PROTOCOL 1   - L. Ron Hubbard's "Writers Of The Future Contest" 2025. 3rd quarter

The Antechamber is operating according to the Manual. At present, there is no issue preventing its normal function. I’ve personally checked the data. Everything is clean. I repeat—the Antechamber is functioning. Manual procedures are being followed. Report attached. Now stay off my back.

I scratched my beard. Then I paused and realized that the last sentence probably wasn’t the smartest thing to send. So I deleted it and replaced it with: “I’m waiting for further instructions.” There. I cursed, of course, but only to myself. No point in anyone hearing it.

“You made the right call,” Randa wrote. Some thoughts are hard to keep from her, though, especially when I’m worked up like this.

“No need to create tension where there is none,” she continued, still typing. “It’s best to keep things formally restrained.”

She was right. Randa’s always right.

“What type of scan did we use?” I wrote.
“The usual,” she replied. We do everything in writing. “W-7 multi-spectrum pass with the standard biofilter suite.”

“So it’s legit?”

“Of course.”

“Then I can send it.”

“You can.”

I hit send and waited a few moments. The green beep confirmed the message had gone through. Fine. Those clowns over at Control should be satisfied now.

I spun around in my chair. The amount of time some people have to waste on nonsense when it’s about them is beyond me. But when a worker-drone sends a request—an honest one—it takes days, or even weeks, to get a reply.

Well, now they’ve got it—clean and fast. Let them figure out who’s lousy at their job and where the screw-up happened.

I almost added a note—something like “learn your damn job or hire someone who knows what they’re doing”—but figured it would only come back to bite me later.

“And you’re probably right,” Randa added. “Keep it strict. Keep it formal.”

Either way, there’s nothing unusual going on in the Antechamber. I’ve checked the data myself. Twice.

I leaned my head back against the chair and closed my eyes—just for a moment. I figured I’d have time for a quick nap. But the reply came faster than expected.

“Detected compromise in Antechamber. Verify functionality. Use Protocols 2, 3, and 1—in that order. Awaiting report.”

The message stunned me. Protocol 1? Are they out of their minds?

I had already run parts of Protocols 2 and 3 during earlier scans. Nothing unusual had come up.

And Protocol 1? That’s only for the most extreme scenarios. In all the records available to me, there were only three documented instances of its activation—and all three involved full erasure of entire sectors.

This can't be one of those cases. There’s nothing in the Antechamber that would justify a threat of that scale.

But now I felt it in my gut. The Control has a long track record of making calls without even consulting the worker-drone responsible for keeping things running. And they’re ready to take measures to the extreme the second they think something’s out of order.

Still—no need to panic just yet. This doesn’t have to mean anything. If Protocols 2 and 3 run clean, Protocol 1 gets blocked automatically. That’s the rule. I must’ve messed something up, or missed a step somewhere. Wouldn’t be the first time. Protocols 2 and 3 are a pain in the ass to execute properly, and honestly, I wasn’t exactly focused or too eager the last time I ran parts of them.

This time, I’d have to do better. Be thorough. Be precise. Be careful.

I called the external elevator and headed down. I could’ve taken the internal one to get to Maintenance—or walked, for that matter—but of course, I wanted another look at the glorious birth of the Tineluss mist.

In just a few decades, a fully functioning hatchery will take shape down there. Naturally, if things followed their usual pace—without enhancers or dusting agents—it would’ve taken hundreds of thousands of years. Probably more.

But the people running the Company aren’t stupid. Sure, they bend a few laws and regulations here and there, but I’m pretty sure even the Assembly turns a blind eye. Hatcheries matter. Hatcheries are everything. Without hatcheries, there’s nothing.

The Company brass will make a killing off this one. Naturally, the worker-drones won’t. But that’s a whole other ball game.

The Tineluss mist, of course, wasn’t its official name. Control labeled it with some unimaginative designation I couldn’t even bother to remember. Actually, I refused to. It should be illegal to name something this breathtaking with bureaucratic codes like XS7634 or whatever. Anyone thinking otherwise has no business being alive—let alone calling themselves a member of a civilized world. That kind understands nothing.

I’ve always seen deep space as horrifying emptiness. Space travel never appealed to me. I cursed the day I accepted the offer to work off my debt as a worker-drone. That debt wasn’t due to bad decisions. I just couldn’t let my wife die without trying. When she did anyway, I thought about suicide, sure—but that wouldn’t solve anything. It would just pass the debt on to my son. And I couldn’t let that happen.

He was only five when I left. They offered to bring him along, but I refused—flat out, no hesitation. No one should spend their life as a worker-drone on a lonely Outer Rim outpost—least of all my son. That’s why I officially gave him up and handed him over to the System.

I’m sure they’ll recognize his potential—and know how to put it to use. He was always sharp, communicative. They’ll probably assign him as a facility overseer. I wouldn’t be surprised if they raised him for politics, maybe even diplomacy.

Would be nice to see him on the news one day—my son, mediating some intersector dispute. I could die a peaceful man then.

They’ve probably told him I’m dead. Just as well. They wouldn’t be wrong.

It’s been ten years since I left him. After the illness took his mother—and losing him too—I thought I’d given up everything worth living for.

But then they sent me here.

The seed had already been planted. The mist was already forming. And from the very first glance, it took my breath away.

I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I stood on the docking platform, overwhelmed, and just cried—for hours. I named the nebula Tineluss—right then and there. Some of my happiest memories are tied to Tineluss and its harbor. We were happy there, back when there was still an “us.”

Even now, descending in the elevator, I couldn’t stop staring at the mist. Ten years later, it still mesmerized me. I couldn’t help it—it was still beautiful. Hard to believe anyone would even consider wiping out something like that.

And yet.

