LOG 032: Evicted II

The corridors of the docking area feel different in the deep cycle hours -quieter, dimmer, with only the essential systems humming their constant mechanical lullaby. Kano leads them through passages he knows are less monitored, his enhanced neural implants painting route maps and security blind spots directly onto his visual cortex.

Behind him, Rigel moves with the careful precision of someone navigating half-blind, her implants deliberately neutered to avoid EDI’s ever-watchful algorithms. What was once effortless -reading system diagnostics, accessing station layouts, interfacing with ship networks- now requires her to rely on memory, instinct, and Kano. She follows Kano’s confident stride, trusting his augmented awareness of these halls and the security patterns he’s memorized absently over years of passive observation and routine.

“Stay close,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the ambient station noise.

The decontamination facility looms ahead, its entrance sealed behind reinforced doors that bear the obvious warning symbols of quarantine protocols and safety precautions in vibrant red, orange, and yellow. In normal operations, this area bustles with activity: crew members cycling through the elaborate cleaning process, EDI’s voice providing constant guidance, and the soft hiss of opening pods creating a symphony of systematic decontamination.

Now, it’s quiet as a tomb.

Kano approaches the access panel, knowing that using Rigel’s biometric signature would create a digital trail. But his Lieutenant-level access is their only way through these doors that won’t raise immediate suspicion. The Legion’s systems will catalog it, timestamp it, and file it away in the endless databases that track every movement on the station.

Kano presses his palm to the scanner.

The doors part with a soft pneumatic whoosh, revealing the darkened facility beyond. Emergency lighting casts long shadows across the pristine surfaces, transforming the usually welcoming space into something that feels haunted and almost alien. The glass cylinders of the decontamination pods stand like silent sentinels, their surfaces reflecting the dim red glow of standby indicators.

Kano waits for Rigel and Sylvia to enter first, his eyes scanning for prying eyes. Once inside, he closes the doors.

They move through the facility carefully, their footsteps muffled by the rubberized flooring designed to maintain sterile conditions. The air still carries the faint citrus scent of the decontamination mist, a ghost of the day’s activities.

“The suits should be in the storage area,” Rigel whispers, leading them toward the back of the facility where the sealed compartments house the EVA gear. The storage area is a maze of precisely organized equipment lockers, each one labeled with inventory codes and maintenance schedules. In the low light, it’s difficult to read the markings, and Rigel’s limited neural access means she can’t simply query the system for what she needs.

That’s when they hear it: the soft scrape of someone moving in the shadows.

Both Rigel and Kano freeze, their bodies tensing for confrontation or flight, immediately forming a fortress around Sylvia. In the restricted area, after hours, there should be no one else. The sound comes again, closer this time, accompanied by the faint rustle of fabric. A figure emerges from behind one of the larger storage units, moving with the careful precision of someone who belongs in this space. For a moment, all three of them stand perfectly still, caught in a tableau of mutual surprise.

“Xeline?” Kano tilts his head, his voice carrying a note of disbelief.

The figure straightens, and even in the dim light, Rigel sees the familiar tilt of the head between the two, the shared mannerism that speaks of long hours working together.

“Kano?” comes the response, equally surprised. “Hmmm.”

They lock eyes across the darkened storage area, both clearly processing the fact that neither of them should be there. The silence stretches between them, filled with unspoken questions and the weight of mutual transgression. “Why are you here?” they ask simultaneously, the words overlapping in perfect synchronization.

Neither answers immediately. The pause stretches, punctuated only by the distant hum of the station’s life support systems.

“Hmmm,” Kano says finally, a sound that somehow conveys both understanding and resignation. “I have a question.”

“By all means,” Xeline replies, his voice carrying the easy familiarity of someone who has worked alongside Kano through countless missions.

“What’s your loyalty index?” Kano asks, the question carrying weight beyond its simple words.

“Absolute,” Xeline answers without hesitation.

“Hmmm. Good. We need help.”

“Shoot.”

“Can you keep a secret?” Kano presses.

“Always.”

The exchange happens in the rapid-fire shorthand of people who have shared enough dangerous moments to understand each other without lengthy explanations. Rigel watches the interaction with the professional interest of someone who has orchestrated countless operations, recognizing the bonds that make such work possible.

It’s then that she steps forward, her movement drawing both men’s attention. In the dim light, without the assistance of her full neural implants, she hears the voice clearly but struggles to match it to a face. The voice is familiar -she’s heard it in briefings, over comms during missions- but seeing crew members out of their helmets and gear is rare for someone at her level.

Recognition comes slowly, like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. The voice belongs to… yes, one of Kano’s crew members. The height is right, the way he holds himself familiar, but it takes several seconds for her to match the familiar voice to the face she’s seeing.

“Hello, soldier,” she says when the recognition finally clicks.

