The precise, internal chime resonated in Tass Evlen's skull, a barely perceptible bone vibration occurring exactly eight minutes before the station-wide wake-up signal. It wasn't an external noise or light penetrating through the reinforced window of his quarters. It was an awakening ingrained deep within his biology, an instinct honed by millennia of evolution on the volcanic cliffs and wind-swept plateaus of his homeworld. A quiet click, somewhere deep within his cranial cavity, resembled the activation of a lock on an ancient mechanism. This rhythm didn't depend on human chronometers or machine programming. It was innate, predating the station itself, a legacy etched into the very core of his being.
Tass Evlen, a mid-level inspector of the intergalactic gates, slowly stretched his large shoulders. The obsidian-colored scales along his back rustled like dry leaves disturbed by a rising current of warm air. He shifted to a sitting position on his sleeping platform—a low obsidian structure designed to accommodate draconid physiology. He was careful not to brush his dorsal plates against the integrated heating panel, which radiated a soft, dry warmth. The air in the room, recirculated and filtered to mimic the humid climate of the lower elevations of his home planet, was already at the optimal level: 32 degrees Celsius with a humidity of 78%. The ventilation system hummed quietly, providing a constant flow of fresh, oxygen-rich air directed along the walls and floor to avoid irritating the sensitive membranes of his internal nostrils. All parameters were within the norm, as they should be on a station responsible for the uninterrupted transit of interstellar traffic.
He stretched, a slow and deliberate movement that began in his powerful neck and rippled down his serpentine body. His wings, folded tightly against his back, extended to their usual half-meter span before folding again. The leathery membranes pulsed slightly, resembling tightly woven, fused fabric. Beneath the surface, a complex network of veins faintly shimmered. It was too early to even consider the complex mental exercises required for true flight, even within the confines of his own mind. The station's internal chronometer indicated the start of the first cycle of the day. Morning.
The keratinous claws on his feet, each sharpened to razor sharpness by ritualistic honing on a special ceramic block, clicked softly against the cool, polished surface of the floor tiles. The ceramic, permeated with microscopic cooling channels, was intentionally kept a few degrees below the ambient temperature, providing a comfortable sensation for a draconid awakening from a rest cycle. Tass moved silently towards the washroom compartment, his gait even and measured.
A polished mirror of chrome steel, its surface slightly curved to accommodate the multifaceted eyes of a draconid, reflected his somewhat elongated silhouette. A powerful, scaled muzzle, its dark gray scales catching the faint light, dominated his face. His eyes, with vertical, slit pupils, were calm, their murky golden irises speckled with barely visible emerald flecks—a sign of a well-rested cycle. The scales on his cheekbones were a deep, almost metallic gray, with a distinct bronze sheen on his prominent cheekbones. A sign of maturity, of cycles lived and responsibilities taken. A sign that it was time for the first meal of the cycle, for the start of his shift, and for the smooth, uninterrupted flow of station time to continue.
He scooped a generous portion of fine-grained abrasive cleaning powder into the broad palm of his five-fingered hand, its texture resembling volcanic ash. With deliberate movements, he began to rub it between the rows of sharp, serrated teeth, his thick, leathery lips pulling back to reveal his formidable fangs. The cleansing foam, like a polishing compound, infused with a mild antiseptic and a barely perceptible scent of volcanic minerals, was dense and hissed almost silently as it penetrated between his teeth—a high-quality formulation procured before the recent logistics restructuring that affected supply chains from the Kepler-186f colonies. The teeth of his species grew constantly, as his ancient ancestors actively dismembered their kin and other species. In the distant past, the need to regenerate teeth and grow new ones was a vital necessity, but now the endless growth was simply tiresome, requiring constant filing to prevent them from growing too large. For now, the station's supplies were sufficient. Having finished with his mouth, he meticulously cleaned the inner surfaces of his wings, extending each leathery finger and carefully wiping away any accumulated dust or microscopic debris with a special textured cloth. The movements were precise, almost ceremonial, a ritual passed down through generations. Every draconid understood that neglecting the care of their wings was tantamount to neglecting their very essence. Then, he just as meticulously cleaned his long, flexible tail, paying special attention to the junctions of the scales and the tip, which also had a sharpened keratinous structure.
He dried his clawed hands on a non-contact sonic emitter, then stood directly in front of the opposite wall of his quarters. His posture reflected the discipline instilled in every member of the Draconid Concord, also known as Val'Kaar in his native tongue. For a moment, he froze, his gaze fixed on a single point.
On the smooth gray wall, its panels seamlessly integrated with the rest of the living module, hung an old photograph. The frame was made of dull ferroplastic, its surface scratched and faded from countless orbital cycles. Inside was a captured moment in time: himself, his life-bonded mate, Lyra, and their two hatchlings. Lyra, her scales a softer shade of gray, possessed a delicate, bright green trim along the membranes of her wings, a trait highly valued in their clan. Their eldest offspring, Kaelen, sported a crooked horn—a proud testament to a youthful miscalculation during a high-altitude jump, a source of both amusement and pride for the entire family. Their youngest, Elara, still wingless at the time of the photo, with large paws that hinted at the powerful wings she would develop, looked directly into the lens with wide, innocent eyes, as if caught in a fascinating, though slightly perplexing, trap.
Everyone in the picture was smiling. Even him. A slight upturn of his scaled lips, a rare display of familial contentment.
With a deliberate movement, Tass extended the sharp claw of his left index finger and touched the upper right corner of the frame—a brief, almost imperceptible touch. Without delay. The morning sign. A silent acknowledgment of their existence, a promise of his continued devotion. No overt display of emotion, no spoken words were required. This was right. The only right way."
"On the compact kitchen unit, his first meal of the cycle awaited him, automatically dispensed by the nutrient synthesizer. It was a portion of gel-like paste, rich in proteins and precisely salted, formulated to meet the specific metabolic needs of a draconid inspector. Next to it was a thermos of warmed, recirculated saline solution, necessary for maintaining the delicate electrolyte balance of his body in the station's artificial environment. He ate with his hands, scooping the nutrient paste directly into his mouth with his claws, a practice ingrained since his earliest days as a hatchling. Afterwards, he meticulously licked each claw, not out of hunger, but because it was the most efficient way to conserve precious moisture within the station's carefully controlled ecosystem.
While the nutrient paste was being efficiently absorbed by his system, Tass activated the wall-mounted display with a flick of his tail. News feeds from across the known galaxy scrolled across the screen in the common draconid language:
"...local thermal event in Ni-Zet Station's deportation block officially classified as a non-systemic anomaly; no further threat to station integrity..."
"...sector inflation on Kell-Liara reached 7.6%, remaining within the Concord's acceptable economic parameters..."
