The shuttle doors open and I pilot the lead dronefeather through it and into the bright skies of Honus. Behind it the second unit follows, wings flapping rhythmically as the devices swoop through the air.

  The once barren ground supports tiny shoots of new life. Crystalline leaves capture the sunlight and use it to fuel this planet's biosphere. Tiny creatures at the limits of my 'drone's magnification crawl on and under these delicate plants. Other feathered fliers soar through the air, looking for their foods of choice. Lights flashing from the eyes of the two 'drones should dissuade any hungry predators.

  In the distance, the foundations of the growing shipyard reflect white sunlight back in a myriad of colors. Heavy machines crawl upon the shaped stone in thicker numbers than the tiny vermin in their own miniature, shining territories. Shuttles circle the construction, landing and rising in turn to supply the resource hungry growth. I register the 'drones' flight patterns with the automatic systems at the control base there, in order to prevent any accidental collisions.

  My dronefeathers fly unerringly to the ceramic edifice. I fear that Dunc is no longer alone in there; Spen and Oolian are also missing from the shared camp. At least, I cannot locate them through any of the cameras accessible around the area. Their suits sit inside a tent, without power or wearers.

  The sharp angles formed by the tents stand in stark contrast to the gentle curves of the artifact. It looks all the more weathered for being so near to the crisp and clean fabric. El Nosstun patrols the camp, stun rifle at the ready. His black armor gleams in the strong light. The scratches and other damage upon it catch the sun as well, reminding me not to underestimate this warrior. He looks up once but shows no obvious interest in two more mindless creatures above him.

  I have the 'drones join the flock already in residence. The differences in proportions and structure are minor enough to avoid notice. One will remain outside, its target the only one currently outside. I also set it to sound an alarm if it loses its target. The other I pilot to the entrance of the ancient structure.

  Les stands in front of it, also wearing her armor. As would a wild creature, I cause the dronefeather to fly just above her helm. She shrinks away from it instinctively, rifle tracking the automaton as it passes her. I'm glad that she chooses not to shoot.

  The curving halls make piloting the device simple enough that I can scan the confines for clues. Smears of tan dust upon the floor, about the length of an adult Selber's stride apart, form overlapping trails throughout the structure. I cannot tell the age of the prints from above and cause the device to land in a intersection. In all directions, tracks can be seen.

  Peering closely at random patches of the grainy dirt yields images with similar patterns. By comparing these I'm able to put together a rough idea of which tracks belong to the same individuals. Most of the prints are the same general shape but in a variety of sizes. These I believe to be made by standard power suits.

  The much smaller prints, which are close enough alike that they might be regulation, can only be Oolian and Spen. Their prints are of a size with most of our administrative staff's boot bottoms.

  One final set of tracks, large enough to be from a vacuum suit, are of a unique configuration. Dunc's custom suit could be responsible; I can think of no other explanation for their presence in a restricted area. It is this set that I follow.

  Unfortunately, the boot tracks lead in the same direction. If I encounter them, I must rely upon my superior intellect and the 'drones aerial capabilities to avoid destruction. A broken toy will be of no use to Dunc.

  A sharp pain causes me to abruptly lose connection with the devices. I shift my attention back to my physical form, where Jurer Noll looms over my open panel. Her mouthparts twitch hungrily. Argent light glistens once from inside her maw before she slides back.

  "That's enough," Eva declares. Her hands are on the gray robed torso. She pulls again and the dust eater recedes further from my presence.

  Shrill sirens blare all throughout the station. Incoming reports flood the comm network. A quick sampling shows many instances of the same problem: relays of every variety are burnt out. Maintenance are already at work, scrambling to replace vital components.

  Eva forces the thaumatist to face her and demands, "What did you do? There are fires on six levels thanks to you!"

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Sparks rain from a smoking panel on the far wall. The technician there gains new burns in his pelt but never ceases his repairs. I make a quick note that he deserves additional credits for his labor today.

  "The faulty core was emitting at the incorrect frequency. The harmonic dissonance was causing energy drainage that risked temporal warping."

  "That doesn't mean anything," growls Desra, looming over her tiny superior and seeming huge in comparison. "In terms that we can understand, please!"

  Jurer Noll releases an irritated sigh. "If I had failed to act, the dissonance would have continued to increase in severity until the specimen released all the stored potential at once."

  Ah. That sounds like an explosion. I owe her a word of thanks, when it becomes appropriate to voice my gratitude.

