Returning to the very first door, he gazed at the three deep gashes in indecision, running his finger along one of the furrows. Then, with habitual motions, he activated the scanner, located the control bus, and laser-cut a square.
"I-Nine."
The white sphere latched onto the microchips. The intelligent hacker boasted a capacious battery, which recharged from the suit each time. Usually, it sufficed. But this time, something went awry. The door, of which he'd breached dozens before this object, wouldn't open. The standard power feed from I-Nine fell short. A pop-up holographic window informed: Elevated energy expenditure required. Risk of battery damage. Approve?
The explorer arched his brows in indignation. He'd outlived many dear people. Left behind a better future—secure, stable. Traversed thorns to the stars! Perhaps for this one moment.
Overexpenditure approved.
Voltage hummed; the helper sphere vibrated. The doors slowly yielded, parting millimeter by millimeter every few seconds, freezing and leaving a narrow slit for observation.
The hacker's power depleted. The archaeologist tapped the holo-computer screen on his left arm twice, and a tiny drone detached from his life-support pack. On minuscule engines leaving equally tiny fiery trails, the drone whirled and halted before its owner's face. He had only four such midgets at his disposal. Each, like the hacker sphere, worth its weight in gold. But he wasn't worried. They were incredibly agile. Even the human eye struggled to track their movements. Some called them mechanical hummingbirds of the 25th century.
Deftly maneuvering micro-engines, the little scout zipped through the door slit and stopped dead center in the large room, initiating a deep circular scan.
On the helmet's inner screen, a list of recognized objects flickered, growing steadily.
Switching to the drone's camera, the explorer arched his brows again.
His view revealed a wide double bed. More precisely, its frame of cubes. Strange semi-liquid mattresses—or perhaps pillowcases—floated in the air. Transparent, flat, like solidified gel. Lots of odd fluff, detached buttons, items resembling writing tools but clearly not. Uniforms with patches akin to military. Personal hygiene items shamelessly adrift in zero-g. In the far corner, a desiccated pair of skeletons in uniforms hung suspended. Hands clasped like lovers'. Once-fitted clothing now sagged like sacks. Shoulders and chests of both glittered with stars of distinction. Empty eye sockets stared through time and space straight at the archaeologist. A grim tableau.
The archaeologist rubbed his hands greedily.
"Log. Untouched site discovered, personal cabin. Two deceased at maximum decomposition. Pfft, what am I saying? Just bones left—how much more maximum? Evidently, air supply persisted long. Died not from external impact."
Peering closer, the archaeologist spotted a thick journal under one skeleton's hand. Not paper—gleaming plastic coating. The explorer's eyes widened greedily. There it was, a true find. But to retrieve it, he'd need to saturate the doors with voltage once more, maybe twice.
A fresh power cell loaded into the sphere; the spent one slotted into a special pocket for recharge. The hum resumed majestically. Moreover, it began to swell. But not inside the sphere—somewhere above, overhead. The archaeologist looked up, seeking the hum's source. Something crashed. He flinched.
Sounds of switches flipping echoed through the suit's speakers. Odd that he heard them at all. But he realized these weren't sounds, but radio interference distortion. Something flashed. The archaeologist turned and froze. Along the corridor, ancient diode lamps activated—tucked in corners, hence unnoticed. Everything flickered; one flash chased another, revealing scratched walls, ceiling, floor. Nasty, fine scratches. So fine, visible only at an angle. Like abundant spiderwebs. The lighting, blinking, extended into the distance and vanished around a bend. But even there, the infernal trill persisted.
"Live birdie," the explorer said respectfully.
Flashes returned, reached him, then raced away again, disappearing around the bend. The power flow wandered back and forth. This continued awhile until something detached at the ship's far end. With a resounding echo, it fell and rocked like a tin plate that couldn't settle. This sound couldn't be dismissed as radio noise.
Metallic tapping arose and ceased. Tapping again. Another joined. The tappings grew rhythmic and approached. The archaeologist felt his heart sink to his heels.
Radar beep: movement detected. The archaeologist glanced back—the doors were open enough. He pivoted smoothly and darted into someone's cabin. Commanded; I-Nine vibrated, repositioned wires, fed another energy dose—but to close the doors.
Activated two more scouts.
The drone pair detached from the pack and surged through the slit, racing along the corridor where hellish flashes of ancient diodes ran anew.