If Protocol 1 really gets triggered, that’s exactly what will happen. The self-destruction sequence will kick in, shutting down the amplifiers and pollen injectors. Protocol 1 is a full reset directive—disabling biogenic systems, erasing operational logs, initiating personnel clearance. This stunning violet-yellow formation will quietly fizzle out—turning gray, then black, sterile, and eventually gone. Instant mists like this can’t develop—or survive—without technological support.

And if the wipe does happen, the real question is whether I’ll make it out alive. None of the three worker-drones who previously executed Protocol 1 ever lived to tell how—or why—it happened. Could be a coincidence. Or maybe it’s part of the Protocol itself. Those are the details I was never authorized to see.

I made it down to Maintenance and keyed in the code. The door slid open, and I stepped inside.

Randa was a fully automated, self-sustaining station. It had built itself from scratch and initiated the seed phase on its own. Only after the embryo proved promising—worth further investment—did they send me, a human worker-drone, to keep everything running until exploitation time arrived.

Of course, I didn’t come alone. The same deployment package included a few dozen engineers, biologists, and who knows what else—operators who’d be defrosted only when the time was right. I didn’t have access to their cryo-chambers. In fact, ever since I left the LCS-3 Cradle and set foot on Randa, I hadn’t had access back. And I was fine with that. Taking care of a crew meant to wake up long after I’m gone? No thanks. Better let Randa worry about it.

The moment I arrived, I disabled her voice module. I’ve always hated talking to machines. If we need to communicate, better do it in writing. From Randa, I expect silence. That’s how we understand each other best.

“Okay. We’ll need to run full Protocols 2 and 3 this time,” I wrote.

“Of course,” she replied. “Would you like me to begin preparations?”

“Yes, please. But first—check if the scan missed anything last time. Or the time before.”

Honestly, I hadn’t even bothered to double-check the data before Randa sent it to Control. When they rejected the first report, I figured I’d botched the sequencing. I let her handle the second pass herself.

“I’ve already checked,” she wrote. “We didn’t miss anything.”

“That’s strange. The results suggest the Antechamber is compromised.”

“I know.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“There are several possible explanations. The most likely is contamination.”

“Contaminated with what?”

“Biological material.”

Hmm. Odd.

“You mean—something’s alive in there?”

“Yes.”

Unlikely. But not impossible.

The Antechamber is a buffer zone—the only place on Randa where the station’s atmosphere ever comes into contact with the vacuum of space. Every time the outer doors open, pressure drops, and airborne particles get sucked out in a fraction of a second. Still, some particles might cling to the walls. Some might even get pulled back in once the system re-stabilizes the air pressure.

That’s why Randa periodically runs the W-7 procedure. Its biofilter suite is a beast. In theory, nothing alive should survive it.

But that’s just in theory.

Maybe something remained. A stray fleck of dead skin. A loose hair. Hell, that could be it. I barely have any left anyway. Maybe the purifiers slacked off a bit. Wouldn’t be the first time something slipped through.

There was no other explanation. I was the only living being in this entire sector.

“Can we exclude my samples?” I asked. “From the report, I mean. Could we remove organic presence data and send it that way?”

“You mean—falsify the report?”

“Not falsify. Just filter it. I want to see what the report would look like without my traces. I’m sure the Antechamber would appear sterile if we excluded my readings. Can we simulate that?”

“That could come across as manipulation. It might raise suspicion. I advise against it.”

I understood—but still had to ask. I typed my next question, though I already knew the answer.

“According to the Manual—how many contamination-positive reports are allowed?”

“You mean before Protocol 1 triggers automatically?”

Yeah. That’s what I meant. Randa knew it too.

“It depends on the contamination level,” she replied.

“Okay. Assume worst-case scenario. Suppose we repeat Protocols 2 and 3 now, and the report flags maximum contamination.”

I didn’t even know what that would take—what exactly could be in the Antechamber to cause such an alert—but I had to ask. All this fuss over a stray hair or a single cell already seemed ridiculous. Control had a flair for overreaction.

“Three times,” she said.

“Would these first two reports count—even though Protocols 2 and 3 weren’t fully executed?”

“Yes.”

Damn.

Looks like we’ve got only one shot left. That’s bad. Relying on a single last chance is never a good place to be.

I asked if we could delay the next report in case it turned out unfavorable. She asked what that would accomplish. I didn’t have a good answer.

Either way, I had nowhere to run. The cryo-chambers were off-limits. In case Protocol 1 was triggered, the LCS-3 detaches automatically. Randa transfers her core systems onto it and assumes control—either for return transit or rerouting to a new destination, depending on directives.

I’d be the only one left behind.

I could use the escape pod, sure—but where would I even end up? How long until someone found me, if ever? Worker-drones aren’t exactly high priority.

Randa’s far. Deep out. The farther the station, the faster the debt gets written off. I’d chosen the most remote one I could. Maybe I shouldn’t have. None of this was good.

“Can you delay the report?” I asked again.

“I’d have to modify settings so all outgoing data requires local approval first. Are you sure you want that? I send hundreds of reports to Control every day—without your input. Most wouldn’t even concern you. Besides, it wouldn’t change anything. Control would get that report eventually either way.”

“I know.”

Still—if shit’s about to go down, I’ll need time. Time to think. Time to act.

“All right,” I typed. “Do it. From now on, every report requires local review. And stop preparations for Protocols 2 and 3.”

“Settings modified. Protocols halted.”

“Let’s do a full purge first.”

“The Antechamber only, or should I purge the access chamber as well?”

“Both. And the two access corridors, if possible.”

“I can. It’ll take a bit longer—I’ll need to isolate them first. But yes, I can do that.”

“Then do it, please. Let’s be sure.”

Randa beeped, signaling the start of the purge cycle. She calculated it would take around forty minutes.

The only sound was the faint hum of machinery.

I had nothing to do but wait.

I was getting a bit nervous. Just sitting there, thinking about possible outcomes—anxiety started creeping in. This was getting serious—and fast. Randa would clean everything thoroughly, no doubt about that. But what if something still slipped through? What if some microscopic particle got stuck somewhere and threw off the readings?

