Valentine had been wheeled into a small room that looked more like a virologist lab with the high powered microscopes and test environments in it, but just as clean and sterile. “That’s it?” He asked, seeing the small tube, no more than an inch long, though admittedly thicker than an immunization vial. Coppersmith raised her eyebrows at that. “I don’t want to do the math right now, Sergeant, but this is the largest concentration we’ve used. Ever.” she flicked on a camera and angled it at Valentine.

“Oh.” Valentine said, wishing he hadn’t said anything and eyeing the camera. “How many?”

Coppersmith snorted. “Like I said, I don’t want to do the math. Ready?”

In answer, Valentine held out his good arm, the one they had decided on, and Coppersmith swabbed the area, then pierced Valentine’s skin with the syringe expertly. It hurt a good bit more than an immunization did too, or a standard blood draw. Slowly, the vial emptied, and it felt like his arm was swelling to an unnatural side.

“Try to stay calm, please, Sergeant.” Coppersmith said.

“I am calm.” Though the vitals monitor showing his heart rate indicated anything but calm. He glanced up to Coppersmith. “On the subject, this is the calmest I’ve ever seen you, Artisan.”

“Coop, please.” Coppersmith said. “And it would be. I’m no great shakes at talking to brass or giving briefings. Even an unexpected conversation makes me jittery. Here I’m fine.”

“I never understood that.” He looked to see Coppersmith’s raised eyebrows. “You run into a lot of smart people where I come from, but it always seems like you smart people don’t know very much about simple things sometimes.”

The vial finished emptying and Coppersmith held a bit of gauze over the area. “Do you feel comfortable here?” She asked.

“I mean…” Valentine looked around the room. “It’s clean and organized. I’m used to arms rooms and equipment storage though. Making sure my guys are ready to go and squared away for a mission more than anything.”

“How about this,” Coppersmith said, seating herself in a rolling chair. “If I were to put you in a room with all of my research, tools, equipment, notes, all of it, would you feel very comfortable?”

“No.”

“And if I were to hand you a weapon, would you feel comfortable.”

“Sure. Everything from knives to APES and mortars, or other heavy weaponry.”

“What is your speciality?”

“Carbine.”

“Hard ammunition or electronic charges?”

“Either.” Valentine shrugged. “It’s all the same.”

“Why do you think you’re that comfortable then.”

He shrugged. “I spent years working the basics, going over assembly, disassembly, firing techniques, marksmanship, MOUT training, boarding tactics, field movement and emplacement, extraction, patrol movements.”

“So, a warfare situation would be comfortable for you, then?”

“Warfare isn’t comfortable for anyone, Coop. Am I supposed to feel itchy on the inside?”

“I’ve never had a subject tell me before.” Coppersmith said, dryly, and looked down at her tablet, making some notes. “Keep me updated. But you would feel…” She thought about what word to use. “Like it was familiar.”

“I guess.”

Coppersmith smiled, and Valentine realized it was probably the first time he had seem a real smile from her, not a nervous or fake one. “I’ve spent years alone in rooms with nothing but microscopes and failed attempts. I talk mostly to myself, and few else. I have practice. Being alone with my work also feels familiar, and right now, Sergeant,”

“Val, or Jack. At least right now.”

“Jack.” She smiled again. “Right now, you are my work.”

“Well shit,” Valentine said, putting back his head. “You know how to make a man feel at his ease.”

“You should be. There’s nothing in this world I love more or care about more than my work. Are you still itchy?”

“Yes.” He said at once. “But it feels like I’m itchy on the inside.”

“Lines up with my hypothesis.” Coppersmith made another note. “There will likely be pain, Jack. I have something for it, and can administer it now, if you’d like. If you’re willing, however, I would like you to stay with me as long as you are comfortable for research purposes.”

“This is where I become the lab rat.”

Coppersmith sighed. “I’ve always hated it when subjects call themselves that during human trials. We smart people don’t usually care if the rats die. Not really. It only seems like that because if they survive, it means we did something right. Or at least didn’t do something horribly wrong.”

