Chen Hao stared at the waveform on the screen, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the reddened skin on his wrist. The area where the adhesive film was applied was a little itchy, as if tiny insects were crawling on it.
"Play it again," he said.
Nana nodded, and the signal squeezed out of the speaker again, intermittently, like an old-fashioned radio that hadn't been tuned properly. A few syllables barely formed a sentence: "...Danger...Keep away..."
Susan stood on the other side of the control panel, arms crossed. "This isn't the first time. The ship received the same thing seven years ago."
Carl was crouching beside the communication equipment, disassembling the casing to inspect the interfaces. "But they didn't reply, nor did they hide. What happened in the end? They were gone."
“So now it’s our turn to make a choice.” Chen Hao leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. “Going back might cause trouble; not going back might mean dreaming about that voice every day.”
“We’re not here for an adventure,” Susan said calmly. “We’re short of food, we’ve had oxygen problems, and we just passed through a radiation zone. The most important thing right now is to stay on course and avoid any unforeseen complications.”
“The problem is,” Chen Hao sat up straight, “it says ‘keep away,’ which means there’s someone or something there, warning those who come after. But we’ve already passed by. This isn’t a warning for us.”
Nana suddenly spoke up: "According to the knowledge base, there is a 'delayed broadcast' mode in deep space communication. The sender injects the signal into a specific frequency band, which then propagates repeatedly using space reflection and residual energy. It can last up to eight years."
“That means,” Carl looked up, “that the signal keeps going in circles, and whoever passes by hears it.”
“Yes.” Nana pulled up the data stream. “The current signal source location has a 91.3% overlap with the final coordinates of the last missing ship seven years ago. It can be basically confirmed that it was sent from the same location.”
The room was quiet for a few seconds.
“Then we definitely can’t go back,” Susan said. “None of the predecessors came out alive, and we’re supposed to take the initiative to talk to them?”
"But what if someone is still alive?" Chen Hao scratched his head. "Even if there's only one left, and they've been inside shouting for seven years just to tell others not to come in—can I pretend I didn't hear that?"
“You have to pretend you can’t hear me.” Susan looked at him. “We can’t even take care of ourselves right now. Responding would be giving away our location. If there really is something there, it’s just waiting for the next fool.”
Carl stood up, dusting off his hands. "I suggest we trace it in reverse. At least figure out how the signal was transmitted. Was there a carrier? Was it an automated device?"
“Tracking requires the targeted emission of probe pulses,” Nana added. “This is a proactive interaction that may be identified as a response.”
"Then don't send it." Chen Hao waved his hand. "Just listen, don't speak. Just keep your ears open."
“Passive monitoring is feasible.” Nana quickly navigated the control panel. “Set up automatic buffer clearing every twelve minutes to prevent signal residue from affecting system judgment. During this period, continuously record the fluctuation frequency and intensity changes.”
“Vote,” Karl said, looking around at the three of them. “Go back, or not?”
No one spoke immediately.
“I won’t reply,” Susan was the first to speak.
“I also oppose proactive responses,” Carl said, “but I support wiretapping.”
"I abstain." Chen Hao raised his hands. "I'm afraid I'll say the wrong thing and be blamed in the future."
“Three to one,” Nana summarized. “Decision passed: No response for now, activate passive monitoring mode, and continue to observe the signal dynamics.”
After the command is entered, the main screen switches to the real-time waveform monitoring interface. The green line undulates slightly, jumping once every thirty seconds, like a kind of rhythmic breathing.
Chen Hao breathed a sigh of relief and reached for the kettle. Just as he unscrewed the cap, the control panel suddenly emitted a short beep.
He paused in his movements.
On the heading vector map, the arrow representing the spacecraft's direction of travel is slowly shifting. The originally straight path is veering to the lower right, with the angle indicating a deviation of 5.3 degrees from the intended route.
"Who tampered with the navigation?" He looked up abruptly.
No one answered.
“I didn’t touch it.” Susan stared at the screen.
Carl strode to the attitude control system. "The thrusters have fine-tuning instructions, but there are no manual input records in the operation log."
