Submitted for the November 2025 prompt: Celestial Signals

Stars whir past the window like wind-blown snow. My berth is inky black save for a soft red light over the door. Groaning, I rub my face.

 

“Time?”

 

The station computer’s pleasant, impersonal voice chimes from the walls. “0343.”

 

Too early to get up, not that I sleep anymore. I take a swig of flat beer from a half-finished bottle, a panacea for my blooming hangover.

 

The lights burst on, a supernova. I cover my eyes and curse. The station’s alarm screeches overhead in conjunction with the tactical officer summoning us to alert stations. I finish the beer and jump into my coveralls.

 

* * *

 

Lisa and Robert exit the cinema into the snow. Three inches have already piled up. When he gestures in the direction of a cocktail lounge, she responds with a skeptical knit to her brow.

 

“You really want to go home?” His smile is tight, yearning. “We haven’t been out in two weeks.”

 

She pulls her coat tighter. Deflated, he offers her an elbow. Lisa loops her arm through his, and they walk to their car.

 

As if fighting off a chill, she stiffens. You need to own this.

 

Though she didn’t speak, her voice echoes in his head.

 

Chewing his inner lip, he avoids her gaze. “What do you mean?”

 

They stop. Lisa cups his cheek with a blue mittened hand. Hiding makes us hurt you. Try again.

 

* * *

 

In the CIC, every monitor is focused on a rectangular, slate-colored object; beacons of blue light bounce from one end of it to the other. Head throbbing, I sit at the listening station and don the headphones resting on the console. Nothing. No pulses, pings, or (God forbid) voices. The blast door slams open, and the Colonel strides in, hand on her forehead.

 

“First a migraine, now this. Report.”

 

A cacophony of answers: the object appeared in lunar orbit without a known trajectory and was of no known design or origin. Scans show its material is not of this solar system. The lights indicate alien life.

 

The Colonel’s voice barks. “Communications?”

 

* * *

 

Robert grips the steering wheel so hard the leather squeaks. Their car idles in front of a red light. Traffic rumbles through the snowy intersection.

Lisa arches a brow. A blue mitten squeezes his forearm. This isn’t how she died either. Why are you avoiding it?

 

“Denial is a self-defense mechanism."

 

She tilts her head. You’re a squirrely species.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, the cross-traffic light turns yellow. He licks his lips. “What are you?”

 

Green light refracts off the snow, and he hits the accelerator.

 

Us? We’re the turn of the screw. Again, please.

 

* * *

 

Debate ebbs and flows behind me. On screen, the alien vessel appears stationary, the cratered lunar landscape sliding past it. My hand adjusts the radio frequency dial. Each new version of the static makes me wince.

 

I jump in my seat when a hand slams onto my shoulder.

 

“Communications?” The Colonel’s face bores into mine. Can she see how slow my pupils are reacting? The lethargy of comprehension as I search for words? Her face contorts. “Damnit, Robert, get your act together.”

 

“Nothing, ma’am. No decipherable communication.”

 

She grimaces and moves on, boots thudding. “Power up weapons. Silence is aggression.”

 

My eyes narrow, fingers typing to zoom the camera in. Those lights. A signal? Innocuous operations? Weapons? My hangover hammers at my skull. I throw my hands over my head, teeth grinding.

 

* * *

 

Lisa runs her mittened hand up the back of his head. Her polar blue eyes, so strange to see again, flit from left to right like some kind of scanner. Pain hacks at his brainstem, and he doubles over.

 

“The aliens.” He cranes his neck up into the snow and Lisa’s placid face. “You’re doing this. Why?”

 

We need to know you won’t double-cross us when we establish communication. She kisses his nose. You’re close. Once more.

 

* * *

 

The station’s abrasive alarm blares underneath the roar of agony radiating down into my spine. The CIC, perhaps all of humanity, writhes in pain. The Colonel raises her head, her trademark mask of calm replaced by panicked ferocity. Crawling towards weapons control, she grabs the tactical officer, words muffled but exhortations clear.

 

On screen, the alien ship’s lights continue to blink.

 

Hiding makes us hurt you. Turn the screw. Try again.

 

I stumble forward, the console a crutch. The Colonel’s hands hover over the weapons station’s dials and buttons.

 

* * *

 

They walk out of the cinema into a snowstorm. He gestures to the cocktail lounge down the street. Despite this being their first night out in two weeks, Lisa shakes her head. A yoke pressing down on his shoulders. Reasoning and protestations get nowhere, so they end up in the car. Livid, he dodges in and out of traffic. Lisa clutches the dashboard. Ahead, the light turns red. Clenching his jaw, his foot slams on the accelerator. An odd smirk brightens her delicate features.

 

This is how it really happened, how she died.

 

His head turns at the sound of a car horn and crunching metal. Lisa’s burnt orange coat rips open, white insulation tinged with blood and palpitating viscera.

 

His body is alight, nerves burning. “It hurts too much.”

 

It’s meant to.

 

* * *

 

The agony has vanished, replaced by a heavy lightness, a clarity, as if my body is suspended in water.

 

The Colonel’s lip quivers. “It was all my fault.”

 

I squeeze the Colonel’s shoulder. “Me too.”

 

On screen, the lights on the alien ship have stopped twinkling. The Colonel’s hands lift away from the weapons console; her face hardens, forcing down a mask of impassivity.

 

Around us the CIC reassembles, hands reaching for headphones and chairs. A voice calls out.

 

“The bogie’s still in lunar orbit, ma’am. Orders?”

 

She straightens up and smooths her hair. “Robert, kindly contact the alien vessel — tell them we understand.”

 

I nod. Breath rattles in my aching chest. Headphones on, I deliver the Colonel’s message.