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. 

[i]“Cass,”[/i] 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, [i]“how do you explain your apparent lack of mental deterioration given the frequency of your exposure to the artifact?”[/i]

[i]“Artifact?”[/i] Cass huffed.

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

[i]“What makes you so sure I haven’t?”[/i] 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. 

[i]“Next,”[/i] 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.

[i]“How comfortable are you with human-machine intelligence interfacing?”[/i] 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: [i]“Decorum will be maintained throughout these interviews!” [/i]

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.