The ship Agamemnon, one of the regular cargo-passenger liners of the Space Air Bus system, slows as it enters a temporary orbit around Ke-47—a dry, tectonically unstable planet with no colonial potential. It has one distinguishing feature, however: a convenient transition corridor. This is where shuttles from distant stations dock with ships bound for Earth.

The Agamemnon’s route passes through several peripheral colonies, collecting cargo and passengers. The crew is minimal: navigation, technical maintenance, basic control. Everything strictly by protocol.

Captain Irving sits on the bridge, propping his pale, already graying head on his hand. For a moment he glances through the viewport: below hangs the dusty, lifeless Ke-47, dimly lit by its local sun. The bridge is cool—seventy degrees, just how he likes it. A faint trace of expensive cologne clings to his uniform jacket.

He turns to the holographic panel. The files of five potential passengers are already loaded. The shuttle has lifted off the surface—arrival in fifteen minutes. The checks will have to be quick.

Normally this is handled by Transit Security Officer Lawrence. But earlier that morning, the connection flickered.

“Captain…” The voice sounded hoarse. “Module A failed morning calibration.”

A pause.

“I meant to deal with it later… but it looks like I’m out for a while.”

Irving exhales slowly. Perfect.

Transit records everything: logs, markers, passage footage. At the destination port, auditors will review the recording—and they won’t be analyzing the passengers, but the procedure. Why did one module fail? Who was responsible? Who made the call?

Poor Lawrence picked up a nasty infection on Callisto. Held on as long as he could. But today, he went down.

Irving rolls his neck.

He returns to the panel and skims the documents, flagging key details: dates of birth, home colonies, professions, purpose of travel to Earth. All five list either colonial birth or return after extended service. Everything looks plausible.

One file holds his gaze longer than it should. Not because of alarm—more because of a lack of markers. Empty fields, minimal explanations, not a single supplementary file. Irving notes it and moves on.

His lips tighten. Formally, he has the authority to conduct the inspection himself.

But if one of the passengers is a sixth-senser, they won’t sense the device—they’ll sense the human. His attention. His calculated tension. The very fact of directed choice.

The instructions provide alternatives: navigation control officer, senior shift technician, sector security duty officer.

Irving runs through them—and discards each one.

He pauses a moment longer on the final option, then closes the list.

Leila Mor has nothing to do with security.

But her position as senior medical nurse allows her to be formally involved in a screening.

Irving selects this option.

Their understanding of duty differs. Ideological disagreements have flared between them more than once.

Sixth-sensers—code designation 6X—could detect lies, intentions, suppressed emotions. Legal 6Xs were valued by weight in platinum: psychiatry, neurodiagnostics, corporate analytics. But admission to Earth required sponsorship, insurance coverage, and continuous monitoring.

Illegal 6Xs are outside the law. Not because they commit crimes—usually they don’t. The danger lies elsewhere: around them, people begin to behave differently. Decisions drift. Doubts linger. Sharp moves are postponed “until later.” The system seems unchanged, but it loses the ability to feel the moment when it must stop.

Irving has seen how exceptions end.

Five years ago, on another flight. He was first officer then—but the decision was his. Clean documents. Smoothed reactions. No deviations. The sixth-senser did nothing illegal. He simply applied for a job—in a municipal analytics center.

Within months, the center was dismantled. Then came suicides, “accidents,” disappearances. One case was never closed.

The report read: systemic emotional shift.

Since then, Irving does not allow himself to imagine a carrier of such an effect aboard his ship.

Leila believes something else.

When the captain says “illegals,” it triggers not a thought but a sensation in her—like phantom pain where nothing remains.

Three years ago, before her assignment to the Agamemnon, Leila was on duty in an orbital clinic on Rhea.

They brought in a boy after a failed neurosurgery. He was unconscious. The equipment functioned normally. Hours passed. No change.

The mother sat in the corridor, staring at the wall. Not crying. Just repeating the same name, again and again.

At night someone whispered:

“There’s one. No license.”

He arrived after shift change. Didn’t introduce himself. Asked no questions.

Didn’t touch the boy. Didn’t activate anything new.

Leila stood by the monitor and saw the readings tremble—just slightly—and then stabilize. As if someone had gently smoothed out crumpled fabric.

By morning, the boy opened his eyes.

A few days later, he began to speak.

The file later recorded: spontaneous remission.

No name appeared next to it.

Since then, when Leila hears the word “illegal,” she doesn’t think about protocols.

“Leila,” the captain clasps his fingers. “You’ll conduct the initial screening of the passengers. Say it’s a standard check. No questions.”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

“You know Lawrence is ill,” Irving adds.

“I know,” Leila taps her fingers on the table. “But why me, Captain?”

