Still somewhat disoriented by the environment, Feurtes braced himself against the hydraulic cylinder that enjoined the ramp to the shuttle, the toes of his anti-gravity boots barely at the ramp's terminus, a mere centimeter away from Derelict's actual surface. Suddenly, up above, he heard alert sirens blare and the din of metal shattering against metal. His visor turned upward and he, appalled, witnessed a number of MRS mining drones as they collided against the uneven walls of Derelict's primary exploitation shaft. There were shouts of Take cover! moments before a hail of debris formed and ricocheted downward throughout the low-g chasm. A few unlucky souls were too close for that to make any difference, their pressure suits and bodies ventilated by a million shards of shrapnel, grim fates alluded to in the form of crimson jets that flowed soundlessly into the above void. Self-preservation instinct kicked in and Feurtes dove into the protective interior of the shuttle. However, the MRS androids reacted even faster, to the extent he imagined they anticipated the event, an oddity he mentally filed away. Before he landed on the shuttle floor, they maneuvered into a defensive posture in front of the bay door and blocked any errant debris that attempted to penetrate his safe haven.

Finally, the immediate danger passed. He stepped out of his sanctuary, his mind again acclimated somewhat to the noise, and he articulated a response.

"No," Feurtes answered Aten's inquiry, "I will remain on Derelict until the Lieutenant remote-recalls the shuttle and comes down, at which point he will replace me as the Origin expedition supervisor. Until then, my objective is to assist you and your A9s in setting up a base of operations. Origin has a predefined location in mind that should likewise be of interest to MRS."

As he said this, he carefully walked to the ledge on which the shuttle was docked. Beyond the scratched transluminum shield of his pressure helmet, he glanced down and assessed that they were, more or less, at the bottom of the main artery. There was another tier beneath them, but it was overcrowded with scavenger ships. The only reason his team secured one so near the bottom was the threat Origin's navy posed to any who would interfere with their oversight and security roles. An upward look through a haze of fresh red mist and blackened metal particulates and, like a pinprick of inky solitude, he saw space. It was a mote of cosmic horror framed by the jagged interior of a massive vertical tunnel vaguely lit by thousands of variegated flood lights affixed to dozens of vessels. It reminded him of photographs from history class of decrepit sub-rail tunnels in the aftermath of the Earth's world-quake of 2850.

Involuntarily, the scene translated to a nervous impulse in his brain that cascaded shivers along his spine and deformed his skin to goose-flesh. For a moment, he felt lost in the cavernous broken spiral, but somehow pulled himself away. It was unimaginable to him how Cass managed to do this fifty-six times.

He turned around and saw the MRS droids already loaded up with equipment for their trek. Efficiency, it seemed, wasn't something they took lightly.

"Right now we're about 1 klick deep. We will need to be deeper, just above a depth called the impenetrable zone. Have you been briefed on it? An entire layer of Derelict stronger than even your MRS' Ferrous-Derrite." His equipment was already on him, so loaded up his dataslate and started walking along the designated route. "Also, how soon can you get a post-mortem on why your drones navigation systems failed?"



Alone in the team's quasi-military facility on MOS, Mavriq awoke to the silence to which he, after months of solitary travel, was inevitably accustomed. With Vivaldi's Farnace activated on the resonance amplifier, he washed his lethargy down the shower drain. Revitalized, he went about the work of setting up and organizing his laboratory, a task he completed midway before two of his prodigal team members arrived. Engrossed as he was, the metal door's abrupt hiss and the subsequent thud of feet startled him, but he concealed, successfully in his mind, his autonomic fear response as he fiddled with some apparatus. Satisfied, he set it down and acknowledged in a voice accented with bored disappointment, "Welcome to your new home," and only then lifted his face to gaze upon the duo.

Unexpectedly, there were more than two beings, although only two members of his team, and as such he raised a brow at Sophia's parade of metal servitors. Prudently, he declined to comment, and instead inquired of Vin, "Any word on Cass' whereabouts, Vin? It was a long day, yesterday, but I seem to recall leaving you and her at some drinking establishment or other?"

Of course, just as he finished speaking, Cass swaggered in, which was quite a feat for a woman with mechanical legs. Then again, Mavriq surmised, maybe that is a consequence of her mechanical legs.

"Thought I wasn't gonna make it, boss?" Cass grumbled from the entrance, effectively ended that avenue of discussion, and introduced herself to the room with a metallic stomp. It takes more than a few drinks to keep me down, that is for damn sure, she thought. After a brief survey given to her new accommodations, Cass huffed and plonked down on the nearest available chair.

"Right. Err, I mean no. Not at all. Regardless, now that all of us are together assembled, we can get on with our mission brief," Mavriq began, squinted through his glasses at his dataslate, and continued, "which is to say, the additional mission details that were omitted from the more public advertisement that effectively lured those of us here for whom presence wasn't otherwise compulsory."

Mavriq paused, glanced around the room, and saw that Vin was investigating the pantry, Sophia was delineating her space and setting up her own equipment, and Cass, while attentive, seemed bored. "Feel free to settle in as I iterate over the major points," he said as an allowance to the inevitable, then went on: "To be succinct, our primary objective is to determine what transpired with the expeditions and individuals who ventured as deep as any into Derelict and, as far as we are aware, disappeared. Confirmation of these disappearances is, of course, a matter of secrecy. At the moment, Origin has seen fit to maintain a rumor that such are not related to the artifact, but instead are the result of defections and mundane accidents. At any rate, the first time this is known to have befallen an expedition, they managed to get a signal out indicative of the discovery of an avenue through the impenetrable zone. Subsequent expeditions to the same region have met a similar fate. If you recall, the impenetrable zone is an artifact-encapsulating interior surface layer roughly 1.5 kilometers beneath the artifact's outermost circumference and composed of a substance our efforts have thus far been unable to penetrate. We haven't even been able to so much as scratch it with diamond saws, explosives, or lasers."

He again surveyed the facility. Nobody seemed rather surprised or particularly attentive, which wasn't to say they were outright ignoring him. For a moment, as his eyes narrowed on Vin who now cradled a cup of what Mavriq presumed was coffee, he wondered if they could hear him opposite the plastic sheet, then recalled Cass' sassy riposte to his unwanted and pseudo-sincere concern.

"So when do we go down?" Cass asked, her arms crossed beneath her bosom.

"You, Cass, along with Mister Marlowe and myself will descend to Derelict and relieve Officer Feurtes as soon as Doctor Hagiotheodorites has completed her preliminary examinations and established neurological, physiological, and genetic baselines for each member of the team," he answered.

"Oh, one other item of note. The ONSD has detected an alien signal. It didn't come from the direction of the artifact; rather, it emerged from deep space somewhere, but it is worth mentioning. After all, if this we don't know what this machine is capable of."

Sophia listened carefully, feeling oddly reminded of her days in the New Constantinople university, whilst she busied herself directing her robots in the assembly of her laboratory. Setting up the lab’s layout on a holographic display cast from her wrist band, each of her finger motions translated into a precise reaction from the machines before her, who have since revealed a multitude of robotic arms with which they unloaded their crates, opened them, and lifted out a great number of technical components and equipment. Where there was empty space before, soon there were desks, shelves, a variety of freezers and chemical processors and, not least of all, an operating table with terrifying robotic arms built into it.

“What kind of signal? Where from?” Vin asked, returning to the group with a steaming mug in his organic hand. It took him a while to tear his gaze off the spectacle of Sophia’s automated laboratory deployment.

“And is it relevant to the mission?” Cass interjected, “We’re headed inside - and the signal is coming from outside.” Perhaps her tone could be misconstrued as eagerness, she figured, when nothing could have been further from the truth. She knew exactly where Mavriq wanted them to go: a sector of the shaft lovingly named the Dead Zone by other scavengers. It was common wisdom that less people returned from there than entered and not even the corporations were sending teams into that region anymore. Profit margins too low, so the reasoning went. In all of her expeditions, she had to admit that she hadn’t seen the Dead Zone in person either. If nothing else, the job was going to be interesting.

