(1)
🎵🎵 Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul 🎵🎵
While Don McLean's song plays in the background, I find myself mumbling the version by Htoo Eain Tin.
🎵🎵 "ကြယ်တွေစုံပြီလား…ဗင်းဆင့် အနားကို လာကြတယ်..မျက်စိကနေ ငါကြားတယ်" 🎵🎵
I know Don McLean's is the original — and yes, I love both interpretations. They're the same, but somehow different. Still, I heard Htoo Eain Tin's version all through my childhood, thanks to my father constantly playing it. So my brain automatically translates whenever I hear the original.
"ငါလေ နားလည်ပြီ…ဘာတွေ ကမ္ဘာအတွက် ပေးသွားလဲ။"
To my surprise, someone joins my private mumbling — in my mother tongue, no less.
"Mind if I sit here?"
I nod. Well, I can't really say no. This isn't a plane seat I reserved for two — like I usually travel. But honestly, I'd prefer sitting alone.
"The original is good," he says, "but I prefer this one more… probably because of the lyrics."
I nod again, mostly to avoid conversation. I don't like talking that much — especially small talk. That's why California is never my place. I'd prefer somewhere like New York, London, or Berlin, where people mind their own business. But here I am, stuck in California.
Speaking of California — it's a huge state. I always joke that Shan State is four times the size of England and divided into Northern Shan and Southern Shan. California is like Shan State but about 1.5 times bigger. It's even got SoCal and NoCal, just like our divisions. And right now, I don't even know which part of California I'm in. All I know is that a private helicopter dropped me in the middle of nowhere — a desert — where a stranded facility sits. Sounds suspicious, right? Like some branch of Area 51, hiding alien species.
But two things are true:
We are in a secret facility somewhere in California.
And yes — we're here for "Alien business."
Obviously, for confidentiality, all our electronic devices are confiscated. So I'm sitting in the cafeteria with just a cup of coffee, a pen, and some doodles on a napkin. John Doe — the guy who speaks my mother tongue — sits across from me. I can't ignore him, can't even pretend I'm texting or scrolling. The only thing I can do is stab him with my pen, like in John Wick.
"John Wick used a pencil, by the way," he says.
How on earth did he know what I was thinking? Someone should stop studying aliens and study this man instead. Or maybe he is the alien, disguised as a human, watching us.
But—
"Fuck."
I swear under my breath. I must have unconsciously picked up my pen and mimed the stabbing motion. One would have to be very observant to catch that. Maybe he's here for the same reason I am. After all, the people gathered here aren't ordinary — they're smart, accomplished, and specialized. Every one of them is a pro in their field.
So am I. I'm not a narcissist, but I do consider myself smart — and others agree. I'm something of a scientist, after all. A researcher. Cultural Astroscientist to be precise.
I smile back at him, realizing I should probably say something. Only Burmese people judge other Burmese that critically. And I can't be the one who gets judged — even though I'm only half Burmese. Maybe my other half can save my dignity.
"Nice to see a fellow Burmese," I say politely, "especially here."
I'm not the kind of 'I like your personality, you're so funny.' girl' person.I don't talk a lot if not necessary. But I do think a lot in my head. Maybe I am too exhausted to talk after I think a lot.
"Nice to meet you," he says. "My name is Moe Set Maung. You can call me Moe Set."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Amara — and I prefer not to be called by a nickname."
Seriously, I hate when people make up nicknames on the spot instead of just using my real name. I met a guy once who called me "Adorameda" just because I work in the Astrophysic field. Plus,my name isn't that long. You can just… call it. I'm also not impressed by people who think making nicknames on the fly is some kind of humor. But this guy didn't come up with a weird nickname for me. Plus one to him I guess.
"I see," he nods, then takes out a sketchbook and starts drawing.
Probably an artist. Wait — I know him. I've been to his exhibition once… with my ex. No, no, you can't bring that up. Better not think about it.
