Flash Fiction / Sci-fi
“Cat. Heimrick. Doom. Petals.”
Bose stared morosely at the monitor screen. Thin wisps of sugary-sweet-coffee-vapor twirled up from his cup.
Beep. Another message from a pulsar.
“Lichtenstein.”
Really, Lichtenstein?
The star messages were getting out of hand- and the public just refused to buy it. He didn’t blame them; as a kid, he would have too. As a kid, star messages were his life, his adrenaline, his mission. He remembered reading every article, every paper; remembered pouncing, like feral a cat, on every explainer video on YouTube. He remembered how Verasitium had unraveled the mystery; he remembered how Exurb1a had made them shiver.
The coffee vapors rose and rose until they met with a current of air. There they broke and dissipated turbulently into chaotic swirls, diffusing and expanding into oblivion.
95 trillion kilometers away, a youthful star beamed a cheerful message and 1.24 kilometers away, a trio of translators decoded that message.
“Gary,” the red giant said.
At least according to the translators. Translating star-speak wasn’t easy. There was no reference, no rules, no hints. The translators claimed that it was complicated work. Bose claimed that they were pulling the words out of their bottoms.
“Onyx”
Said a white dwarf 500 light-years away.
The idea of talking to stars had made the world both ecstatic and terrified, expectant and hesitant. It had spurred them into an unlikely global camaraderie resembling that of the moon landing. They had waited patiently, eager for news, for words. For hellos and poems, for cosmic tales and witticism. For the new, the exhilarating, the ethereal. For experiences beyond the scope of humanity.
What they got was gibberish. Unhelpful gibberish.
“Cat. Coat. Can. Code.” Antares seemed to say.
“Yes,” replied Bose, “cats in coats can code, can’t they?”