Sophia narrowed her eyes in contemplation, her deft finger motions slowing down. Maybe, she wondered, the signal came from a kind of New Derelict. Its creators abandoned Derelict after some kind of catastrophe and built a new home somewhere else. Curiosity - or worry - compelled them to continue probing this location for signs of activity.

A chill in her spine ended this train of thought, and she quickly rejected her theory as nothing more than a flight of fancy. Certainly she would never talk to anyone about it. She would get laughed out of the office for sure.

“Well,” Mavriq considered as he scrolled through his notes, “much of this is marked ‘your eyes only,’ several technical details that would likely bore you all, but the gist is that the signal does not correspond to any known natural astronomic phenomenon, appears to be noise rather than an actual signal, is on a wavelength outside our normal detection matrix, and evidently emerged according to our astrometrics from a region of space that as far as we can tell is totally empty.”

He paused for a moment to moisten his mouth on a bit of water, then carried on, “Whether there is any relevance will likely be a matter determined by Origin’s decoders and astronomers, but known unknowns are better than unknown unknowns; yes?”

“I’d love to see it, but I’m guessing I’ll have my hands full soon enough,” Vin responded, taking a quick sip of coffee before continuing: “Anyway, what about prep? I’m guessing the bots are down there setting things up, but what are we bringing? I’m thinking we should get as much data as we can down there.”

“And for how long?” Sophia interjected, her voice slightly higher pitched than normal, “Supplies should be budgeted according to the predicted length of our stay.” Well, their stay in any event; by the sound of it, she was scheduled to remain in orbit to finish up her report on the crew. She hated to admit that it was a relief.

Meanwhile, Cass’s eyes wandered over the interior of their head quarters, searching in vain for a label denoting the armory. “Regardless of the length of our stay, we should bring some security equipment to the surface if Mr. Feurtes hasn’t already,” Cass suggested with her usual deadpan voice. Grimly, she added: ”I don’t fancy chasing dead men without some heavy gunnery.”

“Well, Cass, our shuttle is Origin-issued, so it should have an armory. I am sure Feurtes has it fully stocked.” Although out of order, he turned his attention back to Sophia, and clarified, “As for our stay, Doctor, you mean on Derelict? Mission parameters dictate that an individual should not remain within the artifact longer than 24 hours. That seems to be the maximum duration before mental deterioration sets in. In fact, it is getting close to the time we need to relieve Feurtes. He must be getting antsy. How soon can you capture my biometrics, Doctor?”

Sophia’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly in response. “For a full physical and mental analysis I’d like to reserve at least three hours a person - in case we’re pressed for time, “ she added with a hint of ennui, “But if we must depart as soon as conceivably possible, I can limit myself to capturing your vital information; that is, your current health and physical condition, allergies, a record of previous injuries and illnesses, any possible augmentations and their specifications, you get the idea. At a minimum I need to know what I can and cannot do to your body in response to an emergency. In the long run, I need to formulate a detailed psycho-analysis of everybody so that I can properly monitor the effects of the artifact on your mental health. In short, we’ll be spending a considerable amount of time together in the near and distant future.”

The doctor, still detachedly tapping commands into her holo display, remained unperturbed by Cass’s dismissive rolling of the eyes halfway through her tirade. Her hopes that her final remark would be taken as a well-intended jest were sadly dashed when Cass rolled her head back towards her: “You didn’t say how much time you need.”

“No less than thirty minutes,” Sophia hissed like a cornered serpent. Unable to suppress an agitated twitch of her eyebrow, she turned to face her growing laboratory. Cass shrugged in reaction to a subtle shaking of the doctor’s head, clearly unaware - or feigning ignorance - of any misgivings.

“Then you shall begin establishing a baseline on me. Let’s see how much we can get done in two hours. Then Cass and I will head down to the artifact and relieve our Warrant Officer,” Mavriq decided.

“Very well,” Sophia replied begrudgingly, motioning for Mavriq to take a seat on the surgical table.

“Just a moment, boss,” Vin interrupted, raising a mechanical hand to get Mavriq’s attention. Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “Think you could get me a list of our inventory? I’d like to make plans for data collection, and I want to know what we’ve got to work with.”

Mav indicated to Sophia that he was ready for her to begin immediately as he approached her with his dataslate in one hand and awaited her instructions. Meanwhile, not to leave Vin hanging, he tapped a few markers on his slate, highlighted an area, and then pushed it toward Vin. Automatically, the list became available on Vin’s dataslate, a beep from his hip indicating its arrival.

“Electron scanning microscopes, air-gapped computers, magnetometers, 3D synthesizers, spectro-analyzers, holographic scanning probes, and so forth. You’ll all find a complete list in your inbox,” Mavriq indicated. In the corner of his eye, he could see Sophia scouring a box for a variety of medical tools which she was putting on the side.

Vin’s eyes fell out of focus, his consciousness seeming to drift off into some inner realm, before returning a moment later as if nothing had happened.

“Looks good. Thanks,” he replied, raising his cup in thanks before sauntering off. “Enjoy having your brains picked,” he added as he walked away. “I’ll be getting familiar with the toys meanwhile.”

“I’m sorry that we don’t have privacy yet,” Sophia chimed in, regaining the lieutenant’s attention, “I’ll be looking to have some separator panels installed later. Now, first I’ll be taking a sample of your blood.”

She approached him with a compact blood extractor in hand, its shape slightly reminiscent of a gun. Pulling up his sleeve and revealing his forearm, she continued: “I’ll analyze it later and give you a breakdown of your metrics, if you’re interested.” The extractor’s slim, cylindrical barrel was placed on his exposed skin, followed by a prickly sensation as a needle forced its way into his flesh. The unpleasant feeling lasted for only a moment before the doctor already retracted the tool.

“I would like to get the physical examination out of the way, and for that I’ll need you to remove your outer clothing. I would also appreciate it if you could give the lieutenant some privacy, Cass.” Sophia continued her instructions, casting a brief glance at the bored-looking woman who was vaguely observing the proceedings. “Suits me. I’ll go have a smoke or two,” she answered before getting up and marching out of the quarters. Sophia was not looking forward to explaining to Cass the many failings of her lifestyle.

“Next I’ll take a quick physical measurement of your height and weight, we’ll be re-testing your hearing and vision aptitudes, as well as doing muscle group and joint maneuvers. It’ll be very similar to your initial screening when you joined the military,” the doctor explained as she waited for Mavriq to remove his clothing. On the side, she was still giving instructions to her robot servants.

“Very well,” Mavriq said, his face impassive as his blood was drawn. It was a procedure he was adapted to as a scientist of the Origin Navy’s Science Division. Temporarily placing his dataslate on a table next to him to better follow Sophia’s instructions, he picked it up again as soon as such were satisfied, tapped it, and explained, “I’m verifying the medical history of all parties involved in this expedition are cleared for your access. The Origin files were, of course, transferred immediately. Civilians are notoriously difficult to fetch records for, however, and it is likely that some might not even have a full file. For example, right now it looks like Origin is still negotiating with Mercury for Cass’ and Vin’s are even harder to pin down -- you don’t suppose his augments are black market, do you?”

“I was going to ask you about your records,” Sophia flashed a rare smile. “It’s very foresighted of you to take care of the others too. I have not been able to examine his augs, so I can’t make an educated guess - but I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Well, during my multi-month journey from Earth, I had plenty of time to prepare an agenda,” Mavriq acknowledged.

“Your professionalism is reassuring, lieutenant. I admit, I had my doubts concerning some of the team members.” Although feigning clinical indifference as best she could, Sophia ended up pleasantly surprised by how much she enjoyed Mavriq’s company during the next hour and a half of his examination. Idly chit-chatting away whilst the doctor took measurements, scans and notes, time seemingly went by much quicker than either of them had anticipated.

The faint sound of conversation carried all the way to the bunks, though the words were ravaged beyond recognition by the Orbital’s creaking seams and ventilating breaths. If he focused his processors, Vin reckoned he could isolate and amplify their voices – but while he was curious about the examination, doing so might be considered be rude. Besides, he had more important things to do.

