An Object Unseen

Commander Eva Rostova stood with her hands clasped behind her back, the polished surface of the command console reflecting the cool blue light of the main viewscreen. The nebulae ahead had been a long-anticipated celestial landmark, a shimmering expanse of cosmic dust and gas, beautiful in its vast indifference. Now, that indifference felt edged with something else.

"Report, Lieutenant Commander," she said, her voice even, cutting through the low hum of the bridge. The navigation officer, a young woman named Anya, whose usual composure was as solid as the deck plating, was hunched over her station, fingers flying across the holographic display.

Anya looked up, her brow furrowed, dark eyes wide. "Commander, I... I'm getting anomalous readings from the nebula's edge. Long-range sensors are... confused."

Eva took a step closer, her gaze flicking from Anya to the viewscreen, which displayed not the expected swirling colors, but a stark, green overlay of sensor data, marked with multiple red question marks. "Define 'confused', Lieutenant Commander."

"They're detecting... something. Something large," Anya explained, her voice tight. "But the energy signatures are erratic, contradictory. One moment it's registering as low-density gas, the next... something with immense mass, but zero gravitational pull."

A low murmur rippled through the bridge crew. On the tactical station, Ensign Reyes tapped a frantic sequence onto his screen. "No weapons signature, Commander. No drive flares. Nothing that correlates with any known vessel or natural phenomenon."

"Natural phenomenon?" Eva repeated, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Is it interference from the nebula itself?"

"That was my initial thought, Commander," Anya said, shaking her head. "But the interference pattern... it's non-standard. It's like the sensor readings are being deliberately jumbled, but the underlying detection is still there. Like something is *present*, but refusing to be measured by our physics."

Eva turned back to the viewscreen. The green data pulsed erratically around the red markers. Anomaly. Unknown. Error. The words repeated in stark digital font. It wasn't just confusing data; it felt like the data itself was arguing with the sensors, with the fundamental laws of reality the Eidolon was built upon.

"Range?" Eva asked.

"Approximately zero-point-one light-years," Anya replied. "Directly in our path towards the Kepler system. We were scheduled for a low-power transit through the outer edge of the nebula."

"Low-power transit is suspended," Eva ordered, her mind already racing through protocols, none of which seemed applicable to 'something that doesn't exist but is large and in our way'. "Initiate passive scans. Wide spectrum. Data logs for every reading, no matter how insignificant. Send it all to Research Lab 3-Alpha."

She paused, looking at the bewildered faces of her crew. Anya was still staring at her screen as if it might bite her. Reyes looked pale. The steady confidence that usually permeated the bridge, born of years of successful deep-space operations, had evaporated, replaced by a quiet, unnerving uncertainty.

"Commander," Anya ventured, her voice barely above a whisper, "What... what do you think it is?"

Eva held Anya's gaze, then swept her eyes across the bridge. She saw their need for an answer, a familiar category, a known threat, anything but this baffling void. But there was no easy answer. Just the inexplicable data, hovering on their screens, a question mark hanging in the cosmic black.

"I don't know, Lieutenant Commander," Eva said, her voice steady despite the growing unease settling in her stomach. "That's why we have Dr. Thorne. He deals in the things we don't understand." She turned back to the viewscreen, the pulsing green data and the red anomalies now feeling less like scientific curiosities and more like an approaching, formless dread.

The automated chime of the incoming data packet was a welcome interruption. Dr. Aris Thorne, hunched over a cluttered workbench strewn with dismembered sensor components and diagnostic tools, straightened up, cracking his knuckles. Lab 3-Alpha, a sterile expanse of cool grey panels and humming machinery, felt less like a sanctuary than usual this cycle. The recent mandatory psychological evaluation had been… tiresome. He preferred the quiet hum of his equipment to the probing questions of the ship's psych officer.

"Incoming transmission, priority one," the ship's cool, synthesized voice announced.

"Alright, let's see what fresh hell Commander Rostova has found to entertain me today," Aris muttered, swiping a hand through the air. A holographic interface materialized, displaying the data stream originating from the bridge. Sensor logs. Long-range. Anomaly detection. Standard header.

