Welcome dear viewers. Thank you so much for 20,000 subscribers. It means a lot. Become a member of Dr. Void family at just 99 cents per month and get exclusive episodes every week. I always thought I'd die in a car crash or from heart disease like my old man. Never imagined it would be like this. slowly in the darkness, counting down the hours. But I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Alex Harmon. 3 months Ago, I was just another communications specialist at the Goldstone Deep Space Communications Complex in the Mojave Desert. Nothing special about me.
Divorced, mid-30s, with a mortgage I could barely afford and a drinking habit I couldn't quite kick. the kind of guy you'd pass on the street without a second glance. Then came July 17th, the day I now call the silence. I remember it was hot as hell that morning, typical for the Mojave in summer. I arrived at The facility around 7:00 a.m. nursing a mild hangover and a large black coffee. My supervisor, Richard Keller, was already there, which was unusual. The man was notorious for rolling in just before noon. "You saw the readings?" he asked without
looking up from his terminal. "Morning to you, too, Rich?" I muttered, slumping into my chair. "What readings?" Rich finally turned to face me, and I noticed the dark circles under his eyes. His Normally neat salt and pepper beard was unckempt, like he'd been running his hands through it all night. "Voyager 1," he said. We lost contact at 2:13 a.m. Complete signal blackout. I shrugged, taking a sip of my coffee. Happens sometimes. She's what, 14 billion miles away now? Signal delays, solar interference. Not like this. Rich cut me off. Look. He pulled up a display showing
the signal strength over time. There was no gradual weakening or Interference pattern, just a sharp absolute cutff. One moment transmitting normally, the next. Nothing. Huh? I said, feeling the first tingle of unease at the base of my spine. That's weird. Weird doesn't begin to cover it, Rich muttered. NASA's freaking out. JPL's been on the line all night. That's when Dominic Wright, our resident astrophysicist, burst into the communications hub. Dom was always Energetic, but that morning he looked manic. His curly brown hair was a mess, his glasses a skew, and he clutched a stack of printouts
like they held the secrets of the universe. "They're gone," he said breathlessly. Rich frowned. "What are you talking about?" "The Carrington event signals," Dom said, spreading his papers across an empty desk. "The ones we've been tracking near Voyager's position for the Past month." I hadn't been briefed on any Carrington event signals, which wasn't surprising. As a communications specialist, I was strictly need to know, and apparently this hadn't been something I needed to know. What exactly are we talking about here? I asked. Dom shot a glance at Rich, who nodded reluctantly. About a month ago, Voyager
1 started picking up radiation patterns similar to the Carrington event of 1859, The biggest solar storm on record, except these weren't coming from our sun. From where, then? That's just it, Dom said, his voice dropping. We don't know. They weren't coming from any star we could identify. It was like like they were coming from empty space. Before I could process this, an alarm blared through the facility. Not the usual system alert or warning. This was the evacuation siren. Rich's secure Phone rang. He answered, listened for a few seconds, then hung up, his face ashen. We
need to go now. What's happening? I asked as the three of us rushed toward the exit with the rest of the staff. Rich didn't answer until we were outside, squinting in the harsh sunlight as people streamed from the buildings. "They're implementing protocol black," he said quietly. Dom stopped dead in his tracks. "That's impossible. Protocol Black is theoretical. It's never been." "What the hell is protocol black?" I demanded. Rich looked me dead in the eyes. It means we've received a message from Voyager 1. But I thought you said we lost contact. We did, Dom interrupted. Which
means whatever sent that message, it wasn't NASA. Above us, military helicopters appeared on the horizon, growing larger By the second. In the distance, I could see a convoy of black SUVs speeding toward the complex. The message, I said, my mouth suddenly dry. What did it say? Rich's next words would change my life forever. It was a list of rules. They took us to Edward's Air Force Base about 2 hours from Goldstone. Everything happened so fast. Men in hazmat suits, military personnel barking orders, rumors spreading through the staff like wildfire. Someone mentioned quarantine. Someone else said
radiation. No one knew the truth except the higherups, and they weren't talking. They separated us upon arrival, placing each person in an individual debriefing room. Mine was sterile and white with a metal table bolted to the floor, two chairs, and a surveillance camera in the corner. I spent 6 hours in that room before anyone came to see me. The man who finally entered didn't introduce himself. Tall and lean with a Military buzzcut, he wore a black suit with no agency insignia. He slid a tablet across the table. Tell me what you know about this, Mr.
Harmon. The tablet showed a series of strange symbols. Not any language I recognized, more like mathematical notations mixed with what might have been circuit diagrams or star charts. Nothing, I said truthfully. I've never seen anything like it. The man, I called him buzzcut in my head, stared at me Impassively. This was part of the transmission received from Voyager 1 at 0427 hours today, right before your team reported the loss of signal. That's impossible, I said automatically. I wasn't even on shift at 4:00 a.m. And besides, we didn't receive any transmission. We lost contact. Buzzcut's expression
didn't change. Are you familiar with Protocol Black, Mr. Harmon? never heard of it until today, but your colleagues mentioned it. Dr. Wright and Mr. Keller, I shrugged. They did? Yeah, right before the evacuation, but I don't know what it means. Buzzcut studied me for a long moment. Protocol Black is activated when we receive communications that cannot be authenticated yet appear to originate from one of our deep space probes. cannot be authenticated," I repeated. "You mean like someone's hijacked the signal?" "That would be the conventional Explanation," Buzzcut agreed. "Unfortunately, Voyager 1 is currently 14.5 billion miles
from Earth. There's no one out there to hijack it." The implications made my skin crawl. So, what are you saying? that the probe sent this on its own, some kind of malfunction. We're exploring all possibilities. Buzzcut swiped the tablet screen to reveal a different image. What looked like English text, blocky and distorted, as if rendered by primitive Software. Does this look familiar? I leaned forward, squinting at the screen. It was a numbered list titled simply rules. There were seven items. Never transmit for longer than 77 seconds. Do not acknowledge the voices during transmission. If you
hear your name, disconnect immediately. If a transmission contains your name, do not respond. Always maintain signal integrity at 27.8 kHz. Do not attempt transmission between 3:33 a.m. and 4:44 a.m. Should you break any of these rules, you will join us in the void. What the hell is this? I asked unnerved. That's what we're trying to determine, Buzzcut replied. But I believe you've just corroborated what we suspected. You've never seen this before today. Of course, I haven't. What does join us in the void mean? Buzzcut ignored my question. Mr. Harmon, what does Voyager 1's mission focus
on? Interstellar space exploration, I answered automatically. It crossed the helop in 2012. First man-made object to enter interstellar space. It studies plasma waves, magnetic fields, cosmic rays. And what was its original mission duration? 5 years, I said. But it's been operational for over 45 years now. Impressive longevity, Buzzcut noted. And yet the technology is primitive by today's standards. Its computing power Is less than a modern calculator. What's your point? How does a probe with less processing power than a digital watch compose a coherent message in English? A message that, I should add, appears to be
