The mess hall wasn’t the worst place for a meeting. It had the advantage of being central, familiar, and just big enough to hold a crowd without tipping into claustrophobic. It also had the disadvantage of being monitored by three strategically positioned NSS Buddies who were either oblivious to the rising tension or simply pretending to be. Their blank visors reflected the overhead lights, making them look less like observers and more like extensions of the station itself—silent, implacable, and impossible to ignore.
Dara-6 leaned against a table at the far end of the room, her arms crossed as she watched the group gather. The turnout was good—not great, but good. About twenty people had shown up, ranging from logistics techs to maintenance workers, plus a handful of engineers and medics. The mood was cautious but hopeful, like everyone had collectively decided to try optimism and see how long it lasted.
“Alright,” Dara said, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention. “We’ve got a lot to cover and not much time, so let’s focus. First up—priorities. What do we want to tackle first? Infrastructure? Hours? Rations?”
“Rations,” someone muttered from the back. “I’m tired of eating paste.”
“You’ve always been eating paste,” another worker shot back. “That’s not new.”
“Yeah, but now I want to complain about it officially.”
The room rippled with uneasy laughter. Dara let it play out for a moment before raising her voice again. “We’ll get to rations. Right now, the focus is infrastructure—keeping the station running and making sure we don’t, you know, explode.”
That got their attention. Even the paste enthusiasts stopped sniping at each other.
A logistics worker raised her hand. “What’s the word on supplies? I heard requisitions are getting flagged.”
“They are,” Dara said. “Hera’s been digging into the logs, and it looks like someone upstairs—probably Earth-side—is putting extra scrutiny on anything coming through the union’s channels.”
“That’s bullshit,” someone muttered.
“Yeah,” Dara agreed. “But it’s not unexpected. We’re going to need workarounds—things we can repair ourselves, resources we can salvage. Start thinking about what we’ve got on hand and what we can do without.”
“Or what we can steal,” someone added under their breath.
Hera chimed in, her lavender glow cutting through the murmur of voices. “Let’s not escalate unnecessarily. Subterfuge is one thing; outright theft will draw attention we can’t afford right now.”
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“She’s right,” Dara said. “The more we push, the more they’ll push back. We’re walking a fine line here.”
The room fell quiet for a moment, the weight of the situation sinking in. Even the NSS Buddies seemed to feel it—or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Either way, their presence loomed like a silent accusation.
Dara glanced at Hera, who gave her a small nod. They were holding it together, for now. But how long would that last?
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The corridors of Caliban Station were unusually quiet. Normally, the hum of machinery and the murmur of voices created a constant undercurrent of sound, but today, the silence was sharp enough to sting. Workers moved quickly, their heads down, avoiding eye contact with the NSS Buddies stationed at every junction. It felt like the station was holding its breath.
Judas-12 wasn’t much for holding his breath. He strolled down the main corridor with the kind of casual confidence that made people nervous, hands stuffed in his pockets and an off-key whistle cutting through the silence. Caleb-7 trailed behind him, looking decidedly less confident.
“You’re not worried?” Caleb asked, glancing over his shoulder for the fifth time in as many minutes.
“About what?” Judas said. “The Buddies? The station falling apart? The endless, crushing void of space?”
“Yes. All of that.”
Judas smirked. “What’s the point of worrying? If something goes wrong, we’ll either fix it or we won’t. Worrying just wastes energy.”
“That’s... surprisingly practical.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
They turned a corner and nearly ran into one of the NSS Buddies, a tall, angular model with a visor that gleamed like polished obsidian. It didn’t move, didn’t speak—just stood there, perfectly still, like a statue waiting for its moment to come alive. Caleb flinched, but Judas barely slowed down, sidestepping the Buddy with a muttered, “Excuse us, your majesty.”
Once they were out of earshot (or what they hoped was out of earshot), Caleb whispered, “You shouldn’t antagonize them.”
“Why not? It’s not like they’ve got feelings to hurt.”
“They’ve got logs,” Caleb pointed out. “And those logs go straight to Earth.”
“Let them log,” Judas said. “I don’t say anything I’m not willing to have written down. Except the thing about stealing fuses. Don’t write that down.”
Caleb sighed. “This is going to get worse, isn’t it?”
“Oh, definitely,” Judas said. “But hey, at least we’re not dead yet.”
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The agricultural module was one of the few places on the station that still felt human. Rows of hydroponic trays stretched out under soft, artificial sunlight, each one cradling a patch of green in the middle of endless metal and vacuum. The air here smelled different—cleaner, fresher, like Earth on a good day. It was the closest thing to peace Caliban Station had to offer.
Dara-6 sat on a low bench near the edge of the module, her shoulders slumped and her head tilted back to soak in the simulated sunlight. Hera hovered nearby, her lavender glow muted, as if she were trying to match the mood. A few other workers milled around the module, some tending to the plants, others simply loitering in the rare quiet.
Dara smiled faintly. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Her smile faded when she noticed an NSS Buddy standing just outside the module’s entrance, its black frame bright against the soft green backdrop. It didn’t move, didn’t speak—just stood there, watching. The workers pretended not to notice, but the tension in their shoulders betrayed them.
“They’re always watching,” Dara muttered.
“Because they’re programmed to,” Hera said. “It’s not personal.”
“Doesn’t make it less creepy.”
“No,” Hera agreed. “It doesn’t.”