He scrolled through the preliminary notes. Nebula interference? Standard deviations. Nothing new there. Then he hit the raw data feed and leaned closer. His brow furrowed, not in confusion, but in dawning, exhilarating disbelief. The readings were... impossible.

His fingers flew across the virtual controls, expanding charts, cross-referencing signatures, pulling up historical data. Speed readings that fluctuated wildly between stationary and velocities exceeding any known limit. Mass estimates that defied conservation laws, appearing and disappearing within the same data burst. Energy signatures that weren't just off the charts, but seemed to loop back on themselves, quantum fluctuations behaving like macroscopic objects.

A low whistle escaped his lips. This wasn’t interference. Interference corrupted data, introduced noise. This data was *coherent*. It simply described something that, according to every physics model humanity had ever developed, *could not exist*.

"Alright, you beautiful monstrosity," Aris breathed, a wide, almost manic grin spreading across his face. This wasn't a malfunction. This was a challenge. This was the edge of the map, and then some.

He started talking to the air, dictating commands to the lab's main processing cluster. "Isolate sensor stream Alpha-Seven. Filter for non-baryonic signatures. Correlate temporal fluctuations against spatial displacement metrics. Run algorithm nine-gamma, focusing on probability wave anomalies."

The lab came alive around him, holoscreens flickering with complex diagrams and cascading numbers. Equations he hadn't touched since his theoretical physics post-doc, equations that described realities only found in abstract thought experiments, began populating the screens. This data wasn't just breaking the rules; it was speaking a different language entirely.

His intellectual excitement was a physical thrum in his chest, a potent antidote to the recent forced introspection. This was real. Tangible, even in its defiance of tangibility. A puzzle of the highest order.

But even as the thrill surged, a small, cold knot began to form in his gut. These numbers were precise. They weren't random errors. They were the measurements of something real, something vast, something utterly alien that was actively violating the fundamental constants of the universe.

His fingers paused over the console. Probability waveforms shouldn't have peaks like mountain ranges. Objects shouldn't simultaneously occupy points separated by light-years. What kind of *thing* could do that? And what did it mean that it was now in their path?

The excitement remained, a bright, burning flame. But beneath it, the first tendrils of unease began to coil. The universe, as he understood it, was elegant, predictable, governed by laws. This anomaly was anarchy. And anarchy, in a universe built on order, was terrifying.

He shook his head, pushing the unsettling thoughts aside. Fear was unproductive. Superstition. What mattered now was the data. The glorious, impossible data.

"Initiate simulation sequence Lambda-Nine," Aris commanded, his voice tight with renewed focus. "Attempt to model anomaly signature using variable geometry and non-linear temporal vectors. Set parameters for ten thousand iterations. Report initial findings immediately."

The holographic display shifted again, showing a complex wireframe representation of the anomaly data, a chaotic cloud of points and lines that defied conventional 3D rendering. It shimmered with impossible colors. Aris stared at it, his mind already racing, eager to impose order on this beautiful, horrifying chaos. He had to understand it. He *had* to.

The holographic wireframe of the anomaly pulsed with impossible colors, a chaotic nebula of data points defying the neat grid of the lab's projection table. Aris leaned forward, eyes narrowed, tracing the intricate, non-Euclidean relationships his initial pass had uncovered. A triumphant surge, hot and bright, had fueled the last few cycles, the sheer intellectual audacity of the anomaly a powerful stimulant. He’d devoured the raw sensor feeds, isolating the core signature, running preliminary correlations. The anomalies weren't glitches; they were consistent, precise violations of fundamental laws.

"Simulation Lambda-Nine, report status," he dictated, his voice flat, devoid of the earlier eagerness.

The ship's computer, a vast network spanning decks, responded with a low hum that felt more like a sigh. The holographic display flickered, resolving into a text output stream.

