Paradox of the Singing Asteroid

The Paradox of the Singing Asteroid

Out beyond the Copernicus Belt, where common sense goes on permanent holiday, someone had discovered a singing rock. Yes, really. An asteroid the size of a football pitch, orbiting in a lazy swirl around the mining colony of Varga Nine, and warbling 23rd-century sea shanties at a pitch only slightly less annoying than a drunk karaoke bot on half charge.

Jonno Virek’s comm buzzed just as he was trying to enjoy a peaceful moment with an off-brand cup of tea. Because naturally, that would be too easy.

“Jonno, we’ve got a problem,” the dispatcher intoned. “There’s an asteroid. It’s... well... it’s singing.”

Jonno nearly choked on a mouthful of questionable tea substitute. “Singing?”

“Yes. Loudly. And the miners nearby have formed a pirate crew. They’re waving cutlasses around the docking station.”

“Cutlasses? Where in the void did they get those?”

“Cultural enrichment programme. We’re still investigating.”

And so, once again, Jonno found himself donning the battered boots of cosmic problem-solver. Varga Nine wasn’t even worth a weekend pass, yet here he was, on approach to a giant musical boulder driving grown men to wave cutlasses in zero-g.

As Jonno landed, he could hear it — a deep, rolling chorus echoing through the thin atmospherics: “Ooooooooh, haul away, lads, haul away!” It was hypnotic, drawing people to belt out harmonies and swing imaginary tankards with worrying enthusiasm.

The asteroid, apparently, had been seeded long ago with a mineral resonator meant to stabilise its spin. Someone, in their cosmic wisdom, had programmed it with shanties. A glitch somewhere had sent it on repeat — and turned it up to eleven.

Jonno weaved through miners with painted beards and plastic parrots, heading for the resonance core. A few tried to recruit him as their quartermaster, which was, he had to admit, a first. He declined politely. With a wrench and a data override spike, he dug into the rock’s harmonic stabiliser, trying to tune down its enthusiasm before the miners staged a proper mutiny against the orbital supervisors.

One wrong twist and the asteroid let out a note so loud the dock plates shook. A freshly minted pirate burst into spontaneous dance, waving a holographic rum bottle. Jonno gritted his teeth and gave the stabiliser a firm kick, a method that had never once let him down.

At last, the chorus died away, replaced by blessed silence. A few miners looked around, blinking as if they’d just woken from a particularly vivid dream involving parrots and barrels of pretend rum.

“Is it over?” one asked, peering nervously at Jonno.

Jonno, wiping cosmic dust off his jacket, nodded. “The concert’s cancelled,” he replied drily.

As he packed away his kit, a supervisor approached, all gratitude and relief. “What do we owe you, Mr Virek?”

Jonno raised an eyebrow. “A decent cup of tea and the promise never to let a singing rock anywhere near a workforce again.”

Back in his shuttle, Jonno could still feel a fragment of the rhythm thumping through his head. It would probably take a few days to clear out. But that was life Beyond the Belt: half nonsense, half nightmare, and 100% guaranteed to ruin a perfectly good tea break.

Where to next? Who knew? But one thing was certain: no matter how far he travelled, the universe would never run out of terrible tunes — or people silly enough to dance along.

Beyond the Belt continues next week — don’t worry about missing one, as every episode stands alone. But for your own sanity, please, no karaoke near asteroids.