Donan opens yet another thin metal door, revealing the clutter within the cuboid cabinet. Mostly loose-fitting trousers, ranging in color from bright yellow to angry orange. The grinning face of Capey adorns many of the garments; Noorun had been a fan of that odd trivee program.

His suit light shines upon the interior of the container, and a bright gleam registers on the camera. His armored glove closes upon it and draws the object out. He dims his light and opens his hand, and an organically shaped device reflects the light back at him. Hair sprouts from the thin, sinuously curved object in brown clumps. At one end is a metal plug, though it matches none of the standards employed by the Selber.

It goes into a clear wrapping and then a pocket of his armor. He plays his light across the small room, surveying once more for any hiding places he may have overlooked in the last sweep. Suspicious lumps under the padding of the small bed draw his attention. He pushes aside stuffed animals and blankets with happy slogans sewn into them.

Flipping the bed over uncovers a stash of green spindles, crystalline in material and roughly half a ubit long each. His suit's inbuilt scanners detect low levels of ionizing radiation from the crystals. Not more than the suit can protect him from, but still unsafe to be left lying around.

He contacts his sister without my direction, and she sends for a heavy protective case to store the crystals. I let Bucket know that something interesting will be coming their way soon. The conglomerate entity stops working upon an avian construct long enough to send their thanks before returning to the construction.

While he waits, Donan opens up the cover containing the mattress. Inside he finds thin sheets of a dark metallic fabric. These he rolls up into tight bundles and consigns to another compartment on his vacuum armor.

Another armored individual arrives shortly, a heavy case supported in his four arms. I count the crystals as the pair store them; twenty-seven spindles. I also post anonymously on the neighborhood message board, reminding the residents to take their radiation medicines.

The unit gets locked down, and they place a large warning sign on the door. 'Danger, Condemned Pending Decontamination'

The pair carry the confiscated evidence to Bucket's workshop and out of the empty residential sector.

"Did you know him?"

Donan's partner releases one corner of the case he carries to slash across the air in front of him. "You?"

"Yeah. We were both captured by that Ship-brother. Tricky bastard, snuck up on us while we were guarding the old fart and smashed our heads together."

The armored Tserri beside him guffaws loudly. "Oh, I heard about him. Tim something, right?"

"Sounds right," Donan answers with an elaborate shrug. "Anyway, he was an odd sba. Two eggs shy, you know?"

"Sure."

"Kept calling the sky on that alien world cursed. Noorun hated the way it would get brighter and darker without cease."

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"You gotta admit it was weird, though."

"Sure, but if that's what it takes to make the plants grow, I'm not gonna complain." Donan laughs quietly. "Just sleep when it gets dark and you never know the difference, anyway."

They reach the entrance to the work room and Bucket opens the door remotely. The many arms of the strange being direct the Tserri to place the heavy case to one side and the samples upon the empty table that dominates the cramped room. The Tserri leave Bucket alone to perform his experiments, returning to their patrol duties.

They start with the odd device, lifting it this way and that with their many ropey arms. An especially metallic arm grabs onto the tapered end. The stubby claws capping the arm shift and flow around the oddly shaped plug. Other arms wrap around the connected arm, writhing like a sick grelld.

The patches of hair upon the small device wave in an unseen wind, each patch flowing to its own secret breeze. Bucket waves more of their long appendages around the device, to measure or record I assume. Within the biomechanical knot of squirming arms, the single camera set upon the wall shows me a series of flashing lights. It would seem that whatever they found has them quite excited.

Before I can properly formulate a request in the unfamiliar syntax they communicate with, a radio burst from them grabs my attention. It contains copies of all the files they found stored on the device, though they remain encrypted and unreadable. Well, they'll decode the documents, given time.

The entity who had provided Noorun with his weaponry had undoubtedly also left their instructions encoded within the device. Even knowing the identity of the person behind the chemical attack would do me little good, however. The culprit remains outside of my reach, so long as they avoid the station.

Knowledge of an anti-toxin or some method of treatment would be a minor miracle, but it makes little sense for the unknown coordinator to include instructions for reversing the harm they had hired Noorun to commit. We must continue to rely on Zra and the rest of the medical staff to provide care for our poisoned crew and guests.

While Bucket's skill with data manipulation is impressive, I forward the files to Eva Chel as well. She too has shown mastery over arts that confound me, and it does not hurt to have them both attempting to solve this puzzle.

Yosip yearns for justice, and complains loudly and often at the unfairness of the situation. His antics fill me with hope that the situation will see a resolution soon.

"So many officers taken out so quickly," he grouses, typing at his desk terminal. His metal hands work furiously, trying to do the work of a full war council. He approves the request, and Zuchus is assigned to oversee the next clutch of eager potential pilots. The fleet of harvest and scout vehicles being assembled will do little work sitting in orbit.

The space around Kalibern will be a much more dangerous place soon, filled with inexperienced pilots learning the delicate touch necessary to be effective in the crowded areas of occupied space.

"Mos, how many more ships till they can start being productive?"

His mismatched eyes are fixed upon the new document he fills in. He attempts to standardize ore purity requirements, to save the rock miners much effort in sorting their hauls. The rocks and ices can be processed easily in bulk loads by our industrial centers, and the output automatically priced. Since even slag is useful, miners can always expect to profit from a full hold, regardless of content.

"They lack yet only the personal craft for the miners, and another supply tanker or two. Water and air processing could begin as soon as the crew are trained."

"Good. Rearrange the docket to get the necessary ships moving as quickly as possible," he orders. "Security has already broken up three fights between those herders and the locals."

"They'll be less trouble once they're more properly employed, I'm sure."

He doesn't mention the fact that some of them have decided to stay, their places claimed by desperate families unable to earn enough from their positions here to support themselves. Leash and muzzle laws are also on his weighty stack of things to review, proposals that continue to gain more supporters each day as more citizens encounter the horned menaces.

"Doubt it. Those pets of theirs are unpredictable," argues the Supply-Master. "Make excellent manure, though."