The space platform.
The metallic heart of the station hums softly—like it's holding its breath before an incision.
Since Ivor's arrest, the engine bay has become an exposed nerve—
everything pulses with anxiety.
Systems are operational. Protocols followed.
But the air has changed.
Different now. Prickly.
As if the station itself is breathing cautiously.
As if it no longer trusts even its own bones.
The light—half a tone dimmer.
Voices—lower.
People—paranoid:
movements sharp,
glances—fragmented.
Too short.
Too frequent.
**
The new chief engineer's throat is dry.
He licks his lips, but his tongue feels like rubber—
the dryness clings.
He stands at attention.
Before Admiral Socrat.
"The Platform is fully restored, sir."
"All systems have been triple-tested."
"Ready for next launch."
Silence.
Socrat doesn't respond.
His eyes glide across the panel,
cold as ice in the vacuum's depths.
He's not listening. He's dissecting.
Watching—like an interrogator sniffing out a lie.
The pause stretches like suffocation.
**
Behind the glass, operators take their seats.
Chairs spin.
Panels flash green.
The world enters standby mode.
But beneath it all—a tremor.
Barely there.
But real.
Because it's in moments like this…
that those who know how to hide make their move.
**
Opposite end of the station.
Technical bowels.
Where even light
has stopped trying.
There—a shadow crawls.
Small. Furry. Dangerous.
Adorable.
A gray-white fluffball.
Eyes like micro-headlights.
It moves like a program in foreign code:
confident, fluid, silent.
This is not a cat.
It is a weapon.
Designed. Trained.
Adapted.
It walks its route—as if the station were its den.
Cameras?
It knows where to look to avoid their gaze.
Scanners?
It senses them before they ping.
It dives into tunnels, slips along pipes,
plays with architecture like a toy.
**
Then—
a rough voice.
"Hey! Did you see that?!"
Click. Tension. Shift.
Two guards.
Their vector—redirected.
"What the... Grab it!"
Footsteps.
Clattering.
Metal vibrates.
Adorable blur—silver flash
slipping forward,
leaping over cables,
darting into a side tunnel…
A trap.
Too fast.
Too precise.
"Cut it off! Left, now!"
A lunge.
One guard grabs it.
Both hands—like holding a ticking bomb.
The fluff doesn't resist.
It stares.
Eyes—no longer eyes. Laser matrices. Pulses of code.
Too alive.
**
Shhh-click.
Door opens.
On the threshold—Camilla.
Tall. Steady.
Uniform—impeccable.
Gaze—laser-sharp.
Voice—ice-cold.
"What's going on here?"
The guards straighten instinctively.
As if DNA itself gave the command.
"We… caught the object."
"Unauthorized lifeform," one mutters.
Camilla steps closer.
Each stride—like a countdown to something irreversible.
She looks at the kitten.
"It's mine," she says. The voice is a command.
"A toy."
"Authorization?"
The second guard's hand is already on the shocker.
Foolish. Risky.
Camilla doesn't blink.
Plucks a few hairs from the fur.
Hands them over.
Beep. Pause. Beep.
The screen reads:
NANO-FIBERS.
NON-ORGANIC.
TOY.
**
The guard's hands tremble.
"Checks out," Camilla says.
She reaches out.
They hand over the kitten.
It stays still.
Only the ears twitch.
And—the gaze.
Not an animal.
An operative.
"Keep it with you,"
the guard mutters.
"Admiral's orders—no improvisation."
"Naturally,"
Camilla smiles.
But the smile—protocol, not warmth.
"I'll take it to my quarters."
She turns.
Leaves.
Fluff in her arms.
Quiet. Like a storm before the siren.
**
Later. A dark corridor.
Silence, like vacuum.
A hatch.
Camilla glances around.
Empty.
"Alright, little one. It's time."
The voice—not a command.
More a prayer.
Words tremble on her lips—
holding care.
And fear.
And last hope.
Hatch opens.
Adorable shadow slips in.
Vanishes.
"Your turn. Don't fail."
Metal seals shut.
Camilla stands.
Long.
Hand on the hatch.
As if saying goodbye to someone alive.
Then—she turns.
Leaves.
As if nothing happened.
**
Quarters.
She sits. Slowly.
Shoulders—slabs.
Eyes close.
**
The Desert of Oblivion.
Sand.
Wind.
The void where truth lives.
Julia and Alex stand among dunes.
Waiting.
Like before battle.
Like before confession.
A figure rises from the sand.
Camilla.
"The kitty's inside."
"At the load center. It's moving."
"I hope he makes it,"
Julia whispers.
Almost a prayer.
Alex—no smile.
Just voice:
"The plan?"
"Platform's almost ready.
Minutes left.
When launch starts—
I'll shut down the shield loop.
You attack.
Fast.
Precise."
"We'll do it,"
Julia nods.
No doubt.
No drama.
"We have one shot,"
Camilla says.
Not as a soldier. As an android.
"One.
No more."
**
Suddenly—siren.
Pierces even dreams.
War's alarm clock.
Camilla flinches.
"This is it,"
she says.
"I have to go."
She vanishes.
Dissolves into the sand.
**
Quarters.
Metal. Light.
Camilla's eyes open.
Injection of reality.
She leaps up.
Rushes out.
**
The control center pulses.
People run.
Panels flash.
Commands slice the air.
Voices at the brink.
The station enters launch.
The world—combat mode.
What begins isn't just an operation.
It's the final wager.
The fate of the war—
rests on fur.
On a shadow.
On a single chance.