I don't remember Earth.
Not really. I've seen the archives—blue oceans, sprawling cities, languages spoken like songs—but they don't feel real. Memories flicker at the edges of my thoughts, like reflections in warped glass. A child's laugh. The smell of rain on concrete. Gone, now. Or maybe implanted. I wouldn't know the difference anymore.
What I remember clearly is the signal.
It came through the array at Lagrange Point 4—just a ripple in the noise at first. Not even meant for us. Not even language. A vibration so low it could've been tectonic. But when we processed it—ran it through the pattern filters—it began to change. Not the signal. Us.
They told us it was a job. A deep-space reconnaissance mission. A chance to be part of something historic. But I think they knew. Maybe not everything, but something. You don't send a ship like the Vigilant with a full psychological operations crew and expect a routine trip. You don't arm scientists unless you think they'll need to kill something—or each other.
We left orbit thirty-two days ago. Since then, I've been dreaming of the signal every night. No, not dreaming. Receiving.
It's not noise. It's not even data. It's presence. I feel it watching me behind my eyes, like it's always been there, waiting for me to listen.
I'm not the only one.
Dr. Keene started bleeding from the nose yesterday. Said it was the pressure, but I saw his hands trembling while he spoke. Lyra, the comms tech, hasn't slept in two days. I caught her standing outside the airlock, eyes glassy, whispering into the void.
We're not even halfway there.
And the strangest part? Sometimes, when I stare at the stars through the viewport, I get this feeling—like we're not moving forward.
Like something's pulling the universe away from us, one memory at a time.