Always Out There

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But “they” must have been talking about human screams. The screams I hear are not close to human. They shake the walls of my small vessel, rattling my bones, sending the control system into fits.

It's why I'm awake right now, actually. There’s another report I'll be sending down. An official report. But those things I'm studying don't matter at all to me any longer. This is the report that matters. Not just to me. To all of us. All of us who have the capacity to dream.

Arnold Banes' hand began shaking as he turned the page. He was not frightened. Or you could have said he was. Frightened, nervous, excited – they all have the same root: contact with the unknown, a sense of possibility, a light in the dark. This time it was a light unknown buried in the depths of the greatest unknown known to humanity. He wiped away a bit of the sweat that was forming on his brow.

Of course the work gets lonely, and no doubt there are going to be those who say I’ve gone insane. It’s why I won’t share any of this just yet. Start speaking of strange voices in space and you’ll immediately be decommissioned, brought back to the orbit of your home planet, made to wonder for the rest of your life whether you really had been going crazy. Now there’s a question that could actually drive me mad. I’d rather take the beast by the horns now, while I have control.

You must be charitable to me in my descriptions, for I am going to try to speak of things that have never been perceived before by human senses. No doubt the comparisons I make will be poor approximations for the terrifying truth. When the screams come, they annihilate me, they engulf me, they strip me bare.

The most important thing I understand about them—and which I can’t doubt for a second when they’ve been experienced—is that they are alive, and they come from something close enough to human that they can be heard—or felt. Why Neptune? Maybe this is the furthest they can reach into our solar system. And why my satellite now, and not any of the others that have come before me? Again, I don’t know. None of it matters, though. What matters is that they are a they. And I can feel them.

Arnold turned and looked out the window. The grass was green as ever, the hills lush, the sea gleaming in the soft sunlight. Many of the sailing ships were out, no doubt for simple leisure. He could hear Jemma in the kitchen downstairs making tea. His phone buzzed then, a continuous ring. The name indicated it was important. But not important enough. It would have to wait. He turned back to the little black notebook resting on his desk.

At first I thought them hostile, or suffering. I suppose the two are more often closely linked than we would like to think. I still hear some of the suffering, but the hostility is gone. All I hear now is a will to communicate, a desire to be heard. I wish I could say something back. If that was a communication I could engage in, even this diary might cease to have interest for me.

To think of all the dreams human beings have had of finding intelligent life beyond Earth, of bipedal creatures with arms and legs and eyes and mouths and ears who, if they do have the facility to quickly learn our language, at least have the ability to communicate with us through human-like gestures. They might be hostile, or cold and indifferent, but they would be like us. Of course, there was no way to account through imagination for just how different alien life might be. Do we even truly any of the other animals on Earth? All we really know is ourselves. And the difference I have found now is one that transcends imagination.

It will take me some time to negotiate with the task of translation, but I did think of a simple phrase to begin with... Wait. I feel it. Here they come again. Until tomorrow “night.”

–Moss

Arnold let go of the book and took a deep breath.

“Do you want some tea?” Jemma’s voice travelled easily over the air up the stairwell.

“I’m okay for now,” he called back. “Just a minute.”

Now it was time to return the call, which was answered after the third ring.

“Hello?” said a woman’s voice.

“Hi Anna,” said Arnold. “Sorry I missed you.”

“Oh,” said Anna. “Sad isn’t it?”

“I know. He was a good man."

“Right, well I’m just checking to make sure everything is okay—that you’ll be here tomorrow for the briefing?”

“Yes,” Arnold said. “I will be.”

There was a moment of silence on the line, and then Anna said, “Did you find anything in his notebook, by the way?”

“No.” Instinctively, Arnold reached out and shut the little black book. “I haven’t had the chance to look through it yet.”

“You sound excited,” said Anna. “That’s not like you.”

“Sorry. It’s just been a while since I’ve been off-planet.”

Anna laughed. “No need to apologize. Do me a favour and get here an hour early. I’ve got something I’d like to check in with you about, privately.”

“Not a problem. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Arnold felt a sudden twinge of guilt. One should be sad when a friend passes away. And he was sad. Even so, somehow, the emotion was easily overshadowed by the overwhelming sense of wonder he felt simultaneously. What’s more, it was a sense of wonder that James Moss must himself have been basking in during his last hours, perhaps even when he drew his final breath. Arnold sighed, and then he whispered to himself, “One last cup of tea, and then I’m packing.”