The Holy Trinity's sensors had been painting Contact Zero-Seven for three hours, and with each passing minute, the picture became clearer and more disturbing.
"Master, you need to see this," Laxana said, her voice carrying the clinical detachment she used when processing particularly bad crime scenes.
"Thermal imaging is showing heat signatures in the forward cargo hold that don't match equipment or supplies."
Zeph leaned forward, studying the display. The thermal bloom was unmistakable. It was several densely packed human bodies generating a collective heat in a confined space. He'd seen similar patterns before, but never quite this concentrated.
Not even inside shipping containers turned into Mod pill assembly labs.
"How many?"
