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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.”
Captain Sikorsky had flown over three hundred missions, but he’d never seen anything like the thing that drifted out of the aurora borealis that night. captain sikorsky
He never spoke of it again. But every time after that, when the northern lights shimmered green and violet over the Barents, Captain Viktor Sikorsky would glance starboard—and smile, just a little, at the empty air. A pause