In the Black Spaces

013: Battery

Wraia's mind roiled in disgust and she took a step back, fighting down the urge to be sick. Even through the distortion of the resin lattice, she knew he was dead. The body completely emaciated, its skin sinking back against the bones. The Manticore's commanding officer had been reduced to a lifeless husk.

"Bastards," Mayeda hissed through gritted teeth. "Is... is he...?"

"No life signs," Zellars whispered.

Wraia wanted to break something. Her free hand curled shut tightly around the grip of her side-arm, as she fought to reign in her anger. Whoever – whatever – had built this place had abducted thousands of human beings, and stuffed them into these pods to be sucked dry. Farmed for... something. It was barbaric, but coldly calculated at the same time, done with a horrific precision of purpose.

"Why would they do this?" Zellars breathed, moving to the next pod in line, shaking her head in disbelief.

Whitlock clicked her tongue, peering closer at the resin. "Human bodies give out a lot of energy. This tech looks sort of... organic. Maybe it's some kind of siphon?"

"You're telling me they turned human beings into some kind of battery?" Wraia hissed.

"I...err, it's just a guess, ma'am."

"Our people," Prallas thundered suddenly. "They are here. Somewhere."

"There must be other chambers. Chambers fitted with your air." Wraia spun to face him. "Go. Some of your people may still be alive. We'll stay here and deal with ours."

Prallas dipped his head once, then snarled an order to his guards so rapidly that the translator bleeped with an error, unable to keep pace. The squad of heavily armoured warriors formed up behind their leader and plunged off into the depths of the station, their heavy footfalls echoing through the chamber.

"You think they'll find survivors?" Mayeda asked.

"Narvorians are tough," Wraia replied begrudgingly as she swung her torchlight back over the line of pods. "I wouldn't bet against them." She gave him a nod. "Keep looking. I want every single one of these pods checked."

She moved away from the grisly visage of Captain Ackerman, trying to beat down her emotions and tackle this problem logically, just like the academy taught her. Follow the facts, follow the rules and procedures.

Wraia almost laughed at herself. There were no procedures that accounted for what they'd found here. Within another pod she found a robed Myrr-Idol colonist, then a naval deck guard from the Manticore, all dead and husked, just like Ackerman. She wondered how long they'd been like this. How long had she been chasing people who were already dead?

Torches flickered in the half-light of the pods, dark figures moving back and forth, from coffin to coffin. A grim quiet settled on the landing party, their footsteps clumping dully about the rocky ground.

"Commander!" Whitlock shouted suddenly, having worked her way almost to the far end of the chamber. "You'd better take a look at this."

Wraia whirled around as fast as her suit would allow. "What?"

"I think I've got a live one here."

She was moving in an instant, leading the thunder of booted feet down the bay to where Whitlock stood, her torch shining into another of the gnarled resin cocoons. Inside she could see a dark-skinned man in an ensign's uniform, his body almost as thin as Ackerman's. His chest, however, was rising and falling feebly, clinging to life for a few more precious moments.

Instantly, Wraia's hand flew to her earpiece.

"Launch-1 to Cobra, Launch-1 to Cobra," she barked. "Lieutenant Gallacher?"