For the next ninety minutes, the disc flew beside them. It matched every altitude change, every speed adjustment, every cautious turn. It never came closer than four hundred meters. Once, when Sikorsky’s fuel gauge flickered due to a known electrical fault, the disc drifted nearer—just for a moment—and the gauge reset to accurate. The amber light dimmed afterward, as if the gesture had cost something.
A pause. The disc’s amber ring pulsed three times—green, blue, green. Then a synthetic voice, gentle and accentless, came through the speakers: “Acknowledged, Captain Sikorsky. Maintain heading. We will guard your starboard side. The sky is cold, but you are not alone.”
Sikorsky keyed the intercom. “Sensor station, give me something.” captain sikorsky
Sikorsky made a decision he would later write down in a classified report that would be locked in a safe no one would open for thirty years. He reached out and pressed the transmit button on his yoke.
The synthetic voice returned, softer now, almost sad. “We are the ones who watch the edge. You are not ready for us yet, Captain. But you—you were kind. That is rarer than you know.” For the next ninety minutes, the disc flew beside them
“Captain,” Zhukov whispered, “protocol says—”
Today, something asked to fly with me. And for one night, the sky was not an empty battlefield. Once, when Sikorsky’s fuel gauge flickered due to
“Captain,” Zhukov said quietly, “that thing is playing with us.”