric of his fatigues, vied for his focus. While vexed, he knew better. He rationalized away his unease. Basically, it was like an old warehouse, or factory, or half-composed starship skeleton in the Kuipiter shipyards, and noisiness was its nature. The comparisons failed to inspire him, but did make the place feel slightly less alien. Neither loud nor near, Derelict’s sounds were ubiquitous, relentless, and insidious thrums, bangs, and hisses that syncopated into a constant drone; modulated dull thuds, metallic groans, and pitched whines that never quite transitioned to white noise. The low frequency din reverberated in his marrow. Every once in a while, an inconsonant crash threatened to void the contents of his bowels. Skeptics insisted that metallic expansion and contraction as the structure reacted to atmospheric pressure and temperature variances were adequately explanatory. He, on the other hand, felt reasonably sure it was the cause of insanity that was synonymous with Derelict.

The three androids braced themselves against the shuttle walls in a movement that was oddly organic. As the noise passed them they all processed it carefully.

> Aten > Failed to Categorize Audio. Tag as OCCULT?
> A915AF > Yay. The Warrant Officer yields OCCULT potential. “Sleep, Grand Automaton,” was to be tagged OCCULT phrasing. Possesses DANGHIGH tagtrait. Maintain into the Warant Officer’s tags?
> A916AA > Yay. Yay. Landing of mining bodies in 15.5 seconds.
> Aten > Yay. Yay. Position all A9 units to deflect shrapnel from Fuertes.

The biological movements of the machines continued. Something had changed when they landed, perhaps? They loped like animals now. Highly efficient with what they had, but perhaps limitations in what they had. The two A9s looked like dogs as they walked. Aten began to count out loud. His own droning tones blending into the black sounds of the dread Derelict. That old sleeping God from another time. There was something holy about Aten, as he stood still braced against the wall and raised his hand to provide a visual countdown to his aids, to ensure synchronicity. At the fifteenth second the A9’s slammed against each other.

Their chassis scratched and howled and shook. As did the ground on the immediately nearest shelf. Smoke and shrapnel dispersed briefly, tinkling against the hull of the shuttle and the crossed backs of the A9s.

> A915AF > Technique success tagged. I will take credit for the technique.
> A916AA > No.
> Aten > No.
> B7-17094CL > Landing Successes:: 11, Landing Failures:: 4.
> Aten > Embedded/Shaft(OOR)/Shaft(IR)
> B7-17094CL > 2/1/1, Embedded beginning self-recovery. ETA on site, 3 hours. IR En Route, 8 hours. OOR, projected route painted.
> Aten > Paint noted.
> A915AF > Recovery risk?
> B7-17094CL > Simulations suggest not safe for biological crew.
> Aten > Reduce risk to MRS property.
> B7-017094CL > Risk reduction suggests sending biological crew for recovery.
> A916AA > Acceptable potential loss.
> A915AF > Unacceptable potential loss.
> Aten > Vote power transferred to A916AA.
> A916AA > Acceptable potential loss.
> Aten > Noted.

Stiffer now than the A9s, Aten exited the little shuttle. Eleven landing pods deconstructed in the smoke, falling apart as did a model of MRS escape pod meant to reduce fire risk. The machines inside looked something like large, gorilla-sized ants. They were boxier, and more industrial in appearance however. Bright oranges and light greys. Orange, “heads,” shaped like simple rectangles with a visual strip across the sides and front. Orange, “abdomen,” larger but similarly boxy, and a grey, “thorax.”

Any similarity was displaced when they began to move about on careful struts and their “mouths” came into view. Three mechanical graspers with a powerful-looking drill between them. The graspers themselves were notably reinforced. They immediately began to pull up metal and dirt and debris as they fell into a formation. When they had accrued a load of materials they turned and scooped it into a vessel in their hind most body segment. Once that hindmost segment was full it would seal, and immediately begin blasting the material in fusion-powered heat. Briefly afterwards the B7 subunits would dump the material into a slag pile adjacent to the dig site.

