The Future's Last Signal

Chapter 4: A Change in Fate

The static on the radio died into a haunting hum, leaving the final warning hanging in the cold night air: “You are not alone.”

Ronan stared at the dark screen of the device, his thumb hovering over the power button. He could feel the eyes of every soldier on the rampart boring into his back.

"Okay," Ronan said, his voice cracking slightly. "That was ominous. Even for a ghost-radio from the future. Anyone else feel like we’re being watched, or is that just my concussion talking?"

Vaisha didn't look away from the tree line. She gripped her spear so hard her knuckles turned the color of the moon. "Marius, take the men. Double the patrols on the inner wall. I don't care if the Skitter-beasts retreated; I want every inch of this rock covered in Shard-light."

"And the prisoner?" Marius asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Vaisha finally turned to Ronan. She looked him up and down—the dirt-streaked flight suit, the strange boots, and the glowing radio. "He’s not a prisoner anymore. Not exactly. If that box is going to keep talking, I want someone who understands it within arm's reach."

"You're kidding," Ronan said, a dry laugh escaping his throat. "You’re giving me a job? Does it come with a benefits package? Or at least a sandwich? I’m starving."

"It comes with a temporary rank of Scout-Consultant," Vaisha said, stepping close enough that Ronan could smell the ozone on her armor. "It means you get a room with a bed, three meals, and the 'privilege' of staying alive. But if you try to leave the Bastion, or if that box starts lying to us, I’ll personally throw you off this wall. Deal?"

Ronan held up his shackled hands. "Kinda hard to shake on it with these on, but yeah, deal. Consultant Ronan. Sounds fancy. Do I get a badge?"

Vaisha nodded to Marius, who begrudgingly tapped the runes on Ronan’s manacles. The blue light flickered and died, and the heavy metal rings fell to the stone floor with a heavy clack.

"Follow me," Vaisha commanded. "We’re going to the lower levels. If you’re going to be our 'oracle,' you’re going to need a place to work that isn't a damp hole in the ground."

*

The lower levels of the Bastion were a labyrinth of steaming pipes, glowing crystals, and the constant smell of hot metal. It felt less like a castle and more like a submarine built by people who had never seen the ocean.

Vaisha led him into a large, circular chamber filled with worktables, half-disassembled gadgets, and scrolls of parchment. In the center of the room, a young man with goggles pushed up onto a messy nest of brown hair was frantically poking at a glowing blue orb.

"Teryn!" Vaisha called out.

The young man jumped, nearly dropping the orb. "Commander! I heard the horns! The North Gate—is it true? Did a Juggernaut actually implode?"

"It’s true," Vaisha said, gesturing toward Ronan. "And this is the reason why. Teryn Kaal, meet Ronan Eltair. He’s... from the Old World. Or so he says."

Teryn’s eyes went wide. He practically teleported across the room, circling Ronan like a hungry shark. "Old World? Like, pre-Collapse? Look at those textiles! Is this synthetic polymer? And the stitching—it’s so precise!"

"Easy there, Sparky," Ronan said, holding the radio away as Teryn tried to grab his sleeve. "I’m a pilot, not a mannequin. And yes, it’s a flight suit. Nomex. Flame resistant."

"Flame resistant!" Teryn whispered, his face inches from Ronan’s chest. "We have to use Dragon-glass weave for that, and it weighs a ton. And this? What is this?" He pointed to the radio.

"It’s a radio," Ronan explained, setting it down on a clear table. "It picks up signals. Or it’s supposed to. Right now, it seems to be tuned into some kind of automated emergency network from... well, from my time, I guess."

"It’s beautiful," Teryn breathed, reaching out with trembling fingers. "Can I open it? Just a little bit? I want to see the circuitry. The Magisters say the ancients used 'lightning trapped in sand' to make things think."

"No opening!" Ronan barked, pulling the radio back. "This thing is my only ticket home, or at least my only way of knowing when a monster is about to eat us. You break it, and we’re both in trouble."

A third person stepped out from the shadows of the workshop. She was tall, lean, and wore leather armor that looked like it had seen a hundred battles. Her eyes were sharp and cynical.

"So this is the miracle worker?" she asked, leaning against a stone pillar. "He looks like a gardener who got lost in a thunderstorm."

"Ronan, this is Jessa Mirek," Vaisha introduced. "She’s my best scout. If you’re going to map out threats, she’s the one who’s going to have to go out there and confirm them."

Jessa crossed her arms. "I don't trust boxes that talk, Commander. And I definitely don't trust guys who wear pajamas to a war zone."

"They're flight suits, Jessa!" Ronan groaned. "Why does everyone keep saying that? And trust me, I’m not thrilled about being here either. I was supposed to be at a bar in Vegas three hours ago."

"Vegas?" Teryn asked, eyes shining. "Is that an Old World temple?"

"Something like that," Ronan muttered. "Lots of bright lights, and you usually leave feeling like you’ve been cursed."

Vaisha cleared her throat, bringing the room back to order. "Teryn, you’re to assist Ronan. Provide him with whatever tools he needs—within reason. Jessa, you stay on standby. If the radio gives us coordinates, you’re the first one out the door."