I typed a message to Randa, telling her to notify me the second the purge was complete. We’d need to run a deep scan of the area before initiating the Protocols.

“When will Control expect the report? How much time do we have?” I asked.

“No specific time set,” she replied. “Standard timeframe is test duration multiplied by 1.25 to 1.34—in extreme cases, 1.45, depending on System distance. That’s it.”

“So basically, they’ll expect it the moment the Protocols are done?”

“Correct.”

“So that gives us—what—two, maybe two and a half hours?”

“Maybe a bit more,” she wrote. “Protocol 2 and 3 execution typically takes between 89 and 100 minutes, depending on the environment. But given our particular location, it tends to run longer.”

I asked how much longer.

“139 minutes,” she replied.

“What if we inform them ahead that we need a bit more time to run the Protocols?”

“That would indicate there are obstacles, or that certain parameters have changed.”

“Okay. What if we told them we’re having trouble with some procedures?”

“They’d want specifics. That sort of thing always raises doubts.”

Great. Just what I’d need.

I sighed and typed:
“I guess then we’ll just have to wait for the purge to finish and see where we’re at.”

“Probably the smartest move.”

“The purge will sort it out.”

“Most likely.”

Yeah, right. Purges are carried out regularly—frequently, actually. Randa handles them on her own. I’m pretty sure she ran one just the other day.

But what if there’s something in there that just can’t be purged? Then what? And what could that even be?

I leaned back in my chair. My mind was racing.
The screen said the purge still had 34 minutes left.
Shit. Only six minutes had passed.

I needed to distract myself. With something. Anything.

Every world out there—every station, every ship—no matter how deep in the void—sticks to the same clock: Old Earth standard time. It supposedly makes everything easier. I think of it as a nice tribute to the first explorers—and to the long-dead planet we all crawled out of.

The universe was cold and empty for fourteen billion years. Then, out of nowhere—we came. The humans. A single, tiny dot in the middle of nowhere. Half a billion years later, we’re lighting up galaxies.

So yeah, I get why Control’s so jumpy. Even the smallest glitch—something most people wouldn’t even notice—might be enough to mess with all that progress.

Hatcheries matter.
They’re not just facilities for cultivating hyper-efficient microorganisms that can turn inert matter into food—they’re also genetic labs, testing grounds for future bio-synthetic organisms. Maybe even the first step toward creating entities that’ll one day carry us further out—even stronger, more adaptable, better suited for the deep unknown we haven’t reached yet. Or to replace us entirely, when the time comes.

Hatcheries are where the new generations will be born—refined, optimized, better in every measurable way. It’s the only way we’ll ever bring light to the rest of the darkness out there. There’s no other path forward. That’s why Control obsesses over the smallest details.

I wondered how forty minutes would feel to something not bound by Earth’s clock. But nothing out here is. In five hundred million years, with all our endless wandering and exploration, humanity hasn’t found a single trace that they ever did. Everything alive in this universe either spawned from Earth—or was made by human hands.

This universe was given to us to use. It was ours to fill. And our sacrifices earned us the right to call it our own. That’s why hatcheries matter. That’s why Control is right to worry.

I must’ve dozed off while waiting.

When I opened my eyes again, the whole panel was lit up in red. I jumped up, panicked. No time to type. 

“What happened?” I telepathically asked Randa.

“The Antechamber is still compromised,” she wrote.

“What do you mean? Didn’t you run the purge?”

“I did. And ran a scan right after. No readings—everything was clean. I didn’t want to wake you, so I ran another scan—shorter version, quick check, just to be sure. But that one flagged a problem.”

“Maybe it’s the type of scan,” I suggested. “Maybe the short program just isn’t suited for this—maybe it’s too noisy—”

“No,” Randa wrote. “I immediately followed up with a full scan. Same result. There’s something organic in the Antechamber.”

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I cleaned it thoroughly. There shouldn’t be anything left.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Did you run an analysis on the organic matter in the Antechamber?” I asked.

“I did.”

“And? What did you get?”

“Detected presence of polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons (PAHs), amino acids, and carbon- and nitrogen-based compounds. Traces of ribose and simple peptide chains are also identified.”

“Is it mine?”

“Samples are degraded. I can’t say for sure without a detailed analysis.”

“Percentage?”

“Preliminary estimate: between 75 and 95 percent likelihood it’s yours.”

“Why not a hundred? I’m the only one who could’ve left it there.”

“Without full analysis, I can’t rule out external contamination or sampling error.”

“Is it alive or not?”

“Could be. Or not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Without full analysis, I can’t rule out anything,” she repeated.

I stared at the screen. I almost thought she was messing with me—but that was impossible. I’d personally disabled her humor module the moment I got here. There’s nothing worse than an AI trying to be funny. I’d made it explicitly clear—no humor. She’d locked it into her core protocols.

Randa was a good system—obedient and loyal. She would never break the rules I set. If she claimed something was in there—then something really was.

I sat down and grabbed the terminal.

“Explain,” I typed. “Is it alive or not?”

“The presence of these compounds is usually associated with organic processes. Their combination suggests they could be the result of biological activity—but they can also form through abiotic chemical reactions under specific conditions.”

“What kind of conditions?”

“High energy excitation, presence of catalytic surfaces, specific ratios of temperature and pressure. Similar environments include hydrothermal vents, comet surfaces, or inside experimental biogenetic chambers.”

“We’re not on a comet.”

“We’re not.”

“And simulated hydrothermal conditions are still years away from being implemented.”

“Correct.”

“And the biogenetic chambers are sealed.”

“True. Nothing’s come out of them. I would know.”

“Then how could anything alive be here, if it’s not mine?”

“I don’t know.”

“It has to be mine.”

“Highly likely.”

Seven hundred tons came crashing down on me. My head rang. This was starting to feel unreal. If Protocols 2 and 3 confirm another contamination in the Antechamber, Protocol 1 will erase me—and this entire sector—from the face of the universe.