So he laid down and closed his eyes.

The physical world faded away. When trying to process large quantities of information, it only got in the way. Too much distraction. The meat brain’s throughput was limited, even with integrated amplifiers and targeted stimuli; if it was to have any chance of keeping up with the bits and qubits at full throttle, it needed to focus.

A web stretched out around him, crawling along the pathways of OSF’s local network and mapping its informational topography as it expanded outwards. Hands were shaken, accesses were granted and denied as dictated by his limited certs, and data from a dozen sources flowed like rivers into the sea of his databanks.

Almost all of it related to Derelict itself; Origin’s security wasn’t so lax they’d let him in anywhere. Expedition journals, observations, measurements, research articles: it all filtered through his consciousness faster than he could think. Every data point, every process leading up to every conclusion stored and available with but a thought. He could recite it all word for word if he wanted to, but he barely actually understood any of it. Knowledge without comprehension. The brain wasn’t designed to think like a computer, yet here his was, mutilated and stuffed with electronics and trying to process information like one.

Still, the trade-off was worth it. The data was there. Understanding could come in time, as knowledge trickled down from the digital mind.

The available data was, of course, mostly stuff already publicly available. Nominally, at least; the paywalls were too tall for most people to climb. And the juiciest findings were no doubt kept closely guarded by the corps that funded them. Why spill the beans to your competitors, after all?

His focus shifted, and the mission brief filled his consciousness. It was, well, brief. The whats pertained only to their specific instructions: go deep and figure out what happened to the missing expedition. The [i]whos[/i were limited to the immediate team and their job descriptions, with D’Agenais at the top. It said nothing about who he reported to.

The why remained unanswered.

Vin could guess, of course – it wasn’t exactly subtle. Origin was no doubt hoping to get more out of this than a post-mortem. The expedition had sent a message saying they’d found a way through. If true, that was worth far more to Origin than a few sacks of meat. Doubly so if they could get their foot in the door before anyone else. What they’d find in there was anyone’s guess, but it was going to be a big deal. A handful of lives out of a few hundred billion was a cheap price to pay.

Of course, that applied to their own group as well. A bunch of nobodies, handpicked from the washed-up refuse of Maasym Orbital. Save that Marrow-Geist princess who’d enjoy the safety of the station while the rest were thrown into Derelict’s maw. They were so few and so replaceable; if they failed, Origin could just dredge up another band of disposables.

Perhaps they already had, and this expedition was only one of many.

Something about it just didn’t feel right. Origin had sent three Apocalypses, for Void’s sake. They obviously took Derelict seriously.

So why entrust it to them?

Perhaps the real expedition was sitting out the first few rounds in their cozy battleships, eagerly awaiting intel from the sacrificial pawns. Then once they had enough data, they’d swoop in and push the pawns to the wayside.

For now, that was just speculation. D’Agenais might know more. Perhaps he was just a pawn too, but at least he’d be reporting to someone higher up. Vin might be able to glean something from him.

He’d have to leave that rabbit hole for another time – at this one he had a job to do. He wanted to make all the preparations he could to improve the odds of living through just one dive. The inventory came with user manuals and training sims for all their equipment: he loaded them up and got to work, time flying by as he learned what he could.

“Do you think she’s lost?” one man in a business suit whispered to another, both of them holding steaming cups of coffee. “I don’t care to find out. Maybe we should call security?”

They, as well as a handful of other employees of Origin and other mega-corps, exchanged curious glances as their gaze kept returning to the out-of-place looking, heavily tattooed woman sitting cross-legged on one of the myriad leather sofas looking over the great window that covered the entire outer wall of the public break room. Drawing deeply from her cigarette, she stared absentmindedly at Derelict’s carcass floating beyond the viewport, cast in a bloody red light by the native star. The place looked of death to her.

From here, Cass could see the many large-scale surface details of the machine world, with its many ridges and outcroppings, parallel lines to and from locations unknown. The gigantic crater they called Impact Alpha gaped like an ugly bruise on this side of Derelict, visible even from orbit. Scientists were still debating what caused it; nobody had found evidence to support the popular meteorite theory, nor were there obvious signs suggestive of weapon damage. The site was simply caved in, as if a god had tried to push their finger into planet’s hull. Evidently, without success; the crater did not go deeper than the impenetrable sphere. Shame about that – as far as Cass was concerned, this whole place could get blown to hell.

“I’m s-sorry, are you new here?” reticently asked a blonde in a well-ironed business blouse. She was looking curiously at Cass, standing close enough to take a seat two spots from her. “Oh boy,” someone sighed in the background and emptied their mug.

Cass blew a puff of tangerine smoke towards the young woman, who grimaced when it hit her face. “New to Origin, not to Derelict,” she replied, sounded bored and ever so slightly aggravated. “Been here longer than you for sure.”

The blonde awkwardly waited and weighted her words. “Ah, I’m sorry,” she smiled nervously. “I was wondering if you were looking for someone or something.”

Cass returned her gaze to the planetary carcass of Derelict. “Very sweet, but I’m good. Just another hour before I’m back down there,” she lamented wistfully, taking another heavy pull from her cig.

“Oh,” the other blurted out, unsure what to say. Eventually, she stammered: “You’re with a ground team?”

“What’s it to you?” Cass shot back at her, causing her to flinch. “Sorry if I’m being nosy,” the blonde apologized, “I’ve never spoken to anyone who’s actually been to the surface. I kind of wonder, you know, what it’s like?”

“Tsk,” Cass stifled a chuckle. “It sucks,” she finished dryly. Something about Derelict always reminded her of home. Most likely it was the constant fear. Here, as on Heracles, dread was a steady companion that followed wherever she went. Death was never far behind.

“I’ve heard,” the other chirped up again after a little while, “that most people that go down have to rotate out of doing so after a while.”

“So?” Cass adjusted her legs with a menacing clonk sound.

“Well, how much longer do you have to go down? It sounds like you’re not enjoying it.”

Cass impassively stared out of the window, pondering the question. What were her odds of survival until she could repay her debt to Mercury? Was there any hope at all? And did she even care to know, if someone could have told her? As seconds trickled by, the young woman shifted uncomfortably.

“’Till I get killed, I guess,” Cass shrugged her scarred shoulders. She did not believe her own words – or did not want to. The other woman remained quiet and, after a while her gaze, too, shifted from Cass towards Derelict’s harshly illuminated surface, where wounds old and new scarred its metal shell.

---

“That’ll be all, for now, lieutenant,” Sophia remarked as she double-checked the elapsed time on her watch. “I will see you again for a psych evaluation after you return from Derelict. I will want to record your first impressions of the world, as well as any possible symptoms. As for your scans and blood sample, I will evaluate them as I get the time for it; I’ll spare you the details and only bring them up again if I find something worrying. Assume that everything is well until I say otherwise.”

“Twenty minutes till the shuttle’s here,” Cass remarked from the rear of the room where she leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “It would appear so,” Sophia commented, folding her fingers as she leaned back in her freshly assembled, leather chair, “You will get your turn after this sortie, Cass.”

“Can’t wait,” she droned with a dead pan expression. Neither can I, Sophia added in thought, wondering which of the two women was less thrilled by the prospect.

“Now, has anyone seen Mr. Marlowe,” Sophia asked into the room. “If someone can contact him, I’d like to call him in next.”

As the screening ended, Mavriq voiced his thanks to Sophia. Her professionalism was worthy of emulation, if a bit reserved. More importantly the exam was, as far as he was aware and concerned, an uneventful episode. As expected. To him, a military scientist, health diagnostics were routine, particularly given the frequency of his exposure to occupational hazards, unintentionally or otherwise. If anything, his only surprise was just how unremarkable it was this particular time. Not that he was any expert. Not that he cared to be. Not that he gave Sophia sufficient time to delve very deep into his mental or physiological status. He already knew that if there were any issues with his health such would have manifested in his medical records well in advance of his deployment to Derelict. In the end, she would know what he already knew about himself. The unremarkable thing that surprised him was that in less than an hour he would be inside a planet-sized alien artifact and he yielded no signs of anxiety.

