Sophie enjoyed the night shifts on Marina-4, a ring station drifting above the equator. In the silence, all she could hear were the fans and the soft clatter of manipulators in the adjacent storage module. Below, clouds shifted and drone lights crawled along the railings like patient light ants. Her job was simple in theory: listening, cataloguing, reporting anything that broke the routine. At 02:15, the console blinked and pushed out a service request marked with the highest emergency priority. The headers said: sender Sophia Nowak, time 05:11 tomorrow, location Arbor G1, sector disabled for years. The authorisation matched every byte, along with the key, which she guarded like an eye in her head. "Clock error?" - she muttered, scrolling through the logs; instead of traces of an intrusion, she found an attachment with three equal pulses. She connected with the dispatcher and said: "Antek, I've got a phantom; report from tomorrow, with my login." "No kidding, Zo. The system wouldn't let it through." - "It just let it through. Check the authorisation hash." After a moment of crackling, she heard: "The hash matches, and the G1 sector has been out of power for nine years." She glanced at the clock; there were three hours and fifty minutes left until 05:11, so she set off to get her suit. The arbor was the station's vertical axis, an old lift skeleton where gravity had almost disappeared. The tunnel smelled of cold rust, and the paint was flaking off in patches and floating around like yellow scales. Sophie fastened herself with a rope to the railing, pushing slowly forward and dodging the silent black lamps. The old consortium logo flashed on the walls, like a sign from a previous life of the station and its inhabitants. At the C-37 hatch, fresh magnetic boot marks waited, imprinted in the fine silver dust of the insulation. The size, the step, even the worn tread looked like her own, though she would have sworn she hadn't been here. Behind the hatch stood a box with a BIO/ARCHIVE seal, and under her hand she felt an even pulse, sixty beats per minute to be exact. "Antek?" - she whispered, but there was only a clear, uninterrupted, silent carrier in her headphones. A handwritten marker on the side of the box read "VERSION 6 - Z.N.", in her own handwriting. The lock blinked green, the tunnel smelled of ozone, and the seal began to crack with a short hiss.