Our joint clean-up session actually brought us closer. We traded a handful of jokes and managed to share a good laugh. “Honestly, the whole thing is incredibly bizarre,” Zarina remarked casually mid-triage. “A total system failure in the server deck, specifically targeting the core command loop. From what I gathered, the autopilot went completely dark. The flight deck intercepted manual control instantly, of course, but it’s still highly irregular. I’m positive internal affairs will launch a formal investigation.” “Do you suspect it wasn't an accident?” I asked. “I’m certain it was sabotage.” Prior to her revelation, the concept of foul play hadn't even crossed my mind. But now, factoring in Zargo’s private anxieties, the data was looking infinitely more suspicious. “What’s the endgame, though?” I countered. “If the planet's gravitational pull had dragged the station down, the saboteur would have been incinerated right alongside the rest of us.” “Oh, the station was never at risk of falling. It’s technically impossible to de-orbit the facility from a standard server terminal. Though you do make a valid point—the bad actor definitely possessed specialized network access.” Zarina surveyed the room and let out a tragic sigh. We had cleared the subflooring, but the internal cabinet shelves were now a monument to chaos. Triaging this mess would take at least a couple of rotations, and our core responsibilities weren't going anywhere. “We need to hustle,” Zarina said. “Thanks for the assist. Our commuter shuttle clears the launchpad in exactly fifteen minutes.” I let out a startled gasp, sprinted back to my cleanroom enclosure, and frantically gathered my personal belongings. Before clearing the perimeter, I ran a rigorous final check and exercised extreme caution locking down the biometric seals. I even captured a high-res photo of the console lock just in case. Securing a seat on the shuttle, I shifted over to clear space. Zarina slid into the row beside me, handing over a fresh cup of coffee. Well, all things considered, my assignment wasn't looking nearly as bleak as it had on day one. The crew and I had spent the first few rotations analyzing each other from a distance, but the ice was finally breaking. Note to self: I needed to descend to the lower breakroom deck more frequently. At least twice a shift. To my absolute surprise, Zargo had not only beaten me back to the house, but he had actively dragged his office workload home with him. The guy was perched at the kitchen counter, completely marooned amidst a sea of datapads and floating holographic charts, making frantic notations in a leather binder. He didn't offer a single shred of telemetry acknowledging my arrival, his eyes anchored hard to a primary display. Tossing my bag onto the sofa, I unhooked my comlink and approached the counter. I didn't dare peer over his shoulder, obviously, but it was clear his cognitive focus was so intense he genuinely hadn't processed my entry. Foraging a carton of juice from the refrigeration unit, I filled two glasses and slid one directly into his field of vision. Zargo blinked blankly, his optics slowly tracking up to meet mine. “When did you clear the front door?” he asked, dazed. “Just now. What dataset are you triaging?” “Trying to isolate the identity.” “So you’re backing the sabotage theory too?” I drew out the word "sabotage" in a sing-song voice, putting on a facade of total skepticism. I was desperately trying not to believe it. Otherwise, this operational assignment was tracking toward a monumental catastrophe. I preferred a mundane narrative: someone walked into the room, tripped over a cable run, fell, and severed the server array. Pure accident. Zargo, however, practically bolted upright at my words. “How did you run that calculation?” An immediate wave of nausea hit my stomach. Seriously, was it too late to terminate my contract? Right, I lacked the credit balance to pay off my grant obligation. Sliding onto a barstool, I downed the juice in a single gulp. Maybe I should petition him for a secondary amphora of wine and issue a binding oath to spend the night on an inflatable mattress in the laundry nook? “Don't trigger a panic attack—the station isn't going to drop out of orbit. The auxiliary propulsion loops are fully automated. You are a legendary coward, you know that? So, what raw intelligence do you possess regarding the saboteur?” “Zero. I was helping Zarina from analytics triage her office debris, and she noted that the system crash bore the distinct hallmarks of sabotage.” “Well, the security division shares her analytics.” “Based on what telemetry?” I was desperate to reject the theory, but the logical conclusions were drawing themselves. “Because there's a literal blackout in the monitoring feeds. Take a look.” Zargo pivoted his private datapad toward me and initiated a playback file. I stared at the server deck, registering the staggering scale of the network array for the first time, but before I could process the layout, the loop dissolved into a dead black screen. The final frames materialized back on the deck, but several core logic boards were now scattered across the floorboards. “So the bad actor simply severed the camera feeds, ripped the logic boards from the matrix, and cleared the perimeter? How did they even bypass security to execute that? Look, I get how anyone could walk in and pull a board, but how do you blind the security mainframe?” “Remarkably simple. You pull overrides from the primary bridge console.” Zargo pulled up an auxiliary feed, maximizing the playback velocity