The backup cargo bay had been converted into an airtight razor-sharp decontamination ward.
Bright, shadowless daylight leached from four overhead razor-sharp arc lamps, lighting up a long cutting-open table built directly upon the heavy flat of Titus’s upper back shell. Titus lay motionless in the center of the bay, his four massive legs tucked securely into his shell, his body acting as an unmoving, shaking-free check stone stand. A sterile green vinyl sheet covered his black-jade armor scales, clamped down with magnetic brass weights along the marginal bridge. The scent of harsh cleaning acid, ozone, and iodine hung heavy in the air, masking the metal grease of the ship’s inner walls.
On the vinyl lay the cut head and chest segment of one of the Void Harvester drones, hauled inside through the sample winch before the ship resumed its silent drift.
Arthur Vance stood over the carcass, dressed in a fresh white rubber apron, his face shielded by a clear poly-carbonate razor-sharp visor. His hands were wrapped in thick nitrile handling gloves. He held a twelve-inch carbon-steel rib-spreader and a shaking high-pitched razor knife. Before making his first clean cut, he took thirty seconds to hone the blade against a diamond-grit stropping block. He tested the cutting edge against the cuff of his apron until it parted the rubber with zero pushback.
