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.

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

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

[i]"We're just about ready, Cass. Please suit up,"[/i] 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. [i]Better to be extra alert[/i], 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.

[i]	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[/i]

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.

[center]. . .[/center]

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.

[i]"Definitely a person, probably one of those cultists I've heard so much about. Best to leave them alone,"[/i] 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. [i]"See? We leave them alone, they leave us alone,"[/i] he insisted, [i]"Now let's get a move on."[/i]

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

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

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

Another awkward pause. Aten then replied, [i]"Inefficient, but acceptable."[/i]

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.