This is why:
The transition from the Citadel is jarring. Not the normal parallel-shift disorientation, but full on emergency-technicolour-upload-inducing hell. We've jumped to parallels where they've been dumping high-grade entropy to shield their time from us, giant engines running irreverisble computation in order to seal whole parallels off from the plex. That wasn't this hard. Something bad is going on here.
I check the air. No utility fog, no nothing. Mostly CO2, nothing that should bother us. The installation itself is dark, big looping power coils and all the other paraphenalia of experimental technology that people haven't perfected yet. There's precious little nanotech around, the whole place looking like the civilisation's barely past it's first rapture.
Something tugs at the back of my brain. I break out the spare assembler kit from my pack and set it building bodies. It's a slow process, maybe twelve hours from now I'll be able to seperate the three threads of my memeplex and search these halls efficiently. While they build, I go for a wander.
This place has nothing. The atmosphere's not conductive to human life unless that life's got serious biomods — maybe that's the rapture that they've just come through — and there aren't any signs of proper scale nanotech uptake. No windows, and a weird feeling that tells me that this isn't gravity. I can't see outside and there's nothing so useful as a plan, but this facility feels like a sattelite that's suffered a sudden outbreak of fatal death. Maybe it was the atmospherics, maybe the denizens engineered themselves beyond the need for such facilities. I can't know.
Something's really niggling this-me now, and I head back to my entry point. I disentangle the memethreads long enough for Me3 to rise up. This-Me is the theorist and engineer, the one who absorbed the didactic teachings about causality violation and parallel transitions. Me1 is the soldier and gloryhound, the one who finally brought our father to some semblance of justice. Me2, the one who was at-fore until the transition is the explorer and cataloguer. I know how it works, but he's best at slipping between parallels.
It doesn't take me long to realise what's been niggling at my-our mind. The spare bodies, the emergency kit that gives us extra physical manpower even without utifog around us, are condensing on something that's straight out of a history lesson. My-Our bodies are coalescing on a time machine. With a sudden start, I know why this emplacement is out of action. This parallel developed causality violation without the Citadel noticing — because their own travellers clouded their world from our eyes. They wanted their parallel to diverge.
The Citadel has enemies, but it's a rare few who want to divert whole parallels. Nevertheless, someone's done just that. Someone who knows about our culture, knows what we look for.
Fuckitall, we've got another rogue.