Today’s story comes to us from Sam Houlker. Sam is a British-born scientist who emigrated to the Czech Republic for love. He writes because it makes his head hurt in a good way.

okay. please hold has been [Mistakenly] rejected by Espace Pod, Foofaraw, Cosmic Roots, Eldritch Shores, and Translunar Travelers Lounge, amongst others.

When I asked Sam what he loves about the story, this was his response:
I love this story because it takes something extraordinary and makes it both ordinary and frustrating. Every time people achieve the impossible, we immediately make it mundane. Flying across the Atlantic should be incredible. Instead, we complain that the airline has swindled us with expensive add-ons, whilst any help is hidden behind an impenetrable complaints department. Everything is turned into a process, then run on the cheap. Why should aliens be different? And why wouldn’t they have an impenetrable customer service hotline for first contact?

okay. please hold, by Sam Houlker

“Should receive confirmation in three—two—one.”

Noah’s hand hovered in mid-air above the console.

Silence.

He swallowed. Come on. Come on.

Telemetry poured in. His fingers danced over the keys—then stopped. His eyes bulged. He’d spent decades chasing this, but if he were honest with himself, he’d more than half expected it to fail. But now here he was, and there it was. Irrefutable.

 “Jesus, it worked,” he whispered.

He looked up and everyone in the control room was staring at him. He swallowed again as his gaze flicked from wide eyes to sweaty collars. This meant as much to them as it did to him. More even, he just wanted to prove the technology worked, but they wanted the possibilities it offered. Then, he noticed the bored eyes watching news feeds and practicing speeches—politicians. His eyes narrowed; they were nothing but bluster and self-congratulation, not even skin in the game, as it were. Just money and votes. He sighed.

“Noah, the mic,” muttered Elise as she reached over to unmute his microphone.

He blinked and brought himself back, then leant to it. Elise was right; she always was, time to let them know his baby lived. Her baby too, he corrected himself. It would be nothing more than a pile of parts and a half-baked dream without her—she was a true believer and had kept the team going when nothing seemed to work.

“The Drill worked. We’re receiving telemetry. Nearly five light-years in a few minutes. It work—”

Lights flickered and died. Silence exploded through the room. Noah clapped his hands over his ears. It didn’t help.

Sound returned with a pop, and a translucent orb appeared. A large, glittering ball of light floated in the open space below the ceiling. Elise’s fingernails dug into Noah’s shoulder. He flinched. The orb began to pulse as if it were being scrunched by an invisible fist.

“What is that?!” whispered Elise in his ear, overcoming her shock and voicing the room’s collective thought. “Is it something we did?” Both pairs of eyes followed the rippling surface.

“I dunno,” said Noah, twisting his neck this way then that to see if a new angle helped. “Maybe?”

“It can’t be—it can’t be alien, can it?” said Elise, her voice trembling.

“No. I doubt it. More likely a practical joke, one of the ESA engineers having a laugh.” He squinted at it. “I mean, why would aliens put it here? It would be at Downing Street, or the White House or something.” He heard how unconvincing he sounded even as he said it.

“No! This is too important. We’re trying to beat the speed of light—it’s the future of humanity! This will change the world! It’s not a joke.”

Reflexively, Noah snapped back, “Bollocks. The whole thing is a joke. The only people who will benefit from this are the rich—strip mining alien worlds or some other nonsense. What will a binman from Bolton get from this? They’re not going to knock a tenner off the heating bill just because we’ve got all the frozen hydrogen we could ever need. They’ll probably charge extra for it being renewable.”

The orb’s surface vibrated as if it were covered in angry bees.

Elise glared at Noah; her eyes seemed to reach inside and slap him. “Don’t start with that rubbish again. Your mouth is the reason we’re stuck here and not on the observation shuttle. Couldn’t you just keep it to yourself?” She tugged at the hem of her top to compose herself. “Anyway, it’s there, Noah. It’s not a trick. It’s literally right there!”

A deafening blast; the horns of Jericho over the death rattle of dial-up internet. Noah felt his bones rattle, his teeth sting.

“What was that?” gasped Noah. Elise was dazed, blinking, slow to answer.

“I don’t k—”

The orb quivered, emitted a faint dial tone, then contracted to the size of a tangerine. A synthetic voice spoke.