on the flight deck monitor. Within a compressed thirty-minute window, nearly half the laboratory payroll had migrated across the command bridge. Zargo’s expression darkened to a total scowl. I scrambled through my memory files but couldn't recall a single protocol barring staff from the command ring. Then the realization hit me: not a single asset had actually approached the operational consoles. “Honestly, this network architecture is completely over my head. Wouldn't it be more efficient to assign a senior systems programmer to the file?” Zargo slapped a palm against his forehead. “Exactly! The programming pool! And here you are, playing dumb about network protocols.” Zargo frantically began sorting through his mountain of datapads. Shaking my head in amusement, I retreated up the slats to my quarters to change. Post-shower, I found myself freezing up in front of the wardrobe. Normally, I didn't allocate a single brain cell to my domestic appearance, but tonight, total indifference was suddenly off the table. My inventory was severely limited. Shoving my limbs into a pair of black leggings and a basic white t-shirt, I executed a quick spin in front of the mirror. Nothing groundbreaking, but I felt a sudden, aggressive urge to overhaul my entire wardrobe. I definitely needed to order some premium loungewear. Zargo remained entirely marooned in his research files the entire time I managed dinner. Tracking his patterns, I decoded his strategy: he was systematically analyzing the camera tracking loops to audit the coordinates and activities of every single technician on the payroll. “Run an audit on Morana,” I suggested, out of pure, unadulterated pettiness. Zargo locked eyes with me, letting out a sharp chuckle. “Just own it—you absolutely despise the woman.” “I will openly own the reality that she despises me. Furthermore, she is pathologically infatuated with you, and my theory is she somehow processed data regarding our shared housing layout and calculated a wild narrative.” “A narrative that we're an active couple?” he inquired, a mock grin warping his lips. “Precisely.” “Well, structurally speaking, we project the energy of a couple celebrating their silver anniversary. We log our shifts, return to base, I procure the logistical assets, and you manage the kitchen. Honestly, I’ve gotten used to the routine.” Zargo burst into a hearty laugh, while I offered a dry huff. The jerk made a valid point. Throughout this entire cohabitation experiment, it hadn't even occurred to me to purchase a single grocery item. Then again, the refrigeration unit was always bursting at the seams. I was glad his baseline hostility toward me had dissolved, even if his current assessment was slightly insulting. “If that's the case, we skipped a massive sequence of relationship milestones.” “I am fully prepared to backfill those stages—right after I neutralize the rat on my deck.” A stellar joke. A stressed Zargo apparently developed a razor-sharp, dark sense of humor. “Did you log a formal report with planetary security?” “No, I bypassed them and summoned a galactic intelligence unit. Their corvette arrives in forty-eight hours. In the interim, our saboteur will assume the coast is clear and potentially execute a secondary strike.” The prospect of a secondary strike did absolutely nothing to soothe my anxiety. I leveled a hard stare at him. With every passing rotation, the guy was becoming increasingly unpredictable. “Fine, let’s audit Morana’s files.” Zargo snatched up a datapad, his fork freezing mid-air on the way to his mouth. I tracked the immediate shift in his biometrics; the man had hit paydirt. In a flash, I crossed the floor and deployed right behind his shoulder. The video feed captured Morana exiting the lower breakroom ring and executing a sharp turn into an obscure, narrow access conduit. She breached a private terminal office, vanished from the feed for exactly two minutes, materialized back in the corridor, and panned out along a direct trajectory. Immediately following her exit, the localized camera network went completely dark. When she re-entered the primary tracking zone further down the line, she was forcing her way toward the main cleanroom block, completely unphased by the fact that the station was actively undergoing a severe structural stabilization failure. Zargo’s complexion cycled through three separate shades of rage as he ground his teeth. I, however, possessed zero navigation data regarding those back-corridors and remained completely in the dark. “What is the operational significance of that route?” “Your calculation was flawless. The mole is Morana.” “So she tapped a manual override via the programmers' terminal to blind the security array, then marched straight into the server deck?” “Precisely. Your assessment of her was airtight. But what is her ultimate objective here?” I let out a sharp huff. Despite our complete lack of office chemistry, the reality that she was a literal saboteur was highly unsettling. “Pure, unadulterated jealousy. You and I had just locked ourselves inside the command office for an extended briefing. I feel compelled to remind you that it is the only office floor layout featuring complete polarization tinting on the glass. Are you executing an immediate termination?” “How did she bypass the floor rotation? Where was the duty programmer? What is her true operational motive? No, I am not terminating her contract—yet. Maintain complete operational camouflage; do not compromise our position.” Zargo shelved the datapads and returned to his steak. Suddenly, the front