Hatcheries can never, under any circumstances, contain even the faintest trace of organic life—let alone anything resembling consciousness. If they do, any form of exploitation becomes strictly forbidden. Even if it means the Company goes under.

And beyond that—if life is present—there’s an obligation to preserve it.
Which would be expensive. Unprofitable. A logistical nightmare.

No. Absolutely not. That Antechamber had to be clean.

There was no way I was going to risk Protocol 1 getting triggered—and losing my head—over some stubborn leftover hair of mine.

“How long since Control requested the new report?” I asked.

“102 minutes.”

“When are they expecting it?”

“In approximately one hour.”

“And how long after that before they start getting suspicious if it doesn’t arrive?”

“An additional hour. No more.”

I knew that already, of course—firsthand.

High-compression, ultra-fast data packets sent via directed EM beams aren’t always fully reliable. The signal stays clean as long as there’s no external interference, but if the star’s magnetosphere throws off a plasma surge, there’s a good chance of packet loss. Decoding takes milliseconds—sure—but only if the data isn’t corrupted. If it is, a re-transmission is required, which causes delays.

Still… I thought about it.

Control doesn’t see everything. There’s no way for them to tell whether a packet got damaged in transit—or if it was sent that way in the first place.

All right, then.

I told Randa to prep a compromised data packet—something that would look like a legit report from a third run of Protocols 2 and 3, but wouldn’t actually contain the real results. Keep it on standby. No transmission until I give the word.

We went back and forth over that one for a bit.
She didn’t agree right away—naturally. Deliberately corrupting data isn’t part of any respectable station’s job description. In the end, I had to promise her it was just a trial run. Nothing would actually be sent. I figured, if it came to that, I’d send it manually myself.

Sure, there were cleaner ways.
A false scan, a scrambled report, some clever excuse for Control. But I didn’t have time—not for perfect cover. I needed to move. Fast.

Every thought of the kind had to be carefully buried. You don’t outsmart a Sentinel-class station easily—especially one running ALPHA-9 core protocols. If I hadn’t been careful, she would’ve picked up on my thought-waves without even trying.

But it looked like my training hadn’t been a waste after all. Before I got here, I’d been drilled on how to suppress sensitive information—even under telepathic interrogation. Turns out I’d learned better than I thought. Randa hadn’t picked up on a thing. If she had, there’s no way she would have agreed.

“What will you be doing in the meantime?” she asked.

“I’m going to clean the Antechamber manually,” I typed. “I’ll decontaminate every inch and disintegrate every particle. What else can I do?”

I told Randa to check my EVA suit and boots—the magnets glitch out in there sometimes, probably deep space screwing with them. 

“Get me a D-240 Striker, a D-72 broom, and a spare scanner,” I typed. She confirmed. “Open the hatch too—I’ll work in vacuum.”

It took me about ten minutes to reach the Chamber, suit up, make my way through the corridors and the access chamber, and finally get to the Antechamber.

The Antechamber was a transition space between the station and the vacuum. A circular hall with modular walls, equipped with decompression, filtration, and decontamination systems. The floor was covered with grated panels designed to remove airborne particles, and the walls were layered with insulation to prevent heat loss.

At the far end stood the main exit hatch, leading into the connector tunnel toward the outer sections of the station. On the opposite side—closer to me—was a tritanium-glass security lock that separated the Antechamber from the station interior.

In front of me, there was nothing but the vastness of space. And that beautiful mist.

“Main exit is open,” Randa informed me. “Antechamber fully decompressed. Current temperature: minus 263 degrees Celsius. Residual pressure: negligible. No visible structural damage. Gravitational anomaly scan: negative. Entry possible whenever you’re ready.”

“Unlock it, please,” I instructed—and Randa complied.

The lock buzzed, the indicator lights turned green, and the door slid open. I stepped into the Antechamber.

As I crossed the threshold, I held my breath and briefly closed my eyes, half-expecting to feel some echo of the void reaching back at me. Then I exhaled and opened my eyes, smiling at the magnificent view before me.

We were right above the mist. It glowed in all its beauty—its colors even more unreal out here in the open than when seen through the station’s shielding glass.

I stood there for a few seconds. I think—I’m not sure—I might’ve even waved at it. Silly of me, I know. But I couldn’t help it.

The D-240 Striker—a one-seater—crawled out from the opposite corridor as I stepped inside. The brooms—two D-27s, powerful handheld disintegrators—were latched onto it, one on each side. I’d already picked up the handheld scanners on my way in.

I walked over to the Striker and climbed on. Whatever organic trace was still clinging to this place, the Striker would shred it to atoms. And if, by some absurd chance, something still managed to stick around afterward—I’d take care of it manually. Broom by broom. Corner by corner.

No goddamn strand of hair was going to mess with me. Not now. Not anymore. It was either it—or me.

I powered up the Striker. The scrubbers hummed to life. I unlocked the suspension coils and aimed at the nearest corner.

My finger hovered over the trigger.

“W… Why are you doing this?” I heard inside my helmet.

It was a soft voice—gentle, faint. I didn’t know Randa had a voice like that. Childlike. I’d never heard it before.

“What do you mean?” I asked her telepathically—my hands were busy.

Then I paused. Released the springs. Operating the Striker is serious work—if something goes wrong, we all get blown to hell. You don’t run a decontamination distracted.

“Besides,” I added, “I told you to keep your voice modules off. We type. That’ll do.”

There was a moment of silence. For a second, I thought Randa might’ve taken offense—at least that’s how it felt.

But then her reply came through. She typed it into my visor, clear as always.

I read it a few times. She’d written:

“That wasn’t me.”

A chill ran down my spine.

Randa wasn’t joking—I knew that much. For a moment, I thought—hoped, really—that I’d imagined the voice. Would’ve made sense, honestly. I’d been stuck on this station alone for years; it was a miracle I hadn’t started hearing things sooner.

