The Nemesis-8 system seemed, at first glance, dead. A pale star, a single telluric planet, gray and lifeless, swept by ashen winds. No energy emissions, no notable technological signatures. Just radio silence.
But the sensors of the Conqueror's Star, refined by months of experience, detected an anomaly. Not on the surface, but beneath it. A vast network of metallic structures, extending for hundreds of kilometers beneath the planetary crust. Bunkers. Dozens, hundreds, perhaps thousands.
"Surface radiation levels: Elevated, but decaying," announced Data. "Consistent with a nuclear extinction event dating back approximately two centuries. The underground structures show signs of minimal energy activity and... signs of human life."
"Survivors," murmured Caleb. "Like on Aethelgard, but... different."
The surface images were painfully reminiscent of the old Fallout holovids of Julius. Desolate landscapes, skeletons of scorched cities, rusted vehicle wrecks. But unlike the tribal chaos of Nemesis-7, here there was a sinister order. Standardized hatches, camouflaged ventilation towers, discreet antennas.
"No conflicts on the surface," observed Nova. "No movement. They are hiding. And they are organized."
Julius ordered a cautious approach. A single, stealthy Dropship descended to the surface, landing near the largest entrance, a ten-meter-high bolted steel door set into a mountainside.
"Standard welcome message sent," reported the communications officer. "No response."
They waited. A long time. Then, with an ear-splitting metallic screech, the giant door began to open, not fully, but just enough to let a single silhouette pass.
A man emerged, clad in a faded yellow and blue protective suit, a gas mask on his face. He held a crudely manufactured laser rifle, but it was clean and well-maintained. He raised a gloved hand, palm open.
"No weapons aimed," Julius ordered by radio to the disembarkation team.
The survivor approached, his eyes, visible through the mask's visor, scrutinizing the Dropship and the Marines in CMC armor with extreme mistrust, but without the savage hatred of Nemesis-7.
"You... you come from above?" he asked, his voice distorted by the mask, speaking a heavily accented Gothic. "From the poisoned sky?"
"We come from the stars," replied the Lieutenant in charge. "We are not hostile."
The man let out a short, joyless laugh. "No one is 'non-hostile'. Two hundred years ago, our ancestors thought the same. Look where it got us."
He gestured to the devastated landscape behind him.
"We are Bunker Prime. We survive. That is all. What do you want?"
"To offer help. Medical supplies. Purification technology," proposed the Lieutenant, repeating the Aethelgard scenario.
The man shook his head. "Your help has a price. Everything has a price. We have our own rules. Our own law. The Law of the Bunker. You want to talk? Talk to the Dean. But your warriors stay here."
It was a refusal, but a civilized refusal. It was a society that had survived by distrusting everything, by turning inward, but which had retained structure and discipline.
Back in orbit, Julius listened to the report.
"They are not beasts," he concluded. "But they are not partners either. They are pragmatists, like us. They survived by cutting themselves off from the world."
"Their technology is rudimentary but functional," added Data. "Their society is stable, but extremely isolationist."
"Then we do the same," Julius decided. "We mark this world. We note its presence. But we do not interfere. We leave the bunker survivors to their survival. Sometimes, the best help is not to help. Sometimes, first contact is just a distant nod between two castaways, before each resumes their solitary journey."
The bunker world of Nemesis-8 thus remained a footnote on the empire's maps. Further proof that humanity could adapt to the worst hells, but also that some hells forged souls too distrustful to accept a helping hand, even a well-intentioned one