In the end, enduring a battle against such a multitude of enemies and coming out with only two broken ribs was nothing short of a miracle. The investigation of the wreckage and recovery from injuries took time—ultimately, the firepower was so overwhelming that there was nothing usable left—but we finally made it to the base of the “Great Mother.”
“Nozomu! Are you alright?”
“As you can see, my legs are still intact.”
“Legs?! Something’s wrong with your legs!?”
Ah, right. High-level unit jokes about ghosts won’t resonate here.
Still, even in a world where personal consciousness can be fully digitized, there are still rumors of ghosts. Even now, people occasionally make a fuss about seeing one, only to be told it’s a glitch due to stored cache or a problem with their visual elements that requires a doctor’s visit. But there are those who seriously study the phenomenon academically, too.
After all, even with our advanced development, we are unable to scientifically disprove the existence of gods, demons, or even ghosts entirely.
Thus, I inadvertently made a MIA-returnee joke without thinking.
“Are there any losses on your side?”
“No, everyone’s fine.”
“Then what about… that?”
I couldn’t help but point, but all the Tech Gobs were lying prostrate on the ground. I initially thought they were injured from the battle’s aftermath, but it seemed it was something else.
“As soon as it ended, they started praying to the ‘Great Mother,’ and they’ve been at it for quite some time now. Most of the enemy was swept away just now, so it’s been peaceful since the retreat.”
Ah, so this is a praying position. That’s good to know.
Though the clock is broken and it’s hard to tell, they’ve probably been in that state for at least thirty minutes, and I naturally accepted it. But now that I think about it, why is Galatea using planetary standard time?
After all, this planet was carefully terraformed to maintain a 1G effect, placed in the habitable zone to mimic Earth conditions, aligned the axis, even ensured a moon to create a twenty-four-hour day. But how did they calculate this?
Ah, these details are bugging me.
Alright, interrupting religious rituals isn’t ideal, but how should I proceed? Then I felt a gentle impact on my chest. Galatea was leaning on me.
“I’m so relieved… truly so relieved…
“Galatea?”
“Nozomu is alive, and you’ve avenged everyone… I couldn’t bear it if something also happened to you…”
Once she confirmed my return, her eyes began to overflow with tears, her words barely coherent through the sobs.
Ah, so they were dealing with the same enemy she referred to as “revenge.” Yes, challenging them with reinforced exoskeletons, in a squad of unknown size—whether they faced a Hob or a Myrmecoleo, they should never have been defeated.
They must have been caught by surprise from above. That they survived at all is remarkable.
Still, I’m aware of how to handle these situations with women, but is the same response appropriate for a mechanized human? Since graduating from virtual education—a sixty-year program in the virtual space—I joined the homeland defense force, then entered officer school, and finally military university, spending the rest of my life on the frontlines. Interacting with carbon-based humans now feels unclear.
For now, I should pat her head and embrace her back gently.
“I’m alive. And we’ve avenged them. You and the others’ vengeance was against that unnamed monster, wasn’t it?”
“Sniff… We made it close… close to the Great Mother… but we collapsed suddenly when the sun was obscured… and I woke up on the gear carrier of the battalion leader…”
A surprise ambush in the first strike, command disintegrated, then battered by rain-like wires and swept away by coil gun fire. Those who bravely fought forward were likely shredded. And the lucky few who managed to escape made it to the Tech Gob settlement, though many succumbed to their injuries despite crude treatments like washing and stitching their wounds. Galatea was lucky to have survived—it was truly a continuous miracle.
“All of them were good people… comrades consecrated together… so many of them…”
“I understand how you feel. Let it out now. That’s the best way to honor your comrades.”
With Galatea sobbing in my arms, I looked up and saw the Tech Gobs still praying. The Sylvanians watched curiously, and a stamp showing Selene’s sulky face was sent to me. What should I do?
Ultimately, the prostration continued for another thirty minutes, and Galatea cried the same duration before we moved on to explore the Tiamat, when the sun had already begun to set.
“Great Mother, embrace us and heal us with your warmth.”
With a prayer, Ridelberdy, having reached up for the terminal at the door with a cord extending from his neck—internally embedded? Is the security really safe?—the door creaked open just wide enough for a person to slip through.
The warning buzzer indicates something’s off.
Of course, with the last legitimate access two hundred years ago, that’s to be expected. It’s incredible the structure is still standing despite everything—it’s designed to endure fleet battles but maintaining an upright position is tough. There must still be some anti-gravity systems functioning somewhere.
“It’s dark in here.”
The Tech Gobs’ vision isn’t affected by darkness due to their enhanced night vision cameras, but my outdated optical sensors need help, so I switched on the flashlight. These corridors don’t have lighting, since they’re designed for mechanized beings and digitized consciousnesses only.
