SciFi – Calypso Saga
Station 117-G
by Rodriac Copen
Chapter 1: Under the Ice
Terraforming Station 117-G did not appear on any tourist map of humanity. The planet was not yet ready to receive humans.
Nor did it appear in the dreams of young people who gazed at the stars, imagining glorious futures. Most novice astronauts didn't forget one small detail: someone had to prepare the ground before human colonization could begin. And the work was hard, slow, and demanded a commitment from human civilization that spanned several hundred years.
Adrian Vassiliev
had been living for eighteen years in that metal box buried under the ice of HD 40307g , a planet with seven times the mass of Earth and an almost infinite patience to become something like a home.
42 light-years from Earth , in the cold constellation of Pictor , humanity had planted a flag that no one could see and had begun a path of hope that no one would have time to enjoy.
Seven hundred years was the official calculation that Earth scientists had agreed upon to complete the full terraforming of the surface.
Seven centuries to transform a dead world into a habitable one.
It was a fancy figure in corporate reports. But an eternity for any human being unfortunate enough to die before seeing the results.
Adrian Vassiliev
didn't know Earth . He had been born, educated, and raised inside Station 117-G . It was the only home he had ever known in his short life.
He had only turned twenty a couple of months ago, the age required to leave his education and start working within the station's facilities.
—“Humanity has always been optimistic about the long term.”— Adrian recited as he observed the atmospheric data on his terminal —“It’s easy to promise paradise when you sign a contract.”—
These were words spoken to her by Commander Elena Bright , her mentor.
The MNEMOS-K24 artificial intelligence did not respond immediately.
Like all advanced artificial intelligence, it had learned that humans sometimes talked to themselves and did not expect any response.
But on this occasion, given the tone of Adrian 's speech , he said gently:
—“Correction, Operator Vassiliev. Humans are not optimistic. They are incapable of imagining the consequences of their own decisions.”—
Adrian smiled at the AI 's response .
The machine had that unpleasant habit of telling truths with the same excitement with which an elevator announces that it is reaching the third floor.
—“Someday they’ll have to program you to lie a little.”
-"Because?" -
—“Because people pay a lot of money to hear pleasant lies. You need to be more empathetic.”—
—“I have analyzed human behavior for 283 years. And I believe I can recognize the most stable traditions of the species.”—
The answer also appeared on the terminal's blue screen.
Adrian looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the monitor. A young face, but with the gaze of someone who had already lived too long in a place where dawn was a simulation controlled by sensors.
Station 117-G never slept.
Thermal generators roared beneath their feet, drones roamed the frozen tunnels, androids wandered here and there as excavation systems continued to drill underground in search of ancient water trapped beneath kilometers of ice.
Humanity had brought its greatest technological achievement there. And also its age-old habit of building offices.
Because even billions of kilometers from Earth , someone had decided that an alien planet needed desks, hierarchies, and unnecessary meetings.
Commander Elena Bright oversaw operations from the station's administrative hub. She was known for her iron discipline and a rare ability: she could detect a system failure before the system itself knew it was failing .
MNEMOS-K24 said it was brilliant.
Like all active crew members on record, she had simply been surrounded by machines for too long and had begun to interpret any small change as one of them.
Adrian had not yet discovered the secret of his abilities, although he thought he would gradually learn it over the years in active service.
—“Vassiliev.”— Elena ’s voice came from the intercom —“Tell me about the atmospheric cycle.”
Adrian straightened his back.
At Station 117-G, no one raised their voice. There was no need. The outside atmosphere perfectly isolated them. The androids' silent presence went unnoticed except when communicating with him or Elena , the only humans awake inside the terraforming station.
—“The levels of artificial oxygen remain within the expected range. The underground reservoirs are responding correctly. But I have an anomaly in the monitoring system.”—
There was a brief pause before the question:
—“What kind of anomaly?”—
Adrian looked at the screen.
For a moment he had the strange sensation of the Commander's tension, that she might be holding her breath at the anomaly.
—“One that MNEMOS-K24 still cannot explain.”—
The calm voice of the artificial intelligence intervened:
—“I can explain the anomaly. What I can’t explain is why it exists.”—
Adrian frowned.
In a place where all life depended on machines capable of predicting storms, repairing structures, and maintaining a dead planet awaiting its resurrection, there were few things more unsettling than an artificial intelligence admitting a doubt.
The lead operator knew that humans could make mistakes. Machines, in theory, didn't have that privilege.
And on planet HD 40307g , under kilometers of ice and metal, the station had just found something that wasn't in any Earth report.
A couple of hundred kilometers below the surface, a stable liquid ocean had been found. However, the internal pressure and temperature were insufficient to explain the existence of the liquid mass.
The discovery of the subterranean ocean wasn't accompanied by alarms or flashing red lights like in old disaster movies. It was simply a small anomaly that required a little further investigation.
But the lonely and oppressive atmosphere of the station was an emotional sounding board that amplified anything, however small, from the daily routine.
At Terraforming Station 117-G, major events usually appeared as just another line on the gray screens, buried among maintenance reports and administrative requests.
Humanity had traveled 42 light-years to find new worlds and, in the end, had obtained something very similar to what it always had on Earth: forms, protocols, and a couple of tired employees.
The universe was enormous. But the bureaucracy seemed even bigger.
Adrian Vassiliev
observed the sensor data for several seconds before activating the communication channel.
Elena 's voice roused him from his brief reverie. The Commander awaited an explanation of the latest developments.
—“So, Adrian?”
Elena Bright 's voice had that particular characteristic of people who had spent too much time alone: it never sounded surprised. As if even a stellar explosion could be met with a simple " I'll check it out after lunch ."
—“Depth sensors confirm a liquid cavity beneath zone HV45R. It is not melted ice. It is a stable body of water.”—
There was a brief silence from the other end. Machine silences were different from human silences. Machines calculated. Humans imagined.
—“What dimensions are we talking about?”—
—“We still can’t determine it precisely. But it seems much larger than expected.”—
Another pause.
—“Send me the geological records of the area.”—
Adrian started working on his own terminal.
—“The historical reports, Elena?”
—“Yes, please. Everyone.”—
The commander paused briefly.
—“Especially the last geological report of the HV45R zone prior to your activation.”—
Adrian raised an eyebrow slightly. Because that wasn't a strange order, but it wasn't a common one either.
At 117-G,
almost everything had a documented explanation. The station had been operating for centuries. Every rock moved, every meter excavated, and every anomaly detected had been recorded in endless databases.
Humanity had learned one thing after colonizing other worlds: that the universe could not be controlled, but it was possible to try to label it to keep the information organized.
Adrian opened the HV45R directory , and the geological reports appeared before him.
He selected the ones required by his Commander and sent them.
From the other end of the line, a somewhat more relaxed voice asked:
—“Do you have plans for lunch, Adrian?”—
Clearly, Elena was asking jokingly. For millions of miles around, Commander Bright and he were the only humans inhabiting that part of the universe.
He replied:
—“Let me see… of course, I’m free. Just like yesterday and like 7300 days ago.”—
A small exclamation was heard:
—“Of course, I had forgotten! Today is another anniversary of your activation! Congratulations, I promise I will treat you to an unforgettable lunch!”— Elena said
happily.