“Shit. Admiral Waldermara.” Xeline recognizes the voice. The response is immediate, accompanied by the sharp sound of boots snapping together as he moves to attention, his posture rigid with military precision.

“At ease, soldier.” She looks between Kano and Xeline, reading the dynamic, understanding that whatever has brought the crew member here after hours is likely as irregular as their own mission.

“Sorry,” Rigel says, offering a slight smile that softens her authoritative demeanor. “Neural implants are running on basics.” She gestures vaguely at her temple. “First time I’ve seen you without your helmet.”

Xeline’s posture relaxes slightly, a hint of playfulness creeping into his voice. “I hope I do not disappoint, ma’am.”

Rigel’s eyes sweep over him with the kind of appreciative look that has nothing to do with military assessment. “Handsome,” she says simply, the word carrying just enough warmth to make it clear she means it.

Kano’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly -a flash of something protective, possessive, the instinctive reaction of a son watching his mother flirt with someone near his age. His jaw tightens slightly, and he opens his mouth as if to say something. But then reality crashes back. She isn’t just his mother in this moment -she’s Admiral Rigel Waldermara, his superior officer, the woman whose authority he both respects and resents. The complicated tangle of their relationship, personal and professional, strangles whatever objection he might wish to voice. He pulls back, his face carefully neutral, remembering all the reasons he keeps his distance from her maternal side.

“Xeline,” Rigel says, her voice shifting back to business with practiced efficiency. “I need two EVA suits,” she continues, her tone dropping to the low, urgent register of someone discussing classified material. “One for me, and one for…” She pauses, weighing how much to reveal. “Sylvia. We need to leave the biodome quietly. An unauthorized spacewalk.”

Xeline nods slowly, surprisingly unsurprised as he processes the request without asking the obvious questions. In the dim light of the storage area, he moves with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where everything is stored.

“Sylvia should be almost as tall as Kano,” Xeline says. “She can use mine,” he adds without hesitation, already stepping toward one of the sealed lockers. “It’s adjusted for my measurements. Should fit her well.”

“And for me?”

Xeline pauses, considering. “Nina’s suit should work. She’s got similar proportions to you, Admiral. Should be a good fit.”

Rigel nods approvingly. Nina -yes, she remembers her from briefings. The suit will work.

“Not a word to anyone,” Kano says, his voice carrying the protective edge of an older brother issuing a warning that matters. It’s not a request.

Xeline nods solemnly, understanding the gravity of what he’s being asked to keep secret. “I was never here either.” Then Xeline’s expression shifts slightly, a flicker of mischief in his voice. “Although… Nina is going to hate us both for not telling her that Admiral Rigel got to wear her suit.” 

Both grin. “She’d be bragging about that for weeks, if not her entire life.”

The comment breaks some of the tension in the room, drawing a soft chuckle from Rigel and an almost-smile from Sylvia.

Sylvia has been silent through the exchange, but as Xeline begins pulling the EVA suits from their compartments, her breathing grows shallow and quick. The reality of what they’re asking her to do -to trust her life to a piece of equipment she’s never worn, to step into the void of space -is hitting her full force.

“I don’t know how to…” she starts, her voice barely a whisper as she stares at the suit Xeline lays out for her.

“Hey,” Kano says gently, moving to her side. “We’ve got you. It’s not as complicated as it looks.”

Xeline nods, his earlier playfulness replaced by the focused competence of someone who works with this equipment daily. “The suit does most of the work for you. Life support, temperature regulation, even movement assistance if you need it.”

Meanwhile, Rigel is already inspecting Nina’s suit with the practiced eye of someone who has worn EVA gear countless times. Just not recently. She has to rely on inspection based on the manual from way back when she trained. Her hands move automatically over the seals, checking the helmet coupling, testing the flexibility of the joints. This is muscle memory -years of space operations embedded in her limbs. The EVA suit is different from her flight suit, but only by degrees of necessity. A flight suit is meant to be protective against the vacuum of space in the event of ejection. The EVA suit is designed for engaging in tasks and work for prolonged periods while exposed to the mercilessness of space. Meaning the suit in front of her has far more bells and whistles.

“Sylvia,” Xeline says without looking up from his inspection, “the hardest part is trusting the suit. Once you do that, it’s like wearing a very sophisticated second skin.”

“But what if something goes wrong?” Sylvia’s voice carries the sharp edge of panic. “What if I can’t breathe, or the suit fails, or—”

“Then you’ll have an experienced pilot right there with you,” Kano interrupts, his voice calm and grounding. “Xeline, help her with the lower section. I’ll handle the torso assembly.”

Xeline kneels beside the suit, his movements gentle but assured. “See these indicators here? Green means everything’s working. Yellow means the suit is compensating for something -that’s normal. Red means the admiral will stop and fix it. Simple.”

