The revolving Space Station, Herippe, moves in its orbit. Exterior lighting reveals an approaching vessel.

Onboard the Herippe, Communications Officer Lincoln stifles a yawn at his workstation and twiddles with an earth relic, a pencil. He aims and carefully flicks it. It lands in a waste paper basket, joining at least a dozen others.

He celebrates, whooping with joy. Shaping his fist like a makeshift microphone, he holds it to his mouth and speaks, mimicking a sports commentator.

“Yes! And the crowd goes wild! Unbelievable! That makes it a clean sweep for Pencil Flicking Champion James Lincoln. So tell us, James, how do you do it?”

“Well, Todd, it takes precision, a large enough waste paper basket, and the undying love of you, my faithful fans.”

“And he’s humble too, folks.”

A ping from his console pulls Lincoln’s focus, alerting him to the incoming vessel. He taps some keys. Picking up his headset, he establishes the frequency of the approaching ship and opens a link.

“Docking control, Military Space Station Her …. STATIC. Officer Lincoln. Incoming vessel. Please identify.”

“This is Captain Blake of the Science Vessel Paradise. Requesting permission to dock?”

More static.

An unknown voice, barely audible, repeats, “…Paradise….”

“Audio unclear. Please adjust frequency,” Lincoln instructs.

“Affirmative. Frequency adjusted. SV Paradise. I repeat, Papa, Alpha, Romeo, Alpha, Delta, India, Sierra, Echo. Respond.”

Static continues, ruptured by a faint voice, “…Respond….”

Lincoln inputs the vessel’s details and waits. “VESSEL NOT FOUND” flashes across his computer screen. Frowning, he leans back in his chair and scans the ship. Scan complete—status: VESSEL UNKNOWN—further data required.

“Paradise, hold for confirmation.”

Continuous static.

Turning to a console on his right, Lincoln notifies command of the anomaly and requests immediate assistance.

 

* * *

 

A mechanical swish and the doors open. Commander Burke nods at Lincoln and sits at an adjoining console.

“Situation?” Burke’s eyes flit to the screen.

“We have an unauthorized vessel, designation Paradise requesting docking clearance.”

Burke looks at his viewscreen, visually assessing the ship. Shaking his head in puzzlement, he picks up a headset to communicate with the craft. Burke taps his ear. “Do you hear that?”

“The static?”

“No! The music. Debussy? Sounds like a flute.”

“A what?”

Burke grins. “Before your time.” He accesses the historical record database and searches for a flute. He transmits the information, including a lengthy text article and image, to Lincoln’s console.

“You don’t hear it, Lincoln?”

Lincoln listens. Nothing.

Burke speaks on comms. “This is Commander Burke of the Military Space Station Her….” STATIC. “Be advised we are experiencing interference on this channel. A visual assessment indicates you need to recalibrate your position. I repeat. You are incorrectly aligned for the docking sequence. Authorization code required to commence when ready. Please comply.”

“This is Paradise. Understood. Authorization code 2Z53J. Request immediate docking at Space Station Her….” STATIC. Ahead of schedule. Realigned. Confirm?”

An unknown woman’s voice perforates the interference. “Blake ... Paradise… code... request ...Her... confirm...”

Lincoln’s face contorts in fear. “Do you hear that?”

“More music?” Burke asks.

Shaking his head, Lincoln presses a button flooding the communications room with screams, the grinding of metal against metal, and echoing blasts before the cries build to a crescendo and die out. A series of space shudders, then silence. The interior lighting dims as all computer functions cease—viewscreens crack.

Darkness descends.

Lights flicker on.

Off.

On.

Off.

On.

Lincoln hears faint voices coming from his headset. “Lincoln Lincoln help us, Lincoln Lincoln Lincoln Lincoln Lincolnnn….”

Unnerved, he pushes the headset to Burke.

Burke listens uncomprehendingly. “Buurrrrrrrrkkkkkke Buurrrrrrrkkkkke… helpppppp....”

More whispers—as the voice trails off, screens flicker, one displaying only a cursor against a colour-morphing background. First red, then black, blue, and red again before returning to its emergency usage setting. Burke regains his composure and tries to contact Paradise.

“Paradise. Do you read? Respond.”

He turns to Lincoln. “Take a moment; get yourself together. Then, scan for the ship.”

Lincoln complies. The “NO VESSELS FOUND” reappears.

“Commander, she’s gone! She’s just gone!”

“Gone? Check again. Increase the scan parameters. Search for debris, lifeforms, energy signatures, anything! I’ll try to raise her again on comms.”

Burke cycles through frequency bandwidths to contact the ship. No response on any frequency, only more static. He keeps trying. He stills, a sliver of hope in his eyes.

“Lincoln, I’m getting something. I think we’ve got them."

"Paradise. Respond. Par….” STATIC.

 

* * *

 

“—the SV Paradise, Authorization code 2Z53J. Request immediate docking at Space Station Her…. STATIC. Ahead of schedule. Realigned. Confirm?”

The same woman’s voice, stronger this time, answers. “Yes, Captain Blake, SV Paradise. Authorization code approved. Your request for docking at Space Station Hercules is confirmed. See you soon, Captain.”

“Space Station Hercules? Please confirm identity and that realignment vectors are accurate.”

“Yes, Captain. Communications Officer Willis, realignment confirmed. Please adjust your vessel’s speed to match the station’s rotation.”

“Adjusted.”

 

* * *

 

“Did we do enough, Sir?” asks Lincoln. Both men exchange a knowing glance. They remember all.

Burke glances at the younger man, a sad smile on his face and nods. “Yes, he’s in the correct position.”

It grows dark. The soft strains of a flute fill the empty communications room.

 

* * *

 

“Officer Willis, is it standard protocol to replace personnel mid-docking and change your designation?”

“Please clarify, Captain Blake.”

“Docking approach was initiated by Officer Lincoln onboard Herippe. Commander Burke requested realignment because of a visual assessment of Paradise’s misalignment. Communications transferred to yourself, Officer Willis, with no explanation or necessity.”

“Captain, I’m the only officer on docking rotation.”

“Explain yourself, Willis.”

“Did you say Lincoln and Burke?”

“Yes, on Herippe.”

Silence.

“Captain, we have received other reports from vessels that have encountered the late crew of the Herippe.”

“Late?”

“Affirmative, Captain. Deceased. During a realignment at the station’s docking port, an explosion began inside the approaching vessel. The oxygen reserves onboard fed it. Sensors on the station malfunctioned, and revolutions accelerated. Clouds of debris and metal fragments tore Herippe apart. All souls perished.”

“Commence docking procedure,” Captain Blake utters, his tone hushed.