Seventy-Two Hours

The bunk lights dim to night-cycle blue when something slides beneath your door — a thin black chip, no insignia, no name. Your pulse stutters. In seventy-two hours, you'll cast the vote that decides whether humanity falls toward Earth or drifts forever into the dark.

You thumb the chip into your wrist-reader. One line glows against your skin: The scans of Earth are lies. Meet me at the hydroponics bay.

Outside, the corridor hums. Somewhere, someone is waiting — or watching.