I'd been monitoring the power grid for six days when the equipment bay on deck sixty-two had been sealed for three years, officially decommissioned after a minor radiation leak made it unsuitable for standard operations. The repair costs hadn't justified the expense, so it had been marked as restricted space and forgotten.
Except someone hadn't forgotten.
I stood outside the bay with Vaxon, watching his security team run preliminary scans through the sealed door. The power signature Dana had detected was real, concentrated energy reserves that had no business existing in decommissioned space.
"No life signs inside," one of Vaxon's officers reported. "But the power readings are off the charts. Whatever's in there is active."
"Could be automated," Vaxon said. "Set up and left to run without direct supervision."
"Possible. But someone had to access this bay regularly to maintain the equipment and monitor accumulation rates." I pulled up access logs on my portable interface. "According to official records, this bay hasn't been entered in three years."
"Which means whoever's accessing it is falsifying logs." Vaxon's expression was grim. "That level of system manipulation requires expertise and authorization I don't like thinking about."
The door mechanism was standard security-grade, designed to keep unauthorized personnel out while allowing emergency access. I interfaced with the control panel, running diagnostic checks while Vaxon's team maintained defensive positions.
"Ready?" I asked.
Vaxon nodded once, his hand resting on his weapon. "Open it."
The door slid aside with a hiss of equalized pressure. Emergency lighting activated automatically, revealing an interior that should have been empty storage but was instead filled with equipment I recognized immediately.
Communication array. Not Zandovian design, human design, or close enough that the architecture was unmistakable. Salvaged components integrated with improvised power systems, all feeding into a transmission array pointed at the bay's external hull.
"That's a beacon," Vaxon said. "Powerful enough to broadcast across star systems."
"More than a beacon. That's a targeted communication array." I moved closer, studying the configuration with professional interest despite the circumstances. "Designed to send directed transmissions to specific coordinates rather than omnidirectional distress signals."
One of the security officers was scanning the equipment. "Power reserves are at ninety-three percent capacity. By my calculations, this could transmit for approximately five point eight hours at full strength."
"Transmit what?" Vaxon asked. "And to whom?"
I examined the array's control system, careful not to trigger anything. The interface was partially human design, similar to what I'd seen in Bail's shelter, but more sophisticated. Someone had spent months perfecting this integration.
"There's stored data," I said, pulling up the transmission queue. "Heavily encrypted. I can't decode it without specialized equipment, but the file size suggests... extensive information. Technical specifications, maybe. Tactical data."
"Blueprints," Vaxon said flatly. "They're planning to send Mothership's technical specifications to someone."
The implication was staggering. If hostile forces obtained detailed schematics of Mothership's systems, power distribution, defensive capabilities, structural vulnerabilities. They could exploit that information in ways that would endanger every being aboard.
"We need to trace the intended recipient," I said. "The array has targeting coordinates programmed in. If we can identify where this transmission was meant to go?—"
Proximity alarms shrieked through the bay.
"Someone's accessing the power reserves," Vaxon's officer announced. "Remote activation. They're initiating the transmission sequence!"
I dove for the control system, fingers flying across the interface to abort the sequence. But the activation protocols were sophisticated—layered security requiring authorization I didn't have, designed specifically to prevent exactly what I was attempting.
"Vaxon, I need to physically disconnect the power feed," I said. "Buy me thirty seconds."
"You've got it. Team, defensive positions. If anyone tries to enter this bay, they don't get past us."
I traced the power conduits to their physical connection points, identifying the critical junction that fed the entirearray. Disconnecting it would require bypassing safety protocols designed to prevent accidental power surges.
Good thing I'd spent four years learning exactly how to bypass every safety protocol on Mothership.
Twenty seconds. The transmission sequence continued its countdown, each second bringing us closer to broadcasting sensitive data to unknown recipients.
Fifteen seconds. My hands found the primary conduit, fingers working to release the magnetic couplings that held it in place.
