You fetch a fresh cup of coffee and return to the bridge while you midshipmen search through the third habitation dome. Like the first dome it is open to the atmosphere and deserted. However the same cervid skull motif appears on the doors of four separate apartments, the interiors of which have been subjected to fire. Not being arson investigators you and your crew can not say for sure weather the fires were intentionally set or not. The fact that none of them extended much beyond the burned out apartment means that the fires were contained quickly in any case.

The spire building of the third habitation dome took almost an hour to reach and open but does contain a large supply of tools in reasonable condition. None of them have any power left but Midshipman Huckle rigs them up to run off of the automaton's internal power supplies or the power pack of his own exo suit. The result is a trip of laser mining drills turned way down to cut through a door but not slag everything in the room beyond it.

It takes a further fifty three minutes of work cutting carefully at the door to the data archive spire before the feeds form the helmet cameras clear.

“That's the door open. Give it a minute to let the smoke clear and the slag cool.”

“Aff. Who do you think welded it from the inside?”

“I guess we'll find out one way or another. Up or down to data storage?”

“Up is usually human interface stations. Down below ground level would be data archives and backup power generation.”

“Up we go then. If there is someone still alive then they had to be commanding that holo projector from somewhere with a human interface device.”

You watch the feeds with rapt attention as your midshipmen head up the the spiral stairs. Each landing holds a ring of workstations in cubicles, each with an empty chair and a blank, dead screen. On the fifth floor there is the faintest indication of past use. The cubicle furthest from the landing is strewn with old scraps of paper, coffee mugs, a thermos, several instant-food packages, and dozens of MRE wrappers. One note is taped to the screen.

“'Time to push the speed of light tovarisch'? What does that mean?”

“I have not the slightest idea. It is clear someone worked hear for a long time after sealing themselves in, working on something they considered to be of great importance.”

“Four more floors to check if they went further up but I'd wager they went down to the data archives or power generators instead.”

“Aff. Up we go to complete the sweep. Then we head down.”

The top four floors proved empty, filled only with more dead and abandoned work stations, and your midshipmen head back down to the ground floor. The door to the stards heading below ground is also welded shut from the inside. It's only a civilian grade door and not a proper hatch and Midshipman Huckle has it cut open in mere moments. It crashes to the ground with a surprising amount of noise, bouncing down the spiral stars and taking a welding set with it.

“No one came back out then. Armor to the fore and keep your guard up.”

“Aff. Remember the rules of engagement.”

“Aye, but I'm expecting trap and corpses, not people. With the door sealed shut there can't have been more then a weeks worth of air left down here. And spacers never let themselves die from suffocation of starvation if they can help it. Drifting alone, a Flying Dutchman, is one hell of an unpleasant way to die.”

“So whomever came down here had a plan or another way out.”

“Remember the note upstairs? They had a plan.”

“But what did they plan?”

“Let's go find out.”

At the bottom of the stairs are two doors. One is marked data storage and the other is marked power generation.

“We move together here. Power generation first.”

“Aff. Lead on.”

Midshipman Huckle checks the door and then pushes it open with a boot. The result is anticlimactic. The door swings open to show thirteen generators sitting dead and rusted. The fourteenth has blown something open in her guts and is dripping rancid oil all over the ground.

“That's fresh.”

“Say again?”

“Not fresh oil. Fresh damage. I think we found the source of the power for that holo generator.”

“Impressive equipment to last four plus decades and then work at all without maintenance. Farm equipment takes lots of work to keep running. Especially the older equipment.”

“Not really surprised. If it's meant to go into space, it's hard to replace. Even government issued kit.”

“Despite being made by the lowest bidder?”

“Yup. If it's going to break, or get broken, in space you need to be able to fix it with what's on hand or have a spare. And the nearest spare not on your ship is three days away at minimum, more likely ten to twelve, and not very useful to you in the moment. So the specs tend towards reliable first, functional second, and appearance somewhere a light year or three behind.”

“Huh. I never really considered that. I work in logistics and I never really considered the sourcing part of the equation. I suddenly feel rather silly.”

“Took me a while to get that too. Didn't really sink in for me until I got hands on in training. Forty years idle is still pushing it though. This generator must have been on tick-over until we showed up, spun up to power the holo projector, and fried itself.”

“Aff. We had better grab the data cores then.”

“Right across the hall we go then.”

You lean forward in your chair in anticipation as the door to the data archive cracks open at the toe of Midshipman Huckle's boot. The room thus revealed is dark and filled floor to ceiling with rectangular metal racks containing rack-mounted computer equipment.

“Whoo boy, lot of old tech here. Pre molecular circuity miniaturization. I'm not seeing a central data storage node though.”

“Aff. You take the left side and I'll take the right.”

“No, we stick together. 'Never split the squad'. Modern data storage nodes are backpack sized, armored up, and with straps or handles for easy transport. But this is an older generation of tech in use here. What should we be looking for?”

“Same idea but bigger and bulkier. The one I recall from Dholma was about twenty years old and was the size of a human torso. A forty five or fifty year old model would be bigger still. Human sized I would guess. Coffin sized if I were to be morbid.”

“Plus the interface terminal of course. Ok, lets circle the room to the left and then check down the middle if we don't find it.”

You have to wait less then a minute before they find it.

“Night Horse to away team. What in the name of the Gods Below is the thing hooked into the front of the terminal?”

“A blue dress, bones, and a pile of cybernetics. Interface connectors hooked directly into the interface terminal and what's left of the skull. I've got a name-badge here too for one 'M. Fish'. Radiation counter is clicking pretty hard over the body here.”

“Aff. Let us not linger in this grave.”

“Aye. There should be manual release catches around the base. I have the left side, you take the right, and we'll get the automatons to carry it out of here for us.”