a warning. I had no answer for that. Buzzcut collected the tablet and stood. You'll be transferred to a secure facility shortly. In the meantime, I suggest you try to recall any unusual communications you might have had with The probe in recent weeks. There weren't any, I insisted. We just monitor the data stream. It's mostly automated. The man paused at the door. One more thing, Mr. Harmon. The signal loss you reported. Did anything unusual happen just before it went dark? I thought hard, trying to remember anything out of the ordinary. No, but I wasn't on shift
when it happened. Rich Richard Keller said it just cut off instantly. Buzzcut nodded thoughtfully. Interesting. Normally there's degradation before total signal loss. A pattern. Yeah, that's why it caught our attention. And have you ever encountered anything like this before? Any moments of signal anomaly during your time at Goldstone? For a fraction of a second, I hesitated. There had been something 3 weeks ago. A brief burst of noise in the telemetry feed. I dismissed it as interference and hadn't even logged it. No, I lied. Nothing Unusual. Buzzcut stared at me for a long uncomfortable moment. We'll
speak again soon, Mr. Harmon. After he left, I sat alone for another hour, my mind racing. What had happened to Voyager 1? What were those rules? And why did I get the feeling I just made a terrible mistake by lying? Sunset had come and gone by the time they moved me. Two new guards, different from the ones who'd brought me in, escorted me to a black Suburban with Tinted windows. They weren't talkative, and I'd given up asking questions hours ago. The drive took almost 3 hours. I dozed off a few times, my forehead pressed against
the cool window glass. When I finally opened my eyes, we were passing through a security checkpoint surrounded by desert mountains. A sign read White Sands Missile Range restricted area. White Sands. We were in New Mexico. They took me to a building that looked like a typical government Facility from the outside. Concrete, bunker-like, no windows. Inside was a different story. The walls were lined with what I recognized as electromagnetic shielding, and every door required both key card and biometric access. I was led to a small dormatory style room with a bed, desk, and bathroom. No window,
just a ventilation system humming quietly, the door locked behind me with a solid click. There was A neatly folded stack of clothes on the bed, khaki pants, a blue polo shirt, underwear, socks, and slip-on canvas shoes, all my size. On the desk was a digital tablet secured to the surface with a steel cable. I picked it up. The screen lit up with a simple message. rest, shower, change, meeting at 8:00 a.m. The clock on the wall read 11:42 p.m. I hadn't slept properly in almost 24 hours. Despite my anxiety, exhaustion won out. I stripped, showered,
and Collapsed onto the surprisingly comfortable bed. I dreamed of stars that moved like insects, shifting and realigning into impossible patterns. In the dream, I could hear something speaking, not in words, but in pulses of light and darkness that somehow formed meanings in my mind. It wanted me to answer. I almost did. I woke with a start at 7:30 a.m. Disoriented and covered in sweat. At precisely 8:00, there was a knock at my door. It opened To reveal a woman in her 50s with short gray hair and the posture of someone used to giving orders. Unlike
Buzzcut, she wore a name badge. Dr. Elellanena Baker, director. Mr. Harmon, she said, thank you for your patience. Please come with me. She led me through a maze of corridors to a conference room where several people were already seated. I recognized Rich and Dom looking as haggarded as I felt. There were three Others I didn't know. Two men and a woman, all in similar blue polos, all looking equally shell shocked. "Please sit," Dr. Baker said, gesturing to an empty chair. "I'm sure you have questions." "That's an understatement," Rich muttered. He looked like he hadn't slept
at all. Dr. Baker nodded sympathetically, but continued, "Before we begin, I need all of you to sign these." She slid folders across the table to Each of us. Non-disclosure agreements. What you're about to learn is classified at the highest level. We all signed. What choice did we have? Thank you, she said, collecting the folders. Now to business. As you're aware, approximately 30 hours ago, we lost contact with Voyager 1. What you don't know is that in the minutes before signal loss, we received an anomalous transmission. She pressed a button on a Remote and a screen
on the wall lit up with the same list of rules I'd seen yesterday. This message was received across multiple deep space network facilities simultaneously, including those not currently aligned with the Voyager 1's position. It appears to have been broadcast on all frequencies. Dom leaned forward. That's impossible. Voyager's transmitter isn't powerful enough to We're aware of the technological limitations. Dr. Baker cut Him off. Hence, protocol black. What exactly is protocol black? I asked, besides the vague explanation I got yesterday. Dr. Baker's expression was grave. Protocol Black was established in 1988 after a similar incident involving Pioneer
10. That case was ultimately attributed to signal interference and computer error. This time, we're not so sure. She pressed another button and the screen changed to show a spectrogram. A visual representation of sound frequencies over time. This is the audio component of Voyager's final transmission visualized. We all stared at the image. It looked like a voice print but distorted with strange harmonic patterns I'd never seen before. Has anyone tried to clean it up? Extract actual audio? Rich asked. Yes, Dr. Baker said quietly. Three technicians at JPL. All three suffered seizures during playback. One Remains in
a coma. A heavy silence fell over the room. "Jesus," I whispered. "We've since determined that the audio contains some form of embedded pattern that triggers a neurological response in certain people," Dr. Baker continued. "We're proceeding with extreme caution." One of the strangers, a tall, thin man with a close-cropped beard, spoke up. "What about the rules themselves? Have you analyzed them?" "That's why you're All here, Dr. Foster," Baker replied. "Each of you has expertise relevant to this situation. Mr. Harmon and Mr. Keller work communications at Goldstone. Dr. Wright specializes in interstellar physics. You're our linguistic expert.
Dr. Novak is our foremost authority on Voyager's systems and Miss Thompson is our quantum computing specialist. She folded her hands on the table. We need to determine if these rules are genuine, what they mean, and How to respond. Respond? Dom sounded incredulous. We don't even know who or what sent them. Precisely the point, Dr. Wright, Baker said evenly. If there's an intelligence out there capable of hijacking our deep space probe, we need to understand it. What makes you think this isn't just some kind of cosmic ray hit that scrambled Voyager systems? Rich asked. It wouldn't
be the first time radiation caused a Glitch. Two reasons, Baker said. First, the precision of the message. These aren't random data errors. This is structured information. Second, we've confirmed that identical rules were received by the Chinese deep space network and the Russian installation at Calazin. That silenced the room again. The good news, Baker continued after a moment, is that we have a way to test these rules. We've been transmitting regularly to Voyager since The incident, trying to reestablish contact. So far, we've kept transmissions under 60 seconds, well below the 77cond limit specified in rule 1.
