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The station's security inspector took a quick peek at the console and saw nothing of interest. It was the start of another tedious, uneventful day. He readied himself for a snooze.

The inspection command's confined space made it simple for him to sneak in some sleep during working hours. With the majority of work done by AI, and most coworkers as disinterested as he was, not many noticed the lack of attention to work.

The sudden chirp of the console alarm snapped him out of his drowsiness.

Startled yet sluggish, he reached out to silence the alarm. With weary irritation, he then rubbed his eyes and focused on the monitor's readings.

“I need your eyes on this, sir.”

Responding to the commotion, a military officer nearby turned and advanced towards the inspector's workstation.

“What now? Can't it wait?” the obese officer grumbled back at him, before taking a sip of coffee.

“We have irregular scanner readings in sector AZ-12.”

“What about'em readings?” The officer took up a doughnut and began to munch on it leisurely.

“There's something off with these figures.”

“They look normal enough to me,” the officer's words came out muffled, accompanied by bits of the doughnut spilling from his mouth.

“Large thermal anomalies are detected, but it's as if they're coming from nowhere.”

The officer moved closer to the workstation and peered at the monitor. He glanced at the readings for a moment before biting into his doughnut again.

“Probably just another bug.” he said dismissively, before taking another sip of coffee.

“That seems unlikely,” the inspector said. “Given the recent installation of our systems, a malfunction is quite improbable.”

“This gear's always on the fritz,” the officer grumbled. “Like that’s a rare occurrence.” He turned around and prepared to leave.

“Is it not worth investigating further?”

The officer paused and cast a brief look over his shoulder at the inspector.

“You're joking, right?” he snorted, then turned his gaze away, taking another sip of his coffee. “I glanced over those readings. It's likely nothing—stray gamma bursts or solar flares, that sort of thing.” With the matter apparently settled in his mind, the officer walked off. “Drop it and get back to work.”

*****

In another place, warehouse worker Ross Scott grappled with the agonizing prospect of leaving his bed.

A loud buzz from the alarm clock beside his bed stirred him awake, his eyes opening slowly.

“Feck! It’s morning already?” Ross moaned. “Things were just about to get good in the dream I was having! I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many hot women in one place before!” He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Well…I think they were women…whatever. At least they weren’t furries.”

Clad only in his underwear, he sleepily shuffled to the kitchen, which was an easy task given his apartment's size, hardly larger than a typical bathroom.

“Okey den! Now what to have for breakfast? Oh right! I don’t eat breakfast! Because I’m poor!” he loudly lamented, while flailing his hands in frustration.

Screw this, I’m going to work. Perhaps if I’m lucky, I can mug some of the homeless for their chimp-change. I think they’ve installed one of dem mini burger vending machines at the warehouse. Those things are freaken sweet! he thought.

He made his way back to the bedroom, yanked open a drawer next to his bed, snatched his personal ID card, and slid it into his wallet. Wouldn’t want to miss this! I still remember all the bullshit I had to go through the last time I forgot to take it with me. He stepped out of his apartment complex and began his customary walk to work.

The only route available to Ross was one suffused with the predictability that station authorities rigorously enforced. His movements were confined to a sequence of permitted visits to approved sectors, punctuated by the rigid schedule they imposed upon him—wake, work, home, sleep—each day at Terra Prime station a mirror of the last.

There was scant comfort in Ross's status when cast against Earth's plight, where he would have inhaled through filters, thanks to the fumes of rampant industry and teeming populations. It was deemed more expedient, more economical to mandate masks than to invest in a cleaner future. The station's stern peace, upheld by a force more military than police, smothered most crime, except for the infractions of the law keepers themselves—offenses silently acknowledged, for the fate of those who probed too deeply was as transparent as the air he breathed.

Alternatives simmered beneath the surface of course, accessible to those whose pockets were deep, aligning with the station's adage that solvency equated to freedom. This shadow system mirrored the dynamics of most Terran outposts, where coin dictated liberties and the collective gaze turned away, indifference prevailing so long as the elite remained unbothered.

A public service announcement flowed from the station’s loudspeaker system as it activated.

“We here at Terra Prime Central are devoted to ensuring all human resources perform their duties with maximum devotion! Never forget…a good work ethic is a crucial steppingstone towards earning employee perks! Always remember to show up on time to avoid pay penalization and reduced benefit! A happy worker is a prosperous worker!”

Ross stopped in his tracks and started to vent loudly in the street’s center.

“Well, thank you for reminding me, misses speaker system! I’d almost forgotten how much I just love being a drone, slaving away for barely any pay at all! All the while worrying about next month’s paycheck being shredded because I wasn’t big enough of a slave for you assholes! All hail my glorious corporate overlords! Well, thank you, misses speaker system, for reminding me! Whatever would I ever do with without you!”

Close by, passersby gazed at him, perplexed, but their stares were brief, and they soon resumed their own affairs.

