"Do you have a pen, Dr. Andile?" whispered Frank Siegmund into the ear of the serious-looking man seated stiffly beside him.
Dr. Thomas Andile shot him a sharp look, his brow furrowed beneath thin, rectangular glasses that had slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose. He wore a slate-gray suit, impeccably pressed, and an expression like he was perpetually holding back a scowl. He adjusted his tie with brisk, practiced fingers, then his collar, which was already perfectly aligned. His hands, however, made no movement toward the pen that sat neatly in his breast pocket like a soldier at attention.
"How on earth do you end up at an important meeting without a pen, Dr. Siegmund?" he muttered through clenched teeth, glaring. "Do you not have the slightest bit of common sense?"
Frank sighed and slouched slightly in his seat. He wore his lab coat open over a rumpled blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a few faint ink stains dotting the cuffs. His tousled brown hair and perpetually amused expression gave him the look of someone who had just stumbled in from a coffee shop rather than being summoned to a high-level government briefing.
"Tom, I'm saying this as nicely as possible," Frank said, voice lowered, "but this is why your wife left you."
Thomas's jaw clenched. He turned to face Frank with a glare sharp enough to pierce steel.
"This is why you haven't published anything in three whole months!" Dr. Andile snapped, slamming his hands against the table. The noise echoed through the otherwise hushed meeting room like a gunshot.
Eleven heads swiveled instantly in their direction. The silence that followed was so complete that even the faint hum of the air conditioner could be heard.
At the head of the long, oval table stood a man in a sharply pressed military uniform decorated with an array of pins and multicolored service ribbons. The uniform's chest shimmered with polished metals under the sterile white lights of the conference hall. His shoulders were broad, his back straight as a steel rod, and a neatly trimmed gray beard framed a mouth that never smiled without good reason. He carried an air of command like a cloak, and his piercing eyes scanned the room like floodlights.
"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" the man asked, voice low but charged with authority. Every word carried the weight of a man used to being obeyed.
Frank gave a sheepish laugh and leaned back in his chair, casually patting Dr. Andile on the back.
"Nothing wrong here, General," he said lightly. "Dr. Andile is just a little under the weather."
The general held their gaze for a moment longer, his eyes narrow slits beneath heavy brows. Then he gave a single nod and turned his attention back to the man standing beside him, who had resumed the presentation.
"I expect full seriousness from you all during this mission," the general said, voice now louder, addressing the entire room. "I can't afford any mistakes. The country can't afford any mistakes."
The mood shifted instantly. All twelve people seated at the table straightened up, posture military-straight. Conversations halted. Even Frank's ever-present smirk faded as a sense of gravity settled over the room like a storm cloud.
The presenter, a lean man with receding blonde hair and the stooped posture of someone who had spent too many years hunched over control panels, pulled out a large roll of blueprints from a sleek black tube. He unfurled it over the table with a practiced sweep, revealing a complex, multi-tiered schematic of a massive structure: a space station, spanning several levels, with countless rooms, corridors, and research bays.
The blueprint's sheer scale was staggering. The space station looked like a cross between a sprawling labyrinth and a towering skyscraper, all enclosed in orbit above some alien planet.
"Team A will spend their time at level 0, but will reside with everyone else on level 3," the presenter explained, tapping a sleek pen on the bottom-most section of the blueprint. "No other teams will have access to the clean room environment." His finger hovered over a clearly marked section labeled "LEVEL 0 – CLASS ONE STERILE ZONE."
"Dr. Siegmund will be leading Team A."
Frank straightened his back, his expression now solemn.
"Yes, Mr. President. Thank you for this honor," he said respectfully.
The man nodded.
He moved on, gesturing toward another part of the schematic where a group of three scientists sat huddled together, each in pristine white coats marked with the insignia of various research divisions: biology, engineering, quantum diagnostics.
"Team B will work on level 1..." the President began, pointing with the same gravity as a general directing troops into battle. "There's a small—"
Frank, no longer the flippant jokester from moments before, leaned toward Thomas, his voice hushed.
"I still can't believe they built a completely functional clean room on a space station 200 light-years away, even before we were born."
Thomas adjusted his glasses, brushing a speck of dust off the corner of his coat. His expression remained skeptical.
"Well, if they need us up there to maintain it, I doubt it's anywhere near fully functional anyway."
Frank smirked, one eyebrow raised. "It still exists, Tom. That's a big deal in itself."
"I've come to expect nothing from this wretched country and its infrastructure."
"Please, be louder," Frank drawled, glancing sidelong at the President, who was now only five meters away. "The president definitely isn't five meters away."
Thomas gave him a look that was equal parts contempt and amusement, his mouth twitching slightly before setting into a frown once again.
"So the twelve of you will be joining the workforce already up there. There's about 40 men who are already trained on the current system." the president said, finally taking a seat, "Once you reach, I expect you to manage them optimally."
"Mister President, sir?" stammered a man seated further down the table. He wore a dark charcoal suit, clearly too large for his thin frame, and clutched a notepad in trembling hands. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a mix of excitement and terror.
The President turned to him, his expression warming ever so slightly.
"When do we leave?"
The President smiled.
"Tomorrow."