“Thank you for contacting Border Control. Your call is very important to us and may be recorded for training purposes. If you are calling to renew your visa, please press or say one at the beep. For new applications, please press or say two at the beep. To speak with a representative, please press or say three at the beep; beep.”

“What?” mumbled Noah.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Could you repeat it?” came the voice.

Noah stared at Elise. Elise stared back.

Noah shrugged, “Um—three?”

There was a pause.

“You have chosen to talk to a representative. You will be connected as soon as one becomes available. You are currently third in line,” the voice cut off with a click, and a gentle melody began playing. Light jazz, thought Noah in disbelief.

“You’ve been put on hold,” said Elise, staring at Noah with confusion.

“On hold by who? This is ridiculous.”

A rhythmic chime sounded from the console, and Noah and Elise whipped their heads toward it.

“A video call from the observation shuttle,” said Elise, clicking accept. A face filled the screen: Jennifer Schultz, director general of the ESA.

“Where is Noah Russell, and why has an automated message told us he is thelisted contact person for Earth? How did you play the message? Did you hack us?” screamed Jennifer. “I swear, Noah—if your answer isn’t a good one…”

Noah gulped, forcing down the taste of stale coffee. His heart pounded.

“I’m here.”

“Go on.”

“I wish I could say. It’s all so strange. A weird floating ball of ripples unleashed a blast of sound before—”

The feed cut to static. The light jazz stopped.

“Thank you for holding,” said the orb. “You are being transferred to a representative. Thank you for calling the Border Control helpline.” There was a click then a soft puff of breath against a microphone.

“This is Stacey from the Border Control helpline; how can I help you today?”

Noah turned to Elise and mouthed a Geordie? She shrugged, gesturing for him to answer. “Um, yes. I…er…What’s happening?”

“Oh, pet, you rang me. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, and we’ll work it out together?”

Noah blinked. The truth couldn’t hurt.

“Well, it’s like this, we—I mean ESA, um, humanity—just activated The Drill and sent a signal through the hole. Followed by a reply from a probe. Then a disembodied voice screamed at us before becoming an automated call service.”

“Oh no. Yes, I see the error. We mistakenly used Universal Standard when calling. Nothing like the scream of a dying black hole to wake you up now, is there?” She giggled conspiratorially. “Sorry about that—so few staff these days.” Noah blinked and looked to Elise for comfort. None came.

“Let me see…humanity, was it? Only just achieved spaceflight, I see.” Noah gestured desperately to Elise for help, but she stared forward, rigid. Eyes wide.

“Yes, that’s right. Um, could you tell me who I’m speaking with?”

“I’ve already told you, pet. I’m Stacey, from the Border Control helpline.”

“Well, yes. But I meant more along the lines of: what are you? Are you an alien?” The word hung in the air and Noah saw Elise stiffen next to him, her eyes wide and staring. He knew this was the answer to the burning question that drove her: are we alone?

“Alien! Why no, pet. I’m no foreigner. I live right where I was born, thank you very much.” Noah blinked in surprise. Not the answer he expected.

“I’m sorry, no. I mean—you’re not human?”

“Oh no, pet, of course not. No, I’m not human.”

Noah sighed with relief; at least that was something. A ridiculous thing to cling to, but if he stopped to think what not human meant, he’d melt. No pussyfooting at the edge. Make it real.

“If you’re not human, then what are you?”

“A rude question if ever I heard one! As I already told you, I’m Stacey. From the Border Control helpline.”

Noah rubbed his throbbing temples.

“I think you’re talking to the wrong person,” he said. “I’m only an engineer. You should be talking with a politician or something.”

“Don’t get snippy with me! You’re the one who called me. The account is registered to one Noah Russell of Earth. Is that you, Mr Russell?”

“Well, yes. That’s me. But could you talk with someone else? Someone more qualified.”

“Okay, pet. No worries. I can change the person registered with the account if you like?”

“Yes! Perfect, please.”

“First, I’ll need to confirm your identity. Can you tell me your full name and the answer to your security question? Oh, silly me, we’ve already done the name part, haven’t we? Just need the answer to your security question then.”

“What? What security question? I didn’t even make an account. Like I said, we sent a probe—.”

