Chapter 395 - Far Future Ch. 105 - Who is in Command Here? (1/2)

Everything had been eerily silent as we climbed. Both Briggs and I found it uncomfortable, as a good excuse to go bouncing around and killing bots would certainly liven up a climb of many miles.

Instead, the quietly horrifying endless rows of shattered and spotlessly clean cryo tubes greeted us at in endless silence and testimony.

”That is some horrible psychic pressure,” Briggs murmured, clenching his teeth.

His Source was more lively and radiant, and so was much more sensitive to my Null when reacting to pressure and outside wills coming in and trying to bend things. They'd really have to whelm up and bear down for me to register this, subtle wasn't going to do it.

”They must be waking up or something,” I murmured back, dusting off my hands as we looked down at the awesome and dreadful sight of all those empty tubes. The weight of the lives lost in fear and horror here was likely stained into every bit of the bright shiny polished metals all around. ”If a psi or Primos came in here, I bet they'd go mad in minutes, even sleeping...”

”Could easily be a side-effect of the Throne Field, too, trapping their spirits here.” I inclined my head to acknowledge the point. ”Which means we could be facing incorps...”

I popped my neck as I frowned at the display. What was done to these people was hitting all of my Hag buttons, and the Curse on my neck was writhing slowly as the ancient, monstrous Evil slumbering here murmured and whispered at our presence.

”Do the math?” he asked stonily.

Of course I did the math. I had too many thoughtstreams. I could not NOT do the math.

Eight miles long, roughly a quarter-mile square. Half a cubic mile. Figure a tube every 2 cubic meters or so... easily a hundred million people. Not accounting for crew awake and working in the living quarters around the cryo vault in the center of the ship.

We both could feel the scars and impacts of combat beneath our soles. Metal-rending claws, pits of acid, stray shots of energy blasts, explosions, slugthrowers. There were identical scars on the walls and ceilings, and multiple layers of them... the fighting here had been intense.

No sign of any guardbots at the moment, rubble or otherwise. The only bots we'd seen moving about were the mindlessly efficient maintenance bots going about their endless cleaning and dusting, minor TK fields playing over everything and sweeping up any microparticles about in this sterile environment.

Displayed wall charts and the rough schematics led us along hallways that had seen a lot of fighting. Visible blast scars became repeated craters, holes, and melted or fused scars that had not been repaired, or even sealed over. Psionic energies had ripped and rent at durasteel, pulling it apart like water, or making it vulnerable to acidic barrages or rending claws. Fusion streams, plasma channels, armor-piercing dings, spatial seams, dimpled impact points of laser fire, fused areas from lightning discharges... it was all on display here, as all the weapons had been used.

Still hadn't saved them, as door after door ripped open, and the ravaged rooms beyond amply demonstrated. While there wasn't necessarily deliberate destruction of everything, anything that might indicate biomass was gone, and anything computerized had been completely mangled and not replaced. We were looking for them, and also couldn't find any kind of internal observation or communication nodes, probably torn out to hamper any robotic defense and coordination with the crew.

It basically meant we were in an invisible area.

The officer's quarters were not far off the bridge. We diverted in that direction, just to see if there was anything left behind there.

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The captain's quarters were improbably large, actually covering two floors. Briggs and I looked around with raised eyebrows at the size of the place... but it was mostly trashed.

There had been some fighting here as well, focused around the door, and the remains of it didn't seem to have spread beyond the main room and the study behind. One last stand, or perhaps a final holdout of survivors, doomed by the numbers of their enemies.

”Looks like they had paneling on the walls,” Briggs mused, looking over the cables and fixtures here and there, nails and hooks to hang things from which were no longer there. Most of the cables snaking under the crossed slats of the floor had been severed or fused to unusability, and the lights here were naturally completely off-line, not that it mattered to either of us.

The captain had their own kitchen, and some parts of it were remarkably intact, considering. The pots and pans were all in fine shape, although scattered about, as most of the drawers to hold them were gone. Stove, oven were gaping open, and sterile clean, any organic residues cleaned out.

The silverware was made of gold and platinum. We collected the engraved set silently, not about to let precious metal go to waste.

We walked through the silent darkness, devilsight not caring about it. Bathroom here with an actual shower, not a sonic attachment, remnants of self-cleaning materials, shattered bottles once holding liquids and personal hygiene products snaffled up and away. Secondary bedroom over here, metal frames present like the skeletal bones of furniture. My hair reached down to bring up a nail clipper and file, perfectly functional, sitting on the floor.

They were inset with diamonds.

”Well, now,” Briggs observed after I handed them to him. ”Someone really had too much money, and not a lot of good taste.”

”Personal quarters?” I picked up gold drawer clasps and corner fittings with my hair absently, dropped them in my Masspack. Loot was loot.

He looked up, pale violet eyes narrowing as he read the echoes like me. ”Is that a safe up there?” he asked.

”I think so. Study, workroom...”

I took the study, he took the workroom.