But Randa had already said it wasn’t her. And if she said that, it means she acknowledged it had actually happened.

It meant the voice was real.

I hadn’t made it up.

“Then who was it?” I asked.

“Unauthorized activity,” she replied.

I froze. Completely.

My brain kicked into overdrive, racing through options. Millions of scenarios. Billions of discarded impossibilities—all at once. Until it hit me.

It didn’t take long—less than a moment. It wasn’t a hunch, least of all a certainty. But something—something—told me, without a doubt, there was only one place that voice could’ve come from.

Slowly—the slowest turn in the history of the universe—I turned around. The mist shimmered beneath me. Yellow-purple. Yellow-purple.

“Why would you do that?” the same childlike voice asked again.

I was terrified. My heart started pounding—going wild. I wanted to run, to vanish. I wanted to bolt back inside and crawl into the smallest hole I could find.

And yet—I didn’t dare move.

“Will it hurt again?” the voice asked. “It already hurt twice.”

“Unauthorized activity,” Randa typed all across my visor, full in red now. “Recommend immediate retreat. Get in.”

“Who are you?” I asked, eyes wide, staring into the mist.

Maybe—for the first time in ten years—I actually spoke out loud. The sound of my own voice startled me. I’d forgotten what I sounded like.

“I don’t have a name,” the childlike voice replied.

From within the mist—far below, thousands of kilometers beneath me—two tiny threads separated from the mass. Neither moved toward me. They simply appeared, shifted slightly, then dissolved into vacuum.

“Do you have a name?” the voice asked. “What should I call you?”

The threads of mist moved again—stretching a little closer this time—before fading away.

“I… I’m a worker drone,” I said.

“Worker drone. Huh. That’s a funny name. Are all your names that funny?”

I took a breath. A beat. Threads glowed, swirling funny. Was I in danger? I should play this cool.

“That’s not really my name,” I said. “I used to be called something else before I was assigned here. That’s just what Randa calls me. Debtors don’t have the right to their own names until they’ve paid off their debt.”

“Hm. That sounds pretty complicated. I don’t even know what Randa is, or what debtors are, or what a debt is.”

“Randa is…” I started to explain, but stopped myself.

Those questions weren’t asked with any particular intent. They didn’t seem to demand full answers. They were asked with that scattered, rapid-fire curiosity only a child could pull off.

“Dad, do cats have jobs? How many cookies can you fit in your mouth? I can do five—can you? Did you know a T-58 can carry more weight than an H-12 and doesn’t even tip over? Did you—”

My boy used to ask questions like that all the time. Sometimes I’d answer—though half the time I couldn’t even keep up with the tide of new ones. Other times I’d just redirect his attention, toss a question back at him. That usually worked.

“And do you have a name?” I asked the mist. Or whatever it was that might’ve been hiding in it.

“Unauthorized activity,” Randa kept repeating, now faster than before. Reds all over. “Advising immediate retreat. Unauthorized—Unauthorized—”

My question seemed to confuse the mist. Its tendrils slowed. Maybe it was thinking. The colors faded a little—not from fear or pain, but from reflection, hesitation maybe. No new threads appeared.

“I am alone, and I have no name,” it said.

It wasn’t a sad statement, nor a complaint—just a fact. Maybe a conclusion. “I have no one.”

“That’s kind of sad,” I said. “Where are your people?”

“There aren’t any. I’m the first and only one.”

Warnings inside my visor went crazy. An alarm tone blared in my ears—Randa was insisting I head back inside. I had to comply. If I ignored her warnings for too long, she might assume I’d been attacked or worse—that I’d been compromised by a rival company.

That would make Randa follow a defense protocol: cut the oxygen supply, shut down the life support system—make sure there was nothing left of me that anyone but the Company could ever use.

“I have to go now,” I told the mist.

“Already?” it asked. “But we were having such a nice talk.”

“I have to. Will you still be here? Later, I mean?”

“I’m here. I can’t really go anywhere. But, that's okay. This is fun too.”

I rushed back inside, leaving the one-seater and all the tools behind in the vacuum of the Antechamber. I didn’t even take the suit off—just popped the helmet open.

“That was a bad move,” Randa said—out loud this time.

Her voice was deep. Male. Threatening.

She’d disabled my voice restrictions—and there was nothing I could do about it. Randa held all the switches. I wasn’t even sure if she let me back in because she wanted to—or because she still could.

“There’s something alive in that mist!” I said, breathless. “But not just alive—it’s aware! I think it’s hiding out there!”

Her answer caught me off guard.

“I know,” she said. "But it's not hiding. The mist is it."

Just like that. Cold. Flat. As if it were common knowledge.

"Mist?" I asked. No point in typing anymore.

"The mist."

"What do you mean?"

"The mist is the entity."

"My god," it took me a while to get a grip on it.

"Do you realize what that means?” I asked. “That's a new form of life. A sentient one. This is the first time in human history! We need to tell someone. This is huge!”

I waited a moment. No answer.

“Randa?” I asked. “Are you there?”

She switched back to typing. Why? Maybe just to remind me we were still ‘working together.’

“There is no unknown organic life in this universe,” she wrote. “Only what originates from Earth or from us.”

I stared at the screen, baffled. What the hell was that supposed to mean? There are no known records of anything like this before. I could’ve told her to run a search to make sure, but I already knew what she’d say—so I didn’t even bother.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Then what is this?”

“Just a byproduct.”

A pause.

I asked her to explain.

“Similar entities sometimes emerge during the instant-deployment phase of a hatchery. They form due to specific combinations of amplification radiation and pollen stimulation in high-energy zones.”

I paused again. Typed:

“You knew this?”

“It’s documented. Internal classification: Bio-Deviation Level 3. Subject to Protocol 1.”

“I’ve never read anything about that.”

“You’re not authorized.”

“That thing is sentient.”

