The Last Transmission

The distress call came from Outpost Theta, a research station on the edge of the Kuiper Belt. It had been offline for six months, presumed abandoned after its crew stopped responding.

Now, a single transmission looped from its comms array:

“Do not send rescue. We are not alone.”

Captain Mara Holt of the Celestial Dawn listened to the message, her fingers tightening around the armrest of her chair. The voice belonged to Dr. Elias Kern, the lead scientist. He sounded… wrong.

“Any other signals?” she asked.

Lieutenant Reyes shook his head. “Just this one. Repeating every five minutes.”

Mara exhaled. “Prep a landing party.”

Reyes hesitated. “Captain, if they’re telling us not to come—”

“They sent a distress call. We check it out.”

—

The Celestial Dawn‘s shuttle touched down on the barren ice of Pluto’s moon, Charon, where Outpost Theta stood. The structure was intact, its lights dim but still operational.

“Life support is online,” Reyes noted. “But I’m not reading any life signs.”

Mara exchanged a glance with her crew. “Stay close. Weapons ready.”

The station’s airlock groaned open, revealing dim corridors lined with frost. Equipment was still running—monitors flickering, lights buzzing—but the place felt empty.

Too empty.

Dr. Kern’s lab was a mess. Broken glass. Scattered notes. A single terminal blinked with a log entry. Mara tapped the screen.

“It learned how to speak.”

She frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

A noise echoed down the hall. A clicking sound, like insect legs tapping metal.

Reyes raised his rifle. “Movement. North corridor.”

Mara gestured forward. “Let’s go.”

They followed the sound to the central communications room. The door was open. Inside, a single figure sat in a chair, facing the terminal.

Dr. Elias Kern.

But something was wrong. His head was tilted at an unnatural angle. His fingers twitched. His chest rose and fell in shallow, mechanical movements.

Mara stepped forward cautiously. “Dr. Kern?”

His head snapped up. His eyes were pitch black.

Then, he spoke.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Reyes cursed and took a step back. “Captain—”

Kern’s body convulsed. His mouth moved, but the voice that came out wasn’t his. It was layered, a chorus of whispers.

“We watched. We listened. Now we know how to be.”

The monitors flickered. The distress signal stopped.

Then, a new message appeared.

“Transmission sent. Awaiting response.”

Mara’s stomach dropped.

“They weren’t calling for help,” she realized. “They were calling us here.”

The clicking sound returned—louder this time. Coming from everywhere.

Reyes turned to run—too late. The station lights died.

And in the darkness, something moved.

Something that had learned how to be human.

The last thing Mara heard was her own voice whispering from the terminal:

“Another ship will come. They always do.”