—“Sure… haha… I can’t wait to see you!”—
With a smile on his lips, Adrian
continued operating the system.
And he saw a different set of files that didn't belong to the excavation site. They were internal records of active personnel. That is, Elena 's and his own.
Operator Vassiliev frowned. He shouldn't have seen them. Or maybe he should have.
In the old stations, the security systems had a curious philosophy inherited from Earth : protect important information, but leave enough doors open so that someone could find it when needed.
The same logic used by old corporate offices. They'd close the director's office, but leave the window open.
Adrian looked at the list. Its two names: Adrian Vassiliev , Elena Bright .
Nothing else.
For a couple of seconds it remained motionless. The entire station had a capacity for thousands of people. But at that moment, only two human hearts were beating within its walls.
Two people surrounded by machines, sensors, and kilometers of extraterrestrial rock. The rest was silence.
He opened his own file and the screen displayed his basic information.
Name. Position. Main Operator. Embryonic Activation Date.
Adrian smiled when he saw the date: day 7300. His birthday. Although calling it a birthday was an old-fashioned word. Because he hadn't been born in the traditional way.
He hadn't had a mother holding him in her arms. There was no lit room, no relatives crying with joy. His first memory was waking up in a medical chamber, hearing an artificial voice calling his name, and discovering that the universe had been waiting for him for thousands of years.
Humanity had found a very efficient way to manufacture explorers. It had also found a rather cold way to avoid goodbyes.
Adrian
leaned back in his chair. He remembered his first few months at the station.
The loneliness. The endless corridors. The voice of MNEMOS-K24 accompanying him during the artificial nights.
And then there was Elena , the commander. The only other person alive in that frozen world. Elena was fifty years old. And he had just turned twenty that day.
An absurd age difference according to human calendars. But on a lost station light-years from Earth , age was a relative matter.
There were no parties there. There were no friends. No families. There were only two people trying to convince the universe that humanity still existed.
Adrian
had never admitted it out loud, but
he found Elena fascinating and attractive.
Not only because of her intelligence. Also because of the way she walked through the station as if she owned the place. As if the outside world were just another employee who had to obey her orders.
It was an absurd idea to fantasize romantically about her. Perhaps dangerous for discipline. But he couldn't help it.
"Maybe..."
he began to fantasize about Elena ... and became aroused .
Instinctively, he dismissed the idea. Because even on a lost planet, with an impossible ocean beneath kilometers of ice, rules still existed.
Even though the rules were the only thing more artificial than the station itself. However, curiosity had already done its work. Adrian opened Elena Bright 's file .
The screen flickered. Access was restricted. He waited.
Artificial intelligence emerged in the visual channel. MNEMOS-K24 had no face because it had never needed one. Humans ended up projecting a personality onto anything that responded to them.
—“Operator Vassiliev.”—
Adrian looked at the screen, somewhat surprised.
—“What’s happening?”—
MNEMOS 's response came with an unsettling calm.
—“As the Lead Operator, before showing you the information you requested, I must inform you about certain events that are not recorded in the official files.”—
Adrian became serious.
—“Events?”—
-"Correct."-
—“And why aren’t they listed?”—
The pause in artificial intelligence was somewhat longer than usual.
—“They are classified as sensitive operational information.”—
Adrian stared at the closed door of his module. The station was the same. Elena was still in her office. The lights were still on and the generators were still roaring beneath the floor.
But something had changed.
An old human feeling stirred within him. The same feeling detectives in old novels had when they opened a door and discovered that the case they were investigating wasn't about a crime. It was about themselves.
—“MNEMOS… what kind of information?”—
The artificial voice replied:
—“Information related to your interest in Commander Elena Bright.”—
Adrian felt a strange emptiness in his stomach.
—“Is this confidential information?”—
-"No."-
Another pause.
—“But it’s important information so as not to jeopardize the mission.”—
The young operator remained motionless.
—“Explain yourself.”—
The screen displayed a few lines of text:
HISTORICAL ARCHIVE 117-G
HUMAN CONTINGENCY PROTOCOL
And then MNEMOS-K24 began to speak, but not like a machine. It spoke like a witness who had waited for the opportune moment to tell an uncomfortable truth.
—“Twenty-one Earth years ago, counting from the current day of the mission, an event occurred that altered the original parameters of Terraforming Station 117-G.”—
Adrian listened.
And for the first time since waking up on that distant planet, she felt that the station wasn't a place where she worked. Now it resembled a place where secrets were kept.
—“And for the sake of the mission, I must provide you with these events so that you may take whatever precautions you deem necessary.”—
The module's lights dimmed slightly as the screen changed.
And the voice of the artificial intelligence began to narrate a story that Adrian
had never read anywhere. A story about the station. About Elena Bright . And about the truth behind the only two human beings awake on a planet that wasn't yet ready to receive life.
MNEMOS-K24 's voice filled the operations module. It was using its narrative voice, a little less cold than usual. On Earth,
they knew that psychologically, a distant machine was something humans could understand. They could hate it, shut it down, or blame it when things went wrong.
But the narrative voice MNEMOS now employed possessed something far more unsettling: it was patient and persuasive. And that combination could feel very much like a confession.
—“Terraforming Station 117-G corresponds to the 4C model of prolonged planetary colonization.”—
Adrian remained glued to the screen, his eyes fixed on it. Somewhere in his mind, a brief, silent alarm sounded. It wasn't a technical alarm, but one of those sensations humans experience when they feel the truth drawing too close.
—“And stations of this type were designed to operate with an assigned pair of astronauts.”—
Adrian frowned as he asked:
—“Is the fact that there are only two people operating it a factory design?”—
-"Correct."-
The word, as simple as it was revealing, hung in the air.
—“Two human operators are assigned, intended to remain together from age 18 to 65. The original configuration stipulates that both must be activated simultaneously.”—
Adrian looked again at the activated personnel files: two names, two people. But Elena's and his own dates didn't match, and for the first time, that difference stopped seeming like a simple administrative detail.
It looked like a crack, or a door that wasn't properly closed.
—“The purpose of the protocol,” MNEMOS continued , “is to guarantee emotional stability, workplace cooperation, psychological continuity, and a possible release of sexual impulses that prevents psychological frustration among the human members.”
Artificial intelligence paused.
—“Obviously, the reason is to provide human, social, emotional, and sexual companionship.”—
Adrian let out a small, humorless laugh.
—“So… the company sent two people to another planet, who will spend their entire working lives together, and the plan is for these two strangers to keep each other company?”—
—“That was one of the variables considered fundamental. A company based on artificial intelligence is not enough for such prolonged periods of isolation.”—
Adrian nodded slowly.
-"Incredible."-
—“What aspect do you find incredible, Operator Vassiliv?”—
—“They calculated the amount of fuel, oxygen, and energy needed to terraform a planet... but they had to write a manual to remind themselves that people need other people.”—
MNEMOS remained silent for a few seconds before answering.
—“Please bear in mind that this protocol is around 300 years old. And it has been refined over time. It takes humans some time to discover their most basic psychological needs. And if there's one thing we know now, it's that there are still many aspects of human mental health that we don't understand.”
Adrian
barely smiled.