"Understood," Jessa said, giving Ronan a final, lingering look of suspicion before vanishing back into the shadows.

"Alright, Pilot," Vaisha said, turning toward the door. "Get to work. I want a report on that 'You are not alone' message by sunrise. Don't make me regret giving you that bed."

As the door slammed shut, Teryn immediately turned back to Ronan. "Okay, first question: How do you charge it? Does it eat Shard-energy? Or do you have to rub it against silk to generate static?"

"It has a battery, Teryn," Ronan sighed, leaning back against the table. "And it’s currently at fifteen percent. Which means we have a very limited amount of time before this 'miracle' turns into a paperweight."

"Fifteen percent..." Teryn scribbled something on a piece of parchment. "We can fix that. Maybe. If I can bridge a Shard-core to those copper pins..."

"Let’s hold off on the experimental electrocution for now," Ronan said. He looked around the room, the weight of his situation finally sinking in. He was three hundred years in the future, working in a mountain with a geeky engineer and a commander who might kill him if the weather changed.

He picked up the radio, staring at the cracked screen. "What are you, really?" he whispered. "Are you just a recording, or is someone actually out there?"

The hours ticked by. Teryn was a whirlwind of energy, showing Ronan maps of Aethelgard—strange, distorted versions of the geography Ronan knew. The "Whispering Wilds" were where Italy used to be. The "Iron Marches" were somewhere in the Alps. Everything was broken, shifted, and overgrown with that violet, alien flora.

"It’s the Shards," Teryn explained as they worked. "When the Collapse happened, the sky broke. Pieces of... something else... fell to Earth. They changed the soil. Changed the animals. We use the Shards for power, but they're like a hungry fire. They give, but they take too."

"Sounds like a bad deal," Ronan said, leaning over a map. "Back home, we just used oil. It was also a bad deal, but at least it didn't turn your shadow into a demon."

Suddenly, the radio on the table hummed.

It wasn't the usual static. It was a rhythmic, pulsing sound, like a sonar ping.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

Teryn froze. "Is it doing the thing? Is it 'talking' again?"

"Shh," Ronan hissed, leaning in. He adjusted the dial, his heart rate spiking. "It’s a wide-band broadcast. It’s... it’s a list."

The synthesized voice returned, but it sounded different now—heavy, layered with a digital echo that made the hair on Ronan’s arms stand up.

"Celestial Event: Red Moon detected. Date: Shard-Era 312, Cycle 4. Atmospheric resonance: 98%. Predicting causality casualties for Sector 7..."

"Causality casualties?" Ronan whispered. "What does that even mean?"

"The Red Moon," Teryn gasped, his face turning pale. "It’s the night when the veil between our world and the Void is thinnest. Every time it happens, people... they just disappear. Or the monsters get inside the walls. We call it the Night of Tithes."

The radio began to speak again, and this time, the voice was clear. It wasn't giving technical jargon. It was reciting names.

"Name: Aris Thorne. Status: Terminal. Location: Bastion Perimeter."

Ronan’s blood ran cold. "Aris? The guy who took my radio in the woods?"

"Name: Elara Vance. Status: Terminal. Location: Lower Ward."

"Name: Kaelen Reed. Status: Terminal. Location: North Gate."

"It’s a death list," Ronan said, his voice trembling. "It’s telling us who’s going to die."

Teryn was shaking. "How can it know? The Red Moon isn't for another two days! It can’t know!"

"In my world, we had algorithms for everything," Ronan said, though he didn't believe his own words. "But this... this is something else. This is like it's reading the future."

The list continued, name after name. People Ronan didn't know, but people Teryn clearly did. The engineer was sobbing quietly now, his hands over his ears.

"Stop it," Teryn pleaded. "Make it stop!"

Ronan reached for the power dial, but his hand froze. He wanted to turn it off. He wanted to run. But he couldn't look away from the screen.

The radio let out one final, sharp chime. The voice seemed to drop an octave, becoming almost intimate, as if it were speaking directly into Ronan’s ear.

"Primary Target identified," the voice said.

Ronan held his breath.

"Name: Vaisha Noren. Status: Terminal. Time of expiration: 0200 hours, Red Moon."

The radio went silent. The green light on the display flickered once and then died, leaving the room in a suffocating darkness.

Ronan stared at the empty space where the light had been. He could feel the cold stone of the Bastion pressing in on him from all sides. He had come here looking for a way home, looking for answers. Now, he had the most dangerous thing of all.

"Ronan?" Teryn’s voice was small, terrified. "What did it say? The last name... I didn't hear the last name."

Ronan looked at the door. He could see the torchlight from the hallway flickering underneath the gap. Somewhere out there, Vaisha was organizing patrols, sharpened her spear, and preparing to defend a world that was already writing her obituary.

The guilt hit him like a physical blow. He was just a pilot. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't supposed to know who lived and who died.

"It was nothing, Teryn," Ronan lied, his voice barely a whisper. "The signal... it just cut out."

He looked at the radio, a hunk of plastic and metal that now felt like a curse. He had forty-eight hours.

"I need to see the Commander," Ronan said, standing up with shaky legs. "Now."