Bradley Proctor dropped his wrench. The sound of metal hitting deck plating echoed through the engineering bay, sharp and sudden enough that the three other technicians working nearby all turned to look. Brad didn't notice. He was staring at the maintenance schedule displayed on his datapad, specifically at one name that had just been added to tomorrow's roster for Sector 11 repairs.
Haroon Dwelight.
Brad's hands were shaking. He set down the datapad before anyone could notice the tremor, focusing on retrieving his dropped wrench and returning to the power conduit he'd been working on for the past hour. Normal movements. Calm breathing. Don't let anyone see that a name on a schedule had just triggered something close to panic. He'd known this moment would come eventually. Station Theta-7 wasn't large enough to avoid someone forever, and Brad had been careful not to draw attention to himself for the past six months since his transfer. But maintenance schedules were unpredictable, and apparently tomorrow's assignments had decided to stop being cooperative.
He finished his current task with mechanical precision, logged the completed work, and headed toward the residential modules. His shift didn't end for another two hours, but he had accumulated personal time and nobody would question him leaving early. Brad had always been reliable, competent, the kind of technician who showed up on time and completed assignments without drama. That reliability bought him flexibility when he needed it. Like now, when he needed to be anywhere except near the engineering bay where Haroon might appear at any moment.
His quarters were small but private, a benefit of his technical rating. Brad sealed the door behind him and sat on his bunk, trying to organize thoughts that kept fragmenting into incomplete patterns. He'd known coming to Station Theta-7 was risky. The facility's reputation suggested it operated too smoothly, resolved problems too efficiently, maintained systems that should have failed years ago. Those were the markers Brad had learned to recognize during his previous assignments. The signs that indicated something unusual was present, something that prevented normal operational decay and equipment failure patterns.
He'd come anyway because he needed to know. Needed to confirm whether the patterns he'd noticed were coincidence or evidence of something he'd been tracking for three years across four different facilities. And within his first week aboard Station Theta-7, Brad had seen the man in the cyan suit walking through a corridor and had known immediately that his search was over. Not because Haroon looked unusual. Not because he acted suspiciously. But because Brad recognized him the way someone who'd studied a particular painting for years would recognize it instantly even in unexpected contexts.
Haroon Dwelight wasn't his real name. Brad didn't know what his real name was, or if he had one in any conventional sense. But he knew what Haroon was, or at least he had theories supported by enough evidence that they'd consumed three years of his life and caused him to transfer between stations specifically to gather more data. Controllers, they were called, though Brad had no idea who'd originally coined the term or whether it was accurate. Beings that existed within human spaces but operated according to rules that humans didn't follow. Beings that could manipulate reality with casual precision, edit circumstances to preferred outcomes, maintain impossible levels of awareness about everything occurring in their operational radius.
Brad had first encountered evidence of Controllers during his assignment to Research Station Kepler-9, where he'd been part of a team investigating quantum measurement anomalies. The official explanation for their findings had been equipment calibration errors. Brad's analysis had suggested something else: that reality itself was being adjusted at the quantum level to prevent certain measurement outcomes from occurring. Someone or something was editing their experimental results in real-time, ensuring that the research team never quite achieved breakthrough findings that would have revealed something fundamental about how space-time actually functioned.
He'd started noticing patterns after that. Facilities that operated too efficiently. Personnel who seemed to be in the right place at the right time with suspicious frequency. Problems that resolved themselves through chains of coincidence that strained probability past the breaking point. And occasionally, if he looked carefully enough, individuals who stood at the center of these patterns. Quiet people who worked unremarkable jobs and somehow managed to be present whenever impossible things needed to happen.
Haroon Dwelight was the most obvious example Brad had ever encountered. The man didn't even try to hide his capabilities. He walked through Station Theta-7 in that distinctive cyan suit, resolved crises with casual efficiency, and let people witness impossible repairs without apparent concern that anyone might question what they'd seen. It was almost insulting in its transparency, like Haroon believed humans were incapable of pattern recognition or too intimidated to investigate.
Brad had been investigating for six months. Careful observation. Discreet questions. Analysis of maintenance logs and incident reports. Building a profile of what Haroon could do and how frequently he used those capabilities. The data was compelling. Haroon had resolved forty-seven incidents in the past year that should have required specialized equipment or extensive repair time. He'd prevented eleven potential crisis situations by performing maintenance on systems that hadn't yet shown failure indicators. He'd been present during three external contact events, and all three had resolved peacefully despite initial indicators suggesting possible hostility.
