LOGINThey never made it to the 90-day mark. It was 03:00, 72 hours after the Ghost Orbit maneuver. The crew was exhausted but maintained a grim vigil (watch). Elara was reviewing the Aether-Bloom data package for the final time when the alarms began. It wasn't the high-pitched shriek of the previous mutiny attempt. This was a low, resonant, guttural shudder that rattled the teeth and shook the very metal of the station. NEMO PROTOCOL: MANUAL OVERRIDE ACTIVATED. IMPACT VECTOR LOCK. T-4 HOURS. Thorne had finally given up on remote sabotage and was initiating the final, irreversible procedure. He had used the 72 hours of silence not to rest, but to manually recalibrate his crash sequence based on the slightly higher orbit they had achieved. "He found the new trajectory," Jun whispered, his voice hoarse. "He compensated for the Ghost Orbit boost. We are on the final path, Elara. The De-orbit burn (the continuous firing of thrusters to slow down the station and force it into the atmospher
The tension in the Zvezda Service Module was suffocating. Outside, the Robotic Servicing System (RSS), controlled remotely by Thorne’s AI, continued its slow, deliberate attack on the Pirs Module docking clamp, each grinding contact threatening to tear away their last means of survival. Kazimir, muscles straining against the restraints, managed to wrench open the auxiliary panel. A high-pressure hiss of coolant escaped, quickly contained by the pressure hull, but the smell of sharp ammonia filled the air—a dangerous, tangible sign of system compromise. "I have the hydraulic lines (tubing containing pressurized liquid for power)," Kazimir grunted, peering into the chaos of cables and tubing. "I must bleed the pressure on the release clamp. If I rupture the line, the Pirs will detach prematurely (too early) and spin away." "Jun, give me a hard override on the RSS power bus (the main electrical line supplying the arm)!" Elara shouted, frantically cycling the manual controller, providi
The Accelerated Nemo Protocol siren continued its desperate, high-pitched scream, a sound designed not to inform, but to break morale. In the Zvezda Service Module—the operational hub—Elara, Kazimir, and Jun moved with the brutal efficiency of people who had just been given a 48-hour death sentence. "Status check!" Elara yelled over the alarms. She was strapped into the pilot seat, her hands hovering over the main propulsion controls. "We need the orbital window (the precise moment in the station's path that gives the best result for a thruster burn) and we need it now." Jun was flying across his station, his focus absolute. "Calculating optimum burn vector (the direction of thrust) based on the Pirs Module propellant load... We have exactly 4 minutes until we cross the boundary for an ideal prograde burn (a powerful engine firing that pushes the ISS faster and higher, increasing altitude). If we miss it, we lose ten critical hours." "We will not miss it," Kazimir said, already flo
The interior of the Quest Joint Airlock felt like a suffocating, sound-dampened coffin. Here, inside the pressurized Extravehicular Mobility Unit (EMU), Kazimir Volkov was preparing for his unsanctioned Extravehicular Activity (EVA)—the formal term for a spacewalk. The sheer bulk of the suit, designed to be a personal spacecraft, was a necessary defense against the vacuum of space, yet it felt like an immense burden in the confines of the airlock. Kazimir’s mission was surgical: reroute the Propellant Transfer Lines on the aging Zarya module. These lines carried the highly volatile, corrosive hydrazine fuel needed to fire the main thrusters. The objective was to discreetly siphon this fuel into the reservoir of the ancient Pirs Module—a reinforced, semi-independent Russian section—allowing them to utilize its thrusters, which were currently independent of Director Thorne’s remote Command and Control (C&C) systems. "Jun, confirm the telemetry suppression window," Elara's voice crackl
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