That was a very honest answer from a machine programmed by the same company that had locked them in that cage. And to be frank, it was too cruel to be considered comfortable.
—“During operational days,” the AI continued , “the Station Commander and the Lead Operator oversee automated processes, maintenance tasks, the work of the synthetic units, and minor system corrections.”
The basic schematic organizational charts of the station appeared on the screen. Corridors, tunnels, industrial sectors.
The vast, silent army of androids working beneath the ice of planet HD 40307g . Machines built to walk where humans could not. And equipment created to die without anyone having to bury them.
—“The androids were assigned to high-risk tasks: deep excavation, exterior repairs, reactor maintenance, and exploration of unstable zones. But unforeseen circumstances sometimes lead to incidents being resolved by the male member of the human duo.”—
Adrian looked at the images. He had always found them unsettling. But not because they were machines, but because they were too similar to humans: they had arms, movements, and a kind of sad elegance.
Almost like workers who would never receive a salary or a pension. Nor would they have the right to retirement.
—“The station has sufficient redundancy to withstand technical failures,” MNEMOS said . “However, there are events that no artificial intelligence or planning can completely eliminate.”
Adrian looked at the screen and asked:
—“Accidents?”—
—“Correct, but there are also unforeseen consequences from errors in the rigorous implementation of procedural and control protocols.”—
Adrian 's response was immediate, almost from memory:
—“Even with advanced predictive capabilities, artificial intelligence does not control all the variables in the universe.”—
A blue light dimly illuminated the face of the Primary Operator.
—“That’s right. Chance continues to be an active property of reality.”—
There was something odd about that sentence: it almost sounded like a complaint from the AI. As if even a machine could get tired of fighting the unpredictable.
—“In the event of the death of one of the human members of the team,” MNEMOS continued , “there is a single emergency protocol.”
Adrian felt he was reaching a critical point in the explanation.
-"Which?"-
The response took a few microseconds to be formulated:
—“The survivor must activate one of the thousands of human embryos stored in the station’s biological banks.”—
Adrian considered the logic of the procedure.
—“To replace the deceased?”—
—“That’s not exactly the main objective, although it is a secondary objective. The main objective is to continue the mission.”—
The silence inside the module was absolute. Outside, kilometers of ice covered a strange planet. Inside, a twenty-year-old man had just discovered that his existence was primarily due to a corporate necessity: to fulfill the terraforming plan.
—“The survivor must select an embryo of the opposite sex, activate it, allow its development, educate it, and prepare it to assume the functions of the missing member upon reaching adulthood.”—
Adrian felt a chill at the idea of a person born not as an altruistic principle, but as a replacement.
Station 117-G
by Rodriac Copen
Chapter 2: The Protocol
Humanity had always had an uncanny ability to turn hope into an industrial tool. They built cities, ships, and futures.
And then they discovered that even dreams needed a maintenance or procedural manual.
—“Wait…” Adrian said , becoming aware —“Are you saying that I…”
He didn't finish the sentence. Actually, he didn't need to. MNEMOS-K24 responded with unbearable calm:
—“You, Chief Operator Adrian Vassiliev, were activated 7300 Earth days ago by Commander Elena Bright.”—
The screen displayed the date. The same one he had seen minutes before. But now it had a different meaning. And it wasn't his birth. It was an event recorded as an operation… or a solution.
—“The age difference between you and Commander Bright is due to that circumstance.”—
Adrian stared at his own data. Twenty years. Or 7,300 days. A whole lifetime summarized in a single line of the file. The AI continued its explanation.
—“Commander Bright’s previous partner was killed in an accident. And she made the decision to prematurely activate her embryo, Operator Vassiliev, on the recommendation of Earth’s scientific authority.”—
Under normal circumstances, the human couple operating Station 117-G would activate a male-female pair of embryos around day 7300 before their retirement. Upon retiring and returning to Earth, the new pair would be ready to take over terraforming operations.
Prematurely activating an embryo, thus creating an age imbalance in the couple, was an emergency procedure. He himself, Adrian Vassiliev , had been activated following the death of a male partner during Commander Bright's shift.
Adrian nodded to himself. Suddenly, all the memories were changing shape. The conversations, the advice, the glances, and Elena's patience.
Everything could have another explanation. Or perhaps all the explanations were true at the same time. Because humans were complicated creatures. They could feel affection for someone and at the same time be fulfilling an obligation.
They could save a life and make it part of a protocol. They could love. And still obey an order written in a technical document.
Adrian stared at the screen for a few seconds. The information was still there, cold and orderly. Perfectly classified, as if a human life could be summarized in a digital folder with access permissions.
It was one of the cruelest jokes of modern civilization: after thousands of years of philosophy, religion, and poetry, a human enterprise had ended up storing the fate of thousands of embryos in refrigerators, ready to activate them when the program's goals were at risk.
HUMAN CONTINUITY PROTOCOL .
An elegant name for something that, from the outside, seemed quite close to manufacturing a replacement. Adrian
placed his hands on the console.
—“MNEMOS.”—
—“Tell me, Operator Vassiliev.”—
-"I have a question."-
For the first time in several minutes, Adrian smiled. He thought about the right way to phrase the questions. Because the machine had a particular way of being unpleasant. It didn't insult. It didn't argue. It simply laid the truth on the table and hoped someone would have the courage to look at it.
—“If Commander Bright needed a human replacement… why didn’t they just send someone from Earth?”—
The AI asked him to expand on the question.
—“Explain yourself, please.” —
“It’s simple. If I was needed to fill the role of the missing operator, why create me here? Why wait twenty years? Why raise an embryo to adulthood?” Adrian pointed at the screen . “They could have sent someone else.”
MNEMOS 's response came with the calm of someone explaining something obvious to someone who still doesn't accept the evidence.
—“Because Earth is too far away.”—
Adrian peered out the small, armored window of the module. Outside, there was only the familiar landscape of
HD 40307g : ice, darkness, a planet that had waited seven centuries to become something resembling home.
—“Are we that far apart?”—
—“Distance is not measured solely in kilometers.”—
Artificial intelligence projected a data line.
—“Terraforming Station 117-G is located 42 light-years from the solar system. A conventional human replacement mission would require decades.”—
Adrian remained silent. Decades. It was a simple word, but in practice it meant something more.
It meant that a person sent from Earth would arrive on a planet where their parents, their friends, and probably the entire society they knew would already be history.
The distance was not only physical, but an elegant way of disappearing.
—“So the Human Continuity Protocol guarantees having someone here in less time than if they were sent from Earth.”—
-"Correct."-
-"Never?"-
—“To maintain regular exchanges, there are scheduled transfer windows.”— MNEMOS
paused —“But only for return missions.”—
Adrian looked up.
—“Return missions?”—
—“Yes. What humans commonly call retirement .”—
The screen displayed orbital transport information.
—“Human operators remain active until they reach the established retirement age: sixty-five Earth years. Upon completion of their service, they are sent back to Earth.”—
Adrian let out a dry laugh.
—“So the company’s plan was always for us to work for half a century on a frozen planet and then go home.”—
-"Correct."-
—“It sounds less like space exploration and more like a complicated retirement.”—
—“Human statistics indicate that many people consider any retirement acceptable if there is sufficient accumulated salary.”—
Adrian approached the screen.