Overhead, a switch slammed again; doors began closing. Mechanisms gladly reverted to familiar positions. Doors rushed toward each other.
The suit's speakers relayed distinct tappings; as they neared, they resembled spidery.
The sphere retracted wires and headed for the vanishing slit. A shadow flickered; white shards struck the archaeologist's chest; doors slammed shut definitively.
"Damn it..."
The hacker sphere destroyed; its remnants floated in the air.
Overhead light treacherously blinked and extinguished, leaving only the suit's native lanterns. The spidery patters faded too, abandoning the archaeologist to himself. On radar, the object appeared and vanished. His own gear turned poor ally.
For a time, the archaeologist hung in the air, listening, until a metal toothbrush clinked against his helmet.
The explorer recalled his drones. With pounding heart, unwilling to know they'd been destroyed yet burning with curiosity, he switched to their cameras. They flew full tilt along distant corridors. Detection systems silent. Nothing encountered en route.
The archaeologist raised one brow quizzically:
"Huh?"
Deep sigh; on return, the drones would surely spot that something. Mentally braced for their demise and commanded return. Though doors sealed, unbreechable now. Nonetheless. The nimble little robots turned, maxing thrust, and hurtled back. En route, they beeped as if conversing. But echolocation signals. Extra scan for visually imperceptible. Any object differing from surfaces would register. Even utterly invisible or incredibly swift.
Return path: one and a half kilometers. They'd flown far.
The archaeologist eyed the two skeletons and grasped what drew his gaze. The ship's log. Transparent, plastic, gripped tight in bony embraces. Instinct told the explorer this was indeed the ship's log.
Extracted it without resistance, opened the first page, and eyes rounded. The very first inscription was in pure Russian:
"Saturn? Jupiter? 23,531 year? Solar System?"
* * *
Gaze frozen. Inside the suit, a red alert blinked and vanished. Drone destroyed. But the explorer didn't care anymore. To hell with I-Nine, drones, golden fortune, all he'd seen before. In his hands, something greater. He couldn't breathe. Blasphemous. Before him, a treasure unmatched in the universe. Not tech, wondrous finds, artifacts, money. But these words. Simple Russian words and two skeletons staring with empty sockets.
The second drone identified some oval on six mechanical spider legs. Three red dots gazed indifferently into a corner.
The archaeologist finally noticed the cameras.
The last drone circled the object, snapping rapid photos from all angles. The spider vanished; instant connection loss followed. Split second—the helper gone. What if he'd been there? The archaeologist swallowed. Eyes ablaze with fire, panic, fear, hope. Emotions contorted his face. He grimaced.
Outside, a combat drone millennia old. Someone clearly didn't want Russians to survive? Madness. If not more. But in hands, a log with emerging letters. Russian. Eyes refused belief.
The cosmonaut unclipped a container, slotted the plastic ship's log inside. Hermetically sealed it securely. Patted the container gently; it retracted behind, integrating into life-support.
Drones unsaved; their reactions deemed perfect. The explorer sighed sadly. Little remained at his disposal. It'd be ironic if these were his life's final moments.
He floated to the wall. Here, behind centimeters of alien alloy, lay boundless space. The archaeologist activated laser cutters, aimed red guides, merged into a rectangle; sparks flew, work commenced.
Sparks? Sounds? Only now it dawned: voltage feed affected ventilation, expelling remnants, creating some atmosphere. Explained everything.
Rhythmic tapping resumed, escalating to infernal dashing. The aggressive entity ran, jumped, accelerated. A loud impact darkened the archaeologist's vision momentarily. The spider-like robot rammed the hermo-doors. The explorer glanced their way: still in place.
The spider hammered them furiously with its legs. As a thousand years ago, futilely. Clacking taps receded, fading into distance.
The hermo-doors might hold, but not his nerves. The explorer halted the cutter, tweaked settings, resumed at double power. The beast's retreat boded ill.
The cosmonaut paused, eyed his progress—only first plating layer breached. Unknown how many total. After five more minutes, second layer overcome. On third, cutters worked noticeably weaker. Power scant. The explorer frowned. Even suit indicators dimmed. A bit more, and all auxiliaries would shut down, leaving him with oxygen feed alone.