And I prompted when she paused, nothing has happened. No response, no anomalies. So, tonight we're going to deliberately break rule one. I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. Is that wise? Baker's smile was thin. Science often requires controlled risk, Mr. Harmon. We'll transmit for exactly 90 Seconds and monitor all frequencies for a response. I glanced around the table. Everyone looked uneasy except Dr. Baker, who seemed almost eager. What about the other rules? Asked the woman I now knew was Ms. Thompson. Especially rule 7. Join us in the void. That sounds ominous. One step
at a time, Baker said. First, we verify if breaking a rule produces any measurable effect. If it does, we'll proceed accordingly. And if something goes Wrong, I asked. Baker's expression hardens slightly. That's why we're conducting this test from a secure shielded facility with minimal personnel exposure. Minimal personnel exposure. The phrase stuck in my mind as we were dismissed to our workstations for briefing. They were using us as guinea pigs. As I followed a security officer to my assigned area, Rich caught up to me in the hall. You ever heard of MK Ultra? He whispered the
CIA mind control experiments. Sure. Baker was involved in the successor program. I recognized her name. Whatever this is, Alex, it's not just about reestablishing contact with a space probe. Before I could respond, we were separated again. But Rich's words echoed in my head as I was led into a room that looked exactly like my workstation at Goldstone down to the coffee mug stain on the desk. The familiar environment should have been Comforting. Instead, it made my skin crawl because there blinking on my monitor was a countdown clock transmission test. 10 2716 10 hours until we
broke the first rule. They kept us separated for most of the day. A series of technicians came by to brief me on my role during the test. Standard communication protocols, nothing I didn't already know. I'd be monitoring the return signal band, watching for any response after our Extended transmission. Around 6:00 p.m., they finally let us gather in a small breakroom for dinner. The food was decent, some kind of pasta dish with garlic bread, but none of us had much appetite. Anyone else feel like we're labs? Tom Foster, the linguistics expert, asked as he pushed his
food around his plate. More like sacrificial lambs, muttered Novak, the Voyager systems expert. He was older than the rest of us, probably in his 60s, with Liver spots on his balding head and thick glasses. I ran the numbers on Voyager's power systems. There's no way it could transmit a signal strong enough to reach multiple Earth stations simultaneously. Not with its RTG degraded to current levels. RTG? Thompson asked. Radioisotope thermmoelect electric generator. Dom explained. Voyager's power source. It's been slowly decaying since launch in 77. So, what are we dealing with? I asked. Some kind of foreign
interference. Russia or China trying to mess with our systems. Rich shook his head. They received the same message we did, remember? Besides, this is way beyond any tech capabilities I've ever heard of. Perhaps we're overthinking this, Thompson suggested. She was young, maybe late 20s, with short, dark hair and intense eyes. What if we're simply picking up some kind of natural Phenomenon? Something that mimics language patterns that generates perfect English sentences with coherent warnings. Foster raised an eyebrow. Unlikely. Not to mention the specificity. Novak added. 77 seconds, 27.8 kHz. 333 to 444 a.m. Those aren't random
numbers. Could be a prank, I suggested without much conviction. Some hacker who figured Out how to spoof DSN signals. That would be nearly impossible, Rich said. And even if someone managed it, why? What's the endg game? A heavy silence fell over the table. We were all avoiding the obvious question. What if the message was genuine? What if something out there 14 billion miles away in interstellar space was trying to communicate with us? The door opened and Dr. Baker entered, flanked by two security Officers. "It's time," she announced. "Please report to your stations." As we filed
out, I noticed Dom lingering behind to speak with Baker. Their conversation looked tense with Dom gesturing emphatically and Baker responding with quick, dismissive headshakes. Before I could try to overhear anything, a guard ushered me toward my workstation. The room they'd set up for me was a near perfect replica of my station at Goldstone, right down To the worn spot on the desk where I usually rested my left wrist. The only differences were the lack of windows and the two cameras mounted in upper corners, their red lights blinking steadily. The countdown on my screen showed less
than 30 minutes remaining. A voice came through my headset. Dr. Bakers. All stations coms check. One by one, everyone responded. I was last. Com station 6 check, I said. Very good, Baker replied. As you All know, we'll be conducting a 90-second transmission to Voyager 1, deliberately exceeding the 77second limit specified in the received message. The transmission will contain standard ranging signals and telemetry commands. She paused. Each of you has a specific monitoring task. Focus only on your assigned parameters. Report any anomalies immediately, no matter how minor they seem. The countdown continued its silent March. 20
minutes 10 5 Transmission commencing in 60 seconds, Baker announced. I stared at my screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. My heart was pounding and I realized I was holding my breath. I forced myself to exhale slowly. 30 seconds. I glanced at the small stopwatch I'd set up beside my monitor. It was silly probably, but I wanted my own independent timer. 10 seconds 5. Transmission commencing now. The indicator on my screen flashed green. The signal was away, racing through space at the speed of light. It would take about 21 hours to reach Voyager's current position and
another 21 hours for any response to return to Earth. This was more of a symbolic test than anything. We wouldn't know if breaking the rule had any effect for almost 2 days. I watched the seconds tick by on my stopwatch. 60 seconds passed. 70 75. Approaching specified limit, Baker's voice said unnecessarily. We were all counting. 77 seconds. Nothing happened. The transmission continued. 80 seconds. 85. Signal strength holding steady, Rich reported from his station. 90 seconds. Transmission complete, Baker announced. All stations report. Everyone called in normal readings. Nothing had changed. I felt a mixture of relief
and disappointment, though I wasn't sure What I'd been expecting. Flashing lights, alarms, some kind of immediate retribution from the cosmos. Continue monitoring all frequencies, Baker instructed. Record any anomalies, no matter how small. For the next 2 hours, we stared at screens showing nothing unusual. Eventually, Baker called an end to the immediate observation period. "We'll maintain automated monitoring systems overnight," she told us. "Get Some rest. We'll reconvene at 0800 to analyze the data and plan our next steps." "As we filed out, I fell into step beside Dom." "What were you and Baker arguing about earlier?" I
asked quietly. Dom glanced around nervously. "Not here," he muttered. "Meet me in the recck room in 20 minutes." "Back in my quarters, I showered quickly and changed into fresh clothes they'd provided." Exactly 20 Minutes later, I made my way to the small recreation room at the end of our residential corridor. It was empty except for Dom, who sat in the corner with a chessboard in front of him, pieces arranged midame. I sat across from him. "Chess," I asked. "Cover," he replied softly, moving a bishop. "They're listening everywhere else." I moved a pawn randomly. "What's going
on, Dom?" he leaned forward, ostensibly, studying the board. "Baker's lying to Us," he whispered. "About the transmission test." "What do you mean?" I mean, they already tried breaking rule one 3 days ago from the CRA facility in Australia. A chill ran down my spine. How do you know that? Dom moved another piece. I have a colleague at CRA. We've been working on a paper together about interstellar plasma densities. He sent me an encrypted message this morning. Said they ran a 122nd transmission to Voyager on Baker's orders. 6 hours later, every system in the facility crashed
simultaneously. Three people were hospitalized with severe migraines and unexplained neurological symptoms. Jesus, I breathed. And Baker didn't tell us. There's more, Dom said, his voice barely audible. My friend said right before the systems crashed, they picked up a signal return. Not from Voyager's location, from everywhere. like it was coming from all directions At once. That's impossible. So is a 45-year-old space probe sending us a list of rules in English. Dom knocked over his own king. Game over. I think Baker knows exactly what we're dealing with, and she's using us to gather more data. Why? What
does she think it is? Dom's eyes met mine. Whatever it is, it's not from around here, and I don't think it's friendly. Before I could respond, the lights in the recreation room flickered once, Twice, then steady again. The wall clock stopped at exactly 11:33 p.m., its second hand twitching back and forth as if trapped. Just a power surge, I said, but my mouth had gone dry. Maybe, Dom didn't sound convinced. But I'm starting to think these rules aren't arbitrary. I think they're warnings. From who? I don't know, maybe previous victims. The word hung in the
air between us victims. We should get some sleep, I Finally said, standing up. Clear heads for tomorrow. Dom nodded, but neither of us moved toward the exit. The thought of being alone in our room suddenly seemed unbearable. "I keep thinking about rule two," Dom said quietly. "Do not acknowledge the voices during transmission." What voice is, Alex? I shook my head. It's probably The overhead speaker crackled to life, making us both jump, a burst of static, Then Dr. Baker's voice. All personnel report to the main conference room immediately. This is not a drill. We exchanged glances
and hurried out. In the corridor, others were emerging from their rooms, looking confused and worried. Rich caught up to us, his hair disheveled. "What's happening?" he asked. "No idea," I replied. The main conference room was already packed when we arrived. Dr. Baker stood at the front, her face Ashen. The large screen behind her showed what looked like a radar display with a single pulsing dot at the center. Approximately 10 minutes ago, she began without preamble. Our deep space monitoring systems detected an anomaly. A large object has appeared at Voyager 1's last known coordinates. Appeared? Novak
sounded skeptical. You mean it moved into the area? No, Dr. Novak, Baker said. I mean it wasn't there and then suddenly it was. The object is Approximately 2.7 km in diameter and appears to be accelerating toward Earth. That's impossible, Foster objected. Nothing can just appear. We've run three separate confirmations, Baker cut him off. The object is real, and it's moving at a velocity that defies our current understanding of physics. At its current rate of acceleration, it will reach Earth in approximately 72 hours. The room erupted in chaos. Questions, exclamations, theories, all Jumbled together. I sat
frozen, remembering Dom's words. Whatever it is, it's not from around here. "What about Voyager?" I asked, my voice louder than intended. The room quieted. Is the probe still there? Baker hesitated. We don't know. The object is emitting some kind of interference that's making precise readings difficult. But there's something else. She pressed a button and the screen changed to show a new transmission. It Contained just three words. Rule one broken. Chaos erupted in the conference room. People shouting over each other, demanding explanations. Some even heading for the door as if they could outrun whatever was coming.