door chime cut through the air, forcing a synchronized startle from both of us. Vaulting from my stool, I sprinted to the entryway terminal, took one look at the video mirror, and took a sharp step back. “Morana,” I whispered. Zargo and I executed a rapid tactical swap. He claimed the entryway grid, while I retreated to the counter space. Fleeing to the second floor seemed like a logistical failure that would trigger immediate suspicion, so I dragged a barstool behind the structural line of a massive storage cabinet and dropped into a seat, completely masked from the threshold. Zargo set his jaw and unsealed the lock. “Senior Tan, I must offer my profound apologies for breaching your perimeter at such an irregular hour.” Tonight, Morana had clearly resolved to sledgehammer her way through the perimeter, literally spiraling past his shoulder straight into the foyer. Zargo blinked in utter bewilderment, but the Interion woman was already commanding the interior common space. My assessment from yesterday had been a total failure; the woman possessed a terrifying amount of confidence. I was forced to execute an emergency slide off the stool, ducking flat against the subflooring behind the kitchen counter. I should have sprinted up the damn stairs. “To what do I owe this intrusion?” Zargo demanded, his voice hardening. “I have been running analytics on today's structural incident. And I isolated the core anomaly.” “Enlighten me,” Zargo countered, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Our operational failures initiated the exact microsecond she cleared onboarding,” Morana announced, her tone dripping with toxic significance. “Astra Vetrova.” I ground my teeth against the floorboards. My preemptive counter-sting had just blown up in my face. The absolute hardest part of this operational cluster was remaining completely stationary without launching a full-scale domestic riot. “I highly doubt the metrics point to her,” Zargo responded flatly. “My matrix has isolated a significantly more viable candidate.” Morana's complexion instantly shifted to a mottled, uneven shade. Initially, I assumed Zargo’s pushback had triggered the reaction, but tracking the trajectory of her optics, I winced: she was staring directly at my master comlink resting on the counter. As a Sibian, the Senior Tan operated on a permanent neural implant. The presence of an external comlink was an immediate anomaly—paired beautifully with two active dinner plates and a distinctly feminine handbag draped over the sofa cushions. Zargo clocked her optical target and calibrated his response instantly. “Is there an auxiliary item on your agenda?” “Senior Tan... are you currently hosting company?” Morana’s vocal tracks sounded completely hollow, projecting the exact energy of a dramatic holoserial right before the main confrontation scene. A perverse wave of curiosity hit me: was the scientist actually about to launch a room-by-room search for her imaginary rival? “You are severely overstepping operational boundaries by interrogating my private lifestyle,” Zargo commanded. He straightened to his full vertical height, leveling a devastating, imperial glare at her face. Defying all standard behavioral models, Morana refused to execute a retreat. I was genuinely starting to believe the woman had orchestrated a literal space station sabotage out of pure, unhinged romantic jealousy. Zargo’s operational patience, however, hit absolute zero. “I have processed your analytics.” Waving a broad hand near his implant, Zargo accessed the home automation network and executed a remote command to unseal the entry portal. Morana threw a final, burning look at my handbag and marched out of the house without a single word. The second the door locked, I scrambled back onto the barstool and snatched up my fork. “The trap failed,” I blurted out. “She verified my identity via the handbag.” Tomorrow’s shift required navigating a literal minefield, and frankly, I had zero protocols for how to manage a confrontation with an unstable mole. Our current evidence was entirely circumstantial. If she played her cards right, she could easily argue she was simply hunting for a duty programmer when the station suffered its stabilization failure. Who better to stabilize a mainframe than a technician actively patrolling the deck? Furthermore, if Zargo could execute remote commands via a comlink, a sophisticated corporate spy could easily run the same network exploit. “Fascinating dynamic,” Zargo mused, a smirk returning to his lips. “Both of my female assets are actively pointing fingers at each other.” I let out an intense, furious huff. Obviously, if my brain had mapped that legal defense, Zargo had already calculated the exact same scenario. “The woman is utterly obsessed with you, and she views me as her primary romantic threat! That is the sole variable driving her tactical strikes. Maybe you should try explicitly detailing your lack of interest for once! You project this absurd aura of an unattainable ice prince that makes every woman think she’s the one chosen to crack the code!” Unloading the entire rant, I vaulted from the stool and marched aggressively toward the wall slats. Talk about the definitive dream boy of the sector! Why couldn't the man just establish a firm professional boundary from the jump? Fuming with irritation, I threw my limbs onto the ladder matrix. In my frantic haste, my foot completely slipped off a slat, and with a loud, undignified shriek, I took a spectacular tumble straight back onto the living room floor. So much for my dramatic exit.