Wasteland of flint

There was a faint clank as Parker's boots touched down on the metal skin of the exploration ship. Bandao landed a moment later, flanking the airlock, while the two Marines held back. From the viewpoint of the cameras on the two Company suits, Gretchen couldn't see either Marine, but she guessed they were covering the opening, weapons armed and ready.

'Checking lock diagnostics,' Parker said, his voice still light and cheerful. The camera view stabilized on the entry pad. All of the keys were dark. The pilot's fingers tapped on them experimentally. There was no reaction.

'Some emergency power is offline,' Magdalena commented, tail twitching. Parker echoed her a moment later. Bandao's camera shifted and a plate sealed with four spring bolts came into view.

'Stand by,' the gunner said. 'We'll try a manual entry.'

Despite surface pitting and a faint layer of ice on the shadowed entry plate, Bandao's quick fingers released all four bolts, then set the magnetized cover aside to adhere to the skin of the Palenque, and swung the unlock bar over in a smooth motion.

Gretchen heard a slight hiss from Parker as the airlock recessed. Puffs of vapor squeezed out of the opening door as Bandao cranked the locking bar around and the hatch swung inward, revealing a dark cavity only barely illuminated by a single amber light.

'I am entering the ship,' Parker said, only the faintest tremor in his voice. Gretchen blinked as the pilot's suit lamps swung to reveal the gleaming white and gray interior of the lock.

'No debris, no organic contaminates, no high-order radioactives,' Magdalena said softly into a voice log, yellow eyes glued to the environmental sensors relaying from the z-suits of the men in the lock. The brass-colored snout of Bandao's shipgun appeared at the edge of Parker's video feed, swung back and forth, quartering the compartment, then withdrew. 'Parker is inside the lock.'

Gretchen looked back at Hadeishi, still sitting in the command chair, watching quietly, his face illuminated by lights from his combat displays. He raised an eyebrow at Gretchen's formal expression. 'Chu- sa Hadeishi, Mister Parker has boarded and taken possession of the exploration ship Palenque, Company registry…' She read off the official registration and identification of the Temple-class starship. 'I would like to request the assistance of the Imperial Navy in recovery operations at this time.' She bowed politely and the captain returned the motion.

'Lieutenant Kosho,' Mitsuharu turned his head slightly. The executive officer was waiting with a politely interested expression. 'Please render all aid and assistance to the Company representatives in securing their ship and restoring power and environmental controls.'

'Hai, Captain.' Kosho touched her cheekbone, and began speaking to the two Marines floating outside the airlock.

'You may proceed with your recovery operation, Doctor Anderssen.' Hadeishi nodded politely to Gretchen. In the cameras, the two Marines entered the airlock as Parker and Bandao moved aside to let them handle the ship- side hatch. A second plate was removed, and the inner airlock opened slowly as Deckard operated the manual release bar.

Gretchen bent over the panel, watching a hallway slowly emerge into the light. Everything was very dark. She looked sideways at Magdalena. 'Atmosphere?'

'Clear,' the Hesht replied, though she was frowning.

'What is it?' Gretchen tapped open the ship frequency. 'Parker, hold up.'

The video feeds stilled, and Gretchen caught sight of two stubby black Marine shipgun barrels swinging up, pointing down the newly revealed passageway. Parker's camera shifted as he swung to cover the now-closed exterior hatch.

'There's…' Magdalena twitched her nose, claws tapping softly on the display. 'Mister Parker,' she growled, 'is your suit envirosensor working properly? Does it show green?'

'Yes,' Parker said a moment later. 'Everyone's does.'

Gretchen started to turn toward Lieutenant Kosho, but the little Nisei woman's fingers were dancing on her own panel, and Magdalena's array of v-panes and gauges suddenly doubled in number, showing the telemetry feed from all four z-suits. The Hesht frowned again, black lips curling back from white incisors.

'Ship air is very, very clean,' she said a moment later in a slightly disbelieving voice. 'I show barely any contaminants, no waste products, only a slightly oxygen-rich standard oxy-nitrogen atmosphere. Scattered traces of free carbon and hydrogen.'

'Dioxide levels?' Gretchen leaned over, searching out the air mixture readout for herself.

Magdalena waved a paw in dismissal, making the rows of bracelets on her wrists tinkle. 'Negligible. Couldn't grow a fern if you wanted to. It's like no one is aboard, and never has been.'

'All right. Parker, you're free to advance. Head for the bridge with all due precaution.'

'Ok…' The pilot edged out into the hallway, his helmet light swinging across mottled gray bulkheads and an irregular-looking floor. 'This is funny…'

While the observers on the bridge of the Cornuelle held their breaths, Parker moved to the base of the closest wall and knelt down. His hand – a little bulky in the z-suit – brushed along the baseboard. Bare metal under his fingertips gleamed and shimmered in clear white light.

'Discolored,' Bandao commented, 'like it's been flash-heated.'

'Yeah…' Parker's camera shifted again, and fine gray ash puffed up from the deck at his touch. 'Boss, could there have been a fire?'

'Huh.' Gretchen slumped back in her shockchair, biting her lower lip. 'Then where's the carbon scoring, the fire-suppression foam residue?'

Neither Bandao nor Parker had an answer. After a moment's pause, they pressed on.

Gretchen watched in silence, her frown steadily lengthening, as the four men moved forward along the main access passageway. Hatches revealing half-seen rooms drifted by. Everywhere, power was out, the ship dark and silent. When they entered what the ship schematic described as a crew common area just forward of the main lab ring, she opened the suit channel again.

'Parker, turn slowly. I want to see the whole room.'

The camera view panned, and Gretchen doubled the size of the v-pane and dialed up feed magnification. Parker's camera slid across tables, chairs, counter-tops, drink dispensers, refrigerator and synthesizer doors. 'Stop. Stop right there. Parker, do you see the door of the refrigerator?'

'Sure… What about it?' Parker's pistol could be seen on the bottom left of the screen, steady on the suspicious door. 'Looks like a refrigerator door. Must be the snacks locker.'

'Have you ever seen a ship fridge door that wasn't covered with stickers, leaflets, announcements, photos from home?'

Parker didn't answer for a moment, and his camera flicked back across the rest of the common area. 'There's nothing here,' he said, surprised. 'It's like they cleaned up the place and left or…o rthere was a fire and it burned up everything.'

'Made a very clean job of it then,' Gretchen said in a dry voice.

'More than that, look at this,' Bandao said, and his camera view drifted over to a food prep counter set into one bulkhead. Gretchen turned her attention to his display. There was a rack of chef's knives pinned to the surface on a heavy magnetic strip. She hissed in alarm.

The muzzle of Bandao's rifle touched the hilt of one of the knives. Where a heavy rubber or wooden grip should have enclosed the steel tang, there was nothing, only bare gleaming metal. 'This was a set of Hotchkiss cooking knives from New France, on Anбhuac. These models have walnut handles and surgical-quality blades. Very expensive.'

'Check the rest of the room,' Gretchen said, feeling suddenly cold. 'Check for anything organic, anything at all.'

'Nothing here either,' Parker said in a dead voice. He was standing on the bridge of the Palenque, one hand pushing the commander's chair back and forth. There was only a bare metal frame, lacking any plastic, leather or fiberfill. 'Everything's just…gone. This is creepy.'

Bandao's camera shifted, looking across the display panels of the command station. Like everything else, they were dark and mottled by heat. The gunner rapped the knuckles of his z-suit on the glassy plate. 'Aren't these touch-panels plastic? What about the corridor walls, the doors – aren't they plastic of some kind? Why were they just melted a little, and not destroyed completely?'