Alien Years - Echoes of the Past

Year 2916, Early Cycle

The Chop Hop Gaze station life support wheezed annoyingly, technicians hurrying through the corridors, exchanging filters. An average day on a small scientific station. Computational arrays soft and fluent whisper, and the time-display of the local Proxima Cluster time, GongBellBeep -62.32.93.41.36, with a way smaller synchron to the old-fashioned Earth-time showing the year 2916. Nestled deep within the asteroid fields behind Proxima Centauri C, the outpost wasn’t built for comfort or crowds. It was a High Yard Science Outpost and a vital OCN deep-network node, a quiet, intellectually intense speck of humanity operating at the edge of the explored galaxy. There were no bustling promenades, no public gardens – just labs, living quarters, data centres, a small community centre and the constant, silent work of pushing the boundaries of knowledge.

For Miss Luck Good III, High Yard Xeno-linguist, life on the Gaze was defined by routine, shared with a dedicated, if sometimes underappreciated, team. Her office, a compact space dominated by wall-sized data displays shimmering with abstract patterns and complex algorithms, was her universe, but it extended into the shared lab space where her colleagues worked.

There was Dr. Klaus, a seasoned theoretical physicist with a dry wit and an encyclopaedic knowledge of cosmic phenomena. Com.spec. Sandras Bluna, a communications specialist whose expertise in filtering noise from deep-space signals was invaluable. Manfit744.RE, a robotic entity whose precise data handling and tireless monitoring capabilities made it an indispensable part of the team – his optical sensors often seemed to convey a quiet, patient intelligence. And Dr. Willma Garoollsteiner, a brilliant mathematician focused on pattern recognition, whose complex algorithms formed the backbone of Luck’s analysis system. And then there was Max Rosen, her bright and eager intern, a quick study despite the superficial judgments some made based on her appearance.

Their collective job, classifying potential alien signals, was a cosmic exercise in patience. For years, the dishes arrayed across the Gaze and nearby asteroids had been collecting whispers from the void – faint radio bursts, structured energy fluctuations, anything that deviated from the predictable cacophony of stellar phenomena. Billions of data packets flowed through their systems, each analysed by sophisticated AI and custom algorithms designed to detect non-random patterns that might signify intelligence.

Most were classified as “Most Unlikely.” Thousands upon thousands of “Most Unlikely” per year. Then came “Unlikely,” a slightly less crowded category. “Needs Double Check” and “Needs Check” were rare, causing a brief flicker of professional interest before usually being downgraded after further analysis. A “Review” event was the stuff of scientific journals and hushed, excited conversations in the mess hall, but even those rarely led to conclusive proof of alien origin. It was, as Luck often told Max, like listening to the entire ocean hoping to hear a single, specific seashell whisper a poem.

“Just because a pattern exists, doesn’t mean it’s intelligent,” Luck explained to Max one standard Gong Cycle, gesturing at a particularly complex waveform on her screen. Max nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration. “It could just be… cosmic static?”

“Exactly,” Luck replied, a small smile playing on her lips. “A single ‘word,’ abstract noise, is easy to isolate, but it doesn’t carry any meaning, only the potential.” She tapped the screen. “A grammatical structure is harder to isolate in torn-apart messages, fragmented by light-years and time. And to gather the meaning? That’s challenging the impossible. You need to approve this beyond any doubt, Max. Doubt is the enemy of alien contact.”

Their team of seven was a well-oiled machine, each member contributing their unique expertise to the monumental task. It was a routine, meticulous, and filled with the quiet hope of a breakthrough that felt perpetually just out of reach. Her family tradition of scanning for unresolved messages felt less like a legacy and more like a personal quest in this vast, silent ocean of data, a quest now shared with a dedicated group.

Then, the cosmic static changed.

Late 2916 Cycle

The shift didn’t happen in Luck Good’s lab first. It came from the astrophysics section, led by Dr. Velo Cyta Rapthor, or “WhyCee” as she preferred, a brilliant scientist whose formidable intellect was often overshadowed by her equally formidable ego and penchant for self-promotion.