I pick up my pen again, not sure what to do with it. Then I put it back into my coat sleeve pocket and grab a random book from the shelf built into the table.
I flip through random pages, pretending I've been reading it the whole time I've been here.
"Damn," I swear again under my breath. Who on earth puts Fifty Shades of Grey under the table? And why is this the only book on this shelf? But I can't just stare at the stranger awkwardly either, so I pretend to read this "nasty" book, turning myself about 45 degrees so the cover isn't visible.
He looks at me again — probably sensing my panic energy — then gets up and leaves the table. Maybe he's bored, or maybe he's just going to the restroom. Either way, why am I thinking about what he's doing? It's none of my business. Still, I have to be careful. I'm pretty sure this guy's a "thought police."
"Miss Amara?"
"Yes?"
"Please follow me, Miss Amara."
The man — apparently a staff member — wants me to follow him to the reason I'm here.
I put the book back under the shelf. As I stand up, I notice a piece of paper on the table — a drawing. I picked it up.
I smile. A little giggle escapes.
(2)
I am guided by a staff member into the room.
It's a pretty big room — no windows, hence no natural light — but fully lit.
The ceiling forms a concave dome, and like the Sistine Chapel, it's painted.
Not the overrated Michelangelo's Creation of Adam, but another overrated masterpiece — Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh.
I take a seat not far from the edge of the meeting table and glance around. There are fifteen people seated, including me. Some familiar faces, some not.
At the front of the room, three people face us: one old man, one middle-aged woman, and a relatively young man in his late thirties. The first two are respected scientists, and beside them sits a trillionaire obsessed with space… and aliens.
You could say he's the patron who gathered us all for this mission. What happened to that guy who wanted to be the dictator of Mars? Well, he died a while ago. This man is his spiritual successor — just as eccentric, but at least not politically controversial.
The artificial lights slowly dim, replaced by a soft ambient blue. The fluorescent paint on the ceiling begins to glow, and the brushstrokes of Starry Night seem to move, swirling gently. Quite magnificent.
Then the rich man steps forward. He's wearing a Hawaiian-style shirt — though not a real Hawaiian shirt. It's printed with another Van Gogh piece, Sunflowers. Still, I'll just call it the "Van Gogh Hawaiian Shirt." His short pants make him look like a CIA undercover agent, but whatever. Let's just focus on what he's about to say.
"Greetings, everyone! I'm Gideon Rojas. Welcome to the secret base! Area 51 Two, if you like — but we call this place Vincent Sanctuary."
He grins.
"And big congratulations to all fifteen of you — talented, marvelous, amazing human beings. From now on, we'll have to say human more often, because you know why… aha! I'm honored to meet the future historical figures — the first people to communicate with extraterrestrial beings."
He pauses dramatically.
"And, of course, I'll also be a historical figure — the one who funded Project Starry Night, the first-ever communication with aliens."
Millionaire, billionaire, trillionaire — rich people in general are eyesores. Something's always off about their personalities. Maybe it's the money… or crypto, in his case. It morphs them into jerks. Or maybe rich people are just 3D-printed that way — identical stereotypes.
After that not-so-funny introduction from the man in shorts and a "Van Gogh Hawaiian Shirt," the older man begins speaking. You can easily tell who's just a space-freak nerd and who's the real deal.
Oh — my bad. I sound like I'm judging people by their outfits. Well, stereotypes and personality traits — even if we shout, "Don't judge people by blah blah blah," we all do.
We're a bunch of hypocrites, aren't we?
I believe humans are fundamentally selfish — maybe even evil — at the core. Look at those innocent babies. The first thing they do is cry in the middle of the night for no reason. What an act of evil, right?
Anyway, I should focus. Luckily, the Director of SETI hasn't started yet.
"Hello," the old man says. "Some of you may know me, some may not. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Malcolm Trent. I'm the head of the SETI Institute.
"And this lady here is Dr. Evelyn Hart from NASA. She'll be your project overseer."
Everyone in the briefing room claps.