"Thank you for your efficiency, Doctor Hagiotheodorites," Mavriq remarked as he slipped his shirt back on.

He was just dressed when Cass graced them again with her presence.

"We're just about ready, Cass. Please suit up," he inclined his head toward her locker on the other side of the plastic containment barrier.

He glanced at his dataslate and frowned. The shuttle navigated its way unscathed up the grimly-named Derelict's Throat and soon would be available for use. Of course, that was a good thing. However, he recalled Feurtes' preliminary status report on the failure of the MRS mining drones. Unlike the Warrant Officer, his piloting skills, should manual override be necessary, were neither superb nor fresh. Better to be extra alert, he internally ventured, and strode toward the kitchen and filled his canteen with a blend of warm water, caffeinated powder, and adrenal enhancers premixed in a conveniently available carafe. He took a swig, sat down, and began typing a tersely worded message to his superior officer.

Lt. Colonel Gulnara:

Team assembled. No issues with moral or synergy, although introduction of MRS units unanticipated. So far they have proven useful, but the navigational failure of MRS mining drones is cause for concern. I've requisitioned a postmortem analysis from MRS. Facilities otherwise adequate. Warrant Officer on artifact with MRS units. I will be heading down with Cass, our tour guide, to relieve him.

Lieutenant Mavriq d'Agenais

He hit send, pocketed his dataslate, made his way to the other side of the containment barrier, and suited up. Compression undergarments and field uniform were already on, so on top of those he layered the hermetic flex armor and helmet. He was ready. So, it would seem, was the shuttle. The pressure seal just cycled from red back to green, indicative of a successful dock and seal.



A silver glint, then the shuttle receded from view. In the stead of that tangible tether to all things familiar, dread and abandonment encroached on Feurtes' psyche. Irrational vagaries yet outweighed by his optimism. He felt hope, for its departure indicated that his replacements would be here imminently and he would thence be on his way back to MOS. Once there he would relish in peace, quiet, and sleep. That in mind, he sat down on the ledge that projected into the chasm, dangled his feet over the edge, leaned back, and squinted through his polycarbonate stealth visor at the twisted hollow of Derelict's Throat. Much as any other corridor within the metallic labyrinth, all contorted metal that terminated in ominous alien darkness.

1200 seconds until transfer flashed on his HUD.

When Lieutenant d'Agenais arrived, he might remember to solicit a full report.

Feurtes sighed, peered at Aten and his pair of brutes, a trio that idled in anticipation of the exchange whence they would escort their next batch of flesh-and-blood to the recently-erected operational base. He perceived that they rather disliked the base being unoccupied at present and that their sentiment towards being idle was similarly inclined. Maybe dislike was the wrong word. Resented. Yet these were conditions on which he was adamant. The base was well-guarded by its automated active defenses and electrostatic energy barrier, they were all interlinked with a host of surveillance drones such that, should an incursion arise, they could swiftly and effectively respond, and, as he lastly noted, the effects of Derelict on artificial intelligence were not understood and, as such, warranted their supervision. It was the latter fact that, when intertwined with the almost emotional and heated expression of their preference, unsettled him more than the possibility of some easily-replaced equipment being stolen.

Dataslate withdrawn from a large pocket on his thigh and set upon his lap, he performed the ritual of cracked knuckles, a futile feat restricted by the dense vascular polymer of his gloves. Still, the gesture wiped clean the slate of his mind. Then, focused on the more vibrant or, in his opinion, relevant recollections of the past 19 hours, he began to type.

The landing was smooth, albeit awkward. Odd how intellect-instilled machines inflicted him with a tense turpitude of suspicious self-awareness he felt only once before when he, as an immature constable stationed at Keflavik Orbital Access, escorted a serial killer to and from tribunal. Being on Derelict was an order of magnitude worse. Hours later, he felt no better. Even the MRS units rose, in his mind, to a position of welcome familiarity and predictable orderliness. Yet, in spite of that, as they idled nearby he felt disquiet; that distinct and undeniable sensation of being prey, hackles erect and extraocular muscles taut.

Then there was the incident with the mining drones. He wasn't sure what to make of it. For all he knew, it was staged for his benefit so the MRS units could pretend to safeguard him, thus winning his confidence and soothing his suspicion. Just as disturbing was the possibility that it was caused by Derelict interfering with the drones' internal programming. All he knew was that machines weren't suppose to make mistakes, which meant the event happened by design, poor or otherwise.

It took less than an hour for him to pilot the excavation buggy from the shuttle and, with the help of the MRS units, load it with four tonnes of supplies. Four tonnes in standard g, anyway. Navigating that through Derelict was a rather tedious and time consuming affair of busting through walls, welding down ramps with the local shrapnel, and drifting somewhere between catatonia and focus -- an ironically fine line he became conspicuously conscious of when Aten asked him why they were stopped. That was three minutes after he thought he saw one of the A9s do something dubious, he noted from the timestamp on his HUD; what, in particular, he could not recall. Three minutes of lost time. It did not bode well for him, he knew. At the end of several hours, they were a kilometer deeper than before and yet still a safe distance from the mission's locus delicti. They established a perimeter, unloaded the equipment, activated the security systems, and then with everything more-or-less in place Feurtes underwent the frustrating process of persuading Aten and his A9s to return with him to the shuttle. Somehow, he succeeded. They were halfway back, all in the buggy, moving much faster given an actual path available, the reaped benefits of their labors, when Feurtes caught sight of something in one of the tributary tunnels. Aten noticed, too. The buggy slowed to a halt and an A9 silently hopped out.

"Definitely a person, probably one of those cultists I've heard so much about. Best to leave them alone," he opined, but not before the A9 tossed a micro-surveillance drone down the tunnel. It instantly illuminated the passage with harsh multispectral light, exposing dense kudzu eerily lit under a sheet of jaundiced vapor. Atmosphere. Feurtes wasn't about to attempt breathing it, no matter what the scientists claimed with respect to the trapped nitrogen and oxygen content on Derelict's lower levels. Just at the edge of the drone's illumination, he saw a robed figure retreating around a corner. "See? We leave them alone, they leave us alone," he insisted, "Now let's get a move on."

An awkward silence passed with Aten immobile at the wheel of the buggy.

"Target may have tampered with communication relays," Aten finally stated. "A916AA deployed to investigate."

"Belay that order," Feurtes insisted, "We stick together. All of us backtrack to the last relay, confirm it is sound, then proceed, checking each relay as we go."

Another awkward pause. Aten then replied, "Inefficient, but acceptable."

It turned out the relays were fine, but it added another hour to the trip back. Not that the Lieutenant seemed in any rush to get down there.

Report transferred and dataslate stashed, he leaned back, head on folded hands. The cloud of blood was gone, he noticed. Probably dissipated in the exhaust of one of the many scavenger shuttles going to and from Derelict with a cargobay filled to the brim with pilfered artifacts or empty with opportunity.

Sophia faced Vin with slightly narrowed eyes from the comfort of her leather seat. “The lieutenant had trouble procuring your medical record, Vincent,” she began tersely. “I trust you have it on you?”

“I had a stint in the OSF, you know,” he deflected and shrugged, eyes averted for a hesitant microsecond. “Would’ve thought they’d keep tabs.”

“Apparently, that’s not the case,” she remarked impatiently, tapping her fingers. “Can I have it?”

Vin looked down at his fingers, interlocked and fidgeting restlessly. There was no way they had nothing on him. They’d at least have his years in the fleet. Probably everything before then, too. Anything after could be found with enough digging. Perhaps they just didn’t care to look hard enough.

Regardless, he supposed she needed it to do her job. A slight, resigned exhalation, and he looked up again. “There,” he conceded, and her slate beeped in affirmation.

