"Open it." 

The electric-pneumatic tools whirred loudly as the crewmen meticulously opened the crates one by one, the decades, if not centuries of dust particles and dead air stung the nostrils. The stench of idle rust permeated the confined space. Servitors were finishing the last of the excavation from the old quarter, placing the final container down next to the others. Alcander breathed through the cloth he had managed to find, eschewing the bulky re-breather he had been offered thrice by the voidsmen he'd requisitioned for the payload. Beside him stood Blegywryd, a guide and suspected psyker of some skill but ill-repute, having fallen out of favor from the de Trantio two generations ago from a "misunderstanding" with Lord Captain Mondego de Trantio. Alcander hadn't asked, he didn't really care. 

The past four days, he had busied himself by delving into the bowels of the Navarre, getting accustomed to the sounds and ways of the ship. He had an inkling there might be some pockets of resistance still left, but his main goal was to merely grow used to the idea of being a seneschal to such a powerful lady of the Imperium, no matter how much he was currently pissed at her. Old habits took hold, and before he knew it, he found a few imperfections in the current maps, which led to passageways not seen in decades, and some locals who pointed him in the direction of Blegywyrd's hut in the habs where the Navarre's refuse found its home. Using his authority, he'd gnabbed a small force to follow him. With some quick detective work, and a will, they had uncovered a small vault. 

A voidsman flinched back as the first ancient crate popped open a hair's breadth. The other patted the top of the crate, and on the count of three, both men hauled the opening back, accompanied by cracks of old steel hinges. The crate's top hit the ground like a small anvil, and Alcander gave out a sultry, appreciative whistle. It was quickly followed by a laugh of incredulity and disbelief. 

Blegywyrd nodded in satisfaction as Alcander hopped down into the vault and took a closer look at the archeo-tech. It was a melta-drill, perfectly preserved. An ancient, almost forgotten tool, remarkably efficient. Its original design was pieced together from fragmented archeotech descriptions of an attempt to create a melta melee weapon. The result is a device capable of continuous, short-ranged, thermal melta energy emissions, permanently connected to a hefty, backpack-mounted energy source. It was excellent for fast, reasonably safe excavation into all but the hardest of materials. Almost invaluable, despite himself he swelled with pride at the discovering. He felt a hand clap his shoulder, and glance to see the captain of the local void militarus, Rankos Vos, beam at the discovery. 

"The lady will be proud." Vos said. 

"M' reasen fer livin'," Alcander remarked, not advertising the sardonicism in the comment. A the crates continued to open, they began to realize it was a small collection of the devices. Forty in all, with fresh power packs. Any rogue trader would see it as a moderate boon, and the smaller traders would be set for life. Just as Alcander was about to direct the servitors where to take them, he received static on his comm. 

"Terra to detective grumpy bones, come in." Jocasta's familiar voice pipped in. He tried to respond, but it was clear she had redirected the signal to reach him through other channels, making it a one way street. "Your presence is being requested on the bridge by our leader. We've left the warp and made contact. See you in a few, hotshot." 

He ran a hand along the melta-drill's archaic ceramite skin, appreciating the discovery for a moment longer before he rushed away, leaving it in Vos's capable hands.