There were three airlock hatches at each end, large circular affairs with chunky electromechanical locking rims. Precisely halfway down the chamber was a bulging hoop; the rotating seal to provide the Tyrathca with a pressurized transfer from the arkship to the spaceport. Now, its working fluid had evacuated, internal components were reduced to granular sculptures of their former selves; a technological cave etching.
Renato Vella squirmed into the chamber with jerky motions, knocking large chips of the wall material from the edge of the hole Samuel had cut. “Oh great, late era gloomy,” he pronounced. “They didn’t exactly go in for frills, did they?”
“I doubt a translator could even find an equivalent word,” Samuel datavised back.
The first serjeant was emerging from the hole, fracturing even more wall material as it came. There was an almost identical hole a third of the way round the wall, slightly larger. A matching opening had been made next to one of the airlocks at the ship end of the chamber. Samuel’s gauntlets gripped the indentations in the desiccated sponge fabric, and he moved cautiously hand over hand towards it.
“This must be where the archaeology team cut their way in,” he datavised. “Wait. Yes.” The suit sensors showed him a small plastic box fixed close to the jagged rim by a blob of epoxy, narrow lines of red human lettering covered a third of its dark blue surface. “Some kind of communication block. There are several cables running through the hole.” He ordered his suit communicator to transmit a standard interrogation signal. “No response. I guess the power’s drained by now.”
“Shame,” Renato datavised. “It would have been convenient to have some kind of communication net in there.”
“We could probably power it up again,” Oski replied. “It’s only a century old, the processors will be fully functional.”
“Forget it,” Monica told them. “The bitek processors can keep us in touch with each other and
“We hope,” Samuel said. With the whole team now in the airlock chamber, his helmet lights refocused into wide beams. He grasped the edge of the old hole and pulled himself through.
The archaeology team had cut their way into a broad corridor that served one of the large jammed-up airlocks. It was a simple, square section shaft sliced straight through the rock, with the spongy hoof-grab fabric along the floor, and pipes fastened to both walls. He barely did more than look round, when Syrinx announced the presence of a hellhawk. She gave them a running commentary as the other team members emerged into the corridor.
“The
“For how long?” Monica asked.
“As long as possible,” Joshua replied. “Worst case, we fail completely. Their first ship should reach Tanjuntic-RI in fifty-three minutes—mark.”
“That’s no good. We won’t even have reached the second level by then.”
“I’ll swap with you any time.”
“Sorry, Joshua; that wasn’t a complaint. How did that hellhawk know we were here?”
“Probably followed us from the antimatter station,” Syrinx said. “It wouldn’t be too difficult.”
“Thank you, Captains,” Samuel datavised. “We’ll try to be as quick as we can.”
“If things get too hot, let us know,” Joshua replied.
“We’d better get on,” Samuel told the team. “Every minute of lead time could be indispensable later.” He ordered his backpack to fire the cold gas jets, and slid easily along the corridor to the first big airlock. Monica triggered her own backpack, and glided after him.
The corridor flared out around the airlock, which was a typical example of Tyrathca engineering: a square of titanium four metres in diameter with rounded corners, edged with locking seals, thick, sturdy, and reliable. And vacuum welded into place. The archaeology team had solved the egress problem by cutting out a metre-wide circle of metal from the Tyrathca slab and installing their own airlock. It was a simple mechanical hatch with frictionless hinges and seals. A chrome handle was half-recessed in the middle, with standard operating instructions stencilled beside it.
Samuel secured himself and pulled the handle. His armour’s power augmentation barely kicked in to help. The handle slid up, and rotated ninety degrees.
“One up to human engineering,” Renato datavised as Samuel pushed the hatch inwards.
“Not really,” Oski datavised. “It’s our materials science that makes the difference. The hatch was designed for longterm vacuum exposure. Their airlock was built with regular maintenance services in mind.”
There was another corridor identical to the first on the far side of the airlock. One of the serjeants shut the small hatch after them. This corridor also ended in a big titanium airlock, with an identical human hatch inserted. Samuel pulled the lever up. Before he could attempt to push the hatch open, his suit sensors advised him of an environment change. “It’s venting,” he datavised. “Very small nitrogen release, minute contamination. Pressure must be equalising.”
“Open it,” Monica datavised. “There can’t be any real atmosphere in there. We’re wasting time.”
Samuel gripped one of the titanium spars with one gauntlet, and pushed with the other. The suit’s power augmentation whined on the threshold of audibility. A whirl of silvery dust scooted around Samuel’s armour as the hatch flipped back.
“Just how many of these corridors are there?” Renato asked as he air-swam through, only to be faced with yet another blank rock shaft. His inertial guidance display showed him it was inclined slightly, heading away from the rotation axis. Though there was still no appreciable gravity.
“This is the last one, according to our file,” Samuel said.
The airlock at the far end had a human hatch in it; there was also a small plaque.
HIGH YORK UNIVERSITY
ARCHAEOLOGY EXPEDITION OF 2487
We respectfully offer our tribute to the generations of Tyrathca who ventured forth in this vessel.
In this place we have stumbled through the remnants of greatness, eternally thankful for the glimpse of nobility they reveal.
Though the Tyrathca have no god, they are clearly not devoid of miracles.
Renato floated over to the silvered plaque after Monica moved aside. “Well that’s a nice way to start,” he datavised. “The archaeology expedition never found any reference to a Tyrathca god.”
“We knew that already,” Oski datavised. “Besides, I doubt they were looking. The only memory files they accessed were in the systems management architecture. We’ve got to go a lot deeper than that to find anything useful.”
Samuel shifted his sensors from the plaque to the hatch. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like a grave robber.”
“There have been worse assignments,” Monica datavised. “For you as well as me, I suspect.”
Samuel didn’t reply. He grasped the hatch’s handle and pulled up. This time there was a significant gas vent.
“This is it,” Oski datavised. “We’re in. Terracompatible nitrogen oxygen mix, several trace gases. Three per cent standard atmospheric pressure. No water vapour content. Guess it’s too cold. Registering thirty degrees below zero.”
“Checks with the file,” Monica confirmed. Samuel pushed the hatch open and glided through.
The archaeology expedition had spent six weeks exploring the interior of Tanjuntic-RI. Given the timescale, it could hardly be thorough. But the main sections were all mapped, allowing the nature of the arkship’s engines and environmental maintenance mechanisms to be inspected. Tanjuntic-RI was arranged in three principal levels. Along the rotation axis were three long cylindrical chambers six hundred metres wide. Each contained a shallow
