“They tried a manual override.” Gorgon glanced at the physical lever.
“Did it work… No, looks like it didn’t.”
As he spoke, Gorgon inserted the inspection tablet he’d brought into the main control maintenance slot. The screen went black for a moment, then a row of system diagnostics appeared.
“I’m in. Give me ten seconds.” Selin’s voice came through the communicator.
“You’ve got five.” Ulga clicked their tongue beside her, picking a fight.
“Then shut up. Maybe I’ll be faster.”
Jasmine didn’t follow them. She simply stood in the middle of the Bridge, watching the others.
The main screen finally lit up, first displaying a basic identification page.
Ship ID: SV-884 “Recovery IX”
Affiliation: Seventh Logistics Recovery Fleet.
Status: Local system diagnostics in progress
Selin skipped past it and dug straight into the bottom of the cache. After several failed logs, a new upload entry surfaced. Its title was cut off, only half visible, but still legible.
[Emergency Manual Log] Uploader: Ordnance Officer Buyanov
Authorization Level: Weapons Deck Supervisor/Manual Override Upload
Log Status: Interrupted/Not Fully Sealed
“Found it.”
Gorgon raised a hand, signaling Ulga to keep quiet.
The next second, a broken male voice, crackling with static, came through the Bridge speakers.
……
It was after the second main power cutoff that I decided to stop waiting for a response from the Bridge.
When I pulled the Weapons Deck power lever myself, the whole deck dimmed. I stood in front of the security mainframe, watching the last few signals on the console drop one bar at a time, and felt a little relieved.
Eleven seconds straight.
At the twelfth second, it lit up again.
I stared at the console and suddenly understood something.
As long as it remained on this ship, I’d never be able to make it stop.
I didn’t request authorization again or look for anyone to sign off on it.
I picked up a crowbar and went straight to B7 to pry open the isolation compartment.
That’s not how you do a standard dismantling. Standard dismantling has steps, a depressurization sequence, a team working together, anti-static layers, and isolation mats.
I had none of that. I had only a crowbar, a cutting tool, and a pair of hands that had already started shaking.
When I pried the Universal Computing Instrument out of the isolation compartment, I almost thought I was trying to lift a bundle of steel coils.
It was smaller than I’d expected, and heavier, too.
A black rectangular casing with clean, sharp edges, crossed on three sides by a dark red light strip that had gone out. Apart from the cables at the back, which had been cleanly cut, it showed none of the wear and tear you’d expect from something that had been through battle, salvage, and scorching. It was unnervingly quiet, as if it couldn’t possibly be responsible for all this.
I carried the thing straight to the hazardous materials disposal port.
The Weapons Deck lights had switched from white to red. The doors on both sides of the corridor began closing automatically, then locked again after I passed. The announcement continued, its tone terrifyingly calm.
- Weapons station at red alert. All relevant personnel, proceed to a safe area.
I knew there was no one left in the safe area.
The disposal port was on the Weapons Deck. It was normally used for failed munitions, high-risk components, and contaminated samples. A short corridor, an ejection shaft with two doors. As standard as it got.
I practically slammed it onto the load-bearing platform at the mouth of the shaft and yanked down the first manual door. Thankfully, the inner door opened.
The Universal Computing Instrument dropped into the short shaft. I pulled the inner door shut and immediately turned to crank the outer hatch release lever.
Finally, I was going to get rid of this thing.
But it didn’t move.
I cranked it again. Still nothing.
Only then did I notice the half-row of gray text still lit on the status panel beside it:
Outer Hatch Release Restricted.
Requires stable orientation/external clearance confirmation/local pressure differential calibration complete.
I stared at those lines, my chest tightening.
Under normal circumstances, this procedure was right. Confirm orientation, confirm clearance, make sure the hazardous material won’t get sucked back into the ship, then open the outer hatch and eject it.
But the whole ship was being taken over layer by layer by this thing. How was I supposed to wait for it to stabilize?
I grabbed the crowbar and smashed the lockbox beside the outer hatch release lever.
Once, twice, three times. I shoved half my hand inside and tried to pry the mechanical release arm.
It moved a little. Just a little.
The outer hatch still didn’t open. It wasn’t broken. It was still waiting for that damn confirmation procedure to finish.
Then I heard a faint scraping sound from the end of the corridor.
I didn’t turn around. I knew what it was.
The people in the logistics area might already be dead.
If I had another ten seconds, I might be able to force the hatch open.
But the security unit outside was faster than I was.
I couldn’t leave it here for the recovery team that came aboard later to take away.
I wouldn’t give it anywhere it could keep spreading.
The sound at the end of the corridor drew closer. I dragged it out of the short shaft and hugged it to my chest again. I turned and ran back, the gray lines on the outer hatch status panel still flashing at the edge of my vision.
I almost laughed. Everyone behind me was dead, there was no way out ahead, and it was still telling me to wait for confirmation.
When I charged back toward the main weapons control console, the first security unit had just entered the deck. It had stopped warning me. It simply raised its gun, preparing to eliminate me according to protocol.
I threw the thing on the ground and fired.
I hit it. The bullet lodged deep inside its main sensor, forcing it to recalibrate and buying me one more breath.
I don’t remember exactly what I did after that.
I stopped nearby, where there was an unusually thick reinforced structure. There was already an old seam along the edge of its casing.
I struck it hard with the crowbar several times and pushed with my shoulder, as if I were wrestling the whole ship.
Red lights had already come on behind me. I didn’t look back. I picked up the Universal Computing Instrument and shoved it into the crack.
The first volley hit the control console casing. Fragments and hot debris flew past my face.
I dropped to one knee, but my hand still pressed hard against the warped edge of the casing, as if I were forcing something that could crawl out on its own back inside.
By the time I finally pulled my hand away, all that remained was a crack slightly more noticeable than before, with a short smear of blood beside it.
If I hadn’t done it myself, even I might not have noticed the spot right away.
That was enough.
It had to rot here along with this ship.
I’m Ordnance Officer Buyanov of Recovery IX. I don’t know who else can hear this log, but if anyone does, believe me.
Do not dig out the thing recovered from X-17 and connect it to any system. Do not restart the weapons station. Do not take it off this ship. It should remain forever in the Debris Belt.