  "You could have warned us!"

  "I did not know that your city was so poorly constructed that such minor repairs to the power core would be so devastating. I no longer question the need to reinforce your poor works with our own superior crafts."

  Even the technician takes the time to glare at Noll for that comment. His claws bear chips and gouges earned working in the tight confines of service panels. If any have reason to feel affront, it is he. His labor, as well as that of hundreds of other often overlooked workers, keeps the station operating as efficiently as their technology allows.

  Eva, Desra, and Noll continue to bicker but I cease listening. Their argument does not interest me as much as the damage carelessly done as a result of my repair. Even that is of less urgency than the happenings within the precursor structure.

  There are others who are already hard at work repairing the station, but none are able to aid Dunc but me. Assuming that they aren't also damaged, our information banks hold the stored surveillance of every camera in and on Kalibern. I can check them later, if I find the reports of others to be unsatisfactory.

  When I focus once more upon the subterranean automaton, if frustrates me to discover that upon breaking contact with me it had went into automatic mode. Without a designated target, its random wandering leaves it in an unmarked corridor. The clean floor below it is still unexplored.

  Retracing its flight takes precious time. The device's automatic mapping functions do quicken the process somewhat, of that I'm thankful. The lack of obstacles also is an unforeseen boon.

  As the device flies, its audio receptors begin to detect what I perceive as footsteps. I slow the 'drone to a glide in order to approach more stealthily, as well as deadening the lights in its false eyes. The mapping function is accurate enough to navigate the short distance.

  When the sound of boots treading the ceramic floor are right below my 'drone, I activate a feature that fulfils a request Eva had once made. Sharp talons extend, replacing the blunt claws that prove so adept at clinging to stone walls.

  The 'drone's low light lenses show Oolian creeping forward with a pistol clutched in one hand. It doesn't look like a stunner. He wears light armor of a type I am not familiar with. Black metal gauntlets that extend past his elbows protect his arms, which I would otherwise target with my 'drone's talons. A chest plate of the same material protects his vital organs. On his face is a protective mask; chemical weaponry will not prove effective either.

  The only remaining vulnerabilities are the backs of his legs. The dronefeather swoops down under my control, talons extended. The impact is harder than I expect and one of the metal spikes breaks off inside the meaty target. He takes an ineffectual shot at the 'drone as it flaps away. The erratic movements of its damaged wings make its flight just random enough to present no easy target.

  Metal impacts the ceramic walls at high speeds and leaves silvery residue behind. The walls don't so much as crack.

  He will survive, but until he receives treatment he can be discounted. One less threat now seeks out the errant officer. I hope it will be enough. This 'drone is no longer combat capable. Switching to control of the other solves that problem, but it must now repeat the flight of the previous device.

  Les almost seems ready for the incoming dronefeather this time.

  "Another one, huh?" She raises her rifle in time to get off a single shot.

  Unlike a wild animal, I know what a gun is and the means by which it functions. The charge it emits is faster than the 'drone can react to, but by beginning the dodge at the first sign she's firing I am able to mostly evade the blast. Les curses behind the 'drone as I fly it inside, scorched feathers falling around her.

  At the same time, the damaged 'drone returns to the camp. Les manages to land a glancing hit this time, burning the feathers off of the left wing. The metal struts beneath support its weight, but they warp yet further under the strain. She yells obscenities after it as it escapes.

  I send it to find Howan. The 'shell, if reactivated, could be instrumental in defending Fren, Grita, and Zsuchus.

  "Stand by," I advise the occupant of the robotic control room.

  "I'm ready, Mos," she replies. Donna sits at the controls, waiting for me to establish remote access to the 'shell for her.

  Telling Donna about the secret room is yet another of Eva's ideas. I fully agree that the blow to Donna's pride is more sustainable than the loss of our research team.

  The crippled 'drone bursts through the side of the tent where our team is being held. Their frightened outrage is an extraneous detail; more important is that the bipedal robot is in the shelter with them. The 'drone flies as directly toward it as its damaged wings allow.

  The 'drone makes contact. Its claws press the button that will restore power to Howan. Warm light shines from the robotic eyes. Immediately after, I lose contact with the 'drone.

  The screen in front of Donna shows an armored figure, rifle aimed at the wreckage of my 'drone.

  "Make him regret that," I request.

  She answers through her exposed teeth. "With pleasure."