Episode 1: The Drowning Dream

The silence was the worst kind—the kind that screamed.

It was not the comforting, vacuum-packed hush of the void, nor the gentle hiss of air scrubbers. This was the deep, pressurized silence of the ocean, broken only by a distorted, high-pitched metallic shriek that vibrated somewhere deep below her solar plexus.

Dr. Elara Vance was falling.

She wasn't falling through space, where terminal velocity was a comforting lie, but through a column of water so dark it tasted like oil and felt like concrete. It was murky, cold, and utterly directionless. Every desperate attempt to kick or twist was met with the sluggish, resistant push of the abyssal fluid (the extremely deep water of the ocean). Panic, a cold, sharp intrusion she rarely felt in her waking life, clawed at her throat, demanding the one thing she could not have: a breath.

The overwhelming sensation was weight. It crushed her. It pressed against the restraint straps of an unseen harness, tightening around her lungs until they burned. Here, in the liquid dark, it was an executioner.

She saw them.

Above her, faces blurred by the dark water, their eyes wide with the same terrible knowledge. Kazimir, his usually granite Russian features contorted into a mask of silent terror. Jun, his arms flailing, a silent scream bubbling from his lips as he struggled against the unseen current dragging him down into the depths. They were drowning, not in the sea, but in something unclear, something that felt wrong—a thick, dark, syrupy substance that clung to her suit like tar.

The metallic shriek intensified, suddenly transforming into the sound of ripping steel. It was the sound of a world tearing itself apart.

Then, the final, agonizing pull downward. The dark substance rushed over her face, flooding her vision. It wasn't water. It was darkness itself.

_____________________

Elara woke with a sharp, ragged gasp, a sound violently loud in the small, padded compartment. Her body snapped upright, immediately straining against the soft restraints of her sleep sack.

Safety. Weightlessness. Air.

The scent of recycled, clean air—a faint, metallic-ozonic tang familiar to every astronaut—flooded her lungs. She stared up at the softly glowing LED strip running along the curved ceiling of her Space Dorm (the astronaut's personal crew quarters).

Her heart rate monitor, strapped to her wrist, flashed a furious red number: 138 BPM. Too high. She closed her eyes, consciously slowing her breath, reminding herself of the reality she occupied.

She was not in a crushing abyss. She was in microgravity (the state of near-weightlessness). She was in orbit.

She slowly unclipped the restraints, allowing her body to drift gently out of the sleep sack. Outside the small window of her crew quarters, the Earth—blue, swirling, beautiful, and utterly silent—was rotating beneath her, illuminated by the vast emptiness of outer space.

The dream, or more accurately, the nightmare, had been a frequent and unwelcome visitor for the last three weeks, coinciding precisely with the most crucial, time-sensitive phase of her work. She suspected her subconscious was translating the existential threat to her work into this primal fear of drowning.

Focus, Elara. Her internal voice was the only authority she trusted. Focus on the work.

_____________________

She propelled herself carefully down the corridor of the Unity module toward the Columbus Module (the European laboratory wing), which had become Elara’s sanctuary. It was here that the Aether-Bloom Project was housed.

The project was her life's work. Aether-Bloom was a revolutionary biological filtration system, using genetically modified algae to strip toxins from water. It required long-term observation and cultivation in microgravity to mature its molecular structure for use back on Earth.

We need 90 more days. That was the constant, agonizing truth. They were scheduled to cut the experiment 30 days short. If they did, the potential to solve the impending global water crisis would be delayed indefinitely.

She found Jun Sato, the team’s Japanese Systems Analyst, already at work in the adjacent Kibō Module (the Japanese experiment module).

"Morning, Jun," Elara said.

"Dr. Vance. Good morning." Jun didn't look up from his tablet. "Power fluctuations (small, rapid changes in the strength or voltage of the electrical current) are minimal. But the telemetry feed (an automated data stream sent from the station to ground control, typically carrying operational and sensor data)—the one the Consortium (an international organization or group of private companies cooperating to manage the station) installed last week—it's running a continuous, high-volume packet stream to Earth (a large, persistent flow of digitized data chunks, suggesting excessive and continuous monitoring)."

Elara frowned. "The AetherCorp telemetry? Thorne said it was for 'system health monitoring.'"

"It is excessive," Jun muttered. "And it's strangely selective. It only focuses on our Columbus experiment and the main guidance array, neglecting the older Russian segments (parts of the station)."

A heavy presence floated into the module: Kazimir Volkov, the Russian engineer. He held up a printout—the finalized notice. "60 days. Final. No extension."

Kazimir pointed to a line of text defining the fate of the ISS (International Space Station): The entire structure, save for debris fragments, will be guided to impact the designated area of the South Pacific.

"This is not decommissioning (taking a machine or asset out of service); it is disposal," Kazimir said, his expression hardening. "It is the end of an era, driven by one man who wants to start his own."