`Simulation Lambda-Nine: Iteration 1, Error State: Non-convergent geometric parameter.`
`Simulation Lambda-Nine: Iteration 2, Error State: Temporal vector singularity detected.`
`Simulation Lambda-Nine: Iteration 3, Error State: Probability waveform collapse.`
`Simulation Lambda-Nine: Iteration 4, Error State: Undefined energy-mass equivalent.`

Aris slammed a hand on the console surface, the metal cool beneath his palm. "Define 'non-convergent'! Define 'singularity'! You have the parameters, the data set! What variable is outside the goddamn boundary?"

The computer remained silent, offering only the relentless cascade of failures.

`Simulation Lambda-Nine: Iteration 17, Error State: Insufficient data to resolve spatial paradox.`
`Simulation Lambda-Nine: Iteration 18, Error State: Causal loop detected within modeling.`
`Simulation Lambda-Nine: Iteration 19, Error State: Calculation overflow due to dimensional mismatch.`

He rubbed his temples, the earlier thrill curdling into a bitter frustration. Ten thousand iterations. He'd expected challenges, certainly. A few thousand failed runs, maybe. But ninety-six consecutive failures, each citing a fundamental breakdown in the simulation's core logic, felt less like a hurdle and more like a wall.

"Alright, Lambda-Nine, abort," he said, his voice tight. "Initiate Simulation Kappa-Delta. Simpler model. Focus only on energy dispersion patterns. Ignore spatial and temporal variables for now. Just energy. Use standard quantum field theory. Parameters: five thousand iterations."

Kappa-Delta launched. For a few seconds, the display showed promising calculation streams, threads of numbers intertwining, resolving. Then the errors began again.

`Simulation Kappa-Delta: Iteration 1, Error State: Negative energy values detected in stable field.`
`Simulation Kappa-Delta: Iteration 2, Error State: Energy density exceeds theoretical maximum by factor of 10^23.`
`Simulation Kappa-Delta: Iteration 3, Error State: Impossible energy signature correlation.`

Aris pushed back from the console, the chair scraping on the deck plating. This wasn't right. Kappa-Delta used the most fundamental, universally accepted models for energy interaction. They worked everywhere, always. Stars, black holes, exotic particles – they all fit. The anomaly’s data should, at worst, be an outlier. It shouldn’t be actively generating physics that didn't exist. Negative energy in a *stable* field? Exceeding the Planck density by twenty-three orders of magnitude?

He pulled up the raw sensor logs again, zooming in on a specific data spike from Cycle 74. The initial flicker Jian had dismissed. He ran the same analysis routines that had been used then. The result was the same: a brief, inexplicable energy surge, logged and ignored. But now, armed with the deeper anomaly data, he saw the *signature* within that surge. It wasn't just high energy; it was high energy with a specific, non-standard waveform, a fractal complexity that repeated on scales that defied conventional measurement.

He cross-referenced it with a later, larger spike from Cycle 75. The same signature. The same fractal waveform, only amplified.

His breath hitched. It wasn't a system hiccup. It had been *this*. From the very beginning.

He ordered Simulation Epsilon-Zeta. This one was his own pet project, designed for speculative physics, capable of modeling bizarre, theoretical forces. He fed the anomaly's core signature into it, instructing it to find *any* theoretical framework, no matter how outlandish, that could produce such a result.

The computer processed in unnerving silence for several long minutes. The holographic display showed the anomaly signature at its center, surrounded by a complex web of branching theoretical pathways, equations spinning and reforming.

Then, slowly, the display began to collapse inwards. Pathways dissolved. Equations broke apart into meaningless symbols. The central anomaly signature remained, untouched, while the surrounding theoretical frameworks simply… evaporated.

`Simulation Epsilon-Zeta: Status: Fatal Error. No theoretical framework found to model input data.`

*No theoretical framework.* Not just "this simulation can't handle it." But *no framework exists*.

Aris stared at the blank center of the holographic display where the anomaly signature had been. He felt a cold dread creeping up his spine, settling between his shoulder blades. This wasn't a scientific puzzle. It was something that defied the very concept of a puzzle, because it operated outside the rules by which puzzles were constructed.