"...the Terravorro transport conglomerate signed a comprehensive agreement to annul outdated debt accumulated during the Third Interstellar Trade War..."
He didn't watch the visual reports. He listened to the automated voice messages; the familiar intonation and tone of the news anchors were a comforting constant in the often-turbulent currents of galactic events. Like an old, familiar melody, where the specific content was less important than the soothing rhythm.
Leaving his living module, Tass donned the standard Gate Inspector's work jumpsuit. The dark gray, reinforced fabric jumpsuit was tailored to his draconid anatomy, with special magnetic fastenings along the back to secure his folded wings and precisely cut openings to allow comfortable articulation of his dorsal plates. With a practiced movement, he inserted his magnetic identification card into the access slot of the door panel with the tip of his middle claw—a habitual action. Never with his hand. Among draconids, this was considered an almost formal act, akin to a human signing a contract with a special stylus: all important tasks were performed with a claw, a symbol of their innate connection to the world around them.
Before stepping into the corridor, he paused. Three deep breaths, drawing the filtered station air deep into his multi-chambered lungs. One long, controlled exhale. A ritual of checking his own scent—a crucial practice for a Gate Inspector, a confirmation of his internal control and a sign of respect for his colleagues, ensuring that no foreign odors from his dwelling could be disruptive or offensive in the shared environment of the station. Everything was clean. Everything was as it should be.
The corridor responded to his presence with the sequential activation of its lighting system. First, a soft, diffused light illuminated the section directly beneath his feet. Then, two sections further down the corridor lit up. Finally, the entire length of the passage ahead of him was bathed in an even, energy-efficient light. The station's complex network of sensors and automated systems recognized his unique biosignature, a familiar presence traversing its pathways.
He walked slowly, his gait measured and deliberate. No unnecessary haste. No superfluous movements. Each step was precise, his claws barely touching the polished plastic floor."
Fragment 3:
"The station lived in near silence. Almost absolute.
Only the light, barely audible tapping of his claws echoed from the polished metal floor, like raindrops on a taut membrane. The muted, steady rustle of his breath passing through numerous respiratory slits blended with the low, monotonous hum of the energy flow circulating through the veins of the walls, powering countless life support and control systems. The light in the corridor switched on exactly three meters ahead, as if obediently following his every step, creating a moving cocoon of light in the surrounding dimness. This wasn't out of respect for the inspector—it was standard security protocol, developed long before his assignment. This wasn't his personal path, illuminated on a whim. It was a path laid out by the logic of the systems, and he simply moved within their strict framework, like a cog in a vast machine.
Sector 7-G served as a link between the residential area, where the station's few personnel lived, and the administrative block, the heart of Terminal 17-IG's management. Five hundred meters of perfectly straight passage, three airtight hatches, each with a triple level of pressure verification, and one backup sealing node designed to contain critical damage. He knew every centimeter of this place. Every microcrack in the polished floor, left after a cargo shuttle's unsuccessful docking many cycles ago. Every misaligned joint between the hull panels, which emitted a barely audible creak during temperature fluctuations. Many years ago, even before his assignment to this station, an attempt was made to replace the outdated panels with more modern ones—semi-transparent, with integrated light routes that changed color depending on the level of alarm. But the innovation didn't take root. The old, time-tested plastic proved easier to clean of the specific organic slime sometimes left by transit ships, simpler for the small technical staff to repair, and, importantly for a draconid, didn't break or scratch from accidental claw movements.
He walked. Silently. As befitted an inspector.
And thought. Continuously, analyzing, comparing.
The Gates. The very word contained both grandeur and ordinariness at the same time.
The station itself, this Terminal 17-IG, seemed like just a tiny droplet, a separate module in the vast, incomprehensible mosaic of interspatial logistics stretching across billions of light-years. Terminal 17-IG was one of hundreds subordinate to Kell-Nasir, the central state of this sector of the galaxy, but it functioned autonomously, like a clockwork mechanism wound for a long period. The nearest stations, located at a distance of three hyperspace jumps, were Torwayla, controlling the strategically important Kurrian Corridor, and Flotilla's Cove, a city-station floating in the void at the edge of uncharted territories.
Galactic states arose, crumbled under the burden of internal contradictions or external threats, reassembled, changing names and borders, like a kaleidoscope in the hands of a cosmic god. But the Gates remained. Unchanging. Eternal.
Because they belonged to no single specific state, no single empire. Or, viewed more broadly, they belonged to all sentient races connected to the rest of the universe. Because without this complex, carefully constructed network of interspatial transitions, the galaxy would inevitably break down into separate, isolated pieces. Torn trade routes, lost colonies doomed to starvation and oblivion, universal panic and chaos. Everything held together not by formidable fleets traversing the cosmic ocean, not by the wise counsel of elders sitting in luxurious halls, not by pompous imperial slogans carved on monuments. But by a simple, fundamental truth: any ship, whether a tiny courier shuttle or a giant cargo battleship, could travel from point A to point B without delay, without spatial anomalies, without the risk of getting lost in the infinity of space.
The Universal League, which once united most of the known universe under its banner, could be accused of many things. Of harsh dictatorship, unfair distribution of vital resources among entire galaxies, suppression of cultural peculiarities, genocides of entire races and empires that dared to defy its will, and other things that were preferred not to mention aloud. But all these dark spots in its history paled before several undeniable facts.
Firstly, the Universal League state itself collapsed more than thirty thousand years ago, leaving behind only ruins of its former greatness and scattered fragments of territories. The ensuing succession wars and countless internecine conflicts claimed too much information about that golden age when the entire accessible universe first experienced a semblance of peace and unity for many millions of years.
Secondly, the then regime, which for the first time united the entire accessible universe for countless hundreds of thousands, and possibly millions of years, could be forgiven much. Because the League spent an unimaginable amount of resources, time, and, most importantly, energy on creating a stable network of communication and transport arteries throughout accessible space.
It's impossible to even imagine how much time, resources, and, most surprisingly, money went into creating millions of intergalactic gates alone, these colossal structures capable of warping space itself, making transitions between neighboring galaxies possible within reasonable timeframes. And the trillions of long-range relays, which entangled the entire accessible universe all the way to the Ghost Stars in an invisible web of information flows, were beyond comprehension. According to rumors, not confirmed by any reliable source, the League even made desperate attempts to cross the Great Void, this gaping abyss, but, as expected, all these ambitious projects ended fruitlessly, consuming countless resources.
And even after so many years, after the fall of the League and the subsequent eras of instability, most of the gates and relays were still operational, so well-designed and built they were. But the main reason for their preservation, perhaps, was that there was an official ban, signed by the vast majority of spacefaring powers connected to the rest of the universe. A ban on the destruction of these technological wonders, this priceless legacy of the past. And those few madmen or fanatics who dared to violate this sacred prohibition suffered a terrible punishment, which became a warning to all others.
