Speaker 1: They sent us to the ass end of the Kazakhs.
Stand step a bleak, unforgiving stretch of wind scouted land,
where rusted fences lead nowhere, and the horizon buzzed like
a tuning fork. The wind still bit through two layers
of thermals. The roads were barely roads at all, just
tire gouged scars in frozen soil. No birds, no herders,
no villages, just empty land and silence for miles. When
satellites fall, they're supposed to burn up in the atmosphere
or land in the ocean, far away from anything that matters.
That's how they're designed. But sometimes things go wrong, a miscalculation,
a failed thruster, or a misfire in orbit. When they
come down on land, it's our job to make it
go away. We're contractors, a clean up crew that logged
the telemetry, recover anything that didn't vaporize, and flag what
might belong in a black box. Most of it's worth
a slag by the time it hits Earth. Once or
twice we've pulled out something interesting sensitive. Usually it gets
taken off our hands before we can even ask what
it was. This mission standard eight of us were assigned
with two trucks, fold out tents, portable uplinks, satellite relays,
a drone, and a ground penetrating radar unit. The site
was flagged by orbital trackers. Something had come down hard
and fast. We expected scorched wreckage and a couple long
days shoveling sand and mured. Maybe a bonus if anything
survived intact. But something was off from the start. The
telemetry was jittery, GPS would lock then drift, the terrain
didn't quite match the coordinates. It was like the maps
themselves didn't want us here, and it was quiet. We
got to work anyway. Carson, our team lead, oversaw the equipment,
set up, the text calibrated the radar. I was helping
drive rebar stakes when the beacon came through. It wasn't
a dead ping. It was active, short burst, compressed repeating
on a tight interval, Stronger than any beacon i'd heard
on a recovery job. That got everyone's attention. Usually those
signals stop the moment the whole burns, but this one
it was transmitting. We thought maybe a hardened core had survived.
Black box guidance unit. Who knows, But the signal didn't
triangulate at surface level. We ran a GPR scan the
day came back clean. Beneath the top soil, maybe ten
meters down was a structure, possibly a shattered hunk of metal,
not just scattered debris, but maybe a whole chunk of fuselage.
That's not possible, Carson muttered. The signal was coming from
inside it. Whatever it was, it had survived orbital descent,
impact and burial. The surface showed the usual debris scatter,
squatch paneling, shattered fins, a few fragments warped beyond recognition,
all standard stuff for a satellite crash. But beneath that,
very deeper than expected, was something big. The text figured
it had to be a telemetry core, or maybe a
reinforced paleoad container. The kindest designed a survivory entry in
case of failure. Thou would explain the signal too. Maybe
it had been programmed to ping even after a crash,
to make recovery easier. Well, maybe we'd get a salvage bonus.
So we started plotting the dig. First we measured sole density.
Then we'd checked the frost layers and run off paths.
The permafrost was thick here excavating. It would take time
and precision, especially if we didn't want to crush whatever
was buried beneath us. We'd be digging by hand or
close to it. Slow work. Then mid conversation, Jacob's radio
flared up. A burst of static broke through his head set,
followed by a strained, stuttering voice. Is anyone up there? Hullo? Please?
I'm trapped. I don't know where I am. Everyone froze.
We stared at Jacob's, then at each other. He looked
as surprised as the rest of us. Carson took over,
immediately checking the frequency. Say again, identify yourself. A pause,
then I can hear you. Please, Dick HiT's dark. I'm alone.
Help me. The blood drained from my face. That satellite
wasn't manned. No satellite ever is. They don't send people
up in those things. They're too small, fragile. That wasn't
their purpose. Even the military ones are remote operated. There's
no room for a cockpit, no reason for a crew.
So who the hell was talking to us? Recycled frequencies,
Check the relays. The signal wasn't bouncing from anywhere else.
It wasn't interference. The origin point was right where the
beacon was ten meters underground. We tried asking more questions,
where are you from, how long have you been down there?