“Excellent.” Sophia opened the relevant file on a holo-display floating to her left. Her eyes immediately fixated on it as she impassively provided further instructions for him: “We’ll begin with a mundane physical examination. I will be taking measurements, determining your fitness and sensory aptitude, et cetera. I’ll need you to remove your outer clothing.”

Within moments of browsing his documentation, she made a disapproving hum. He tried to track her gaze to see what it was she didn’t like, but she was already looking expectantly at him. He had a pretty good idea regardless: few were approving of the melding of minds with machines. Luddites.

He pulled his shirt up and his pants down, standing before Sophia in nothing but his underwear. Pale. A bit on the lanky side. His robotic left arm reached slightly further down his side than his right. Off-the-shelf article, one-size-doesn’t-quite-fit-all.

“This enough, or you want more?” he smiled sheepishly, pointing at his underwear.

Sophia’s eyes darted to the side, momentarily distracted from studying his records. “I should think neither of us wants ‘more’. That’ll do.” The doctor swiveled in her chair, turning it over so that she could reach for the blood extractor. Armed with this device, she got up and approached him. Reaching for his remaining, organic arm, she pressed it against his vein and pushed the button to insert the needle.

“So, Vincent. Do you know where you were born?” she asked almost menacingly - though perhaps it was simply the effect of receiving an uncomfortable question whilst having a needle in one’s flesh. She did not look up to him.

“How’s that relevant?” he deflected, voice coming out more bitter than he had intended.

“Your first record,” she began to explain as the needle retracted, “is at age 10. That is a big gap between then and your birth, Vincent. Could help explain your rather interesting condition, perhaps. Could also help in establishing a psychological profile. The circumstances surrounding your birth are hardly irrelevant.” After removing the device, she stared him in the eyes for a moment, perhaps to convey the gravity of her request. She soon relented, however, and returned to her seat.

“Fine, it’s just…” He exhaled, and could feel his body loosening up. He hadn’t even noticed it tensing. “I’m just not comfortable being under the microscope, I guess. Can I put my clothes back on?”

“Before that, I’ll need you to lie down on the operating table for your scans. No cause for alarm, I won’t be making any incisions.” After a moment, she added in a gentler tone: “I’m sorry we cannot provide a male examiner for you.”

“That’s not really the issue here,” he said. I’m feeling naked in more ways than one, he didn’t say. He walked up to the table and laid down, and a glass-like dome grew out of the table to envelop him. A myriad of tiny sensors were embedded inside, too small for the human eye but big enough to be visible to his augment. It helped that he didn’t have to look at Sophia.

“It’s… You just read the file, right?” he continued testingly. “Memory defect. Can’t really trust anything I remember from back then. Besides, my folks were basically nomads.”

“Nobody told you where you’re from?” she asked incredulously, her voice sounding slightly distorted through the glass. “No contact with your parents, I take it?”

He shrugged. “Mom came from Herakles, far as I can tell. Dad, I’ve got no idea. My best guess is I was born out in the void somewhere.”

“I see,” she answered thoughtfully, watching his metrics appear one by one on her display. “Void births are statistically more likely to incur difficulties for the newborn. Myriad reasons but essentially, humans weren’t designed to perform well in space.”

“Yeah, if I see them I’ll tell them to be more careful next time,” he quipped.

“You have a lively sense of humor,” she remarked dryly.

After capturing his superficial details, the glass tomb began its deep-scan; layer by layer, a graphic of Vincent’s body, muscle by muscle, nerve by nerve, began appearing on screen. Then, his brain: large sections of his right hemisphere were cut out, replaced with compact electronics. Even the left was not unscathed, with strips of circuitry following the contours of most of its surface.

“So you’ve had your memory implant since age twelve,” she continued. “Have you experienced any technical difficulties with it since then? Any flaws? Has it ever been offline for any period of time?”

“Well, you’ve got to flip the switch when you make changes”, he said. “Goes for the wetware, too. Easy for things to go wrong if you try to tinker with a live system.”

“Tinkering with live systems is my profession, as it turns out,” she quipped uncharacteristically. “So you’ve only had it deactivated for your many augmentation procedures? No unexpected failures otherwise?”

“There’s… been some hiccups, actually,” he replied, eyeing the invisibly small arrays of sensors. The only sign of their activity was a subtle emission on the EM spectrum.

“Compatibility issues,” he continued. “When I got a digital memory module - that was in ‘24, if you check the record - they didn’t play nice. The old implant used a pretty hacky solution - it worked, but it messed up the circuitry. Scrambled the signal going to digital, had to mess with the drivers for both.”

“You’ve modified the firmware for it yourself?” Sophia asked whilst calling up a spec sheet for the implant’s serial model in question. Mechanical augments were hardly her expertise, but she understood them well enough to gather the important points at a glance. The model could hardly be considered novel at this point, or indeed when it bad been put to use in Vincent’s head. Her brow furrowed meaningfully.

“Had help from my professor at the time, but yeah.” He shifted uncomfortably. “My case was fairly novel, and he took an interest. I studied neural computing, y’know.”

“I suppose I know now. I can see why he would take an interest - frankly I am curious myself.”

He spread his arms as far as his cramped cage allowed. “I lay bare before you.”

“Perhaps,” she continued, her eyes darting over to his pale body trapped in glass, “we can work together on improving your condition. To minimize risk to the mission and maybe find a permanent solution. The current one is clearly less than perfect.”

“It had a pretty good run, actually. Gave me a better memory than most.” It had given him an almost savant-like visual memory, handy during his studies, at the cost of some emotional recollection. “It’s taken the back seat since I went digital, though. At this stage it’s pretty much just there for redundancy.”

“You don’t strike me as the complacent type, Vincent. Your left arm had a good run - until you excised it like a tumor.” Was that resentment in her voice?

“No need to make any hasty decisions,” she added, ”but - think about it. I can prepare some-”

“Look,” he cut her off, “I get it. You want to poke around in my skull. Maybe you even want to help. But really, I don’t need it. I already have something better.”

“That old thing,” he tapped his temple and continued, “just… tries to fix the wetware circuitry for memory. Falls short in some ways. Improves it in others. But baseline memory is still full of holes. The compression is pretty damn lossy, and it doesn’t even try to remember something if your brain doesn’t think it’s important. And even what it does remember still gets corrupted over time. My… condition was basically just that but worse.”

Sophia rolled her eyes and suppressed a groan. “So you’d rather keep a mechanical band-aid in your brain than try to improve upon it. Be my guest.”

“I’m not saying it can’t be improved. I’m saying there’s no point,” he retorted. “I went digital. Why run when you can fly? Besides, tampering with it means I’d probably have to recalibrate everything else again.”

“So long as your functionality isn’t impaired, it’s your call,” Sophia concluded, “but I will be monitoring your condition - and that of your implants - closely in the future. Derelict has unpredictable effects on human brains alone and there is no telling how your particular set-up will react.”

“I’ll admit I’m a little worried about that, actually,” he confessed. “I can disable wireless, but there’s other ways to mess with electronics.”

Like EM radiation. With a sensor delicate enough you could follow the path of an electrical charge through the circuit. Given enough time and computing power, you could figure out what a computer was doing just by looking at the dance of electrons.

With a precise enough application of electromagnetic induction, you might even be able to tell it what to do.

“Though I suppose the same goes for the brain,” he sighed ruefully and shrugged, “so what can you do?”

The doctor frowned to herself. “Nothing at all, I’m afraid. Just wait and see. And hope it’s not too late to do anything by then.”

Derelict creaked ominously.

It always did. The going hypothesis supposed that it was just the structure straining against its own immense bulk, mass and gravity and thermal expansion slash contraction twisting metal in on itself in a ceaseless dance of perverse machine tectonics. Hypothesis offered little comfort out here in the field, where Derelict’s pained groans echoed for klicks and klicks through twisting cracks and tunnels like the howls of metal banshees.

