Zargo stood up, locked his primary terminal, and collapsed the floating holographic display with a flick of his hand. “Do you think you can plant the tabs undetected on your own? Or should we stay late after the shift wraps up?” I highly doubted the rest of the facility staff observed a strict clock-out schedule. If we hung around after hours, it would look incredibly suspicious. More importantly, I had zero faith that Morana would vacate the station as long as Zargo remained on deck; she was bound to be watching his every move. The Sibian himself remained blissfully immune to her hyper-fixation, entirely brushing it off. “I’ll manage solo,” I replied. “I’ve set up residential security networks before. If the baseline logic is the same, it shouldn't be rocket science.” I wisely chose to omit the detail that my prior technological experience was limited to a mundane camera for tracking a domestic pet. If I gave him any excuse to doubt me, he might issue a direct command to log overtime. The commuter shuttle would clear orbit without me, and how exactly would I navigate the journey home? A private ride from the boss? That would compromise our cohabitation secret to his personal pilot within five minutes, and from there, it was a short trek to the entire laboratory finding out. “Take this,” Zargo said, extending a sleek private datapad toward me. “It’s critical that the raw telemetry from these tabs completely bypasses the main laboratory mainframe.” I clocked the device and instantly spotted the primary hurdle: navigating the bespoke interface of a flagship designer brand. The platinum star insignia, featuring an elongated lower spike and a crown-like crest at the top, screamed total elitism. The message was clear: their ecosystem was cut from a different cloth, their clientele belonged to an exclusive tier, and the price tag, naturally, was astronomical. Regardless, I accepted the datapad, masking it beneath my own master unit while slipping the microscopic tabs into my pocket. Assuming our briefing was finalized, I took a step toward the door. Without warning, a violent shudder ripped through the entire orbital station. The structural jolt threw me completely off balance, sending me crashing toward the floorboards while I desperately hugged the datapads to my chest. Laboratory property and Zargo's obscure, obscenely expensive personal device! If these broke, I’d be indentured for the next century just to cover the bill. The station took a second, shuddering hit, but instead of impacting the hard flooring, I slammed directly into Zargo’s chest. “What is happening?” I gasped. Zargo tightened his grip around my waist, anchoring me against him while aggressively tapping his personal comlink. The interface remained completely dark, dead to his commands. “Comms are completely offline. The primary relay array must have taken structural damage.” “We aren't about to drop out of orbit, are we?” I asked, terror spiking my voice. “Right, because I’ve seen that holofilm too,” he countered dryly. “For starters, the colony world beneath us is heavily populated and maintains a fully operational atmospheric grid. Secondly, you'd have to be a special breed of idiot to accidentally drop a space station onto a planet.” I let out an irritated huff; the man read my internal anxieties like an open file. The deck vibrated a third time. I buried my face against Zargo’s shoulder and closed my eyes tightly. “Relax. The flight deck is probably engaging the auxiliary stabilization loops as we speak.” The second the words cleared his lips, the station swayed like a sea vessel navigating a heavy swell, righted itself, and his comlink flashed back to life. Even though I cracked one eye open, I was a long way from celebrating our survival. “Coward,” Zargo teased, a low laugh vibrating in his chest. “Now I finally comprehend why you were fighting so hard for a planetside placement instead of an orbital shift.” Flashing hot with embarrassment, I shoved his chest, broke his grip, and scrambled to my feet. “And that's the extent of your appreciation? Hardware is infinitely easier to repair than a broken human body!” Zargo shouted after me. Mercifully, I cleared the threshold of his private office right as the words echoed, ensuring he didn't witness the sudden, burning flush of crimson that completely hijacked my face. The jerk had calculated the physics perfectly and caught me. Honestly, he had saved me a trip to the medical bay; if I had taken that fall onto the deck, I’d be reassembling my skeletal structure right now. The structural emergency had thrown the entire facility deck into total chaos. Nobody seemed mortally terrified; the universal emotion was heavy irritation over an unscheduled deep clean. Anything that hadn't been bolted directly to the subflooring or secured behind pressurized lockers was now strewn across the corridors. I made a beeline for my cleanroom sanctuary. Thankfully, before clearing my prior maintenance block, I had securely locked down the environmental domes. As a result, my glass perimeter required minimal triage—just a handful of scattered hardcopy charts and a few overturned holographic display racks. Beginning the clean-up from the entryway to carve out a physical path, I stacked the charts on the main console and hoisted the first display rack. Predictably, the unanchored holographic cartridges cascaded across the cleanroom floor. I had to dive beneath the structural support matrix of the containment