However, all this was too distant, matters of long-gone eras. He was an inspector, and he had his own work, his own responsibilities.
And that is exactly what he did every cycle.
He didn't perform heroic feats, didn't patrol dangerous sectors, didn't engage in battles with space pirates. He was a gate inspector. His task was routine but vital: checking the accompanying documents for arriving and departing ships, controlling transit traffic between galaxies, tracking any attempts to smuggle prohibited goods or dangerous artifacts. Sometimes—filtering the flow of refugees seeking asylum from wars or natural disasters in distant galaxies. Sometimes—denying access to those who didn't have the appropriate rights or permissions for intergalactic transit. And sometimes… just making a formal entry in the electronic log, confirming that everything was in order. Although deep down he knew perfectly well that everything had long been out of order.
To his left stretched a service tunnel leading to the life support module's technical center. Jarn, a sullen arachnid technician who couldn't care less about political intrigues and interstellar conflicts but for whom it was vital that every bolt and every wire on the station functioned flawlessly, was on duty there. He and Jarn hardly ever spoke—only exchanged brief, expressionless glances during rare encounters in the corridor. That was usually enough for understanding. Sometimes.
Tass walked on, his claws monotonously tapping on the metal.
He thought about the universe. About its immensity, its beauty, and its hidden, ever-increasing anxiety.
About what had been growing louder and clearer in the last decade: sporadic outbreaks of tension along the old, once-bustling trade arteries between galaxies, the sudden and inexplicable disappearance of three autonomous space havens located beyond mapped space, strange spikes and anomalies in the signals of long-range subprotocols that shouldn't have occurred. Information failures that had no logical explanation. And most importantly—the increasingly frequent appearance of ships without identifying flags but with perfectly perfectly ordered documents. Documents signed with the seals of long-defunct states, issued by people no one remembered anymore, but whose authenticity no one disputed, and he was ordered to let them through.
He knew all this. He checked it all, following the protocols. But he said nothing.
Not out of fear of superiors or possible consequences. Out of a deeply ingrained habit of silent observation, of recording details without unnecessary questions. Because all this had already happened. In the history of the entire universe, let alone the galaxy, cyclicity was an immutable law. And it all always repeats, like a worn-out record.
The station shuddered slightly beneath his feet. A barely perceptible micro-shift of mass in docking bay 3-K, located on the lower level.
He felt it with his whole body—his dorsal plates responded with a slight vibration, like sensitive antennae picking up the slightest fluctuations in energy. The supply ship had arrived. Too early. Eleven minutes ahead of the scheduled docking time. Not critical. Just a note in the service log. Just a slight deviation from the standard schedule.
He turned into the main corridor leading to his workstation. Exactly one hundred and eight meters remained to the inspection console.
The first morning data flow was already beginning there: endless digital feeds, lists of incoming and outgoing ships, tables with codes and routes, names of pilots and captains, destinations in distant galaxies. All of this relentlessly burrowed into the system, demanding his attention, verification, formal entry, immediate reaction. He would sit at his console, cross-referencing data with physical indicators, responding to requests, making decisions. Approving intergalactic transitions. Rejecting suspicious requests.
The day was just beginning. And a long work cycle lay ahead.
And if everything goes as usual—it will be a perfect day. A perfect day at the intergalactic gates meant stability, the absence of emergencies, and confirmation that the fragile thread of interstellar communication remained unbroken, despite the storms raging in distant galaxies.
The door to the control module of the second intergalactic gate node opened absolutely silently. Advanced technology, devoid of the slightest gaps, smoothly slid aside, revealing the passage. But when Tass Evlen crossed the threshold, there was still an audible click in the air—not from the door, but rather from the displacement of air masses. It seemed as if the station itself momentarily held its breath, greeting its inspector.
The control section of the second Gate node was a compact but functional space. A rectangular area with three rows of ergonomic workstations, each equipped with concave holographic displays, an individual touch control panel, and a universal chair capable of instantly adapting to the anatomy of sixteen basic sentient biotypes, from the fragile silicate life forms of Centrax to the massive four-armed humanoids of Xeros VII. The floor was made of an antiseptic gray composite material with a matte surface, covered in barely perceptible marking patterns indicating service hatches and emergency evacuation zones. Soft, diffused light streamed from the ceiling panels, creating a comfortable working atmosphere without harsh shadows or glare on the holographic screens. There were absolutely no odors in the air. This was correct. Any foreign scents could be distracting or even signal a malfunction in the life support systems.
Tass entered the room. Without looking around. He felt no need whatsoever for a visual check of his surroundings. Many years of working at this station had developed in him an infallible sense of space and confidence that everything was already exactly where it should be.
Ket Laar, a junior inspector of the third clearance band, was already sitting at his workstation. A representative of the Lithian race from the planet Kal'Rash, located in the Purple Nebula. Four slender but strong arms rested on the touch panel, smooth amber skin gleaming in the soft light, and the narrow, vertical pupils of her large eyes attentively followed the flickering lines of data. Between her sharp teeth, Ket held a chewing pastille made from the extract of local Kal'Rashi algae—slowly chewing it without taking her eyes off the continuous flow of information. The light, brackish scent of algae was barely perceptible in the air.
"Good morning, Inspector Evlen," she said in an even voice, without turning her elegant head, adorned with thin bone plates.
"Morning, Ket Laar," Tass replied curtly, his own guttural voice sounding muffled.
He approached his inspection station and lowered himself into the chair. The built-in sensors activated instantly, and the chair smoothly adjusted to the complex curve of his spine. Soft but secure restraints gently embraced his folded wings, then carefully lifted and secured them in their unfolded working position. This posture, with wings spread, served as an unmistakable signal of the inspector's readiness to receive incoming intergalactic traffic.
He activated his main holographic screen with a light touch of his claw to the touch panel.
Information crashed down on him in an avalanche of structured data:
318 applications for entry into our galaxy through this Gate node.
247 applications for exit to neighboring galaxies.
4 vessels requesting through transit without docking to the station.
11 applications for urgent logistics processing requiring priority consideration.
1 application marked with a special code marker: "highly politically sensitive object."
Everything was as it usually began his work cycle. The predictable chaos of intergalactic traffic.
On his personal display to the left, a green icon lit up, signaling the approach of a new vessel:
TRANSPORT VESSEL "CAPRORINA"
Class: private freighter
Registration: Ti-Saor (offshore jurisdiction)
Type: container tug, modified for long-haul flights
Condition: stable, all systems functioning normally
Status: arrival at 11.42 standard seconds ahead of estimated time
Cargo: three hundred thousand tons of high-energy crystals, two hundred thousand construction robots, five mobile mining complexes, half a million tons of other cargo [expand list]
Tass mechanically noted this information, logging it into the protocol.