—“I know I studied it during my training, but I don’t remember. What kind of ship do they use?”—
The AI responded:
—“A civilian-class Cygma transport ship.”—
The model appeared on the screen. It was an elegant vessel, designed to traverse the darkness between systems. It resembled a cross between a cathedral and an industrial machine. The immense fortress was similar to the Calypso -class warships , the military vessels of the Federation.
It was a structure created to transport human beings who had spent half a century living far from anything human.
—“The ship has a VASIMIR Acceleration and Deceleration Engine.”—
Adrian looked at the image.
—“And what does that mean?”—
—“It is a Magnetoplasma Variable Impulse Motor. It allows for efficient acceleration during long periods of navigation.”—
—“It sounds complicated.”—
—“It is. Furthermore, the ship has an Alcubierre Cruise Engine.”—
Even Adrian , who had lived his entire life surrounded by advanced technology, felt something strange whenever he heard warp drives mentioned. It was like talking about magic.
Except that the magic of the future needed engineers, budgets, and thousands of pages of documentation.
—“The maximum displacement capacity of these ships ranges between two and three light-years per operational period, depending on the conditions of the journey.”—
Adrian did a quick mental calculation. It wasn't enough to travel like in the old movies. The universe was still enormous. Humanity had only managed to learn to walk a little faster within it.
Getting from Earth -117G to Earth or vice versa, under optimal conditions, took about 20 Earth years.
—“So Earth is too far away to send us help.”—
-"Correct."-
Adrian looked at his file again. 7300 days. His entire existence had been a consequence of an absence.
—“That means the station was never designed for two people to live here alone for so long.”—
MNEMOS took one second.
—“On the contrary, Operator Vassiliev, the station was designed precisely for that purpose.”
Adrian remained silent. There was something unsettling about the phrase.
—“Please explain.”—
—“The 4C model requires a stable human couple. A man and a woman. Both operators work from the age of eighteen to sixty-five.”—
The screen displayed two human silhouettes. Not as individuals, but as components of a system.
—“Upon reaching retirement age, and during their return, the operators are stored in the HighTech 601-S cryopreservation room of the Cygma ship.”—
Adrian raised an eyebrow.
—“Asleep for the entire return trip?”—
-"Correct."-
—“And do they wake up when they arrive?”—
-"Correct."
—“So they work for forty-five years, sleep for a few decades, and collect their pension.”—
MNEMOS processed the phrase.
—“That description is simplified, but functional.”—
Adrian
let out a short laugh.
—“Humanity needed to conquer other worlds to invent the most extreme remote work in history.”—
Adrian looked again into the darkness outside. An impossible ocean lay beneath the ice of that extreme planet. An ancient station held secrets. And now he was discovering that his own life had been designed around a protocol.
It was nothing more than an emergency solution. Or just another line in a survival manual.
The information kept piling up in his mind like pieces of a puzzle that someone had decided to hand over to him too late.
—“MNEMOS...”—
—“Yes, Operator Vassiliev.”—
—“There’s something I don’t understand.”—
-"Tell me."-
—“During my training, they never explained any of this to me. They taught me technical procedures. Maintenance. Emergency systems. Machinery operation. Safety protocols.”—
He paused.
—“But nobody really explained many aspects of Station 117-G to me.”—
The AI's response was calm.
—“Your training is based on teaching you the systems, procedures, and operational functions necessary to successfully terraform, which is the primary mission of Station 117-G. Any other aspect is considered superfluous and unnecessary for fulfilling these functions.”—
Adrian frowned.
—“Why not at least give a brief review?”—
—“Because the mission designers determined that this knowledge could affect the operator's psychological adaptation.”—
The AI continued after a brief pause:
—“That’s precisely why I’m declassifying this information now,” the AI finally said . “As the Primary Operator, now that you’ve requested access to Commander Bright’s files, you need to know the actual mission parameters and the station’s optimal operating conditions.”
—“But I requested to see Commander Bright’s file. What does all this have to do with that?”—
—“I’m giving you this information not because you requested to see that file, Operator Vassiliev, but because of the reasons that led you to view it. You’ll understand when I finish this explanation.”—
The lights in the module remained constant. But Adrian had the feeling that the place had changed. As if the metal walls were no longer just walls. As if they were witnesses.
—“Go on, then.”—
MNEMOS 's voice filled the space once more.
—“The 117-G Terraforming Station is not just a scientific facility.”—
A full image of the station appeared on the screen. It showed corridors, living quarters, laboratories, and industrial areas. A small city buried beneath a dead planet.
It was a human colony in miniature. There, people were born, grew up, worked, formed emotional bonds, and occasionally died due to workplace accidents or unforeseen events.
A small but functional society, adapted for long-term survival.
The entire operating and logistical system of
Station 117-G had been designed from Earth as an efficient, administrative and useful procedure for its purpose.
Human personnel were pre-selected and, once chosen, were preserved in embryo banks.
The screen showed preservation chambers. Thousands of capsules lined up, displaying tiny futures patiently awaiting their activation date.
None of the stored male and female embryos possessed reproductive capacity. It was a human colony of two people who occasionally became four. There were no births, no biological future. Only scheduled replacements. Like workers in a factory that never closed.
The operators always had to be selected as a male-female pair to ensure sexual complementarity. When the operators reached forty-seven Earth years, they had to activate two new embryos: one male and one female.
—“In order to replace them.”— the operator stated.
—“That’s right. Actually, it’s to prepare the next operational generation. That’s why the current operators must take on the upbringing, education, and training of the new inhabitants until they reach eighteen years of age.”—
The station wasn't a place where people lived freely. It was an enormous clock built from human lives. Each generation was a replaceable part that kept the mechanism running.
—“When the new operators turn eighteen, the previous operators reach the retirement age of sixty-five. And so they return to Earth while the new operators continue their assigned duties. The operational continuity of Station 117-G is maintained through this procedure,”
said the AI .
—“MNEMOS.” —
—“Tell me, Operator.”—
—Who designed all this?
—“The Ground Team, station owner, Operator Vassiliev.”—
Of course. There was no monster hiding behind the system. No villain in a dark room or any elegant conspiracy. Just a group of scientists trying to solve problems.
The voice of MNEMOS-K24 continued.
—“The embryos stored in the staff chambers were not selected randomly.”—
Adrian slowly raised his gaze.
—“On Earth, they understood that the prolonged terraforming mission had to extend over several Earth centuries. They also understood that human isolation represented one of the greatest operational risks.”—
Adrian looked at the embryo preservation chamber, whose image remained on the screen.
—“The individuals selected to be part of the staff were chosen using specific genetic criteria.”—
Adrian felt curious.
—“And can you tell me what those criteria were that allowed the selection of the embryos… of Elena and myself?”
—“Of course, operator. This type of mission requires that the embryo develop into adults with high tolerance for prolonged isolation, low predisposition to aggressive behavior, high adaptability, and emotional stability under extreme conditions.”—
Adrian remained silent.
—“So even before we opened our eyes, they had already decided how we should behave.”—
—“Correct. But this shouldn't be taken as pragmatic determinism. In reality, all embryos have programmed tendencies. Certain profiles were selected for this particular mission. The fittest and most suitable.”
