Priority one plus fleet communication protocols. Commencing transmission.

Med bots filled the designated docking area, moving in a steady flow towards the storage compartment. In accordance with quarantine protocols, all members of the boarding team who hadn’t gotten in contact with the survivors made their way to the nearest shuttle. From there, they would leave the Solar Breeze directly to minimize the chances of potential infection. Meanwhile, the captain and his immediate team would remain until every single micrometer of the compartment was examined and analyzed. Augustus knew it would take a while and he didn’t appear pleased.

“Quarantine zone established, captain,” I said through the single med bot at the captain’s location. “Med bots are expected to reach your location in seventy-five seconds. Two shuttles have landed, three more underway.”

Augustus grunted something in reply, still holding the metallic cube. It remained the one thing he had taken from the entire room of survivors, and the only thing he insisted I record at all times. The object itself seemed fairly mundane. From spectral analyses, I could determine it was made entirely of some cobalt alloy, though completely unremarkable in any other way.

“I have prepared a report informing command of our situation,” I added. “Awaiting your permission to send it.”

“Tell HQ we’ve got a quarantine situation,” Augustus said. “Then contact the nearest salvage authority and tell them we have a priority mission.”

“This...” was against regulations? I spent a few milliseconds going though the full fleet regulations database. There were no instances where his order would be considered in breach, although they were unusual. Hours ago, Augustus was adamantly against involving the salvage authorities and now he wanted to send them a priority call? “Yes, captain.” I complied. “Permission to link to all crew suits?”

Augustus waved his hand. Silently, as I waited, the med bot I was linked to focused on the metallic cube.

“Go ahead, rookie.” Briefly I saw the corner of his mouth curve up. “Give me a preliminary analyses of this.” He tapped on the cube.

“Metallic cube,” I combined the camera view on his suit with that of the bot. “Perfect dimensions, side of forty-eight centimeters.” I enhanced the image as much as the equipment would allow me. “To the micrometer.”

The technology involved in creating this was impressive. Only core parts were so precise. From the information I was privy to, the tools that created my, and every other, core operated on a sub-nano level. The nanites that ran through my frame or were injected in every spacefaring human were as crude as tree stump chairs in comparison.

“I can’t identify the component.” I went through all databases I had access to, but there was no match. The moment I sent a query along the fleet network, however, it was blocked. Strangely enough, the authority given was my own captain. “You have issued an information quarantine order, sir?” I asked.

“That’s why you’re a rookie.” Augustus made his way through the storage facility, completely ignoring the survivors. As he did, the troopers on his team briskly moved aside. The efficiency of their actions suggested they were used to his behavior. “Make a full analysis of the room when the med bots get here. Nothing with high contagion levels leaves the ship, that includes my men. Wilco,” he said inot his comm. “You’re in charge. Clean what you can before salvage gets here.”

“Will be difficult in the time frame, skipper,” the weapon’s officer replied. “What’s the ETA?”

“Rookie?” Augustus continued into the corridor.

“The salvage authorities haven’t replied, so based on my estimate, three hours and seventeen minutes,” I replied and sent another priority message. This was my first time communicating with a salvage authority. Based on overall fleet procedures, I was supposed to receive a reply confirmation instantly. For some reason, I hadn’t.

“I’ll find it within the hour,” the weapons officer said.

“You’ve got twenty minutes.” Augustus closed the comm line. “Rookie, send a new shuttle. Four sentinel bots and two med bots.”

“I don’t have sentinel bots, sir.”

Sentinel bots had been taken out of commission two decades ago. Some of the older frontline battleships still had them, though only because they hadn’t been recalled from the front for a refit. Technology had advanced to the point that keeping combat bots had become costly and inefficient. Even with only a few hundred bots per ship, the amount of reserved subroutines outstripped their usefulness. In the entire history of the fleet, there had been no cases of non-Scuu related mutinies, thus with time security bots were gradually phased out by androids and people. Ships of my generation were built without devoted bot assortment, focusing on a more flexible approach. I was given the ability to modify and reconstruct bots as needed, although the primary template was predominantly repair and med based. In theory, nothing prevented me from constructing a few sentinels, but that was going to take additional time.

“I’ll send a security team to meet you,” I alerted the appropriate people. “The shuttle will be docked in—”

“Belay that,” Augustus grunted. “Construct two sentinels and get them on the ship. You have ten minutes.”

