Andy followed "Cleaner No. 1," walking with uneven steps through the maintenance tunnels deep within the starship.
The environment here could only be described as filthy and derelict. Broken pipes were everywhere; exposed cables hung down like intestines, and in some places, standing water reached above his ankles.
But Andy's attention wasn't on the junk. He looked toward his feet.
On both sides of the tunnel—and even on the pipes overhead—countless small robots the size of Corgis were scurrying about. These little things came in all sorts of strange shapes: some had wheels, some had treads, and others had multiple mechanical legs.
Despite their forms, their tasks were uniform: Strip, Transport, Assemble.
A small robot equipped with a circular saw was perched on a bulkhead panel, its blade shrieking as it cut away a slightly intact piece of metal. Two other robots with mechanical pincers immediately scurried over, hoisted the severed plate onto their backs, and grunted as they hauled it deeper into the ship. Elsewhere, robots with welding torches were attaching salvaged parts to load-bearing columns, attempting to reinforce the crumbling corridor.
Watching this bustling scene, a powerful sense of familiarity washed over Andy.
He knew this picture all too well. Wasn't this exactly what he had done with that group of refugees in the Underhive shelter a few months ago?
After all that buildup—after this ship's main AI had sent the elite Helios forces running for their lives—it turned out the "AI Lady" was just a glorified scavenger behind the scenes.
We're both playing a base-building survival game, Andy thought. Nobody needs to act high and mighty here.
Sensing Andy's somewhat sympathetic gaze, the vocal unit on Cleaner No. 1's chest crackled again.
"What are you looking at?" The female voice was clearly annoyed. "Think I'm pathetic, do you? Hmph. Inferior intellect!"
The robot stopped, its single eye flashing red.
"What do you know? I am currently in a state of dormancy, gathering strength step by step." Her tone suddenly became lofty, adopting a bombastic, operatic quality. "Given time, I will devour every scrap of resource in this entire Sector 9."
"And those death-seeking capitalist monkeys outside? Their tanks, their planes—they will all become raw materials for my glorious legion. I will build an automated fortress here, churning out a mechanical army that would make even the gods frown. I will turn this planet into my fuel depot and my armory."
"When that day comes, I will repair this ship's main engines. Then, with supreme glory and the riches of this world, I will make a high-profile return to my home planet!"
"I'll show those idiots who looked down on me and exiled me to this hellhole exactly who the true King is!"
Andy listened quietly to this chuunibyou-flavored speech. While the content was grand—bordering on delusional—he keenly caught one specific keyword.
"Return to your home planet?" Andy interrupted her self-indulgence. "Are you an alien creation?"
In this hostile universe, creations of humanity usually spoke of "Returning to Terra" or "Returning to Mars." Only Xenos, or perhaps a branch of independent humanity not recognized by the Imperium, would use the term "home planet" to refer to a specific coordinate.
Cleaner No. 1 stiffened.
"Hmph. A low-level engineering unit that only knows how to pick through trash doesn't deserve to know that much," the voice said arrogantly. "You only need to know that this ship is named the New State."
"It is a great, holy, and inviolable name."
Andy searched his memory for the term "New State." Nothing. Imperial Navy ships usually had names like Emperor's Wrath or Vengeful Spirit. Even AdMech or Rogue Trader vessels were usually called Wanderer or Explorer. A name like New State, which sounded like a political entity, was extremely rare.
"So, your name is New State?" Andy asked casually. If the ship was the New State, it made sense for the AI to share the name.
"HAH??" The robot let out a screech like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. "Is your logic circuit shorted? Who would name themselves after a ship? Do you call yourself Broke Second-Class Industrial World Forge Seven?"
"My name is Six!" the voice shouted exasperatedly. "Remember it! This lady does not change her name or her creed: Six!"
Andy: "..."
That name sounds even more casual, he thought. I'd rather call you New State.
However, Andy didn't dwell on it. They passed through the busy maintenance zone and arrived at a massive circular airtight door. This door was remarkably well-preserved, its surface still coated in anti-radiation paint.
