Z-P-N-E-S drifted in, slowly docking with OBSIDIΛN-7.
Behind the armored airlock glass, dim signal lights flickered—red, yellow, blue—
as if the station was warning them, welcoming them, and threatening them at the same time.
The airlock opened with a sharp metallic breath.
Four combat servitor units, class G-RΔV, stepped inside the rusted ship.
Tall. Angular.
With long segmented arms shaped like surgical instruments—
but in truth, weapons mounted on legs.
Each unit was equipped with:
two plasma injectors,
a built-in directional discharge emitter,
a “cold manipulator”—a long restraint clamp for live cargo,
and a circular sensor eye rotating a full 360 degrees,
that almost seemed to whisper: you’re already dead, you just don’t know it yet.
They moved through the ship in silence—
like death that had taken a course in conflict resolution.
One of the servitors paused for a fraction of a second, scanning Zeros.
Its sensors flashed a warm amber light, then immediately went dark.
The unit stepped back—
as if it understood, instantly:
do not touch that one.
Blindy, on the other hand, was completely ignored.
Not even registered as an object.
The cargo was unloaded.
Cages, platforms, capsules, cryo-tanks—
everything moved along a well-practiced route.
Half an hour later, the entire procession moved across a massive glass corridor—
a suspended bridge, nearly a mile above the station’s core.
A servitor led the way, pushing a platform.
Behind it—second, third, fourth…
Blindy followed, constantly glancing around,
like he expected the floor to collapse beneath him at any moment.
Zeros walked last.
Silent. Steady.
Not a single unnecessary movement.
Beyond the transparent walls stretched a view
that could make an engineer weep—
and a bureaucrat climax.
Below them, level after level, descending into depth,
lay a vast circular production complex:
thousands of tiers arranged in a spiral,
hundreds of thousands of automated modules,
interconnected lines forming a single network—
like the vascular system of a mechanical titan.
On the lower levels, spider-like manipulators
with six articulated arms assembled machinery.
In the middle tiers, transport rails carried empty containers outward
and returned them filled.
Above, maintenance drones drifted—
small, cube-shaped “angels,”
armed with shock emitters.
Every table stood in perfect alignment.
Every conveyor was part of a larger geometry.
The entire place looked like someone had built a massive production line
out of an old Earth construction set—
only the creator had a deep, personal hatred for all living things.
Above it all ran a thick main cable, glowing with blue plasma light.
It pulsed like an artery,
casting long, stretched, inhuman shadows across the floor.
The station was alive.
Breathing.
Quietly vibrating,
like something monstrous inside it kept a hidden heartbeat.
They entered a vast laboratory hall.
The servitors rolled the cages forward without a word,
stopping at a marked zone on the floor:
"LAB RATS HERE."They lined the cages up neatly—
as if unloading cargo in a warehouse…
not delivering living beings to their deaths.
Then, without a sound,
they turned
and left the room.
One of them paused near the exit—
as if it wanted to ask something…
—but another immediately grabbed it by the head
and physically dragged it out,
having noticed Zeros watching.