Anna Viera listened. It was those very cries that had guided them off their planned course home and into untraveled territory, now crawling on fours through some life-forsaken hole at about one klick's depth. Her ears were no good, but her tools were: the mapper in her hand displayed a labyrinthine network of lines stretching around them, denoting areas they’d charted before or passed on their way. If there was a pattern to the mess, it wasn’t obvious.

A few meters up front, Sashi Balakrishna had apparently found enough space to stand up. The pale glow of her headlamp disappeared for a moment, before peeking back down the tunnel at Viera. Not bright, but bright enough to blind eyes acclimated to the dark. Thankfully the glare dimmed as her visor adapted, but details at the periphery fell casualty to encroaching shadows.

“Should be just up ahead,” Sashi’s distorted voice played in her ears. Sound carried poorly in Derelict’s thin atmosphere, and it took the aid of technology to isolate and amplify the waves of a voice over the all-consuming din. Some noise always made it through.

“What is it any–“ Viera’s reply was cut short by a deafening shriek of metal from somewhere deep in the machine’s bowels, the tendrils on the mapper’s display stretching rapidly outwards as the screech echoed throughout the structure.

“Man-made tunnel, looks like,” Sashi sounded as the noise died down to normal levels. “Steep, but walkable.” Viera crawled out and stood up, stretching her legs as she confirmed with her mapper. They’d charted this area before, but there was a new line cutting straight through. Their current path would intersect with it about eighty meters up ahead.

“How the hell can you tell?” She hadn’t seen Sashi use her mapper a single time during their trip; it still sat dark on her belt.

“Intuition,” Sashi shrugged and pressed on. Viera didn’t buy it, but she let it slide. The woman had had a lot of work done under the hood.

They continued in what passed for silence in Derelict, squeezing through a tightening passage shaped like a vertical incision stretched open. It was slow going, as it took some care to avoid getting their boots stuck between the converging walls at the bottom. Balakrishna inevitably pulled ahead, maneuvering the terrain with finesse borne from hard-earned experience, periodically stopping to allow Viera to catch up.

“Here we are.” Sashi unslung her backpack and rested against the wall as she rummaged through it. Just past her, a mass of deformed metal protruded up from the empty space in the larger tunnel below, twisting towards them from the edges of their exit: material pushed aside into adjacent crevices as whatever came through had displaced it.

The opening looked too narrow to squeeze through, and even if they tried those jagged edges would tear them to shreds. Sashi gave the mass a few experimental kicks, but it wouldn’t budge. Viera checked her instruments: no light, no radio, no sound discernable from the cacophonic background. Whoever dug it had left it vacant – for now, at least. She looked back to Sashi, who pulled something from her pack: a half-meter long rectangular case, which she unsealed and revealed a long tube in white polymer with a pistol grip. She grabbed it and slotted a heavy-duty battery atop it.

“Better set your visor to dark. This’ll be bright.” Sashi stuffed her pack into the tapering bottom and knelt atop it, inspecting the displaced hunk for a good angle of attack. Viera followed the recommendation, and the world faded into dim, shadowy shapes.

“I’m good,” she signaled. Thumb up, though Sashi couldn’t see it with her back turned. She imagined a tactile click as Sashi flicked a switch above the grip, the instrument responding by lighting an indicator at the base.

The tube was pointed at some strategic point. A pregnant moment passed.

Then: a miniature sun blazed in the dark, sparks flying as metal glowed white-hot and parted. In half a minute she’d cut clean across the whole chunk, and with a kick it loosened and fell into the open tunnel below. That thing wasn’t a tool; it was a fucking weapon.

“Holy shit,” Viera exclaimed as detail bled back into her surroundings.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Sashi replied, her tone indecipherable through the distortion. The face was hard to make out through the visor, but Viera could swear she saw the faintest hint of a grin.

Sashi calmly detached the battery and sealed the portable star back in its casing. The case went into her pack, and the pack was slung onto her back. “Let’s go.”

She stood over the breach, assessing it for a moment before stepping forth and falling gracefully out of view. Viera carefully edged over and looked down: two and a half meters, by her reckoning. Sashi was looking back up, patiently waiting. Reason told her it’d be a safe fall in half a G, but instinct was not so easily convinced. She took instinct’s advice and inched slowly off the edge feet first, until she was hanging by her hands. Part of her marveled at how light she was. The rest of her clung on, afraid to let go.

“You’re half a meter off the ground,” Sashi droned from somewhere below and behind. “You’ll be fine.”

She looked down; it was true. Hands let go, and she landed steadily on the sloped floor. Her legs didn’t even buckle. She let out a small sigh of relief and looked around the new space: a mostly circular shaft, running down a slope angled somewhere between thirty and forty degrees, by her estimate. Derelict’s echoes seemed to carry further here, the ambient din somehow even louder than before. She pulled out the mapper and switched on its display. It flickered for a moment, lines shifting subtly as the map recalibrated from familiar reference points.

“It… comes all the way down from the main shaft,” she said. Sashi nodded faintly, but her gaze was fixed the opposite way.

“And it runs…” Viera paused at a sudden realization. “Oh.”

Sashi nodded wordlessly. About a klick downtunnel, the line on the display was almost touching the monastery.

“Slick suit,” Cass commented when Mavriq emerged from the containment barrier. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and the front of her helmet removed so that her face was revealed. “But very thin. These weren’t made for combat.”

On her usual sorties with Mercury, Cass had been issued a much heavier exo-suit variant with multi-layered armor plating and motorized motion assistance. As extreme hardware, these combat armors effectively demanded their user to retain peak physical condition in order to remain practically usable. Having grown accustomed to entering Derelict in what was essentially a personal tank suit, she felt very exposed in the suit Origin provided. At least she was going to be quick on her feet; keeping an eye open for cover would be vital.

“They are Origin military space excursion suits,” Mavriq explained as he rotated the dog on the air-tight door that lead to the decompression ramp linking the lab to the shuttle, “very safe if you’re dealing with a riot or personal-grade armaments, but not approved for combat. Still, the flexmesh steel layer will stop a knife or low-caliber bullet.”

Cass lined up beside him with a disapproving sneer. “I’m not concerned about knives or small-arms fire. You won’t be either after today’s sortie, lieutenant.” She nonchalantly snapped the front of her helmet back on and waited for the bulkhead to open.

Mav ignored the boorish nature of Cass’ remark, as her concerns were likely to be assuaged once she previewed the shuttle’s armory. With him and her in the airlock, the pressure seal hissed, then they proceeded into the shuttle. Once in there, he pointed to a rather impressive array of firearms gel-sealed to the aft wall -- gauss cannons, singularity grenades, plasma rifles, and even a pair of shoulder-mounted auto-targeting mass drivers.

“Press your thumb against the bio-scanner and it will release the gel pressure enough for you to remove one of the armaments,” he explained.

“Shit,” Cass grinned at the weapons rack, “I didn’t think Origin would shell out for this kind of hardware. Is this a standard loadout for you guys?” Seemingly oblivious to the rest of the shuttle’s interior, she remained in front of the armory to inspect each firearm with great interest.

“I’m not sure,” he shrugged as he sat down at the helm and awakened the auto-pilot, “but hopefully most won’t be necessary. Our mission is to answer questions, not paint the walls with the shadows of those who once were. Ideally, we’ll be able to limit our actions to crowd control and suppression.”

Cass peered behind herself: “You’ve seen my shoulder - I don’t fire the first round. But in my experience it’s better to be over prepared than not. I would hate to bring a knife to a gunfight.” Finally letting go of the armory, she stomped to his side. Her legs really did not lend themselves to subtlety of any kind.

Mavriq shrugged, apathetic to the matter. After all, there were no armies confronting them. Just some disorganized cultists. The bigger threats, he felt, were the scavengers; opportunistic and often lawless bad actors who wouldn’t think twice before stripping down and parting out another group’s operation. On that particular front, the giant Origin emblem emblazoned on the shuttle’s hull was an effective deterrent. Presently, the docking seal detached and they drifted a safe distance away from MOS, at which point the shuttle androgynously intoned, “Please secure yourself for transit to Derelict’s primary exploitation shaft, estimated travel time 11 minutes.”