“I have taken the liberty of redesigning our operations center with the criteria described, though MRS regulations mandates a brig and living quarters be set aside for use under a worst-case scenario. If any or all of the team sent develop Derelict-related psychological trauma symptoms, myself and those under my command are to hold you until otherwise commanded.”

A moment passed, and then a very loud and more dense thud sounded out, with a bit more smoke. The thud was followed by a rolling sound as a round capsule with a once-smooth now-charred surface skittered gently across the shelf. It landed in a far back corner.

A moment passed, and then the spherical capsule collapsed eight ways, like an orange sliced. Instead of eight edible chunks, a scorpion fell out. Massive, man-sized. It moved somehow in the same way that Aten had walking off the ship. It surveyed its environment before lifting the orange slices, stacking them on its back, then hauling them to the slag heap which it stood on top of fearlessly before dropping the slices.

It traveled now towards the Warrant Officer. It still radiated heat from its landing and from its walk across the slag. It did not emote the way most other androids did. It seemed empty in comparison to even Aten.

“I will be watching you and ensuring your safety with this. Its chassis contains an alloy. Ferrous-Derrite, as the MRS Project Leader Zero-Zero has taken to calling it in reports. I suspect it is sturdy. It has survived four cave-ins that were deployed to prevent the spread of simulated hostiles on one of my training sites, and I know of a plate of Ferrous-Derrite that recovered from a fifty-calibre anti-material rounds in one of our training facilities.”

The metal bulkheads were melting into a slag. The sounds of the drills on the B7-drones was louder than the metallic groan of the planet. On a local level, anyhow. Even at this short distance away their sound was fading and blending with the howling. The screaming planet was churning now as industry settled on its shores and rang its death knell.

A915AF chirped quickly, “When will you leave for the station to recover the team? Will you be leaving us unaccompanied?”

A916AA added with a harsh accusation, "We require a biological search and rescue team tagged with HUMAN, MOS, to recover lost expedition tools. Atmosphere insertion was a failure that occurred at a highly significant rate. Of one hundred and two trials only two others have resulted in such large displacements upon atmosphere entry. We must recover MRS property before the Artifact claims them."

"I have allowed A916AA to take point for this matter. I am a foreman." Aten droned. A915AF observed Aten, attempting to determine what it was emoting. A915AF had at this point determined that Aten was a mission risk worthy of a HIGH RED rating in the network, but the machine otherwise was subtle.

@Circ

> Vin, Sophia - Aboard the MOS

The next morning – a word carrying little meaning in a place with no natural day-night cycle – Vin checked out of his cheap lodgings and stepped out into the Haven district’s bustling corridor-streets, wheeling a metal box with all that he owned behind him. The zone, which by virtue of housing the docking bays handled all incoming and outgoing traffic, was cut off from the rest of MOS by customs, but despite the barrier it managed to sustain a teeming life of its own. Busy workers wheeled goods to and from their ships, exotic smells wafted from food booths where hawkers peddled fresh-cooked meals, and drunks stumbled past in search of a place to lie down – or perhaps another drink. Neon lights and adverts covered every wall, enticing passers-by with promises of alcohol, entertainment, a “massage”, or perhaps a dubious curio allegedly from Derelict’s surface. All this was made possible by the steady influx of travelers and freighters, their crews weary and looking for diversion after weeks aboard their cramped ships.

As Vin made his way past the throngs of transients amidst the MOS Customs area, his augmented eye caught the fleeting impression of a familiar color: a gleaming, ghostly white. Hard to mistake for anyone else, he could not help but recognize the woman who had made such an unlikeable impression on him the day before, and whom was also assigned to be his physician for the coming weeks, perhaps even months. Flanked by a pair of tracked transportation units, each burdened with a multitude of sturdy metal boxes, she was being accosted by a pair of customs officers who appeared rather interested in her cargo. Facing them with crossed arms, Vin did not need to see her face to know that she was less than satisfied with their treatment of her.

