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.  

[i]“Transmit proposed operations center blueprint to my dataslate,”[/i] 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. 

[i]“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?”[/i]

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.

[i]> 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.[/i]

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: 

[i]“Sleep, grand automaton.”[/i]

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.