"Anything interesting for you today?" Ket asked, deftly switching the multi-window interface, scanning the data stream running across one of her holographic displays. Her four arms moved with astonishing speed and precision.
"Just this 'politically sensitive' one," he replied, not taking his eyes off his screens.
"Is it a diplomatic mission or a shipment of religious significance?" Ket inquired with mild curiosity. Lithians, as a rule, showed keen interest in the cultural peculiarities of other races.
"Don't know. No identifying flags yet. But the route is from the Raon galaxy," Tass reported, recalling the preliminary data. The Raon galaxy was known for its complex political situation and frequent infighting.
"Have a pleasant cycle, Inspector," Ket chuckled, not looking up from her work, knowing that such markings rarely meant anything simple.
"And you, Ket Laar," Tass replied, activating his own holographic console.
The built-in scanners instantly whirred to life, sending invisible beams into interstellar space. The first visualizations of approaching ships appeared on the screens—flickering dots, geometric outlines, spectral analyses.
Numbers. Scrolling lines of data. Schematic outlines of cargo vessels. The continuous movement of incoming and outgoing traffic. All strictly in accordance with approved templates.
And Tass Evlen began his work.
One ship after another passed through his virtual inspection dock. One entry followed another in the endless data stream. One step: requesting information, carefully checking the provided documents, scanning the cargo for prohibited substances or anomalies, applying the electronic seal confirming successful passage of control, granting transit permission. Repeat. An endless repetition that formed the basis of his work.
This was how his day began. Like thousands of work cycles before it. Like, perhaps, thousands after. And if this cycle passed without surprises, without failures, without protocol violations, then it would be another perfect day guarding the intergalactic gates. And a perfect day meant only one thing—stability, the continuous functioning of the vital network connecting distant galaxies, and confirmation that he, Tass Evlen, was performing his job flawlessly.
The daily random check. One. No more. The protocol strictly regulated the number of unscheduled inspections. Any exceeding of the quota could be interpreted as excessive initiative, and initiative was not liked either at the top or at the bottom. It always disrupted the fragile balance of the system, leading to undesirable failures.
Tass opened the "Scheduled Random Selection" service interface, his claws touching the single active button. The system selected a target—formally, randomly. In quotation marks that implied a complex network of algorithms taking into account many factors, from the current political situation to minor fluctuations in the energy consumption of individual transport vessels.
TRANSPORT VESSEL: "GALLANT FEARLESS"
Class: small cargo tug, "Wanderer" series
Route: Torwayla (Galarod) — Terminal 17-IG
Declaration: components for agro-industrial complexes, Universal-5 model service agro-robots
Owner: private individual, registered under the name of Jorgen K. Haugen
Registration: Ti-Saor
Risk rating: low (based on previous transactions and owner data)
Previous gate scan (Torwayla station): no violations found, all documents comply with Universal League standards
He nodded almost imperceptibly, reviewing the information. Then he pressed the virtual "open boarding" button in the communication interface with the vessel.
Tass rose from his workstation. The universal chair obediently folded away, freeing up space. He was in no hurry. Each of his steps was measured and precise. He left the control section, and the door closed just as silently behind him. The corridor greeted him with the muffled hum of operating systems. He headed towards reception airlock number four, located on the third level of the docking bay. Indicators on the walls showed his current location and direction of movement. Other inspectors and technicians hurrying about their business barely glanced at him—their faces were focused and indifferent. Schematic plans of the station and warning signs in several dozen languages and pictograms hung on the corridor walls. Tass passed an automated maintenance station where manipulators deftly replaced a worn-out service module. About fifty meters remained to the airlock. He passed a cargo elevator from which a container sealed with the stamps of the Torwayla Trade Guild was being rolled out. Finally, he reached the airtight door of airlock number four. The green indicator above the door glowed steadily, confirming readiness for reception. He placed his claw on the identification reader, and the door opened with a quiet hiss, letting him inside.
The airlock cycled gently, releasing the internal air and equalizing the pressure with the transport vessel. The ship's captain entered the passage module—a man, short, stocky, with neatly combed graying hair. Thin polished neuroplates gleamed along his temples—a sign of connection to the neural network, allowing for more efficient ship control. An old tattoo was barely visible on his tanned throat: "Node 6-B." An old, almost forgotten sign of the caravanners, dating back to the bloody conflict in the Erosion Belt, indicating belonging to a certain trade syndicate. He smelled of a mixture of salt, technical lubricant typical of tug-class cargo vessels, and… calmness. A tired but confident calmness of a person who had crossed interstellar space many times.
"Inspector," he nodded curtly, his gaze direct and open, "everything is in order. The declaration was submitted on time."
Tass said nothing. He simply slid his claw across the touch panel located on the wall of the airlock, initiating the deep scan procedure of the ship's cargo hold.
While the captain stood at attention—he knew what to do. This was far from his first contact with Gate Inspectors, and probably not his last. The procedure was standard and automatic.
On the holographic screen in front of Tass, the cargo profiles obtained from the ship's scanners lined up:
✔ Universal-5 model farming robots – correspond to the declared quantity and technical specifications.
✔ Components for agro-industrial complexes – nomenclature and quantity match the declaration.
❌ Unstable type energy crystals detected.
→ Not declared in the main manifest.
→ May be classified as a strategic resource requiring special transportation permission.
Tass shifted his murky golden gaze to the captain.
The latter was already taking a physical declaration from an inner pocket of his flight jacket. Not an electronic copy stored in the ship's computer memory, but a good old paper document. On thick, slightly yellowed recycled polymer sheet. Separately—an attachment: a thin plastic card with a holographic transaction code confirming payment of customs duties. But before handing over the declaration, the captain made an imperceptible movement, taking a small, tightly sealed package of transparent plastic from another pocket. Several cut crystals gleamed inside in the dim light of the airlock.
"Inspector," the captain said, a little quieter than before, his gaze flickered to the energy crystals on the screen and then returned to Tass. "An updated manifest, of course. All the necessary signatures and seals are in place. And… a small token of gratitude for your understanding."
He subtly pushed the package with the crystals towards Tass along with the polymer sheet of the declaration.
"Time of submission: 06:48 station time," Tass quietly clarified, his voice remaining even and impassive, not a single muscle on his scaled face twitched.
"Exactly. All by the book. There was just a slight delay with the final loading, and the updated data was uploaded a little later. I apologize for any inconvenience caused. And, I hope, this small gesture will smooth things over."
He handed the document and the package with the crystals to Tass.