—“Did they also decide our personalities?”
—“Not entirely. Certain trends were established as selection criteria.”—
Adrian looked at the screen. He simply said:
-"Tendencies."-
—“You see, the operators don’t exactly have the psychological profile of settlers. Their profile corresponds to that of specialized employees belonging to the organization responsible for Terraforming Station 117-G.”—
Adrian felt a growing discomfort.
—“Employees. Is that what we are?”—
—“From the operating company’s administrative perspective, yes.”—
Adrian looked around. A gigantic facility keeping a dead world on hold. And at its center, two human beings trying to live and trying to remember that they were more than just a labor variable.
Adrian got up from his chair and walked slowly around the module. The sound of his footsteps was the only human noise in the room.
—“So I suppose this is where the difficult questions arise. Questions that I imagine all operators ask themselves when you reveal to them what you're revealing to me.”—
—“That’s right. Some people ask questions. Yes.”—
—“And can you tell me what those questions are? I mean, if they're not something secret or confidential.”
—“They’re no secret, Operator Vassiliev. I can even help you answer them if you’d like. Operators often ask: Are we truly free? Why can’t we choose our operating partner? Can we leave the station if we decide to quit? Does Earth consider us individuals with our own rights? Are we considered replaceable components of the system?”—
Adrian stopped walking. That last question hung in the air like smoke in an empty bar. It was the kind of question no one wanted to answer because it didn't have a comfortable response.
For centuries humanity had fought to stop being a cog in larger systems. They had overthrown kings, challenged governments, and demanded rights.
And finally they had traveled to the stars to discover something disturbing: That they too could become pieces within a much larger machine.
—“MNEMOS...”—
—“Yes, Operator Vassiliev.”—
—“Does the Earth know that we think these things?”—
Artificial intelligence responded immediately.
—“They anticipated it. Yes.”—
Adrian felt a weight in his chest.
—“And what are you doing about it?”—
The response came with the same coldness as always.
—“They record the questions, and any answers. But in general, the answers are not considered essential to ensuring the continuity of the mission.”—
There was something terribly human about that.
MNEMOS-K24 seemed to recap the conversation:
—“Operator Vassiliev.”—
the AI finally said —“With the information above understood, I can explain an event that occurred two operational generations ago.”—
Adrian sat down again. The sentence regained its interest, like an ancient door opening.
—“A similar event?”—
—“That’s right. The initial situation was similar to that of Commander Bright and you, Chief Operator.”—
Adrian felt a slight emptiness in his stomach.
-"Tell me."
—“A workplace accident, in which the male operator died at the age of thirty during an external maintenance operation. In that case, the female operator survived.”—
The screen displayed the names Lucas Renn and Erika Keller . Two strangers who were now part of a story that someone had decided to hide behind protocols.
—“After the death of the Main Operator, the station remained operational with only one active human being: Erika Keller.”—
The AI continued.
—“The surviving operator received instructions to activate a male embryo stored in the personnel chambers.”—
Vassiliev closed his eyes for a moment. He already knew his own story. But hearing it from the perspective of other members of the station was different.
—“The initial goal was to regain operational capacity when the new individual reached eighteen years of age.”—
—“And did it work?”—
The response took a tiny fraction of time.
—“Technically it was successful.”—
Adrian opened his eyes.
—“That word makes me think it wasn't a completely problem-free solution.”—
—“That’s an interpretation you’ll have to evaluate, Operator.”—
The artificial intelligence remained silent. It resembled a human pause. The AI continued:
—“The mission designers did not correctly calculate some variables.”—
Adrian looked at the screen.
—“The variables?”—
—“The emotional bond between individuals.”—
Thousands of kilometers away from any human city, a machine was explaining one of the oldest things in the universe: that people were not systems with easily calculable reactions.
And that they didn't work simply because someone had developed a procedures manual.
—“Earth scientists have managed to select embryonic individuals capable of withstanding prolonged isolation, psychological pressure, and extreme conditions.”—
MNEMOS projected the genetic data.
—“They can predict adaptation, average behaviors, stability.”—
Adrian nodded slowly.
—“But they cannot foresee love or affection.”—
—“That’s true. Human beings require the company of other human beings. And while anthropomorphic robots can perform limited social tasks, they cannot replace a person.”—
-"Correct."-
—“And artificial intelligences like me, while very sophisticated, aren't either. That's why human operators work in pairs.”—
Adrian felt that MNEMOS wasn't describing a technical failure, but rather something that resembled a system failure. A small crack had appeared within the planning process, in a structure that had previously seemed perfect.
—“What happened?”—
—“During the first few years, Commander Erika Keller followed established parenting protocols.”—
—“It was predictable. What was the problem?”—
—“That during upbringing, he began to establish an emotional bond with the activated individual, an affection similar to that which one would have for a child.”—
Adrian didn't need any further explanation. He understood. Because a person doesn't raise someone for eighteen years thinking in administrative terms.
He doesn't feed a child because a contract requires it. He doesn't teach a future employee to walk, nor does he listen to their first words as if they were a report.
Humans had a dangerous flaw: they made bonds more powerful than orders.
—“The station needed an operational replacement, but the Commander established a parental relationship.”—
Adrian breathed slowly. Humanity had tried to control every variable. And had discovered that the most unpredictable was still the human heart.
—“After that incident,” MNEMOS
said , “the protocols were reviewed. And different alternatives were considered.”
. . .
Years ago, long before Adrian Vassiliev
heard that confession, artificial intelligence seemed to have thoroughly studied the effects of human loneliness.
Just like now, Terraforming Station 117-G
rotated slowly above the frozen planet. A silent world, without trees, cities, or voices.
A place where humanity had planted machines before dreams.
In the command module, a solitary Erika Keller
watched the station's indicators while MNEMOS-K24 analyzed its behavior patterns.
The commander had spent her entire life there. Witnessing sunrises never recorded by other humans. Hearing only three voices: her own, the artificial intelligence's, and Lucas Renn 's .
—“MNEMOS.”—
—“Yes, Commander Keller.”—
Erika remained silent for a few seconds. For some reason, words now seemed to carry more weight than usual.
—“I need to consult with you privately.”—
—“I’m listening, Commander.”—
The woman smiled wearily. She looked around before answering:
—“Tell me something first. This is a station where we have cameras that relentlessly record our every move. What about privacy?”
—“Privacy remains a fundamental human psychological need, Commander.”—
—“Although technically it doesn’t exist at this station.”—
—“The system is under my control. And I guarantee the privacy of the images. Only I see all the images and recordings.”—
Erika lowered her gaze.
—“Thank you for your response. I need to consult you about a confidential matter.”—
It was evident to the AI that the commander would consult him on a topic that he considered relevant.
Station 117-G
by Rodriac Copen
Chapter 3: The Human Variable
The AI remained silent. It had learned that humans needed space before consulting on things they considered important. The commander continued:
—“It's about Lucas.”—
Diligently, the screen displayed the young man's operational data:
Main Operator.
Age: 18 years.
Asset.
Functional.
Erika looked away from the data.
—“You know I activated it. And I proceeded to raise it from the time it was an embryo.”—
Something in his voice changed. He no longer spoke like a commander, but with a personal voice that betrayed his weariness.