WhyCee burst into the communal area, not bothering with the intercom, her voice cutting through the station’s ambient sounds, creating another “WHEEEE-Everyone! Drop what you’re doing! Get to the main analysis bay! You won’t believe what WHEEEEE-e’ve found!” Her tone wasn’t one of shared scientific excitement; it was the sound of a showman demanding attention for her act.

Luck and her team exchanged a look. Here we go.

They made their way to the main analysis bay, joining a growing crowd of station personnel gathered around WhyCee’s central display. On the screen was a rendered image of an object detected in the asteroid field – small, metallic, and undeniably artificial.

WhyCee stood before the screen, basking in the sudden attention. “Today, history is made!” she declared, pausing for dramatic effect. “My team, through rigorous and ground-breaking observational techniques, has discovered an object in the extended orbit of Proxima Centauri C. Initial scans indicate extreme age, unlike anything naturally occurring in this system. Our preliminary analysis strongly suggests… an alien relict. An artifact!” She gestured dramatically at the screen, as if she’d personally sculpted the object out of the void, her eyes scanning the faces in the crowd, soaking in their awe.

The word hung in the air: alien. Tangible. Physical. Not a faint signal lost in noise, but an object they could potentially touch, analyse, understand. Excitement, real, palpable excitement, spread through the station.

WhyCee was in her element. She rattled off detection parameters, estimated age, and speculated on its purpose with an air of absolute certainty, already framing the narrative of her ground-breaking discovery for the inevitable reports and interstellar media streams that would follow (delayed, of course, by light speed, but she’d make sure her name was on the first outgoing packet, prominently featured).

Resources and personnel from other sections were quickly reassigned to the artifact’s retrieval and initial analysis. “Sorry,” Academian Vest said, the station lead, his expression a mix of professional necessity and perhaps a touch of weariness at WhyCee’s theatrics. Luck Good’s team was immediately impacted. Dr. Klaus, Com.spec. Bluna, Manfit744.RE, and Dr. Garoollsteiner were all temporarily reassigned to assist WhyCee’s team. Luck Good’s xeno-linguistics work, suddenly deemed less critical than a physical artifact, was side-lined. Her team was reduced to just herself and her intern, Max Rosen.

“Just us, then,” Max said quietly, looking around the suddenly emptier lab.

“Just us,” Luck confirmed, a knot forming in her stomach. It wasn’t just the reduced resources; it was the feeling that the galaxy’s attention had been completely captured by something that felt… too easy. A tangible object, not the painstaking deciphering of ancient, fragmented whispers.

It was after this reduction that Ghen Zonch Zaccis from the OCN side began to spend more time in their lab. He saw Luck and Max struggling with the increased workload and the continued analysis of the deep-space signals. Having automated some of his more routine OCN duties, he found he had spare time, time he chose to dedicate to helping Luck’s team.

“Figured you two could use an extra set of hands,” he said one cycle, settling in at a spare console and pulling up the signal data. “Besides, stitching together these fragmented alien signals… it’s not that different from reconstructing a corrupted OCN packet. Just a lot older, and probably a lot more interesting.”

Luck smiled, genuinely grateful. “Thanks, Ghen Zonch. We appreciate it. More than you know.” His assistance, his knack for dealing with fragmented data, would prove invaluable.

Luck Good and Max, now a team of two with an unofficial third member, continued their work in the background, sifting through the cosmic noise, while the rest of the station, led by the ever-present Dr. Velo Cyta Rapthor, focused on the exciting, tangible “alien artifact.”

Early 2917 Cycle

Months blurred into cycles as the station’s resources remained focused on the retrieved object. Dr. Velo Cyta Rapthor, WhyCee, was relentless. She held daily briefings, each one a carefully orchestrated performance where she presented the latest findings, always emphasizing the “unprecedented” nature of the artifact and her team’s “ground-breaking” analysis. She spoke of exotic materials, impossible construction techniques, and speculated wildly on the alien civilization that must have created it. Despite the lack of definitive proof, she spun a compelling narrative, one that was eagerly picked up by the delayed OCN news streams, further solidifying her image as the discoverer of the century.

Luck Good attended these briefings, sitting quietly with Max and Ghen Zonch, observing WhyCee’s theatrical displays. While a small part of her wished her own work received such attention, she remained focused on the data. The artifact was interesting, yes, but it was a single point in the vastness. The signals she was tracking were a potential conversation, an echo from across the galaxy.

