Emergency Descent

The whispers came first.

Three months of deep space isolation had taught Aris to recognize every sound of her scout ship—from the gentle hum of life support to the occasional pings of micrometeorites against the hull. But these whispers were new: like distant voices speaking a language she almost recognized, seeping through the Stardust's walls.

The star lines on the navigational display wavered, just for a microsecond. Almost imperceptible. The whispers became a low, discordant thrum that vibrated through the deck plating and into her bones, resonating with something primal and afraid.

Aris might have dismissed it as a sensor glitch, a momentary flicker in the vast, silent theatre of deep space, had it not been accompanied by a low, discordant thrum that vibrated through the deck plating of her scout ship.

"IRIS, report status," Aris commanded, her voice steady despite the cold sweat beading at her temples. Her fingers danced across the console, muscle memory from a thousand simulations pulling up diagnostic subroutines. The bitter copper taste of fear flooded her mouth, her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged animal sensing danger.

Routine surveys of low-priority worlds like AEX-153 were supposed to be milk runs – drop into orbit, deploy atmospheric and biological scanners, confirm the Drakthian assessment of 'stable but uninteresting,' and jump back out. Easy, simple, safe.

Nothing in her ten years with ERA had prepared her for this feeling of impending doom that now constricted her throat like an invisible vice.

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