Ross resumed his walk to work.

A formation of three gunships soared by him. The ceaseless hum of the flying vehicles was hard to ignore, their noise echoing off the oppressive architecture that dictated a low-flight ceiling within the station. With no natural gravity or air to speak of, the life support systems shouldered the task of simulating these essentials, thus enabling the flying vehicles to navigate the station's environment.

The design of Terra Central Station prioritized function; its structure more reminiscent of a dystopian detention center than a place of habitation. Nevertheless, it boasted a slight edge over the Earth's despotic reality, attracting a steady influx of job seekers. Among the chosen was Ross, whose authorization for transfer marked him as one of the ostensibly 'fortunate' occupants.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Surveillance had become as much a part of the street's landscape as the cold steel he walked on, each step he took cataloged by cameras with a precision he found as comforting as it was oppressive. His existence to the authorities hinged solely on his ability to blend into the grey tapestry of his warehouse duties.

After a long boring walk, Ross finally reached the warehouse where he worked at.

The chore of sorting through shipments fell to Ross, work that in any other warehouse might have been assigned to the unerring logic of a machine. Here, however, the quality of the cargo demanded discretion beyond the capacity of silicon and code. A breach in data meant a breach in security, and the authorities found an unsentimental solution in the dispensability of their human screeners.

Ross dressed in his work gear. Upon entering his area of the warehouse, he fetched a PDA from his pocket.

Okey den! So, what stuff do we have coming in today? He examined the shipment catalog. Looks like we’ve got a bunch of shit from the Terran Defense Forces this time around. Oh boy! Aren’t those guys trustworthy or what! he mused sarcastically. God knows what’s in this shit. Not that I’m dumb enough to ask. He slid the PDA back into his pocket. Time to go to work, I guess.

Ross piloted his forklift through the aisles until he found the shipments. He stopped and engaged the attached scanner, which projected multiple laser beams across the shipment. The ensuing beep indicated a successful scan, and Ross scrutinized the resulting readings.

ID: 15-456-24

Type: Restricted

Sender: Classified

Recipient: Classified

Delivery: Route 545

Contents: Classified

Status: Authorized.

Surprised, Ross noted the irregularity. Restricted shipments were usually separated from regular cargo and dealt with by military services rather than the civilian mail, but there were no soldiers to be seen.

Got some classified stuff here, eh? Whatever. He put the matter out of his mind and carried on with his tasks.

Unaware, Ross was closely monitored by four vigilant observers. From behind a broad glass window on the second floor, they intently followed his every action as he transferred the enigmatic shipment into the delivery vehicle.

*****

The general inhaled from his right-hand cigar, pivoted from the broad window, and met Andreas's gaze, the latter of whom held a whiskey glass.

“I assume you expect the credit transfer to be immediate?” The general spoke with a voice that grated, rough and disagreeable to the ears.

“Of course.” Andreas plastered on a counterfeit smile.

The general returned the gesture with a forced smile of his own, though it appeared less genuine and vanished swiftly.

The general, embodying the late-middle age spread of his rank—chubby, with a shiny bald patch, and a stature lacking height—showed little patience for small talk, unlike Andreas, their distinct pasts fostering unalike temperaments.

The general's eyes wandered off slowly, and he commenced a measured walk around the room.

“Be aware, there are voices within the administration casting doubts on this venture's wisdom.” He returned the cigar to his mouth for another puff.

Once more, Andreas smiled, achieving a surprisingly persuasive effect that neared sincerity.

“There will always be those with doubt in their hearts,” Andreas presented an additional counterfeit grin. “Thankfully, I’m not burdened with having a heart.”

The general, foregoing a response in kind, spoke with increased seriousness.

“Doubt should not be dismissed as mere weakness. It signifies awareness, a grasp of one's own limitations alongside their capabilities. The truly weak are those deluded by their own sense of invincibility, who inevitably fall first. A lack of doubt precludes introspection. And without introspection, history's errors echo endlessly…” The general ceased his pacing abruptly and cast a scrutinizing look at Andreas. “A reality you're surely acquainted with, given the recent abundance of missteps under your watch.”

Andreas stopped smiling.

“The rat you speak of has been taken care of, along with any unfortunate souls connected to him.” His serious demeanor shifted, making room for a smug expression. “Dust and memories, general.”

“Are you certain the matter has been sufficiently addressed?”

“Absolutely,” Andreas replied. “Fear tends to discourage curiosity.”

“For the moment…” The general resumed his pacing around the room. “I'll concede, Andreas, your outcomes have been more favorable than anticipated, even with the obstacles we've encountered.” The general drew in another breath from his cigar. “Understand, it’s not our custom to place trust in…outsiders, especially not gangsters. My skepticism was warranted, given our usual protocols.” Another puff of smoke came as the general indulged in his cigar once more. “The interception of our last vessel made it clear that unconventional methods were necessary. That's the sole reason we've even entertained the idea of your involvement.” His eyes flicked toward Andreas. “This is not to demean your capabilities.”