As the analysis of the artifact deepened, however, subtle inconsistencies began to emerge. The material composition, while unusual, had faint isotopic signatures that hinted at a more familiar origin. The construction, while complex, bore faint hallmarks of human engineering, albeit from a very early, almost forgotten era. WhyCee, in her briefings, glossed over these details, or spun them as further proof of the aliens’ advanced ability to mimic natural processes or anticipate human technology.

But the truth, as it always does, eventually surfaced.

It was late in an early 2917 cycle when the official announcement came. Not from WhyCee in a dramatic public address, but in a terse, internal High Yard communiqué, quickly followed by a more detailed OCN report that, even with the time lag, caused a ripple of stunned silence across the station.

The object was not an alien artifact.

It was human.

More specifically, it was the derelict wreck of a very old, very famous, and very lost Earth probe. One of the Voyagers.

The reveal landed with a profound, almost comical, anti-climax. The “alien relict,” the focus of so much excitement and redirected resources, was a relic of humanity’s own nascent steps into the cosmos, a piece of their pre-ITT past that had somehow drifted across light-years and millennia to be found at the edge of a distant star system. The exact probe – Voyager 1 or 2 – remained unclear due to the damage, adding a layer of historical mystery to the humbling discovery.

WhyCee was noticeably absent from the first immediate aftermath. Her carefully constructed narrative of ground-breaking alien discovery had crumbled. The station’s mood shifted from anticipation to a mixture of historical awe at the Voyager’s incredible journey and a palpable sense of disappointment. The philosophical debates that followed, amplified across the delayed OCN network and discussed at the High Yards, now had a poignant, humbling artifact at their centre – a symbol of humanity’s early innocence and the vast, silent ocean where even their pioneering probes became lost echoes. But WhyCee found her voice again, quickly pivoting to frame it as a “ground-breaking historical discovery,” dropping the initial “alien artifact” mishap under the table as a mere preliminary misclassification.

“The beeps need to be decoded,” Academian Vest was heard muttering to himself, shaking his head slightly as he walked past Luck’s lab, a comment that resonated with unintended irony given the real decoding work happening within.

For Luck Good, the Voyager reveal was significant, certainly. It was a tangible link to Earth’s distant past, a reminder of how far humanity had come. But it wasn’t the echo she was truly listening for. While the station processed the humbling truth of the artifact, her attention remained fixed on the faint, structured whispers still arriving from the void, whispers far older and more mysterious than any human probe.

Mid 2917 Cycle: The Unravelling Echoes

The atmosphere on The Chop Hop Gaze settled into a new rhythm after the Voyager reveal. WhyCee, having salvaged her public image by reframing the discovery as a monumental historical find, was now deeply engaged in the analysis of the probe’s surviving data, extracting what little information remained from its ancient systems. The rest of the station, having had their brief brush with perceived alien contact, largely returned to their regular duties, albeit with a lingering sense of the universe’s vastness and humanity’s relative youth.

In Luck Good’s lab, the routine resumed its quiet dominance, but with a renewed sense of purpose. The brief diversion had only underscored the importance of their work. If a simple human probe could be mistaken for an alien artifact, what else was out there, hidden in the cosmic noise, waiting to be understood?

Luck, Max, and Ghen Zonch formed a tight-knit unit. Max, initially underestimated, proved to be an exceptionally diligent and intuitive data analyst, her fresh perspective sometimes spotting patterns Luck’s more experienced eye might have overlooked. Ghen Zonch, with his calm demeanour and deep understanding of the OCN systems, was invaluable. He not only ensured a steady flow of the deep-space signal data but also worked tirelessly with the experimental quantum comms receivers, attempting to capture and reconstruct the fragmented, weak signals coming from the direction of the Large Magellanic Cloud. Receiving a message a hundred times just to get twenty usable fragments was a testament to the difficulty of their task and the limitations of even the most advanced pre-quantum communication technology over such immense distances.