His competence, his years of training, his vaunted scientific method – they were useless. The data wasn't just complex; it was hostile to understanding. Like trying to measure a dream with a ruler. Or explain love with chemistry.

He felt a tremor deep within the deck plates, a faint vibration that had become increasingly common since they entered the nebula. It wasn't a structural hum. It was something else. Something… resonant.

Aris looked at his monitor, the blank screen a mirror for the sudden, terrifying emptiness in his scientific certainty. The initial excitement was a distant memory. Replaced by a growing, gnawing unease that twisted his gut. What was out there? And what did it mean that his understanding, his most trusted tool, was utterly, irrevocably broken?

Corridor 4-Gamma smelled faintly of recycled air and ozone, a familiar blend for anyone who spent enough time in the lower decks. Junior Officer Jensen gripped his datapad, the plastic warm and slick in his palm. His boots echoed a dull rhythm on the synth-steel deck. Just a routine circuit, logging humidity levels, checking conduit seals. Easy work. Mindless work. Perfect for winding down after a double shift.

He rounded the corner, the long, straight stretch ahead lit by the standard, slightly buzzing overhead panels. Nothing out of the ordinary. Bulkheads clean, floor clear, the emergency lights glowing a faint, passive green. He swiped the datapad, bringing up the environmental schema for this section. Everything reading nominal.

Then, just ahead, maybe twenty meters down, the air seemed to *thicken*. Not with smoke, or gas, but with a palpable sense of wrongness. The light panels didn't dim, exactly, but the illumination felt… off. As if the light itself was struggling to reach him.

He stopped, holding his breath. He hadn't slept properly in two cycles, the low-level hum of the ship replaced by an unsettling resonance that vibrated in his teeth. Was this just exhaustion playing tricks?

He blinked, rubbing at his eyes with a free hand. When he looked again, the effect intensified. The corridor wall, the solid, reassuring gray bulkhead to his left, didn't just look distorted. It seemed to *move*.

It wasn't a ripple. It was like fabric being folded, creased along invisible lines. The metal twisted inward, the perfect right angles of the structure buckling into impossible curves. The light panels stretched like taffy, their buzzing whine rising to a nauseating, impossible pitch before snapping back down. For a second, a terrible second, the opposite wall seemed to *touch* the one he was staring at, collapsing the space between them into a single, solid plane of buckling metal.

Then, just as suddenly, it was gone. The walls straightened. The light returned to its normal drone. The air felt thin and odorless again. The corridor was exactly as it had been moments before.

Jensen stumbled back, hitting the bulkhead behind him. The datapad clattered to the floor. He stared down the corridor, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely lift them.

He looked at his datapad, face down on the deck. He looked back at the section of corridor where the impossible folding had occurred. It was just… there. Normal. Unremarkable.

"Report," his coms chirped, startling him. "Jensen, what's your status?"

It was Ensign Ramirez, his supervisor for this shift. Steady, by-the-book Ramirez. Telling Ramirez what he'd just seen felt impossible. Like admitting he’d seen the ship sprout wings and fly into a star.

"Uh... status nominal, Ensign," he stammered, his voice rough. He crouched, fumbling for the datapad. His fingers refused to grip it properly. "Just… a slight delay."

"Delay? Everything reading green on my end. You lagging, Jensen?"

The dismissal was casual, automatic. It felt like a cold wave washing over him, confirming the terrifying suspicion blooming in his chest. He must be losing it. Double shifts. Lack of sleep. The strange hum. It was getting to him. He was seeing things.

"No, Ensign," he forced out, finally getting a grip on the datapad. He swiped past the sensor readings, his thumb tracing the outline of the perfectly ordinary corridor on the schematic. "Just… felt a little dizzy there for a second. Must be the air circulation in this section." He managed a weak, shaky chuckle. "Need to put in for more oxygen filtration cycles."

There was a brief pause on the other end. "Yeah, alright. Get your sweep done, Jensen. And maybe hit the sleep bays when you're off. You sound like you're running on fumes."

"Will do, Ensign. Jensen out."