Nobody clapped for the rich dude — professionals and rich people have allergies to each other.
Dr. Evelyn, the project overseer, steps forward.
(3)
"Everyone here already knows why we're here," she says. "But as the agenda requires, I'll explain it again. Please bear with me."
A faint mist sprays from hidden nozzles. Judging by everyone's expressions, they feel it too — probably to make the air humid.
Then two robotic arms slide out from the walls, taking position. At their tips, light bulbs — or something like them — glow. Lasers sweep across the room, and a holographic galaxy materializes before us.
Ah, I see — the water droplets were for the projection. I've heard of this technology but never seen it in person. The mist contains nano-sized droplets that scatter laser light, creating a holographic 3D display.
"Good morning," Dr. Evelyn continues. "I'm glad to see all of you here. I'll keep this briefing simple."
"A month ago, one of our telescopes in Chile — the Rubin Observatory — detected something strange in the southern sky. At first, we thought it was just another gravitational lensing phenomenon.
"But then we noticed that every fifteen minutes — not roughly, but exactly fifteen — a tiny point of light flickered with the same rhythm. Not random. Precisely timed. Almost like gravitational Morse code."
She brings up another holographic frame showing the same phenomenon.
"We thought it was an instrument glitch, so we verified it with other telescopes — here at Paranal, in South Africa, and even from orbit.
"The same signal appeared everywhere, from the same direction, with the same rhythm. It wasn't just light. We believe it's structured — signaling us."
She then projects a 3D reconstruction: a spiraling formation made of light.
"We named the source Halo Beacon One — or simply, Halo Beacon. It's about one light-year from Earth — farther than any probe we've ever sent.
"With further study, we discovered it's not a star, planet, or debris. It's stationary — a fixed point of light hanging in the dark."
She reveals a series of captured images.
"So far, we've recorded and analyzed its properties. There are seven sequences — each lasting eight minutes, followed by a fifteen-minute pause. After the seventh sequence, the pattern repeats identically.
"These are the images we've captured. They appear to be geometric shapes — lines, spirals, lattices. To us, they look like symbols, but we don't yet know what they mean. They could be pictographs, a language, or mathematics."
She pauses, letting the information sink in.
"Again, the source is one light-year away — fixed — transmitting these seven sequences. Ladies and gentlemen, your task is to study these signals from every angle in your respective fields. Look for patterns, repetitions, or logic that could guide us toward decoding them.
"Right now, all we have are these symbols.
"I know you'll have many questions — as we do. We can't answer all of them yet, but we'll share every bit of data we have. And we expect the same from you — share your findings, your thoughts, everything that could help."
She takes a step back. "Thank you. I'll hand this over to Mr. Rojas for the next part."
Everyone claps — half from confusion, half from habit.
Once again, the Hawaiian-shirt guy steps up.
"As you all know," he says, "you're under NDA. This study is highly classified. During your research, you'll all be relocated to…"
(4)Solaris – The City of Sun
The city of Sun — Solaris — was inspired by one of the earliest utopian works, the philosophical text The City of the Sun by Tommaso Campanella, written in the 15th or 16th century. It represented humanity's imagination of a perfect community back in the day.
And now, we are at Solaris — the city of Sun. Not the one in the book, but apparently heavily inspired by it. Located on a remote island, the city is built on a hill. At the top sits a one-of-a-kind observatory telescope.
Even though we call it a city, it's not that big. It's more like a complex with everything a city might offer: restaurants, bars, housing complexes, a city square, a park — and most importantly, all the scientific labs one could need in one place. There's even a studio with every possible piece of equipment for artists — essentially a giant workshop for every field.
Of course, this city wasn't built exclusively for us. It was originally a hangout for the wealthy, but now it's been converted into a giant study area and workshop. Around a hundred people live here — mostly the fifteen of us, some with family members, plus staff, crew, and newly formed UN security guards protecting us from pirates. Pirate activity is surprisingly bad these days.
