The silence in the command center was suffocating. I stared at the monitor, my mind replaying the image of Jones's broken helmet. The static of the open channel was a constant, low hum in my headset. Then Bob's voice cut through, raw with grief and fury.
"Hey, Doc. This is all your fault. If you hadn't told Jones to climb that damn hill, he'd still be here to kick your ass."
"Bob, stand down," Sarge's voice was a low growl, strained from his injury. "It was an accident. Blaming each other won't bring him back."
"Shut your mouth, Sarge!" Bob spat. "You weren't even there. You were sitting pretty in the rocket while Jones was dying! So shut your bullshit mouth!"
I could hear the rage building, the tremor in his voice. "Doc, you hear me? When we get back to Earth, you're going to answer for this. You're going to take responsibility for Jones's death!"
I could no longer stay silent. I keyed my mic, trying to inject a calm I didn't feel. "I'm... sorry about Jones. He was a good man."
"Don't you dare!" Bob's voice exploded through the speaker, making me flinch. "Don't act like you knew him! You don't know Jones, and you sure as hell don't know us! You're just a voice in a box! So shut your fucking mouth!"
I recoiled from the headset as if I'd been physically struck. He was right. I was a million miles away, safe in a climate-controlled room, while they were burying a friend. I fell silent.
Doc's voice came through, heavy with guilt. "He's right. It is my fault. I'll... I'll take responsibility when we're back on Earth."
A different voice broke the tension. It was Private, his voice small but resolute. "Captain, can we have permission to give Jones a proper burial before we continue? Please?"
"Sure," I said, my voice soft. "Take your time."
As the line went quiet, I turned to my own work. The grief was a fresh wound, but the mission had to go on. I pulled up the database of declassified Soviet documents, a project I'd started the moment we'd seen that impossible photograph. I scrolled through page after page of technical data on the Soyuz program, lunar rovers, and cosmonaut training.
Then, I found it. A reference to a joint project, a collaboration with America in 1975. The Apollo-Soyuz Test Project was public knowledge, but this was different. It spoke of a covert technology development program. The details, however, were missing. A crucial section of the document had been redacted, leaving only a title: Lunar Project.
Frustrated, I dug deeper. My search led me to a name that sent a chill down my spine: NHBM. An acronym for "Non-Human Brain Machines," or in the original Russian, Hечеловеческие Mозговые Mашины (HMM) . That was the only clue. The rest of the file was corrupted, the text garbled and unreadable.
The implications were terrifying. What in God's name had they been building up there?
I was jolted from my thoughts by a private channel pinging in my headset. It was Sarge.
"Captain," he said, his voice low and tired. "I know you're busy, but... please forgive Bob's rudeness. He's not a bad man. He's just... temperamental. He feels things too deeply."
"It's okay, Sarge. I understand. I overstepped. I was acting too familiar with a man I never met."
There was a pause. "What are you going to do now, Sarge? Are you going to join them?" I asked.
"No, I... I think I'll stay here. Guard the rocket." His voice sounded uncertain, hesitant.
"Alright. Stay safe, Sarge."
A new notification appeared on my monitor. It was from Doc: We're done.
"Hey, Captain, the burial is complete," Doc's voice came through, the usual professional tone now laced with sorrow.
"Good. Are the Private and Bob ready to go too?"
"Yes, they're ready. I'll be taking over Jones's duties as photographer."
"Okay. Proceed to that building with extreme caution. If anything—and I mean anything—seems off, report back immediately."
"Understood, Captain. Doc out."
The channel went quiet again. I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing. Minutes later, my office phone rang. It was a summons from my superior, Mr. Russell Weiss. He wanted a full report.
I gathered my documents and the photograph Jones had taken—the last thing he ever captured—and made my way to the meeting room. Mr. Weiss was already there, a tall, imposing man with a perfectly groomed blond mustache and an immaculate suit.
He greeted me with a firm handshake. "Captain Benjamin. Good to see you. Please, have a seat." His voice was a smooth baritone.
"Thank you, sir."
He wasted no time. "I called you in to hear what your team has uncovered. The initial reports are... intriguing."
I laid the photograph on the table. "This is the source of the signal, sir. A building. With Soviet symbols on it. Based on the design and the materials, I suspect it was constructed sometime around 1975."
"1975?" Weiss raised an eyebrow. "That would coincide with the window of our last official collaboration with the Soviet Union."
"Precisely, sir. It's just a theory, as our own records from that period are incomplete. But I also found this." I showed him the Soviet document. "A term, buried in their files. NHBM. It stands for 'Non-Human Brain Machines.'"
