The base alarm always sounded at three in the morning.
Deshui had lost count of how many times the sharp, urgent buzzing had dragged him out of shallow sleep. The moment he opened his eyes, the situation map projected onto the wall refreshed—out of seventeen green indicators, three had turned an alarming orange-red, all clustered along the outer perimeter of Sector E.
"Damn it," he muttered, throwing off the thin blanket and getting up.
His uniform hung on the rack beside the bed—modified by his own hand. The standard dark-gray combat suit had its rigid shoulder plates removed, replaced with flexible soft armor for better mobility. The cuffs were tightened to prevent snagging. Two extra pouches had been sewn onto the thigh, holding not standard-issue gear, but his personal odds and ends: a length of superconductive fiber, three data spikes of different calibers, and the movement from an old mechanical wristwatch—pure habit from years of fixing things.
He fastened the last clasp as he walked toward the console. The holographic screen lit up automatically as he approached, displaying three urgent alerts:
[E-7 Airlock: Pressure anomaly detected, ΔP = 0.3 atm][E-9 Corridor: Biological sensor triggered, classification: Unknown][E-12 Storage: Access control breached by physical force, log missing]
Deshui scanned them and began typing rapidly on the virtual keyboard. Three orders went out almost simultaneously.
"E-7, initiate Level Two isolation. Have the maintenance team investigate in full pressure suits. Probably rats chewing through the lines again—last week's report noted rodent activity."
"E-9, pull all surveillance thirty minutes before and after the trigger. Cross-check against the biological signature database. If the match rate is under forty percent, mark it as 'environmental anomaly' and let the night-shift rookie handle it for practice."
"E-12—that's Old Li's turf. Patch me directly to his personal channel. Ask if he got drunk again and snuck in looking for his hidden stash. If so, make him write a two-thousand-word self-criticism and submit it before breakfast."
His voice was calm, almost lazy, yet every instruction cut straight to the point. That was the style of the Deep Diver base commander: handling the most serious crises in the least serious way.
Across the console, Deputy Officer Chen—a young man who had graduated from the military academy just three months earlier—stared wide-eyed as the orders were executed one by one. Within four minutes, all three alerts were downgraded to Processing.
"Commander… is this… compliant?" Chen asked hesitantly. "Regulations state that any unidentified biological trigger requires Level Three alert status, full arms readiness—"
Deshui poured himself a cup of coffee. Steam curled through the dim command room.
"Chen," he said, taking a sip, "do you know why this base is called Deep Diver?"
"Because we're a deep-space infiltration and emergency response unit?"
"No," Deshui chuckled. "It's because our real job is operating beneath the rules—finding a way to survive under them."
He walked over to the massive observation window. Outside, Earth's curve hung against the darkness, the blue planet wrapped in shadow, dotted with city lights like scattered diamonds on velvet. The base sat at a Lagrange point in near-Earth orbit, officially a Deep Space Research Outpost. In reality, its work was far more complicated.
Deshui's personal terminal vibrated.
Not the standard communication buzz—but a specific pattern: three short pulses, one long, repeated twice.
The laziness vanished from his face instantly. He set the coffee cup down without making a sound.
"Chen," he said, "go check the backup generators in Sector D. Now."
"But Commander, the D-sector generators were inspected just last—"
"Now."
Chen's face paled. He stood up at once and left. The door slid shut behind him, leaving Deshui alone.
He moved to the corner of the room, where there appeared to be nothing more than an ordinary alloy wall. When he pressed his palm against the lower-right corner of the third panel and traced a complex gesture in the air with his other hand, the wall slid open silently, revealing a hidden room less than three square meters in size.
Inside stood a single chair and an old-style holographic communication terminal—not quantum-encrypted, but a far older photonic polarization model. It was impossible to intercept or eavesdrop on, because it didn't transmit through standard channels at all. Instead, it relied on pre-deployed deep-space relay mirror arrays, using tightly focused light beams to "shine" information directly across space.
The cost was steep: each communication could last only ninety seconds, and only within a specific time window.
Deshui sat down. The terminal activated automatically. Blue scanning light swept across his irises and facial features. Once identity was confirmed, the holographic image began to assemble.
The person who appeared made Deshui straighten slightly.
A man in his early sixties, hair gray but impeccably groomed, wearing a dark blue uniform without rank insignia. Deshui knew that face. Five years ago, at a top-secret briefing, he had been sitting in the front row while this man stood at the podium beneath a projection reading:
Interstellar Defense Coordination CommitteeSpecial Operations Division
"Commander Deshui," the man said. His voice was distorted, but the gravity in it was unmistakable.
"Sir," Deshui replied briefly. Every second mattered.
"Coordinates have been uploaded to your isolation buffer. A friendly unit, callsign Gray Falcon, has lost contact in the Charon-Delta sector. Their last transmission was an encrypted distress signal. Threat level: Critical."
Deshui frowned slightly. Charon-Delta had been classified six months ago as Non-Essential Entry Prohibited due to "spatial topology anomalies." The official explanation cited natural phenomena. Deshui had read the internal reports.
There were things there that should not exist.
"Mission?" he asked.
"Proceed to the coordinates. Confirm Gray Falcon's status. Recover any salvageable materials and data. Provide assistance if necessary." The man paused. "This is not a standard rescue. The Committee believes Gray Falcon may have come into contact with… sensitive information."
