Nothing lay beyond the forward observation window.
No stars. No planets. Only black emptiness, so deep it seemed to swallow light itself.
The ship “Asteria” glided silently, its hull barely trembling. The only sound on the command deck was the breathing of the life support system and the occasional chirp of the navigation computer.
Captain Lyra stood motionless, hands braced against the console.
“Distance to the station?” she asked.
“Nine hundred thousand kilometers,” answered the pilot, Nojus. “We’ll enter orbit in three hours.”
Lyra nodded.
It was just another mission. That’s what she had been telling herself since the moment she accepted the assignment.
Just another mission.
And yet her gaze kept returning to the small silver badge fastened to her uniform sleeve. It had belonged to the first expedition.
The expedition that never returned.
Thirty-two years ago, the research station “Erebus” had been built in the orbit of an unusual planet.
The planet had no name.
Only a catalog number — HD-4472 f.
Astronomers called it the Dark One.
Not because it was black. Because light behaved strangely around it. Approaching photons seemed to slow, to warp, and long-range telescopes could never obtain a clear image.
A year later, the station was sent into orbit.
Four more months after that, contact was lost.
The rescue expedition found only an empty station.
No bodies.
No signs of struggle.
No explanations.
After that, the sector was closed.
Until now.
“Coffee.”
A cup appeared by Lyra’s elbow.
She hadn’t even noticed Dr. Mira approaching.
“You haven’t drunk it since yesterday.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re lying.”
Lyra barely smiled.
“As always.”
Mira leaned against the console.
“You can still refuse.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. You’re the captain.”
“Not of this mission.”
Mira knew what that meant.
Everyone knew.
Lyra’s brother, Aronas, had been one of the twelve people who vanished on the “Erebus.”
As a child, he used to promise he’d take his sister to the stars one day.
He flew off alone.
And no one ever saw him again.
“We’ve got a signal.”
Nojus turned around.
“From the station?”
Communications officer Salomė shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Silence settled over the command deck.
A faint sequence of waves appeared on the monitor.
Not an emergency beacon.
Not an automatic response.
Just a rhythmic pulse.
Beep.
Silence.
Beep.
Silence.
Beep.
“Natural interference, maybe?” Mira said.
“Too regular.”
Salomė amplified the signal.
“It repeats every seven seconds.”
“Is it sending coordinates?”
“No.”
“Text?”
“No.”
“Any kind of code at all?”
“Nothing.”
“Just a pulse.”
“As if something were breathing.”
After half an hour, the signal disappeared.
As if it had never existed.
The computer found no source.
“Log it as an anomaly,” Lyra said.
“Already did.”
She turned back to the window.
In the distance, the planet finally appeared.
At first just a gray dot.
Then — a massive sphere.
It was strange.
Not because it had no clouds.
Not because its surface was perfectly smooth.
The strangest part was that it looked unlit.
Even the star it orbited seemed not to dare touch it.
Light slid across the planet’s surface but never reached it.
As if there were something invisible between them.
“Captain…”
For the first time, unease sounded in Salomė’s voice.
“Another signal.”
“From the station?”
“Yes.”
“Play it.”
Static crackled through the speakers.
Then — silence.
A few seconds later, a quiet woman’s voice came through.
“…if anyone is hearing this…”
The crew froze.
“…don’t let them in…”
The connection cut out.
Just one sentence.
Barely three words.
“Can it be recovered?” Lyra asked.
“Trying.”
The computer cleared the noise.
The voice repeated.
This time clearer.
“…don’t let them in…”
“‘Them’?” Mira asked quietly.
No one answered.
That evening Lyra couldn’t sleep.
Her cabin was the same as everyone else’s — a narrow bed, a cabinet, a work screen.
An old photograph hung above the desk.
Two children.
A boy and a girl.
Aronas was fourteen.
She was eleven.
He held a toy spaceship in his hands.
“One day we’ll fly together,” he had said.
She never threw that photo away.
Though after his disappearance, she had tried to.
More than once.
Lyra stood by the small porthole.
In the distance hung the “Erebus.”
Still just a small point of light.
Suddenly something clicked quietly behind her back.
As if a screen had turned on.
She turned around.
The computer was active.
Though she had turned it off before going to sleep.
One line blinked on the screen.
OPEN ARCHIVE?
Lyra frowned.
She hadn’t given that command.
She touched the screen.
The system thought for a moment.
Then an old video recording opened.
The date.
September 17, 2148.
That was the last day before contact with the “Erebus” was lost.
A man appeared in the video.
Fair hair.
Tired eyes.
Aronas.
He was saying something, but there was no sound.
Only moving lips.
Lyra turned up the volume.
Nothing.
The image suddenly stopped.
Aronas raised his eyes.
Looked straight into the camera.
No.
Straight at her.
As if he knew that thirty years later, his sister would be watching this recording.
And then the screen went dark.
Silence fell over the cabin again.
Only somewhere behind the steel walls, quietly, almost imperceptibly, that same rhythmic pulse sounded again.
Beep.
Silence.
Beep.
Silence.
Beep.