Constantly eyeing remaining energy, he grew more anxious. Sweat streamed down his face: drop by drop. Helmet screens fogged with vapor. Visibility zero. All blurry, but no room for error.
The explorer stared
ahead. Ominous sounds reached his ears.
Someone rummaged a distant blockage, dropping heavy items, tossing aside, digging anew, clacking legs.
What? Dropping?
The archaeologist glanced at his feet: they stood firm on the floor. Gravity returned. He'd utterly missed it.
"Oh God."
A strong vibration rippled the ship from a powerful, taut impact. The archaeologist swallowed but continued cutting on energy remnants. Though the laser beam thread-thin.
A second identical heavy strike, third.
Thundering neared. Skeletons' bones trembled. Something nearby detached and rolled. The archaeologist turned; through hazy outlines, one skeleton appeared shorter—minus a head at least. Returned to laser. Sensing something, lowered gaze and saw a bare human skull staring up between his legs. Empty sockets.
The cosmonaut turned uneasily to hermo-doors. Still there.
One suit sensor still functioned, beeping wildly. Thermal radiation surging. Incredibly fast.
Timer appeared. Processor finally calculated cut completion: two minutes.
Thundering reached doors and ceased.
Odd humming arose. Mysterious, swelling to a whistle, then akin to a jet engine roar.
The blast deafened, knocking him aside; unattended laser in hand extinguished. Energy charge—critical 2%.
* * *
The explorer opened his eyes. How long had he lain? Clocks dead. Hermo-doors buckled inward so much, a small slit revealed thick mechanical legs and the massive, long barrel of that very weapon he'd encountered in corridors.
But at the farthest point, where manipulator-legs met barrel, three red dots glowed. The spider settled comfortably. And just like the explorer, stared back.
The archaeologist rose clumsily, knelt, turned to wall, and resumed cutting remnants. Energy charge instantly dropped to 1%. All options, lights, lanterns off. Suit speakers relayed mounting hum anew.
Laser cutters sparked. The laser stream withered and vanished. The archaeologist's gaze froze.
"What? Eh? E-E!!!"
In desperation, kicked the incomplete plating layer. Impact force hurled him aside; he fell on his back.
Ignited engines—fuel-powered—accelerated, extended leg, struck again. Armor yielded; the fugitive plunged into space with the cut plating chunk. Debris and ventilation-generated air followed into the void.
* * *
Hum swelled to whistle; new blast shattered thick thermo-doors, one covering the square hole.
The spider entered the freed passage. Lifted the fallen door with barrel: where the crushed intruder should be, a straight-edged hole gaped.
The weapon's thick manipulator legs detached and, rumbling ancient mechanisms, reached out...
* * *
The archaeologist hurtled toward his ship. Personal maneuver engines at full.
Soon, he vanished inside his vessel. Dove into his favorite chair, switched to manual ship control. Deftly selecting options, habitual presses on quick hyper-start buttons without warmup.
On the broad screen over the control panel, lines blinked:
Shield activated
Grav-engines warmup bypassed
Cold start
Nozzle purge...
External view camera connected and displayed top-right
Image appeared: ancient death-tripod settling comfortably, thrusting barrel with energy accumulators through hole into space, but realizing aim at fugitive impossible, retreated inside.
"Bypass cold start. Emergency launch."
"Sir, are you sure?" An obsequious male voice intoned. "This risks navigation failure and myriad ancillary systems, may damage—"
"Sure!"
The explorer's glossy black ship slowly pivoted toward arrival vector.
Cosmic vacuum cleaved by thick red beam with orange coils.
60% Shield
20% Shield
Impact successfully blocked
11% Shield remaining
The archaeologist donned magnetic harnesses, buckled at chest center, forming a peculiar X.
Engines lowed. Plasma breath swelled in nozzles. Energy fireflies swirled at ship's rear.
New death beam lanced straight at the archaeologist. Camera feed tinted with shot's hue. Planetary remnants, civilization crumbs, wars—all stretched through millennia to him. The cosmonaut squinted. Stars merged into oncoming lines; coiled shot pierced void, embedding in rocky titans.
The ancient weapon's muzzle ceased heating. Silent space outside blackened as ever, as if nothing occurred.
Muzzle retracted inside. The tripod vanished into the ancient spaceship's dark corridors. Hollow heavy strikes echoed through halls.