We'll be here for a year, maybe longer depending on what we accomplish. Our task: decoding alien hieroglyphs — or, as I prefer to call them, "alien emojis." From deciphering ancient scripts to studying extraterrestrial messages, I'm quite proud of how far we've come.
Dinner won't start for another two hours, and I've just arrived at the harbor. People were transported one at a time instead of all at once. We're valuable assets, so it makes sense they wouldn't risk everyone in a single vehicle. Honestly, that would make a thrilling movie — Titanic, but with professionals.
I haven't changed into my heels yet — still rocking my New Balance 550s. My red dress would be too flashy for walking around, so I've thrown on a big bomber jacket. The breeze here is cool, as expected from an island in the middle of nowhere.
Solaris doesn't look futuristic; it has more of a quaint, small-town vacation vibe, which I actually like. Of course, many things are automated: large-scale Roombas, vending machines everywhere (all free, by the way), and possibly robot waiters at the restaurants. I just hope the chefs are human. Vintage-style light posts dot the streets — charming, even though we could have used light tiles or panels.
The city center — or perhaps "city circle," given the architecture — is very relaxing. There's a fountain, picnic tables, smart worktables and chairs, and a translucent ceiling to protect against rain. There are even adjustable, mobile soundproof booths. How do I know all this? I'm literally reading the flyer catalog on my wrist out loud.
Windmills crown the hilltops — part of the city's power system, I assume. And the walls… Yes, these are named after the city of Sun and inspired by Campanella's book. The walls are circular, layered in seven concentric rings. They double as digital canvases: you can project research, data, or even fun city infographics. By default, they display beautiful frescoes or info guides. I doubt they'll show the World Cup scoreboard, which is just around the corner.
I settled somewhere in the city circle. The sun hasn't set yet, but the sky glows with orange and pink hues. The breeze is a little chilly, but my bomber jacket keeps me warm. I breathe in, then out, and close my eyes, humming softly.
"Now we meet again."
A voice distracts me. Come on, let me have my peace before I have to expend all my social energy at the upcoming party. I'm recharging, you know.
Oh, it's him again. He's dressed in Pa Soe and Tite Pone — traditional Burmese attire.
"Don't worry, I come in peace."
He speaks that phrase in English, obviously trying to make a pun about aliens. I swear, he's flexing his sense of humor.
I just nod. Thankfully, he sits at the next table instead of beside me. He takes out a pocket watercolor kit and starts painting. We stay in silence as the sun sets, and the sky slowly turns a deep blue.
The party is about to start.
(5)
The party is held at the top of the hill, right next to where the observer telescope, Anu, is located. Although the fifteen of us will be spending at least a year decoding the "Space Graffiti," the party is packed with far more people — scientists, investors, politicians, and who knows who else.
I just hope this isn't another secret Epstein Island scandal.
Gideon Rojas, of course, is taking the spotlight. He's wearing yet another Hawaiian shirt — this time printed with The Persistence of Memory by Dalí. I heard he personally scans the artworks and prints them on fabric, calling it "original art on a shirt." Rich-people nonsense. The same kind of people who buy Hublots or Richard Milles — just to tell the time like the rest of us.
Enough dissing the rich. Time to put on a smile and focus on my surroundings.
First, though… alcohol.
I grab a glass of champagne and take a sip. Damn, that's good. Rich people do spend well on booze. Thank you, thank you — and shout-out to alcohol, humankind's best companion since 7,000 BCE.
Now, looking around: I see politicians and investors I don't know. Both the POTUS and the Premier of the Soviet Union didn't come. Guess the world still needs uniting before an alien invasion.
I spot the head of CERN and ESO, our overseer Evelyn Hart . Beside them is the gentleman in the tamed suit , Dr. Tobias Klem, computational linguist and pattern recognition wizard from Germany. Rumor says he talks in binary — obviously a joke.
The man in the dark blue shalwar is Professor Saida Nadir, Pakistani theoretical physicist. Beside him is his wife, Malala Nadir, a famous novelist in a beautiful plum-colored shalwar kameez, along with their son and daughter. I'm pretty sure she's under NDA, but I bet at least one book about us will come out later.
