“CONUNDRUM.”

“Conundrum doesn’t describe this ship. Primitive tubes, advance microchips and no—” She runs her hand over the door. “You ever touch the carapace of a turtle?”

Hauser slips the glove from his hand. It’s wrinkled from the same burn surrounding his missing left eye. He thumps the metal, receiving the echo of a porous surface. “Boney.”

“Comprised of keratinous scutes,” Doug scans.

“Then it is organic,” Amye says. “No species able to develop organic tech would still use vacuum tubes.”

“Pointless to scan for life since organic tech’s corporeal,” Hauser says.

“It doesn’t mean you lose salvage rights, just that you have to manually inspect the entire ship before you file a claim,” Amye says. She palpates with her fingers over the convex shell. She jabs her knife into the center spinal ridge. She splinters sections of bone to expose dermal plates. “The IMC experimented with organic tech to create oxygen for deep-surface miners.”

“For an IMC Second Class Technician, you know a great deal of IMC procedures,” Hauser says.

Amye whips around, blaster in hand, only to be met by Joe’s grasp. “Calm. Once Scott enables the transporter, leaving won’t be feasible if confirmation of life is undetermined.”

“If we don’t break the door seal, the craft keeps right on drifting and we have Maxtin send a recovery team to investigate. We move on and find William.”

“Recovering my sword brother does not negate our obligation to any survivors this ship maintains.”

“They were fine before we came along and will be fine after we leave,” Amye says.

“We don’t even know if we will be able to locate Reynard,” Doug says. “We help whoever is here. Maybe make up somewhat for the lives we screwed when we followed Ki-Ton’s secret plan to discredit us.”

“I followed orders. None of us knew the politician was secretly working against the Mokarran,” Amye snaps

Shoot him.

“Ki-Ton created patsies. Those choices are unchangeable, but Doug’s correct. We should help when possible.”

Amye jabs the clawed end of the Halligan tool into the silky substance encasing the door edge. “This isn’t healthy.”

Greenish-black mist hisses from the puncture. She uses the chiseled end to drive the door into the grooved wall.

Doug shines his headlamp into the chamber as Joe assists in pushing open the door.

Silky goop encases the inside corridor. The invasion of air curdles much of the substance nearest to the entrance.

Doug holds his handheld scanner near the congealing floor substance. “Organic.”

Amye doesn’t need a scanner to determine that the bubbling substance lives. “Will it damage our boots?”

“I’m a communications expert. Not a biologist.”

“Explain,” Hauser says.

“It’s a substance similar to the silken cocoons a caterpillar would secrete to protect itself as a chrysalis,” Doug says. “Why ask about your boots?”

“An organic status chamber designed after a butterfly. As much as I want to remind you how insane you are, Douglas, it’s sensible,” Amye says. “It would explain the discrepancy in technology, especially if those in the chrysalis—”

“Came later, devouring the first inhabits of this ship, and are using it now to hibernate in.” Doug finishes her statement even if his version drips with paranoia.

“He needs medication as soon as we hire a real doctor.” Amye draws her index finger along the foam seal of the inner doorframe. “Certain butterflies spit an acid.”

“The species builders averaged about five feet in height.”

Amye doesn’t need Doug’s verbal confirmation. Her own nearly six-foot height has caused her to slouch to avoid bumping her head on the ceiling. Joe’s bending of his seven-foot stature must be uncomfortable, but the never-complaining warrior remains stoic.

“Doug.” She hates herself for asking, but she needs confirmation from another engineer type, and the Calthos warrior—master of combat—lacks training in technology construction. “Feel this.”

Doug runs his fingers along the seal. “It can’t be!”

“Explain, you git-minded draznot,” Amye demands.

“For an abandoned craft drifting in space for centuries, the organic seal compound would dry out. This has spongy texture, still moist.”

“A rubber sealant would be cracked and dried if your age estimates were correct. But a species with organic technology wouldn’t build a spacecraft with vacuum tube technology.”

“As they built this generation ship, they may have discovered it.”

“Following technology progression, it’s a major jump from vacuum tubes to living machines,” Amye says.

“Such technology discrepancy is not uncommon,” Joe notes.

“You only build a generation ship for two reasons: your species can’t master FTL travel because your planet lacks the menials to construct hyperspace engines, or your planet faces destruction and you want to save as many people as possible. I vote that, as primitive as this ship is, they had to escape a disaster.”

Fuzz lands on Doug’s shoulder. “There’s your smerth’n answer. If they were in the first stages of organic tech, they may not have had time to grow more than door seals.”

“To protect what? A generation ship was meant to be lived on like a floating city in space.”

“You expect to be stepping over bodies?” Hauser asks.

“Or interacting with the living,” Amye adds.

“A conundrum, Amye.”

One preventing us from finding William. With a dead civilization, this exploration would be over. Instead, these discrepancies demand further investigation. Australia will insist.

I owe Reynard my life.

I have to find him.

Amye ducks through the hatch.