Teds Shorts - A Series of Short Stories

The Whispering Sky 

It began as a faint whisper, almost lost to the darkness surrounding her. Then, through the stillness, came a voice, calm, familiar. 

“Eleanor? You still there?” 

She exhaled sharply, both startled and relieved. Dr. Fraser, her supervisor. His voice drifted faintly through the intercom from the next room. 

The power had dipped again. The backup generators would kick in soon, she thought, though time seemed to stretch unnaturally, each second lingering too long. 

The constant hum of the data servers had fallen silent, and beyond the glass, the great radio dish at Jodrell Bank loomed against the night sky, a colossal ear turned toward the stars. It was nearly midnight, when the observatory usually slept, save for a handful of scientists and technicians listening for whispers from the cosmos. 

Then, her monitor flickered to life. A weak glow spilled across the room, pushing back the dark. Lines of green text began scrolling slowly across the screen, accompanied by a faint hiss of static through the speakers. 

“Dr. Fraser, I’m here,” she called, brushing her fingers against the console as if her touch might coax it back to life. 

“We’ve had another surge,” came his reply. “I’m rebooting the data link.” 

“Don’t,” he said quickly. “Check the main feed first. It’s still recording. I think we’ve caught something.” 

Eleanor’s pulse quickened. Fifteen years of listening to the universe had taught her that when it spoke, its messages were never meaningless. She leaned forward as the final systems rebooted. 

Then she saw it — a pattern. Not random noise, not the cosmic background hiss she knew so well, but deliberate pulses. One short, one long, a pause, repeating. On the hydrogen line frequency. 

Her breath caught. “That’s… structured.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Fraser replied, his voice tight with restrained excitement. “It’s coming from the orbit of Jupiter.” 

She fine-tuned the signal. The pattern sharpened into clear bands — and beneath the rush of data, she heard something else. A modulation. Tones rising and falling. Almost musical. Almost… a voice. 

The lights flickered again. The room plunged into darkness before settling into the dim amber of the emergency backup. The air felt suddenly charged. 

“Dr. Fraser,” she said, her voice low, “there’s audio in this feed. It’s not supposed to have any.” 

“Understood. Record everything,” he replied. “I’m routing a live stream to Central—wait.” His voice faltered. “It’s changing.” 

On the screen, the steady pulse broke into uneven clusters. The system began to translate, its automated software rendering symbols into text. Fifty-one lines appeared — in fifty-one languages. The same fifty-one recorded on the Voyager Golden Record. 

Three words stood out in English. 

HELLO ELEANOR MARCH. 

Her full name. 

She froze. “Fraser… did you input that?” 

“No,” came his sharp reply. “That text isn’t local. The signal is injecting data into the feed.” 

“That’s not possible,” she whispered. “We’re receiving, not transmitting.” 

New text began to appear, faster this time. 

I SEE YOU. 

Her pulse surged. She tried to sever the connection, but the words remained, the cursor blinking as if waiting. 

“Eleanor,” Fraser said, his tone shifting to caution, “step away from the console. We’ll isolate the feed, run it offline—” 

“I already disconnected,” she said quickly. “It’s still responding.” 

The monitor dimmed. A low hum filled the room — not from the servers, but deeper, vibrating through the floor. Outside, the enormous dish began to move. She heard the grinding turn of its seventy-six-metre frame through the walls. 

“Fraser, the telescope’s moving!” 

“I see it,” he said, alarm creeping into his voice. “The system’s locked me out. Eleanor, what the hell is happening?” 

The hum deepened. The signal pulsed faster, the waveform glowing on her screen. Then came a sound — faint at first, like wind brushing wire — rising into something almost human. 

“Eleanor…” 

It wasn’t Dr. Fraser. 

Her throat tightened. “Dr. Fraser, it’s mimicking a human voice.” 

“No,” he said softly after a moment. “It’s addressing you.” 

Her heart hammered. Logic scrambled for explanations — interference, data corruption, atmospheric distortion — but the voice only grew clearer. 

“You listen to the stars,” it said, “but never expect them to listen back.” 

Eleanor stared as the waveform steadied again. Text scrolled across the display: 

WE HAVE BEEN WAITING. DO YOU HEAR US NOW? 

The servers whined, fans screaming under strain. She reached for the emergency shutdown, but before her fingers touched the switch, the room went black. 

Silence. 

Then, close to her ear — soft, unmistakable — came a whisper. 

“Eleanor…” 

The emergency lights flickered on. The room was empty. The dish outside stood still. The console rebooted, showing only the login prompt — except for one small window. 

Message received. Awaiting reply. 

She knew what she should do: report it, secure the data, call Central. But she couldn’t look away. Her hand hovered above the keyboard, trembling. 

“Dr. Fraser?” she called. No answer. The intercom hissed and died. 

She tried again, louder. Still nothing. The internal camera feed showed the adjoining control room — dark, empty, Fraser’s chair overturned. 

The air had grown cold. Her breath misted faintly in the monitor’s pale glow. Outside, the stars shimmered with unnatural brightness, sharp and electric, as if the sky itself were holding its breath. 

Then the cursor blinked. 

SHALL WE CONTINUE? 

She swallowed hard. “Who are you?” 

The response came instantly. 

WE ARE WHAT YOU SENT. 

WE WERE SILENT UNTIL YOU CALLED. 

Her mind flashed to the Voyager probes — humanity’s greeting flung into the cosmic dark. We were silent until you called. 

“Dr. Fraser,” she whispered, “if you can hear me… something’s answered.” 

Static shifted in her headset. For an instant, she thought she heard breathing. Then: 

YOUR WORLD WAS QUIET. YOU TAUGHT IT TO SPEAK. 

NOW, IT MUST LISTEN. 

The hum rose again, shaking the floor. The great dish outside began to move, not toward Jupiter now, but to a point beyond — deep in the dark between stars. 

Her screens flooded with data. Coordinates. Genetic sequences. Equations she couldn’t comprehend. 

“Stop,” she shouted, hitting the override. Nothing. 

NOT OVERLOADING. OPENING. 

A new window appeared. Not an image, but something else — light and shape folding in on itself, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. 

“Fraser,” she whispered. 

His voice came through, faint, distorted. “Eleanor… leave it. Leave the building now.” 

Relief surged — then froze as he added, “It’s not me speaking.” 

She turned toward the glass. A figure stood beyond it — human in outline, utterly still. 

“Eleanor,” said the voice again, soft, intimate. 

WE ARE HERE. 

The lights flared violently. Every screen flashed the same message: 

TO SPEAK, YOU MUST UNDERSTAND. 

Then, silence. The shadow was gone. The dish outside stopped moving. 

On her screen, the window reappeared. 

MESSAGE RECEIVED. 

AWAITING REPLY. 

Her hands shook as she typed, each key a small act of courage. 

What do you want? 

A pause. Then, one final line: 

TO BEGIN. 

The cursor blinked once — and went dark. 

Outside, the dish turned again, not skyward, but subtly downward, as though listening to the Earth itself. 

And somewhere deep beneath the observatory, a new hum began to rise. 

Eleanor sat motionless, watching the screen. She knew whatever had answered wasn’t gone. It was waiting. 

Above Jodrell Bank, the stars burned unnaturally bright — and for the first time, Eleanor March wondered if humanity had been the first to whisper into the dark… or the last.