Fortunately, the trip down was uneventful. He didn’t even bother looking out the viewport to behold the panoply of drones and ships zooming to and fro like fireflies in the night. It was, of course, an act. He was super excited, but suppressed it with an intense focus on his mission updates. Feurtes’ report, for instance, was of particular interest to him, but at the end he was merely glad his team member was whole and alive.

When they docked and exited the shuttle, Feurtes saluted. The MRS drones idled nearby, one already in the driver seat of the buggy. He could barely hear himself think, what with all the ambient noise that managed to penetrate even through the protective layers of his spacesuit. Quite unsettling, actually. He never was a fan of industrial blare. Feurtes’ mouth moved, but Mav wasn’t sure what was uttered. To compensate, he amped up the audio intake and programmed his earbuds to even more aggressive noise cancellation, then attempted:

“I read your report, Officer Feurtes. It seems all, more or less, went well given the circumstances we are operating under. I expect you are eager to get back to more familiar territory?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. Not much rest to be gotten down here. Permission to board the shuttle and return to MOS?” replied Feurtes.

Mav nodded, a moment passed, then he remembered to utter the magic phrase, “Permission granted.”

Feurtes boarded the shuttle and in what seemed a mere moment later it lifted off. The kind of haste usually reserved for someone on the run for his life or looking to get his dick wet. For Feurtes’ sake, he genuinely hoped it was the latter.

“Well, Cass,” Mav gestured toward the buggy, “ready to roll?”

“Hmpf,” she scoffed, taking her eyes off the ruined majesty of the exploitation shaft’s thorned walls. “Are you?”

Her right hand firmly placed upon a high-caliber gauss rifle which was fastened to her suit with a band, she almost prowled towards the buggy. No longer carelessly swaggering where she went, the moment Cass had left the shuttle her senses perked up, her neck hairs stood on edge. Her iron legs carried her with a silent grace that would have been difficult to imagine on the MOS. She swung herself into a rear seat of the buggy in a single motion, eyes sharp on the perimeter. If something moved, she wanted to see it.

"Hello and welcome to Derelict's Dalliances, the hottest wavelength next to Maasym! I'm your host, Jeravik Malaki-Meems, and with me today is a very special guest, our would-be first Prefect, should the citizens so decide, Sureivalhi Jaya!" announced Jeravik, his spittle moist on the mic. Limited by his seated posture and the necessary inclination of his voice, his movements were nevertheless adroit and abrupt as he plucked the latest political periodical from his desk, such as both were, and focused his dilated black pupils on his guest.

"Thank you for having me, Jeravik," Sureivalhi replied, the timbre of her voice somehow simultaneously smooth and guttural. Although this was technically a radio broadcast, there were still video feeds available for those who still presumed to have the attention span to watch such things. In that knowledge, she sat upright in her gold-trimmed iridescent lehenga choli, eyes just as intensely dark as the publicity jockey who presently shared air with her.

"Always a pleasure, I hope, Sureivalhi Jaya. Such a musical name. For the sake of brevity, if you don't mind the slight of ceremony, may I drop a few notes and call you Suri?"

"Certainly."

"My gratitude. Now, to let our viewers in on a little secret, you're with us today, Suri, in an act of shameless self-promotion in your campaign to be Prefect of the Maasym System; is that right?"

"Absolutely right, Jer -- you don't mind if I truncate your name, do you?" -- she smiled beneficently, then continued without awaiting an answer -- "As I have always believed, the best government stems from an informed vote of my fellow servant-citizens, so I am here to today to share with them my views as to how we can improve life in the Maasym System. I, as every servant-citizen has, offered my particular dues to Origin in service as a combat medic and eventually retired at the rank of major; however, I feel it is my experience as a life-long Spacer that makes me uniquely qualified to serve a system where the only extra-stellar body has more in common with a space station than a planet."

"Well," Jeravik cut in, "there are lots of Spacer colonies, but wouldn't you agree Maasym is unique and comes with its own challenges?"

"Naturally. Take, for example, the lack of quality psychological wellness framework. Derelict's negative influence on the minds of those who have made this their home is an issue that has touched everyone. Friends and family lost to doomsday cults, machine god cults, and their ilk."

Jeravik interjected, "Derelict has made everyone more, well, religious, if you ask me. We don't whisper 'Sleep, Grand Automaton' for nothing."

"True, although I wouldn't frame that as religious," Suri gently retorted, her crossed hands nearly concealed beneath a large sabraxian jet opal, the dilithic circuitry of which shimmered like a nebula, "A healthy respect of an alien artifact such as Derelict is natural and inherently human. But when it is worshiped and ridiculous phrases such as 'Wake, Grand Automaton, and enslave us, enthrall us, assimilate us,' and so on, are uttered, common cause with our species is abandoned. That, I believe, is where we encounter great danger."

"Surely the cultists are harmless, Suri?" Jeravik tactfully opined, his voice soft, his jowls conspicuously stilled from their apoplectic frenzy, as though he were actually suddenly shaken from his firm belief in the premise that lurked behind his half-question.

"And yet," Sureivalhi accepted the proffered bait, "their numbers grow, people and supplies go unaccounted for, and the psychotherapy med-booths are overwhelmed. Even the most dedicated servant-citizen understandably accrues doubts when they observe another human, particularly someone close to them, relinquish individuality and personhood in exchange for -- for what we do not know. Hopefully nothing. Still, we must recognize that they are victims in all this, even as the threat of their numbers and ideology grows, which is why I intend to build out the infrastructure around Maasym to make sure everyone gets the care they deserve. To make sure everyone has the resources to help their friends and family get the care they deserve."

"A noble cause, Suri," Jeravik concluded as the feed transitioned into an advertisement for ferro-conductive paste and pressure-sensitive ejaculators -- able to plug any hole and keep air exactly where you want it: inside with you!



One thing at a time. First, step inside the shuttle. Next, seal the hatch. Next, activate the autopilot. Then stand, magboots live, safely bound to the durbar-plate deck by the immutable properties of physics. Wait. Don't think, don't see, don't feel. Just wait. Don't wonder just how mutable those properties really are. Embrace the silence.

A minute outside The Throat, Feurtes noticed his hands trembled in his gauntlets. As with a wave, he inhaled deep and let the lack of control crash through him. By the time the shuttle docked at their facility on Maasym Orbital Station, they hung at his side, as stoic as his haggard but otherwise expressionless visage. On the way, he struggled with the question of whether to sleep or divert his thoughts. By the time he was at the top, he knew he would rather pass out with his mind on something other than Derelict.

Off the shuttle, the airlock sealed behind him. Clumsy with anticipation, he stripped and stumbled nude under a spray of chemical sanitization; warm, pleasant, although a touch acerbic. Above, the med-spanner lurked, its splined and nibbed digits retracted into alabaster sheaths and its articulating arm collapsed: a menace to which he was blind as, an instant earlier, it pinched his eyelids together and adhered them with xerophobic adhesive. The gel would evaporate as soon as he entered a low-moisture environment. Roundabout, the clear plastic surface of the Class III biocontainment channel warped iridescent and fogged at the internal differential in heat and humidity. Then the shower ceased, the walls cleared, his eyes opened, and he became vaguely aware of Sophia's presence on the other side.

Judgmental b-cun, he groused inwardly, then snorted in an act of repressed levity at his own ridiculous hypocrisy.

Clean, he departed the channel and walked his bare ass to his locker, thick black hair wet and matted against his frame from head to toes. On the way, he offered a nonchalant nod and obligatory "Doctor" to Sophia as he sauntered on by, the act barely an acknowledgment. He wasn't sure if she said anything. He didn't care. He needed to get Derelict out of his mind. So he eased into an olive green jump suit, slipped on a fresh pair of magboots, and left her to her thoughts.