tubes just to fish them out. “Is your perimeter secure? Any broken containment units?” Morana’s gaze swept the cleanroom with microscopic precision, her focus anchoring heavily on the Zelgalo saplings. I really didn't appreciate the predatory calculation in her eyes. It felt less like a safety check and more like a tactical scan to flag an operational failure. “I presume the priority data cartridges survived the impact undamaged?” Stepping forward, she executed a clunky, unnatural stride that brought her heavy boot within a millimeter of crushing one of the loose cartridges. I lunged, snatching the drive out of harm's way at the absolute last microsecond. A flash of pure frustration warped Morana’s expression. It was highly unsettling. Prior to the weekend rest cycle, she had been perfectly amicable. Granted, a compromised data drive wasn't a fatal catastrophe—we could always print a backup from the mainframe—but the intentional sabotage was undeniable. “Everything appears intact,” I responded flatly, purposefully refusing to take the bait or acknowledge her calculated, clumsy maneuver. “We’ve encountered a major issue in the central server deck,” she continued smoothly. “Several core storage arrays suffered physical damage. The stabilization failure hit them directly. As a result, internal access to the main data network is going to be completely restricted for the next few shift rotations.” Analyzing her attempt to crush the cartridge through this new data lens completely shifted my perspective. This wasn't a petty prank like slipping salt into someone's tea; this was a high-stakes, calculated frame-job. The Director wasn't about to freeze laboratory operations. But it meant we’d be forced to manually manage every single holographic drive, paper manifest, and datapad on the floor to keep the trial moving. God knows what operational metrics they’d require at a moment's notice. Morana advanced toward my position, putting on a show of volunteering to help clear the debris. Except her physical clumsiness seemed to scale with every step. I frantically swept the remaining cartridges into a chaotic pile, only breathing a sigh of relief once I had them pinned safely against my knees. Predictably, her expression soured. This was completely out of bounds. “Don’t stress about my station—I’ve got it handled. You’ve been pulling grueling shifts. Go hit the breakroom and decompress for a bit.” I forced a tight smile, masking the reality that I had fully decoded her play. My rival had clearly formulated a narrative regarding me and Zargo. From here on out, turning my back to her was an operational hazard; I needed to keep her in my direct line of sight at all times. How had she verified the dynamic? Or was she operating on pure conjecture? It had to be my frequent summons to the command office. Over the last few rotations, I hadn't witnessed the Senior Tan summon a single other asset to his desk. “If you say so.” The absolute second she cleared the cleanroom perimeter, I let out a jagged breath and aggressively locked down the biometric terminal. I could only pray she bought the act that I was completely oblivious. She was clearly mapping out a series of targeted disruptions. A reputation is built on a sequence of minor failures. If Morana successfully compromised my metrics, the Director would label me incompetent. Nasferi-rani-Tarin wouldn't tolerate a liability on his payroll for long; he’d demand my immediate reassignment. And then I’d find myself permanently exiled to the absolute boondocks of the outer galaxies, never to be heard from again. I needed to execute a counter-offensive and flag her hostile patterns to Zargo immediately. Perched next to the console rack, I quietly retrieved the surveillance tabs from my uniform pocket and turned my focus back to the saplings. Each glass enclosure required a manual override to open, which actually provided a perfect cover story. I planted the micro-tabs seamlessly, maintaining the illusion of running a physical diagnostic scan on the bark matrices. I deployed three remaining units along the cleanroom perimeter, angling one specifically to capture a high-res mirror of the main terminal screen. Configuring Zargo's personal datapad proved remarkably simple; the jerk had pre-installed the native monitoring software. After a two-minute battle with the interface, I mapped out the protocol to scan for new device pairings. Toggling through the active camera feeds, I let out a satisfied exhale. All channels were green. Now all that was left was returning the device to Zargo and completely forgetting the reality that he held the master feed—considering the tabs would primarily be capturing high-definition loops of me working. Concluding the setup and calibration block, I finalized the cleanroom organization and marched toward the command office to return the tech. Morana had descended to the lower breakroom deck, but her eyes remained locked onto my position through the structural framing. Previously, I hadn't paid much attention to the transparent glass paneling of the cleanrooms. It was fireproof, heavy-duty reinforced glazing—standard protocol when you're managing unpredictable alien flora. If a predator plant entered an active hunting phase, the crew outside could clock the breach and launch a rescue mission. Right now, however, the architectural layout made me feel like a live exhibit in a cosmic museum. Morana refused to break optical contact. Maintaining a mask