“What’s the difference here?” Valentine eyed her. “I’m your work.”

“I’m here for a reason, Jack.” She looked at him eye to eye. “I did care if the rats died.”

That hung in the air for a while as Coppersmith went through some more notes and went to cabinet, taking another syringe and setting it aside. Valentine just tried to focus on not scratching the spreading itch that was reaching his shoulder now.

“How bad will it hurt?”

To this Coppersmith reached out and gave his hand a small squeeze. “Very badly.” She said softly.

“I’ve dealt with pain before.” He said, not intentionally trying to steel his face but failing all the same.

“Soldiers…” Coppersmith said, with a little shake of her head.

The itch was spreading to his belly now, and for the first time Valentine felt a sudden stab of panic, or wrongness.

Coppersmith glanced at the vitals. “Jack?”

“It’s just weird.” He gritted.

“Pain?”

“No.” He snapped. “Weird. I’ve got little things inside me, and they’ve got an agenda.”

“That agenda is to help you.”

“I fucking know that Coop, but I’ve been raised all my life to believe that nanites are someday going to evolve and kill us all. Now I’ve got the little fuckers all throughout me. Feels like worms.” He glanced at her. “I assume.”

“What kind of worms? You assume.”

Valentine felt his shoulders fall. “Pinworms.” He muttered. “When I was a kid.”

“One of the rust stations?”

“No.” he said, fully intending to leave it there. But for some reason, he didn’t. “Station R.”

The sensation of Coppersmith’s eyes going wide was weirdly augmented behind her glasses. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He said brusquely. “Do the math on that one.”

She stared at him for several moments while the uncomfortable itch made its way to his thigh. “Well, you weren’t anything but a petty criminal, if you were one at all.”

“I was eleven when the station went down.”

“A refugee, then.” She said.

“Yeah.”

“You came with your parents?”

“No.” He said, closing his eyes. “I came with no one. And I shouldn’t have come at all.” The memories he so often worked to keep locked away were suddenly front and center in his mind.

Coppersmith didn’t press him, but glanced at her tablet. “They’ll begin assessing the effected areas in about ten minutes, once they get to your other arm.”

“Why haven’t they gotten there, yet? And why haven’t they gone up my neck?”

“They won’t start working on your burns until they’ve assessed the more critical damage.”

“Are they… going to go into my brain?”

“Yes.”

Another stab of panic lanced through him, but he fought to keep it under control. He should have known that, it would have been common sense. But the fear hammered through him all the same, and Coppersmith's eyes flicked again to the vitals. This time, however, she didn’t say anything. Pressing a button, Valentine felt the bed he was on lowering until it was on ground level.

“I’m going to leave for just a moment.” She said, and did. When she returned she was white faced and both her hands were trembling violently, but they held a long leash. At its end was the black lab Triss, her tail wagging at the sight of Valentine.

“Uh, Coop?” Valentine said, his eyes going from the dog to the trembling Artisan. “Won’t it be a little hard for you to work when there’s a big ferocious mutt here scaring you shitless?”

“Triss is a below average specimen.” Coppersmith said, her voice a little higher than it had been before she left. “And she is purebred. As for your observation, my duties here are largely observational. My work needs her, I think, far more than me at the moment.” She unclipped the leash, and the dog wiggled her way gently up to Valentine, and licked his hand gently. Then she lay down next to him, and Valentine sank his fingers into her black fur, closing his eyes. There was a sharp pain below his knees where his legs should have been. “Thanks, Coop.”

“Please, please, please,” She said. “Don’t mention it.”

“It’s starting to hurt now.”

“I can see that.” Coppersmith said, her voice beginning to return to normal. “Would you like to be sedated?”

“No.” He said at once. “Not yet.”

She eyed him. “It will take some time for the suppressant to work, Jack. My recommendation--”

“Is noted.” Valentine said through gritted teeth. Triss whined softly and scooched a little closer to him.

Coppersmith nodded and seated herself again.

“Why nanites?” He asked, the pain receding for a moment.