Nana's fingers flew across the terminal. "The command comes from the internal protocol layer, disguised as a path optimization suggestion, but is actually a forced overwrite command. Permission level two or above."
“None of us authorized it,” Chen Hao said, putting down the kettle. “Then who sent it?”
“It wasn’t intentional.” Nana continued to check the logs. “The command trigger time was perfectly synchronized with the peak signal reception. The deviation occurred 0.8 seconds after the twelfth signal refresh.”
"You mean..." Chen Hao's voice lowered, "that lousy signal can remotely control our ship?"
“Current evidence points to this possibility.” Nana pulled up a diagram of the communication array structure. “Although the signal is weak, its frequency resonates with the core navigation module. Long-term contact may lead to data coupling, resulting in indirect control.”
"Then why don't you cut it off?" Susan immediately reached out to shut down the communication receiving port.
“Wait a minute,” Carl stopped her. “If we close it, we’ll know nothing. And if this is the only window through which we can get information, closing it is like cutting off our own trail.”
"But where is it leading us?" Chen Hao pointed to the map. "There's nothing there. Not even a speck of planetary debris."
“Perhaps it’s the target location,” Nana said. “The signal source is in that area. The ship is automatically approaching.”
"Automatic?" Chen Hao's eyes widened. "When did our ship become so sensible?"
“The system has been implanted with hidden commands.” Nana spoke at the same pace, “Similar to the logic of a virus, it infiltrates through legitimate communication channels and gradually gains partial control.”
Can I delete it?
"We need time to analyze the code structure. Forcibly disconnecting now could cause system instability."
"So we just let it keep going?" Susan frowned. "Like a moth drawn to a flame, heading towards an unknown signal point?"
"For now, we can only monitor it." Nana activated the level 3 access control isolation procedure, "cut off the connection of non-essential modules and limit the autonomous adjustment range of the navigation system."
"How much can be salvaged?"
"The maximum correction is 3.1 degrees. The remaining deviation cannot be forcibly eliminated."
The flight path on the main screen curves slowly, as if gently pushed by an unseen hand, gliding step by step into the blind spot of deep space.
Chen Hao stared at the line and suddenly felt a tightness in his chest. He looked down at his wrist; the red spot seemed even hotter than before.
“Don’t you guys feel that something’s not right?” he said slowly.
"Which point?" Carl asked.
“It lets us hear it, but it won’t let us go back. But as soon as we decided not to go back, the boat started moving on its own.” Chen Hao raised his hand and pointed to the screen. “It doesn’t need us to speak. It just needs us to know it’s there.”
No one responded.
Susan turned and walked to the locker, took out a spare protective suit, and began checking the sealing strip. Carl returned to the communication equipment and continued disassembling the buffer layer logs. Nana's scanning frequency increased significantly; the data scrolling on the screen was almost invisible.
A few minutes later, Carl suddenly hummed in agreement.
"What's wrong?" Chen Hao leaned closer.
“There’s a hidden data packet in the buffer layer.” Carl pointed to a line of code. “It wasn’t brought by this signal; it slipped in when we passed through the radiation zone before. It hasn’t been activated until now.”
What is the content?
“I don’t know, it’s encrypted.” Carl tapped a few keys on the keyboard. “But it’s related to the current signal frequency. Like a matching key.”
Nana immediately joined the analysis, "The initial assessment is that it is a nested bootloader. Its function may be to unlock deep communication protocols or to wake up a remote device."
"So, in other words," Chen Hao swallowed, "we were not only led around, but we also helped it open the door?"
“The probability is over 76%,” Nana replied.
The atmosphere in the room suddenly became heavy.
Susan stopped what she was doing and looked at Chen Hao. "Do you still think you should listen to this?"
He didn't answer immediately.
The waveform on the main screen jumped again, and a new signal began to be transmitted. The green line trembled slightly, like a heartbeat.
Nana marked the time: "A new signal refresh, expected to last four minutes."
"Should we turn it off?" Susan asked.
Chen Hao looked at the pulsating wire, then at his burning wrist.
He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the control panel beeped again.
The heading deviation has widened to 6.7 degrees.
The thruster did not respond to the correction command.
The ship is accelerating toward the source of the signal.
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