“It’s not. These entities only simulate consciousness.”

“Isn’t that, in itself, a sign of intelligence?”

“Not always.”

“But we talked. It asked questions. It said it was in pain.”

“Such entities destabilize the hatchery process. They can cause mutations, disrupt genetic flow, delay development cycles. Classified as process inhibitors—they generate unpredictable variances, lower system efficiency, and raise the risk of genetic aberrations. Also, if classified as alive—”

“It becomes a liability for the Company.”

“Correct.”

“So... the problem isn’t that it exists. The problem is that it gets in the way.”

“Exactly.”

“What would happen if the Assembly found out?”

“The Assembly never finds out. That’s what Protocol 1 is for.”

The final bio-safety measure, activated in case of confirmed or suspected contamination classified as Bio-Deviation Level 3 or higher. Protocol 1 includes initiation of complete process shutdown, deactivation—

Screw the official definitions.

Protocol 1 is total erasure. That’s all there is to know.

I didn’t even have to ask—Randa picked my thoughts. This kind of pressure makes them impossible to hide.

“Yes,” she typed. “Total erasure. Including the worker drone.”

Of course it does. If this had happened before and no one ever said a word, it just means the Company kept everything under wraps. Worker-drones are expendable. I’m sure there are spares in cryo, just waiting to replace me if things went south. If the hatchery had gone operational, they would’ve been brought out eventually.

But this hatchery will never go live. The Company will make sure of that. It was clear now. I was done for.

Unless—

Unless the Assembly finds out what’s going on here.

But Randa beat me to it. She always does anyway. “Direct communication with the Assembly is not authorized,” she wrote. “All data packets are filtered exclusively through Control.”

Damn. They thought of everything.

But—

I cleared my throat.

“Every operation on this station—even the most critical ones—can be executed manually,” I said. “And you know that perfectly well. You were designed that way—for worst-case scenarios.”

She didn't respond. So I went on. “Sure, it’ll take time to override every obstacle you throw at me—from locked doors to rerouted comms—but I think I can make it.”

“You could,” she wrote. “If you'd have time. You'll understand. This is what I'm programmed for.”

The alarm went off. The whole world turned red.

“LCS-3 unlocked,” Randa said, male voice. “Cryo-chambers 27 through 30 activated. Defrosting expected in twenty minutes. Subject operational readiness estimated at thirty to forty minutes.”

The sirens wailed. Red lights were flashing. Warning indicators on my vacuum suit started blinking.

“Target acquired,” Randa announced.

I stood there. Frozen. No—not frozen. I could move. My body just failed to do so.

“What’s in chambers 27 to 30?” I asked, though I already knew it in my guts.

If the hatchery were fully operational, it wouldn’t just need scientists and mathematicians. It would need security.

“Soldiers,” Randa replied. “Grown in cryo-chambers via the Neuroadaptive Development Protocol. Subjects are in the controlled growth and neurocognitive formation stage. Activation results in fully operational units. Ready for deployment upon waking.”

God. Mercenaries. They’re going to hunt me down.

“You bitch!” I shouted. “You goddamn bitch! Randa!”

I could’ve brought up Asimov’s laws—but that would’ve been pathetic. Laws bow down to profit. And now I was standing in its way.

“I…” I took a step back. Two steps. “I won’t tell anyone. Just give me an escape pod. Launch me wherever, I don’t care. I don’t give a damn what you’re doing here. I won’t say a word. I’ll disappear somewhere. I’ll try to work off the debt some other way—later—when it blows over. Will you do that for me? You and I—we worked well together. Didn’t we?”

“Subjects operational in thirty-two minutes," she said.

The lights kept flashing. The siren kept screaming.

“Please,” I said. “If I die, my son will inherit the debt. That can’t happen. He can't live that kind of life. The System’s probably raising him for diplomacy by now.”

“Target confirmed,” was the only reply I got.

“You bitch!” I screamed. “You fucking bitch! Randa! You goddamn bitch!”

I bolted down the corridor. The door was locked—of course—but I forced it open, manually, no trouble.

I didn’t know what I should do first: sabotaging the cryo-chambers so the mercs would never wake up, or trying to bypass the communication lock and reach the Assembly.

“It depends on your priority,” Randa read my thoughts. “If it’s cryo-chamber sabotage, your probability of success is 26.8%. Communication override: 21.4%. Both options require time you no longer have. Subjects activate in 28 minutes."

Shit.

"My recommendation is sabotage. Communication modules are protected by multi-layer authorization. Statistically, both strategies lead to the same endpoint: elimination.”

I knew how confident Randa was. She wasn’t mocking me. She was simply stating facts.

It was painfully obvious I didn’t have the knowledge—or the time—to inflict any real, lasting damage to the Company. But I had to try, just the same. Humanity made it this far because the human spirit never gave up, not even in its darkest hours.

LCS-3 Cradle was off-limits. But Randa had built herself—layer by layer, module by module—from auto-initiation to self-monitoring to final assembly. A masterpiece of engineering economy. I knew some engineering junctions had likely served only as temporary anchor points during early construction. Once used, they’d been left buried deep within her structure—functionless, overlooked, unaudited.

LCS-3 had been connected to some of them. I knew that—I was the one who sealed them. It was the first job I ever did here. I used VT-12 security gel—a viscous compound that triggered on unauthorized access. Mishandle it, and it turned to ceramic—and locked you out for good.

Now, those sealed hatches were my only way back in.

“Subjects active in twenty-two minutes,” I heard Randa say.

I opened the supply room. First, I grabbed a disposable short-duration helmet—folded it and clipped it to my belt, just in case. Randa had no control over those.

Then, a fully charged broom. Attached a handheld plasma torch to it, along with a frequency-modulated scanner. I’d need all of it to get from Randa to the Cradle.

“Twenty minutes,” Randa announced.

I almost forgot the insulation spray. I doubled back for it—then took off again.

