LOG ENTRY // 843
The rhythmic hum was constant.
A low thrum that vibrated through the metal floor beneath his worn boots. John adjusted the visor, the world outside sharpening into a sterile panorama of muted grays and distant, shimmering haze.
He ran a gloved hand over the console, the cool plastic familiar under his touch. Another scan completed. Nothing.
He sighed, the sound muffled by his helmet, and leaned back, his gaze fixed on the endless, unchanging horizon.
His partner, Sarah, was asleep in the bunk, a faint outline behind the partition. It had been weeks since they’d seen anything but this, weeks since the last transmission. The solitude was a heavy cloak.
False positive.
He ate his ration, tasteless paste, and watched the sensors. A faint blip appeared, then vanished. He almost didn't report it.
Then, the alarm.
Not a blare, but a soft, insistent chime. The blip was back, larger, more defined. Sarah was instantly awake.
"John, look at this!"
On the main screen, a perfect, undeniable circle. He felt a tremor. No natural formation could be so precise.
"Run diagnostics, full spectrum," he ordered. The readings came back, baffling. An impossible density, a composition unknown.
A massive, metallic disc, gleaming faintly in the distance, unmoving.
"They're here," Sarah whispered.
The hum, the barren landscape, the constant vigilance. It all made a terrifying, perfect sense.
> BASE, THIS IS ALPHA-SEVEN.
> WE HAVE MADE CONTACT.
> THE ARTIFACT... IT'S EXACTLY AS PREDICTED.
> WE ARE READY FOR EXTRACTION.
> OVER.