“Ridelberdy, do you know the way?”
“Most of the higher priests who knew the layout perished during the floods, but the location of the ‘Sacred Door’ has been orally passed down.”
The Sacred Door refers to a heavily sealed room in the ship’s central section, supposedly off-limits and sealed. They say the Great Mother rests there, in a long slumber. Without a detailed map of Tiamat-25, I only know the central section might house either the Central Control Room or the Combat Operations Center—likely the former for this type of vessel.
“Lead the way.”
“I’ll take care of it. We only truly reclaim ‘Mother’ once we recover this place, right?”
“Exactly. The defiled Male Deity that spawned those mad lackeys must also be there.”
But he tilted his head with concern.
“Strangely blessed comrade, even the higher priests couldn’t open that door. Will you be able to?”
The question is valid. In normal emergencies, like when a large vessel crash-lands, security protocols are often drastically reduced, making it easier for rescuers to access critical areas quickly. It wouldn’t be funny if rescuers arrived but couldn’t get in due to tight security.
Though my current military clearance is a Level III officer code, if an emergency declaration was broadcast before the crash, security should have been dialed down to at least Level II. Meaning, a door normally requiring Level IV (Captain) or even Level V (Fleet Commander) clearance should open for me.
“I’ve got a special key, you see.”
“Ah! Then there’s a chance!”
As I pointed to the terminal at my neck—though communication band contamination is a concern, I’ll use the terminal later—the Warrior Leader nodded in understanding and motioned for me to follow.
The route, however, is in bad shape.
This ship, with its horizontally elongated oval design, was meant to navigate in space sideways. Now, as it stands vertically against the ground, what was once the ceiling has become walls, and the walls have become the ceiling, making straightforward walking impossible.
The Tech Gobs dealt with this by installing iron pegs across the corridors and hanging metal ropes for support. Luckily, due to its design to prevent prolonged corridors in case of enemy boarding, these metal walls are short, though the old pegs’ integrity is concerning for my weight—and Galatea’s too.
“Climbing is second nature for adventurers. VR gamers like me are accustomed to unconventional environments requiring dashes, jumps, and climbing.”
“Galatea! I’ll help you. You’re unfamiliar with this!”
After reaching the top—nearly dying from rusted peg failure—I extended a rope made from my multipurpose tool to assist her. She hesitated, griping the rope cautiously.
“What’s wrong?”
“W-well, I’m heavy… ohhh!”
Without waiting for her reply, I yanked her upward sharply—these cybernetic limbs may be fragile compared to military-grade ones, but they’re still far stronger than regular humans. Supporting a few women is nothing.
“You’re small and adorable! Just hold on tight!”
“Small and cute?! And Nozomu, don’t push yourself! I’m scared!”
Still, I hauled her up swiftly until she reached the top, then she collapsed on her knees, panting heavily.
“A bit more gently next time?”
“Absolutely. Now, come on.”
Just as I was thinking this seemed to bring out her unexpected feminine side, the Tech Gobs stopped, standing in front of a large bulkhead, scratching their heads in confusion.
“…This wall wasn’t mentioned in the oral tradition.”
“Aha… Emergency bulkhead.”
Space vessels, navigating the vacuum of space, cannot risk breaches. Bulkheads are placed throughout to prevent hull damage from pulling in the surrounding atmosphere. These also double as barriers against enemy intrusions, fire spread, and gas attacks, hence their significant thickness.
Tapping it with my knuckles, it felt about 30cm thick. However, the surface was rough and worn, indicating degraded protection against monomolecular blade attacks—likely due to inventory depletion from years of disrepair.
The control panel on the wall—now the ceiling—was damaged, so issuing an open command seemed unlikely. Time for brute force, then.
“Stand back.”
I activated my blade, embedding it with focused energy to cut a square-shaped hole into the bulkhead. Unlike a master swordsman carving perfect circles, such precision is extremely difficult.
“Alright, let’s move forward…”
I aimed my flashlight into the dark, only to catch a gleam of red light reflecting back at me.
I involuntarily inhaled sharply.
It was a swarm of grotesque, malformed drones resembling both smaller Hovs and distorted Tech Gobs.
The group idling near the door was suddenly roused, their gaze locking onto us as soon as the bulkhead was breached, and now they were arming jagged teeth-like weapons, surging towards the opening.
I yelped softly as I drew my coil gun from its holster…
—
【Planetary Exploration Note】Beta-Type Three Special Factory Ship. Among the Unified Military’s standard work vessels, it’s one of the medium-sized ones, designed to accompany fleets of less than 300 ships with one to three vessels. Specializing in the production of daily necessities and consumables—including missiles and mass drivers—it serves critical roles in a fleet’s logistics.
I apologize for the misposting time earlier. The next update is scheduled for around 18:00 on July 16, 2024.
