Arrival at Celestial Haven

The transfer shuttle released from its docking clamp with a muted clunk, enshrining Detective Serena Myles in a twilight of recycled air and humming systems. Through the polarizing windows, Jupiter’s marbled storms spun in eternal ballet beyond the safety of Celestial Haven. The station—less a haven and more a glass-and-steel puzzle box, suspended between planetary might and corporate ambition—glimmered in the distance.

The docking bay yawned open, revealing a corridor awash in pale light and the faintest scent of ozone. Serena stepped forward, boots echoing with practiced confidence. Her compact luggage bore the Federation Security insignia, but her demeanor—a blend of certainty and exhaustion—made a louder announcement.

Helena Cross awaited at the threshold, posture immaculate, black hair pulled back so tight it lifted her elegant cheekbones further still. She offered Serena the briefest handshake—cool, precise.

“Detective Myles. I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“Uneventful, Director Cross. I'd like to review your station’s security logs before we begin.”

Cross’s lips formed the shape of a smile that never reached her eyes. “Naturally. The consultation shouldn’t take long. Our guests are… particular about disruptions.”

A subtle dig, Serena noted. "You'd be surprised how fast an unplanned disruption can unfold."

Cross ushered her toward the core—through corridors lined with grav-soft carpeting, where luxury blurred with relentless, corporate sterility. The transparent viewports looked out onto Jupiter, making each passageway feel a part of the universe and isolated from it all at once.

Two figures awaited by the atrium’s central fountain: Rajiv Malhotra, engineering’s pride and sore thumb, and Alicia Verdugo, eyes sharp beneath a cascade of dark hair, leaning against the glass with the indifference of someone judging a party from the inside.

Rajiv nodded curtly. "You’ll want to check life-support schematics, not logs. Our systems are overdue for overhaul, but they won’t be the station’s death."

“I’ll take every variable into account," Serena replied, studying his face: the crow’s feet radiating from eyes that had seen too many system failures, the jaw set against perceived incompetence.

Alicia watched Serena with a flicker of recognition. “Back again, detective? How’s Mars these days?”

Serena did not answer, cataloguing the subtle tension in Alicia’s posture. Unsurprised by quick familiarity—she googled every guest pre-arrival—Serena simply nodded.

Just then, the comm-line warbled: a pitched trill, gilded with the panic only true emergencies incite. Cross’s hand darted to her wrist console.

“Director, this is Emil from comms. Medical emergency in Suite 19. Dr. Kade—he’s not responding. Internal sensors are picking up irregularities.”

Cross paled, shoulders snapping rigid. “Dispatch medical. Coordinate with Detective Myles and secure the deck.”

Serena’s blood chilled—‘medical emergency’ in a place like this never meant anything routine. She strode down the corridor, carried by the collective anticipation clinging to the station’s artificial gravity. Illuminated guidance stripes led them to the executive suite wing, where the doors sealed themselves at random intervals for privacy—and, on occasion, for secrets.

Two med-bots hovered by the entrance. A third—a tall, red-labeled model tagged MED-7—waited like a silent guardian. Helena Cross input her clearance; the door blinked red, then slowly yawned open.

Inside, velvet hush. Dr. Alan Kade lay askew on a reclining divan. His head lolled at an unnatural angle, eyes open, glassy, unfocused. A crystal tumbler—half-finished—rested by his fingertips. The room was in eerie order: no sign of violent struggle, but Serena’s gaze snagged on a fine powder dusting the edge of the table, curiously pale against the dark wood.

Rajiv uttered a curse under his breath. Alicia made the sign of the cross, lips moving in silent calculation.

“We lost him,” a med-bot intoned. “No respiration or neural response. Fatality confirmed.”

Serena surveyed the suite with the ingrained rhythm of her trade. Secure access—panel locked from inside. No sign of breakage or forced entry. The only occupants: Kade and, now, the thick, suffocating presence of death.

She bent closer to the powder, sampling a trace with a forensic wand from her utility belt. It chirped and pulsed—chemical unknown. She would need lab analysis; the station's internal database wouldn't suffice for anything this tailored.

A commotion outside—the rumble of voices, the swelling presence of news crews that had been invited for the supposed breakthrough Kade had planned to unveil. Emil Petrova, cheeks ruddy, entered the periphery.

“Someone’s broadcasting, Director. Rumors are spreading already—channels scrubbing protocol is overwhelmed.”

Cross barked an order: “Initiate soft lockdown. Guest decks sealed, all comms routed through security.”

Emil blanched, glancing at Serena. “They’ll know we’re hiding something.”

“Better that than a panic stampede in zero-G,” Serena snapped. She closed the suite’s door to outside eyes, instructing Rajiv to remain nearby and Alicia to provide guest logs—and to keep her journalistic curiosity on a short leash.

With the immediate evidence secured, Serena turned to Helena Cross. “I want full security footage, any data on comings and goings around Suite 19 for the last 24 hours, and a list of everyone with clearance overrides. Also, no one leaves or contacts the press until I say so.”

Helena’s icy mask cracked—if just for an instant. “This is a disaster. They’ll eat us alive.”

Serena locked eyes with her. “A man is dead. That takes precedence before PR.”

Outside, the station seemed to tighten its grip, the hull groaning as though Celestial Haven herself resented the intrusion. Serena pressed her hand to the window, Jupiter’s swirling eye glaring back as though daring her to unravel the chaos within.

Within the hour, the initial evidence was sealed, isolation protocols initiated, and the seed of suspicion sewn in every waking soul on the station. The pleasurable rhythm of luxurious routine—already fragile at the best of times around Jupiter—was shattered. Someone among them was a killer. And Serena Myles, as the only one unimpressed by artifice or influence, was the last line between justice and oblivion.