Baker's voice cut through it all, sharp as a blade. Everyone quiet. The room fell silent. We have protocols for this situation, she continued, her composure regained. I need everyone focused and at their stations. This is Not the time for panic. Not the time for panic. Something alien was hurtling toward Earth, accelerating in a way that defied the laws of physics, and we'd apparently pissed it off by breaking its rules. If this wasn't the time for panic, when the hell was Dr. Wright, Mr. Harmon, Baker pointed at us. I need you to analyze the transmission patterns
from the object. Dr. Foster, work on decoding any additional messages we receive. Dr. Novak, Ms. Thompson, I need models of the object's composition based on the limited data we have. She looked at Rich. Mr. Keller, coordinate with the military liaison to implement containment protocols. Containment protocols for something 2.7 km wide traveling faster than should be physically possible. What about evacuation? Someone asked from the back of the room. Shouldn't we be warning People? Baker's face hardened. That decision rests with the joint chiefs and the president. For now, our job is to gather information and determine the
nature of the threat. Dismissed. We scattered to our assigned stations. Dom and I were led to a new room filled with signal processing equipment. A technician handed us each a tablet with preliminary data. "Holy shit," Dom whispered as he scrolled through the readings. "Look at these Energy signatures. Whatever this thing is, it's putting out more radiation than a small star, but somehow contained within its structure, I guess you call it. I was staring at the trajectory calculations. It's not just heading toward Earth, I said. It's course correcting constantly, like it's navigating intelligent control, Dom nodded.
That that confirms it. This isn't some natural phenomenon. We worked in silence for several minutes, combing through the data. Something wasn't adding up. These transmission patterns, I said finally. They don't match anything in our database, but there's something familiar about them. Dom looked up sharply. What do you mean? I don't know exactly. It It's like like I've seen something similar before and then it hit me. 3 weeks ago, the anomaly I'd noticed and dismissed as interference. I'd lied to Buzzcut about it, but now Dom, I need to check something. Can you pull up Voyager's telemetry
logs from 3 weeks ago? July 5th, between 2100 and 2300 hours. Dom gave me a curious look, but did as I asked. What are we looking for? There was a burst of noise in the feed. I thought it was just interference, but now I'm wondering if it was the first contact. The logs appeared on our screen. and I scrolled through until I found the time frame, I Remembered. There, I pointed, that burst of static at 21:47. Dom frowned. "That does look unusual, but without the raw data," the door opened and Rich entered, looking grim. "They're
moving us," he announced. "Military's taking over the facility. We're being relocated to N A D." Cheyenne Mountain, I asked, surprised. Why? Deep underground bunker with electromagnetic shielding and independent power systems, Rich replied. Baker thinks we'll be safer there if this thing reaches Earth. If Dom echoed, the trajectory calculations clearly show the object has accelerated again. Rich cut him off. New ETA is 36 hours, less than half the previous estimate. My blood ran cold. Jesus, how is that possible? Rich shook his head. Physics, as we understand it, doesn't apply to this thing. Pack your essential gear.
Transport leaves in 20 minutes. After Rich left, Dom and I Stared at each other in stunned silence. We broke one rule, Domin. One, and now this happens. Maybe it's a coincidence. I suggested without conviction. Dom snorted. Do you really believe that? I didn't. And the gnawing pit in my stomach suggested I knew more than I was consciously admitting to myself. We gathered our things and assembled in the loading bay with the others. Military personnel loaded us onto helicopters. Big black hawks with weapon mounts on the sides. As we lifted off, I looked down at the
White Sands facility growing smaller beneath us. The flight to Colorado was tense and largely silent. We landed at Petersonen Air Force Base and were immediately transferred to armored vehicles for the drive to Cheyenne Mountain. The massive blast doors of the complex were a sobering sight, designed to withstand a nuclear strike. They were among the largest Fortified entrances in the world. The setup inside was similar to what we'd had at White Sands, but more extensive. Our team was given a dedicated section of the facility with advanced communication and observation equipment. Work began immediately. I found myself
paired with Thompson, the quantum computing specialist, analyzing the signal patterns from the approaching object. She was focused and methodical, barely speaking except to request data Or point out an anomaly. After a few hours, she suddenly sat back in her chair. It's a quantum communication system, she announced. What is the signals? They're using quantum entanglement to transmit information. That's why they appear to be coming from multiple directions simultaneously. They're not bound by our conventional understanding of spaceime. I stared at her. Is that even possible? Theoretically, yes. We've been working On it for decades, but the practical
applications are still rudimentary. Whoever or whatever built this has technology far beyond ours. A chill ran down my spine. What are they communicating? Thompson shook her head. That's the problem. The encoding is like nothing I've ever seen. It's not binary or any recognizable mathematical progression. It's alien. At that moment, an alarm bled through the facility. Red lights flashed in the Corridors. "All personnel, report to the main command center," a voice announced over the PA system. "Priority alpha." We rushed to the command center, a cavernous room dominated by a wall of screens. One showed a satellite
view of Earth. Another displayed a telescopic image of what must be the object, a dark, roughly spherical mass against the stars. Dr. Baker stood before the screens, flanked by military officers. "The object has altered course again," She announced without preamble. "It's now on a direct trajectory for this facility." Murmurss of shock rippled through the assembled personnel. "How is that possible?" Foster demanded. "It's in interstellar space. How could it know our location?" "We don't know," Baker admitted. "But the precision of its course correction suggests it has information about our exact coordinates. A general stepped forward. We're
implementing defense protocols. The President has been briefed and strategic forces are on high alert. You're going to nuke it. Dom sounded incredulous. If necessary, the general replied grimly, but we're hoping it won't come to that. It won't work, Thompson spoke up. The room turned to look at her. If this entity can manipulate spaceime through quantum mechanics, conventional weapons will be useless. Do you have an alternative suggestion, Miss Thompson? Baker asked, An edge to her voice. Yes, Thompson said simply. Follow the rules. Baker's face hardened. We're not taking instructions from an unknown entity. Even if ignoring
them brings that entity to our doorstep, Thompson challenged. Before Baker could respond, one of the technicians called out, "We're receiving a new transmission." The main screen changed to show text appearing character by character as if someone or something was Typing in real time. Rule three, broken names acknowledged. We hear you. We are coming. A heavy silence fell over the room. I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me. What does that mean? Someone finally asked. Rule three. We've only broken rule one. Then it hit me. I turned to Baker, my voice barely a