of total indifference, I breached Zargo's deck. He didn't grant entry immediately, forcing a brief wait outside the scanner. Stepping inside, I found the Senior Tan actively managing the debris in his own office. Returning his datapad, I gathered a few stray cartridges from the floor and navigated toward a massive potted conifer in the corner. The structural shock had inverted the planter, scattering a substantial amount of rich loam across his carpet. Thank God the ceramic casing hadn't fractured. “Flawless,” Zargo murmured, his eyes anchored to the datapad as he assessed the tab placements. I remained on my knees, scooping the displaced dirt back into the planter with my bare hands while analyzing the flora. An authentic Earth fir! An incredibly high-maintenance, wildly expensive piece of luxury estate decor that required specialized irrigation and genuine solar frequencies to survive. I made a mental note to forage an auxiliary UV lamp and mix a batch of targeted nutrients for it. “Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” Zargo dropped into a low crouch, waving a broad hand through my field of vision. Blinking out of my trance, I locked eyes with him. The Sibian ran a slow assessment of my posture, his lips curving into a thoroughly satisfied grin. “Just... processing data,” I mumbled, my voice shrinking. Zargo straightened to his full vertical height. I, however, found myself entirely glued to the floorboards. Why did the man have to be so impossibly tall? Furthermore, analyzing his silhouette from a lower angle projected a raw, commanding authority that was decidedly difficult to tune out. Honestly, the proximity was triggering a highly inconvenient spike in my heart rate. “Did you launch a career in nanobiology out of a profound sense of cosmic calling?” he inquired. “I genuinely enjoy the science,” I muttered defensively. It was just a shame my current operational environment lacked the tranquil botanical atmosphere I’d envisioned. I had signed up to be surrounded by exotic flora, not navigating the pathologically jealous operational hazards of a hostile Morana. “I no longer harbor a single doubt on that metric,” Zargo chuckled, extending a pack of specialized wet wipes toward my soiled hands. I accepted the wipes, entirely thrown off by his current behavioral shift. He was acting as if we were fresh acquaintances, or as if he had just processed some groundbreaking discovery regarding my profile. Which was wildly bizarre—the two of us had witnessed each other completely disheveled, heavily drunk, shared intimate morning and evening domestic routines, and had even navigated a conversation in our literal underwear! The sudden shift to formal office chemistry was decidedly jarring. Cleaning the loam from my fingers, I finally pushed myself up and discarded the wipes into the localized recycler. I opted against an immediate exit, instead pitching in to help clear his remaining office clutter. In a professional setting, Zargo proved to be an absolute neat-freak. Every priority document and data drive had already been secured behind biometric panels. Leaving him to manage the final inventory on his main desk, I cleared the command deck to offer assistance to the other departments. My target was the Sibian analyst woman. The catch was that I had zero data on her designated office coordinates. Circumnavigating the upper ring of the deck yielded nothing, forcing a trip to the lower level. I finally located her station in the primary room directly behind the lift shaft. The analytics division occupied a massive, sprawling workspace, defined by colossal shelving units packed with diverse storage media and physical filing binders. The entire inventory was currently covering the floorboards in a monument of absolute chaos. The master of the office was sprawling dead center amidst the wreckage, her eyes sealed, completely motionless. A flash of genuine panic hit me. What if a falling shelving unit had delivered a concussive blow to her skull? A structural avalanche of that volume could easily knock an asset unconscious. I scrambled toward her position, carefully clearing a path through the debris. I had zero desire to execute Morana's failed tactic and accidentally crush a cartridge. “Are you functional?” I gave her shoulder a firm shake. Her eyes cracked open, leveling a look of total, defeated resignation at my face. I translated the situation instantly without a single word spoken: the sheer scale of the cleanup had entirely broken her morale. Unable to even start, she had simply curled up on the floor in the general direction of her goals. “Need a hand?” Offering the query, I stood up and extended an arm. The Sibian woman latched onto it instantly, hoisting herself to her feet. “I would be profoundly grateful. I’m Zarina.” “Astra.” “Issue the commands—tell me what goes where,” I requested, surveying the room. “Yellow cartridges target the far-left rack,” Zarina directed, her voice deadpan. “Crimson drives route to the entryway unit. Matte-black media goes into the center shelving block. The sequence is irrelevant.” Well, in a structural disaster of this magnitude, the baseline strategy was simply clearing the walking space and pushing everything into organized corners. Navigating toward the nearest pile while exercising extreme caution with my footwear, I started tackling the mess from square one—selecting the yellow media drives and systematically slotting them into the rack matrix.