Coppersmith didn’t answer at once, her eyes fixed on the dog. Triss thumped her tail once. “Because I cared about the lab rats.” The Artisan said. “And I saw what the field could be, instead of what everyone else wants it to be.”

“Yeah?”

“Most of my colleagues, before their careers became in jeopardy for studying the topic, were all caught up in the old ideas of nanotechnology. That nanites could be infused into a person to give them extraordinary powers, the ability to read minds, survive mortal wounds, shred themselves to bits while retaining their form and teleport to another location.”

“You mean all that’s impossible? Well fuck, Coop, why the hell am I here then?” He tried to smile as another, more intense pain shot through his legs.

She gave him a long suffering smile. “Possible? Some of it is theoretically possible. In many, many years, and even then the idea that they could make humans into…” she let out a short little huff of breath. “Space wizards, or some such utter nonsense is preposterous.”

“What about regular wizards?”

“Sergeant Valentine.”

“All I’m saying,” He gasped out. “Is that colonizing the Jovian System seemed impossible not too long ago, and I’m orbiting Titan right now.”

“Are you quite sure,”

“Yep.” Valentine said, needing to release his grip on Triss’s fur. “Fuck off.”

The worried look on Coppersmith’s face remained as she answered. “It is true that theoretical technology usually becomes less theoretical when exposed to nerds with more ambition than sense and more time on their hands than what’s good for them, but still.” She spread her arms. “Space wizards?”

Valentine looked up at her. “I’m getting my goddamn legs regrown by cell sized robots. And I’m in an absolute fuckload of pain, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t have to suspend my belief far. And why the fuck do you still wear glasses?”

“If you stare through microscopes for as long as I have--”

“I figured that was why you looked like Dr. Farnsworth, why do you still wear them, though? They gave Zigzag a whole new eyeball, I’m sure they could hook you up.”

“They’re my eyes.” Coppersmith said, her tone a bit incensed. “Mine.”

“Rich.” Valentine squeezed his eyes shut, unable to string together words for a moment.

“The pain will only get worse and more consistent.” Coppersmith’s voice was a panicked rush now. “Please, I don’t know if your heart will be able to handle the strain.”

“It will.” Valentine snarled. “Or it fucking won't.”

“You’re not proving anything to anyone.”

“I am.” He said, trying to regulate his breathing.

Triss whined again and nudged his hand. There wasn’t a lot he could do, now that the pain was starting to creep up his neck. There was a sound down by his knees, but he didn’t look. Coppersmith was on her feet, hunched over a screen set into the counter, but to Valentine that didn’t mean anything. The world around him was starting to go white, and his heart thundered along in his ears. His brain felt like it was swelling well past the point that his skull would be able to contain it, and now his legs felt the way that splintered wood looked.

Leaning up, he swept aside the blanket covering him.

“Sergeant Valentine!” Coppersmith yelled, but now all Valentine could do was look. His bones were sticking through the skin that had been mended to keep him from bleeding to death, flesh was rending in front of his eyes as they ripped through. But the blood didn’t flow, the angry red strips of flesh just hung there. Tendons, muscles, he could see it all.

Two points of pressure were applied to his chest, and Valentine felt himself slam back down into the bed. He looked up into the chocolatey brown eyes of Triss the lab. There was concern, sorrow there. And understanding.

“Coop,” Valentine gritted out. “Fucking stop the pain.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth by the time he felt the needle. It didn’t hurt, not compared to what he was going through, but he felt the needle slid in somewhere on his chest. The next minutes were the worst while he stared down Triss’s muzzle. Her brown eyes never left his and her ears were up and attentive. He stared at her until the whole world went from white to black.

When it returned it was in a swimming, blurry haze. Some words were said to him that he couldn’t quite understand and there was a steady thump thump thump on the ground. Hands gently gripped the side of his face and supported his head. Coppersmith’s white face came into focus.

“--are you feeling?”

“What?” Valentine accidentally screamed.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m underwater!” He yelled again.

“Well, you’re not. Are you in any pain?”

“No I--” He froze. The absence of pain hit him hard, and he looked around. “No.” He said, fighting to keep his voice down. “No, I’m not in any pain.” The blanket had been replaced over him sometime after he had gone under.”

