I was 19 when I got assigned to Outpost Vega, a remote listening station perched on the edge of the Perseus Arm-so far from Earth that even the nearest colony was a three week jump away. My job was simple: monitor deepspace signals, log anomalies, and report nothing unless it was a confirmed threat. No excitement, no adventure, just endless hours staring at a screen, surrounded by the hum of old equipment and the cold glow of star charts.
Moe, the station’s only other resident, had been there for 12 years. He never talked about his past, never complained about the isolation, just drank lukewarm coffee and stared at the comms panel like it held the secret to getting home. I asked him once why he stayed, and he just grunted, “Somebody’s gotta keep an ear out.” I didn’t get it, until the signal hit.
It started as a faint blip, buried under static, easy to miss if I’d blinked. But it was consistent: a low, rhythmic pulse, repeating every 17 seconds, coming from a region of space that was supposed to be empty – no stars, no planets, no known probes. I flagged it, sent a report to Earth, and waited. Days passed, no response. Moe noticed my restlessness, finally looked up from his coffee, and said, “That’s not a probe signal. You know that, right?”
He pulled a dusty folder from a locked cabinet, the label faded: “Vega Anomalies, 2147-2159.” Inside were handwritten logs, old photos, and a small metallic object, dented, palm-sized, glowing faintly blue, with tiny, alien symbols etched into its surface. “Found this 10 years ago,” Moe said, his voice quieter than I’d ever heard it. “Same signal, same object. Earth called it a glitch. Said I was imagining things. But it’s real. And it’s getting stronger.”
That night, the signal amplified. The static cleared, and suddenly, it wasn’t a pulse anymore, it was a message: a sequence of tones, then images, projected onto the station’s main screen. Planets I’d never seen, structures that defied physics, and a figure – tall, slender, with skin that shimmered like stardust, staring directly at me. Moe tensed, gripping the edge of the table. “They’re not just sending a signal,” he said. “They’re looking for someone. Someone who can hear them.”
The next morning, a shuttle arrived, not from Earth, but from the Obsidian Colony, a secret outpost no one talked about. The crew had orders to shut down the station, confiscate the object, and “silence any witnesses.” Moe grabbed the metallic thing, stuffed it in my pocket, and pushed me toward the station’s escape pod. “You have to get this to Earth,” he said, his voice urgent. “They’ve been covering this up for years. The signal isn’t a message, it’s a warning. They’re coming, and we’re not ready.”
I protested, told him I couldn’t leave him, but he just shook his head. “I’ve been here too long. My job’s done. Yours is just starting.” He slammed the pod door shut, and as I launched into space, I watched the shuttle fire on Outpost Vega – bright, fiery, gone in seconds. The metallic object in my pocket vibrated, the blue glow brightening, and the signal echoed in my ears, clearer now, a single word, repeated over and over: “Protect.”
I’m halfway to Earth now, the escape pod’s thrusters humming. I don’t know who the aliens are, or why Earth is covering up their existence. I don’t know if Moe is alive, or if the Obsidian Colony is already on my trail. But I have the object, I have the signal, and I have a mission, one bigger than any I ever signed up for. Somebody’s gotta keep an ear out. Now it’s my turn.
why 2147 and 2159? Just asking.