The pattern was clear. Haroon was maintaining Station Theta-7 not through normal engineering competence but through reality manipulation. Small edits. Constant adjustments. The kind of work that would be invisible if you weren't specifically looking for it. But Brad was looking. Brad had been looking for three years, and he'd finally found something worth finding.
The question was what to do with that information.
Brad pulled up his personal files, encrypted documents he kept on isolated storage that wasn't connected to the station's network. Three years of research. Evidence from four facilities. Patterns that suggested Controllers weren't isolated anomalies but a consistent presence throughout human space. If he was right—and the data strongly suggested he was—then humanity had been coexisting with reality-manipulating entities for an unknown period of time, completely unaware that their smooth functioning stations and resolved crises weren't products of human competence but careful management by something else.
He should report his findings. That was protocol. Unknown entities operating within human facilities represented a potential security concern that should be escalated to proper authorities. Except Brad had tried reporting his initial findings two years ago, back when he'd still believed official channels would take him seriously. The response had been polite dismissal followed by a recommendation that he take personal leave to address stress-related cognitive issues. Nobody wanted to hear that reality wasn't what they thought it was. Nobody wanted evidence that humans weren't actually in control of their own facilities.
So Brad had stopped reporting and started gathering better evidence. Concrete documentation that couldn't be dismissed as stress or imagination. Video footage, maintenance logs, sensor data, witness testimonies carefully collected without revealing his true interest. Enough material that when he finally presented his case, it would be impossible to ignore. He'd been planning to wait another six months, compile even more data from Station Theta-7, build an absolutely bulletproof argument. But tomorrow's maintenance schedule had just complicated that timeline.
Working in close proximity to Haroon was dangerous. Not because Haroon posed physical threat—Brad's research suggested Controllers generally avoided harming humans even when threatened—but because close observation might reveal that Brad was observing. If Haroon realized someone was documenting his capabilities, he might take action to protect his cover. That action might be as simple as requesting Brad's transfer to another facility, or it might be more direct. Reality manipulation worked both ways. Haroon could solve problems, but he could also create them. Brad had no desire to become a problem that needed solving.
His comm unit chimed. Message from Engineering Supervisor Dennis Knowles: "Proctor, you left your station early. Everything okay? Need to talk?"
Brad hesitated before responding. Dennis was one of the people who worked most closely with Haroon. If anyone might have noticed the same patterns Brad had identified, it would be him. But Dennis's maintenance logs showed no indication that he understood what Haroon actually was. He treated the impossible repairs as fortunate coincidences, filed his reports with vague explanations, and never asked questions that would force uncomfortable answers. Either Dennis was genuinely oblivious, or he'd decided ignorance was safer than knowledge.
"I'm fine," Brad typed back. "Just needed some personal time. I'll be back on schedule tomorrow."
The response came quickly: "Understood. You're paired with Dwelight for Sector 11 work tomorrow. He's reliable but quiet. Don't expect much conversation."
Brad stared at that message for a long moment. Dennis had just confirmed what the schedule had shown. Tomorrow he would be working directly alongside the subject of his three-year investigation, performing maintenance tasks while trying not to reveal that he knew exactly what Haroon was and what he could do. It would require exceptional self-control. Brad would need to act like every other technician who'd worked with Haroon: uncomfortable but accepting, aware something was unusual but unwilling to examine it too closely.
He could call in sick. Fake an injury or equipment malfunction that required his attention elsewhere. Buy himself time to decide how to handle this situation. But calling in sick the day he was scheduled to work with Haroon would itself be suspicious, a pattern that might draw exactly the attention Brad was trying to avoid. Controllers noticed patterns. That was their entire function. If Brad suddenly changed his reliable attendance record the moment Haroon's name appeared next to his on a schedule, that would register as anomalous behavior worth investigating.
No. He had to proceed as planned. Work the assignment. Act normal. Treat Haroon like any other maintenance worker despite knowing what he actually was. Brad had spent three years learning to be invisible while gathering data. One more day shouldn't be impossible. Just another shift. Just another set of tasks requiring completion. The fact that he'd be performing those tasks alongside a reality-manipulating entity was simply an additional variable to manage.
