The Dim, Ancient Ocean of Space
A predator is a creature that has decided, in the great game of entropy, that it is easier to steal complexity from others than to grow it oneself. It sees another living being as a convenient source of all the spare parts it could use. It has adapted itself to the task of taking what it needs, by violence, force, and deception. At the top of the food chain a predator categorises all things into pack, prey, and irrelevant.
In the dim, ancient ocean of space, all is hushed. Planets that support life go about it quietly. Their cosmic lanterns are shuttered. Those that have established themselves across planets talk to each other sparingly, and with targeted care. They understand why they must whisper, what obscure predators hover in the cosmic muck.
Not us, of course. Imagine a toddler splashing in the surf, happy and dumb. Now put the same innocent child in a small bathysphere and transpose her into the deepest trenches of our ocean. She’ll cheerfully pull all the levers on the console and push all the buttons. The lights will flash and the engine will spin. She’ll make a racket. The smaller fish will be scared away, but the true lords of that dense, dark void will circle, sensing a new kind of food.
So with us. From the moment we discovered the trick of emitting radio from a wire, we started broadcasting to the universe. We stood up towers and dishes all over our planet as quickly as we could. We were listening too, of course, but mostly we were talking, and singing, and finding new ways to make as much noise as possible. We filled our solar system and beyond with our voice. We asked, as loudly as we could, if anyone else was out there. We wondered why we heard so little back.
Slowly, as slow as everything that follows the pace of the universe, old creatures stirred and uncoiled. Other civilisations, the smart, cautious ones, took note and went very quiet. Through tunnels and trenches we were only beginning to learn existed, they swam towards us, as dark as an absence.
They are beginning to arrive, to circle our oblivious sphere, to assess our juiciness and our vulnerability. They are very hungry, and they have not fed in a long, long time.

