Tracking Terra

By J. K. Scott

The surreptitiously placed note reads: Billion dollar bounty on your life. David born in Scottsdale, Arizona, forty years ago. With the notes discovery, Sara Alessa Giustino feels threatened and knows what she must do. Her life depends on finding David, a friend from the pastsomeone she met over two hundred years ago in Paris.

Five hundred years ago, the Kryios, an advanced race from Andromeda, saved Saras life on Earth; they bestowed upon her the gift of longevity in return for accepting assignments to protect the evolution of mankind. She knows too much, and now she needs to protect that knowledge.

The search for David catapults her into discovering the whereabouts of the most sacred energy source on earth and the shocking revelation that the energy source has been contaminated by a cosmic colony that plans to overtake Earth. She is confronted with unimaginable peril: clandestine companies, untrustworthy rich investors, and cosmic alien interference. The journey leads her to the sacred sites in Sedona and Peru and through time travel to the present future in a race to ensure humanitys survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450269100

J. K. Scott

J. K. Scott is passionate about her graduate studies at the California Institute of Integral Studies in San Francisco whereby she continues her studies in the evolution and transformation of consciousness. She is the author of Shades of Truth on the Mayan Prophecy and Tracking Terra on time travel. Invisible Forces is the final book of a trilogy. She lives in Arizona.

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Copyright © 2011 J. K. Scott

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-6911-7 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-6912-4 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-6910-0 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010916050

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 12/27/2010

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 67

Beaconhouse’s Initiation

About the Author

In memory of my brother,

Darrell Warren Scott:

Toiled life of boulders

laden with strife,

you bravely endured

the tribulations of life.

With a joyous laugh,

and a mischievous smile,

you leaped over that last ageing mile.

-J. K. Scott

The second greatest mystery in life is knowing your purpose.

—J. K. Scott

Acknowledgments

I’m deeply grateful to maverick scientists who continue to relentlessly research matters that stretch beyond the comprehensible. While searching for truth in the vast, complex world, may humanity uncover far more answers than questions.

Always, I’m deeply enriched by my boundless family and friends. To Tony and Tricia Ronzone, for supporting my endeavor to seek the truth my way. In honor of Cade and Austin and Elan, who are far wiser than I was at their age. I’m thankful to Aunt Daisy for lighting my path, and grateful to Aunt Pat Lepper for cheering me on.

Dr. Ruth-McKinley Hover, from a vision to a cherished friendship, your belief in me championed me to keep writing. Ruth and Harry Hover, your vast knowledge and travel journeys inspired me. To my heartening friends, Ruthie Marks and Roger Conrad, from our past to the present-future; to Mike Phelps for a multitude of reasons; and to Patti Furnari for your welcome insights. To KK, because. To BB in the IBISS: promises do unfold.

I’m deeply indebted to Arizona Key Travel Guide owners Tom and Patricia Ruberto, and Susan and Brian Malthaner; I am humbled to know you. Tom, thank you for your amazing Key magazine article on Shades of Truth, the first book of the trilogy.

I’m in awe of my friends, Jim and Joan Vaughn, owners of Southwest Custom Tours. Jim has traveled on every back road in his home state. Whenever I had a question about Arizona, Jim had the answer, along with an awesome story. Thank you, Jim.

To Dennis and Danielle McClung of 2012supplies.com for your friendship and extraordinary support. To my encouraging friends in the NCA and VSCN, at Where magazine, and in the hospitality industry. To RB, for your continued encouragement. AB, as a long-time listener, I deeply respected your questions and comments about Shades of Truth which prompted me to write a trilogy.

Finally, my deepest respect goes to the iUniverse editors, whose skills saw a far better story under the idle chatter and speculation that I initially submitted and eventually, gratefully, amended.

Prologue

The night air swirled with plumes of smoke. Escaping from the underground fire that I had started, I ascended the hill that I had mapped earlier, which in the dark appeared steeper and more treacherous. Hunched over, I paced my breathing as sweat rolled down my naked body; I had left all my lab garments with the sewn-in monitoring sensors to burn in the explosion.

Hearing howls in the distance, I quivered, knowing the trained search dogs could sever my body to pieces. And that was to say nothing of the helicopters overhead. Anticipating the upcoming hollow, I plunged into it, covering myself with mud. The slimy muck clung to my skin and, as I continued, crawling on all fours, it hardened in the cool air. The thick coating would make it difficult for helicopters to distinguish an arsonist traitor from any other animal. It would take them hours to determine who had destroyed the lab. I crawled on all fours, dodging the death-knell search lights that swept the ground. At this pace, it was taking forever to reach the property’s perimeter.