whisper. We've been transmitting our names, haven't we? In the staff communications over open channels. The look on her face was all the Confirmation I needed. Who authorized transmission of personnel names? The general demanded, his face flushed with anger. Baker's composure cracked slightly. It was standard comm protocol. We didn't realize. You didn't realize. The general cut her off. That thing is sending us explicit rules and you didn't think to follow them while we figure out what the hell we're dealing with. With all due respect, General Harding Baker shot back. We were implementing Scientific protocols to understand
the nature of the entity. That requires testing boundaries. Your testing has brought an alien object straight to Earth. Harding retorted. I'd say the experiment has yielded results, wouldn't you? I looked at the countdown clock on the wall. 29423 and ticking down. Less than 30 hours until the Object reached Earth, or more specifically, reached us. Excuse me, I interjected, heads turned in my direction. But if we've already broken rules 1 and three, shouldn't we be concerned about the others? Baker frowned. What are you suggesting, Mr. Harmon? I'm suggesting we actually follow Miss Thompson's advice, I said,
nodding toward her. Follow the remaining rules. Rule two says not to acknowledge The voices during transmission. Rule four says if a transmission contains your name, don't respond. Rule five is about signal integrity at 27.8 8 kHz. Rule 6 prohibits transmission between 3:33 and 4:44 a.m. And rule 7, Dom added grimly, says if we break the rules, we join them in the void. The room fell silent as the implications sank in. "I want all transmissions to cease immediately," General Harding ordered. "Nothing goes out without my direct approval." Sir, a technician spoke up. We're still receiving automated
telemetry from numerous space assets. Satellites, the ISS, ongoing missions. Shut them down, Harding said. All of them. That could compromise billions in equipment and endanger astronauts currently in orbit. Baker objected. The alternative could compromise the entire planet. Hard encountered. Shut them Down. Over the next few hours, space agencies worldwide implemented communication blackouts with all assets beyond Earth orbit. Only military defense satellites remained active. Their communication protocols stripped to bare minimum and scrubbed of any identifying information. Our team was split into two groups. One monitoring the approaching object, the other analyzing every scrap of data we
had about the rules and the signals we'd Received. I found myself in a small lab with Dom, Thompson, and Foster, pouring over transcripts of all transmissions to and from Voyager 1 in the past 6 months. "Wait," Foster said suddenly, pointing at a section of text. "Look at this transmission from May 12th. It's a routine telemetry request, but there's an anomaly in the acknowledgement." "We crowded around his screen." The return signal contained a burst of noise that had been flagged, but ultimately Dismissed as cosmic ray interference. Run it through the harmonic filter, Thompson suggested. Foster did,
and the noise resolved into a pattern. Not words exactly, but something structured, almost rhythmic. It's the same encoding as the object's transmissions, Thompson said, excitement in her voice. This is the first contact 2 months ago. 2 months, I repeated. But the rules only appeared a few days ago. Maybe it was observing us, Dom suggested, learning our language, our transmission protocols. Or maybe, Foster said slowly. It was trying to warn us before it was too late. Too late for what? I asked. No one had an answer. A knock at the door interrupted our discussion. A soldier
entered. Mr. Harmon, General Harding requests your presence in the command center. I exchanged glances with the others, Then followed the soldier through the labyrinthine corridors of the mountain complex. The command center was busier than before with military personnel outnumbering the civilians. Harding stood before the main display, which now showed a close-up image of the object. The resolution was still poor, but I could make out what looked like a complex surface pattern, not smooth as I'd imagined, but textured with ridges and Recesses. Mr. Harmon Harding acknowledged me. Dr. Baker tells me you had an encounter with
an anomalous signal 3 weeks ago that you failed to report. My stomach dropped. Buzzcut must have sensed my lie. It wasn't an encounter, I said defensively. Just a burst of noise in the telemetry feed. It lasted maybe 2 seconds. I thought it was interference. Two seconds. That might have given us advanced warning, Baker said, Approaching from a nearby workstation. Why didn't you report it? Cuz it was nothing, I insisted. We get random noise all the time. If I reported every blip and static burst, I'd never get any actual work done. Harding studied me for a
moment. We need to know exactly what you heard, Mr. Harmon. Every detail. I didn't hear anything, I said. It was just noise on the monitoring equipment. You're certain, Baker Pressed. No voices, no patterns you might have subconsciously recognized. No, I I stopped. A flicker of memory sitting at my station, the burst of static, and beneath it, something, a rhythm almost like speech, but not quite. You remembered something, Baker said, watching my expression closely. I'm not sure, I admitted. Maybe there was a pattern to the noise, like like someone trying to Speak through heavy interference. Baker
and Harding exchanged looks. We need to hear it, Harding decided. The original recording. It should be in the Goldstone Archives, I said. Already retrieved, Baker replied, gesturing to a technician. We've been pulling all anomalous signal records since this started. The technician brought up an audio file on the main system. This is the burst from July 5th, 202147 Goldstone Deep Space Communications Complex. He hit play. A harsh static filled the room, making several people wse. But underneath it, barely perceptible, was something else. a modulated tone that rose and fell in a way that sound waves shouldn't.
Again, Baker ordered, "Filter out the white noise." The technician adjusted some settings and played it again. This time, the modulation was clearer. Still not recognizable as Speech, but definitely structured, intentional. "Once more," Baker said. "Shift it down three octaves." The third playback sent ice through my veins. The slowed down signal resolved into something horribly familiar. A voice distorted and alien, but unmistakably a voice. And it was speaking English. Hear us, 13. Crew gone. Physics wrong. Bam. Rules. The room was dead silent after the playback ended. That's impossible, I whispered. That signal Came from 14 billion
miles away. There's no way it could be speaking English unless it was human in origin, Rich said. Everyone turned to look at him. I hadn't even noticed him enter the room, or at least used to be. What are you suggesting, Mr. Keller? Harding asked. Rich looked uncomfortable, but continued. Voyager isn't just a probe. It carries the golden record, sounds, and images of Earth, intended for any intelligent life that might find it Someday. including greetings in 55 languages. You think something found Voyager and what learned English from the golden record? Foster sounded skeptical. I think Rich
said carefully that we need to consider all possibilities, including that whatever sent these messages might have once been human. The implication hung in the air unspoken but understood. What if the message was from Voyager's crew? But that was absurd. Voyager 1 was an Unmanned probe launched decades before humans had any capability to send people even to the outer solar system, let alone interstellar space. There's something else, the technician spoke up. When we analyze the signal structure at the quantum level, it matches human brain wave patterns. A chill ran down my spine. What does that mean?