Reverend Malcolm Sterling, an African-American scholar of religion, quietly observes everyone. The woman beside him is Sister Beatrice Ngoma, a comparative religion theologian from Kenya. Apparently, the Vatican sent her. She studies how civilizations interpret "divine messengers."
At the corner is Clara Zhou, a Taiwanese art historian. I assume Moe Set should be beside her — fellow artist and all — but he's with Valeria Rossi, an Italian experimental physicist specializing in photonics.
Leo Martinez, a Chilean astrophysical modeler, keeps mostly to himself. Or maybe he's just enjoying his food.
Then I spot the "boy group": Jin Park, Korean data scientist; Dr. Arjun Rao, acclaimed astrobiologist from India; Dr. Nikolai Petrov, materials scientist from the Soviet Union; Dimitri Ivanov, space instrumentation engineer, also Soviet; and a macho guy in a military uniform — probably a bodyguard or Soviet informer. They're having their time.
"Hey, how are you doing?"
A guy approaches me. His name is Hiroshi Tanaka, computational chemist and prodigy. I met him three years ago at a party — he couldn't drink then, only seventeen at the time. Now he's proudly holding champagne like a champ.
"I'm fine… how are you? Now you're holding the trophy, huh?"
"Yes, I am!" He shakes his champagne glass.
Maybe it's time to join the girls' table — my "strong independent wonder women squad," I should call it. I look around: Sofia Varela, Brazilian anthropologist; Fatima Al-Sayeed, symbolic systems researcher from Saudi Arabia, holding a Fanta; and Dr. Helena Vos, cognitive neuroscientist from the Netherlands. I walk toward them.
By the way, how do I know everyone's names and professions? I studied them a little beforehand, but mostly it's thanks to the little retina screen on my left eye, which shows all the information.
(6)
I think my social battery needs recharging. I slip out of the party and find a nice, quiet spot. This time, I secretly brought a bottle and a few BBQ snacks. Then I hear footsteps. Instantly, I feel annoyed.
"Are you following me or what?"
Moe Zet and I meet again.
"No… but same intentions as you. Here for fresh air."
"There are many places for fresh air."
"But this spot's got the best view."
Yeah, I know — I picked the best spot. From here you can see where the sky and sea meet, the glittering lights of the sky touching the water. A wonderful view. Can't blame him for being here.
"Thanks for the doodle. I really like it."
I should at least say thank you for something I actually like.
"My pleasure."Still rocking your New Balance 550s?"
I just noticed—I haven't even changed into my heels yet. Probably why I feel so comfortable. But who cares? I love my New Balance. And since I'm living here for a year, I could probably show up in pajamas next time.
"Yeah," I say. I'm not some shōjo anime girl who blushes and gets away with it. I'm a grown woman. Quite proud of myself, actually.
"I did some digging about you. Actually, a little bit about everyone.In the interview, you said… U Thei…"
"Yes. Your father's one of my inspirations, Ma Amara."
My father used to be a famous artist — or rather, he became famous only after he died. And honestly, I'm not that fond of him. Maybe that's why I have this nasty personality — the classic little girl with daddy issues.
I said "Never meet your heroes… or their daughters. You'll be disappointed."
I'm sure he is disappointed. But I don't really care. We're not on Love Island looking for romance — we're here for work.
"I admit, I'm trying to start a conversation with you. You're very difficult to reach, huh?"
He's honest. Straightforward. I like that. Hopefully it'll be easier to communicate in the future, so I can stop pretending to be a socially acceptable girl. Like there's a Turing Test for AI, I have my own — the Amara Test: whether I can be myself or have to wear a social mask. So I begin with—
"What will you gain by talking to me? I'm nothing like my father. I have zero artistic sense."
"You did attend art school for a year…"
"And a half, yeah. I used to love art — or at least, I tried to. But it just didn't work, you know? Art isn't for everyone."
