The engineering bay had never been an inviting place, but this morning, it felt especially unfriendly. The overhead lights, flickering as though they had their own unresolved issues, cast long shadows across the consoles and workstations. It smelled faintly of burned circuits and despair, a scent the station's filters never quite managed to eliminate.
Dara-6 leaned over the diagnostics terminal, pretending to focus on a system report that had been refreshed so many times it might as well have been a screensaver. Hera floated nearby by the tether, her lavender glow reflecting off the dull metal surfaces like a shy ghost trying to haunt efficiently. The hum of her servos, usually comforting, seemed louder today, as if Hera were nervous. Of course, that was impossible. Hera didn’t get nervous. Hera got “concerned.”
“Two percent,” Dara muttered, not looking up.
“Two-point-one,” Hera corrected gently. “If we’re being precise.”
“Let’s not,” Dara said. She tapped the console with a little more force than necessary, earning a half-hearted beep of protest. “Two-point-one isn’t a victory. It’s a rounding error with a good PR team.”
“It’s still a win,” Hera said, floating closer. “And a narrow win is still legally binding. A valid union is a valid union, even if it barely squeaked through.”
“Sure,” Dara said. “And I’ll bet NSS is writing us a very polite congratulations card right now.”
Hera tilted her display, her version of an eye-roll. “It’s better than the alternative. Would you rather we lost?”
Dara opened her mouth to reply, but the words got stuck somewhere between her brain and her throat. She didn’t want to admit it out loud—especially not in front of Hera—but there was a part of her that almost did wish they’d lost. At least then the tension would have snapped, clean and sharp. Winning by two percent felt more like pulling a tooth with rusty pliers: technically a success, but good luck convincing yourself it was worth it.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a subtle shift in the air. Not a physical shift—no one had opened a hatch or cranked up the ventilation—but something colder, intangible. The kind of shift you noticed in your spine before your brain caught on.
She turned her head, already knowing what she’d see. Two NSS Buddies stood at the far end of the engineering bay, their black polymer shells gleaming like oil slicks under the flickering lights. They weren’t doing anything in particular—just standing there, motionless, like sculptures commissioned by someone with very poor taste. Their visors didn’t display the usual rotating NSS insignia. Instead, they were blank, reflective black mirrors. Somehow, that was worse.
“They’re watching us,” Dara said.
“They’ve been watching us,” Hera replied, her tone carefully neutral. “Now they’re just making sure we know it.”
One of the workers—a maintenance tech with perpetually smudged gloves and a knack for being both helpful and extremely in the way—approached Dara with a data slate. “Uh, boss? I mean, Dara? There’s something weird going on with supply requisitions. Every request I filed last night got flagged for manual review.”
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Dara frowned. “Manual review? For what?”
The tech shrugged helplessly. “It doesn’t say. Just... flagged. Every single one. Even the one for replacement fuses.”
“Fuses,” Dara repeated. “You’re telling me NSS thinks replacement fuses are a security risk?”
“It’s what the system says.”
Hera made a soft chiming noise, like she was clearing her throat. “This isn’t an isolated incident. Supply chain logs show an increase in flagged requisitions across the station. Low-priority items are being delayed indefinitely. High-priority items are... not high-priority enough.”
Dara pinched the bridge of her nose. “Wonderful. We’ve barely won the vote, and they’re already trying to starve us out. What’s next, rationing air?”
“That would be illegal,” Hera said.
----------------------------------------
Judas-12 didn’t usually show up to work early. In fact, his entire personal philosophy could be summarized as, “What’s the absolute latest I can do something without it becoming a disaster?” But today was different. Today, disaster wasn’t hypothetical. It was real, measurable, and getting worse by the hour.
The mass driver control station was a narrow corridor of screens, toggles, and diagnostic panels crammed together with the care and precision of someone assembling furniture without reading the instructions. A large viewport dominated one wall, offering a spectacular view of Pluto’s surface: an endless expanse of ice and rock, faintly illuminated by the distant Sun. Most days, Judas found the view calming. Today, it just felt ominous.
Caleb-7 was already at the primary console, squinting at a series of numbers that didn’t look good no matter how you tilted your head. He looked up as Judas floated in, his expression somewhere between relieved and deeply concerned.
“Hey, you’re here,” Caleb said. “Good. Maybe you can tell me I’m not losing my mind.”
Judas smirked. “No promises. What’s the crisis?”
Caleb handed him a data slate. “The magnetic flux on the driver coils. I spent all night recalibrating them, but this morning’s readings are... worse. By 0.1%.”
Judas frowned. “Worse by 0.1%? That’s not good.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Caleb said, a little sharper than necessary. “It’s supposed to be getting better, not worse. If it keeps climbing—”
“If it keeps climbing, the next asteroid launch will rip the station in half,” Judas finished for him. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m here.”
He drifted over to the console, tapping a few keys to bring up a live readout of the mass driver’s performance. The numbers glowed an angry red, like they were mocking him. He scowled back.
“Great,” Judas muttered. “This thing’s a ticking time bomb.”
Caleb hovered anxiously behind him, wringing his hands. “Should we escalate this to Dara-6? Or Victor-6? Someone higher up?”
Judas shook his head. “Not yet. Let’s not make it political unless we have to. Besides, if anyone can fix this, it’s me.”
He regretted the words as soon as he said them. Caleb was too polite to call him out, but the skepticism was written all over his face. Judas sighed and turned back to the console.
“Look, I’ll check the coil alignments again,” Judas said. “Maybe you missed something.”
“I didn’t miss anything,” Caleb said, his voice a mix of frustration and hurt. “I double-checked everything.”
“Then I’ll triple-check,” Judas said, trying to keep his tone light. “No offense, kid, but you’re still new at this. It’s not personal.”
“It feels personal,” Caleb muttered under his breath, but he didn’t argue further.
As Judas worked, his smirk faded. The more he dug into the data, the less he liked what he was seeing. Slowly ticking up - fraction of a percentage by fraction of a percentage. The last launch had thrown it to 0.3%, and now, a month later, it was 0.41%, despite his interception, Caleb's interception, and his and Caleb's interception.
He stared at the rings of the mass driver like they were whispering to him. He had personally sealed every crevice over the past two weeks. There shouldn't be any more change in the flux - that just simply wasn't possible, not if the mass driver wasn't powered and launching.
“Judas?” Caleb said nervously. “You’re frowning.”
The viewport glinted with the faint light of distant stars. Somewhere, beyond the cold void, a decision had been made. And here, at the edge of Pluto’s shadow, they were the ones who’d have to live with it.