Finally, I reached the electric fence. The cattle were now restless, moving in droves away from the billowing smoke that had overtaken their grazing grounds. I took a deep breath and held it, then burrowed deep into my rigged dung pit and belly-crawled under the fenced border.

After emerging on the other side, I peeled off my protective, resin head cover, caught my breath, and took off in a sprint. For two exhausting miles, I ran through the trees and brush until I reached my mountain bike, along with my black jumpsuit and boots. Now, gaining distance from the helicopters, I felt my mission was complete.

There wouldn’t be any ambulances, fire trucks, or police vehicles arriving at the undisclosed underground plant that I had just demolished. The manufacturing facility for a drug that could obliterate human memory was now history, as I had decimated the last trace of the trial formula—the potent liquid that had held the power to cripple humanity. No, the guards and staff would have to battle this emergency alone, while I pedaled through the North Carolina Blue Ridge mountains into obscurity.

Chapter 1

This April morning, a dense, bone-chilling fog blanketed the mostly sleeping San Francisco. I was euphoric, jogging along the waterfront while a foghorn echoed hauntingly across the bay. As I increased my pace on Embarcadero Boulevard, the moist, salty air invigorated me. Then, in the distance ahead, I heard rubber pounding on pavement, becoming louder as it neared. Shortsighted from the mushy fog, all I saw was the amber haze of streetlights.

I listened more intently, my muscles tensed in preparation for full sprint. The jogger had a rhythmic masculine stride; he was a seasoned runner. Even as prepared as I was, I startled when he emerged wearing a black-hooded sweatshirt. He, too, twitched as I came into his view, camouflaged in powder blue sweats against the haze. Now, within arm’s length, I held my breath to contain my heavy panting. We nodded as we passed, then I exhaled and hastened my pace to distance myself from the shadowy jogger.

Feeling edgy, I took a shortcut through Green Street and slackened my stride. I turned the corner onto Columbus and trotted to my destination. A few seconds later, I was relieved to be at my favorite all-night Java café. The door opened. An older man wearing ragged jeans and a dark parka held the door, waiting for me to enter. I thanked him, inhaling the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

The café faithfully entertained the rowdy sunset-to-sunrise crowd with gallons of coffee before the revelers called it a night. I loved joining these locals’ hangout, imagining that I belonged. Tonight, however, the overcrowded café felt overly warm and suffocating as I stood in line along the walled bookcase aptly-labeled Repentance for its abundance of forsaken self-help books, left by customers for exchange or resale. I browsed the spines for a mystery or paranormal novel, and couldn’t resist a bright magenta cover with the title Crashing Parallel Worlds. I pulled the book and skimmed the introduction while the line shuffled forward. In front of me was a stout, muscular man in gray sweats who finally ordered, and then turned and nodded as if he knew me. I politely returned his greeting.

At the counter, I dropped a twenty in the charity box for my book. Randall stood fixed behind the cash register, grinning as if he knew all my secrets. Sara, you’re running late.

I doubled around Pier 39, I explained.

He smiled coyly. I’m off tomorrow. I’ll run with you.

Making lame excuses, I felt guilty, but after jogging with Randall several times, I had discovered he’d had other interests besides prodding into my life, and I wasn’t about to become involved with a confused twenty-year-old whose idea of a good time was to share recreational drugs.

Smiling, I ended my charade with, Randall, if I were only younger. I passed him a twenty. I’ll have a cranberry muffin and vanilla latte. Randall put the change into my palm and squeezed tightly. His seductive touch caused my face to flush. I felt uneasy as he stared at me with dark brown eyes. Gently, I retrieved my hand but then thought, as I turned away, that if Randall had been more mature, I might have been more receptive.

Scanning the scruffy, hungover crowd, I saw a rotund, balding man leaving his stool along the counter wall, which was brightly decorated with impressionistic murals. I slid my five-foot-nine frame onto the stool between an amorous couple and an animated youthful girl arguing on her computer phone. I could barely hear the jazz playing in the background. I brushed strands of fallen hair away from my ears as if to better hear.

Still overheated and feeling constrained at the counter, I kept glancing at the electronic board, waiting for my order number to appear. Relieved to see 112, I left my book on the counter to hold my place.