Even though I'm not fond of my father, I used to play music, was in a band. I used to paint, used to doodle when I'm bored. But the past is the past.
"That's not true. It's hard to make a career out of art, especially today. But the essence of art was never about money. It's not a product."
"Yes, it's not a product. This hyper-capitalist society turns everything into one — even art. Blah blah blah… is that what you're going to mansplain to me?"
"No. I just mean — you don't need to create art to enjoy it."
"Or you can just let AI make the art for you."
I've read about him. He's a hardcore anti-AI type, so this is my chance to trigger him.
Gotcha. His facial expression shifts a little. It's been a while since I've had a decent debate with a professional. My Reddit keyboard wars don't count — arguing with sore losers online while pretending to be one myself doesn't quite qualify. Maybe I'll reel him in. This could end with an 'I'll never speak to this bitch again' moment. That's part of the test — and still a win for me.
"I know you're critical of AI."
"Yes, but mainly AI in the arts. I've got no beef with its use in science."
"Technology progresses. It's part of human civilization. May I know why you're against it? Tell me what you don't say in the interviews."
I mean: rant freely. Don't be polite or sound like an activist pretending to care about the environment or water supply. People only care when they're affected — hypocrisy 101.
"Art is the core of human nature. So art should be made by humans."
I've heard that argument a million times — from who? My father. And I hate it.
"The ability to use tools is part of human nature too. We're just using better tools now. Besides, both AI and the human mind work the same way — we observe, collect data, draw inspiration, and create."
"But as a scientist, you know how differently computers collect data and create compared to us, right?"
"Subconsciousness… and gut feeling."
He's right. The human brain isn't autonomous — it's layered, like a computer's architecture, though ours is messier. A computer can access all its data efficiently; humans can't. Inefficiency is what defines us — and limits us. Wars, conflicts, languages, writing systems — all symptoms of that inefficiency. We'd be far more productive if we shared one objective, one universal language. But I can't agree with him just yet.
So I argue back with
"Yet many arts are inherited. The Lord of the Rings was heavily influenced by Wagner's Ring of the Nibelung, which was inspired by Norse mythology. We consider Htoo Eain Thin one of a kind in Burma, yet most of his hit songs were covers."
"You're right. Plagiarism was an ethical issue long before AI. But we're talking about human essence. Technology shouldn't be visible in society — it should stay hidden, supporting from behind. It was never meant to take center stage."
"I disagree. Human civilization is defined by technological advancement. Even to an alien observer, no one would praise us for living comfortably or singing "Hallelujah — progress is what defines us. Art matters, yes, but tech matters more."
He replies with "Only sentients create art."
I counter "Pufferfish create patterns. Bowerbirds decorate with flowers. Spiders weave perfect geometric webs."
He defends, "Beavers build dams. Birds build nests."
"But invention and moving forward is what puts us at the top of the ecosystem. And now we're facing another sentient species — possibly more advanced than us. Do we prepare for cultural exchange, or for consequences?"
"Those can happen in parallel. But we also need to focus on what it means to be human — not just rely on technology."
"So in this age of technology, you're basically a technophobe?"
"No, no, I'm not against tech. I'm against how it's marketed to consumers — how it teaches people to use it."
"That sounds like, 'I'm not atheist, I just hate how religion teaches people.'"
"Yeah, kinda like that."
"So what, you're going to be the techno-messiah who saves the slaves of the algorithm?"
"No, I'm not. I'm a tech slave myself — just a self-aware one."
"Woke, you mean?"
"Yeah, woke… but can't get up yet. Sleep paralysis."
"I like the way you twist words."
"Without the help of ChatGPT."
"Ha."
"Still, I believe humans should be adaptive. We're on top not because we're creative, but because we adapt."
"My father was narrow-minded. Stubborn. And look what happened — he faded into obscurity."
I should be the one teasing him, but somehow I'm the one getting triggered. Didn't realize the sword cuts both ways.