Tass took the polymer sheet with one hand. With the other, with a dexterity honed over years, he imperceptibly accepted the package with the crystals, concealing it in the folds of his uniform. He didn't look at the contents of the package. Then he inserted the card with the transaction code into the reader slot on the airlock control panel.
On the holographic display screen, the manifest instantly updated. The previously undeclared energy crystals appeared in the cargo list. The information on the legalization of the cargo was also updated. Now there could be no official claims against the captain.
He nodded almost imperceptibly. The captain didn't wait for words. He perfectly understood that the formalities had been observed and the "gratitude" had been accepted. He simply turned around and headed towards the exit of the airlock, returning to his ship. Everything happened as it should have in this well-oiled system.
Tass remained alone in the empty airlock. The door closed silently behind the captain. He took the card out of the slot. On the holographic display screen, the verification icon flashed green: "Verification complete. No claims."
Tass left the airlock, and the door resealed behind him with a short hiss. He headed back to the control section along the same route. The light switched on ahead of him in sections, as if the station recognized its inspector and did not want to waste unnecessary lighting.
His steps were even. His claws slid across the floor silently. He didn't hurry, but he didn't slow down either—just as always.
A thought flashed through his mind: the captain was too calm. No tension, no attempt to explain, no fuss. He knew. He knew how everything worked.
Just like everyone else.
Tass returned to his place. The console greeted him with a holographic greeting, unnecessary but protocol. Ket Laar continued working—four arms, two data streams, one face. Not a word. Not a glance. She understood everything when she saw the ID of the scanned vessel and the "verification completed without violations" mark. She understood everything—and said nothing.
He sat down. The chair again adapted to his anatomy, the restraints gently supported his wings, securing them. His place. His form. His silence.
He ran his claws across the surface of the desk. Cold plastic. Clean. Alien. Familiar.
"A bribe?"
An outdated word. Stupid. No one says that anymore.
It's not a bribe. It's oil in the machine. It's what the system would have long rusted and cracked at the seams without. He did this every day. Not always directly. Sometimes he just corrected the data. Sometimes he just "didn't notice" discrepancies. Sometimes he accepted "updated manifests," like today.
No one interfered.
Because everyone knew.
Because everyone did the same thing.
Junior and mid-level inspectors—like him—work with small fry: single ships, independent carriers, rare guests. They are paid not to ask too many questions. A little. Within reason.
But up there?
They pay differently there. They pay for the silence of systems, not people. For caravans. For flows. For the right not to be noticed at all.
They don't slip a card into your hand there. They transfer directly to the corporate reserve as a "logistical adjustment." And the management doesn't even hide that they know. Because it's part of the business model. Everything that helps movement is useful. Everything that slows it down is dangerous.
Control?
No.
Control is not the law.
The law can be rewritten.
Control is a filter.
And the filter doesn't prohibit. It decides who to let through and who to detain.
And if someone really decides to carry something prohibited—they will find a way. They will deceive the scanners, forge codes, bribe someone higher up.
Or they will go through another gate. Or they simply won't be scanned at all.
So why not make it easier for everyone?
He felt no guilt. He didn't even feel tired. Only clarity. And this clarity was like the morning air in those old mountains where his clan came from: rare, transparent, but merciless.
"It's not dirt. It's lubricant. And if the mechanism works—don't touch it. Just make sure it doesn't squeak."
He nodded to himself.
And returned the feed to the screen.
The next ship was already waiting.
***
The buffet was almost empty.
It was always like this during this part of the cycle—when the senior shift had already finished work and dispersed to their modules, and the junior shift hadn't woken up yet, immersed in deep sleep after the night watch. The space stretched in a long, semi-dark tube, illuminated only by dim service lights, with two dozen standard gray composite tables bolted to the floor, a built-in universal food dispenser with a monotonous hum, and barely perceptible emitters of synthetic aroma resins. Everything was clean. To the point of sterility. Too much so.
As if no one really lived here. Only stopped temporarily to refuel their biological systems.
Tass walked past the first row of empty tables, not lingering.
At the third one—as always at this time—sat Jarn.
Hunched over, his massive body barely fitting behind the standard table. A dark, slightly worn technician's jumpsuit stretched over his muscular limbs. A long pipe carved from cloudy amber stone, polished to a sheen by countless touches, was clamped in his mandibles. He couldn't smoke it, of course: for more than a decade, strict station regulations had prohibited any use of flammable substances for safety reasons. But the aromatic resins, periodically inserted into a special socket at the end of the pipe, gave off a faint, warm, and strange smell—something between an overripe exotic fruit and slightly burnt metal. Jarn, an arachnid from the planet Xylon, with his peculiar sense of humor, claimed it was the "smell of a real, exhausting shift."
He didn't even stir when he sensed someone approaching.
"Early for a break, Inspector," he said in a hoarse voice, without turning his multi-eyed head.
"Late for tomorrow's breakfast," Tass replied, lowering himself into the chair opposite. With a light, barely audible click, his folded wings pressed tightly against his back.
The dispenser next to them quietly issued a standard container with his heated ration: a pale gray protein concentrate in a bland, neutral sauce, a small portion of fermented greens remotely resembling Earth parsley, and a transparent hydrator tablet designed to maintain the body's water balance in the station's artificial atmosphere. Everything was warm, with a precisely measured salt proportion necessary for his draconid physiology. And completely tasteless.
"Inspection go okay?" Jarn asked, taking the pipe out of his mouth with one of his manipulator limbs.
"As always, Jarn."
"How much did you rake in?"
"Thirty thousand credits."
Jarn snorted, releasing a cloud of aromatic, fireless smoke.
"Small fry. Probably some freelancer trying to save on duties."
Tass nodded, not finding the strength to smirk.
"Everyone's small fry these days. The big ones prefer to settle things at another level."
"The caravans pay upstairs," Jarn drawled lazily, exhaling another puff of fragrant smoke. "And we get the crumbs from the table. But without extra responsibility. No one will ask why you let a ton of contraband through."
He pulled a crumpled holographic tablet from a wide pocket of his jumpsuit and activated an old, long-outdated schematic of Terminal 17-IG's gates. He looked at it with his numerous multifaceted eyes, like an ancient map of a terrain he had never been to but had heard much about.
Then he slowly turned his gaze to Tass:
"Think anything will ever change, Inspector?"
Tass didn't answer immediately. He broke off a small piece of the resilient gel with his claw, chewed it thoroughly. He swallowed, feeling the tasteless mass slide down his throat.
"No, Jarn. I don't think so."
"Why such certainty?"
"Because it suits everyone. The system is well-oiled. Everyone gets their share. Why change anything?"
Jarn chuckled again, quietly and good-naturedly.
