You would never know that the entire complex was speeding through of all time and space. Never a quake, never a shudder; it was as stationary as any house should be. Except of course, this complex was not a normal house.
No windows, of course, as peering outside during a voidsail could very easily drive you mad.
Everything was brick and concrete as well, reinforced with metal from dwarf stars when it could be: you don't want the beasties of the æther to come a-knock knock knockin' at yer door—or walls or ceiling,—no siree bob.
Usually, all you'd have to do is wait for a while and then peek outside with a camera.
"So why the bloody hell are we sittin' here outside the breach?" Mr. Foster demanded.
"Something is . . . trying to stop us," responded the Sandman as he examined his gear.
"Vell, zat's never happened before. How dare they! I am Zee Captein; I bring naught but delicious and juicy joy wherever I venture!"
"Mmmph!"
"Indeed, mein fiery flaming compatriot, most certainly indeed."
"Mmmph. . . ."
"Well then," said the fifth man, the one who could never decide on a name, "I suppose we're going to have to . . . make a jump for it?"
"Do ve have ze graphene cables?"
"We do."
"Aw hell, not those things again," complained Mr. Foster.
"Yeah, yeah, I know: voidjumping is extremely dangerous and every time we do it we're lucky to not lose all of our lives and/or sanity, but hey: we'll get ta shoot things. Eh speaking of which: what's already snaked its way through?" said Zettachrome/Arcanus Scriptor/Mr. Anomalous.
The Sandman rose and checked the nearest terminal, leaving a trail of vapor. Then: "None of the queerer creatures; and none of the allies of Azathoth, it looks like, though I wouldn't swear to it."
"So what? Zombies, giant spiders, a deathly virus? . . ."
"Lightmongerers."
Everyone but the Sandman and the Captain—who was pondering—cocked their heads.
"Eh? W . . . what are they doing there?" said the fifth.
"The door appears to have opened here," the Sandman said, tapping a spot on a map on the screen, "and . . . the ponies that inhabit the area are a queer group. Nocturnal. The Lightmongerers may be there to convert them."
"Aw, but we can't shoot Lightmongerers!" complained the fifth.
"My thoughts exactly," said Mr. Foster beneath his breath.
"Ah, no matter," the Captain said in a mock comforting voice, "somesing shootable shall come soon enough, and zen all your barbaric dreams shall be realized. . . ."