"Communications first," Chen decided, adjusting the relay pack on one shoulder. "We need to establish contact with Longyearbyen before anything else. If something goes wrong, at least they'll know our status."
"And whoever left those footprints?" Nora asked, glancing nervously toward the residential corridor.
"Will still be there in ten minutes," Marcus said, already moving toward the right corridor. "Chen's right. We secure our lifeline first."
The corridor was narrow, forcing them into single file. Emergency lights created pools of red that didn't quite meet, leaving gaps of darkness between them. Their footsteps echoed strangely—something about the acoustics was off, making it sound like there were more than four of them walking.
Sergei ran his hand along the wall as they walked. "Temperature is wrong," he muttered. "Should be warmer inside. Insulation is good here. But feels like it's maybe only five, ten degrees above outside."
He was right. Chen's breath still misted in the air. The heating system should be maintaining a comfortable twenty degrees Celsius, even on emergency power.
They passed an observation window looking out onto the ice shelf. For a moment, Chen thought they saw movement near the landing zone—a dark shape against the white—but when they focused on it, there was nothing. Just the endless ice and that perpetual twilight sun.
The communications room door was sealed, but not locked. Marcus checked the corners first, then nodded Chen inside.
The room was a mess.
Not destroyed—but deliberately dismantled. Someone had pulled apart the main console, exposing the wiring underneath. Equipment was scattered across workstations. A laptop lay open on the floor, its screen cracked. The walls were covered with technical diagrams, some official, others hand-drawn in what looked like frantic scribbling.
But it was the main console that drew Chen's attention.
Someone had carved words into the metal surface with a knife or screwdriver: DON'T LET IT OUT.
"Bloody hell," Marcus breathed.
Nora moved to the laptop, carefully picking it up. "Still has battery. Maybe there's data—"
"Look at this," Sergei interrupted. He was standing at the satellite uplink controls. "External antenna. Damaged." He pulled up a diagnostic screen that flickered to life. "Not storm damage. Not ice. Someone took hammer to it. Smashed receiver deliberately."
Chen set down the communications relay and examined the console. The damage was extensive, but not irreparable. They might be able to bypass the satellite system and use the relay to create a direct line-of-sight transmission to Longyearbyen, but it would take time. An hour, maybe two.
Or they could try to restore the station's main systems first—get full power back online, which would make communications easier and restore heating, lighting, and computer access. But that meant finding the engineering control room in another section of the station.
Marcus was reading the technical diagrams on the wall. "These aren't standard," he said quietly. "Someone was trying to modify the communications array. Look—they wanted to broadcast on specific frequencies. Very low, very high. Why would—"
The intercom crackled again. But this time, through the static, they definitely heard something.
A voice. Distant. Distorted.
"—can hear me... if anyone... don't go down... it learns... it learns..."
Then silence.
Nora's eyes were wide. "Was that—"
"A recording," Marcus said quickly. "Has to be. Automatic playback, corrupted file, something. The station's been abandoned for three weeks."
But his knuckles were white on his rifle.
Chen stared at the damaged console, then at the relay pack. They could work on communications now—spend the next two hours jury-rigging a connection. Or they could find engineering control, restore main power, and make everything easier. But that meant going deeper into the station. Farther from the exit.
The carved words seemed to pulse in the emergency lighting: DON'T LET IT OUT.
Let what out?