“Another batch from the LMC,” Ghen Zonch announced one cycle, transferring a large data file to Luck’s console. “Stitched together what I could. Still mostly noise, but the pattern recognition algorithms are flagging a few more ‘Needs Double Check’ on the older stuff.”

Luck nodded, her eyes scanning the incoming data stream. It was slow progress, painstakingly sifting through terabytes of information that represented years, decades, even centuries of collected signals. Each “Needs Double Check,” each “Needs Check,” was a tiny victory, a confirmation that their algorithms were picking up on something real, something structured, amidst the chaos.

“It’s the structure that matters,” Luck murmured, more to herself than to Max or Ghen Zonch. “Not the individual bursts, but how they relate. The grammar. The underlying logic.” She thought back to her family’s tradition of scanning for unresolved messages, the fragmented whispers passed down through generations, hinting at a deeper, hidden language.

Over the following cycles, the trend accelerated. The number of fragments being reclassified upwards grew steadily. Signals that had been sitting in the “Unlikely” category for years, even decades, were now being bumped up to “Needs Double Check” as her algorithms, refined by countless hours of analysis, began to recognize the subtle, recurring patterns in their structure.

Max, monitoring the classification dashboard, let out a small gasp. “Miss Good! Look!”

On the display, a cluster of older fragments, some dating back to the beginning of their deep-space monitoring efforts, had just jumped from “Needs Check” to “Review.”

“They’re connecting,” Luck breathed, leaning closer to the screen. The algorithms were finding links, building a framework from the scattered pieces. It was like watching a constellation slowly emerge from the random scattering of stars.

The tension in the small lab was palpable. This wasn’t the fleeting excitement of a physical artifact; this was the slow, deliberate unveiling of a cosmic mystery, a potential conversation across time and space.

Ghen Zonch, watching his OCN console, saw a new flag appear, a high-priority alert he rarely saw for incoming data streams, even from the High Yards. It was a system-level notification, triggered by the sheer statistical improbability of the pattern Luck Good’s algorithms were identifying.

He looked at Luck, his eyes wide. “Miss Good… the system… it’s flagging your analysis.”

Luck turned back to her main display. Her classification dashboard, usually a mosaic of coloured categories, was now dominated by a single, pulsing red alert, overriding all other data. It wasn’t “Review.” It was something else entirely, a classification her system was hardcoded to trigger only when the statistical probability of a non-random, structured signal reached an almost impossible threshold.

The words on the screen, stark and undeniable, cut through the quiet hum of the lab:

“IMMEDIATELY REVIEW REQUIRED!”

Luck Good III stared at the alert, her mind racing. She hadn’t just found a message. She had found the language. The echoes from 160,000 light-years away were no longer just noise. They were beginning to speak.

Late 2917 Cycle: Echoes, Recognition, and a New South

Deciphering the Echoes

The red alert pulsed on the screen, a silent scream in the quiet lab. “IMMEDIATELY REVIEW REQUIRED!” Luck Good III felt a wave of exhilaration and dread wash over her. Years of painstaking work, of sifting through the cosmic static, had culminated in this moment. She hadn’t found a single message, but the key to understanding a language spoken across unimaginable distances and timescales.

“Max, Ghen Zonch,” Luck’s voice was steady despite the tremor in her hands. “We’ve done it. We’ve found the structure.”

The next cycles were a blur of intense, focused work. The small team, operating on minimal sleep and maximum adrenaline, plunged into the data. With the underlying grammatical structure unlocked, the fragmented signals began to yield their secrets. It wasn’t a linear narrative, not like human language. The messages seemed more like data packets, bursts of information containing compressed concepts and urgent warnings. They were non-sequential, like finding pieces of a manual scattered across a continent, but now knowing how the sentences were formed, they could begin to piece together the instructions.

Ghen Zonch’s expertise with the quantum comms receivers was crucial. He worked tirelessly, capturing the faint, repeated signals from the direction of the Large Magellanic Cloud, using the experimental tech to stitch together enough fragments to form decipherable units of meaning. Max, with her sharp eye for detail and intuitive grasp of the algorithms, helped Luck cross-reference patterns and identify recurring themes.