What's your name? But the voice never answered directly. He
just kept begging, please help me, please dig. It's getting
harder to breathe. At one point it sobbed. It didn't
ask who we were or ask how we'd found it.
He just begged to be freed. Carson called it. In protocol,
any anomaly, especially one involving unexpected transmissions, had to be
logged immediately. We huddled around the portable satellite uplink, the
signal cutting in and out, ex explain the situation to
the contact rep and the client's end. Some mid level
handler for a private aerospace firm whose name I couldn't
even pronounce. He kept a professional calm, said the beacon
was still active, that the internal casing might have survived impact,
and then, almost like an afterthought, added, there's been a
voice on the radio claim someone's alive down there. The
reply came back after a pause, a dry chuckle, then
a sigh, like he'd just been asked the dumbest question
in the world. Yeah, No, that's not possible. The unit
was unmanned, all of them are you should know that.
We checked the sauce, Carson said, The signal lines up
with the buried object. The voice on the other end
turned slightly sharp. Radio bleed. You're hearing feedback crossover. Maybe
who knows what kind of interference you're getting out there?
We asked the direct questions, Carson said, it answered well,
The rep said, his tone already checked out. Get the
telemeature core, tag the wreckage filey report, leave the ghost
stories out of it. The line went dead. We stood
there for a while, just looking at each other. Nobody
said it, but the unease had started to spread. If
it had been static, we could have ignored it, or
if it had been nonsense, we could have blamed the radios.
But the voice was clear, panicked, and human. We tried
to reason it out. Maybe it was bleed from another
channel or someone nearby using the same band. It could
have been a prank, some ham operator screwing around, but
that all of this was unlikely. In the middle of nowhere,
Carson finally broke the silence. All right, we keep moving.
We have a job to do. Officially, we're recovering materials.
That's it. And unofficially. Someone asked. Carson didn't answer, but
everyone knew. Some of us wanted to get the job
done and go home. The rest of us we wanted
to know who was down there. That night, the wind
picked up, the temperature dropped hard and fast, like something
had sunk its weight into the air. I sat in
my bunk, trying to sleep. The low murmur of radios
carried between tents, like distant breathing. Then mine lit up,
just for a second of flash of static, a voice
no louder than a whisper. You heard me, didn't you.
By the next morning, the crew had started to split,
not outly, just subtle shifts in tone. People stood in
small clumps, now muttering over breakfast, side eyeing the radio set.
Some of the team were convinced someone had to be
alive down there, had to be. They couldn't shake the voice,
the cadence, the fear. It didn't sound artificial or like
a recording. You don't fake the way someone chokes back
a SOB. But others weren't buying it. The rational ones maybe,
or just the scared ones in disguise. They said it
was interference, that even if it was real, even by
some cosmic fluke, a person had ended up inside that thing.
There was no way there'd be alive after the fall.
No food or oxygen on a satellite. No explanation could
reasonably explain what we heard. Carson tried to keep things grounded.
He was a buy the book's kind of guy, and
by the book, we were here to recover orbital debris,
not perform search and rescue missions from possible voices, whether
it's a person or a beacon. He told us flatly,
We're here to dig get to it. So we did.
The GPR scans came back with more detail. This time.
The object wasn't just a dense cluster or some tangled
core of junk metal. It had shape, defined edges, corners, symmetry,
and technicians squinted at the readout and said, half laughing,
looks more like a room than a chunk of fuselage.
Nobody laughed. Lucas started acting strangely, quieter than usual, twitchy.
He was one of the older guys, wore his faith
like a second skin, always had a rosary looped around
his wrist, even when running cable. When the scan came through,
he just stared at it. Lips moving, but no sound
coming out. Later, someone overheard him saying, it wasn't a
crash at all. It's a demon, he muttered. When pressed,
he shut down completely. Wouldn't explain, just shook his head
and returned to work, but slower now, twitchier, mumbling prayers
under his breath whenever the radio crackled. That night, I
couldn't sleep again. The wind had died, but the silence
somehow felt louder than ever, like the world itself was
un mute. As I passed Lucas's tent, I heard his
voice and shaky. Don't talk to it, he whispered. Don't
look at it. It's not stuck, it's waiting. The digging
was slow, the ground didn't want to give, even with
the right tools. It felt like you were scratching at
something that didn't want to be found. I took my
break past the camp perimeter, just outside the flagged boundary.
