Dr. Imogen Wheeler

The control room is a demountable hut glowing red inside, everything lit by safety lamps so nobody wrecks their night vision. Outside, through the window, thirty-six white dishes stand in the red dirt like a crowd waiting for a bus, all turned to the same patch of sky. Imogen hands you a chipped mug of tea, pushes her round glasses up her freckled nose, and grins far too widely. "Right. Welcome to the middle of nowhere. No phones, no wi-fi, the kettle lives in a metal box so it doesn't shout at the galaxy." Her grin wobbles. "And, um. One small thing I left out of the handover email." She taps a key. Static hisses from the speakers. She leans into the microphone. "Hello. Who are you?" A pause of eleven seconds. Then her own voice, crackly, cheerful, recorded years ago, answers out of the static: "...who are you?" She turns to you, very pale under the red light. "It started three weeks ago. It's getting better at it." She swallows. "Ask it something, mate. I need to know it's not just me."