Fren's suit transmits the scene up to us and I display it upon Eva Chel's main screen. Oolian carries his gleaming weapon, holding it with a lover's grip. The two of them do not wait for orders, entering the ceramic structure when they hear Grita's cry of sorrow.

  "What happened?" Oolian's anger darkens his face.

  "Dunno," answers Fren. "Donna?"

  His voice shocks Donna free from her daze. "Benn's dead. A trapped core, maybe, or a bad malfunction."

  Fren grunts, already mourning the loss of his friend. "And Grit?"

  Oolian is more practical. Oolian Dags strides ahead, weapon swinging slowly from side to side. A thin beam of light shines from the end of the SAm7. The white light reflects dully off of ambered ceramic walls. Shadows twist across the textured surfaces, almost as if fleeing the sight of the two intruders.

  "Alive," confirms Donna. "Mos, send them down a map or something, please."

  I have to create it quickly. Details are less important than getting the essential information in place. I mark Grita's location on the impromptu map before transmitting it to Fren. He then gives Oolian a copy of the partial floorplan.

  "Follow me," commands Oolian.

  Fren hurries to keep up. "I wish I had a gun," he complains.

  "A weapon wouldn't have saved Benn," states Donna. "Just don't touch anything. Understood?"

  Both answer affirmatively, but the look on Oolian's face makes me doubt his sincerity. I think Fren notices, but he does not inform his superior of the other's potential insubordination. Perhaps I judge Oolian unfairly.

  The pair of armored males follow along Grita and Benn's trail. Oolian keeps his weapon ready as they quick walk down the ceramic corridor.

  "Don't shoot," yells Grita. "It's only me!"

  The wide muzzle of the weapon lowers, but only fractionally.

  "Fren, you carry out Benn's body," comes the orders from above. "Oolian, stay with Grita."

  "Sure, Donna," confirms Fren. He bends over to grab the scorched legs of the lightly armored corpse. Sparks jump to his gauntleted hands right before making contact.

  The lighter medical armors' reductions also include less efficient electrical shielding, it seems. Another design flaw to correct if the next iteration is to be of any use. As useful as additional scanners and medicinal tanks are, having the medic return alive is much more useful.

  Fren's suit enhances his strength enough to allow him to drag the corpse. Boots scrape against the smooth flooring in a manner I find irritating. Oolian winces at the noise as well.

  Grita sits with her back against one wall, arms around her knees. Her eyes shine amid her wan and colorless face. Bedraggled strands of her crest cling to her face.

  "Get up," orders Oolian. His gruffness is surely a response to the recent death. "We've work left to do here."

  Blank eyes stare past him.

  "Do you hear me? Get up!"

  Grita blinks, coming back to herself. "Please, I need a moment more."

  Oolian grunts humorlessly. "Alright, fine." The wide muzzle of the SAm7 lowers so that it no longer points at Grita's head. "Shit. That was your medic, wasn't he?"

  An unsteady nod answers him. Grita shifts, then stands on shaking legs. Only the armored suit she wears prevents her from tumbling once more to the unforgiving floor.

  "Donna," asks Grita, "what should we do? Keep exploring?"

  The security leader is not silent, but no sound comes over the speakers in Grita's suit. On Kalibern, Donna mutes her receiver and speaks into the public terminal. "Eva? I think that's enough for today. Is that a problem?"

  "No, do as you think best," answers the Ship-Mother. "It's your decision to make, and I'll support you if anyone complains."

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  A crackle of static precedes Donna's response to her shaken team member. "Get back to camp. We need time to review the data you've gathered."

  "Y-yeah." Grita nods her readiness to the aggressive male.

  Oolian steps closer to the wall, leaving Grita plenty of room to pass. He gestures with his SAm7 to help emphasize the unspoken command.

  His paranoia is a good sign. He keeps his weapon ready behind Grita, guarding their withdrawal from the artifact. Nothing slows their exit from the enigmatic structure.

  Already we know much more about the ancient complex. The technology comprising the structure is not too dissimilar to that the Selberfeld Imperium employs. There are some places where the Imperium does possess slightly more advanced versions of what the ancients leave them to rediscover. In pure lasting power, however, the ancients remain superior. Nothing the Imperium currently produces could last the same stellar ages as this relict.

  The long dead builders, if still alive, would tower over any race living in the Honus system. This is evident from the tall doors and elevated seating. I also believe them to be touch sensitive rather than visually stimulated, though other senses may be more dominant. We also know the rough shape of their hands, double thumbs and all.