Irving silently hands her the tablet. Leila scans the text.

“In the event of temporary unavailability of the transit security officer…”

“This is an expanded medical protocol,” she looks up at him.

“Yes.”

“It’s not for behavioral conclusions.”

“I’m not asking for conclusions,” he sets the tablet face down. “Just observation.”

He pauses.

“And one more thing… this is outside protocol,” Irving aligns the tablet neatly on the desk. “I need the perspective of someone who doesn’t look for a threat where there may be none.”

His gaze turns colder.

“Clear?”

“Yes, Captain,” Leila nods, rises, and turns toward the exit.

“Wait,” he adds. “One diagnostic module is malfunctioning. Module B. But you don’t mention it. Let them choose which one to enter. You observe. Then report to me. Understood?”

But if A is working, a 6X could pass through it… flashes through her mind. Her eyebrows lift, shoulders tense slightly. Then Leila steadies herself.

Earth should not be a castle with a moat. It should be a garden with open gates.

Fifteen minutes later, the shuttle docks. Five passengers enter the reception zone one by one. The door opens soundlessly. The air inside is colder than in the residential corridors. It smells sterile.

Leila stands off to the side of the passage, not between the doors. The tablet rests in her hands, screen dark. She watches the entrants, not the modules.

The first passenger passes quickly. Glances ahead, steps forward almost immediately. The door closes.

The second doesn’t hesitate for even a second.

The third, Evan Helms, stops. Looks at both doors, then at the floor, as if recalling something unrelated. His shoulders drop slightly. He looks at Leila with a distracted gaze.

“You may enter either one,” Leila smiles politely.

Helms nods and goes into Module B. More out of inertia, like someone who doesn’t care where he goes as long as he’s left alone.

The fourth immediately chooses A and walks toward it without breaking stride.

The fifth— Mr. Caleb Ro—thin, somewhat rigid, with an inward-focused gaze—stops in the hall. Slows even before the door line. His fingers clench for a moment, then relax. He looks not at the entrances, but at Leila.

The space beside him feels denser. Not warmer—quieter. As if sound lingers for a fraction of a second.

“Standard screening,” Leila’s smile remains courteous. “You may choose either module.”

She makes no gesture. Doesn’t shift her body. Lets the pause happen.

Ro smiles. The smile appears too early, like an answer to a question not yet asked.

Her inhalation comes shorter than usual. Leila notes it and immediately evens her breathing.

Ro turns and enters Module B.

The door closes.

Leila remains standing, looking not at the door but at the space between the modules.

When he exits, he asks:

“Where to now?”

“Please wait in the hall. You’ll be called shortly.”

Attractive, flickers through her mind.

Later, the captain calls in each passenger in turn, until it’s Mr. Ro’s turn.

“I’m sorry,” Irving looks through the viewport, where Ke-47 hangs motionless. “Further travel to Earth is not possible. You’re returning to the orbital station.”

Mryu Ro tenses instantly.

“There’s really nothing that can be done?”

Irving answers formally, almost evenly:

“We considered extended transit clearance. The grounds are insufficient. The decision is final.”

Ro looks at the captain as if searching for a crack for the next move—and finds none. Slowly, he nods.

“Thank you for trying.”

Irving says nothing.

After the door closes, the captain stares at the tablet for several seconds without activating it.

The decision lies neatly there, like a dead insect on a glass table.

Later, Leila catches up with the captain in the corridor and positions herself so he has to stop.

“Captain, you gave me the role of observer—and used it differently.”

Irving tilts his head and furrows his brow.

“Two people passed through the malfunctioning module,” she almost exhales. “But you sent back only one.”

The captain doesn’t move, only nods.

“So it wasn’t about procedure,” she jerks her neck sharply. “And not about the faulty module. Then why?”

He turns his head toward her, but doesn’t answer at once.

“Module B is operational. It identified Ro as a sixth-senser. Helms is not.”

Leila freezes.

“But…” she shakes her head. “Then that means everyone else passed through the faulty module. And if one of them could have been a sixth-senser—”

“They couldn’t,” the captain cuts in.

She looks at him directly.

“Why?”

“Because you believed B was faulty,” he says. “And a sixth-senser will never enter a working module if they’re sure they’re being screened.”

Leila exhales slowly.

“So you used my lack of knowledge?”

“I used an asymmetry of information,” he corrects.

Silence stretches for several seconds.

“So I was part of the filter.”

“You were part of the choice,” he says. “That’s not the same thing.”

Leila turns away.

“One day this method will stop working.”

“One day,” Irving agrees. “But not today.”

He pauses for a moment.

“We’re not perfect. We do what we can—and we answer for it.”