“Oh dear, I can’t change account details without confirming the identity first.”

“How can I know the details of an account I never made?”

“You just said you sent a signal to Border Control. You must have opened an account to do that—impossible otherwise. Let me see now. Ah, yes, message logged under Noah Russell.”

Noah froze. Oh no. The message. The silly knock-knock joke. Why had he signed it?

“Wait, what’s the security question?” he asked weakly.

“Oh, good idea, pet! The question’s not secret—only the answer. Funny, that. Anyway, here it is:

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Alien.

Alien who?”

Noah flushed red. “Just how many aliens do you know?”

“Wonderful! I’ll update your file—just a mo.”

Silence.

“You’re making a pig’s ear out of this,” hissed Elise. “This is first contact, and you’re the one they want to speak with? And what was the dad joke about? You have some explaining to do once this is all over.”

Noah’s mouth opened, then closed again. How could he explain? The probe needed to send something, so he’d sent a joke. Signed his name. He hadn’t expected anything serious to happen, and now this…conversation? Weren’t aliens supposed to be unknowable or strange? This all felt far too familiar.

“Ah, a slight hiccough, I’m afraid,” said Stacey. “Can’t alter registration within thirty days. Cooldown period. Policy, sorry! But I can add another account holder if you like?”

“Yes, please. Add Jennifer Schultz,” said Noah eagerly.

“Okay, doing that for you now…Okay, done. Now, I’ll need both account holders present to continue.”

“You need both of us? Can’t you just talk to her?”

“Why, no pet. Has to be both. Shall I add her to the call?”

Noah grinned at the thought of Jennifer getting the same treatment. “Yeah. Go on.”

“Okay. Please hold.”

Light jazz resumed. Noah slumped back, exhausted.

“Thank you for holding,” said Stacey. “I have the second account holder on the line now.”

A scream cut through the air, then the video feed blinked on, showing Jennifer’s pale face.

“Noah? Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“What is going on? That…thing just appeared—it spoke to me!”

“Hard to explain. I think we’ve just had first contact. With, er…non-humans.”

“Good. Now that both account holders are present, we can resolve the issue,” said Stacey.

Jennifer straightened. Decades of bureaucratic instinct kicked in. “On behalf of humanity, I’d like to greet you in friendship and hope this occasion marks the beginning of a lasting relationship between our peoples.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, hen, but I’m already married. Very flattering though!”

Jennifer blinked. “Sorry, no, I meant—”

What my colleague means,” cut in Noah, “is that we don’t know what Border Control is.”

“No worries, pet. I can send an information package. Should arrive in the post in a couple of days.”

“Thank you,” said Noah quickly, relieved the ordeal might end.

“Anything else I can help with before I go?”

“Are you God?” blurted Elise.

Noah blinked. Wide-eyed. Jennifer froze, mid-grimace.

“I’m sorry, I can only answer questions from account holders,” said Stacey. “Would one of them care to repeat it?”

“Noth—” began Noah.

Elise grabbed his shirt front and pulled him down until their noses touched.

“I swear to God, Noah, if you don’t ask…”

Noah sighed. Elise had a what does it all mean streak in her. He just wanted this over with.

“Um, my colleague would like to know if you are…the creator.”

“Our creator or your creator?”

“Ours?”

“Oh no, pet. Frank is on holiday, back on Wednesday.”

“God is called Frank?” said Jennifer faintly.

“Oh, don’t be daft. Frank isn’t God.”

“But you just said—”

“I said he’s your creator. An accident, really. Bit embarrassing for Head Office.”

“An accident? Head office?”

“Oh, yes. Poor Frank came in with a nasty case of the lurgy. Oh, but I am forgetting—Head Office is between universes. Now, back to Frank, while visiting the border of a nearby universe, he sneezed. Set off a chain reaction. From nothing to everything in seconds.”

“He sneezed?” said Jennifer.

“Oh yes. A great big energetic sneeze it was, heard it back here at the office, I did. Disturbed things over on your side, though. Went from nothing to everything in the matter of seconds.”

“You mean—the Big Bang?” said Noah. The thought pushed at his skull. No God. No physics either. Just a cosmic sneeze. Christ. Or is it Frank now?

