The airlock opened with a soft hiss, a pleasant voice announcing, “Welcome to the Palace”.

Delaney went to work immediately, jacking her link into the nearest port and letting her deamons of code run free in the station’s systems. Lloyd and Percival both stood watch their rifles covering every angle. Angela stood watch over them, mostly making sure they didn’t shoot at shadows.

Delaney named the subsystems as they fell.

“Comms… life support… security, I’ve got security!”

The slender woman stood up and reeled her cable back into her wrist.

“The station is ours.”

Angela sniffed. “And the seeds?”

“The garden is online, though I don’t know the status for sure.”

“Residents?”

“One.” She smiled and raised her eyebrows.

Percival relaxed, though his brow was furrowed. “One? Where are the fuckers?”

Delaney shrugged.

“Who cares. The one is in the garden, though.”

Angela’s gut was clenched. “Ten years of nothing, ten more to get the balls to smash the bots, and another ten to build the rocket. You cannot tell me that thy all just died.”

Lloyd’s deadpan bass rumbled out, “But we can hope.”

Angela shot him a look.

“Stay frosty. They did not become billionaire fucking god king’s just to come up here and fade out like a cheap light bulb.” There will be something. Guns hot, heads on swivels.”

The team moved down the halls. Maintenance bots paid them no mind, as Delany’s work had registered them as residents. Security bots stayed quiet in their slots on the walls. Eventually there was music.

It wasn’t the sounds of Electronica or tribal metal drum banging like back home. This was like… a old wax cylinder on a grammaphone.

Angela drew her pistol. So did Delaney.

They went up a level, moved into the center. The gardens were functional, pristine. It looked every inch of paradise.

The music grew louder as they got to the center. They heard the repetitive whirr of bots doing something in tandem.

As they came around the corner, they finally saw it.

“Fuck,” Lloyd said.

The remaining resident was being fanned by bots. A centuries old victrola played “Anything Goes”. his mouth seemed stained black. He looked maybe fifty, but the anti-aging drugs they were all supposed to be on made it hard to tell. He was naked, save for a crown made of bleached white rib bones.

They matched the throne of bleached white skulls.

He looked up through eyes that were as far from sanity as they were from home.

The figure opened his mouth and let out a croaking laugh.

He stood, his skin pale and sagging, as the bots chanted something that may have once been is name.

“Do new worthy folk come to worship the cannibal king? Or are you here to feed me more!”

None of the four raiders cared what had driven him mad. None cared if he was being ironic or literal. They only fired their weapons until the most honest and ugly of them was but stains on the bones of his rivals.