"That's what I think too, Inspector."
"It all holds together," Tass added, putting down the empty container. "And that means everything's right. At least, for now."
A moment of silence hung in the air, broken only by the quiet hum of the food dispenser, recycling empty containers.
Then Jarn put the pipe back in his mandibles and said, as if continuing an interrupted conversation:
"The main thing is not to be that idiot who one day decides to 'fix everything.' Those don't last long. Or they quickly rise to the top, becoming part of the very system they wanted to change."
"There haven't been any of those for a long time, Jarn," Tass replied, rising from his chair. "Or they're already at the top, swallowed up by the flows of corporate reserves."
They ate in silence for another minute, each lost in his own thoughts.
Then Tass stood up.
"Going back to the flow. My shift isn't over yet."
"Yeah. Float on, Inspector. Try not to hit an iceberg."
"I'll try not to drown in this stream of lies and half-truths."
And he left, leaving Jarn in the dim light of the buffet.
And Jarn remained sitting at his table—smoke without fire, food without taste, work without much meaning.
***
The message arrived via a secure channel. A direct line. From the station director himself.
"Inspector Evlen. Arrival of a V-arch class vessel expected. Special status – Level 'Alpha'. Personal confirmation of passenger identity is directly assigned to you. No questions. No copies of identification data. Only visual verification with confirmation that will arrive from the ship.
Airlock coordinates and estimated time of arrival are below.
Act without delay.
Avoid any comments, verbal or written.
— Director Hales."
The message instantly faded, dissolving into his console interface.
Tass stared at the empty screen for several long seconds. Then he silently stood up.
V-arch. A private flagship. By classification—a light cruiser, but in size comparable to a light military carrier. A rarity even in the wealthiest sectors of the galaxy.
He left the control section.
Ket Laar, without looking up from her displays, asked nothing. She only mechanically made a note in the service log: "Temporary absence of Inspector Evlen. Protocol 14-Beta."
08:39 station time. Airlock 3-K.
The flagship approached the docking node almost silently, like a predator gliding through the void.
It didn't emit the slightest hum of engines, didn't transmit vibrations to the station's hull, didn't cast shadows in the light of the floodlights. It simply appeared, materialized out of nowhere.
And everything around—the massive bulk of the station, the steel structures of the airlock, even the air itself, seemed to submit to this fact, freezing in anticipation.
The ship's hull was visible, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the station's lights like the surface of a calm lake. No markings, no service codes, no identifying inscriptions. Only one symbol, engraved deep into the metal on the bow—an elegantly intertwined ancient tree, topped with a stylized wing—a sign that Tass recognized: the symbol of the highest rank in the hierarchy of Elvan'Heim.
Tass waited on the landing platform, illuminated by the cold light of service lamps. He stood straight, motionless, like a statue. Without words. Without the slightest expression on his scaled face.
The ship's hatch opened—not loudly, not slowly, but with a kind of frightening smoothness. It simply slid apart, revealing the interior space.
Guards emerged from it. Five of them. Tall, clad in silver, perfectly fitted suits that seemed almost invisible in the bright station light. Clawed gloves with sharp blades on the fingers, deaf, closed helmets, streamlined armored cloaks that reached the floor. They moved in perfect, almost supernatural synchronicity—like a single organism, not like ordinary security, but like an embodiment of the element of order, silent and inexorable.
And behind them appeared she.
Tall. Incredibly slender, almost fragile-looking, but an inner strength was felt in every movement.
Skin the color of light copper, hair that seemed woven from light itself, was braided into a thick, heavy braid that reached almost to her waist. Ears—long, elegantly pointed, but adorned with only one blackened mark in the form of a perfectly even circle intersected by three parallel lines.
She wore a cloak. Long, gray-white, woven from a shimmering material, with barely visible symbols, as if glowing from within, woven into the fabric, and a vibrant gold chevron on her shoulder—the unmistakable sign of an Ambassador from the Council of Elvan'Heim. Not a fake. Not an imitation. The weave of the fabric reflected light not like ordinary matter, but like reality itself reflects absolute power.
She approached him. She didn't smile. She didn't look down, but she didn't show the slightest warmth either.
"Identification," Tass said, strictly following protocol, although he knew perfectly well who stood before him.
"You see it, Inspector," came her reply. Her voice was quiet, melodious, but without the slightest echo, as if the sound originated directly in his head. And every syllable cut through the air like a sharp knife through thin fabric.
"Registered. Identity confirmed, Ambassador," Tass nodded almost imperceptibly. "Permission to proceed further is expected within two standard minutes. Please excuse the delay."
She didn't nod in response. She showed no visible reaction to his words.
And yet she didn't leave, lingering for a moment.
"May I ask a question, Ambassador?" Tass said, violating all instructions.
He shouldn't have done it. But he couldn't help himself.
The Ambassador turned slightly towards him—not her whole body, just a barely perceptible turn of her head, and her gaze, cold and penetrating, slid across his face.
"At your discretion, Inspector. The consequences are also at your discretion."
"What is happening in the Inner Spheres, Ambassador? The rumors are becoming increasingly alarming."
Pause.
Nothing changed in her flawless face. But the air around them seemed to thicken, denser, as if an invisible weight was pressing down on it.
"The Federation and the Empire… are experiencing a certain turbulence in their relations, Inspector," she finally said, choosing each word carefully. "This is, unfortunately, common for such a vast and complex region."
"But?" Tass quietly clarified, feeling an inexplicable anxiety growing inside him.
She didn't answer immediately. She looked past him, into the distance, but not through him. Just—to the side, where something indefinite, without a clear shape, seemed to begin.
"The patrols in the North… have been strengthened."
"Where exactly, Ambassador?"
"Along the Abyss."
"And what does that mean?"
"If someone strengthens their presence in a certain region, Inspector… it usually means they are expecting a response. Or preparing for one."
The words hung in the frosty air of the docking bay.
The Abyss. The Northwest of the galaxy. A territory that everyone avoids. Never visits.
Because it doesn't respond to signals.
Because, by common opinion, it shouldn't respond.
Because it is a festering wound on the body of space.
Tass's claws on his fingers, clenched into a fist, twitched slightly.
"If even Elvan'Heim is looking there… then everything is much worse than it seems on the surface."
The passage clearance arrived, lighting up green on his wrist communicator. He inclined his head in respect:
"Passage is open, Ambassador. You may proceed. I wish you a safe journey."
She nodded almost imperceptibly in response.
"Thank you, Inspector."
And she left, silently gliding across the metal floor surrounded by her silent, silver retinue.
A minute later, the flagship undocked from the airlock. Without a single signal, without the slightest sound of working engines.
As if it hadn't been there at all.
As if nothing unusual had happened.