A thousand steps later, Feurtes hung in a virtual stimulation booth, every centimeter of his body in contact with at least one of the suit's twenty-thousand haptic feedback pads. As far as his deceived parietal and occipital lobes could tell, Maasym Orbital Station and Derelict, more importantly, were 370 light years away. Instead, he surveyed a vast verdant plain. Distant yet still prominently juxtaposed against a bright azure sky, Squaretop Mountain stood sentinel over some unseen vale, roots dipped in the dark green shimmer of opaque lake-light. Meanwhile, he lazed on a a porch, eyelids drooped, satisfied in the sensation of cool peat and dry grass between his toes and against the soles of his feet. Against his rump, the alder planks that formed the deck creaked and reassured him that they belonged to a home well-lived. Somewhat more capriciously, the intermittent breeze teased away the mid-day perspiration on his arms and face.

Simple. Serene. Silent, save for the whine of the windmill as its rusty old vanes turned.

Feurtes' gaze drifted to the barn, then in a fluid motion he stood, stretched, and scratched his balls through his worn denim overalls.

"Time to let off some steam, I think," his drawled epigram swallowed by the big open sky.

It felt good to stretch his legs and walk barefoot on his own property, unbothered by interlopers. When he exchanged the heat of the sun for the shade of the barn, that felt good too. Inside was plain and typical of a barn. Except the silhouette with pointed ears. Breath held in for a moment while his pupils dilated, he soon beheld a brief bipedal vixen. Fleek, he somehow recalled her name. Small and weak, she still boasted curves where it mattered. Quietly and with no minor amount of amusement, he watched as she lifted and cantilevered her big fluffy tail to offset the weight of the hay she forked from a bail onto a loose pile. Tail raised and torso extended, her puffy labia were exposed in all their glory. Within that glorious gash, tentacles twitched expectantly, eager to seize any invasive force. Up to the challenge, Feurtes grinned like an idiotic horndog and unconsciously grasped his shaft through the denim. No indication that she heard him as he sidled up behind her. Then, suddenly, he snatched the fork from her hand, tossed it aside, and pushed her snout-first into the hay pile.

"Woooooo-eee, gonna have us some fun time!" he hooted.

Solitary shoulder strap of his overalls unclasped, he relished the sensation of the course material's interaction with his hairy legs as it pooled down around his ankles. Fleek gasped in muffled surprise. As she struggled to upright herself, Feurtes pulled one foot free and planted it atop the small of her back. With the little vixen restrained, he curled his toes in the soft warm fur between her shoulder-blades and scratched that hard-to-reach spot on her behalf.

She squealed at first, but then purred as he continued his ministrations. One savage beast tamed, he insisted, "Shhh. Hold still. You're going to like what I do next," and prepared to tame another.

Semi in his hand, he emptied his bladder all over her backside. "What the!" Fleek protested, but was soon muffled as Feurtes shifted forward. Urine, his own, splashed his foot and ankle. Invigorated by the hot spray, the tactile disunity between one foot and the other, he watched attentively as soft and fluffy became sodden. Fragrant. The last few drops dripped out, he gave it a final shake, then he settled down on top of her. First his face, with a big exultant whiff, then his crouch pushed against her recently-christened nethers.

He plowed away until he passed out, still inside, his prong clasped tight by coiled tentacles and a hundred modes of suction.

Pre-pay consumed, the booth beeped persistently and jolted Feurtes into partial wakefulness. Not nearly time enough to feel rested, but purpose served. He made his way back to his own quarters in the team's shared facility. Sophia was there, doing whatever. Psychoanalysis, probably. The same brief salutation as before offered, he vanished behind the privacy blinds of his bunk and settled in for some much-needed sleep.

Vin barely caught a glimpse of Feurtes on the way to the airlock, disappearing through another door as he approached. Sophia had gone earlier to catch the returnee; no luck for her, it seemed. As the door to the changing room slid open, she brushed past him wearing disappointment on her face. Feurtes would have his well-earned rest.

“Later,” he waved her lazily farewell as she retreated back towards her lab. And when she didn’t return the gesture, he added: “I’ll miss you, too.”

Cold. Then again, he wasn’t particularly expecting warmth from her. His first impression of her might have been harsher than warranted, however. If nothing else, she seemed competent and to the point. Even if he didn’t necessarily like her, then at least he could respect that. Still, it’d be nicer if she’d stay out of his head.

He discarded his clothes, stepped into de-cont and T-posed for the showers. As they sprayed him down with cleansing agents, he performed some digital safety measures of his own. With the flip of a mental switch, the net went dark. It was like losing sight, or hearing: suddenly and brutally, an omnipresent part of the world was excised from experience. His sixth sense – if you adhered to the long-dated list of the five basics – gone. It was unavoidable. Airgapping was a major point in standard Derelict safety protocol. Down there, he’d have to rely on cumbersome external tools.

He stepped through into the next chamber, nose stinging as the fluids evaporated off his skin. A wall rack slid out to present him with his suit and helmet. It had two full sleeves – he’d have to talk to someone about getting one customized. He couldn’t use his built-in tools like this, although judging by the list of inventory the others had brought down he wouldn’t need to.

He slipped into the suit feet first and pulled the sleeves over his arms. The fabric did the rest, closing over his chest and merging with itself to form a seamless second skin covering him from neck to toe. The inner layer tightened, smothering the contours of his body from his feet and up as the suit expelled the air within through his collar, until that too tightened into an airtight seal. Thankfully, the thin layers of padding were enough to prevent any extruding features of his from growing too pronounced.

Lastly, he slipped on the helmet. He felt the suitskin quiver around his neck as they merged and connected with the oxygen pocket on his back. A table of diagnostics lit up in the corner of the visor, dancing momentarily before settling on ‘OK’ and vanishing. Health metrics occupied the vacant spot, informing him that his heart was beating 12% faster than his normal walking rate.

Vin stepped into the airlock, the final buffer between the known and the unknown. The door closed behind him, and the room itself hissed and exhaled like a lung until it reached some pre-ordained level of pressure and unlocked the next door. The shuttle’s interior beckoned from the other side with promises of adventure and alien mysteries. He crossed the divide and left MOS behind.

He sidled up into the pilot’s seat – a redundant position, but the only one with a view – and strapped himself in. From the current angle he could only see the station’s outside wall, speckled with docking ports, guiding lights, and the occasional backlit viewport. Shadows stretched away from each extrusion, darker than black in the absence of Rayleigh scattering. Past the Orbital’s bulk only the void beckoned, somehow even darker.

The control panel was already unlocked before he had to do anything; presumably it read his biometrics from the suit and checked against scheduled flights. But his destination was already locked in, and his only available option was to hit Launch.

He blipped comms – seemingly an entirely separate module from the rest of the shuttle – and tuned in to the ground team.

“Marlowe to surface. I’m coming down now, ETA twelve minutes.” He kept it brief; no telling if anyone might be listening.

A few seconds passed in silence. “Affirmative,” came the reply.

He pressed Launch.

The shuttle lurched, and MOS started drifting out of view. Aside from the initial thrust, it didn’t feel like he was moving, now that he was free from MOS’ artificial gravity – instead, it seemed like everything else did. The station soon left him, and only the infinite emptiness remained.

In that moment, it felt like he was truly alone in the universe.

It didn’t last, of course. The illusion was dispelled when his eyes adjusted and he started picking up the faint twinkles of distant stars. Space was not empty; only vast.

But soon there was something else: a hole of emptiness crawling in from above, a black abyss from where no light shone. No, he realized as the world rotated around him: a blanket. A sunlit crescent crawled into view, cradling the shadow like a smothering lover. The crimson star itself followed shortly, hovering over the crescent like some watchful parent, blindingly bright until his visor dimmed its glare.

The ship lurched again, and his insides protested as the world stopped turning. The spear was pointed at the shadow’s heart, ready to be thrown. A low hum grew from the back of the shuttle, as if inhaling before exertion.

As the shuttle roared and kicked him in the back with the force of two and a half Gs, as his heartrate jumped another 20 BPM, he recalled the superstitious Derelicter prayer:

“Sleep, Grand Automaton,” he mouthed to himself as he shot towards the surface.