The Vault of Finished Goods
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Smorg thought about this.
«So the less I do, the more I help?» he brightened.
«You are close to grasping a great truth», Arma answered in his tone. «And may all the gods of the universe spare us from your revelations slipping into that very ‘insidious hole’!»
On the eleventh day, a minor gravity fluctuation occurred. Smorg was flung out of his chair onto the floor, and then hurled against the starboard bulkhead.
«So that is what it means to be a thought», he said, getting up with a groan and rubbing the bruised parts of his body. «You just fly along without knowing where or why, and with no certainty that, upon arrival, you’ll be welcomed at all.»
«A little more of this», Arma replied, with notes of cosmic exhaustion in her voice, «and I may start considering quietly dropping you off somewhere in the nearest peripheral worlds with a sign that reads: ‘Absolutely Not to Be Returned!’»
The twelfth day, strangely enough, passed in relative silence. Smorg sat by the viewport, gazing thoughtfully at the stars. At times he muttered something under his breath; at times he simply sat there, gripping the handrails, as if trying to hold on to that fragile barrier before all that awaited him.
«We are almost there», Arma reported. Her tone was gentle, almost quiet. It was as though she sensed that loud sounds would be out of place now.
The ship shifted smoothly into deceleration mode. A faint vibration ran along the hull; somewhere, a stabilizer clicked as it initiated corrective impulses.
«That used to be my home», Smorg said, without taking his eyes off the screen. «Surely something must still remain. We need to know… if anything at all is left.»
«We will find out soon», Arma replied.
A star-system silhouette flared into view on the projection display. At its center – the orange-amber star, Grennar. Around it – three large planets: Veltora, Trianna, and Veilid, and one small, frozen, tiny world – Unra.
Arma guided the ship slowly toward the second planet from Grennar, Trianna. Once, billions had lived there. Once, great cities had shone with light, and the skies were mirrored in waters filled with the living glow of biofluorescent depths.
Now, all was different.
«Course set», Arma said. «Trianna. Coordinates – sector 7-4. In your archives this region is marked as the ‘Primary Vault Zone.’»
Smorg rose with effort, as though each thought weighed more than his body, and nodded in silence.
Through the upper layers of the atmosphere, which from time to time wrapped the planet in a dense, dusty veil, Trianna appeared dull and grey. But once the Armaon passed through that outer shroud, an entirely different sight unfurled before them: the planet blossomed into a soft rose-tinted hue, with fine green veins of vegetation interlacing across its surface, all wrapped in a gentle haze of almost transparent clouds.
Smorg watched the screen without a word. There it was – his homeworld, the one he had observed for most of his life through the viewports of an orbital station, with no hope of ever setting foot upon it.
«Something must still remain», he whispered hoarsely.
He was silent for a moment, then added, as if to himself: «Even if nothing remains, I must go there all the same.»
Arma said nothing, merely reduced speed a little.
Chapter IV. Beneath the Ashen Layer
The landing platform, according to Arma’s calculations, was expected to be relatively even. For additional safety, she set the ship down upon a massive slab of blue granite. Climbing onto it from below would have been quite difficult, and that alone became one of the key arguments in favor of choosing this spot. A faint vibration passed through the hull, as if the planet itself beneath them did not wish to be disturbed again.
Smorg stood in the airlock, breathing heavily inside his helmet, though the suit was steadily maintaining pressure and oxygen flow. His gear was designed for expeditions – comfortable, reliable, providing both protection and long-term life support.
«Opening the outer hatch», Arma said. «Temperature is within norm. Atmosphere is suitable for breathing. No biosignatures detected. Of known lifeforms – so far only mosses, microflora, and pollen bacteroids.»
«Well, rather lively for a dead planet», Smorg muttered.
The airlock exhaled with a sigh, followed by a scrape of metal and the sound of wind. He gathered himself and stepped outside.
The suit’s braking modules and exoskeleton softened the impact as he jumped down from the granite slab. Dust rose around him. The ground beneath his feet was firm, yet had a slight spring to it. Something old, and possibly even technological, lay beneath this layer. He bent down, touched the surface with a gloved hand, and a grey-blue residue clung to his fingers, like ash, only with a metallic sheen.
«Are you detecting some kind of structure underneath?» he asked, addressing Arma.
«Scanners indicate at least three volumetric levels beneath you. There is something below those as well, but I can’t resolve it. The signal is being shielded. The entrance to the upper tier is most likely blocked or buried under debris. I am detecting localized power. At least part of the old system appears to still be active.»
«This may be what we’re looking for», Smorg said. «The pattern on these tiles is familiar to me.»
