Crimson Stars

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. However, the radio transmission that Derek picked up from his cottage in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina could not have delivered the blood curdling scream more distinctly. He nearly passed off the transmission as the usual atmospheric static, but for reasons unknown to him, he lingered on the frequency for a few moments. In the seconds of his bizarre hesitation, the static focused to clearly deliver the frantic short breaths and voice of a woman.

“Help! Help! Is anyone there? Help. Mayday!” The voice pleaded.

Derek, a high school physics teacher by day, and radio communications hobbyist by night, would spend his spare time combing the night sky for anyone who might be using the bygone technology of radio transmissions. In the current year of 2069, most communication systems used optic communications; which combined with the use of the internationally regulated worm holes in the upper atmosphere, allowed for nearly instantaneous communication to the ground, from the space station and moon colonies.

Derek, thrust into action by the dump of adrenaline, clumsily swept the mass of antiquated tech gadgets from the buried broadcasting microphone on his desk.

“Yes! Yes! Come in. I read you. Can you hear me?” Derek sputtered.

“Hello. Are you there? Please help!” The woman replied.

“What’s your emergency? Have you contacted authorities?” Derek inquired, trying to sound official, but suddenly became aware of his unqualified and helpless state as a mere hipster-hobbyist on earth.

“I’m scared!” The woman whimpered. “He’s coming after me!”

“Who is coming after you? Where are you? What's your name?” Derek began to sweat, as he engaged his Sensory Iteration Tablet, or “SIT,” to record the transmission. A SIT was a personalized app that came standard on the chips embedded behind the ear of nearly everyone. By 2065 the app became integral to people’s lives, as it used AI software to cooperate with an individual’s brain signals in receiving sensory information, and formulating mental notes.

“My name is Lisa. I’m on a space excursion, and I don’t know who he is, but he is trying to kill me!” The woman cried, becoming more frantic.

The development of stable, fission powered rocket transport, and ion harmonic disturbance shields, opened the door to the stars in 2042. Access to space became sustainably efficient, and thus the moon was colonized, terraforming Mars had begun, and there were now technically 13 space stations orbiting between the moon and Earth; 9 of which were built by trillionaire moguls as luxury resorts. All of the luxury “space cruises'' offered a variety of expensive activities for their guests to fully experience space. Activities included weightless star yoga in 360 observation spheres, 3D football arenas, and ion-bike racing.

One of the most sought after space activities were the “space excursions.” Space excursions consisted of the unsupervised, free roaming of acres and acres of zero-gravity terrain on the exterior of the space station. Equipped with state of the art suits and ion jet packs, participants were free to explore a network of tunnels, labyrinths, and obstacles. The ion harmonic shields ensured that no participants accidentally drift into space, while optic transmission allowed for constant communication and vital report to the release bays.

When demand for excursions became high, many of the old suits, worn by construction crews during the building of the stations, were repurposed. Most of the old suits were equipped with radio transmitters for emergency use in the 2040s. However, most radio transmitters had probably not been used since then, if at all.

“Please, he’s somehow disabled the optic transmitter on my suit!” The exasperated woman wailed.

“Stay calm, what station are you on?” Derek asked.

“He’s found me!” She shrieked. “He’s got a laser blade!”

What Derek heard next would haunt him for the rest of his life. There was a shrill scream of anguished pain, followed by a static gurgling noise, and then silence.

***

After serving for 12 years in the US marine corps, Chief of Station Security for the Helios Resort seemed like a thrilling and honorable career path for sergeant Amy Witkop. However, after receiving the job, the prestigious title lent more to the position than the practical tasks of settling complaints of irate resort guests, and recovering those who underestimated the adverse effects of alcohol in zero gravity. Her determination to find purpose in her post-service career carried her these past 3 years, but lately the monotony of her day to day began to make her feel like her life was as pointless and routine as the dead satellites that still orbited earth.

While having her morning coffee in one of the lavish observation galleys of the Helios, Amy stared at the constellation Eridanus, which was almost drowned out by the multitude of other stars that could be seen without an atmosphere. With the artificial gravity available in most of the resort, she stood among the stars in a gold-accented marble hall, feeling bored and insignificant. The irony caught her by surprise and she chuckled to herself, before being interrupted by a transmission through her ear chip.

“Chief Witkop, do you copy?” Came the voice of the operations dispatcher.

“Oh great, who is drunk and passed out at this hour?” She thought to herself. “Chief Witkop, here. Report,” She stated.

“Chief, you have a communication from the ground. It's urgent.” The dispatcher seemed almost nervously uncertain, as the station's security department had rarely received any important communication from earth. In fact Amy couldn’t seem to remember a single time in her 3 years on the Helios, when there was a call from earth requiring her involvement.

“What is the nature of the call?” Amy inquired.

“It is a report of suspected murder.” The dispatcher squeaked.

“From the ground? Why are they calling us?” Amy struggled to put the pieces together.

“They are reporting a murder aboard the station mam. That is all that the report shows.”

“Very well, send it through right away.” Amy engaged her SIT to record the call and take notes as she made her way to her office.

“This is Chief of Helios Station Security Amy Witkop; to whom am I speaking with?” Amy rolled her eyes at the practiced recitation of her own overstated title.

“My name is Derek Ryder, from Bryson City, North Carolina.”

“What is the purpose of your call Derek?”

“I’d like to report a murder aboard the station.”

“You would like to report a murder aboard the station, from earth?” Amy raised an eyebrow, now suspecting this was some prank call that somehow managed to get passed the International Optic Communications Center.

“Yes, I picked up a radio communication from someone aboard a station, and I believe she was murdered.”

Amy, having made it to her office, now sat straight up in her chair with full attention. “You say you received a ‘radio’ communication? No one has used radio communications for 20 years.”

“Radio communication is a hobby of mine. Listen, I’ve been up all night trying to get through to someone up there. Please don’t terminate the call,” Derek pleaded, letting go of his more dignified tone.

Amy took on a controlled, sincere tone and said, “I won't terminate the call, we take these matters very seriously here.” Amy lied to instill confidence. The truth was the Helios never even had “matters” like these to take seriously. “You said you’ve been up all night. When did you receive the radio communication?”

“Last night, around 3:00 am, US Eastern time.”

Amy appreciated his precision. She did a quick calculation in her head and deduced that it would have been roughly 7:00 am Zulu time, on the Helios. “And how do you know that the radio transmission came from the Helios?”

“I’m not certain it was the Helios. You are the first station to take my call. The victim said she was on an excursion.”

The frantic earnestness in Derek’s voice lessened Amy’s suspicion that it was a prank call. If there was a murder, not knowing which station it took place on made things more complicated. The incident occurring on an excursion at least meant it occurred on one of the 9 resort stations. Perhaps Amy would be able to narrow it down to fewer stations based on which ones were holding open excursion hours during the time of the incident. However, even if she did identify a specific station, her jurisdiction ended beyond the Helios. Furthermore, excursions often catered to thousands of participants at a time. She knew this would not be an easy case.

“You said it was a woman, are you certain of this, or did you receive any other identifying aspects about the person?”

“It sounded like a woman, and she said her name was Lisa. I did record the conversation on my SIT; may I send you the file?”

“Yes, I am authorizing you to send the file through the optic connection.”

After reviewing the audio, Amy was struck with surreal dread, concern, and determination. This was no longer a suspicious prank call, it was the first murder in space!