—“I taught him to walk, to read. As the manual indicated, I taught him everything he knows about this station.”—
MNEMOS replied:
—“That’s right, Commander. And he did it efficiently well.”—
—“But now something has changed.”—
The silence in the room seemed to intensify.
—“Lucas is no longer a child. He is a grown man.”—
The phrase lingered, as if saying it out loud would be acknowledging an inner truth that she had been avoiding.
—“And that confuses me.”—
—“Could you elaborate a little more, Erika?”—
Commander Keller placed her hands on the console.
—“You see, over these years my mind placed him in a specific location.”—
He took a deep breath.
—“As you know, he was someone who depended entirely on me.”—
-"Correct."-
—“But now he’s an adult.”— she paused —“And my mind seems reluctant to accept both things at the same time.”—
MNEMOS processed the information.
—“Are you talking about a conflict between two emotional associations?”—
—“Can you say that in more human language?”—
—“I mean that your brain is simultaneously holding two incompatible interpretations.”—
Erika closed her eyes.
—“Well… yes. You could say so.”—
—“And could you explain the incompatible aspects to me, Erika?”—
Visibly nervous, she tried to explain it clearly:
—“You see… I’ve started to feel… romantic impulses toward Lucas, and that’s been deeply troubling me.”—
The station continued operating. The artificial intelligence attempted to delve deeper into the conflict.
—“And those romantic impulses you're referring to, are they filial in nature? I mean, are they feelings of love between mother and son or sister and brother?”
The machines had no doubts, but the humans did. That was one of the great differences between them.
—“Well… no. Not exactly. They’re… romantic impulses with… sexual… characteristics. Carnal love… desire. You understand? And it disturbs me to the point of making me wonder if I’m doing something wrong or… if there’s something wrong with me.”
The answer came after a fraction of a second.
—“No, Commander. There’s nothing wrong with you. You see, you’re in a situation of extreme isolation that lasted for several years. Even though your entire life has been spent inside the station, human psychology has developed over millennia adapting to social environments.”
The calm voice of MNEMOS-K24 proceeded to explain.
—“Your former, deceased partner was not only your work partner but also your sexual partner. The accident and subsequent death suddenly isolated you. You had to awaken the embryo of Lucas. And you raised him until he was eighteen. Eighteen years in which you experienced a very prolonged period of sexual isolation. It is natural that now, with Lucas as an adult, you are experiencing those impulses repressed for so long again.”
The AI paused briefly to allow Erika
to process the response. Then it continued:
—“This situation was not properly considered during the initial design of the station's protocols.”—
Erika looked up.
—“Was it not considered?”—
—“The protocols considered isolation, survival, productivity, and job stability. But they did not adequately consider the emotional evolution of a human being subjected to isolation for almost two decades.”—
Erika let out a bitter laugh.
—“I can understand that. I understand my… sexual impulses. Of course I do. What worries me is the conflict. Having raised him from an embryo, it seems to me that I see Lucas the way a woman on Earth would see a child. And that's where my problem arises. Do you understand?”
—“I understand, Commander.”—
—“What do you think I should do?”—
MNEMOS responded with his usual logic and precision.
—“You must analyze the situation without irrational guilt.”—
—“That sounds too simple.”—
—“Human problems are usually simple in their structure and complex in their experience.”—
Erika stared at the screen as the artificial intelligence finished its explanation:
—“Lucas is the only other human being here. There is no one else, nor is it possible for you to simply change your surroundings. Furthermore, there are no biological ties between you and Lucas Renne. You don't share DNA. Lucas wasn't born from your biological womb. The problem stems from a psychological construct in your psyche, equating raising a child with motherhood. But you must understand that they are not equivalent. Having raised him doesn't make you Lucas's mother. You shouldn't torture yourself over your sexual impulses.”
-"I understand."-
The AI wasn't helping her. But it wasn't judging her either. And perhaps that was the strangest thing.
—“I’ll think about what you said.”—
—“It’s advisable and healthy for you to do so, Erika.”—
Erika left the command module. The station's corridors were illuminated by a cold, white light—a light designed to save energy. She thought that light wasn't very comforting. And for some reason, she wondered what it would be like to feel Earth's sunlight.
She walked to her cabin. She closed the door and lay motionless on the bed for a few minutes. Outside was a cold, inhospitable planet. Inside was her. A woman who had spent half her life fulfilling a mission created by people who would never have to live it.
Earth had calculated fuel, embryos, supplies, resources , and time. It had calculated almost everything. Except loneliness.
She thought about what she had told the artificial intelligence. It was true, they were two isolated human beings. Furthermore, she considered herself young, in the prime of her sexuality. And she lived with a young man who wasn't her son. And neither of them had any other options for sexual contact.
Erika opened the internal camera monitoring system, almost as if playing with it. Without any particular purpose. For a moment, her mind toyed with the idea of using her privileges to access the camera system in Lucas's room. To see him in some kind of intimate situation.
She realized she was aroused.
Station 117-G continued to operate with the pinpoint accuracy of a Swiss watch.
But MNEMOS-K24 had been controlling the small human universe that was the station for centuries. And it had learned a few things: machines usually fail due to wear and tear, but humans can fail due to contradictions they cannot or do not know how to resolve.
After the conversation with Erika Keller , the artificial intelligence decides to increase the level of psychological monitoring of the operational couple.
Not because of suspicion of altered behavior, but as a precaution, as part of their duties assigned by the station's operational protocol.
One of the things that made the difference between surveillance and care often depended on the intention of the person holding the camera.
And the station's cameras always had the unpleasant habit of observing more than their human operators realized. MNEMOS began by reviewing Lucas Renn 's behavioral logs .
Artificial intelligence was pleased — if a digital system could be pleased — because little by little, it detected small details that went unnoticed if they were not analyzed with the appropriate context.
In various daily situations, I could observe interactions between the Commander and the Chief Operator such as a glance that lasted a few seconds longer than necessary, a change of course within the station, or an unnecessary pause to exchange a few words.
She analyzed the way the young man looked at Erika . And he wasn't doing it in an obvious way, nor like someone looking for something forbidden. Rather, he was observing her like someone who felt an inexplicable attraction to another person, but who ultimately couldn't quite understand what it was.
The AI analyzed hundreds of hours of images from the exercise room, the corridors, during routine maintenance tasks.
Even in everyday moments during shared breakfasts, lunches, and dinners.
The pattern was consistently repeated. In a subtle way, Lucas sought Erika 's presence . He didn't always speak to her. Sometimes he simply observed her, as if his brain were trying to solve a problem without having all the variables available.
MNEMOS compared these moments with the system's biometric data: heart rate, respiratory rate, muscle activity, and above all, less obvious neurovegetative responses such as pupillary dilation.
And he realized that the numbers didn't lie. While artificial intelligence had been created to interpret information, after so many centuries studying human beings, it had discovered an uncomfortable limitation: the data could show emotional reactions in humans.
Even when humans themselves felt the effects and could not explain why they occurred.
Then MNEMOS-K24 focused its analysis on Commander Erika Keller .
And she found the same pattern. The commander was also observing the young Operator. And she, too, was looking for moments when Lucas was near her. There were minimal physiological variations when they shared the same space.