The coms went silent. Jensen stood there, the datapad reporting perfect, stable conditions in Corridor 4-Gamma. He looked down the length of the corridor again. It stretched ahead, straight and unwavering, identical to the schematic.

Had it happened? Really happened? Or was it just his mind, fraying at the edges, conjuring impossible nightmares in the sterile, gray reality of the Eidolon? The doubt was a heavy, nauseating weight in his gut. He felt profoundly, horribly alone with what he thought he'd seen. Or *not* seen.

He forced himself to continue his circuit, his boots dragging slightly, the world around him feeling suddenly less solid, less reliable, than it had just moments before. The doubt lingered, a cold seed planted in the fertile ground of his exhaustion. He kept his eyes fixed on the datapad, avoiding looking too closely at the unchanging walls, afraid of what they might – or might not – do next.

Jian Li traced the seam of the floor plating with the toe of his boot, the composite cool even through the thick sole. Bay 9-Beta hummed with a low, steady thrum, the kind of noise that burrowed into your teeth if you listened too hard. Not the angry, high-pitched whine of strained generators, nor the frantic clang of maintenance crews wrestling with ruptured conduits, but the contented purr of a massive, self-regulating machine functioning exactly as designed. It was usually a comforting sound to Jian, the ship breathing around him. Mid Cycle 76, and everything was running smoothly, according to the endless streams of data that scrolled across the nearest diagnostic panel. No red flags, no amber alerts, nothing to indicate anything other than routine efficiency.

He was here doing a sweep of the environmental controls for this section, mostly a formality. The ship’s systems were redundant, robust. Fail-safes on top of fail-safes. Still, routine checks were protocol. He leaned against a primary support strut, crossing his arms, feeling the faint vibration deep in the metal, a different rhythm than the overall hum. It was in the small deviations that you sometimes felt the true scale of the Eidolon, the sheer ancient mass of it.

A faint current of air brushed against his cheek. The ship's ventilation system, endlessly recycling and purifying the atmosphere. Standard procedure. He inhaled, the air crisp and clean, carrying the usual faint scent of ozone and processed synthetics. But beneath that, for just a fraction of a second, something else registered.

He straightened, head tilting instinctively. He sniffed, a slow, deliberate draw of air into his lungs. Ozone. Synthetics. Nothing else. Had he imagined it? Probably. Fatigue played tricks. The Cycles were long.

He shook his head, dismissing it. He was about to turn back to the diagnostic panel when it happened again. A subtle shift in the air current, and with it, the scent. Not strong, not unpleasant, not even particularly chemical. It was… alien. It wasn’t like burnt insulation, or leaking coolant, or the faint, sharp tang of ionized particles that sometimes escaped from faulty shielding. It wasn’t like anything he had ever smelled in any of the Eidolon's bays, or the hydroponics decks with their damp earth and growing things, or even the mess hall with its synthetic food smells.

This was different. Subtly metallic, perhaps, but not like iron or copper. More like… cooled starlight? The description felt ridiculous the moment it formed in his mind, but it was the closest approximation his brain could offer. It held a hint of something sharp, almost crystalline, but without edges. It was cool, clean, and utterly foreign.

Jian pushed off the support strut, moving towards the nearest vent grate set into the bulkhead. It was a standard intake vent, a mesh of reinforced alloy. He crouched, bringing his face closer. He inhaled again, slowly, trying to isolate the scent. Ozone, synthetics, and… there. A wisp of it. Fainter this time, like trying to hold smoke in his hand. He held his breath, concentrating. What *was* that?

It wasn't organic. There was no hint of decay, no sweetness of life. It wasn't like any manufactured material he knew. It had a quality to it that suggested impossible distances, depths that human senses weren't built to perceive. It felt like the ghost of something vast and cold, passing through familiar space. It prickled the fine hairs on his arms.

He pressed his hand flat against the cool metal of the grate. Did he feel a vibration? A different kind of hum? Or was that just his heart thumping a little faster? The sheer, intricate engineering of the ship was beneath his palm, layer upon layer of conduit, plating, and unknown systems. He felt connected to it, yes, but at this moment, that connection felt less like belonging and more like proximity to something profoundly *other*. This wasn't the comfortable, ancient presence of the Eidolon he felt in the hydroponics bays, the ship as a protector of life. This was… something else entirely, woven into the very fabric of the vessel.