"Van Gogh was unknown in his time too. Mozart wasn't the 'greatest composer ever' in his own era. Maybe don't blame your father — blame the timing. Sometimes the world just isn't ready yet."
A sudden thought hits me: are we ready to communicate with another civilization? We can't even agree among ourselves. Every conflict comes from two sides disagreeing. I'm not saying everyone should think the same — cultural diversity is beautiful — but maybe it's still too early for humanity to leave the cradle and walk on its own.
I pause for a moment.
"With these interstellar messages… things won't stay the same. Science and technology will be forced to progress faster than ever. People won't have time for leisure — for art — for music."
"And we might fight over that."
"Fight for what?" I ask.
"For our beliefs. Two ideas can coexist. Three, maybe four… but one can't always try to devour the others to survive."
"Devouring is human nature," I say. "So we'll see."
"So is empathy," he replies.
I guess I'm more pessimistic about humanity. He's the opposite. Maybe that's what makes this conversation worth having.
(7)
We're allowed to work freely here — flexible hours, full autonomy. We can request pretty much anything as long as it's related to our projects. But we do have structure: every Wednesday we post our progress reports, and once a week there's a sharing session where someone presents their research or discoveries. Each of us has to present at least once a month.
There are also activities and workshops, mostly managed by our Overseer, Hart. For now, though, we're still getting to know one another — exploring collaborations, testing ideas. It feels like a blank canvas right now: no colors splashed yet, just sketches forming in our heads.
Speaking of canvases, those digital walls around the city are all connected through a platform called Gilgamesh. A heavy name for a social platform, but I guess that's intentional — they want it to sound mythic, like how we name planets after Roman gods and space missions after figures from Greek mythology. Maybe the idea is that all our posts and data will form a kind of "Epic of Gilgamesh" — the digital scripture of our civilization's next step.
On the very first day, there was already a big note posted by Leo, the astrophysics modeler, on Gilgamesh:
"Why are they communicating with us through pictographs — not radio signals?"
He has a point. We've sent countless interstellar messages in many formats, but most have been radio signals. Even the Arecibo message, which could be described as a "bitmap pictograph," was transmitted via radio waves.
But the first message we ever received from beyond Earth wasn't a radio transmission — it was a set of symbols, as if painted across the cosmic backdrop.
Sure, some argue we shouldn't fall into human bias, that we need to think outside our own technological assumptions. Fair enough. But radio waves make sense: they travel through vacuum at the speed of light and can carry structured information efficiently. Maybe pictographic communication feels primitive to a higher civilization — or maybe it's deliberate.
If we received a radio signal, we could triangulate its source, trace the origin system by analyzing signal timing and dispersion. But these symbols were found exactly one light-year away — floating like murals in interstellar space.
Why one light-year? Why not closer?
Was it a limitation of their technology — maybe they ran out of energy or range? Their governments stop funding them? Or was it intentional — a safe distance, to make clear this was their message, not ours? None of our probes have ever reached that far, so it couldn't have been accidental.
Another question: how did they know where to aim? Did they receive one of our transmissions and respond to it?
Or are these even messages at all?
Maybe one of their "space artists" just decided to hang an exhibition near our system — unaware of us entirely.
Of course, there's also the darker possibility: that this is a declaration of war, and their culture demands they place warning symbols precisely one light-year away from their enemy's home world.
Things are still too early to decide. These are just my random thoughts — no scientific or practical reasoning yet. We'll see what everyone else thinks soon enough.
And, speaking of the devil… someone just posted on Gilgamesh.
Overseer Evelyn Hart just posted the announcement: we'll be observing these so-called Graffiti through the main telescope the day after tomorrow. Tonight's sky is overcast — tomorrow's too — but the forecast says we'll get clear skies after that. Perfect conditions for the first real look.
Meanwhile, I should get back to writing my assessment. For now, these are just my thoughts — scattered hypotheses waiting to take shape.