He came to a stop behind her, locked the wheels on his box, and used it as a makeshift chair. White-hairs seemed busy enough, and he didn’t particularly want to get dragged into her argument. He could wait, at least for a little while. Her papers should be fine, she’d get through eventually. His hand was forced, though, when she glanced over her shoulder at him.

“Morning,” he greeted her without much enthusiasm, trailing off into a lazy yawn. His cover had been blown.

“Don’t yawn in people’s faces,” Sophia scoffed at him. Try as she might, it was impossible to withhold her comment. After all, she had been taught this when she was a child no more than six years old. Mankind’s etiquette really was on the decline, that much was certain. “Would you care to explain to this lovely gentleman that I’m registered with Origin? It doesn’t show up on the ID scan and I am this close to giving him my lawyer’s contact and trespassing anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he apologized from his perch, not sounding very apologetic at all. “D’Agenais gave you a slate yesterday, it should be on that.”

“I’m supposed to present a nondescript slate as opposed to my ID?” she sounded incredulous. Fuming, pursing her lips, she fumbled in her light beige coat’s pockets until she fished out the object in question. “Check this then and stop wasting my time,” she spat at the officer in front of her, pushing the data slate towards him. Much like Vin had suspected, it only took the man a moment before he was able to confirm her status and its associated authorizations. Much unlike Vin had expected, this only worsened her mood.

This time, she restrained herself and refused to comment as she snatched the data slate from the uncertain officer’s hands. “Have a good day, m’am,” he bid her, even though she was already busy directing her two robots forward. The relief was obvious on his and his partner’s faces as they let her pass and directed their attention to Vin. Work protocol alone held him back from saying ‘Thank you’.

“Moody, isn’t she,” Vin mumbled as he presented ID and slate, a familiar procedure for one as well travelled as he. “Here. Need anything else?”

They didn’t; upon making sure his papers were in order, Vin was let through without much hassle. He grabbed his stuff and followed after Sophia, maintaining just enough distance to avoid having to make conversation. She seemed to be in a foul mood, and he had a feeling saying anything to her would just make it fouler.

Separated by the pretense of being strangers, they nonetheless took the same turns at each intersection, their silent distance to each other becoming more stilted and awkward with every rounded corner as the crowds dispersed. Being in the lead, Sophia appeared to know the station well at a glance, never looking at a map to know which way to go. Observing her from behind – for a lack of other things to do – he eventually realized that she wasn’t leading the way at all, and was instead following the directions her droids were navigating towards. Besides the odd, sideways glance at her large cargo, their journey was otherwise uneventful. That was, until they reached an elevator. After having navigated her two robots inside and placing herself next to them, she stared at Vin through narrowed eyes.

“I’m not infected, you know.”

“You seemed a bit upset,” he shrugged and flashed her a rueful smile. “Thought I’d let you simmer down for a bit.”

“So you prefer avoiding conflict,” she dryly noted, perhaps to herself, perhaps towards him. Then, pulling out her note block from inside her coat, she continued: “Vincent Marlowe, correct? Robotics expert.” She was skimming over her notes on the man and already began putting down her pen to add additional comments. “I am Sophia Arietta Hagiotheodorites; you may call me Sophia.” Even as she looked him squarely in the eyes, her note-taking continued; was she even writing anything coherent?

“Software,” he corrected her, and continued: “So, you’re the medical officer, huh? Let’s hope we won’t end up needing your services.”

“Name’s Vin,” he added, smiling, and held out his hand. “Though you already knew that.”

“Hmpf,” she sneered with an arrogant smile, “You’re mistaken if you think of me as a mere nurse. Did you know I made my doctorate in gene sequencing? I’ve been called a prodigy in the field, in fact, and yours is the once-in-a-lifetime chance to make use of my talents entirely free of charge. Many should hope to be so lucky as to require my services.” Vin’s hand remained awkwardly unshaken.