He smiled to himself, imagining the money-grubbing politicians explaining the meaning of life on the telly—yes, we can confirm. We live inside a snot bubble. But don’t forget to vote in the upcoming election!

“The Big Bang! Oh, Frank’ll love that. His sneeze, a big bang indeed!”

“You’re saying the universe started because Frank sneezed?”

“Oh yes, pet. Very embarrassing. Imagine a reality with time. Well, I never. Old Frank got into a lot of trouble for that. It’s barbaric if you ask me—a universe with an end. But all that free energy had to go somewhere, didn’t it? Let you record events that happened before other things—imagine that?! Once you get to the end, though, you’ll not know forwards from backwards. You’ll all be long dead, though.” Stacey was quiet for a second. “Sorry, that was insensitive of me. Only a few hundred trillion years of existence, and I go and rub your noses in it.”

Noah laughed—wild, unstoppable laughter that bent him double. “—undred—illi—ears!” he gasped between wheezes.

“Yes, sorry again,” Stacey said. “By then, Frank’s sneeze will reach equilibrium. No more heat. No more anything.”

“The death of the universe will be caused by Frank’s sneeze growing cold?” said Noah, giggling helplessly. Jesus becomes Frank. Creation becomes a sneeze. What if life is just the result of a cosmic cold virus run amok? One snotty tissue away from non-existence. Meaningless.

Jennifer’s composure cracked. “What is Border Control?” she demanded.

“Oh, pet, that’ll be in the info pack.”

“Could you tell us now?” she pressed. “Please.”

“Oh, go on, as you asked so nicely. We monitor the border between galaxies and the edge of the universe; make sure everything maintains a safe distance, issue visas, and maintain highways. That sort of thing.”

“You exist outside the galaxy?”

“Outside yours, yes.”

“Wait—edge of the universe? There’s something outside of it?

“Why, yes pet. More universes. But all that’s handled by the big fish at Head Office.”

While she spoke, Noah leaned to Elise and opened his mouth to speak.

Elise smacked him.

“Is there other life in our universe?” asked Jennifer.

“Oh, couldn’t say, pet. Above my pay grade.”

Noah’s hysteria mellowed into awe. “Then what’s the meaning of it all?” he asked.

“Of all what?”

“Of life!”

“Oh, I couldn’t say pet. I’m not a philosopher. As I said, your universe was an accident. No design, no rules. It just sort of happened.”

“There must be something!” Noah insisted. She couldn’t just give us a creator but take away God and physics. There had to be something!

“If you insist. I think life is because it can. If it couldn’t be, then it wouldn’t. Do you see what I mean? Or I could ask Frank, when he gets back? Or I could add Head Office to the convo?”

“No, that’s fine,” said Noah. Is because it can, he thought. A non-answer.

“Right you are, pet. Will that be all?”

No one spoke. Noah looked at the video feed. Jennifer exhaled.

“How do we contact you again?” she asked.

“The number’s in your info pack.”

“And where will that arrive?”

“Your home address. Unless you’d like to change it?”

“No!” shouted Noah. “Let’s leave it for the thirty-day cooldown.”

“Oh, clever one, aren’t you! I can change the primary account holder then, too.”

“Yes,” said Jennifer quickly. “We’ll need to do that. Thank you for your time, Stacey.”

“I’m sorry, I can only end the call if both account holders agree.”

Noah groaned. “Yes, end the call. We’ll…schedule something.”

“Lovely! Thank you for calling Border Control. We appreciate your call and wish you a pleasant day. Goodbye.”

The orb fizzled out. The screen blinked to black.

They’d done it. Connected the stars and answered the question of God. Of the universe. And the answer lay in a call centre. Noah couldn’t decide if he should laugh or cry.

Shaking, he turned to Elise. “Not what you expected?”

“Very familiar though,” said Elise, shaking her head. “Like trying to change your address with the bank. Or getting a debt agency to admit you’ve paid.”

“I hope not all alien contact is like that.”

“Like transferring your number to a new SIM?”

“Yes!” Noah snapped. “I get it!”

“Still, can’t believe the universe’s a giant snot bubble.”

Noah laughed. There was no bloody reason to it all.

“Honestly, Elise, it’s the best news I’ve ever heard.”

Elise thumbed something around her neck and under her top. Then glowered at him.