The content of the messages was both awe-inspiring and deeply unsettling. They confirmed the existence of a sophisticated alien civilization, one that had possessed technology capable of transmitting signals across 160,000 light-years. The sheer age of the transmission – 160,000 years – was a humbling reminder of humanity’s relative youth in the cosmic timeline. The scientific puzzle of how the signal had been detected, given the limitations of light-speed transmission over such a distance and the current understanding of ITT/FTL, remained a significant point of debate, but the message itself was undeniable.

The Weight of the Warning

As more fragments were deciphered, recurring phrases began to dominate. The most prominent, echoing like a dire prophecy across the millennia, was variations of:

“DO NOT EXCEED THE THRESHOLD.”

The meaning was clear, even in its abstract form. It was a warning. A cosmic speed limit? A boundary in spacetime? Given humanity’s own struggles with FTL speeds – the relative safety below 7c, the increasing instability and risk above it, and the theoretical but dangerous limit near gravity sources at 13c – the message resonated with chilling familiarity. It suggested the alien civilization had faced a similar, perhaps catastrophic, consequence for pushing beyond a fundamental limit of the universe.

The other recurring phrase was equally haunting:

“ARE YOU STILL THERE?”

This question, sent across 160,000 light-years from a civilization that transmitted it so long ago, was not addressed to humanity. But its implication was terrifying. It suggested the senders had faced a crisis, a disappearance, a reason to question their own continued existence or the existence of others. It was a lament, an echo of potential cosmic loneliness or catastrophe that sent shivers down the spines of Luck, Max, and Ghen Zonch. What had happened to them? Had they exceeded the threshold and vanished?

The weight of these messages settled heavily on the small team. They were holding in their hands not just proof of alien life, but a potential warning, a lesson from a civilization long gone. The scientific challenge of deciphering the language was immense, but the ethical and philosophical implications were even greater. They had to approve this “beyond any doubt,” not just for scientific rigor, but because the message could fundamentally change humanity’s understanding of its place in the galaxy and the potential dangers of its own expansion.

The Signal Sent

Luck Good compiled the findings into a comprehensive report. It detailed the methodology, the statistical significance of the patterns, the deciphered fragments, and the initial interpretations of the recurring messages. It was a document of immense scientific and philosophical importance.

She presented it to Academian Vest, the station lead. Academian Vest, a pragmatic and experienced High Yard representative, listened intently, his initial scepticism giving way to stunned silence as Luck explained the findings. He understood the magnitude of the discovery.

“This… Miss Good,” he said, his voice low. “This is… extraordinary.”

Compiling the report for the High Yards Academy of Philosophical Honour was a meticulous process. Every detail had to be verified, every conclusion supported by irrefutable data. WhyCee, having heard whispers of the activity in Luck’s lab, made a few attempts to insert herself into the process, suggesting her team’s “historical discovery” of the Voyager probe provided crucial context, but Academian Vest politely but firmly kept the focus on Luck’s work.

Once the report was finalized, Academian Vest authorized its transmission as a priority message via the experimental quantum network. The network, still in its early stages in 2917, was not instantaneous like the later quantum-displaced communications of 2976. It was faster than FTL ships, but still subject to limitations. Sending a priority message across the vast distance to the High Yards on Dawn of the Aquarius would take time.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of waiting. Three weeks of uncertainty. Three weeks for the message to travel, for the High Yards to receive and process it, and for their response to return. The Chop Hop Gaze held its collective breath, the quiet hum of the station underscored by the unspoken anticipation.

Recognition and Reward

The response from the High Yards Academy arrived precisely three weeks later, also flagged as a priority message on the experimental quantum network. Academian Vest received the notification and immediately called for a station-wide assembly in the communal area.

The air crackled with anticipation. Personnel from all sections gathered, the usual work paused. WhyCee stood near the front, her expression a mixture of curiosity and thinly veiled competitiveness. Luck Good, Max, and Ghen Zonch stood together, a small, nervous island in the crowd.

Academian Vest stood before the assembled station members, his face unreadable. He held a data slate in his hand. “Personnel of The Chop Hop Gaze,” he began, his voice resonating through the quiet space. “We have received a priority communication from the High Yards Academy of Philosophical Honour.”

He paused, letting the weight of the words sink in. The High Yards, the ultimate authority on scientific and philosophical matters, had responded.