Once more, Andreas demonstrated his remarkable talent for convincing fake smiles to the general.

“Your caution is understood, if misplaced,” Andreas said. “The quality of garbage littering the street these days tends to be rather…inconsistent.”

Stopping mid-pace, the general turned his attention to him.

“And I take it you’re a ‘higher quality’ piece of garbage, then?”

Andreas’s amusement was clear as he gloated over the General’s phrasing.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

The general returned a fleeting, half-hearted gloat before his expression turned serious again.

“I trust you're fully alert to the fallout that will ensue if this operation falters?” the general asked sternly. “You, above anyone, should recognize the imperative of tying up all loose ends. Any breach in confidentiality, and we will be forced to terminate all parties involved.”

The general's threats didn't elicit a reaction from Andreas, no stranger to danger as a seasoned criminal, though this particular gamble was unprecedented in its reward.

“I'm fully aware of the stakes.” Andreas stayed serene and poised. “Every detail has been meticulously orchestrated. Our plans are airtight. There's no room for error.”

“They're mustn't be!” the general said with a menacing growl. “Our capacity to erase existences surpasses any attempt to evade us. Succeed flawlessly, or face the void.”

Again, no flinch came from Andreas.

“Your fears are misplaced,” he said. “The ship at our disposal is beyond suspicion. The rebels have neither the wit nor the resources to uncover us. The cargo will pass quietly through their grasp.”

“What is your strategy for moving the cargo to your ship?” the general inquired. “Ship logs are a mandatory record; the decrees forbid their removal.”

“The law seems irrelevant at this juncture, wouldn't you say?” Following his statement, Andreas’s demeanor shifted to one of smug confidence.

“That's not the issue,” the general said. “Docking triggers automatic log updates. It's this very oversight that led to the demise of our previous endeavor. Our opposition monitors with an eagle eye, and they infiltrate our defenses with alarming regularity.”

Continuous unrest from rebels in the outer sectors had been a thorn in the Federation's side, a problem intensified by some colonies' open revolts, something that was clearly aggravating the general, as his voice momentarily took on a spiteful tone.

“Simply disabling the logs is out of the question,” the general said. “We're operating in the grey, beyond the bounds of the law; as far as any official account goes, this is happening in a void.

“True.” After taking a sip of whisky and pausing to enjoy it, Andreas walked over to a desk, set the glass down, and refocused on the general. “Worry not, general. We've devised a foolproof solution already.”

“Is that so?” the general asked indifferently, pausing to scrutinize a wall-hung artwork and slowly inhaling from his cigar. “Explain this supposed solution.”

“A trivial loophole really,” Andreas said. “The logs refresh only when navigation boots up.”

Expecting more details, the general's gaze rested on him, but Andreas stayed silent.

“And?” he asked impatiently.

The general's vexed tone and demeanor elicited a fleeting smirk from an amused Andreas.

“Not the patient type, I see.”

“The tempo of war pauses for no one,” the general replied swiftly, his tone stern. “Cut to the chase and do it now.”

Andreas flashed the general another counterfeit smile, albeit a quick one this time.

“Of course.” Noticing the general's escalating irritation, he chose to get to the point. “We've reengineered the shuttle's mainframe. It's now attracted to heat signatures—sidestepping the usual routes and ignoring the station itself.” He paused, allowing the general time to process the information. “The target, naturally, is our ship.”

The general took a moment to contemplate the information.

“I see,” he replied eventually, and then drew a particularly deep puff from his cigar. “Am I to infer that the plan involves a straightforward retrieval of you and the cargo by your crew?”

“Precisely,” Andreas replied. “After our departure, the disputed territories become mere waypoints.”

The general's frown of disgust indicated that his words had struck a nerve.

“There’s nothing to dispute!” the general said with a sharpness that bordered on barking. “These territories remain under the firm control of the Terran Federation, despite the attempts of terrorists to challenge lawful authority.”

To Andreas, petty politics were less a thorn and more a ripe field, his indifference to their pettiness eclipsed by the lure of material enrichment.

“Of course.” He gave another unauthentic smile, aiming to placate the general.

The general's gaze lingered before he pivoted towards a couch, made himself comfortable, and puffed on his cigar once more.

“What is the timing of your departure?” the general asked eventually.

“At the close of our current venture.”

The general, now seemingly more at ease, filled the room with more of the cigar's unpleasant aroma as he smoked. Eventually, he spoke to Andreas, not bothering to look at him.

“We shall soon see if your strategy is as potent as you claim,” he said. “Success, and your pockets will swell with wealth.” He drew a final puff from his cigar before snuffing it out in an ashtray close at hand. “Fall short, and there will be no time to reflect on your downfall,” he said as he rose from the couch.

Andreas kept his eyes on the general as the latter strode past and departed from the room.