Randall’s eyes followed me to the register. Apologetically, he explained that the last cranberry muffin had been sold. I told him to replace it with an oatmeal muffin and had to reassure him I loved oatmeal. Back at my seat, one-half of the amorous couple was draped over my stool. I politely nudged the man’s elbow, and he glanced up, startled, but only moved an inch. After I had maneuvered onto the stool without spilling or dropping my muffin, I sighed in relief.

It took me a split second to notice a white slip of paper protruding from inside the front book cover. I gasped, noting that I hadn’t seen it before. I discreetly scanned the faces in the café to make sure no one was watching, then I took a sip of latte and bit into the spongy oatmeal muffin. Barely able to swallow, I brushed the crumbs off my fingers and carefully opened the book cover. I stared at the small open note, printed in black ink: Billion dollar bounty on your life. David born in Scottsdale, Arizona, forty years ago. My eyes blurred as I reread the lines, and my heart skipped several beats. My throat tightened like a clinched fist. Closing the cover, I felt my head throb like jabbing pulses from a jackhammer. Having always been aware that I couldn’t continue this life forever, I didn’t want it to end by being captured or enslaved without finding David first. The double message haunted me; it had to be the ultimate assessment of my fortitude.

Coming to my senses, I became aware of moaning and sloppy kissing noises from the couple. The teenage girl then slammed her computer phone on the counter and released a litany of foul words. Adrenalin flowed through my veins, as I controlled my primal urge to flee. Simultaneously, I felt like sweeping the self-absorbed couple off their seats and begging the rude teenager to be silent. As I focused on slowing my breaths to keep from hyperventilating, the space around me shrunk as though air were being released from a balloon, and I imagined the whole café looking at me.

Slowly exhaling, I asked the teenager, By chance, did you see anyone leave me this note? I pointed to the paper poking out from the cover.

The girl frowned. Nah, didn’t see a thing.

Did my book maybe get knocked off the counter? I prodded, thinking the note could have been secured that way.

Lady, I didn’t touch your book!

Taken aback, I grasped the book tighter and apologized for interrupting her.

She stood abruptly. He’s gonna be sorry! I gotta go. Then she tore out of the café almost knocking over a chair in her haste.

Turning around, I was startled to realize the couple had left. My eyes began tracing a path to the door, and then stopped short. The couple hadn’t left; they were standing, waiting for a table being vacated. I was amazed they had come up for air long enough even to notice the two men leaving.

I waited for them to be seated. I had to intrude; the note was far too disturbing to overlook any possibility.

As soon as they were seated, I sauntered over to them. Hello.

The middle-aged man with bushy, gray hair glanced up.

I pulled the note from the book and held it up. By chance, did you drop this slip of paper?

His elderly companion gave me a disgruntled look, opened her purse, and pulled out a tube of lipstick.

The man scooted some dirty dishes to the table’s edge. No, it’s not mine.

Oh, it must have been left in the book, I said, feeling a little embarrassed, but then saw the man glance at his friend, who was by now carefully applying her red stain.

I waited as she blotted her lips on a napkin. Then, looking up, she said, The girl next to you grabbed something off the floor. I didn’t see what it was.

Thank you, I said, wondering why the girl had lied, or whether she had partnered with the man who had previously vacated the stool next to her. Or, perhaps it was pure coincidence that I had sat next to her. Then again, had the note been left in the book before I’d even picked it out, with the knowledge that I’d be drawn to the title or the cover?

I felt the urgent need to leave. I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself. I looked over at Randall and noticed that he was watching me. The attention was consoling for a second, so I smiled and waved before jetting out, now gravely concerned about my welfare.

I crossed Columbus Street and went into Joseph Conrad Park. After stopping and stretching, I leaned against a Monterey pine tree and fidgeted with my shoelace, with an eye on the café. I wondered if anyone would follow me. A minute later, a short, pudgy, bald man came out and stood by the front doors. After a couple of minutes, an elderly stout woman in a gray coat joined him; they walked a short distance to a parked car and drove off. Others came out, too, but didn’t even look in the direction of the park.

Sprays of sunlight filtered through the pine trees as the fog thinned. Still anxious, I continued to wait and watch and wonder. Could I be in danger from my last job even now? For ten years, I had worked as a lab technician at an underground facility that developed drugs for erasing human memories. That had been the most harrowing mission I had ever undertaken.