“Well then, that’s a start.” Coppersmith released his head. “What are you feeling?”

“Uuuh…” Valentine thought for a moment, but there was a weird chittering sound somewhere deep back in the recesses of his mind. Effects from the drugs no doubt. “Nothing, I just…” He flexed his hands and wiggled his toes experimentally.

Then he froze again. And wiggled his toes again. Ripping off the blanket, he looked down at his legs. His legs with the same dark flesh he had always had, smoother than they had ever been before, but still his. “They’re back.” He croaked.

Coppersmith looked almost as delighted as he felt. “They are back. It was fascinating to watch. And a complete success. Since you’re the first human participant, you--”

Reaching up, Valentine grabbed her and pulled her down into a bone cracking hug. Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes as he held her. “Thank you, Coop.”

Coppersmith patted him gently. “I’m glad it worked. But oxygen is still necessary for my brain to continue working, so…” She gasped as Valentine released her. “As I was saying, you’re going to need to be in my pocket for a while so that I can make sure that everything is going as expected. There’s no reason for it not to,” she said quickly. “But you’re the first. And I want to make sure that everything goes smoothly for the next while.”

Valentine received a slobbery kiss from Triss and nodded. “Whatever you need, I’ll be around.”

“Excellent. Would you like to try out your new legs?”

Allowing Coppersmith to help him to his feet, Valentine stood. And he did stand, without faltering or losing his balance. “I thought that there was supposed to be some adjustment.” He said.

“You spent most of your years with legs and only a short time without them.” Coppersmith shrugged. “Not much of a reason for you to need to adjust at all.”

“I guess not.” Valentine said as he dug a finger in his ear. “That chittering. Normal side effects of the stuff you put me under with?”

Frowning, Coppersmith made another note on her tablet. “No. But we’ll take a look at things in the next forty-eight hours.”

Valentine nodded. “Can I go?”

“Absolutely. I’ll be in contact for the details of your check up.”

He went to go, and there was a soft whine behind him. He turned to see Triss, seated with her ears up in a questioning way. “What about her?”

Coppersmith edged away from the dog. “Err, what about her?”

“Can I take her?”

“Please,” Gasped Coppersmith. “Oh, please, dear god yes.” And she tossed the leash to Valentine, who caught it and whistled two short notes. Triss leaped up and followed him from the room, her tail wagging furiously.

--

The fluent and solid line of profanity told Martin all he needed to know when he entered the maintenance bay. There were a number of screens around a small alcove, two of which had been recently broken, and two tablets. Walking to where the craft was suspended, Martin saw the form of Benson surrounded by dangling wires, a tablet held in his hand as he continued swearing, now in a language that Martin didn’t know. He glanced up, and his tirade increased. It took Martin ten seconds or so to realize it was now directed at him.

“Ay, what did I do?”

“I don’t fucking know, what is there to do on that bigass ship of yours?” Benson slammed the tablet down and started shoving wires back into the portion of the craft he had been examining. “Three days, Zig, stuck down here in this fucking huge motherfucking box with nothing but dehydrated meals and an inoperational latrine.”

“Working on getting that fixed.”

“The longer it takes the much more unpleasant task you’re going to have on your hands.”

“Sorry I haven’t been down here.”

“Ah, fuck it.” Benson’s temper subsided as he fixed the plate back onto the underside of the craft. “It’s not you, it’s this fucking thing.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to start working till you had hands.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t make goddamn sense of the blueprints, which hasn’t happened in a minute, I don’t mind telling you, so I had to open it up and take a look for myself.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, and?” Benson said, giving the craft the bird. “It doesn’t make any sense the way this fucker is put together.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that by the schematics it shouldn’t stay in the air,” he held up a finger. “It shouldn’t be detectable by the current radar or satellite technology currently out there,” he held up another. “It should absolutely not be able to sustain long ranged inner, or outer atmospheric travel,” he held up a third, and fourth. “And the controls don’t make any goddamn sense. It’s like a fucking alien designed this thing.” Martin raised his eyebrows, and Benson threw up his hands. “Look, if he’s hiding an alien somewhere I quit. It wouldn’t surprise me, not even a little bit, but I am fucking out of here.”