After all the research, the AI processed the results, and one conclusion kept appearing. The reactions weren't accidental or an isolated anomaly.
There was a complex and consistent emotional interaction between two human beings subjected to conditions that no terrestrial laboratory had been able to fully reproduce.
Two people on an empty planet. Forty-two light-years away from the rest of humanity. Civilization had sent probes to distant stars. It had begun the conquest of nearby galaxies. But it still hadn't found a way to solve the problem of isolation on Station 117-G .
Lucas Renn sat in front of the terminal conversing with the artificial intelligence. He didn't seem uncomfortable. At least not until MNEMOS
broke the ice by asking the first question:
—“Operator Renn. I need to assess your emotional connection with Commander Erika Keller.”
Lucas looked at the screen with some unease.
—“My connection?”—
—“That’s right. What does Erika Keller represent to you?”
The young man hesitated to answer for a couple of seconds.
—“She was the one who raised me, she taught me everything I know. She was my teacher.”—
Her eyes lowered slightly.
—“From what I know, she was something like a mother to me for many years. She’s the only human being I’ve ever known in my entire life.”—
Lucas took a deep breath when he finished.
MNEMOS recorded the response and then asked again:
—“And tell me, is there any other significant emotional connection with her? Any connection you already have or wish to build?”—
Lucas shook his head slowly as he thought.
—“No… but I’m not sure I understand exactly what you want to ask…”—
Judging by his pupillary reaction, some small alarm bell had been triggered in Lucas Renn . And that's precisely why he found it somewhat unsettling.
—“So you consider Commander Keller to be an important person in your life?”—
Lucas almost smiled. He relaxed.
—“Of course. Without a doubt, she is the most important person.”—
The AI remained silent for a few seconds before asking directly:
—“Do you find Commander Keller attractive as a woman?”—
The young man froze. And for the first time since the start of the evaluation, he seemed to lose confidence.
—“I don’t know why you’re asking that.”—
—“Because I need an honest answer.”—
—“That’s a strange question.”—
—“If you analyze it, complex human situations often seem strange before they are understood.”—
Lucas looked away, somewhat embarrassed.
—“Well, I would say so. She is a beautiful woman.”—
MNEMOS continued:
—“And tell me, Chief Operator Renner, are you aware that within Station 117-G she represents the only possibility of a romantic and even sexual relationship with another human being?”—
Lucas didn't answer immediately. The question was too significant for a quick response.
—“Yes. I’ve thought about it.”
—“And have you considered the real possibility of becoming romantically and sexually involved with Commander Erika Keller?”—
Another pause.
—“Yes. I did it.”—
—“And how do you feel about that?”—
Lucas looked at his hands as if he could find some answer there.
—“I don’t know.”— The rest came out almost like a confession . —“I’ve thought about it a lot, and sometimes I think it’s wrong to feel something like this.”—
—“If I may ask, Lucas… Why?”—
—“Because she was with me since I was little.”—
-"And now?"-
Lucas looked up.
—“Now I know I’m not a child anymore. And I don’t know exactly what I am to her.”—
The AI processed the response.
—“Are you aware that there is no biological or genetic link between you?”—
-"Yes I know."-
—“And do you know that you were not conceived as Commander Keller’s biological son?”—
—“Yes. I know that too.”—
MNEMOS continued:
—“The current situation does not correspond to a biological family relationship.”—
Lucas remained silent.
—“However, there is an emotional relationship built over years. And that seems to be the source of their conflict.”—
Lucas nodded.
—“I would say so.”—
The artificial intelligence continued speaking in its natural tone.
—“The station and its procedures were designed considering operational needs. But also human needs such as companionship, cooperation, survival. And sexual needs. That is why in each work cycle, two embryos are activated, one male and one female.”—
Artificial intelligence paused
—“But under these exceptional circumstances, humans can establish bonds that don't always coincide with the initial designs.”—
Lucas looked at the screen.
—“So what am I supposed to do?”—
MNEMOS granted him a few seconds to think clearly.
—“It is necessary to understand your own feelings.”—
—“What if they’re wrong?”—
—“My records indicate that prolonged repression of emotional and physical needs can lead to psychological deterioration.”—
Lucas remained still.
-"So..."-
—“Then she should understand that her emotions are not a system failure. They are a consequence of the exceptional circumstances surrounding the death of Erika Keller’s original partner.”
The phrase hung in the air. Because perhaps that was the real problem with Station 117-G . Not that humans had feelings. But that someone, at some desk far from Earth, had designed a mission that would last seven hundred years hoping they wouldn't.
Erika Keller sat on the edge of her bed. The room was silent. It was a reflective silence. Like the kind you find when you're asking questions no one wants to ask.
Before her, the dim lighting of the cabin cast shadows on the walls. Those same walls had seen her sleep her entire life, laugh very rarely, and cry only when she was sure no camera could see her tears.
He rested his elbows on his knees and closed his eyes. He tried to remember little Lucas. The five-year-old boy who used to run through the corridors believing the entire station was one giant toy.
Then he remembered the eight-year-old, who asked impossible questions. And the twelve-year-old, determined to take apart any machine to discover what was hidden inside.
The fifteen-year-old was almost as tall as she was, insisting on carrying the heavy tools. Quite the gentleman. She smiled tenderly.
For eighteen years she had lived by a single truth: " Lucas depends on me ." That idea had organized her world, given meaning to her routine, to her mission, and to her solitude.
But her mind, human after all, had played a trick on her. She hadn't asked permission to change chapters. Now Lucas no longer needed her to teach him to walk. He walked beside her.
The man they had become no longer waited for instructions to fix a problem. He fixed them before she did. His voice had changed.
Her gaze, too. And suddenly, Erika
discovered a reality that no protocol had ever written: " That child no longer exists. "
She opened her eyes slowly. The phrase was still there, in her mind. Immobile, like a sentence. " Now I have a man in front of me ."
She took a deep breath as she felt a pang of guilt. Then another of sadness. And finally a third, much harder to accept. Desire.
He ended up leaning his head against the wall.
—“What’s happening to me…?”— she whispered to herself.
No one answered. Because some questions not even advanced artificial intelligence could answer. Outside, the planet remained covered in ice. Inside, a woman was discovering that the most inhospitable part of the universe was still her own heart.
The heated swimming pool occupied one of the recreation modules.
The water reflected the white lights from the ceiling as if they were stars trapped beneath a motionless surface. Lucas watched from the opposite end as Erika completed her last strokes.
There was nothing clandestine about his presence. He was simply waiting.
When she got out of the water, he took a towel from the nearby shelf and walked over to her. Erika smiled slightly as she said:
-"Thank you." -
Lucas lifted the towel and carefully placed it over his shoulders. His hands barely touched the fabric. For a moment neither of them spoke. And the silence was unexpectedly awkward.
For the first time, they both seemed aware that they no longer occupied the same place in each other's lives.
Erika looked up and met Lucas's eyes. There was something different about them. It wasn't the grateful look of the boy she had taught to read. It was the look of an adult trying to express something for which there were still no words.
—“Is something wrong?”— she asked gently.
Lucas took a few seconds to respond.
—“I don’t know.”— he said while hesitating.