“The Academy has reviewed the findings submitted regarding the deep-space signal analysis,” he continued. He looked directly at Luck Good. “Miss Luck Good, and your team – Max Rosen and Ghen Zonch Zaccis – your work has been deemed… transformative.”

A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd. WhyCee’s expression tightened.

Academian Vest allowed himself a small smile. “In recognition of this monumental achievement, for deciphering the first confirmed communication from an ancient alien civilization, and for the profound implications of these findings for humanity’s understanding of the cosmos and its own future…” He paused again, his gaze sweeping across the faces of Luck, Max, and Ghen Zonch.

“…the High Yards Academy is honoured to award you,” Academian Vest’s smile widened, “The Varna Noble Prize.”

A collective gasp went through the assembly, followed by a wave of applause. The Varna Noble Prize – named after Amara Varna, the inventor of ITT and a figure of immense philosophical significance – was one of the highest honours in human space. It recognized not just scientific breakthrough, but discoveries that fundamentally altered humanity’s perception of reality and its place in the universe.

Luck Good felt a shock, a dizzying mix of disbelief and profound validation. Max gasped, covering her mouth with her hands, tears welling in her eyes. Ghen Zonch simply nodded, a look of quiet satisfaction on his face. Even WhyCee, for a brief moment, seemed genuinely stunned, her usual self-absorption momentarily forgotten.

“Congrats, Miss Luck Good,” Academian Vest said, stepping forward to shake her hand. “To you and your team. You’ve earned it.”

The applause swelled, a genuine outpouring of recognition for the quiet, persistent work that had finally yielded such an extraordinary result.

A New Horizon

A year passed. The Varna Noble Prize brought recognition, funding, and a new level of respect for xeno-linguistics. Luck Good III, Max Rosen, and Ghen Zonch Zaccis became known across the galaxy, their names linked to the ancient echoes from the Large Magellanic Cloud. Philosophical debates about the “threshold” and the fate of the alien civilization raged across the OCN networks, fuelled by the initial findings.

Then came the next step. A priority transfer order arrived from the High Yards. Luck Good, Max, and Ghen Zonch were being promoted and reassigned. Their new post: CD Cet.

CD Cet was not an outpost. It was a large, thriving colony, a hub of activity in the galactic South, home to some twenty million people. It boasted a major university and was a critical node in the expanding human civilization. Their transfer was on a priority OCN-Clipper, one of the fastest and most comfortable ships in the network, a stark contrast to the smaller vessels that usually plied the routes to outposts like The Chop Hop Gaze.

The transfer itself would take time – three years of board time. Three years living and working aboard the OCN-Clipper as it traversed the vast distances. But it wasn’t just travel; it was a working transfer. The Clipper was equipped with advanced research facilities, allowing Luck Good and her team to continue their work, to delve deeper into the alien messages, and to prepare for their new assignment.

Their mission at CD Cet: to establish a new xeno-linguistics research division, specifically tasked with scanning the galactic South, with a particular focus on the South-West. “Scanning the Lost Colonies?” Max asked, her voice hushed. Academian Vest, who had come to see them off, gave a knowing look. “Officially, yes,” he confirmed, “but also scan the south west on quantum levels, we might see a few challenges in this direction.” CD Cet, a large colony of around 20 million at that time, was far more than an outpost, a fitting base for such a critical mission. Ghen Zonch and Max, loyal and eager, were willing to come with her.

As the OCN-Clipper pulled away from The Chop Hop Gaze, leaving the familiar asteroid fields behind, Luck Good stood at a viewport with Max and Ghen Zonch. The small station, their home for so long, receded into the distance. Ahead lay the vast, star-filled expanse of the South, a region holding both the mystery of the Lost Colonies and the source of the ancient alien warnings.

“CD Cet,” Max said softly, looking out at the stars. “A whole planet.”

“And a whole lot more data,” Ghen Zonch added, a glint of excitement in his eyes.

Luck Good felt a sense of purpose, a quiet determination. They carried with them the echoes of a civilization 160,000 years gone, a warning about thresholds, and a haunting question. Their work was far from over. The South, with its mysteries and its echoes, awaited.