Deshui understood the implication.
Rescue second. Silence first.
"My team?"
"You have one hour to prepare. Personnel list is attached to the directive." The image flickered—the ninety seconds were nearly up. "Remember, Deshui. This operation does not exist in any official record. If something goes wrong—"
"—then we're deserters who abandoned our post," Deshui finished calmly. "Understood. Same rules as always."
The man's mouth twitched, as if he almost smiled. "Good luck, Commander. Transmission terminated."
The hologram vanished. Darkness returned to the chamber.
Deshui sat still for a moment, inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. He knew these missions too well—nonexistent operations, irregular orders, and a fate that could discard them at any moment.
This was the purpose of Deep Diver: doing the work no one wanted to admit had to be done.
He left the hidden room. The wall sealed behind him. Back in the command room, Chen had already returned, anxiety written all over his face.
"Commander, D-sector generators are fully operational. I checked three times—"
"Good," Deshui interrupted. "Now go get some sleep."
"…Sir?"
"My regular shift starts in six hours, but I am ordering you to rest now. This is in preparation for potential… contingencies." Deshui smiled—a smile without warmth. "That's an order, Lieutenant."
Chen hesitated, then saluted and left.
Once he was gone, Deshui opened the encrypted data packet.
The directive itself was brief—only three pages. But the attached personnel list made him whistle softly.
"Well. The Committee really went all in this time."
Eight names. Nine including himself.
Each dossier was thick enough to use as a pillow—not because of accolades, but because every one of them was a problem.
Personnel Roster
01 – Lina Watson | Callsign: EchoFormer Chief Analyst, Interstellar Fleet Information Warfare CenterSpecialty: Extracting patterns from noise. Once reconstructed 80% of an enemy war council from background radiation in an abandoned relay station.Issue: Suspended three years ago for unauthorized intrusion into civilian networks "to test security." During suspension, hacked the Review Committee itself.Current Status: Assigned to Deep Diver base data sanitation—sorting expired reports.
02 – Marcus Chen | Callsign: WrenchSenior Engineer, Alliance ShipyardsSpecialty: Can make anything that can move, move—and anything that shouldn't, stop. Rumored to have prevented a reactor meltdown with a multitool and half a roll of insulation tape.Issue: Pathological aversion to operation manuals. Believes all machines have "personalities" and names every one of them.Current Status: Assigned to maintenance—cleaning robots only.
03 – Ivan Petrov | Callsign: StoneMarine Corps heavy equipment operatorSpecialty: Can pilot anything with a control stick, from mechs to excavation rigs. Once flew a transport craft with fighter-grade evasive maneuvers.Issue: Altered combat plans during a live-fire exercise, calling the commander's orders "tactically stupid," resulting in both sides' command systems crashing.Current Status: Forklift operator in storage.
04 – Sarah Keel | Callsign: DoctorFrontline surgeon, xenobiological toxicology specialistSpecialty: Performs complex surgery in resource-starved environments. Once conducted open-heart surgery using a dinner knife, stapler, and alcohol lamp.Issue: Unconventional views on sterility—believes microbes are part of an ecosystem. Investigated after three post-op infections (all patients survived).Current Status: Night-shift nurse.
05 – Amir Hassan | Callsign: GhostRecon infiltration specialistSpecialty: Enters anywhere. Leaves without a trace. Official records list him KIA seven times. He returned alive every time.Issue: Refused to submit mission report after last operation. Reason: "You don't need to know."Current Status: Officially retired. Unofficially living in the far corner of Sector D.
06 – Zhao Ming | Callsign: ProfessorTheoretical physicist, anomalous spatial topologySpecialty: Explains concepts no one wants to understand. Once proved to generals that a certain FTL engine was "mathematically equivalent to suicide."Issue: Too accurate. Prediction accuracy: 100%. Always says the right thing at the worst possible time.Current Status: Cataloging fifty-year-old data tapes.
07 – Qiu | Callsign: SilenceBackground: None. Literally none. File contains only name and biological data.Specialty: UnknownIssue: UnknownCurrent Status: Arrived three days ago. No assignment. Spends eight hours a day staring at the stars.
08 – AI Unit 'Rex' | Callsign: ConscienceThird-generation tactical decision support AISpecialty: Generates combat plans with 237 variables in 0.3 seconds.Issue: Excessive moral reasoning. Refused a 92% success assault plan because the remaining 8% risk involved "unacceptable civilian casualties."Current Status: Confined to an isolated sandbox server. Plays chess with itself.
Deshui finished reading and laughed—not in amusement, but with the weary certainty of someone who had expected exactly this outcome.
A team of geniuses, lunatics, rebels, and mysteries.
Individually, disasters. Together—
They might succeed. Or they might blow everything sky-high.
There was no middle ground.
He checked the time: 03:47. Twelve minutes gone.
He opened the comm channel.
"All hands. This is Commander Deshui. The eight names on the list—report to Assembly Room C-3 immediately. Bring your personal gear. If you have any. Five minutes late, and I'll assume you've volunteered for three months of toilet-cleaning duty."
Pause.
"This is not a drill. Repeat: not a drill. Miss the deadline, and you'll wish it was."
Transmission cut.
Deshui leaned against the console, watching the base monitors. Eight lights began moving toward Sector C. Some fast. Some slow.
But all moving.
Mission officially underway.