The air was sharper out there, more open, the quiet
that makes you feel like you're being watched by the
land itself. I was stretching my back when I heard it,
a voice, low, muffled, careful. I followed the sound around
one of the supply trailers quiet as I could. That's
when I saw Kyle Crouch behind the tires, hunched over
a handheld short wave raidar. He was whispering into it
as if it were a lifeline. I know, I miss
you too soon, Okay, I promise, he jumped the second
I stepped around the corner and spotted me. Fumbled the
radio off like a kid caught smoking behind a gas station.
Geez man, he said, too loud. You skip the hell
out of me. Who are you talking to? I asked.
He gave me a crooked smile. My wife missed our
checking last night. She gets anxious when I'm off grid.
I looked down at the radio. Short wave, no satellite link,
no repeater access. It wasn't even on the same band
we were using. You can't reach anyone on there, I said.
He shrugged like it didn't matter and stirred. I got lucky,
he said. Then he walked off, casual, like it wasn't
the creepiest thing I'd seen all day. That night, I
couldn't sleep. Sometime past midnight, just as I was slipping
between thoughts, the radio on the shelf above my bunk
came to life, just the soft click like someone picking
up a line they shouldn't have access to. Then a voice, calm, familiar,
but not quite. You're tired, it said. I sat up slowly,
didn't answer. You don't have to pretend, not out here,
not with me. There was something soothing in the cadence,
like the voice of someone you'd known for years, softened
by time. I know what you've lost. I swallowed her,
but said nothing. The wind outside pushed against the tent
in slow, steady pulses, like a heartbeat. The pain you carry,
I could take it from you. I pause almost the breath,
not to raise it, just hold it for a while
so you can sleep, so you don't have to keep
walking up with your jaw clenched and your hands shaking.
I never told anyone about the panic attacks, the insomnia.
Not even Carson knew. I kept my personal out of
the professional I don't want much, he whispered, Just help
me out. My hand hovered over the radio's power dial,
but I didn't touch it. You wouldn't be the first,
it said, softly, and you won't be the last. You
you listened better than the others. Then silence, like it
knew it had said enough. By late afternoon, The soil
had begun to shift. The upper layers were dry and crusted,
but now we were hitting compacted earth, dense loam that
cracked in slabs as we dug. The resistance had changed.
It meant we were close. The GPR confirmed it. The
full shape was now visible in the scans, a large object,
maybe ten meters long, half buried one side, jotting up
like a broken tooth. It didn't look like any satellite
component would ever pulled. It was too whole. We were close,
but darkness was settling, which meant another night before we
could fall young cover it. Dinner was quiet, Most of
us were too frozen to talk. The wind had picked
up again, blowing grit into every fold of clothing and
crease of skin. Kyle, the one I caught whispering into
the short wave, was sitting near the mess tent entrance,
grinning to himself. He looked like a man waiting for
someone special to walk through the door. Every now and
then he glanced toward the crater and smile like he
just remembered a private joke. Lucas didn't eat. He stood
near the mess tent wall, arms folded, eyes down. He
looked like someone trying not to throw up. That night,
back in the bunk tent, I lay staring at the
canvas ceiling while the wind rattled through the steel pipes.
The day was starting to weigh on me, not just
the fatigue in my body, but somewhere deeper. My thoughts
kept circling around the voice, around the shape under the ground.
I didn't know what I believed any more. I was
just starting to drift when I heard something boots, careful steps.
I eased out of my cut and followed the sound
through the flap. The night was moonless, only lit by
the amber globe of the perimit lamps. A figure moved
along the edge of the excavation pit, hunched and deliberate.