Rigel is already stepping into Nina’s suit, the process so familiar she barely thinks about it. A strong perfume hits her nostrils. Seal, check, adjust, seal again. The suit responds to her like an old friend, systems coming online with soft confirmation chimes.

“The beauty of these suits,” she says, her voice slightly muffled as she works, “is that they’re designed for people who might be injured, disoriented, or scared. They’re built to keep you alive even if you make mistakes.”

Sylvia’s expression stays skeptical, her hands trembling as she touches the suit’s fabric. Rigel’s words -no matter how calm or confident -are exactly what Sylvia is afraid of. Mistakes.

But when Kano stands beside her, his voice low and earnest, something in her posture shifts.

“Listen to me,” he says, his dark eyes locking with hers. “These suits have kept me alive through dozens of operations. Emergency repairs. Situations where everything went sideways.” He places his hand gently over one of hers. “They’re not just equipment -they’re protection. And you’re not going out there alone.”

Sylvia’s breathing starts to steady. Coming from Kano, the words land differently. Not the assurance of rank, but the care of someone who has trusted this gear with his own life and wants her to survive.

“Okay,” she whispers, finally allowing Xeline to help her into the suit’s lower section. “Okay.”

Twelve minutes later, both women are sealed into their EVA suits, final system checks complete. Kano and Xeline have retreated to give them space, leaving Rigel and Sylvia alone to make their way through the decontamination facility.

—  

The process feels surreal in reverse. Instead of the welcoming citrus mist designed to cleanse returning crew members, they walk through the sterile chambers toward an exit that leads not to the station’s warm interior, but to the cold vacuum of space.

“Through here,” Rigel says, her voice crackling through the suit’s comm system as she leads them toward a maintenance section she identified earlier. But before they reach the final door, she pauses at one of the facility’s viewing ports.

“Take a look,” she says softly.

Sylvia approaches the window, and there it is. The Draco, sleek and patient in its docking cradle. Even through the layers of her helmet’s visor, she can make out its elegant lines, the way its hull catches the light. Her home for so many years, the place where she felt safe, where she built a life that is now crumbling around her.

“Say goodbye,” Rigel says quietly, understanding that this might be the last time Sylvia sees the ship that has been her sanctuary.

Sylvia stares at the vessel for a long moment, her gloved hand pressed against the viewing port. The Draco represents everything she’s leaving behind -not just a physical home, but the illusion of safety she built around herself.

“Goodbye,” she whispers, the word barely audible through her helmet’s comm.

“Alba.” The Orion’s voice cuts through the neural implant like a jolt of lightning to her cortex. “Selene’s heading for the Stem, to the Athenaeum. Kano needs to intercept her before she returns to Bonir and guide her to the Greenhouse. Theseus has intercepted Legion’s movements.”

As Sylvia focuses on her ship and farewell, Rigel turns from the window, speaking to Kano one last time. Her voice comes through a private, encrypted channel, routed through her helmet to his neural implant.

“Kano,” she says, her tone all business- the Admiral fully in command again. “I need another favor. I can’t handle it, and I don’t trust anyone else to do this. Only you can.”

Through his visor, she sees his eyes narrow, a flicker of resentment flashing across his gaze. He’s already exhausted, emotionally raw from comforting Sylvia and now his estranged mother is asking for more.

“You must intercept Selene at the Stem; she can’t return to Bonir. This is our only opportunity,” Rigel continues, delivering the order with cold precision. “Guide her to the Greenhouse. Do whatever it takes to make sure she gets there. The Legion is sending someone to intercept her.”

Kano remains silent for a long moment, the ambient hum of the decontamination tubes filling the space between them. Rigel can almost feel the war inside him. Perhaps he wants her to panic or doubt at this moment. Yet, the soldier’s duty is deeper than the son’s deep, bottomless well of anger. He finally gives a single, sharp nod, his face a mask of weary resignation. “I’ll do it.”

Rigel feels a flicker of relief, but it vanishes as soon as he speaks again. He looks her straight in the eye, and for the first time since she woke him, he doesn’t look away. His gaze is steady, cold, and utterly unforgiving. “But when this is over,” he says, his voice low and venomous, “you remember that this is all your fault. What’s happening to them. What’s happening to us. You chose him. You stayed. You made us. This is the price, and we’re the ones paying it.”

The words hit harder than any physical blow she’s suffered. They aren’t the hot sear of reactive anger like their earlier confrontation. They are the cold, considered judgment of a son who has spent a lifetime watching his mother’s family burn. He doesn’t wait for a reply. He simply turns and walks away, leaving Rigel and Sylvia standing alone in the silent, sterile chamber -the weight of his truth a far heavier burden than any EVA suit she has ever worn.

After a moment, Rigel gently guides her daughter away from the window, her voice barely pushing through the forceful tightening in her throat. “T-this way.”