Gungor and Jennings headed deeper into Eos Station, descending into the older, narrower corridors where the plating changed from the modern composites to the original Watchtower-class alloys – duller, heavier, and faintly resonant underfoot. The hum of the station’s life support systems grew louder here, as though the machinery itself groaned with age.

Custodial Engineering occupied a broad compartment tucked behind a junction of maintenance shafts. The door slid open with a reluctant hiss.

The workshop was mostly clean.

Mostly.

Twenty meters wide by fifteen meters deep — a spartan and industrial rectangle lit by overhead strips that flickered every few minutes. Three of the four work quadrants were clean and orderly, clearly maintained by professionals that cared for their workspace and tools.

The fourth quadrant looked like a disaster site. Tools scattered. Panels half-open. A reclamator chassis disassembled in a way that suggested more frustration had taken place rather than repairs. A pile of rags that may have been uniforms once. An odor somewhere between burnt hair and fried circuitry.

Jennings’ face contorted as his olfactory receptors detected the malodor. After a brief moment’s search, with negative results, he concluded “This is not Rooj’s space.”

“No.” Gungor agreed. “His is the second cleanest. Whether that bears significance, we shall see.”

They crossed the workshop to Rooj Makarul’s station — an island of surprising order. Tools arranged by size, components sorted by function and a small but sturdy stool tucked away beneath the workbench.

On the bench sat tandem were two squat matter-reclamators. They appeared innocuous — small cylinders, low and wide. Their scuffed paint patterns and faint dents sang a different song — one of coordinated chaos and despair. Jennings recalled the reports; countless singular socks of a pair, lost forever. A commodore’s hairpiece. An admiral’s commbadge. If these were the two automated janitorial drones that had so long eluded him, and they were altered…

Jennings lifted one of the drones, rotating the squat little cylinder as he inspected it — thirty centimeters in diameter by ten centimeters tall. The paint schemes of these two bore subtle differences from the others that sat nested in a storage rack atop the workbench. He opened one of the maintenance panels atop the device. On the inside of the thin metal door was a word scrawled into its surface in Tellarite script.

He translated aloud. “Mischief.”

Gungor had opened the same. “And this one…’Mayhem’. Charming.”

“Personal names,” Jennings commented.

“Attachment, or perhaps pride.” Gungor mused.

“Sir, I am certain you would agree, we must get these to Lieutenant Dover. My officers had encountered these once before, years prior to my stationing here. They were exceedingly thorough in their examinations, which bore negative results.”

“On that, I concur. I dare say we must not examine the code prior, lest there be a failsafe of some sort. Retrieval of that coding language is paramount.”

The pair set the two cretins of chaos upon an antigravity sled from one of the other stations. They continued their search of the bench.  Everything was in its place; PADDs stacked neatly in a docking cradle, save for two.

They each gave a precursory scan of the two separate PADDs for latent friction ridge skin impressions, which were positive for the presence of those left by the subject in question, Rooj Makarul. The surfaces also tested positive for the presence of touch-DNA. The forensic tricorder was a true marvel of both engineering and science — instant comparison of friction ridge skin impressions, in addition to the comparison of DNA evidence.

The Chief and his Deputy each retrieved one of the handheld devices and what lay open onscreen shouted louder than any living being may bellow.

“Sir…”

“Indeed. The antigravity sled schematics.”

“And the desiccation chamber schematics.”

The PADD in Gungor’s hands highlighted the diagram of an antigravity sled, but more importantly — displayed in an overlay — the schematics for a remote trigger, designed to overcharge the antigraviton field emitters of the late twenty-fourth century device.

“It appears we have a duet of evidence quite supportive, however, their presence here, in disarray, is quite strange.” Gungor pondered, stroking his chin. 

The door groaned open several paces behind them and caused them to both wheel around. Gungor spun, both fists elevated in the stance of a bareknuckle brawler. Jennings pivoted with a small Type-1 phaser in hand, set at the highest stun setting.

Captain M’rratt Bric’s silhouette filled the doorway – broad shouldered, jet-black fur catching the flicker of the overhead lighting strips. His tail swayed once, slowly. The Caitian stood two tenths shy of two meters tall.

Gungor lowered his fists. Jennings thumbed his phaser back to safe.

“Captain,” Jennings said as he straightened himself.

Bric stepped fully into the workshop, his footsteps oddly silent and nostrils flared at the lingering odor of burnt circuitry.

“Gentlemen, this is getting out of paw, and we’re facing a station wide panic. What’s the status of the investigation? Do you have a suspect?”

Gungor exchanged a brief glance with Jennings before he answered.

“Captain,” he began, “we have…developments.”

Jennings gestured towards Rooj Makarul’s workspace. 

“Sir, we discovered two automated janitorial drones – altered, named, and clearly personalized. Furthermore, we have also discovered two PADDs containing schematics directly tied to both the desiccation chamber and the antigravity sled involved in the death of the Lurian.”

Bric’s ears angled forward. “Schematics? Here?”

“Open on the bench,” confirmed Gungor. 

“Untouched except by Crewman Makarul. His friction ridge impressions and touch-DNA are present on both devices.”

Bric stepped closer, towering over the workbench. His eyes narrowed at the neat arrangement of tools, the incriminating PADDs, and the two squat drones resting on the antigrav sled.

Bric’s tail flicked again – sharper this time. “He named them? These are the ones that caused all that chaos?”

Jennings nodded. “It would seem that way, sir. Mischief and Mayhem, apparently.”

“We cannot yet confirm Crewman Makarul’s involvement. However, the presence of these schematics – particularly the remote-trigger for the antigraviton field emitters strongly suggests premeditation. Or at the very least, foreknowledge.”

“And the desiccation chamber?” Bric inquired.

Jennings lifted the second PADD. 

“Environmental control firmware. Safety interlock architecture. Someone studied how to override the safety protocols.”

Gungor folded his arms. “We intend to bring these directly to Lieutenant Benjamin Dover for forensic analysis. The code modifications in Dr. Lo Am’s chamber were beyond our expertise.” He paused for a moment, considering the implications, his gaze sweeping the workshop. “Crewman Makarul is missing?”

“Yes, sir,” Jennings said. “No sign of him anywhere in Custodial Engineering.”

Bric’s voice dropped to a low grumble, “Find him, gentlemen. And figure out why the internal sensors can’t find him, when there’s no sign that he’s left the station.”

“We shall,” Gungor replied. “But first, Dover must examine this evidence. If the same programming style appears in both the chamber override, the antigrav sabotage, and these drones, we shall have a pattern.”

Bric nodded once – sharp, decisive. “You can do both simultaneously, this is more than enough to warrant detaining him for questioning regardless of anything Mr Dover might find.”

Jennings grimaced, “Sir, we’re concerned that any presumptive premature detentions could be problematic for the prosecutors during any legal proceedings.”

“You’re covered on that front by the local state of emergency I declared before the second convoy departed. It has greatly expanded Starfleet and Federations Provosts law enforcement capabilities…you’re welcome for that, by the way.” Bric grinned.

He turned to leave, pausing only long enough to glance back at the two janitorial drones.

“Secure those things too,” he added. “If they’ve been altered once, they may be altered again.”

Gungor and Jennings watched him disappear into the corridor, the door groaning shut behind him.

Jennings exhaled. “Well Commander, shall we deliver Mischief and Mayhem to Lieutenant Dover?”

“Gungor rested a hand on the antigrav sled. “We shall, indeed. Let us see what secrets these miniature monsters have been keeping.”