The emergency lights flickered in the hydroponics atrium, casting cherry-blossom pink across the condensation-wet glass. Aoi tugged at her work gloves, knuckles white. “The meteor trail wasn’t supposed to pass this close... I triple-checked the orbit.” Her voice caught, and she glanced at the boy crouched beside the humming nutrient pumps. Ren gave a sheepish grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Heh. Well, space likes surprises. Besides, who else gets to watch a starfall up close?” He scratched his cheek, sweating as the pumps bubbled louder. (Idiot. Don’t say ‘up close’ when the hull sensors are screaming.) Captain Mira strode in, coat fluttering like a dark comet tail. Her silver hair was clipped back with a brass pin shaped like a wing, and her green eyes cut to both of them. “We have thirteen minutes until the debris stream peaks. Seal the north shutters, reroute power from—” She paused, noticing Aoi’s trembling hands. The captain’s tone softened. “Breathe. You’ve trained for this.” Aoi nodded, cheeks flushing, and reached for the controls. Ren leaned over her shoulder, too close. “I’ll handle the reroute. You do the shutters. If I mess it up, you can smack me later.” “Don’t tempt me...” Aoi muttered, but a small laugh escaped, shaky and real. Somewhere deep in the station, metal groaned. The sprinklers hissed. A stray seedpod popped against the glass like a timid firework. The atmosphere tightened, a held breath. Captain Mira tilted her head, as if listening for something only she could hear. “Focus. This isn’t a drill.” Her gaze lingered on the horizon visible through the atrium dome, where a ribbon of glowing dust unfurled like a celestial scar. “But we might be in the right place to find what we’ve been missing.” Ren blinked. “Missing what?” Mira didn’t answer. Outside, the first fleck of light burned across the black, and Aoi’s finger hovered over the shutter switch, trembling. Then a second light. A third. “Captain...” Aoi whispered. “They’re changing course.”
The observation bridge loomed like a cathedral of glass and steel, all quiet except for the nervous tapping of Ren’s foot. Panels clattered as Aoi rewired a junction, biting her lip, a little “...focus...” whispered under her breath. Captain Mira stood at the center dais, hands clasped behind her back, gaze fixed on the starfall that now flowed like a river of fireflies. But it wasn’t debris. The lights pulsed in patterns—breathing, almost—and the station’s old transceiver hummed to life, unprompted. “Captain,” Aoi said, voice hushed. “The signal... it’s syncing with our heartbeat monitor.” Her cheeks colored as she realized how that sounded. “I mean—the frequency is biomimetic.” Ren leaned over the railing, eyes wide. “So they’re, what, saying hello?” His grin faltered as another pulse shivered through the room, rattling his teeth. (What if hello isn’t for us?) Captain Mira exhaled, the first crack in her composure. “I used to hear rumors,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Guidelights. The kind that lead lost ships home.” She turned to them. “But the archives called them mirages.” The hum rose, luminous filaments sketching symbols across the glass—spirals, arcs, a map... of Kisaragi’s maintenance tunnels. Aoi’s tools clicked as she froze mid-motion. “They’re pointing somewhere inside the station.” Ren swallowed. “Why inside?” A wild thought flickered behind his eyes; he shook his head. “No. That’s—” “Don’t stop,” Mira said. “If the station is answering, then there’s a key we missed.” Her voice steadied, a captain again. “We follow the map.” Aoi nodded, quickly stowing her tools, and Ren tugged his vest straight, forcing a smile. The filaments converged into a single blinking point deep beneath the reactor spine—then, without warning, the bridge lights died. In the stuttering dark, something whispered through the speakers like a held breath released: Welcome home.
The maintenance tunnels breathed cold and smelled faintly of ozone. Pipes arced overhead like ribs. Aoi’s flashlight beam jittered with her steps, while Ren walked ahead, pretending he wasn’t rushing. “You don’t have to lead,” she said, breath frosting the air. He didn’t look back. “I do.” A beat. “Because last time I didn’t... someone got hurt.” The words trailed, raw. Aoi’s grip tightened on the light. (So that’s why he always jokes when it’s worst.) Captain Mira followed, steady, boots quiet. “Both of you—eyes up.” Her voice echoed, then softened. “Regret’s useful only if it makes room for courage.” They reached a sealed bulkhead etched with the same spirals from the bridge. The panel was old, older than the station’s recorded schematics. “Hidden module,” Aoi murmured, cheeks warming with the thrill of the puzzle. Her fingers danced, hesitated. “I can’t brute-force this. It wants resonance.” Ren stepped beside her, sleeve brushing her arm—she startled, blushing. “We have resonance,” he said, smiling with careful brightness. “Three heartbeats, right?” Mira exhaled, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “On my mark.” They pressed their palms to the plate. The filaments stirred like dust in starlight. A tone rose, matched by the faint rhythm of their pulses. Aoi swallowed, eyes damp. “It’s... listening.” “Then let it hear us,” Ren said, voice steadying. Mira counted—three, two, one—and together they breathed, an imperfect chord. The bulkhead unsealed with a sigh. Inside: a small chamber, walls lined with weathered plaques, each bearing a name and a message like a lullaby. The station had been built as a beacon, a homecoming choir for ships lost in dark lanes. Mira’s shoulders trembled. “My mother told me this was legend...” she whispered. Ren touched a plaque and flinched as the console bloomed with starlight, an answer pulsing gently. He whispered, “Welcome home,” and for a heartbeat the river of lights outside sang back through the hull. Aoi wiped her eyes with the back of her glove, laughing a tiny, breathless laugh. “We didn’t find danger. We found purpose.” Mira looked to them both, decisive. “We restore the beacon. We become the voice that guides.” A heavy thud rolled through the tunnel as the starfall’s path shifted again—closer, urgent. Ren met Aoi’s gaze, fear and hope battling in his amber eyes. “Guess this is our first broadcast...” He swallowed. “Think anyone’s listening?” The chamber lights swelled, answering with a radiant flare that painted their faces gold. And somewhere deep in the dark, a distant reply tapped back—faint, fragile, alive.