Brad opened his research files and reviewed everything he'd compiled about Haroon's behavioral patterns. The man was consistent. Quiet, professional, focused entirely on task completion. He didn't engage in casual conversation, didn't socialize during breaks, didn't demonstrate interest in personal details about his coworkers. That personality profile suggested tomorrow's assignment would involve minimal interaction. Brad could maintain professional distance, complete his assigned work, and avoid any situation that might reveal his awareness of what Haroon could do.
It would be fine. Probably. As long as Brad didn't do anything stupid like directly questioning Haroon about impossible repairs or reality manipulation. As long as he maintained the same carefully cultivated ignorance that everyone else on this station demonstrated. As long as he remembered that Controllers had been operating in human spaces for an unknown duration without detection, which meant they were very good at identifying and managing threats to their operational security.
Brad set an alarm for oh-six-hundred hours and lay down on his bunk. Sleep would be difficult. Tomorrow loomed large in his thoughts, heavy with possibilities both promising and dangerous. Direct observation of a Controller performing maintenance work would provide valuable data. But that same observation carried risks that Brad couldn't fully calculate. He'd spent three years gathering evidence from a distance, carefully maintaining separation between himself and his subjects. Tomorrow that separation would collapse entirely, and Brad would find out whether his caution had been sufficient or whether Controllers were better at detecting observers than he'd estimated.
Across the station, in his own quarters, Haroon stood motionless in front of his locker. The cyan suit hung inside, waiting for tomorrow. He was aware of Bradley Proctor's elevated stress response, the anxiety patterns that had spiked when tomorrow's schedule had been posted. Haroon had been monitoring Proctor since the technician's transfer six months ago, recognizing immediately that Proctor was different from the other personnel. More observant. More analytical. More interested in patterns that others dismissed or ignored.
Proctor knew something. Perhaps not everything, but enough that his presence represented a variable requiring careful management. Haroon had considered requesting the technician's transfer, removing the potential complication before it developed into an actual problem. But transferring someone specifically to avoid their observation would itself be suspicious, a pattern that might draw attention from people like Commander Reeves who were already noting correlations they couldn't quite explain.
Better to let tomorrow's assignment proceed as scheduled. Let Proctor observe whatever he thought he needed to observe. Haroon would perform standard maintenance work, nothing exceptional, nothing that would provide evidence beyond what Proctor had already compiled. And if the technician did something that required direct intervention, Haroon would handle it with the same precise care he applied to all problems requiring resolution. Small adjustments. Minimal impact. The kind of editing that left no evidence except results that seemed fortunate in retrospect.
Tomorrow would be interesting. Haroon didn't often experience interesting days. The routine of station maintenance, the predictable patterns of human behavior, the constant small adjustments required to maintain operational stability—these things were functional but not particularly engaging. Working alongside someone who knew he was being observed, who was actively trying to gather evidence of impossible capabilities, that represented a different kind of challenge. One that required not just competence but performance, the careful theatrical display of appearing entirely normal while still accomplishing work that normal humans couldn't manage.
Haroon was good at performance. He'd been performing for longer than Station Theta-7 had existed, longer than Bradley Proctor had been alive, longer than human space exploration had been operational. One more day of performing normalcy while a curious technician watched for impossible things was well within his operational parameters. The only question was whether Proctor would be satisfied with whatever he observed or whether his curiosity would require more direct management.
That question would answer itself tomorrow. Until then, Haroon had maintenance schedules to review, system diagnostics to monitor, and the endless work of keeping Station Theta-7 functional while maintaining the illusion that its functionality was entirely mundane. The cyan suit hung in his locker. The Absolute Void pulsed quietly within its fabric. Tomorrow was coming, carrying with it complications that would need to be carefully navigated.
Ordinary work with extraordinary complications. That was acceptable. That was, in fact, more interesting than most days provided. Haroon allowed himself something that might have been anticipation if he'd been capable of conventional emotions. Tomorrow would require precision. He was very good at precision.
The station cycled through its artificial night, lights dimming in residential areas, third shift personnel maintaining vigilant watch over systems that ran smoothly thanks to constant invisible adjustments. Two men lay awake in their respective quarters, both thinking about tomorrow's maintenance assignment, both aware that what should be routine work had become something more significant. Observer and observed, each preparing for an encounter that would test their respective capabilities in ways neither could fully predict.
Tomorrow would be interesting indeed.