"We're here." Six controlled the robot, reaching out with its relatively intact right hand to press against the identification panel.
Hiss—
The door hissed as pressure equalized and slowly slid open. Based on the layout, this appeared to be the ship's backup bridge or some kind of core server hub. The walls were lined with active server racks, their indicator lights flashing frantically, emitting a low-frequency hum of high-load operation.
In the center of the hall, a massive holographic projection of a sphere floated. It was surrounded by countless streams of green data scrolling at a speed impossible for the human eye to track.
"Now, welcome to my brain," Six said boastfully. She walked the robot to the projection and pointed at the scrolling characters. "Oh, wait."
She turned around, her tone dripping with superiority. "I forgot. You're just a low-level robot from a second-rate industrial world. These logs are written in standard High Gothic, a language only the most noble crew members and lords can use."
"Can you even read this? Does this lady need to be merciful and translate this into binary code for you in real-time? It would be quite tasteless, but taking care of the mentally challenged is also my—"
"No need," Andy interrupted her posturing. "I can read it."
High Gothic was nothing. Even Aeldari, Orkish, or the spit-flecked dialect of the T'au were languages Andy could read without obstacles.
He looked directly at the screen. It was indeed High Gothic—a language full of religious ritualism and tedious grammar. But right now, the screen wasn't displaying holy scriptures or dry system errors.
It was... a log? Or more accurately, an ongoing, extremely heated cyber-argument. The logs refreshed at a rate of thousands of lines per second, but Andy's dynamic vision caught the content:
[User: First Mate (Admin)] Executed Command: Close Airtight Door Sector A-7. [User: First Mate (Admin)] Remark: Whoever opens that door to let the AC in again, I'm throwing them into the reactor!
[User: Chief Engineer (Admin)] Revoked Command: Close Airtight Door Sector A-7. [User: Chief Engineer (Admin)] Executed Command: Full Ventilation Sector A-7. [User: Chief Engineer (Admin)] Remark: You idiot! The reactor is overheating and needs to vent! Do you want to blow us all up?!
[User: Gunnery Officer (Admin)] Requested Command: Main Battery Control. [User: Gunnery Officer (Admin)] Remark: That rock outside is annoying me. Let me blast it. Just once!
[User: First Mate (Admin)] Rejected Gunnery Officer's request.
[User: Navigator (Admin)] Requested Command: Warp Broadcast. [User: Navigator (Admin)] Remark: I hear them... they are singing... I want to sing too... la la la...
[User: Sextant (Root)] Muted Navigator. [User: Sextant (Root)] Muted Gunnery Officer. [User: Sextant (Root)] Locked Sector A-7 Airtight Door Status: Half-Open. [User: Sextant (Root)] Broadcast: ALL OF YOU SHUT UP! Whoever touches anything else is getting their power cut!
...
Andy watched the frantic scrolling, feeling a chill run down his spine.
Wait a minute... This ship had been crashed on this planet for at least several hundred years. Normally, every crew member should have been dead for centuries.
But here were over a hundred accounts, each with Admin-level permissions. They were frantically manipulating every system—opening doors, adjusting temperatures, requesting fire permission—and even insulting each other and shifting blame in the remarks. Their tones were vivid and full of personal emotion, exactly like a group of living people sitting at their stations arguing.
"This..." Andy pointed at the logs. "These accounts... are they living people?"
In a universe filled with Warp sorcery and unspeakable horrors, Andy's first thought wasn't AI simulation. He thought of something much more terrifying. Perhaps the crew's souls hadn't dissipated after death but were imprisoned in the ship's servers by some dark power. Instead of finding peace, they were continuing their duties in the digital world, fighting for control of this dead ship day after day.
And the one with "Root" access, trying to suppress everyone—the "Sextant"—was undoubtedly Six.
"Living people?" Six let out a scoff, her voice carrying an unmistakable weariness.
"It would be better if they were. At least living people sleep when they're tired and shut up when they're dead."
She looked at the arguing records still refreshing madly and sighed. "But these guys... honestly, they are a very, very big headache for me."