I rose before dawn, though I can't say I had slept much. My dreams were an indistinct haze of fogbound cliffs, luminous shapes moving far beneath dark waters, and the ceaseless rhythm of five-long, three-short, five-long. In the dream, the sequence wasn't merely sound — it pulsed through my bones like the throb of a giant's heartbeat.
By the time the horizon began to pale with the faint light of morning, I was already in the lab, notebook open, maps spread across the main worktable. The coordinates from yesterday's triangulation sat in the center of the largest chart, encircled in red ink. A spot in the ocean so isolated that even fishing vessels rarely passed nearby.
I poured myself a cup of lapsang souchong — strong, smoky — and let the steam curl up against my face. This was not an ordinary field trip. It would require planning, equipment, and most of all, discretion. The fewer people who knew about my destination, the better.
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Inventory
I began by listing the essentials in my journal:
Portable dish receiver (calibrated to 1.643 GHz)
Secondary hydrophone array (for underwater listening)
Pressure-resistant sample canisters
Diving lamp (battery tested and functional)
Field rations for five days
Medical kit
Notebook, pencils, waterproof ink
Camera (my trusted Voigtländer, with three rolls of high-contrast film)
I added "revolver" at the bottom of the list, hesitated, then underlined it twice. Experience has taught me that curiosity, while vital to a scientist, must occasionally be backed by deterrence. I have no illusions about fending off sharks or—heaven forbid—anything stranger, but the weapon's presence can be a comfort.
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The Boat
The matter of transportation was trickier. My own small motor launch, The Peregrine, had not left its mooring in months, and though mechanically sound, its range was limited. The coordinates were over two hundred kilometers out to sea; I would need a vessel sturdy enough to handle the open ocean, yet not so large as to attract attention.
This led me to call on an old acquaintance, Captain Elias Rourke — retired fisherman, occasional smuggler, and, most importantly, a man who knew how to keep his mouth shut. I found him at the dockside tavern, nursing a mug of coffee thick enough to stand a spoon in.
"Maxwell," he greeted, eyes narrowing. "You only come to me when you've got trouble or madness in mind. Which is it today?"
"Madness," I admitted, sliding the chart across the table. "I need passage to these coordinates. Out and back. No questions asked."
He studied the map for a long moment, his weathered fingers drumming on the wood. "That's far beyond where I usually take Sea Wraith," he said at last. "Currents are unpredictable out there. Storm season's starting. You planning to fish for mermaids?"
"Something like that," I replied, though my tone left little room for humor.
He sighed, sipped his coffee, and finally nodded. "Three days from now. Bring your gear. If the weather turns, we're heading back whether you like it or not."
"Agreed."
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Loose Ends
Back at the observatory, I began packing. Each instrument was checked, cleaned, and secured in padded cases. I tested the hydrophone in the saltwater tank behind the workshop, ensuring it still picked up sound with crisp clarity. I adjusted the portable dish's mount so it could be anchored to the deck of the Sea Wraith.
While I worked, Mrs. Brogan appeared at the doorway, arms folded. "You're going somewhere," she stated flatly.
"Only for a few days," I replied without looking up.
"To do what?"
"Scientific research."
She snorted. "You call it research. I call it chasing trouble."
Her instincts are sharper than most instruments in my lab. I did not confirm or deny her suspicion, but she must have sensed enough, because she said, "At least take this," and placed a small, battered flask on the bench.
"Whiskey?" I asked.
"Ginger tea concentrate," she said. "Storms make you sick, and I'm not scrubbing vomit out of your boots when you come back."
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An Evening's Reflection
That night, with my preparations complete, I stood on the observation platform and looked out at the moonlit ocean. The fog had retreated, revealing the restless glitter of the waves. Somewhere beyond that horizon lay the source of the signal — silent now, but in my mind still echoing.
It occurred to me that this might be nothing at all: a quirk of atmospheric bounce, a military experiment, or a drifting transmitter from some failed satellite. But there was an itch in my thoughts that such explanations could not scratch. The tremor beneath my feet during yesterday's reading still troubled me. It hinted at something physical, tangible, reacting to the signal.
What if it was not meant for me at all? What if I had simply stumbled into the path of a message intended for something else?
The thought lingered like a shadow behind my eyes.
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Three Days Later — Departure
The morning of our departure was brisk, with a wind sharp enough to wake every nerve in my face. The Sea Wraith waited at the far end of the pier, her dark hull rocking gently against the tide. Captain Rourke was already aboard, coiling rope with the absentminded ease of a man who had done so a thousand times.
I stowed my equipment in the aft cabin and strapped the portable dish to its mount on the deck. The hydrophone was secured alongside it, ready to be lowered once we reached the coordinates.
By noon, the shoreline had faded to a pale smudge behind us. The ocean here was a deeper blue, almost black in places where the swells rose and fell like the breathing of some enormous creature.
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First Signs
We had been underway for just under six hours when the receiver came to life. The signal — faint at first — pulsed in my headphones, exactly as before: five-long, three-short, five-long. But there was a difference.
Between each cycle, I detected a subtle distortion, almost like a faint echo. I ran the signal through the spectrum analyzer, and the display confirmed it: the echo was real, and slightly delayed, as if bouncing off some vast surface beneath the waves.
I adjusted the hydrophone and lowered it into the water. The distortion grew clearer. It was not simply reflecting — it was answering.
---
I write this now in the dim light of the cabin, the signal still whispering in the background. We will reach the target coordinates by dawn. Captain Rourke insists we'll anchor only briefly before turning back, but I have a feeling the ocean has other plans for us.
If my instincts are correct, tomorrow will not be a day for ordinary science.
It will be the day I find out who — or what — has been calling across the void.