Weiss stared at the acronym, his face unreadable. "Non-Human Brain... Machines. Intriguing. I'll have our archivists do a deep dive on that term. If there's anything in our vaults, I'll get it to you."
"Thank you, sir."
He nodded, taking the documents and turning to leave. Just before he reached the door, he paused. "And Captain... my condolences on your loss. Jones was a brave man."
He was gone before I could reply. I sat alone in the sterile room, the weight of command pressing down on me. I returned to my mission room and keyed the main channel.
"Hello, team. Do we have any progress?"
"Here we go, the curious person is back," Bob's voice came, but it was subdued, lacking its usual venom.
"Hello, Captain. We have almost arrived at the building. It's... bigger than we thought," Doc reported.
"Bigger? Can you send a photo, Doc?"
"Sure."
Moments later, an email notification blinked on my screen. I opened the attachment and my breath caught in my throat. It was a colossal, square structure rising from the lunar plain like a dark god. A single, small red siren pulsed rhythmically on its peak, a silent alarm that had been screaming for decades.
"My God," I whispered, my eyes unable to take it all in. "The Soviets built this? It's impossible."
"I know, right? It's shockingly huge," Private chimed in.
"Huh. I wonder if it has aliens inside. Or killer robots. We'd be pretty stupid to just walk in there," Bob added, with a small, humorless laugh.
"Hey! Don't say that. You're making me overthink!" Private shot back.
"Are you scared, little boy?" Bob's mocking tone was returning.
Private fell silent. I could almost see him gritting his teeth, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
"We're almost there, Captain. What's the plan?" Doc asked, bringing us back to the task at hand.
"I need to know if the walls are a viable entry point. How thick do they look?"
"Well, you know how thick Russian walls are," Private answered.
"Wait," Doc interrupted. "There are words on the wall. Russian words. Let me try to read it." There was a pause. "Аид? Aid? What does that mean?"
"Aid? Like, help?" Private asked, confused.
"No, it's not 'help.' It's something else. A proper noun, maybe," Doc mused.
"Seriously?! It's the Russians! They're just weird!" Bob shouted, his impatience boiling over.
"Hey! Watch your mouth. I have Russian friends," Sarge's voice suddenly cut in, weak but sharp.
"Oh, look who it is! The little man comes out of his comfy chair to defend his comrades!" Bob laughed.
I'd had enough. I muted Bob's channel.
"Good grief, he's making me insane," Private sighed with relief.
"Captain, we've arrived. The walls are incredibly thick. Demolition would be a waste of explosives," Doc reported.
"Hmm. Have you seen a door? A hatch? Anything?"
"Affirmative. I found an entrance, but it's sealed with a heavy roller shutter."
"Can you open it?"
"Negative. It requires... a more direct approach. Only Bob has the expertise."
I took a deep breath and unmuted Bob's channel.
"—FUCK YOU, CAPTAIN!" His voice was immediately in my ear.
"Watch your mouth, Bob! I muted you because you were out of line. If you can control yourself, I won't do it again!"
"C'mon, are you a man or not? Should I call you Mrs. Captain? Or Lady Captain?" he mocked.
"Shut up. Just blow the damn door down. That's an order," I said, my voice hard as steel.
"Yadayadayada... okay, Lady Captain."
A moment later, I received another email. It was a photo from Private's suit camera: Bob was kneeling by the door, carefully placing brick-shaped charges.
"Alright, everyone get back if you want to live!" Bob barked. "I'll count to five."
"1..."
"..."
"5!"
A tremendous, muffled crump echoed through the comms channel.
"Hasta la vista, baby," Bob said, a hint of pride in his voice. "The door has been sent to meet its maker."
"DUDE! You said you'd count to five?!" Private shouted, his voice high with adrenaline.
"Huh? So noisy. I wasn't in the mood. Are you scared, little boy?" Bob replied.
"Captain, the entrance is clear," Doc reported, cutting through the bickering. "We're moving inside now."
"Be careful, team," I said, a knot of anxiety forming in my stomach. "And Sarge, what's your status?"
Silence.
"Sarge? Status?"
Nothing but the static of dead air.
"He's probably embarrassed I called him a small bumbum. Haha!" Bob laughed.
"Keep the channel focused. Continue the mission. I'll try to raise Sarge. His biometrics are still active, so he's alive. Good luck. Captain out."
I stared at the blank monitor, watching three small life signs disappear into the dark maw of the Soviet structure. The red siren continued to pulse in the photo, a silent alarm that promised nothing but danger.