Chapter 11 – Signals Beyond the Sea
Naomi was the first to notice the pulse.
It came during one of her late-night shifts at the signal box—a quiet series of tones just outside their usual broadcast range. She adjusted the dial by instinct, narrowing the band.
A second pulse followed. Then a phrase.
She jotted it down in pencil:
…. . / .-. .. … . / .-.. .. … – . -. … / – — / – …. — … . / .– …. — / .-. . — . — -… . .-.
The rise listens to those who remember.
She blinked. “That’s not one of ours.”
Ezra was beside her in moments. “Play it again.”
She did. Slower.
The tone was deeper than their usual key. Warmer. Faintly distorted—like it had crossed too many ridges, bounced too many times. But unmistakably analog.
“Pirates,” Ezra whispered.
Leah and Thomas gathered around as Naomi replayed the full loop.
…. . / .-. .. … . / .-.. .. … – . -. … / – — / – …. — … . / .-. . — . — -… . .-.-.- / – …. . / … . .- / .-. . ..-. .-.. . -.-. – … / .– …. .- – / .– . / ..-. — .-. –. — – / -.-. .- -. / -… . / .-. . .– .-. .. – – . -. .-.-.-
The rise listens to those who remember. The sea reflects what we forgot, can be rewritten.
They were receiving pirate code.
And it was poetry.
Clara, poring over the vault’s glyph book, pointed to a page near the back. “This one,” she said, “matches the rhythm of the signal.”
The glyph was circular, like a whirlpool, with an arrow pushing through the center.
“It’s called ‘Current,’” Naomi said. “Ezra taught it to me. It means a message carried farther than the sender intended.”
Thomas leaned in. “So they’re not talking to us directly?”
“Not at first,” Ezra said. “But now they are.”
Leah adjusted the tuning capacitor and listened again.
Another phrase filtered through.
.-.. — … – / -. — – / -… .-. — -.- . -. / .-.. .. …- . … –..– / .— ..- … – / … .. .-.. . -. -.-. . -..
Lost not broken lives, just silenced.
She shut her eyes.
“They’re trying to remember too,” she whispered.
The next morning, Ezra addressed the group with a marker and a rough topographic map. He circled an area near the Allegheny front, west of where they now sat.
“If these signals are reaching us, they’re either bouncing from one of the old microwave sites… or we’re getting sideband leaks from a closer repeater.”
Thomas frowned. “So the pirates could be… not far?”
Ezra nodded. “Or at least one of their posts. Maybe a repeater or ghost signal left behind.”
Clara traced the ridge line on the map. “Could be tied into the grid near Elkins or up toward the Cheat River tunnels.”
Naomi looked up. “So we follow the river?”
Ezra smiled. “We follow the current.”
Later that day, Naomi and Leah took turns transmitting responses using the Star’s analog relay. They didn’t speak in plain words. They responded in glyphs, tones, and line codes—a language designed for people who remembered the way machines once felt when you turned a knob or struck a key.
They sent out messages like:
.-.. — -. –. / — . — — .-. -.– / .. … / .- / .-. . … .. … – .- -. – / .- –. .- .. -. … – / .-. .–. –..– / .– . / .- .-. . / … – .. .-.. .-.. / …. . .-. .
Long memory is a resistance against RP. We are still here.
The replies grew more frequent.
And stranger.
Some contained coordinates. Others, stories. Some carried warnings:
… …. . .-.. – . .-. … / …– .-.. -.-. / -.-. .- … – / – …. . .. .-. / .-.. .. –. …. – / – — / …. .. -.. . / .–. .- – …. … / .-.. — -. –. / .-. .- –. …
Shelters 3LC cast their light to hide paths long rang…
The final burst of the night carried only one line:
.-.. .. –. …. – / -.. — .– -. / … .- … – / .-. — .- -. — -.- . .-.-.-
Light down past Roanoke.
Ezra stared at the paper, silent.
“What is it?” Thomas asked.
Ezra looked up. “It means someone’s watching the Star.”
And in a forgotten part of the Beast’s archive—far from its optimized branches—a process loops flared red. It didn’t understand the message.
But it had logged the word Roanoke ten times in twelve hours.
That was enough.
It began to dig.
American Prophet 