Tass remained standing on the platform for another moment, watching the empty space.
"What is an ambassador of such rank doing at the intergalactic gates of a sector that isn't even part of the Federation's primary defense lines?.."
He knew the answer. He felt it instinctively.
And he knew that just knowing wasn't enough.
But it wasn't his business. He was just an inspector.
The Abyss was far away, beyond his jurisdiction.
Ambassadors were beings of a different order, beyond his level of understanding.
And he had a stream of incoming data on his console, and the next ship was already looming in the queue for scanning.
He returned to the control section.
To work.
Because the station must work.
And as long as it works, as long as intergalactic traffic isn't interrupted—it means the fragile peace still holds. While it holds.
***
And another break, during which the inspector decided to take a walk with Jarn.
The metal under Tass's feet echoed hollowly with each step. The echo spread through the narrow corridor, amplified by the monotonous hum of the half-powered service systems. Tass walked slowly, trying to keep up with Jarn, who, despite his limp, moved forward with the determination typical of an old technician. Jarn dragged his right leg, each step accompanied by a quiet but distinct rustling of his sole against the metal floor. He muttered something under his breath the whole time: not curses, not a stream of thoughts put into words—rather, disjointed sounds, fragments of phrases with which he filled the oppressive silence of corridors long forgotten by most of the base's inhabitants.
"The contour amplifier in block 7-Delta is going crazy again," he grumbled, without turning around. His voice sounded muffled, lost in the semi-darkness. "I've put a temporary patch on it three times, and it still flickers like a Christmas garland on its last legs."
"Maybe it's worth requesting a replacement?" Tass suggested, trying to speak louder so he could be heard over the old man's muttering.
"Yeah. Tell that to the supply service, young inspector. They'd rather remotely shut down the whole damn problematic block than lift a finger and send even one working part. They probably have warehouses full of spare parts the size of this station up there, but nothing ever reaches us."
They turned another dilapidated corner. The ventilation in this sector worked intermittently, and the air was heavy, stale, saturated with the smell of machine oil and some musty dampness. Tass grimaced, feeling a nasty taste rise in his throat.
Extensive patches of dark green mold were visible on the walls, spreading in bizarre patterns across the rusty metal panels. Ugly remnants of a serious failure in the climate control system five years ago, which they tried not to mention in official reports. Tass stopped, examining the disgusting growths.
"But you said everything here was thoroughly cleaned after that incident?" he asked, his voice sounding with a slight reproach.
Jarn stopped, turned around, and shrugged. His numerous eyes, located on his wrinkled face, gleamed tiredly.
"Cleaned, yes. As best as they could. But the spores remained. That infestation is as resilient as a cockroach in a reactor."
"Isn't it dangerous?" Tass involuntarily took a step back.
"Only if you touch that filth. Or breathe it in constantly. But tell me, Inspector, who voluntarily comes here at all? Except for old-timers like me, and you, lost in search of adventure."
Jarn pointed his clawed hand at a rusty technical unit located by the far wall. Its control panel flickered erratically with red and yellow indicators, emitting a faint, rattling sound. Tass didn't approach any closer, preferring to keep a respectful distance from the potential source of infection.
"Going to fix it?" Tass asked, watching the technician's actions.
"No, of course not. No one's going to fix anything here anymore. I'm just going to isolate it. Turn off the power, seal the connectors, so some curious trainee doesn't accidentally stick their tentacles in there."
"Forever?"
Jarn snorted, and his muttering grew louder.
"What in this world is forever, Inspector? Even this damned station will fall apart at this rate."
They stood in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. The panel continued to flicker meaninglessly, as if sending desperate distress signals. The dark green mold slowly but surely spread across the walls, seizing more and more sections of metal.
"You know, Inspector," Jarn said, breaking the long silence, "we used to have an unofficial term for places like this: 'dead zone sector.' Places where they no longer repair equipment, but only close the doors and try to forget about their existence."
"Do you think this station will one day become completely like that? One big dead zone?"
Jarn sighed, and his numerous eyes focused on Tass.
"I think it's already half that way, Inspector. It's just that no one wants to tally up the sad results and admit the obvious. It's easier to pretend that everything is going according to plan."
Silence descended on the corridor again, broken only by the steady dripping of condensation from a rusted pipe.
"Let's go, Inspector," Jarn finally said, turning again and hobbling on. "I still have a couple more of these 'flickering wonders' to isolate today. And you, I presume, need to get back to your paperwork and intergalactic ships."
Tass nodded and followed the old technician, feeling a heavy sense of hopelessness settle somewhere deep inside.
The queue. Seventeen beings. A kaleidoscope of shapes, masses, smells, both subtle and repulsive. Someone moved on numerous chitinous legs, leaving behind a faint trail of ammonia, someone floated smoothly on a personal anti-gravity unit, enveloped in a barely noticeable force field, one—tall and thin, in a translucent regenerator suit through which pulsating organic tubes were visible. Everyone waited. Tension was felt in every movement, in every nervous twitch. Everyone needed something—permission, access, refuge.
Tass stood by the wall, in the shadow of a hull protrusion, watching this silent drama. His murky golden eyes slid over the faces and bodies of those waiting, registering every detail.
The administrator—a homunculus, an artificially grown cartilaginous organism with smooth blue epithelium—sat behind a high counter. His shapeless body swayed with each movement. He scanned identification documents through a built-in port located directly on his chest, where the beings took turns placing their information carriers.
An insectoid representative of a distant Xi'Tar colony stood before him. Two meters tall, his complex chitinous carapace gleamed in the cold light of the lamps. Long, serrated mandibles moved involuntarily with each sharp exhalation, making a quiet, stridulating sound.
"Insufficient documentation provided," the administrator said monotonously, his voice devoid of intonation.
"Third-level access protocol permitted entry with this document package," the insectoid rasped, his multifaceted eyes darting nervously.
"You arrived eighteen standard hours later than the indicated time. The protocol is annulled due to violation of the time frame."
"I can't go back. It's… it's not safe there."
"That is not within my jurisdiction. Contact the emergency evacuation service if there are grounds for such."
Voices began to rise, desperate notes appearing in the insectoid's hoarse voice. Two large guards in armored exoskeletons simultaneously approached the counter. The insectoid offered no resistance, only desperately clung with its front limbs, ending in sharp claws, to the smooth metal of the registration counter, leaving deep scratches on it.
Tass remained impassive. He had seen similar scenes hundreds of times during his years of service at the Gates. Despair and helplessness in the face of a soulless bureaucratic machine were commonplace here.
Finally, the guards, applying a little force, tore the insectoid's clinging limbs from the counter and dragged the resisting creature away from the reception area. A muffled thud of its chitinous carapace against the metal floor was heard.