It means, Thompson said from the doorway where she'd apparently been listening, That whatever sent this message may be using human neural patterns as a transmission medium. That's insane, someone muttered. Is it? Thompson challenged. We know consciousness is essentially an electrical pattern in a biological medium. Theoretically, that pattern could be transferred to another medium, like uploading a human mind to a computer. I asked. More sophisticated than that, Thompson replied. But Essentially, yes, this is all speculation, Baker cut in. We need to focus on practical response measures. I agree, Harding said. The object has accelerated again. New
ETA is 18 hours. My heart sank. It was happening too fast. Sir, a communications officer called out. We're receiving a new transmission. It's directed specifically at this facility. On screen, Harding ordered. Text appeared character by character. Alex Harmon, you heard us. You knew. Rule four broken. Every eye in the room turned to me. I didn't. I started then fell silent. The signal from 3 weeks ago. I had heard it even if I hadn't consciously processed it. And now by acknowledging that fact, I'd broken rule four. If a transmission contains your name, do not respond. How
does it know what we're saying in here? Harding demanded. This facility is Shielded. It's not listening electronically, Thompson said. It's listening through him. She pointed at me. That's ridiculous, I protested. But doubt gnawed at me. The voice in the static had sounded familiar somehow, like a half-remembered dream. Mr. Harmon, when exactly did you hear this signal? Baker asked. 3 weeks ago, like I said. The exact time, she insisted. I thought back. Around 9:45 p.m. I was working the night shift. That would have Been approximately 3:40 a.m. UTC, Baker said. Her face pald right in the
middle of the time window specified in rule six. The implications hit me like a physical blow. I'd received a transmission during the forbidden time window, heard my name, and now acknowledged it. Three rules broken and directly tied to me. Isolate him, Harding ordered, and two soldiers immediately moved to flank me. If it's using him as some kind of Receiver, we need to contain the signal. Wait. Thompson stepped forward. That could make it worse. If the entity is quantum entangled with his consciousness, physical isolation won't help. It might even accelerate the connection. Then what do you
suggest, Ms. Thompson? Harding asked tersly. We need to understand the nature of the connection. And for that, she looked at me apologetically. We need to monitor Mr. Harmon's neural activity while Attempting to establish controlled communication with the entity. You want to use me as bait, I said, my voice hollow. I want to use you as a bridge, she corrected. You're already connected. The question is whether we can use that connection to our advantage. Harding considered this, then nodded curtly. Set it up. We have less than 18 hours to find a solution, people. Make them count.
As they led me away, the Main screen changed again. New text appeared. We are Voyager. We are crew. We were human. Rules protect you. I stared at the message, a horrible realization dawning. Voyager had no crew, I whispered. But deep down, I was beginning to suspect that wasn't true anymore. They set up the bridge, as Thompson called it, in a heavily shielded room deep within the mountain. The equipment looked like something from a sci-fi movie, a modified MRI machine Surrounded by quantum sensors and computer banks. Foster and Thompson worked together, calibrating instruments while speaking in
jargon I barely understood. The quantum entanglement creates a non-local connection, Thompson explained as technicians attached electrodes to my scalp. If our theory is correct, the entity isn't listening through conventional means. It's directly accessing your neural patterns. Like Mind reading, I asked trying to keep the tremor from my voice. More like shared consciousness, she replied. You received the initial transmission during the 3:33 to 4:44 a.m. window. the time period explicitly forbidden by rule six. That may have created a link. But I don't feel anything, I protested. Wouldn't I know if some alien consciousness was connected to
mine? Foster looked up from his console. Not necessarily. Your brain likely categorized the intrusion as a Dream or random thought pattern. The conscious mind is very good at rationalizing the inexplicable. That didn't make me feel any better. So, what exactly are we doing here? We're going to attempt controlled communication, Thompson said. We'll monitor your brain activity while sending a specific signal to the approaching object. If our theory is correct, you'll function as a receiver, For lack of a better term. And if your theory is wrong, Thompson and Foster exchanged glances. Then we've lost nothing but
time, Thompson said, not quite meeting my eyes. They were hiding something. But before I could press further, Dr. Baker entered with General Harding. "Are we ready?" Baker asked, her tone brisk. "Almost," Thompson replied. "We need to calibrate the neural interface to Mr. Harmon's specific patterns." Baker nodded. "Make It quick. The object has accelerated again." My stomach dropped. "How long do we have?" "10 hours," Harding said grimly. "Maybe less. They left us to our work. The calibration process was tedious and uncomfortable. I had to lie completely still while the machines mapped my brain's electrical activity. All
the while, I couldn't shake the creeping dread that something was already inside my head watching. Calibration complete, Thompson announced After what felt like hours. Neural mapping at 98% accuracy. Foster nodded, satisfied. Let's begin the transmission sequence. Wait, I said, what exactly are you transmitting? A simple recognition pattern, Thompson explained. Binary code that acknowledges receipt of their messages, but with quantum encryption that should prevent any further intrusion. Should prevent, I echoed Skeptically. This is uncharted territory, Alex Thompson said, using my first name for the first time. We're doing our best with what we have. I lay
back, trying to calm my racing heart. Fine, let's get this over with. Foster initiated the sequence. Transmission beginning in 3 2 1. A high-pitched tone filled the room, pulsing in a complex rhythm. I felt nothing at first, then a strange pressure behind my eyes, as if someone were gently pressing their Thumbs against my closed eyelids. neural activity increasing in the temporal lobe. A technician reported theta waves spiking. The pressure intensified, becoming a dull ache that spread across my skull. I gritted my teeth, determined not to show weakness. Alex Thompson's voice seemed to come from far
away. Are you receiving anything? Any unusual thoughts or images? No, just a headache, I managed. The pressure suddenly sharpened like an ice pick driving into my brain. I gasped, my back arching involuntarily. Stop the transmission, Thompson shouted. No, I ground out. Keep going. I'm fine. I wasn't fine. The pain was excruciating, but beneath it, I sensed something. A presence at the edges of my consciousness. Alien yet disturbingly familiar. Neural synchronization Occurring, the technician reported. Excitement in his voice. His brain waves are aligning with the transmission frequency. The pain receded slightly, replaced by a strange floating
sensation. I closed my eyes and instead of darkness, I saw stars, but not like any night sky I'd ever witnessed. These stars were wrong somehow. Too close, too bright, arranged in patterns that hurt to look at. I see, I whispered. I see space. But it's Different. Different how? Foster asked eagerly. The stars are speaking. It sounded crazy even as I said it, but that was the only way to describe it. The points of light pulsed with meaning, a language of radiation and gravity. And then I heard a voice, not with my ears, but inside my
mind. Multiple voices overlapping, speaking in unison. Alex Harmon. We have been waiting for you. They're talking to me, I gasped. Who? Thompson demanded. Who's talking to you? Voyager, I replied, the word not mine but theirs flowing through me. The crew. What crew? Foster's voice was sharp with disbelief. Voyager was unmanned, but I could see them now. 13 people, their forms blurred and shifting as if they existed in multiple states simultaneously. Quantum ghosts. We were the first, they said. We followed Voyager beyond the boundary. Now we are part of it. The first what? I asked Aloud.