It was Lucas. I called out to him in a whisper,
and he spun around, eyes wild. In his hands, he
clutched something. At first I thought it was a crowbar,
but then I saw the edge sharpened, improvised. We can't
leave it in there, he hissed. We can't bring it
out either, you understand. I took a step closer. What
are you doing, man? His hands were shaking. They think
it's talking to them. Maybe it is, but it lies.
That's all it does. I looked at the weapon, then
at his eyes. There was madness there, but also conviction
stopping him would be dangerous. He was committed to this.
You really think it's dangerous, I asked. He nodded slowly.
It's not a person, it's not trapped. It wants to
be found. That's not the same thing. I looked at
him for a long time, then said the only thing
I could think to say, Well, not my monkey, not
my circus. He stared at me like he was trying
to decide whether I was worth arguing with. Then he
turned and walked off into the dark, down toward the
edge of the crater. I didn't follow, I told myself
I didn't care, and went back to bed. The morning
felt off. Before we even reached the crater, Lucas was
nowhere to be found. He hadn't returned to his bunk,
hadn't shown for breakfast. I figured he was laying low,
maybe hiding out in the equipment truck until things blew
over once we saw what he'd done, or maybe he
was ashamed. I wasn't the only one tense. When we
arrived at the sight, we all stopped short the crater
looked wrong. The soil we'd fought against for days was
now loose, uneven, he looked, freshly turned. The marks from
our excavation, careful layers carved out with heavy tools were gone,
replaced by an uneven, sunken sprawl, like the earth had
shifted overnight. No one spoke until one of the new
guys muttered, did a storm come through? Another said, no,
win that strung last night. Carson didn't waste time on theories.
If it's loose, we'll count ourselves lucky, he said, slapping
a glove against the thigh. Let's get it done. We
grabbed shovels and picks. No need for the power augers.
Now the ground peeled away like dry skin. Only a
few minutes in someone hit something solid. It wasn't just
another scortch fragmented support strut. It was smooth, rounded, a
faint gleam under the grit. We worked around it, carefully,
clearing layer by layer until the shape came into view,
a long curve, then another. The lines connected forming a
capsule or pod, fused into the chunk of satellite fuselage
We've been chasing all along. Except this didn't look like
any satellite module we'd ever seen. The material caught light
in strange ways, like it wasn't one surface but several
folded into each other. Parts of it looked engineered, ribbed paneling,
beveled edges, even what resembled cooling vents. But between those
features were smooth organic forms, soft iridescence beneath the grime,
veined like tissue. You look at one corner and swear
it was molded titanium. Blink and it was cartilage. It
was seamless almost then someone pointed it out, a faint
line running along the side of the structure, about four
feet long, thin as a wise shadow. I seem it's
not latched, someone said, hushed. The air felt still. We
didn't open it, not yet. We just stared, and for
the first time I realized we were all hoping it
was empty. No one spoke at first. We just stared
at the seam like it might blink back. Eventually, Carson
stepped forward, brushing the dirt from his gloves. We're too
far out to wait for anyone, he said. We open it,
log it, report what we find. I glanced at him.
That wasn't true. We had uplinks emergency priority channels. If
this was truly alien, or even just anomalous, a dozen
agencies will be salivating to send a team. But Carson
didn't want oversight. He wanted to see what was inside.
Maybe it was valuable, maybe he just couldn't help himself.
No one volunteered. Carson turned to us, some one, he said,
forcing casualness into his tone. It's probably empty, might not
even open. But the air said different, and so did
the silence. No one moved. It was in defiance, it
was in consensus. None of us were opening that thing.
If he wanted it open, he'd have to do it himself.
His jaw flexed. I could see the calculation behind his eyes,
how it would look if he didn't step up. He
looked back at the pod, then down at the seam.
Then he sighed, deep and shaky, like he was psyching
himself up for a dive. All right, he muttered, I'll
do it. We all backed up fast, ten feet, then fifteen.
