Echoes Beyond Jupiter:

Echoes Beyond Jupiter: The Signal No One Was Meant to Hear

They told Commander Rayna Kessler the mission was routine—another long-haul solo reconnaissance to the edge of our solar system. She knew that “routine” in deep space was a lie you told astronauts to stop them from going mad.

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Rayna wasn’t new to solitude. Space had its own rhythm, and she had learned to breathe with it. Out past Jupiter’s orbit, the silence becomes alive. It groans and shifts. You hear your own heartbeat echoing off the walls. You convince yourself it’s just the ship creaking... until it isn’t.

She was aboard The Vesper, a vessel no larger than a commercial airliner, designed for endurance, not comfort. The AI assistant, LUMA, managed ship diagnostics and kept her company with synthesized voices, but it was still just code. The only real voice she had out there was her own—and the stars.

Her mission: scan for potential anomalies near the abandoned Kepler Ring, a half-finished mining belt circling Jupiter’s lesser moon, Themisto. The project was shut down in 2134 after workers went missing. They blamed faulty navigation systems. Rayna, like many in the fleet, had her doubts.

By day 18, The Vesper’s systems started detecting signal pulses. Not radio, not radar—something older. Analog. The kind of transmission no one used anymore. LUMA filtered it through and played it back.

It wasn’t static.

It was breathing.

A long, shallow inhale. Then an exhale. Repeated every 21 seconds. Not human, not quite. But almost.

Rayna leaned forward in her pilot seat. "LUMA, analyze the source."

“Signal origin estimated within Kepler Ring debris field. Signal not Earth-based. Signal contains linguistic markers—repeating in wave-patterns, not Morse. Shall I decode?"

She hesitated. Protocol dictated she report and wait for instructions. But deep space changes rules. It forces your hand.

“Decode it,” she said.

LUMA went quiet.

Then: “We see you.”

Her blood turned to ice. She stared out the window at the massive planet looming like a silent god. Jupiter had always fascinated her—the storm that never ends, the gravity that swallows time. But now it stared back.

The message repeated. Then it changed.

“You hear us now. Don’t return.”

Her breath fogged the inside of her helmet. She hadn’t put her helmet on.

“LUMA, is this a simulation?”

“No simulation active, Commander.”

Her eyes locked on a glint in the black. Something metallic tumbling between the ring’s shattered remains. She zoomed in with the ship’s lens.

A vessel. Not human-built. Organic curves, pulsing lights along its skin like veins.

And then… it turned.

Not drifted—turned, deliberately.

Suddenly, The Vesper shuddered. The oxygen levels fluctuated. Lights flick

But there was no answer. Just that slow, heavy breathing, coming now from every comm channel. It wasn’t outside anymore. It was inside. Inside the ship.

She grabbed the manual override and began inputting emergency return coordinates. But the panel pulsed back—a heartbeat, resisting her touch.

The lights turned red. Not flashing. Glowing.

And then she saw her reflection in the glass—except it wasn’t her.

Same suit. Same face. But the eyes were completely black. And smiling.

She backed away, heart pounding. The image mirrored her movements... until it didn’t.

The figure lifted its hand and pointed toward the observation window. She turned.

Outside, the alien craft had moved closer. She could see markings on its surface now—patterns etched like scars. Symbols that made her temples throb. Ancient. Familiar.

We see you. We remember. Don’t return.

The last transmission from The Vesper reached Earth 14 hours later. A static pulse with seven words:

“Don’t come looking. We’re not alone.”

They never recovered Rayna. The Kepler Ring was reclassified: Containment Zone – Do Not Enter.

But sometimes, in deep-scan archives, a faint signal plays on loop:

Breathing.