“This is highly irregular, captain,” I attempted to protest. “I don’t see the need of such a waste of resources and processing power.”

“Two sentinels!” Augustus barked. “And more to keep the quarantine area. No living soul is to get in contact without my authorization.”

“Yes, sir.” I dedicated a tenth of my subroutines to the task.

The first of the new med bots reached the survivors and started assessing their condition. I spread them in along the optimal pattern and had them inject the people with nanites. Normally, a single dose would be enough to activate the nano machines already in their bodies. When there was no response I had the bots triple the dose. One by one, streams of bio data started piecing together a full list of survivors. The majority of people were part of Solar Breeze’s crew, some had their fleet profiles restricted, and eleven were completely unlisted.

“We have potential contagions, captain,” I informed him. Preliminary results indicated a retrovirus of some sort. “The survivors’ nanites have all been deactivated,” I noted. “Radiation levels within limits.”

Light Seeker, this is salvage authority ship Lead Alchemy, a priority transmission came through. We are taking over rescue and salvage operations. Cease all your current operations until our arrival. Our ETA is ninety-one seconds.

The source of the transmission was masked, but all fleet safeguards were present. I tried responding several times, only to get a restriction block. Whoever the ship was, I didn’t have the authority to initiate a talk with him. A search of the name yielded a similar answer.

“Salvage authorities are expected in over a minute, Captain,” I told Augustus. “They have ordered us to stop all our rescue and salvage operations.”

“Did you hear that, Wilco?” the captain asked.

“Nothing I can do in one minute, skipper. Can you stall?”

“No, it’s their show now.” The captain doubled his pace. I felt the fingers of his suit grip the cube tighter. “We’re just observers. Rookie, communicate the order.”

I opened a general channel and issued the order. The survivor database was info quarantined, and I prepared the bot command protocols to transfer ownership of all bots on the Solar Breeze to the salvage authorities upon arrival. Fifty-seven seconds later, the first salvage ship arrived. It was large—approximately three times my size—with the typical bulky design that resembled a crude set of containers. According to the tech specifications, salvage ships’ frames were able to extend to three times their size so they could collect whole battleships. Aurie used to joke about it, calling them snake ships. Snakes were able swallow creatures larger twice their size whole, she used to say during training. Outside of simulations, I’d never seen it happen.

Light Seeker, this is Lead Alchemy. The salvage ship approached. At this distance, I could just make out the salvage logo on its hull: a shield crest with four gears inside. I’m taking over the salvage operation. Provide access to all logs since contact, as well as all bot and shuttle codes.

“Captain?” I asked along his private channel.

“Give then what they ask, rookie.” I could feel the tension in Augustus’ voice. “Salvage authorities always have the upper hand.”

Memory Restriction Imposed

* * *

“Prometheus, I’m receiving a signal,” I said, looking at the readings on my screen.

The message, if it could be called that, was a stream of info packets, broken up by radiation bursts of the two suns. There was no way to make out the contents with the shuttle’s crude instruments. One thing that was very clear, though, was the message ID and priority: Salvage Authority, Emergency Transmission.

“Prometheus, I’m receiving a foreign priority signal,” I repeated. “Advise.”

No response. The radiation of the suns made communication impossible. It would be at least several hours before I would be able to get a partial transmission through, by which time I’d lose the current signal.

Which do I pick, Sev? Prometheus had warned me that several hours of exposure might be hazardous to my health. Knowing fleet regulations, he was probably exaggerating and I would be perfectly all right for another five. That left me with two options: return to the science ship and report my finding in the hopes I’d be able to find it later on, or investigate the situation despite the risks. In his younger years, Sev would go for the more dangerous option just because. In my youth, I’d probably do so as well.

“This is cadet Elcy of the Prometheus,” I said so it would be recorded by my suit’s system. “While returning from my observation of White Monday, I’ve come across a foreign transmission. The packet information tag identifies the transmission as fleet based.” I decided not to go specify it was of the salvage authority. “Triangulating my position is impossible due to proximity to the twin suns. I’m therefore activating and releasing all suicide sats in an attempt to find the location.”