Over a year had passed since that moment when the attractive young woman in the department store tapped me on the shoulder and said, The lab ceases to exist. A successful mission. For so long, I had been mesmerized by how she seemed to have appeared and disappeared momentarily. Now, I wanted that again. I desperately needed a sign—some reassurance that the note had indeed been left for me.

I felt chained to the tree as I watched two homeless women moving around a trash bin, digging for aluminum cans. The clanging of cans as they were being tossed into their metal shopping cart disturbed me. I had heard that sound centuries before in Spain, when I had been shackled to a stone post, beaten to a pulp, and left for dead.

I shuddered. I had to assume that the note had been intended for me, the bounty had to be for capturing me alive—and I knew that advanced torture techniques had become more diabolic in this century. I foresaw that I’d be tortured for what I knew; and, worse, tortured until they understood what I knew.

Curses arose from the homeless women. When I looked up I saw the cart overturning. Cans spilled onto the sidewalk and rolled down the incline. Reactively, I sprung from the tree to reach for several going by me. Then, one of the women shoved me aside as if I were stealing from her, and in a raspy voice, said, What in the hell are you waiting for? Find him.

Adrenalin surged through my veins. Her startling words made me realize I had to get out of there. I glanced at the woman’s deep-set gray eyes and parched face, lined with wrinkles, before she turned.

Thank you, I said, watching her hobble off, layers of drab clothing clinging to her back. Thank you, I repeated to myself wanting her to stay and talk to me.

I secured my book inside my sweatshirt, and ran off toward Bay Street. Within twenty minutes of arriving at my furnished apartment, I had my suitcase packed. Then, on a disposable phone, I called my friend Rami and left coded messages with his answering service to the effect that I was leaving San Francisco. I knew I could trust him to take care of the move notification, lease, and utility payments, and to leave an out-of-state forwarding address that couldn’t be traced to me.

I lugged my suitcase downstairs to the enclosed one-stall garage, retrieved the canvas bag from under the stairwell, and headed back to the apartment. Closing all the shades, I then unzipped the canvas bag, put on the disposable gloves that had been inside, and shook the accompanying can of Ash-Tek, a chemical that would dissolve skin cells and fingerprints. I released the valve on the can and bolted out the door. Although, Ash-Tek claimed the treated ash was not biohazardous, I had my doubts.

In the garage, I removed my plastic gloves and my sweatsuit, dropping them into the canvas bag. I slipped on some Levis, a white T-shirt, and a black parka, and stuffed my golden-brown hair under a baseball cap. Then, returning upstairs to the apartment, I threw the empty spray can in the bag, went back to the garage, and left out the side door.

I hurried along the wide sidewalk on Bay Street as businesses were opening their doors. Passing several neighborhood cafes, I stepped into an alley and dumped my bag into a foul-smelling garbage bin.

Rolling my suitcase along Powell Street, I hailed a cab to Union Square and walked to the Mission Street bus depot to catch the airport shuttle. Avoiding cameras, as well as the Bay Area Rapid Transit, I preferred to mingle with the homeless gathered around the bus station.

I slipped into the only seat left on the airport shuttle and tilted my cap over my face. Closing my eyes, I smelled strong garlic on the man next to me. My left eye twitched incessantly as I visualized the homeless woman and mentally repeated her words: Find him. What if I had misheard? What if she had nothing to do with the note?

I weighed my options, knowing wise choices meant better solutions, and I felt certain the best decision was to leave San Francisco.

Chapter 2

Riding the elevated freeway overlooking the picturesque skyline of San Francisco, I struggled with thoughts of regret. Living a life on the move and, at times, on the run meant living without family and friends. I had only Rami in my life now, and he was growing older.

To boot, I had to protect a past that left me feeling guarded and suspicious. More than five hundred years ago, the Kryios, an advanced race from Andromeda, had saved my life on Earth and bestowed upon me the gift of longevity. In exchange, I vowed to accept missions assignments in the interest of protecting the human race.

I had always suspected that there were others who worked with the Kryios, but I had never met any until today. The homeless woman had to have been a messenger like I was, with missions of her own, or maybe even a Kryio in disguise. Had she arranged the warning note for me? I then thought of Randall. Maybe he wasn’t so innocent after all.