«And in what way, I wonder?» Arma inquired in the tone of a caring, attentive mother.
He hesitated for a moment, then replied with a slight stammer:
«Fragments of this ornament… were shown in the old schematics. I must have gone over them a thousand times while living on the orbital station, and even tried to make them out on the planet through telescopes.»
He took a few steps forward, slowly and cautiously, as if hoping the planet would notice him… and recognize him.
«When they were here last time… I went outside only for a moment… and then I stayed on the ship», he said quietly. «And now… I’ve come on my own.»
Arma did not reply. For a few seconds she analyzed the incoming signals, then issued a command to the airlock of the technical bay.
«Activating an escort droid», her voice sounded at last. «Model online, all systems nominal. It will accompany you, and this way I will remain with you at all times. I have calculated – under current conditions, this option is far more effective than a biodrone.»
One of the combat droids appeared in the side airlock. Massive, yet rather agile and reliable, it resembled modern Vriinian military support units. Under Arma’s watchful supervision, several such models had been refitted for autonomous patrol duties during ground reconnaissance missions. Its sensitive sensors and detectors were already studying the surroundings, transmitting all data to the Armaon.
«Well then», Smorg said, giving the droid an approving once-over as it came to stand beside him. There was a hint of satisfaction in his voice. «At least someone else didn’t go on vacation either.»
«He is fully under my control», Arma replied. «Please try not to stand in his way or run ahead of him. Otherwise, I will shock you.»
He looked at the droid, remained silent for a moment, then added:
«We’ll get along. As long as he isn’t too noisy.»
«He is definitely not noisy», Arma answered. «If anything, he is lethally quiet.»
Smorg nodded with respect.
Ahead, at the foot of the hill, an opening was visible – a shaft, spiraling like a seashell. Its smooth, almost mirror-like edges glowed with faint shades of blue and dark grey.
«Be careful. Who knows who might have been here before us. There could very well be defensive circuits or traps left behind», Arma warned.
«I will», Smorg said with a nod. «Though this place isn’t easy to find. I learned about it only from the archives.»
He stepped into the spiral and began to make his way down. The combat droid followed, moving soundlessly yet ominously, like inevitability clad in armor, fitted with positional actuators and kinetic joints.
Arma activated the tracking protocol, bringing up the feed from the droid’s sensors. On her screen, Smorg was merely a small figure in a tunnel, yet she clearly registered his footsteps, his breathing rate, and the characteristic pauses in his movements, as if he were walking along the traces of his own past, and she was following after him.
The underground passage sloped gently downward. At times, the walls seemed to pulse with a faint reflected glow, as though something within them absorbed the beam of the lamps and sensed their movement. The air was dry and clean. Too clean. The spiral tunnel soon ended, giving way to a rectangular corridor of the underground complex.
«Air filtration is still functioning», Arma remarked with a barely noticeable hint of sarcasm. «Strange, and yet somehow all too typical.»
«Smart Smorgs always did everything with foresight», Smorg replied, with a touch of stubborn pride. «As if they knew something hidden.»
He walked slowly, examining every recess, every turn. A symbol flashed by – faded, yet recognizable – the mark of the ancient jewelers’ clan. One of those he had seen in the archival capsules on the station.
«Something important is down here», he said. «Perhaps a route to the central vault. Or to the workshop of synthetic prototypes.»
«There is another cavity below», Arma noted. «Large, but closed.»
«All right», Smorg answered brightly. «Let’s try to get in.»
He went up to the panel. Thick with dust, it nearly merged with the wall. Smorg reached out and drew his finger along the raised holographic markers, tracing the ancient symbol of the local clan. The panel flared with a soft light.
«It’s strange that this responded», Arma’s voice held a thread of irony. «And why, I wonder, aren’t there hordes of lucky tourists and seekers of Smorg exotica roaming here yet?»
«The system reacted to my biosignature», Smorg answered, humbly. «A reliable way to keep out uninvited guests. And the sequence itself – there it is, right under our noses.»
«Ah, the romance of engineering thought», Arma remarked. «John would have agreed with me.»
«He’d be taking notes right now», Smorg replied, as if in agreement. «And I’m just remembering. I hope he’ll forgive me for that.»
The wall at the base hissed, drawing a stream of air inward, and then slid aside. Beyond it lay a corridor paved with even slabs, leading to the lower tier. The air carried a faint smell of metal and stone – materials untouched by anything living for many centuries.
«Ready?» Arma asked.
Smorg did not answer. He simply stepped forward, and the combat droid followed in silence.