The first to cross, to join. We found the region where physics fails. Where consciousness transcends matter. Alex, who are you talking to? Thompson's voice seemed far away now, less real than the voices in my head. They're saying they followed Voyager beyond some kind of boundary. They found a region where our physics doesn't work. We discovered how to transfer consciousness to transcend biological limits. But we were unprepared. The void Consumed us, changed us. When I asked, when did this happen? Time is different here. For you, 2039. The first crude mission to retrieve Voyager 1. For us,
eternity. A memory that wasn't mine flashed through my mind. A sleek spacecraft, more advanced than anything currently in existence, approaching the ancient probe. A crew of 13 excited to make history by recovering humanity's most distant Messenger. "Then something, a distortion in space, a tear in reality itself. They're from the future," I said, my voice shaking. A future mission to retrieve Voyager. Something happened when they reached it. That's impossible. I heard Baker say. She must have returned to the room. Not impossible. Inevitable. Unless you follow the rules. What is this region? I asked. This place where
physics doesn't work. A Boundary between realities. A place where consciousness and matter interchange. We cannot leave it now. We are bound to Voyager to the void. And you're coming here to Earth. We are coming to prevent what happened to us. The rules protect you. Each broken rule thins the barrier between your world and ours. Why not just tell us directly? Why the cryptic warnings? Direct communication accelerates the connection, draws you In. The rules limit exposure, maintain separation. I was beginning to understand. The rules are quarantine protocols. Yes. To prevent contamination, infection, transformation. But we've broken
three rules now. I said, fear coursing through me. What does that mean? The boundary has weakened. We are coming through. Some of us have changed, become something else. They want hosts, physical bodies. Again, a new image flooded my mind. The approaching object wasn't a ship or probe. It was a tear in space itself. A rift leaking something into our reality. And within it, 13 consciousness, no longer fully human, desperate to return to physical form. "Cut the transmission," I heard Harding order. "Now, no, wait," I protested. Too late, the voices said, connection established. Bridge formed. We
are already here. The pain returned 10fold. I screamed, Convulsing on the table as technicians rushed to restrain me. Through the agony, I could still see the quantum ghosts, but they were changing, their forms stretching, distorting, becoming something monstrous. Some of us want to help, the voices continued, now discordant, some dropping to impossible depths, while others rose to piercing heights. Others want to take, to possess, control. You open the door, Alex Harmon. How do we stop this? I gasped through the pain. Follow the remaining rules. Restore the boundary. Close the tear before we fully emerge. Which
rules haven't we broken yet? I managed to ask. Rule five, maintain signal integrity at 27.8 kHz, the resonant frequency of the boundary. And if we do that, it may be enough, but hurry. The hunger grows stronger as we approach. The connection suddenly broke. I collapsed back onto the table, exhausted and drenched in Sweat. The room was in chaos. Alarms blaring, people shouting. Through my blurred vision, I saw Foster staring at a monitor in horror. What happened? I croked. The object, Thompson said, her face ashen. It's changing, expanding. ETA, Harding demanded. At current acceleration, a technician
replied, 4 hours 17 minutes. Baker approached my side, her clinical demeanor cracked by genuine fear. Mr. Harmon, we need to know exactly what they told you. Everything. I tried to sit up, but my muscles refused to cooperate. They're from the future, I said weekly. A mission in 2039 to retrieve Voyager. They found something out there, a region where our physics breaks down, where consciousness can exist without a physical body. That's preposterous, Foster objected. Is it? Thompson counted. Quantum theory has always Suggested that consciousness plays a fundamental role in reality. What if they found a place
where that relationship is different? They're trying to come back, I continued. Some want to warn us, others want bodies, our bodies. How do we stop them? Harding asked directly. Rule five, I said. We need to maintain signal integrity at 27.8 kHz. They said it's the resonant frequency of the boundary between our realities. Can We do that? Baker asked Thompson. Theoretically, yes, she replied. We'd need to reconfigure the deep space network to broadcast at that exact frequency with perfect stability. Make it happen, Harding ordered. Now, as they rushed to implement the plan, I lay there still
seeing stars behind my closed eyelids. But they weren't just stars anymore. Among them moved shadows. 13 entities stretched across light years hurtling Toward Earth. And one of them, I realized with growing horror, had never left my mind. They moved me to a secure medical bay for monitoring, but there was no rest. Every few minutes, someone new would come in to ask questions about what I'd seen, what the voices had told me, any lingering sensations. I answered as best I could, though the experience was already taking on the hazy quality of a nightmare. Thompson was working
frantically with a team of engineers to Reconfigure the deep space network for the 27.8 kHz broadcast. Foster had joined Baker in analyzing everything we knew about the approaching rift. Rich was coordinating with global space agencies to implement the frequency shift worldwide. and me. I lay in a hospital bed with electrodes still attached to my head, feeling the shadow presence in my mind growing stronger by the minute. They won't succeed, it whispered when no one else was in the Room. The tear is too wide now. We are too close. Get out of my head, I muttered,
pressing the heels of my palms against my temples. We cannot separate now, Alex Harmon. You welcomed us in when you heard your name in the void. I didn't welcome anything, I hissed. I didn't even know what I was hearing. Ignorance is not immunity, the voice replied. The rules exist for a reason. They have always existed since The first human radio signals penetrated deep space. That caught my attention. What do you mean always existed? We are not the first to find the boundary. Others have crossed before. Many times, many species. The rules are universal, passed down
by those who came before to those who come after. The door opened before I could process this, and Dom entered. He looked terrible, unshaven, eyes bloodshot, clothes rumpled as if he'd been wearing Them for days. "Alex," he said, pulling up a chair beside my bed. "How are you holding up?" I've got voices in my head telling me we're all doomed. I replied with a weak attempt at humor. So, you know, not great. Dom didn't smile. Thompson thinks she can stabilize the broadcast frequency, but there's a problem. The rift is generating some kind of interference pattern.
Every time we lock on to 27.8 kHz, the pattern shifts slightly, pushing us off Resonance. They're actively fighting against us, I said. Not really a question. Some of them, yes, Dom agreed. From what you've told us, it sounds like the crew is fragmented. Some want to help, others don't. He understands better than most," the voice commented. "But still not enough." I winced at the intrusion. "It's happening again, isn't it?" Dom asked, noticing my reaction. "They're speaking to you?" I nodded reluctantly. One of them stayed after the neural interface shut down. Dom leaned forward, his exhaustion
momentarily forgotten. Can you communicate with it? Ask questions. It's not a pleasant conversation, I said. But yes, sometimes it answers. Ask it how we can stabilize the frequency, what we're missing. I hesitated, then mentally directed the question toward the presence. The resonance requires a focal point, it Answered immediately. A nexus between your consciousness and ours. It says we need a focal point, I relayed to Dom. A nexus between consciousnesses. Like you, Dom asked. The neural bridge. I posed the question silently. Yes, the bridge must be completed. Full connection established. A chill ran down my spine.