He closed his eyes for a second, trying to deepen his perception, to hold onto the fleeting sensation. The air flowed. He focused, pushing past the familiar smells, searching for that alien note. Ozone. Synthetics. Only that.

He opened his eyes. The vent grate looked exactly the same. The hum of Bay 9-Beta was steady, unremarkable. The air smelled normal. The alien scent was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind only the clean, sterile scent of the ship.

Jian remained crouched for a moment, the silence of the bay feeling louder than the hum. He felt a cold knot tightening in his stomach. Nobody else would have noticed that. Not the engineers focused on pressure readings, not the technicians checking power flow. It was too subtle, too alien. It was the kind of detail his senses seemed uniquely attuned to, and it reinforced that unsettling feeling he'd had since the beginning, that the Eidolon was more than just steel and circuitry. That there was a depth to it, a hidden aspect, that brushed against something fundamentally non-human.

He stood up slowly, wiping his hand on his thigh. He looked around the bay, at the silent machinery, the impassive bulkheads, the endless length of conduits disappearing into shadows. The ship felt vast, quiet, and suddenly, profoundly strange. The scent was gone, but the feeling of wrongness lingered, a faint, unsettling echo in the perfectly clean air. He couldn't explain it, couldn't log it, couldn't report it. But he knew it had been there. And its fleeting presence left him more unsettled than any system malfunction ever could.

"Shift check, Section 6-Epsilon complete. Structural integrity good, atmospheric mix nominal, power conduits green across the board."

Jaren tapped the stylus against his datapad, the little glow-point confirming the data streams. His partner, Kael, hummed tonelessly from deeper down the seldom-used corridor. Dust motes danced in the narrow beam of Kael’s helmet light. This was the kind of work Jaren liked – quiet, predictable, logging system readouts in forgotten parts of the Eidolon. Nobody came down 6-Epsilon unless they had to. It was ancient, installed centuries ago, far from the main crew quarters and research labs. Dead space, mostly.

"Anything interesting?" Jaren called out, a rhetorical question more than anything. Interesting in maintenance usually meant a critical failure or something actively melting. Neither of which he wanted.

Kael grunted. "Just the usual rust bloom on the bulkheads near the junction. And, uh... this."

Jaren trudged down the corridor, his boots making soft thuds on the composite floor. The air here felt older, heavier, somehow. Less circulated than the rest of the ship. Kael was standing in front of a personnel access door, one of the heavy, reinforced types meant for isolation in case of hull breach or fire.

"This what?" Jaren asked, squinting.

Kael pointed a gloved finger at the door control panel. It was a standard model, gray plastic with indicator lights, a key slot, and an emergency override. Except... it wasn't.

"The panel," Kael said, his voice flat. "It's backward."

Jaren stepped closer. He blinked. He blinked again. Kael was right. The panel was mounted upside down. The key slot was at the top, the override below the indicator lights, everything reversed from the standard orientation. It wasn't just upside down; it looked like the entire internal mechanism had been flipped within the casing before installation, or the casing itself was inverted. The small 'Access' label was right-reading, but the little schematic next to it, showing a stylized door closing, was pointing the wrong way.

"Well, that's... something," Jaren said, peering closer. He ran a finger along the edge of the panel where it met the doorframe. The fit wasn't perfect, either. A tiny gap, just enough to notice if you were looking closely.

"Never seen that before," Kael murmured. "Routine check log for this section is clean for the last seventy cycles. No recorded maintenance on this door panel."

Jaren pulled up the maintenance log for Corridor 6-Epsilon on his datapad. He filtered it by door access panels. He scrolled. Kael was right. The last entry for this specific panel was logged 180 cycles ago, a standard diagnostic confirming functionality. Nothing about replacement or repair.

"So," Jaren said, looking from the datapad to the absurdly mounted panel, "it's been like this for... what? Two centuries?"