The reception area became noticeably quieter, only the faint hum of ventilation broke the silence. The queue moved forward by one person.
"Next," the administrator said impassively, without even raising his head. And everything continued according to the established scenario. A new being approached the counter, extending its documents for scanning. The wheel of bureaucracy continued to turn, oblivious to broken fates and shattered hopes.
The peak of the shift was physically palpable: the station's passages narrowed like blood vessels, bureaucracy flowed like thick molasses, and fatigue enveloped like a viscous fog. Tass returned to his terminal, tightly built into the wall, without a hint of personal space—no glass, no partitions, no insignia. Rows of half-open cells resembled honeycombs or, rather, the soulless claws of a huge mechanism, each performing its function but easily replaceable by another.
The tip of his claw slid across the rough surface of the panel, activating the overview channels. Holographic windows flashed on one after another: an info map of the nearest Gate, a flickering list of vessels, routine warnings about possible deviations. A familiar picture. Tiresome predictability.
But then his claw touched a hidden protocol, switching the view to a personal channel. Not official, but his own, secretly fed from the command zone, bypassing strict regulations. Every inspector had his own outlet in this routine. For Tass, it was a window into outer space.
First, his gaze slid to the upper tiers of the gravity platform hovering above the colossal arch of the Gate. There, in the complex weave of orbital trajectories, majestically and unhurriedly, like cosmic whales in an endless ocean, drifted the defense ships of his native Sovereignty Val'Kaar.
The Fleet. Five indomitable armadas. Each—dozens of pennants, from heavy carriers to swift interceptors. They seemed motionless, but their static presence exuded colossal power. Not a direct threat, but an unshakeable presence in orbit. These ships were not just guards—they were an integral part of a complex system, like armored skin protecting vulnerable, vital nervous tissue.
The Sovereignty Val'Kaar, his homeland, deeply understood the value of these Gates. As did the mighty Empire, and the sprawling Federation, and even the unstable Outer Rim Coalitions. All of them, despite their contradictions, shared one immutable knowledge:
Capture the Gate? Madness. Not only because of the vigilant flotillas, although their presence was an undeniable fact. And not only because of the hidden defense complexes, whose automatic warp-blocking systems could tear any unauthorized ship into atoms. And not even because the station itself rested on the foundation of an ancient neural network rooted in the very core of space, whose protocols remained a mystery even to the most advanced minds.
But the main reason was different: any aggression here would inevitably lead to catastrophe. Fire at the control node—and the fragile synchronization of the entire network would be disrupted. A failure in the energy flow—and the balance maintained for millennia would be destroyed. Damage the gravity anchors—and not just one station, but an entire web of interconnected worlds would collapse into the abyss.
And no one, not even the most reckless strategist, dared such a thing. For those who even contemplated it disappeared from galactic chronicles. Their ambitious empires faded into agonizing isolation, cut off from vital arteries.
The words of his old mentor echoed in his memory: "You can conquer an entire sector, but if you cut off your own path through it—what's the point?"
He watched as one of his Sovereignty's armadas executed a slow, precisely calculated turn. Every maneuver was recorded by automatic systems. Every change of course, every fluctuation of energy—everything was logged. Not out of fear, but because of an immutable law: nothing here should go unnoticed.
Then his gaze shifted to the holographic map: a scattering of dozens of Gates, like glowing dots on a web, the nearest nodes, stations, relays. The Gates were not just spatial transitions—they linked the economies of entire galaxies, intertwined the threads of religions, united disparate peoples. They were vital arteries, and Terminal 17-IG, where he served, was a key intersection where all these countless vessels converged.
"All wars end here," Tass said silently, "because by destroying the passage, you don't destroy the enemy—you only cut yourself off from the rest of the world."
He extinguished the holographic projections. All this colossal world remained there, behind the sturdy hull, behind layers of armor, behind hundreds of thousands of tons of metal. Here, inside, in his cell, reigned a deceptive silence that contrasted with the bustling life outside the station.
Tass straightened his shoulders, the scales on his wings rustling softly. His claws slid across the touch panel. The silhouette of the next incoming vessel was already looming on the screens. Routine. But in this routine lay life itself. As long as the heart of the Gates beats, as long as the galaxy breathes freely through these arteries of space, everything else is just temporary difficulties that can be overcome.
***
The work cycle ended without incident. Or, more precisely, without new ones. Everything remained within the norm. Several hundred entries were registered, several dozen disputed declarations were processed. The death of one person, one attempted bribe, the arrival of one ambassador, and the discovery of one forgotten container were recorded. Several minor technical failures and alarms were also noted, and some thoughts remained unspoken.
Tass walked down the corridor, heading to the residential sector. The lighting came on, as usual, in advance. He knew no one was watching him, but he also understood that the system always tracked his location. And this was part of the standard procedure.
The door to his compartment opened silently, as always. Inside, the air was warm, slightly humid, with a faint scent of sterile minerals and a barely perceptible salty residue—parameters he had set earlier.
He approached the console and, without taking off his jumpsuit, opened one of the drawers. At the bottom lay a dampening container in which the crystals received from the captain of one of the ships were neatly packed. They shimmered faintly in the dark. Completely silent. Almost imperceptible.
Tass took out the container, opened it, and counted the crystals. He took one out.
He held it up to the light and examined it carefully. The crystal was beautiful, clear, without any inclusions, with a warm orange hue.
He put the extra crystal back.
The container closed with a quiet click, and the drawer slid smoothly back into place.
He took off his work jumpsuit. The heavy fabric smelled of station metal and light sweat. He hung it on the mount, strictly in line, guided by the mark. Then he took a cloth and carefully wiped the claws on each five-fingered hand, paying special attention to the left one, whose blade had dulled slightly—he would need to sharpen it on his day off.
Then he went to the mirror and quickly examined his eyes, scales, and nasal passages. Everything was in order.
He walked to his sleeping platform but didn't lie down immediately. First, he touched the surface of the photograph with his claw.
Family.
They hadn't disappeared anywhere. They were there, where everything remained unchanged, or at least seemed so.
He lay down, spreading his wings. The heating panel hummed quietly. The air became a little denser. The temperature—exactly 32 degrees, humidity—78. Everything corresponded to the set parameters.
He didn't close his eyes immediately, watching the ceiling for a while.
Sometimes it seemed to him that the ceiling was swaying slightly. That everything was behind it: flotillas, diplomatic ships, high-risk zones, discovered dead containers, the constant bustle and the bottomless void of space. But all this was not here.
Here was the quiet compartment of a gate inspector.
He sighed. Not deeply, but rather mechanically.
And allowed himself to fall asleep.
After all, it's just another day at intergalactic gates.