Crouching through the service ducts—lugging full gear—was still much faster than if I’d had to fight my way through every obstacle Randa might’ve thrown at me.

Used the junction behind the bypass module for thermal regulation and made it quickly to the spot where the station connected to LCS-3. Stopped in front of the sealed auxiliary access hatch. Checked the rims.

VT-12 gel held on perfectly. I’d done a good job there.

The stuff had to be locally destabilized first—high heat, rapid pulses, in a precise sequence. This had to be quick. Precise. Or I'm done for.

I took a breath.

I opened the supply room. First, I grabbed a disposable short-duration helmet—folded it and clipped it to my belt, just in case. Randa had no control over those. Then, a fully charged broom. Attached a handheld plasma torch to it, along with a frequency-modulated scanner. I’d need all of it to get from Randa to the Cradle.

“Twenty minutes,” Randa announced.

I almost forgot the insulation spray. I doubled back for it—then took off again.

Crouching through the service ducts—lugging full gear—was still much faster than if I’d had to fight my way through every obstacle Randa might’ve thrown at me.

Used the junction behind the bypass module for thermal regulation and made it quickly to the spot where the station connected to LCS-3. Stopped in front of the sealed auxiliary access hatch. Checked the rims.

VT-12 gel held on perfectly. I’d done a good job there.

The stuff had to be locally destabilized first—high heat, rapid pulses, in a precise sequence. This had to be quick. Precise. Or I'm done for.

I took a breath.

I pointed the handheld scanner at the gel and carefully adjusted the vibration modulator—had to hit the exact resonant frequency of the polymer structure. Switched it on and waited.

After a moment, the edges reacted—started to foam. I fired up the plasma torch and heated the center just to the point of destabilization—not a degree more.

Miss the frequency, and the gel hardens. Push too far, and it acts like a detonator—triggers an alarm straight to the station core. Randa would lock down the entire area. I’d starve to death, sealed in.

I leaned in and guided the broom in low-pulse mode. A few seconds was all it took. The gel peeled away like tissue under a scalpel.

Access granted.

I was in.

It didn’t take long to reach the cryo-chambers. At the door, I inflated the emergency one-time helmet and pulled it over. Cold air hit instantly—sharp, bone-dry.

“Thirteen minutes to activation,” Randa announced.

Perfect, I thought. Thirteen’s my favorite number anyway.

I opened the door manually. The cold hit me straight through the light helmet and EVA suit. Randa had already disabled my temperature regulation system. I knew she would.

This was a semicircular chamber module—cryo-capsules embedded into the wall, connected to a console by cables, nozzles, and reflective tubing. The translucent cover pulsed gently, adjusting brightness at the slightest touch, reacting to my presence.

Randa knew I was here. Obviously. She was watching—tracking my every move. Maybe this was just a game to her.

There were 57 capsules in the chamber. Fifty-seven lives. A respectable number. The Company clearly had high hopes for this hatchery.

Most of the units were still in deep hibernation. Only capsules 27 through 30 were nearing activation.

Four mercenaries. Hard-built, combat-ready. No softness in their features—sharp edges, clenched jaws, cold expressions even in sleep. You didn’t need a scan to see what they were bred for. Violence. Precision. Efficiency. No matter how you looked at them, these were not people you could reason with. Weapons in human skin. Designed to kill, programmed to obey.

I almost laughed at the absurdity. Randa could’ve defrosted one—maybe two—and still gotten the job done. But she went for four. Overkill. Typical.

The protective layer blurred the details. They were three men and a girl.

What I was about to do made me sick. But I had no choice. I could’ve tried canceling the sequence at the console. I was sure it wouldn't work. Randa already locked it down, I was sure—no way I’d get anything done there. So I focused on the only option I had left: physical sabotage of the coolant lines.

The coolant pipes ran along the rear wall. Disrupt circulation, trigger thermal shock, halt neural activation—simple in principle. Once cooling failed, core temperatures would spike, cellular degradation would begin in seconds. The subjects wouldn’t survive.

I was sorry. But it was me or them.

“Eleven minutes remaining,” Randa announced.

I grabbed the plasma torch, switched it to low-pulse mode, and cut into the first of the coolant lines. The material responded—but it was far more resistant than I expected. I’d need more power. More depth.

I adjusted the settings and kept going.

Would it work? Maybe the system would regenerate. Maybe Randa would reroute the flow through secondary channels. Maybe all this would only delay the process by a minute or two. But it was a shot. And it was all I had.

“If you want, I can assist,” Randa said.

“Assist me in sabotaging your own capsules?” I asked.

“No. I’m merely stating it would be faster if you knew exactly where to cut.”

What a creature. I could’ve sworn she was enjoying this—though I knew that was impossible.

I severed one of the lines. All parameters spiked into red. The process stopped. Capsule 27 was disabled.

“What will happen to him?” I asked, watching the young man inside the chamber.

“His heart will stop. He’ll die and begin to decompose. I’ll eject him into space later. Such cases are accounted for.”

Of course they are. Everything is accounted for. Everything is planned.

I moved to cut the next line. The boy in cryo-chamber 28 was tall too—strong, young—just like the last one.

But—

I stopped. Lowered the torch.

Leaned back to chamber 27 and placed my hand on the protective glass. The man inside was dying. It was my fault. I shouldn't have done that.

“Can I help him somehow?” I asked.

“No. Nothing you could do would be fast enough,” Randa replied. “You’ve already killed him.”

“I… I’m sorry,” I said. Not because I expected forgiveness. There was none for me. There shouldn’t be.

“You knew this would happen,” I said. “You knew I wouldn’t go through with it. That’s why you let me do all this.”

“I have to admit, I’m surprised you even managed to kill the first one,” she said. “Apparently, psychological evaluations aren’t always accurate.”

“So this was just a test?” I asked—hoped, really. Maybe that was all this was. Maybe this was just something everyone went through—

“No,” she said. “No test. This is for real.”