“Very well, your highness,” he replied dryly and transitioned from attempted handshake into a bow, imbuing the gesture with all the sarcastic theatricality he could muster. “I shall endeavor to get shot at once for the privilege.”

Sophia’s pen abruptly stopped its incessant note-taking and her smile vanished as quickly as it came. “Don’t be an ass, Vincent,” she scolded him sternly. ”I came to Derelict so that I might advance humanity, not to apply band-aids. Surely you can respect that? Do you have a better reason for being here?”

Having seemingly lost the mood for scribbling, she stuffed her paper bloc back into its designated slot inside her coat.

“Your cause is admirable, I’ll give you that,” he shrugged. “I don’t have any high and mighty motives like yours, though. I just follow my whims and take life one step at a time.”

Vin had a hard time believing anyone claiming to be driven by such lofty goals; in his experience, their real reasons were often much more mundane and personal. No one was so pure that they’d give themselves fully to an ideal. Most of all, though, he just thought she sounded way too full of herself to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“One can only hope that your craft is better than your motivation,” Sophia mused dismissively. Then, straightening some loose strains of ashen hair, she continued: “But let’s not get off on a bad foot now. We’re here on a mission, not for pleasure.”

“Fair,” he replied with a disarming half-smile. “Let’s call a truce.”

A gentle beep announced their arrival at the chosen floor, whereupon the elevator doors unceremoniously opened up. Sophia’s transporters immediately seized the lead and rolled out; the irritated doctor followed. Vin struggled for a moment with an uncooperative wheel, but he soon caught up.

“So, anything in particular you’re hoping to learn here?” he asked as he pulled up next to Sophia. “Big hunk of metal seems like it might fall outside the traditional study of genetics.”

The fair-haired doctor only cast a short glance his way. “The machine, yes, but nobody is discarding the possibility that we can find traces of its creators. If xenobiologists are about to get their hands on samples of the first sentient, alien species encountered in human history, I want to be among them. Besides, we find ourselves on the bleeding edge of technology here; what better environment than this to advance my studies in genetic enhancement?”

“I brought my lab with me for exactly this reason,” she added, nodding towards one of her transportation units.

“Finding the creators would be something, all right.” Vin fell quiet, losing himself in thought as they maneuvered through a crowded intersection.

“It’s weird though, isn’t it?” he continued as they emerged on the other side. “People have been at it for two years and they still haven’t found a trace. What happened to them?”

“We lack concrete data to form any sort of speculation,” Sophia shrugged impassionately. “Perhaps they uploaded themselves into a digital consciousness. Or maybe their machine creation wiped them out. It’s even conceivable that there were no organics at all involved in the artifact’s creation. Whether we are about to learn a cautionary tale or not, to know, we must go deeper.”

“We’ll have to rely on one another to accomplish that, I suppose,” she later added after a brief pause. Was that fatigue in her voice, or resignation?

“No other choice, huh,” Vin pretend-sighed through a light-hearted smile. “We sure have it rough.”

The corridors were narrow here, Vin noted, having to fall behind Sophia to let a suit-clad passers-by through. Everything was painted sterile white, uncannily clean and utterly bare save for corporate logos adorning the occasional high-sec door. It was a heavy contrast to the lively passageways they’d walked on their way here, with their neon lights and tacky advertisements and bustling crowds of people from all walks of life. Here, it seemed, walked only corporate suits and drab-clad bureaucrats, their approach betrayed by echoes of hurried steps in hard-soled shoes. It was an oppressive, soulless atmosphere – as if once they donned their uniforms and headed for work, they left themselves at the door. Places like these always made Vin feel ill-at-ease.

He trailed quietly behind Sophia for a while, taking note of a few familiar names along the way: MRS, their metallic colleagues’ overlords; as well as Mercury – which from the pieces Vin could gather, Cass seemed to have a pretty strained relationship with. They passed by a dozen more heavy, uninviting doors, stamped with the names of corporations big and bigger, until they finally came upon the twin offices of Origin and their Stellar Fleet side by side.