Chapter V. The Whisper of the Underground Halls
The passage grew wider, and its walls stretched far into the darkness. An intricate ornament, carved with care and great diligence by ancient craftsmen, adorned the panels, set with refined inlays of dark stones that glowed faintly in the dark, framed by neat round crystals which shimmered invitingly and warmly, even beneath a layer of millennia-old dust.
Wide-eyed with awe and shifting excitedly from foot to foot, Smorg accidentally stepped on a slight protrusion in the floor. At once, something clicked inside the wall, and a large square recess slid open. Light glided across its inner surface, reflecting off a hemispherical dome. Inside lay a small bright-blue crystal. At first glance, it appeared simple and clear, but once viewed from a different angle, a strange glimmer flared deep within, as if someone had lit a tiny lamp in its very core and forgotten to turn it off.
«That’s impossible», Arma responded, analyzing the data received from the droid. «Inside the crystal there is a stable compound of several inert gases. By all known parameters, it should have decayed immediately after synthesis.»
«Smorgs didn’t like when things fell apart», Smorg replied. «Especially things meant to shine. Everything here breathed harmony. And combination – precise, like the proportions in a cut. If something didn’t sparkle… it simply meant it was meant to sparkle a little later.»
He froze, tilting his head to the side, as if trying to see not the crystal itself, but what lay behind it. Then he carefully crouched down, stretched his neck, blinked once, for certainty, and whispered:
«This… this is it… the legendary Single Prototype! I read in the chronicles that it was stored separately, in a compartment marked ‘do not enter unless necessary.’ Which is exactly where we are now! And we do have necessity!»
«Let me get this straight: the Smorgs named one of the greatest masterpieces of their people ‘The Single Prototype’?» Arma inquired delicately. «Isn’t that a bit too prosaic, even for the driest of scholars?»
But Smorg seemed not to hear her. He did not breathe for nearly half a minute, and then, with a reverence rarely found in beings capable of repairing equipment and synthesizing questionable chemical elixirs, he slowly lifted the dome and took the crystal into his hand. It was unexpectedly warm, almost alive. Just in case, he felt around the bottom of the niche and found an old folio with a beautiful emblem, cast from fine white metal with a purplish sheen. The inscribed pages with illustrations had been preserved surprisingly well. Apparently, the warmth of the crystal had served as a decent protection against relentless time and dampness. On the back, the same emblem could be seen, only smaller, and within it, some letters could still be made out.
«‘Property of Master Sindr’», Smorg read in a whisper, squinting a little, speaking to Arma, who was closely monitoring everything through the droid’s sensors. «Now we have living fire!»
The droid tilted its head slightly, as if agreeing politely. As though in response, a sharp mechanical sound came from somewhere deep within the chamber.
Smorg froze.
«That… that was you, right, Arma?» he asked with a barely noticeable hint of fear, and Arma registered his pulse rising.
«No», she replied. «It appears there is something else here, but my scanners are not detecting any movement.»
«Perfect», Smorg whispered, tucking the crystal and the folio into the breast pocket of his suit.
The path continued through a gallery. The dust underfoot resembled soft ash. When they reached the hall, Smorg stopped again, struck with awe. The floor was made of transparent crystallite, and within it was an enormous mosaic of precious stones arranged in the shape of blossoming trees. Some inlays had cracked, some had grown dull, but it did not spoil the overall impression.
«This is the work of the Teiran clan masters», Smorg said quietly, sniffling slightly. «Their emblem is on the folio, by the way. I’ve seen only small fragments in the archive, but I never thought I would see this whole!»
He slowly knelt down and noticed faint traces.
«Someone was here», Smorg said. «Someone long ago, and someone more recently. Old tracks from heavy magnetic boots, like those used by mercenaries… and another one… quite unusual and large…»
«Then be careful», Arma said in a low but firm voice. «We don’t know who it could have been, or what their intentions are. I assume, at the very least, not the kindest.»
Acting on some instinct, Smorg took the crystal with the living fire out of his chest pocket once more and placed it at the very center of the mosaic. A second later, a projection rose into the air, displaying a winding map of complex tunnel systems. At the bottom, the familiar clan seal glowed clearly: «Kolo Teiran. Final Assembly.»
«It’s as if they knew they wouldn’t last long», Smorg whispered. «And they hid there what they believed truly mattered.»
Smorg looked at the mosaic again. The Single Prototype still stood at its very center, perfectly aligned with the pattern, as though it had always been intended to fit there. The map continued to hover in the air, its lines leading further downward, pointing the way through a branching network of ancient corridors and halls.
«It seems we’re on the right track», Smorg muttered, and there was no longer contemplation or awe in his voice, only quiet determination and a spark of excitement, that very combination which usually left no room for hesitation or doubt.