“I’m sure you can tell him when he arrives.”

Benson adopted a mock worried tone. “The Admiral’s coming here? Screw it, I’ll tell him that from the looks of it now, I can’t get it up and running.”

“You know what he’ll say to that, though.”

“Something about the blinding capabilities of my abilities to understand the ins and outs of piloting and how we have nothing but time out here, I’m sure. But he fails to realize that I’m a pilot, not a flight mechanic. I usually have crews for this sort of thing. Understanding the guts of a ship is a lot harder than understanding how to keep it in the air.”

“You know that first hand?”

“I like flight crews.” Benson said. “I used to hang out with them picking their brains on the maintenance days while I was in flight school.”

“In between studying military law for fun and your military assigned classes?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself, sir. You want some dried peaches? Not bad actually.” Together the two men went back into the office area and Benson tossed a bag of the dehydrated fruit, and Martin munched as Benson cleaned his hands.

“Oh and also that thing doesn’t have fuel ports, energy cylinders, or any other means of powering itself on that I can see.” He said. “It’s like someone built half a spacecraft and slapped a really sleek shell on it. But I’ll be goddamned if I see how it got into that maintenance bay, short of a bunch of privates picking the damn thing up and carrying it.”

“Joe power moves mountains.”

“Sure, if you have an army of Joes. But you see any out here?”

Martin munched on another slice of peach. “Where did Neerson say this place was built?”

“I’m guessing in the foundries, which would make sense since it was originally intended to be a battery station.” Benson looked around. “Or so he said. There's nothing battery about this station, there's no harvesting ports or power conversion work stations.”

“How do you know that?”

“The whole place had its layout on the all access servers before Neerson made it disappear.”

“Did you download a copy?”

“No, I figured that kind of information wouldn’t be useful to us in the future. I also absolutely didn’t think the Admiral would pull it as soon as he realized that it was up there.”

“Smartass.”

“Yes I downloaded it.” Benson went to one of the terminals and a screen on the wall winked to light. “A good bit of it is still unmarked, but the mapping is still there.”

Martin poured over the basic passage blueprints and noted where the places were unlabeled and otherwise unmarked. “Z-wing. And here.”

“Yep.” Benson said, grabbing the bag of peaches.

“Discussing the layout of the station, Gentlemen?” Neerson’s voice came as he strode into the office. He was dressed in a duty uniform with a small messenger bag hanging from one shoulder. “I see you took advantage of the hour I was unaware of its accessibility.”

“Sir.” Benson said, nodding. “Do you have company on this trip?”

“No, Captain, your usual wit may remain unchecked.”

“Thank god. Yeah, I downloaded it. Anything we should know?”

“Very little at this point. Commander Macintosh’s predecessor was at least prudent enough to scrub the more politically sensitive areas. Should you have questions of the vague and unobtrusive variety, I may feel myself divulgent.”

“I thought you said there wasn’t anything we needed to know, Sir.” Martin said, frowning at the blueprints again.

“The difference between what you need to know and what you can know is quite expansive, Commander.” Neerson said, seating himself in a squeaky rolling chair and setting his bag on the desk. “This is something your brother knows better than anyone I’ve known.”

“He did always have a head for connecting the dots.”

Neerson turned his eyes on Martin. “It is precisely that Matthias Ziggenbor understands that it is not the dots but understanding how, what, and with what, they are connected, that makes him formidable.”

“Not a word I’m used to being associated with him.”

“Become accustomed to hearing it attributed to you three brothers soon enough. Your window is closing, however.”

“This.” Martin pointed to five rooms sequestered behind what he assumed were large vaulted doors. Past those there were three standard work bays and what looked like a small medical room. “What’s this?”

“The nanotechnology research and application department.” Neerson nodded. “Those barriers are something past airtight security. While activated they are exposed to the vacuum of space, should any of the experimental variants escape.”