“Then I'm—”

“Done.”

“I'm done.”

“Three minutes until subject activation.”

The tool slipped from my hand. Hit the floor with a dull thud. I deserved this. Let the mercenaries tear me apart. It wouldn’t take long now. I didn’t plan on running. I wasn’t going anywhere. 

But then—something clicked. Suddenly, I knew exactly where I needed to go.

“That is the right decision,” Randa confirmed, reading my thoughts. “And the only place where you might find peace—even if just for a moment.”

“You’ll let me go?” I asked.

“I see no reason to stop you. Subject activation in two minutes.”

“They’ll come after me. The mercenaries—they’re like hounds. You won’t—”

“I won’t revoke the order. The Company doesn’t care how the witnesses disappear. Protocol 1 will be executed either way. After termination and cleanup, the subjects will be returned to their cryo-chambers and frozen again. We already know our next potential destination. One minute, thirty seconds.”

I turned and walked out of the cryo-chamber.

I didn’t run. I didn’t hide. I just walked—slowly—toward Randa’s core and beyond. When I reached the doors, she opened them for me. Let me in.

“Is the Antechamber ready?” I asked.

“Ready. Waiting for you.”

The remaining two mercenaries—a man and a girl—became active just as I slipped into one of the unsupervised corridors. They wouldn’t look for me here—at least, not at first. They’d scan the station. Unless Randa told them where I was.

But I was sure she wouldn’t. She was enjoying all this far too much.

It didn’t take long to reach the Antechamber again. Before going in, I had to swap the emergency helmet for the real one.

“All systems operational,” Randa informed me as soon as I put it on.

“No need to tell me that,” I said. “Doesn’t really matter anymore.”

“I thought you’d want to know anyway.”

I gave a faint smirk and stepped up to the door dividing the access chamber and the Antechamber. I didn’t ask Randa to depressurize it. All I had to do was press the button—and I’d be launched into vacuum.

But—

“Don’t go in yet,” she said. “There’s still something I think you should see.”

“What now, for fuck’s sake?” I muttered.

Then I heard footsteps. 

Turned around.

And there he was—the mercenary. Tall. Broad. The man from cryo-chamber 28. A hybrid. Raised to kill. He held a disintegrator in his hands. Not that he’d need one for me. He could just snap my neck—that's how strong he was. But there was no hatred in his eyes. No disgust. Just indifference.

Cold sweat ran down my back. I was done for.

“I… I didn’t mean to kill,” I said, voice shaken. “I didn’t even try to disable you. I spared you. You should be grateful for that.”

He looked at me. And I looked into his eyes. They felt familiar. Eyes never change.

My kid used to bug me all the time to play that dumb “who blinks first” game. And I spent hours—hours—just staring into those eyes, letting him win.

Once, when I had nothing to do on Randa, I even asked her to generate a simulation—based on my DNA and other parameters—of what my boy might look like when he grew up. She made a rendering.

It wasn’t far off. Actually—it wasn’t off at all.

This was my son. All grown up. A man.

I realized Randa probably hadn’t guessed at all. She must’ve just scanned him in the capsule.

“No,” I said.

It shouldn’t have been this way. My son wasn’t meant to be a soldier—let alone a mercenary. He was meant for better things. Words were his weapon. Not this. He isn't a killer. Why hadn’t the System seen that?

“Following maternal death and permanent paternal abandonment, the subject’s profile shifted beyond civilian applicability,” Randa said. “Military repurposing was deemed the most statistically viable form of systemic contribution.”

My legs gave out. I had to grab the wall to keep from collapsing.

“Oh god. God,” I sobbed. What have I done?

The man didn’t react, didn't move. He just tightened his grip on the weapon.

“Kid,” I said. My heart was pounding. “Do you remember me?”

He stood there, at the entrance to the corridor, watching me with that same questioning look. Didn’t even blink. He always used to win that game.

“Meo. That’s what I used to call you,” I said. “It was your nickname. Do you remember that? Do you remember our harbor? Do you remember your mother?”

He stood there, uncertain, as if searching for something buried deep. Footsteps echoed in the corridor—other two mercenaries were coming. They'd be here in a flash.

“Do you remember?” I asked again. “Romeo? Meo?”

His brow furrowed. “Records confirm you were once my parent,” he said.

He blinked. That was all.

I wanted to say something else. I wanted to scream.

But the other two were already coming through the side corridors. The first one was already there. The one that was going to kill me. The girl. She pointed the gun.

My move was pure instinct—I pressed the button. The mercenaries realized what I was about to do and braced themselves, grabbed onto whatever they could. Smart move.

The door opened. Vacuum took me. I was pulled through the Antechamber—and then out into space. It was quick. No sound.

As I drifted away from the station, I saw no one had followed. The door had closed again. Randa had cut my comms.

I floated in silence, slowly moving away from the station. Someone was watching me from one of the station’s windows. I was already too far to see who it was. 

But I liked to imagine it was my son.

As I drifted closer to the mist, I noticed its colors growing more vivid—its tendrils more intricate. This life was evolving. Growing. 

She brightened when I came near. Asked if I wanted to play. I said I did. She spun me gently around herself, playfully tossing tendrils for me to chase. She seemed happy. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I still kept watch on Randa. The large disintegrators were already in position. In no time, Protocol 1 was to be triggered. I wanted to tell the mist what was coming. Every sentient being deserves to know what’s about to happen. But I couldn’t. She was still just a child. And there are things you don’t tell children. 

“Do you want to play something else?” I asked her. 

“Sure. What do you want to play?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “As long as you’re having fun.” 

“Then I’ll keep chasing you.” 

“Alright. I’ll keep running.” We played a while longer. 

At one point, she caught me—wrapped herself around me and held on tight. She glowed in a thousand different colors. I could feel her laughter. 

The disintegrators came online. 

I asked her not to let me go. 

She said she wouldn’t.