Nobody wanted to be near it when it opened. Even
the ones who'd scoffed earlier were watching like it might explode.
Carson stepped up to the pod with his shovel in hand,
slid the edge into the seam. Just enof the leverage,
dirt shifted off the surface, falling in slow trickles. The
sun caught the damp sheen of the hull. He hesitated,
then twisted. With a soft metal clunk, the hatch flicked open.
Carson stumbled back, catching himself with a shovel. He didn't speak,
just stared. Nothing came out, no smoke, no light, no movement,
just stillness. After a long moment, the rest of us
etched closer until we could see what had stunned him. Lucas.
His body was slumped inside the pod like it had
grown around him. His limbs were twisted, broken in ways
that didn't make sense. One arm was culd tight around
his chest, the hand still clutching what looked like his
makeshift weapon. No One spoke for a long time, confused
by what this meant. Finally I stepped forward. I saw
him last night. I said, my voice felt dry, foreign
in my throat. He was sneaking out, said he had
to stop it, that we weren't taking it seriously. Someone
asked what I meant. I hesitated, then told them everything
about Lucas's rant, his fear, how he believed whatever was
inside was evil. That the thing he said, right before
walking off into the dark. It can lie, That's what
it does. The silence was pure dread. Lucas had gone
down thinking he could stop it. Maybe he thought it
was a demon, Maybe he thought it was a test
of faith. Either way, he tried to fight it and lost.
But that wasn't what made my stomach drop. What made
it worse was the realization we all arrived at silently,
almost in sync. Whatever had been trapped inside that pod
was no longer there. It had escaped. Every word it
said to us, every promise, had been a lie to
get out. And Kyle, who'd always been the most eager
to dig to defend it, to whisper into dead radios,
now looked like the air had been sucked out of him.
His mouth opened once, then again, but it told me.
No one answered. Carson didn't even pretend to report what
really happened. He stood a few paces from the pod,
pale and shaking, and Keith the sat uplink. The sight
is compromised, he said, on no materials present, possible contamination
or national security breach. I can't elaborate overcoms request Emergency
response ASA, He didn't mention Lucas or the voice. He
didn't have to. You could hear it in his voice.
Something was wrong and it wasn't just Debrie. It took hours,
but they came. At first, there was two men in
plain black vehicles, no insignias, just questions. They arrived expecting
radiation leaks or experimental tech. They left red faced and
calling in reinforcements. Then came the flood has mad suits, drones,
surveillance drucks, people flashing badges. None of us recognized every
agency you could name, and a few you couldn't. Just
as one group claimed jurisdiction, another would come in and
supersede them. The entire digsite turned into a battlefield of departments.
Our camp was torn down and replaced with pop up
tents and gated perimeters. We were herded, interviewed, separated, reinterviewed.
Some of us were interrogated. Some departments weren't sharing information,
so we were made to tell the story dozens of
times over. Only after exhaustive checks, psych evaluations, chemical swaps,
hours of surveillance footage did they seem to accept that
we were just workers. We'd been caught in something much larger.
They didn't thank us. They gave us papers the sign
heavy NDAs. We were told we'd be monitored indefinitely. Whatever
we saw didn't happen. Lucas died in the ground collapse.
There was no pod, no transmission, no voice. We were
put on planes and sent home one by one. I
haven't seen Kyle since Carson's number is disconnected. A few
of the others still anser texts, but no one talks
about what happened. And me, I moved switch jobs, different
name on the ID badge, now still work remote sights,
nothing satellite related. I thought, if I kept moving, kept
my head down, maybe I could forget. But sometimes, in
the quiet hours, just before sleep, I wonder what was it?
What had been locked in that pot, twisting its voice
to match what we needed to hear, What had waited
in the dirt, whispered promises, manipulated a team of hardened
workers until it was free? And more than that, what now?
Because it's out there and it's spent a very very
long time learning how to lie