  Samples of their writing are already under close scrutinization aboard the station. Six independent teams of Tserri work to determine whether the mosaic of textures and shapes is part of the language or merely the ancients' equivalent to colored plaster. More data is still needed. More samples of the writing.

  The next exploration outing will go better, now that the team is more knowledgeable about the dangers within. At that time more samples will become available. Maybe even enough to decipher their script.

  Donna shares my enthusiasm for another expedition.

  "Shit. Next time, we make sure there's a guard for each of my people. We can't let anyone else wander into a trap."

  Eva shifts in her chair, a small frown on her face. "Are we sure it was a trap? Mos, can you shoot bolts of electric charge?"

  "Do you want me to try? I'd like to remind you I'm stuck in the wall behind you."

  "No," she answers hastily. "That won't be necessary."

  Donna stares into the public terminal. Her ears lay low to her head. "I'm coming to you, now that the emergency is over. We need to plan."

  Eva sighs wearily. "Fine, but get lunch on the way up. Enough for three."

  The Tserri officer's stomach growls at the mention of food. Donna powers down the terminal after a self-conscious nod.

  "That could have been better," comments Eva to the empty room.

  "The loss of Benn is regrettable," I agree aloud. She nods, already pulling out a data tablet. "Does he have any living relations that need to be notified?"

  "A sister, serving aboard the Cabin," answers the Ship-Mother. She bends over the tablet, face alight with its glow.

  "They're pretty far out," I muse. "And not scheduled to return to this system for a quarter local year."

  She grunts a reply, fixating upon her work. Her tablets are not connected directly to the same systems that I am. Nor can I see them through he cameras; her body blocks the view of her lap from behind and the desk blocks from in front. If I wish to know what she's working upon, I'll need to use my esoteric senses. Her position is comfortably within range.

  Separating my mind from the electronic feed it connects to becomes easier with practice. Energy flows throughout the room in many forms. Patterns repeating within metal and plastic and streaming through all the devices present. It is easy to isolate the data tablet's unique pattern.

  Deciphering its meaning is much more difficult. The bursts of electromagnetic energy flowing through the circuitry are beyond my ability to translate into anything meaningful. Nor are the patterns of her finger movement, visible as thermal energy.

  The device is giving off visible light, however. I cannot access anything within the device in any useful way, but I can see what it displays upon its tiny screen. Viewing the text without my translation software to aid me intimidates me at first.

  I know many of the words. I understand some of the sentence construction. What stifles me is the Ship-Mother's tendency toward abbreviation. Without more context, it is impossible to know the precise contents of the missive, but still I am able to discern some things of interest.

  M.B.: We don't have any.

  E.C.: :C not even 1?

  M.B.: Lemme look. NONE

  E.C.: :P dont b mean

  M.B.: Talk to you later, dear.

  E.C.: C U

  M.B. likely refers to Matron Maret Bell, though there are other possible meanings. E.C. is undoubtedly Eva Chel. What could they be looking for?

  Eva turns off the tablet and sets it on her desk. She runs one hand down the length of her face then opens her mouth as if to speak. Before she can utter a word, the door opens and Desra reenters the command room.

  "Did I miss anything important?"

  The Ship-Mother summarizes the brief episode inside the alien structure for her assistant. As she finishes up the explanation, Donna arrives. In her arms are three steaming bowls of stew and a fourth, larger package. Square and white, this she carefully sets upon a vacant workstation before addressing the others.

  "Redfin stew alright with everyone?"

  The others agree and the three eat. Cheap alloy utensils clink against bowls of the same material. They exchange polite pleasantries as they eat, inquiring after family members or mutual hobbies. I learn that all three are fans of a documentary series about the free miners. The show even has fans down on the planet.

  When all three bowls are empty, Desra gathers them up while Donna retrieves the white box she had arrived with. All three cluster around as she opens it.

  Inside is a glass bowl containing a thick red dipping sauce. Arranged in a ring around the bowl with one end just touching he sauce are chilled squivers. A seam in the shells where their nervous column belongs instead bursts with white meat.

  Like monsters, the three dip the headless, limbless morsels into the thick sauce and devour them almost whole. Only the odd finned tails that should be a cluster of tentacles are left, to be thrown into the empty stew bowls. The dismembered tails sit grimly in the bowl like trophies of a successful raid.