_____________________

The team gathered for a video conference with Earth. The monitor in the Harmony module flickered to life, showing the perfectly composed face of Director Cyrus Thorne, CEO of the private conglomerate AetherCorp (the corporation controlling the private space sector and key station funding) and the current chairman of the Space Consortium.

Elara opened the discussion. "Director Thorne, our Aether-Bloom Project is at a critical juncture. We need a minimum extension of 30 days."

Thorne smiled—a professional, non-committal movement of his mouth. "Dr. Vance, I understand your passion. But the ISS is a venerable old lady who has earned her rest. We have a superior, more efficient platform ready to go."

He leaned closer to the camera. "The Helios Station—AetherCorp's private venture—is awaiting launch. It makes the ISS obsolete (outdated and unnecessary). We simply cannot justify delaying the De-orbit procedure (the controlled crash back to Earth)."

Kazimir interjected. "The ISS is stable. The risk assessment is acceptable."

"Acceptable to whom, Mr. Volkov?" Thorne cut him off. "The global community has decided. The structure is too old, and the liability too high. The decision is final. The Nemo Protocol (the codename for the scheduled crash sequence) is set for T-60 days."

_____________________

Thorne signed off, leaving the three astronauts in a state of stunned disbelief.

"He's lying," Elara whispered. "It's about his damn Helios Station. He needs us gone so he can claim the future."

"That is commerce," Jun noted. "But I agree with Kazimir—the haste is suspicious."

Elara pulled up the full Nemo Protocol trajectory (the planned path). "Let's look at the method. Jun, pull up the re-entry angle data."

The projected descent path appeared on the screen, a screaming red line slicing through the atmosphere.

"The re-entry angle," Jun reported, sounding alarmed, "is set to 60 degrees. That is extreme. That’s not a controlled descent designed to mitigate debris—that's a guaranteed, catastrophic breakup. It specifically targets the destruction of the entire structure, including all internal, reinforced equipment."

"It targets our research," Elara realized. "That steep angle guarantees the Aether-Bloom Module will be pulverized (reduced to dust)."

But Kazimir was staring intently at the destination coordinates—the ones specifying the exact point of impact in the South Pacific.

"They are hitting the theoretical center of Point Nemo," Kazimir said, his voice low and dangerous.

"The space graveyard," Elara confirmed. "Point Nemo (the furthest place on Earth from any landmass, used for controlled crashes). But look at the required accuracy, Jun. Why do they need to hit the target within a ten-meter radius? For a disposal zone covering thousands of square miles, that is surgical precision."

Jun zoomed in on the coordinates, his eyes widening. "He is right. No standard De-orbit requires this level of accuracy. It costs millions in fuel just to maintain that precision."

Elara felt the cold dread return, heavier than the pressure in her dream. "A steep, destructive angle, combined with surgical precision at a desolate location. That is not decommissioning. That is malicious intent (the deliberate intention to do harm or cause destruction). Thorne wants to ensure nothing—not our research, and perhaps not even us—survives, and he needs to hit a target hidden deep beneath the waves."

The Nemo Protocol was not a safety procedure. It was a cover-up. But what was hidden in the remote, deep waters of the Pacific that justified this level of control and destruction? The question hung heavy in the air.

_____________________

The weight of this knowledge—that a symbol of global hope was being used for a dark, unknown purpose—was heavier than any gravity. They were not just scientists. They were witnesses to a terrible secret.

"We save the Aether-Bloom," Elara declared, her voice firm. "And we find out what he is hiding."

Kazimir nodded, the engineer's resolve hardening his gaze. "We will need time. We need to buy 90 days. We need a Ghost Orbit."

He explained the high-risk plan. "The Nemo Protocol relies on an immediate, steep descent. If we can use the older, disconnected propulsion systems on the Pirs Module (a robust Russian section) to initiate a gentle, unauthorized orbital boost (a subtle increase in altitude)—the Protocol's complex calculations will fail. Thorne’s command will overshoot the target, and we buy ourselves the time we need."

Definition: A Ghost Orbit is an unsanctioned maneuver to subtly change a spacecraft's altitude, making it invisible to remote tracking programs.

"It’s mutiny," Jun said, his voice trembling slightly, but his eyes were steady. "We are breaking every international law."

"We are saving a future, Jun," Elara countered, looking him directly in the eyes. "The ISS was built on collaboration, not corporate greed. We have a moral duty to the thousands of scientists who came before us. Thorne is banking on our compliance (the act of obeying a command or rule)."

Elara looked at her team, the two people she trusted with her life. They had 48 hours before Thorne’s contingency plan (a backup course of action)—an accelerated, manual override—kicked in. The gentle hum of the ISS suddenly felt fragile, like the ticking of a doomsday clock.

"We start now," Elara commanded. "Kazimir, prep the suits. We are going external. Jun, seal off all non-essential telemetry feeds. Let's give Thorne a few hours of beautiful silence."

The war for the International Space Station had just begun.