Major Tanner would be furious, of course. I could already see him, sitting behind his desk, face sunk in both hands, as he grumbled threats and indignations at me, possibly even a shout or two. This being an emergency transmission—of a source that wasn’t supposed to exist—gave me a bit of leeway, however. At most, I’d get another negative remark in my permanent record.

Sacrificing five suicide sats in the off chance they would help me locate the unknown signal was an expensive luxury, even if it did sound fitting. Prometheus’ insistence that we were the first expedition to explore the system merited some investigation.

I turned the shuttle AI off, then went to the cargo hold. One by one, I went through the sat’s check ups, then activated them. Since I didn’t need them to propel forward, I left them in their cases to ensure a better protection against radiation. When everything was done, I strapped them together using one of the link cables, and pushed them outside.

The ship’s systems automatically latched on to the signals, displaying them on the screen. I recorded each separately on a hard backup, then engaged the navigational AI.

What would the Salvage Authorities be doing here? They weren’t involved in exploration or combat. The closest I knew was Project Flytrap—the fleet’s attempt to isolate and capture a Cassandrian ship whole. The mission had continued for two decades, and reportedly had suffered over fifty unsuccessful attempts. From experience, I knew that whenever a Cassandrian ship was boarded or became damaged enough, it would self-destruct. I had heard of three cases in which the self-destruct sequence had been disabled before the entire vessel was destroyed. There was no official comment on the matter, thought it was well within the realm of possibility. In this case, there were no Cassandrians in the system, nor anything else that might bring a salvage ship here... officially.

I closed my eyes. There was one more possibility I could think of; the system could have been used as a testing ground for gravity weapons. That would explain the massive amount of gravitational anomalies, as well as the presence of eight suns. With that much firepower, humanity would have a massive advantage over its enemies. The fact that I didn’t know of any ships equipped with such weapon systems meant that if this was an weapons experiment, it had failed.

“Mission control, respond,” I said again. “I received a fleet signal of unknown origin in the proximity of White Monday. Please advise.”

For over an hour, I repeated the message every five minutes. Time after time, no response came, until finally Prometheus replied.

Provide confirmation, the science ship said.

“Sending signal fragments now.” I transmitted a copy. “Looks like it’s from a salvage ship. I wasn’t able to get a visual, but I left a makeshift marker. It should be good for a few days.”

The mission has been reclassified as top secret. Prometheus acted as I expected him to. After such a find, both the shuttle and I were going to be shredded to bits for info. Doctor Sim was going to have a field day. Standard procedure gave him the right, and I knew he’d use it to the extreme.

“Will I be info quarantined?”

No, not yet. At least he was being honest.

“I didn’t think a mission on a science ship would be so intense.” I relaxed in my seat. At this point, there was nothing else I could do. “Do you think this could be another third contact?”

It’s useless to speculate, the science ship almost snapped. There’s hardly any data at this point.

“Enough for a simulation.” If I had his capabilities, that was what I would have done. I’d also have sent queries to fleet HQ requesting further information. Knowing Prometheus, he was probably doing the former, though definitely not the latter. As most science ships, he had a dislike of sharing raw information. The captain didn’t seem like the person to encourage it either. The XO might, if he were adequately informed on the matter.

Chances are slim, Prometheus said evasively. The likelihood is within the statistical error range.

“That’s what you said last time.” I couldn’t help myself. It was an accident that had led me to establishing third contact. “Any reaction from the BICEFI?”

No.

My second captain used to say that there was a direct relation between excitement and distance to the fringes of human space. The further we went from the core of human space, the weirder things became: new Cassandrian ships, unknown space phenomenon, unusual crew behavior. No amount of observations or statistics backed his claims, though from a logical point of view I could agree. The closer we were to the unknown, the greater the chance we’d come across something unknown. Then there was the Jespjerson Principle: the interest towards an item or concept is the cube of its rarity.

“Elcy, this is Tanner,” a male voice said. It sounded slightly off, possibly sleepy. “There’s a mission update. You’ll rendezvous with Prometheus at these coordinates.”

“Roger, major.” The new location was outside of the star system plane. At my present speed I was going to reach it in an hour. “Will Prometheus be safe? There’s no gravity map of that area.”

“That has been taken into consideration,” the Major’s displeasure bled through his voice. “We have received some new information.”

“Oh?” In my experience that was never a good thing. “Who from?”

“Salvage Authority’s general command.”