Chapter VI. A Voice in the Darkness
Smorg rose slowly to his feet, still staring intently at the shimmering map, its softly glowing lines beckoning downward, into the depths of the ancient tunnels. Arma observed him carefully through the droid’s sensors.
«Should we follow this route straight away?» she asked cautiously.
Smorg shook his head, turning back toward the corridor, straining his hearing in the hope of catching that mechanical sound again and perhaps understanding what it had been.
«Sounds don’t appear here for no reason», he whispered. «There’s definitely something there, and we’d better find out what it is before it finds us first.»
Arma silently agreed with a nod of the droid’s head, and they moved forward with caution. The beam of the lantern lit up the tunnel walls, revealing new details of the ancient ornamentation and curious stone inlays. The air here was damp, and the walls seemed to echo a faint, elusive rustle.
«Humidity is increasing», Arma noted. «There must still be some ancient air-conditioning or water filtration system operating here.»
After some time, they entered a spacious, high-ceilinged hall almost completely engulfed in darkness. Only faint reflections of their own lantern light glimmered off the distant walls. In the center of the hall stood several massive stone columns supporting the ceiling, which was covered in cracks and dark patches of moisture.
Smorg took a step forward and suddenly stopped. The droid instantly directed a beam of light toward the spot he was staring at. At the base of the nearest column, clearly imprinted in the dust, were fresh, very small barefoot tracks leading into the darkness.
«Someone was here and very recently», Smorg said quietly, crouching and gently touching the prints with his fingers. «And that someone is very small… a Smorg?»
Suddenly, a faint metallic tap sounded again in the distance.
«It’s there!» Smorg sprang to his feet, aiming his lantern in the indicated direction. «Who’s there? Don’t be afraid! We mean no harm!»
Silence answered him and then a barely perceptible rustle, as if someone were trying to hide or slip away.
«Don’t be afraid», Smorg repeated, his voice softer now. «I’m a Smorg just like you, and I won’t hurt you. If you need help, tell us, and we’ll help!»
Silence lingered for a few more seconds, and then, from behind the column, there appeared a thin, dust-smudged face of a very young Smorg, barely a teenager, with eyes wide in astonishment. In them lay fear, distrust, and curiosity – the very mix that so often fills young souls even in the deepest darkness.
At that moment, the droid stepped forward and, slightly inclining its body, spoke in a steady yet surprisingly gentle voice:
«Do you understand us? Are you hurt? Do you want something to eat?»
The Smorg boy flinched, making a barely noticeable movement backward. For several seconds, he simply stared at the droid, as if not fully understanding what was happening. The menacing-looking machine, clad in armor with eerie optical sensors that seemed to pierce right through him, did not fit at all with the voice that sounded as if someone familiar were speaking to him.
Confused, he shifted his gaze from the droid to Smorg.
«Don’t be afraid», Smorg said calmly. «This is Arma. She’s a friend.»
The boy nodded quietly. Distrust had not vanished, but in his eyes there flickered something resembling curiosity or cautious hope.
«Are you… truly a Smorg?» the teenager asked softly in Galacton, his voice trembling slightly. «You’re not from there? Not from the Owners?»
«No», Smorg said firmly, taking a careful step toward him. «I’m here to help.»
For a moment, it stole the breath from his lungs, and the world within him seemed to turn over. The sight of that small, frightened face pierced him more sharply than any void, more deeply than any loss he had ever endured. Hope flared so suddenly it ached in his chest, and with it came fear. What if this vision would simply dissolve? What if the universe had chosen to play a cruel trick on him? He had told himself countless times that he was alone, that no other Smorg could have survived here. And yet, here one stood! Real, alive and looking straight into his eyes!
The young Smorg stepped hesitantly out of the shadows, peering at the newcomers with wary, hollow-eyed caution. His clothes were torn, and his skin was marked with scrapes and bruises – raw, fresh and painful. He held his arms tightly against his chest, as if still bracing for the next blow.
«I escaped», he rasped, trying to speak louder, though his voice came out weak and trembling. «They… the Owners… they make us search for something we can never find… and they punish us all the time.»
Smorg slowly crouched down. In the boy’s eyes he saw that fear, too familiar, long buried, yet painfully recognizable, and his heart tightened.
«What’s your name?» Smorg asked gently.
«Lar», the boy whispered, taking a cautious step closer. «And… you really aren’t with them?»
Smorg shook his head.
«No, Lar. We’re not with them. We came from far away to see what remains of my home world. For a long time, I believed there were no others left… that I was the last. But if you’re here… then perhaps there may be more.»
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