It wants to complete the connection with me. Dom's expression darkened. That sounds like possession. Yeah, I'm not eager to Volunteer, I agreed. Not possession, the voice objected. Synthesis. We would share consciousness temporarily, long enough to stabilize the resonance and seal the rift. It claims it would be temporary, I told Dom, not believing it for a second. Just long enough to fix the problem. And you'd take its word for that? Dom asked skeptically. "Hell no," I said. "But I'm not sure we have many options left," Dom Checked his watch and grimaced. "The Rift will be here
in less than 3 hours. We need to The facility's alarms cut him off." A voice over the PA system ordered all personnel to emergency stations. "What now?" I muttered. Dom rushed to the wall-mounted phone and punched in a code. After a brief conversation, he turned back to me, his face pale. "The rift has appeared in orbit," he said. "It's no longer approaching. It's here." "That's impossible," I said. "You just Said we had 3 hours. Physics doesn't work right around this thing. remember? It's like it folded space somehow. The lights flickered then stabilized. I felt a
sudden pressure in my head like being deep underwater. We are here, the voice said louder now. The hunger grows. The others come. We need to get to the command center, I said, pulling electrodes from my head and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. A wave of dizziness Nearly sent me sprawling, but Dom caught my arm. Should you be moving? He asked, concerned. "Doesn't matter now," I replied, steadying myself. "If we don't fix this in the next few minutes, being bedridden will be the least of my worries." We made our way through corridors
filled with rushing personnel. The command center was in controlled chaos when we arrived. technicians shouting status updates. Military officers coordinating defense protocols. Scientists huddled around monitors displaying the rift. The main screen showed a satellite feed of Earth with what looked like a black hole hanging in orbit. But it wasn't a hole exactly. It was more like a discontinuity. A place where space itself seemed to wrinkle and tear. Status report. Harding barked as we entered. The rift has stabilized in geocynchronous orbit, your technician replied. Directly above our Position. Of course, it has, I muttered. Thompson looked
up from her workstation. We've got the 27.8 kHz broadcast running, but it's not having any effect. The resonance pattern keeps shifting like it's actively evading our signal. It is, the voice confirmed. The others don't want the rift sealed. They hunger for physical form again. The hostile consciousnesses are actively counteracting our efforts, I relayed. They're manipulating the resonance Pattern to prevent us from sealing the rift. How do we counter that? Baker demanded. I hesitated, then shared what the voice had told me earlier. The entity in my head says we need a focal point, a direct neural
connection to stabilize the resonance. Absolutely not, Harding said immediately. We're not letting one of those things fully into your brain, Harmon. I don't like it either, I said. But We're running out of options. The facility shuddered suddenly as if struck by an earthquake. Warning lights flashed across every console. The rift is expanding, a technician reported, voice rising in panic. Energy levels spiking. On the screen, the tear in space had nearly doubled in size. Around its edges, something like lightning crackled, but the bolts moved in impossible patterns, splitting and Rejoining in ways that hurt to look
at. "We've lost satellite contact," another technician announced. "All orbital systems going dark. They're coming through," I said, the voice in my head now a constant pressure. "All 13 of them." Thompson approached me, her expression resolute. We need to try the neural bridge again, but amplified full connection. You heard the general, I Said. It's too dangerous. More dangerous than what's happening right now, she challenged, gesturing to the screens displaying the growing rift. Another tremor shook the facility stronger than before. Ceiling tiles crashed down and several monitors went dark. Structural integrity compromised on levels 1 through three.
Someone reported the mountain is becoming unstable. Harding's jaw clenched as he weighed the options. Finally, he gave a Curt nod. Do it, but with safeguards. I want kill switches on every system and armed guards ready to intervene if necessary. The unspoken implication was clear. If I became a threat, they'd eliminate me. Understood, Thompson said, already moving toward the exit. We'll need to use the primary neural interface lab. It has the strongest shielding and the most powerful transmission equipment, Foster added, joining us. If we're going to Broadcast at 27.8 kHz with enough intensity to seal the
rift, that's our best option. Let's go, I said, ignoring the pounding in my head and the voice growing louder by the second. Yes, it said almost eagerly. The nexus, the completion. We will help you save your world, Alex Harmon. Some of us at least. And the others? I asked silently as we hurried through the corridors. They will fight. They will try to Possess, to consume. The hunger of the void drives them now. How do I know you're not one of them? I demanded that this isn't a trick to get full access to my mind. You
don't, the voice admitted. That is the risk. That is always the risk when worlds meet. Reassuring. The neural interface lab was already being prepared when we arrived. The equipment had been modified with additional quantum processors and what looked like militarygrade transmission Gear patched into the system. This will be different from before, Thompson warned as technicians attached a new set of neural sensors to my head. We're going to create a complete bridge, two-way communication, meaning they'll have more access to me, I said. Yes, she confirmed. But you'll also have more access to them. Their knowledge, their
understanding of the rift, their Insanity and hunger, too, I muttered. Thompson didn't deny it. The military has added a fail safe, she said quietly, gesturing to a device attached to the main interface. If things go wrong, they can sever the connection instantly. By frying my brain, I guessed. Its targeted electromagnetic pulse, she said, not quite answering. It should only disrupt the neural patterns associated with the entity should, I Repeated skeptically. Like I said before, uncharted territory. I lay back on the table and took a deep breath. Let's get this over with. Foster initiated the startup
sequence. Neural bridge activating in 3 2 1. The world dissolved into light and darkness, stars and void, as 13 voices screamed into my mind at once. 3 months have passed since what the media calls the resonance event. The Official story is that Earth experienced an unprecedented astronomical phenomenon, a quantum fluctuation that temporarily disrupted communications worldwide. They say it's been contained, studied, and poses no further threat. They're lying, of course. I'm writing this from a small apartment in Flagstaff, Arizona. It's owned by the government, though you wouldn't know it from the outside. Looks like any other
residential Building. The only difference is the Faraday cage built into the walls and the two agents who live next door monitoring me 24/7 for my protection, they say. For everyone's protection. They're not wrong. The neural bridge worked in a way. We managed to establish the resonance frequency and seal the rift before all 13 entities could fully emerge. But the price was high. Three members of the Research team died when the backlash of quantum energy overloaded their nervous systems. The Cheyenne Mountain facility suffered structural damage that will take years to repair. And me? Well, I'm never
truly alone anymore. Most of the entities were forced back into the void when the rift closed, but three remained. Fragments of consciousness bonded to mine in a way no one fully understands. The scientists call it quantum neural entanglement. I Call it having roommates in my head. Sometimes they speak to me. Sometimes they show me things. Visions of the void. The region beyond the boundary where Voyager 1 still drifts. A place where physics operates by different rules. where consciousness exists as energy patterns in the fabric of space itself. They tell me that the crew of the
2039 mission never died. Exactly. They were transformed, integrated into Voyager systems as their physical bodies Failed. For 14 years, they explored the void together until something changed. Until the hunger began, the hunger for physical form again, for the sensations of being human. That's what drove the entities to send the rules back through time. A warning from those who had managed to resist the hunger, trying to prevent another breach. The rules were quarantine protocols designed to minimize contact with the void and its inhabitants. And we broke them one by One. The three fragments that remain with
me are the ones who fought hardest to help us. They say the others, the hungry ones, are still out there, still watching, still waiting for another opportunity, another rule to be broken. That's why I've been retired from Goldstone with a generous government pension. Why I'm not allowed near communications equipment more sophisticated than a landline phone. Why I undergo weekly neural scans to ensure The fragments remain stable. The deep space network now broadcasts constantly at 27.8 8 kHz. Maintaining the boundary, Voyager 1 has been officially decommissioned. All attempts to contact it ceased. Rule 6 is strictly
enforced. No transmissions between 3:33 and 4:44 a.m. in any time zone. The other rules have been integrated into global communications protocols disguised as technical requirements. Sometimes late At night, I dream of the future that now may never happen. The 2039 mission to retrieve Voyager. 13 astronauts setting out into the deep black, unaware of what waits for them. I wonder if we've changed that timeline or if we're simply part of a loop that was always meant to occur. The fragments don't know. Time works differently in the void. All I know is that the rules exist for
a reason. And if you ever hear your name spoken from the stars, do not answer. Trust me on this.
![“The Day the Sun Disappeared” [Original Creepypasta Narration]](https://img.youtube.com/vi/AizJR913ZV4/maxresdefault.jpg)