(8)
CLOUD ZOO
I thought I saw a cloud whale
Sail through a sea of blue;
It changed into an elephant
Of the most unusual hue,
And even as I marvelled,
It split itself in two.
I watched a long white serpent
Winding its cloudy way,
To pounce upon a cloud frog
That unsuspectingly lay.
The little frog became a bird
And slowly flew away.
All afternoon I watched them,
Such magic as they knew!
I saw a white rhinoceros,
And white flamingos, too,
Till evening shut her deep blue tent
Over my private zoo.
—Norma Gillett
My father said it was one of his favorite poems, taught in his school days. He would doodle it on the wall with me when I was really young. Sometimes we would go on picnics, watch the clouds move, and sketch what we saw on paper. He pretended to make sandwiches for me, but in reality, he secretly brought them from a bakery and acted as if he had made them to impress me. Later, I realized he had specially ordered them to suit my taste — something I only noticed in high school.
We gathered at the Anu Observatory. The people in charge really like Sumerian mythology, huh.
It's around 9 p.m.
According to the data, each series of symbols lasts about three seconds and morphs into the next over eight minutes. There's a fifteen-minute pause between sequences, and seven sequences complete a loop — 146 minutes in total. Each sequence has 160 symbols, so that's 1,120 symbols overall.
For comparison, our Arecibo message had 1,679 bits over three minutes. The Teen Age Message ran for an hour with 3,000 bits. This alien signal is… complicated, but reasonable.
Tonight, we're here to watch it. Some of us have seen previews, but this is the real thing.
We won't take turns at the telescope.That would take forever. Instead, the high-resolution feed streams straight to our headsets. Everyone sees it at the same time.
Amina Hassan, our optical engineer, is at the controls. She aligns the mount, tweaking the altitude and azimuth motors to track the Halo Beacon perfectly. The telescope sits on an alt-azimuth mount with a high-precision encoder, so it can follow the beacon as the Earth rotates.
Adaptive optics kick in. Tiny deformable mirrors inside the telescope bend and flex hundreds of times per second, correcting for atmospheric turbulence. Without them, the symbols — faint, precise patterns of light — would blur into nothing.
The dome rotates. The slit opens. The telescope shifts slightly as the mount compensates for Earth's rotation. A faint hum fills the room. Motors whirr, keeping the telescope locked on target.
Time passes. Then, faint light starts to fill our headsets. A deep-blue canvas spreads out — a sea of stars. In the center, an empty patch glows faintly: the Halo Beacon. It's taking its fifteen-minute break.
I remind myself — we are seeing the past. The light reaching us tonight left the beacon one light-year ago. Every flicker, every symbol, is a message sent a year before.
My heart beats fast. Five… four… three… two… one…
The first symbol appears. Three seconds of perfect geometry, captured as photon counts on a high-sensitivity CCD sensor, enhanced by the telescope optics. Then it morphs into the next.
Watching the symbols change feels like staring at clouds as a kid — shapes alive, intelligent, purposeful. This is no natural phenomenon. Even if it's "Hello, world" or "Declaration of War," I don't care now. I tear up in my headset. Chloe sobs quietly beside me.
Eight minutes later, the sequence ends. The beacon goes dark for fifteen minutes, preparing the next show.
Leo shouts.
"Eight minutes of symbols, fifteen of silence — they understand time! Placing it one light-year away shows they understand speed! We have clues!"
I stay speechless. Some symbols seem familiar, maybe it's just pareidolia. Either way, this is the first time any of us has seen something truly alien.
The next sequence begins. Patterns repeat, new forms appear. Each 146-minute cycle is a mix of science, art, and wonder.
From the first spark of fire a million years ago, to the stone villages of our ancestors, to the scratches of cuneiform on clay, to the Wright brothers taking to the sky, to humans stepping on the Moon barely a century ago—humanity has marched forward in leaps and bounds, and now we are witnessing CELESTIAL GRAFFITI, a message from the stars that makes all our past achievements feel like warm-up exercises for this moment.