The Last Lighthouse on Europa

The ice beneath the station groaned, a rhythmic, metallic shriek that Elias had come to treat as music. On Europa, the ice was always talking; he was the only one left to listen. He checked the monitor: the sapphire beacon was still pulsing, a steady heartbeat cutting through the methane haze of the Jovian moon. He hadn't seen a supply ship in forty years. The Great War on Earth had long ago silenced the radios, leaving him as the lonely custodian of a light that no one would ever follow. He didn't mind. He had his books, his hydroponic tomatoes, and the silence. Tonight, however, the silence was broken. A faint, crackling signal emerged from the static—not a human voice, but a mathematical sequence. Elias stood, his old joints popping. Someone, or something, was finally looking for the light.