The Last Signal in Monument Valley.

As Ava Jamison sliced her bicycle across the desert road, red dust floated like smoke. Monument Valley's sandstone colossi glowed yellow in the declining sun. An older-than-memory land, and yet it breathed. No bird, no wind—her cries, the rocks, and the fading signal alone astonished.

Ava was 29 and a systems engineer for what remained of NASA. When the Pulse of 2039 burned off half the satellites and blew away the majority of communications, the agency had gone underground—literally. They now operated from below Cheyenne Mountain, appropriating Cold War-era bunkers to handle Earth's first interstellar response.

Three days prior, they'd gotten a receipt of a message from the far reaches of space. Alien. Mathematical. Friendly. The catch was that it had been received through an abandoned dead relay station in Arizona, one that had been slated for destruction years ago. That was why she was out here—sent out solo with a skittish AI drone, a dirt bike, and strict orders: Find the source. Seal it down. Trust nothing but human.

She did not like that final sentence. Science was not interested in "human" or "not." Truth was truth.

She crested a hill and there it was: a dented, abandoned dish tower, half-buried and sand-red. But alive—whistling softly, with lights outlining a path down its spine. Her scanner confirmed it: the signal was still on.

She backed away, ripped open her gear pack, and initiated a systems check. "AI-3, sweep in."

The drone—a ball that hovered with camera and a wit mode of "dry sarcasm"—rose.

"Signal source detected. Frequency locked in. By the way, your hydration levels are suboptimal. Drink water, carbon-based life form."

She rolled her eyes. "Just sweep for anomalies."

Ten minutes. The tower appeared to be self-contained. Its centuries-old cracked solar panels kludged together into a battery that hummed with alien power—too even, too rounded. Not from around here.

Power signature non-standard, reported AI-3. Material composition 72% synthetic unknowns. Ava… this is not our technology.

She inserted her hand into the control panel. A drawer-sized drawer slid open. A black cube rested there, giving off a gentle hum. The moment her hand touched it, she felt something—a hum not in her fingers but in her head. A whisper, as if words were being built before they could be spoken.

"You hear us."

She leaped back and withdrew her hand. The voice was deep, but she knew that she heard.

"You pushed your normal boundary. We react. Not to attack. Not to burn. To welcome."

Red flag AI-3. "Psychological intrusion detected. Recommend immediate withdrawal."

Ava stood still, the cube freezing in her hand. She was not frightened. For some reason she knew that this was what they had wanted—contact, not; not contact, but link. No invasion, no warships. Only a message."

"Others will obey. Some will rebel. But minds like yours will build bridges."

Her comm crackled. "Jamison, Command. Report."

She stroked her mic. "I've got it. The signal is alien, but peaceful. They're attempting direct communication—telepathically, at least."

"Secure it and return. Do not get contaminated."

She hesitated. That word—naturally, "contamination." As if ideas were unclean.

She stared at the cube. "Can you illustrate?

A task to fill her head: city universes whirling stars, solar sails riding gravity waves, human and alien hands working together. Blueprints, not dreams. A blueprint of what could be done.

She stored the cube and swung onto the bike. The sun had set below the rim, and Monument Valley burned blood-oranges. The ancient plate sparkled once behind her, then went dark.

Three weeks prior to this, in a Senate hearing on what was left of America's broadcasting networks, Ava had testified.

"They didn't come to conquer. They came and gave knowledge. Not a weapon. A gift. We can be more. We just have to decide it."

There was silence in the room.

In a country which had gone as far as the Moon, the words touched bottom, aching deep within. Wonder. Fear. Hope.

Out in the depths of space, something solid. Waiting. Not conquerors. Not gods. Just other travelers who had come to the same crossroads too.

And grinned when someone had said yes.