Arriving at the airport, I stepped off the bus and headed for the bathroom. I would need to change my appearance before buying a ticket to Vegas. In the restroom I clipped my hair back, replaced my black parka and tennis shoes with a beige blazer and tan sandals, and put on the rimless glasses that made my left eye appear slightly larger (to deter lingering stares). Then I bought my ticket and boarded, thankful I had an empty row to myself. Restlessly, I rode, muddling over the seriousness of my plight.

I felt relieved when I spotted Rami leaning against the Omni counter in Vegas, shoveling his bushy gray hair under his cap. I waved and he returned a nod, his blue eyes squinting and then shifting from one side to another. Instead of giving me a hug as I approached, he put his arm around my shoulder and quickly led me out of the terminal, asking, How serious is it?

I hesitated before saying, This may be it.

Rami shook his head in disbelief. We walked across the pedestrian bridge to the garage without speaking. It was not an awkward silence. After all, I had known Rami all his life. The day he’d been born, I had celebrated with his family from Northern Italy.

You’ve been threatened before, he finally said.

It’s different this time. I know too much.

I won’t … won’t let it happen, Rami said. The Kryios made a pact with my ancestors to protect you, and I’m telling you, it’s not happening in my lifetime. You’ve served the Kryios long enough! They should be protecting you.

You know the Kryios aren’t to interfere. I was frustrated. Rami and I had had this argument numerous times before. Look, at least I understand what my life’s about. There is no greater gift than to know your purpose. Rami knew what I meant; that I still had the ability to make choices, but that if I chose not to accept my missions, I’d be distancing myself from my purpose. I knew this would not convince him.

Well, you may not expect a rescue, he said, but I sure do.

I had nothing to add but was surprised when he stopped at a brown jeep.

I arranged to have it packed with camping supplies for our trip, he explained. I nodded, not surprised by this either.

I knew then that we were traveling to our haunt in the remote Mt. Irish Wilderness, where the clandestine Area 51 met Groom Lake. Rami had unlimited resources as well as financial funds to accomplish any task we might encounter; at eighty, he couldn’t possibly spend his wealth before he died. However, I can say I was surprised to see he had chosen a destination that we could get to by vehicle instead of a faraway place via his private jet (which he bought after retiring his pilot’s license, along with several contracted on-call pilots).

I thanked him for his planning and insisted on driving. I need to be sure we’re not followed.

Surprisingly, Rami agreed. I lifted my suitcase into the back and slipped into the driver’s seat. On our drive north on Highway 93 and west on 376 towards Rachel, Nevada, I told Rami what I planned to accomplish. He kept his disagreements to a minimum. Afterwards, Rami was on the phone implementing my plans.

We arrived at our campsite in the Mt. Irish Wilderness before sunset and pitched two igloo-style tents between the evergreens. We ate corned beef sandwiches and potato chips, and drank cans of cold beer. Then, I unpacked the book from my backpack, and held it out to Rami. You can read the note for yourself.

Rami wiped his hands on his jeans before taking the book. He examined the cover before turning it over to view the back. He then let the pages fall open to the slip of paper tucked inside page 119. Rami glanced at me and then lifted the note, bringing it closer to his eyes. A minute passed before he asked, Are you certain this isn’t a joke or that it could have been left in the book?

I’m taking this note seriously. I looked him in the eye. Could we discuss this later—after some sleep? Mentally exhausted by now, I preferred to avoid discussing it any further.

Rami seemed miffed—he didn’t like it when I didn’t answer all of his questions— but he agreed to hold off until morning. So I disposed of our dinner wrappings, locking them into an air-tight metal container, and prepared to retire.

Rami had already settled into his tent before I crawled into mine. I left the door flap opened and gazed upon Orion. I wondered how far away David was from me now. The howling cries of coyotes seemed ominous as I watched the stars from my limited view in the tent.

Early the next morning, I left the sleeping Rami a note that I’d return after my meditation. I hiked to my favorite cave, hidden in the rocky hillside that was forested with pinyon and juniper trees. I’d come to this magnetic cave in the past to meditate within the IBISS, my Inner Being in Stellar Space. In the IBISS, I communed with my higher self—the vast ethereal consciousness that existed beyond the third dimension. The Kryios had taught me that by accessing my higher self in the IBISS, I could experience Earthly incarnations simultaneously but in different phases or times. It had taken me a long time to understand that my higher self had many densities beyond my current comprehension.

