She didn't sleep.
Elena sat at her console through the long station night, the amber light from the display washing over her face in pulses. The whispers had stopped being whispers hours ago. Now they were sentences. Stories. A chorus of voices speaking all at once, layers of meaning overlapping, fragments of narrative rising from the static like bodies surfacing from deep water.
She transcribed as fast as she could type.
"—the door was built before the moon—"
"—before the stars—before anything—we are older than light—"
"—they tried to seal it—we held it—so long—so very long—"
"—but something is pushing—something is coming—"
"—we can feel it—through the rock—through the ice—"
Her fingers ached. Her eyes burned. She'd been awake for twenty hours, running on adrenaline and the electric charge of discovery. The transcriptions filled page after page on her screen, a disjointed archive of impossible things. A door. Something ancient. Something trying to get through.
The lights flickered once, briefly, as a surge of whispers washed over her: "—help us—help us—help us—"
She noticed it then — the pattern.
The lights flickered when the whispers spiked. The temperature dropped when they grew quiet. The console display pixelated, distorted, right when they spoke about the door.
Elena stared at the ambient temperature gauge: 16°C. Then 15. Then 14. It bottomed out, held, then crept back up as the whispers faded. Three minutes later, it was 16°C again.
She wasn't imagining this. Or if she was, the station was imagining it with her.
"—don't tell them—"
The voice was different this time. Clearer. Closer. Not coming from the station — not from somewhere in the walls — but from somewhere behind her eyes.
"—they won't believe you—"
"—they'll say you're sick—"
"—six months alone—anyone would break—"
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She'd been thinking exactly that. Command was three years away. The crew in cryo would wake disoriented, confused. How could she explain? *I hear voices. They're coming from the moon. They're telling me about a door.*
They'd look at her with professional concern. They'd record her observations, make notes about psychological stress factors, and quietly schedule a psych evaluation. Then they'd transfer her back to Earth at the first opportunity. Six months of isolation had finally broken her. Case closed.
"—they'll take you away—"
"—and then there will be no one—"
"—to hear us—"
"—to help us—"
Elena stood up, the low gravity making the motion clumsy, uncontrolled. She drifted upward, her feet leaving the floor, and grabbed a handhold to pull herself back down. Her hands were shaking.
She couldn't keep this to herself. Whatever was happening — hallucination or horror or both — she wasn't equipped to handle it alone.
"—you're going to wake them—"
The voice sounded resigned. Disappointed.
"—that's a mistake—"
"—but we can't stop you—"
"—we can only ask—"
"—please—don't—"
Elena pushed off the wall and floated down the corridor toward the cryo bay. The station's ambient lighting was dimmed for sleep cycle, casting shadows that lengthened, shortened, lengthened again — not from the light, but from nothing she could see. The whispers continued in her head, a running commentary, a stream of pleading and warning, but she'd stopped listening to the words. She was listening for the silence that never came.
The cryo bay was cold. Colder than the rest of the station. The four pods gleamed under recessed lighting, each one a sleeping casket waiting for resurrection. Kovacs was first. Commander James Kovacs, forty-seven years old, former Navy pilot, by-the-book, rigid, reliable. The man who followed protocol and expected everyone else to do the same.
He was exactly who Elena needed right now.
She started the thaw sequence.
"—he won't understand—"
The voices were getting quieter. Fading.
"—he'll want to report it—"
"—to command—three years away—"
"—and they'll decide—without seeing—"
The console chirped: Cryo-sickness window opening. Estimated consciousness: 8 minutes.
Elena backed away from the pod. She didn't wait at the bedside. She retreated to the doorway, keeping the cryo bay between herself and Kovacs. Something was telling her to keep distance. To keep something between herself and what she was about to unleash.
The pod hissed. Condensation formed on the glass, fogging the interior. Kovacs's face was visible through the mist, eyes fluttering, jaw working as he coughed through the first breaths of air he'd taken in six months.
The pod cycled open.
Kovacs pulled himself upright, gagging, muscles twitching as they relearned how to move.
He looked around, eyes unfocused, and saw her in the doorway.
"Elena?" His voice was rough, ruined. "What's... what time..."
"Morning," she said. Her own voice sounded thin in her ears. "I had to wake you early."
He frowned, his expression already tightening into something professional despite the sickness. "Why? What's..."
Elena kept her gaze level, didn't let her eyes flicker toward the transcription screen. "Anomaly," she said. "I picked up a signal from the surface. It's... it's got structure. Regular patterns. Could be something geological, or equipment, or..." She let the sentence trail. Let him fill in the rest. Let him imagine anything but what it actually was.
Kovacs rubbed his face with shaking hands. "Signal... from the surface... how long ago? What frequency range?"
"About four hours." Four hours of whispers. Four hours of transcriptions. Four hours of something behind her eyes.
"And you didn't... report it?"
"I needed to verify it first. Run analysis. There's a lot of interference."
He nodded slowly, still working through the mental fog. Cryo-sickness stripped everything down to basics. Reaction, instinct, protocol. "Protocol says... report first."
"I know. But by the time command responded, we'd be..." She hesitated. "I thought you should see it first. Make the call."
Kovacs looked at her for a long moment. Evaluating. Deciding whether this was competence or insubordination. His eyes were still glassy with sickness, but something behind them was sharp. Assessing.
Finally he nodded. "Good thinking. We'll... we'll review it together. Then decide." He pushed himself to the edge of the pod, legs dangling over the side. "Rest of the crew?"
"Not yet. I wanted to... I wanted to assess with you first. Before waking everyone."
He nodded again, approving. Professional. Methodical. Exactly what she expected.
"—you told him—"
The voice returned instantly. Not resigned anymore. Accusing.
"—you lied—"
"—you didn't say—"
"—you didn't tell him—"
"—about us—"
Elena's stomach dropped. She'd done what she had to do. What made sense. What any rational person would do. But something in her head — something that wasn't her — was telling her she'd made a terrible mistake.
Kovacs pushed himself to his feet, wobbled, and grabbed a handhold to steady himself. "Where's the console?"
"Main deck. Comm station."
"Lead the way."
She did. She floated down the corridor with Kovacs following behind her, and the whispers followed too, louder now, angrier, rising in volume until they were almost shouting, almost screaming.
"—wrong—"
"—wrong—"
"—you shouldn't have—"
"—we told you—"
"—we told you—"
"—we told you—"
"—DON'T—"
The station lights flared bright, blinding, and Elena squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, the corridor was dark. Emergency lighting. Red.
Kovacs stopped behind her. "What the hell was that?"
"Power fluctuation," Elena said. Her voice was steady somehow. "Been happening all morning."
The whispers were silent now. But the silence felt worse than the noise. Like something was waiting.
[end of chapter]