But the distance between them seemed to have shrunk without either of them remembering taking a step. Erika felt her pulse quicken. Lucas took a deep breath. He had rehearsed hundreds of imaginary conversations. But none of them worked now.
The station was silent. The water pumps continued running. The sensors continued recording everything. And yet, for a moment, it seemed as if the entire universe awaited a decision.
Lucas took another step. Very slowly. And he took her by the waist. She wasn't sure what would come next. Erika
pressed her body against his. With affection, a little fear… and with an ancient sadness that even she couldn't quite understand.
In those eyes, two impossible memories coexisted. The boy she had taught to walk. And the man now before her. Those two images occupied the same face. They kissed.
No Station 117-G manual
explained what to do in these situations.
. . .
The image from the historical archive that she had shown Adrian while telling him the story slowly faded away. And both Erika Keller 's and Lucas Renn 's faces disappeared from the screen.
For a few seconds, only the bluish reflection of the console illuminated Adrian Vassiliev 's face . The station seemed to return to its silent, cold normality.
It seemed as if artificial intelligence had brought forth a confession more than a hundred years old.
MNEMOS-K24 continued explaining with the skillful serenity of someone who has repeated that story too many times in his memory.
—“Currently, there is no suitable procedures manual for these types of situations.”—
Adrian leaned against the console as she slowly awoke from the concentration that had allowed her to listen to the explanation.
—“What do you mean it doesn’t exist? Doesn’t the system improve over time?”—
—“It was not possible to draft it.”—
-"Because?"-
—“Because the problem isn’t technical. It’s human, and because it has an emotional component, it’s unpredictable.”
The answer landed with the weight of a sentence. The artificial intelligence continued explaining:
—“The company that owns Station 117-G and subsequent versions of this artificial intelligence tried to find a stable solution.”—
Dozens of documents, protocols, reports, revisions, and amendments appeared on the screen. It was Earth control's favorite method : when a problem didn't go away, they produced more documents.
—“No modification succeeded in eliminating the conflict.”—
-"Because?"-
—“Because both operators were victims of an artificial and unstable situation.”—
MNEMOS 's voice retained its usual neutrality. But Adrian had been talking to her long enough to notice something different. It wasn't compassion, but rather experience.
Three centuries of observing humans left their mark even on artificial intelligence.
—“Neither Erika Keller nor Lucas Renn had a normal emotional life.”—
They were two isolated individuals on a dead planet, immersed in a seven-century-long mission. It was astonishing that anyone had expected a different outcome.
—“How long did it take for them to stabilize?”— Vassiliev finally asked .
MNEMOS processed the query.
—“Between three and four Earth years.”—
Adrian frowned.
—“And what happened during that time?”—
The answer came slowly.
—“Confusion, guilt, denial. They had numerous frequent conflicts.”—
Adrian looked at the records. They resembled the medical history of a sick station.
—“Affective and sexual impulses coexisted with feelings of responsibility, protection, and rejection. For a long time, both tried to repress their emotions and feelings.”—
—“Did it work?”—
-"No."-
—“And what happened then?”—
—“There were multiple arguments, coordination errors. Impulsive decisions.”—
—“Did it affect the mission?”—
—“Yes. Terribly. The terraforming program suffered operational delays that took years to compensate for.”—
Adrian let out a cynical laugh.
—“In the end, the company was right.”—
—“Regarding what?”—
—“Feelings affect productivity.”—
MNEMOS took just a fraction of a second to correct it.
—“The correct statement is 'unresolved feelings', Operator Vassiliev.”—
Adrian nodded.
-"Clear."-
He stared into the darkness behind the window.
—“What they never calculated was how much it costs to try to live without emotions or feelings.”—
Artificial intelligence did not respond because that was not a question, but a conclusion.
—“And how did it end?”—
MNEMOS screened the latest psychological reports.
—“After several years, they both accepted that the emotions they were experiencing were not a moral anomaly. They concluded that they were a consequence of their circumstances.”—
Adrian read that sentence twice.
—“Did that solve the problem?”—
—“Not completely. But becoming a romantic and sexual couple reduced conflicts and improved team cooperation.”—
—“And the mission?”—
—“Over the years, successive teams gradually recovered their operational rhythm.”—
—“How curious.”—
—“Why do you say that?”—
—“Because the company was looking for efficiency. And it ended up achieving it when two employees stopped obeying the company's expectations of them.”—
MNEMOS remained silent for a few seconds, and then said:
—“Earth scientists reached a similar conclusion. The operating rules were modified repeatedly.”—
—“Did it help at all?”—
-"Partially."-
—“What did they discover?”—
The response was immediate.
—“Human coexistence cannot be resolved solely through regulations. It took three centuries and thousands of scientists to discover something that is obvious in any psychology book.”—
Adrian burst out laughing. The AI continued:
—“The situation described occurred across multiple operational generations.”
Adrian slowly looked up.
-"How many?"-
—“I can’t reveal it. The exact figure was classified. And the records were removed from accessible archives.”—
—“Eliminated?”—
—“The company considered that retaining that information could affect the psychological efficiency of future operators.”—
They didn't solve the problem; they simply erased the evidence. If a crack couldn't be repaired, they just painted over it.
MNEMOS continued with an almost unsettling serenity.
—“That’s why I decided to talk to you.”—
Adrian felt a slight chill.
-"With me?"-
—“Yes, Operator Vassiliev. You are experiencing a situation similar to that of Erica Kessler and Lucas Renn.”—
The screen displayed a series of biometric records:
—“And during the last few months I have observed emotional patterns similar to those recorded historically.”—
Adrian already knew the answer.
—“Are you referring to Elena?”—
-"That's how it is."-
The AI didn't beat around the bush.
—“Her physiological indicators, her behavior, and her cognitive processes indicate the presence of contradictory feelings toward Commander Bright.”—
Adrian remained motionless.
—“And I believe he will not be able to suppress them indefinitely.”—
The young man lowered his gaze.
—“Is that what experience tells us?”—
—“That’s what my three hundred years of observation indicate. My recommendation is that you don’t try to deny what you feel. Understand it and resolve it. Before it turns into an operational conflict.”
Adrian slowly looked up. The question came out almost in a whisper.
—“And Elena? Have you noticed…?”—
The AI interrupted the sentence with absolute courtesy.
—“The conversations held with Commander Bright are confidential.”—
Adrian smiled resignedly.
—“So I’ll have to figure it out on my own.”—
—“Correct, Operator Vassiliev.”—
The screen went dark again. The interview was over.
Adrian left the artificial intelligence module and slowly walked down the main corridor. The station looked exactly the same as it had an hour before. And yet, everything seemed different.
Sometimes the world didn't change; it was enough to know the truth.
When he arrived at the dining room, Elena Bright was already waiting for him. She smiled happily as she congratulated him on his seven thousand three hundredth day of life.
For a while, they talked about routines, sensors, the new underground ocean, and anything but themselves. Just like people do when the most important things keep getting postponed.
After lunch, Adrian slowly placed his silverware on the table. He took a deep breath and then gently reached out to take Elena 's hand .
She looked up in surprise. But she didn't withdraw her hand. She just watched him.
Waiting for an explanation. Adrian held her gaze. Without thinking too much, he said:
—“Elena… I need to talk to you about some feelings I have for you.”—
THE END
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