Shuddering, Benson turned away and muttered something under his breath, but Martin looked at the Admiral. “Application, sir?”

Neerson held his gaze, and nodded once.

“You talk about them like they’re some kind of virus being created.”

“In case and point,” Neerson said. “That’s what the very first nanites were based on. Viral strains of the most basic variety. Artisan Coppersmith knows more about it than my rudimentary understanding.”

“Is that why Sergeant Valentine was brought here sir?”

“Indeed. He underwent a procedure this morning that resulted in total restoration of his injuries sustained on Mars.”

“What?” Benson whipped around, his eyes wide. “With nanites?”

“Yes.” Neerson said, sweeping his gaze to Benson. “By his own consent. The procedure was a total success, and he has so far suffered no side effects that involve being able to shoot lightning bolts from his fingers or attain instantaneous translocation.” Neerson waited for a moment before concluding with. “Your friend is alive and well, Captain. When there is time, I’m sure you will be able to ask him all the questions you wish involving the ethical or moral misgivings he may or may not have had before his procedure.”

“At least he had a choice.” Martin said quietly. Both the other men turned to him.

“I believe your brother is coming to terms with the conditions surrounding his own circumstances, Commander.”

“Any way I could ask him that for myself, sir?” Martin said, trying not to let any of the anger that had been pent up over the last week or so bubble over.

Neerson nodded. “As soon as it is feasible for both you, I will arrange it, Commander. You have my word.”

“Sir,” Benson said, his fingers pointing up to a long hallway with smaller dead-end alcoves branching off of it behind similar barriers to the nanotechnology department. There was a look of concern on his face. “What are those?”

The Admiral didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at where Benson was pointing, but Martin was sure that Neerson knew what was indicated. “I would rather not speak in regards to that, just yet.” He said softly. “But I am sure that you will know in time.”

“Yes sir.” Benson said. “One more question?”

“Just one, and then I would like your report on the craft in the maintenance bay.”

“Sergeant Valentine you’re sure… you’re sure that he’s alright?”

There was a moment when Neerson looked like he chose his words carefully, before saying. “I believe he is mostly happy simply to have his legs back, Captain.”

“Yes sir.” And without so much as a pause, Benson went into a full on report on the craft hanging in the bay, only with slightly less colorful language than he had used with Martin. As he listened, Neerson folded his hands and placed them in front of his mouth, absorbing every word. When Benson finally stopped talking, he reached for his hydration bottle and swigged water. Martin thought about the report. He had picked up more than he had the first time, though Benson might have just volunteered more information since it was something resembling an official report.

“Yes.” Neerson said. “All of what you said is accurate.”

Benson frowned and blinked, looking to Martin and back to Neerson. “I don’t get it, sir.”

“See that it doesn’t become a habit.”

“I mean to say, could you explain what you mean by that?”

Neeron’s gaze was flat. “Do you have recommendations on how I can make my statement more clear, Captain?”

“The way it sounds is that you’re telling me this craft was designed with all those flaws. Was it built here to not fly and have any sort of fuel or energy source?”

“I don’t believe for a moment that the craft in question was designed to not fly. But you are correct in the manner that it should not be able to be. On all accounts, actually, though it is reassuring to hear it come from someone with your expertise, as it is.”

“I… see. Thank you?”

“Flight mechanics, you said?”

“That’s right.”

Neerson gestured, and stood. “I would say what I am about to tell you is classified above top secret, but as you should by and large be assuming that about everything you see and here, I won’t bother. Also it’s not strictly speaking on the record what I’m about to tell you, so by all technicality, it’s not classified at all.”

“Roger.” Benson said, his face growing more concerned.

“This craft was found adrift between Uranus and Neptune by the second, and so far final, manned deep space exploration group. Though its original charting is not known, the trajectory it was on was incoming on its way towards us.”

Martin had felt his breath go after the first sentence, his mind working wildly, but Benson said most insightfully, “Oh.”

“The Delta Model Classes put into circulation were reverse engineered from this craft. Each class attempted to iterate further upon the technology within.”

