Draft 2

Day 11: Science Lab

The Science Lab was the only civilized room on the entire ship. While the rest of the Persephone was a claustrophobic maze of exposed piping, flickering lumen-strips, and the perpetual hum of the slip-space drive, Claude Kinskey’s lab was pristine. The walls were a sterile white, and the air scrubbers were calibrated to remove even the faintest scent of Deuterium residue.

Claude used a pair of micro-tweezers to strip the casing off a heavy-duty copper wire, splicing it directly into a high-capacity power relay. He was in the process of bypassing the relay’s standard fuse with a custom microcontroller when a soft, mechanical whir broke his concentration.

Click-whir.

Claude sighed. “Back away from me.”

Unit Seven hovered barely two feet from Claude. The drone’s optical lenses contracted and expanded, zooming in on Claude’s hands.

“Pardon my curiosity, Science Officer Kinskey, but my database indicates that specific relay is rated for high-yield industrial cryonics, not subterranean soil samples. Are you anticipating a massive thermal load in the near future?”

Claude set down his tools. He didn’t hate the AI, but he found the hovering appliance incredibly tiresome.

“What I am anticipating is that if you do not exit my laboratory, I will cite Omni-Corp Security Protocol 41-A and have your optical sensors permanently recalibrated to stare at a bulkhead. Do you understand me?”

Seven’s optical aperture shrank, mimicking a blink. “Understood, Science Officer Kinskey. Though I must note, Omni-Corp’s protocols are fascinatingly aggressive regarding agricultural dirt. I shall leave you to your highly classified gardening.”

With a soft hum of its antigravity thrusters, Seven pivoted and floated toward the exit.

Before the door could slide shut, Magnus strode into the lab. Claude quickly swept the modified power relay into a lead-lined drawer and pushed it shut. The magnetic lock engaged with a click.

Magnus carried a heavy crate of chemical solvent. He set the crate onto one of Claude’s metal counters.

Instantly, the lab smelled of sweat. Claude stepped back.

“Weekly supplies.” Magnus’ eyes drifted from the solvent crate to the locked drawer Claude was standing in front of.

“Thank you. You may go.”

Magnus chuckled. “You don’t look like a dirt-scratcher, Professor. Matter of fact, you got the cleanest hands of anyone I’ve ever seen on a commercial hauler.”

“I am a contracted Omni-Corp researcher. My work requires a sterile environment, not heavy lifting.”

“Right. I’ve been flying with corporate types for twenty years. Every time one of you Suits ends up on a rust-bucket like this, it means the Company is hiding something. And I don’t trust Suits who lock their drawers the second someone walks by.”

Claude offered a condescending smile. “Unless you have a sudden, burning interest in the isotopic decay rates of Tartaran terraloam and the proprietary molecular binding agents Omni-Corp utilizes in its bio-domes, I suggest you return to the cargo bays. Or would you like me to explain the covalent bonds to you?”

Magnus stared at him. Then, he grunted, clearly deciding the conversation was a waste of time.

“Keep your secrets, Professor.” Magnus turned toward the door. “But don’t get in our way.”

The door hissed shut behind him.

Claude shook his head in mild amusement. He immediately grabbed a sanitized cloth and wiped down the counter where Magnus had placed the crate.

Once the lab was clean again, Claude walked over to his primary console. Just to be certain he wouldn’t be interrupted again, he tapped a sequence of keys to bring up the external corridor cameras.

On screen one, Magnus was stomping back toward the lower decks, talking to himself. On screen two, Helen was squeezing into a ventilation shaft with her hydrospanner.

Claude minimized the feeds. Good. The hired help was busy keeping the ship running.

He opened a hidden, encrypted terminal. Bypassing the ship’s standard comms array, he typed in a thirty-two-character alphanumeric passcode. The screen transitioned from standard Omni-Corp blue to an untraceable black. A single text file waited in his inbox, sent via a heavily bounced dark-web relay.

TRANSACTION CONFIRMED. CHARON OUTPOST. DAY 30. DOCKING BAY 7-C. FUNDS SECURED. HAVE THE CONTAINMENT PROTOCOLS READY.

Claude smiled. The asset he was purchasing at Charon Outpost would secure his fortune and his permanent exit from the drudgery of corporate assignments. He had already calculated the exact power draw required. Once he wired his custom modifications into the ship’s primary grid, his “cargo” would remain perfectly stabilized and frozen for the journey to Tartarus.

Claude leaned back in his chair. It was a flawless plan. All he needed was for Helen, John, and the rest of the crew to do their jobs. As long as they kept their heads down, followed their routines, and simply chauffeured the Persephone to its destination, they would all be absolutely fine.

Looping video of Science Officer Kinskey working in the science lab with Seven pestering him.