"Or longer," Kael said, scratching his chin inside his helmet. "Or... it just showed up."

Jaren scoffed. "Showed up? Don't be ridiculous. Someone did this. Ages ago. Probably some green recruit on their first installation shift, had too much synth-coffee. Got it wrong, signed it off, forgot about it. Happens."

Kael didn't immediately agree. He tilted his head. "Yeah, but the gap. And it just feels... wrong. Like it's not *supposed* to be backward, not just poorly installed."

"It *is* poorly installed, Kael. That's why it's backward," Jaren said, feeling a strange, prickling irritation at Kael's tone. It was just a backward panel. Annoying, a little silly, but not... ominous.

"Still," Kael said slowly, "how did it pass diagnostics? They check panel orientation, don't they? Little automated sweep?"

Jaren frowned. Yes, they did. A basic visual check was part of the automated diagnostics package that scanned every square meter of the ship on a rolling basis. An upside-down panel should have been flagged as an aesthetic or minor installation error.

He accessed the deep history log for the door panel. Diagnostic reports from the last 180 cycles. He scrolled through them. Each one, without fail, listed "Panel Orientation: Nominal."

Jaren stared at the datapad. "Okay, that's... odd."

"Odd?" Kael's voice was low. "It's impossible. The ship's diagnostics are flawless."

"Nothing's flawless," Jaren muttered, though he knew Eidolon's core systems were legendary for their precision. "Maybe a bug in the old software version? From centuries ago? Before the last major refit?"

He desperately wanted it to be a simple, explicable error. A glitch in a long-dead program. An ancient oversight. Anything but... the alternative.

"We should report it," Kael said.

"Yeah, obviously," Jaren said, already typing on his datapad. He logged the anomaly: "Door Panel 6-Epsilon-37 found installed in reverse orientation. No corresponding entry in recent maintenance logs. Appears to be long-standing error." He deliberately avoided using words like 'impossible' or 'appeared'. He classified it as 'Minor Structural/Aesthetic Anomaly'. It was just a backward panel. Nothing to get worked up about.

He marked it for correction on the next available work order. It would take five minutes to pop it off, flip it, and screw it back in properly. Routine. Forgettable.

"Let's just fix it now," Jaren said, feeling a sudden need to make it normal, to erase the little pocket of wrongness. He pulled a compact toolkit from his belt.

Kael didn't argue. He watched as Jaren quickly removed the small screws holding the panel. Jaren pulled the panel away from the frame. The wiring behind it looked standard, no obvious damage or alteration. Just connected the wrong way around within the panel housing itself.

He flipped the panel right side up, aligned the screws, and began securing it back in place. It slid neatly into the frame, the small gap gone. The 'Access' label was now at the bottom, the schematic pointing correctly. He twisted the final screw home.

"There," Jaren said, feeling a small wave of relief wash over him. Just a backward panel. Now it was fixed. Just a very old, very strange mistake.

Kael was still looking at the spot where the panel had been. "Still..."

"Still what, Kael?" Jaren asked, tucking his toolkit away.

"Still doesn't make sense how it got like that, or why diagnostics never flagged it," Kael said. He looked down the long, empty corridor, then back at the now-normal door panel. "Like the ship just... forgot it was wrong. Until we showed up."

Jaren forced a small laugh. "Ships don't forget, Kael. Systems run diagnostics. People make mistakes. End of story. Let's finish this check."

But as they moved on, logging the rest of the corridor's unremarkable status, Jaren felt it too. The mundane absurdity of the backward panel, easily fixed, lingered in his mind. It wasn't a threat. It wasn't dangerous. It was just... incorrect. Profoundly, inexplicably incorrect, in a way that the ship's own perfect memory should have rejected immediately. And the fact that it hadn't, that it had simply existed, a small, upside-down detail in a forgotten corner, for who knew how long, left a tiny, persistent chill. It was a ridiculous thing to be unsettled by. Just a backward panel. But the feeling remained, a quiet hum of unease beneath the predictable rhythm of the ship.