As I entered the cave, rays of light sprayed eerie shadows across the craggy opening, and I was hit with the smell of bat guano and musty desert dust. I adjusted my eyes to the darkness and settled into a crevice. I loved to meditate in this magical sanctuary. Silently, I chanted my mantra, to raise my awareness in the IBISS, the realm of knowledge that becomes the source of wisdom and higher consciousness. But the sound of swaying tree branches and strange creaking from the wind outside distracted me, and my restless, uncontrolled thoughts kept returning to my childhood. I had so far protected them from fading from my mind’s view by reliving them.

I am born Sara Alessa on August 25, 1510, to Antonio and Mary Giustino of Asolo, Italy. In the summer of 1520, I’m hiking on Monte Grappa, gathering berries with my older brothers Rafael and Michael. Trailing behind my brothers, a glittering light on a nearby rock catches my eye. I leave the trail for a closer look. I reach to touch the shiny markings and lose my balance, sliding off the ledge. Frantically, I grope for anything that might stop my fall. My body plunges into a big bush covering what seems to be an opening in the mountain. Head-first, I fall through it into a dark shaft, my arms and legs swinging in thin air. I’m terrified, unable to breathe. Falling at an uncontrollable speed, I want to die before breaking into pieces.

My heart is sobbing, but then I begin to feel light, very light. Now floating like a feather in darkness, I exhale a held breath and feel overwhelming joy—joy without tears, without sound, and without light or darkness; joy simply in being. Joy in knowing I have died before breaking into pieces.

Then the darkness transforms into a world of illumination. They first appear as yellow balls of light. They are called Kryios, and they rescue me, and raise me within the deep caves of Earth—though they are from a faraway world. I vow to keep their presence a secret.

After years of incredible teaching, I leave my underground world to live under the rays of the sun. I discover that my brothers, Raphael and Michael, are still living, but they are unwilling to believe that I am alive. Fearful that I am a ghost returning to haunt them, they beg me to disappear. They never want to see me again. I feel deep sadness, realizing that I will be alone the rest of my life.

And so began my sojourn, first as a messenger, and eventually in missions. After the success of my first mission, the Kryios offered me solace and protection by making a pact with Rami’s ancestors to include me in their family. Rami’s great-great-grandfather had observed the bright yellow balls floating over his family’s property, and unafraid, had initiated contact with the Kryios. In the interest of his family, Rami’s great-great-grandfather agreed to take me in, in exchange for certain beneficial knowledge from the Kryios. Over several years, I developed a deep kinship with Rami and his ancestors.

Afterwards, in the shadowy light I dug two holes, buried my leather pouch in one of them, and then reluctantly left the security of the magnetic cave. A short distance later, I froze in my tracks. Somewhere nearby, there was the hum of a helicopter. There were rumors that Area 51 security patrols were protecting a band of cosmic aliens that had stayed after their craft had crashed there years before. I had never seen any cosmic aliens, but then, the latest technology could detect sugar ants on the ground. All I knew was that I could only hope my hunters were not in the military, or I would need more than Rami to assist me.

I waited and listened. Finally, the humming dissipated. Confident the helicopter had gone, I continued my trek back to our meager camp.

Rami stood to greet me as if I had been gone for days. His blue sweater and jeans hung loosely on his lean frame. He squinted under the bright sun as he unloaded my heavy knapsack from my arm.

Are you still going through with It? Waiting for my answer he poured me a cup of coffee.

Yes, I said with as much conviction as I could muster, the crystal nasal implant has to be removed.

Rami shook his head. Sara, I can’t remove it. My hand isn’t steady enough. I’m too old.

Rami, you are the only doctor I’d trust.

He turned his face to the sky. How soon?

As soon as we return to Vegas, I said, following his gaze in the direction of the faint helicopter murmur.

I have a dermatologist friend there, Rami said. We might be able to use his office.

We need to call him this afternoon then. I sipped the last of my coffee and looked down at Rami. Are we ready to leave?

Why don’t we wait a bit? That helicopter might circle back. Rami settled into the juniper tree behind him. Let’s go over our plans.

I took off my baseball cap, letting my hair fall out. Tell your doctor friend the truth. You’re performing placebo surgery on a friend who insists she has an alien implant. The doctor could substantiate our story if we ever needed it. If either one of us is captured, we tell them the implant was removed and buried in a cave. That will buy us time.

Sara, you believe me? I’ve never told anyone about you!

I looked at Rami’s distressed face. Apparently, he was afraid that I blamed him for this. That I suspected him of leaking my age-old secret: the Kryios