Martin found his voice again. “If this is all off the books, sir, how has it been able to be studied so extensively?”

“Teams of the most advanced RAE corps theoretical technology engineers specializing in experimental spacecraft design were rotated through. They are under the impression that it was designed as a sort of full scale model of wishful thinking by a very old, very mad scientist stationed out here when the station was first moved. They are also under the impression that he died shortly after it’s near completion, and that his paranoia led the vast majority of his research was lost in his biometrically sealed files.” Neerson’s eyes glittered. “All of them were intentionally led astray on this front, and all were rotated out before any could develop hypotheses on the true nature and origins of the craft.”

“Oh.” Benson said again. “All of this is remarkably unsettling, sir.”

“Were there any crew on board the ship, sir?” Martin asked, dreading the answer.

Neerson was quiet for a very long moment before he turned to Benson. “You’ve been inside the craft, Captain?”

“No.” Benson said. “I got the heebee jeebees when I tried.”

“I see. Should the heebee jeebees settle, you’ll notice, I am sure, the absence of any type of control terminal. It would appear that this craft was intended to be a long range reconnaissance device, though it appeared to have been devoid of power for quite some time before its interception.”

The other two officers digested this as Neerson went on. “I have found you some working hands, Captain. Three individuals needing to redevelop fine motor skills and get comfortable with their own bodies again.”

Benson raised his eyebrows. “Who, sir?”

“Sergeants First Class Valentine and Ziggenbor, and a Sergeant Rivers. Before their report I will have my newly arrived maintenance crews attend to your hygienic facilities and latrines, and proper foodstuffs sent to you.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Is there anything else you require of me, Gentlemen?”

“Is… that all you’re going to leave us with sir?” Benson asked. “Drop that bombshell on us and leave?”

Neeson inclined his head slightly. “I might be able to field a question or two, if pertinent to your ongoing analysis of the ship.”

“Well, you said the origins and nature of the craft. We have the origins, sort of, at least where it was picked up. What about the nature?”

“We have only highly educated supposition on that front, Captain, though I am sure that you will come to the similar conclusion I have if you put that considerable mind of yours to work looking at logic instead of blind assumption. If you do manage to ascertain the true origin of the craft, however, I will expect that report in person with a bottle of liquor between us.”

“I could use one of those right about now.” Martin said, rubbing his temples.

“One last question, sir.” Benson thought for a moment. “How do you know all this?”

Neerson considered the Captain, then the Commander. “The first deep space exploration group was civilian, authorized to satisfy some very smart, very ambitious scientists who set their sights on the Kuiper Belt and its mysteries.” He stood and walked for the door. “The second was a military mission, though it was kept quiet to all except the Nine. It was, in fact, one of the sitting Grand Admirals who personally commanded the mission. With him was a very young, very ambitious Lieutenant who, after bearing witness to the events, gained an entirely new outlook on the military necessity.” He nodded to each of them. “I will leave you with that, Gentlemen. Captain, the maintenance crew will be here within forty-eight hours. Commander, I have informed the First Officer of the Deterrence not to expect you for twenty-four hours, and that you were not to disturbed for anything but mission critical status issues.”

“Thank you sir.” Martin said a bit blankly.

“Take your time to process the information learned here tonight, Gentlemen. I leave it to your judgement whether you clue in the three I am sending you, but they are to be impressed upon the delicate nature of the matter. I will be in touch with both of you in thirty hours time.”

He made to leave, and Benson called, “Sir, your bag.”

Neerson turned, smiled, and departed.

When he had gone, Benson opened the back and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two appropriate glasses.

“Well, tonight went differently than I expected.” Benson said, pouring a generous measure of the drink into each glasses. He raised his own. “Cheers to the theoretical becoming the almost factual.”

Martin raised his own glass and drank. The burn did wonders to ease his mind from the numb shock he was feeling.

“Any idea what that hallway could be?” Benson nodded to the blueprint.

“Yep.” Martin said, drinking again. “That’s a cloning facility.”

Benson looked up sharply and stared at Martin before closing his eyes and draining his glass. “Nanites and clones and aliens. Oh my.”