Of A Dark Star: Exogenesis

By Samuel A Warmack

The end began when scores of mile-high vessels arrived from the deep silence of space and implanted themselves into the bedrock of cities across earth. Releasing an RNA altering virus into the atmosphere, the monoliths go silent, left to watch. Their arrival sets off a story that would be told across centuries and generations, across species and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samuel Warmack
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218026042

Book preview

Of A Dark Star

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Exogenesis

Samuel Warmack

Copyright © 2022 by Samuel Warmack

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by IngramSpark.

Paperback Edition ISBN 979-8-218-02603-5

EBook ISBN 979-8-218-02604-2

First Edition

Cover design by DeeOnna Denton @deeonnadenton

For Mom, who gave me a love of stories

For Dad, who gave me a fire inside

For Shane, my rock, my gateway, my best friend

Chapter 1

Laraul ~ Y.2118

Whatever else it was that could be said of how I felt about Representative Drayana, I never felt anything other than a sense of respect in her ability to cut to the core of every matter. Her political rivals had learned years before to not discount her diminutive form: She was a lion dressed in a deer's skin, and woe be unto those who misunderstood that fact. The sort of person who stood at attention at all times, I often found myself uncomfortable in her presence, as if the imaginary rod of steel that had been rammed up the length of her spine could be pulled out at any time and used to bludgeon those who displeased her.

I hate her, she seethed to no one in particular as we stood together in the viewing gallery of the capitol building, both dressed out in our conservative finery. Dray was her typical self that evening: Impeccably neat, coiffed hair worn atop her head in an elaborately wrapped coil, an elegant and subtle compensation for her lack of height. The popular gossip magazines, one of the last vestiges of news media not directly controlled by the central government, often published photos of her standing next to tall men. The copy under each photo invariably referred to her as tenacious, or tough. She was both of those things, and knew better than most how to harness other people’s underestimations of her and turn them into an advantage.

I’ve never denied her capabilities. What I also don’t deny is that she was a complete and utter asshole.

Her dress was worn tightly around the torso, pressing her already small breasts flat against her chest, bound in the fashion of that spring. While it looked fantastic on her, I found the look to be unflattering more oft than not on most others. Drayana, though, taught and muscular, bore it with a straight-backed assuredness that most others failed to carry off. The curve of her fangs showed brightly in the candlelight at that moment, lending her mein a most feral glow. Her eyes, though, never left the chamber floor below, darting cat-like between the Senators filing into the room before locking onto one robed figure in particular drifting through the crowd.

She went still, her mouth tightening with white lines of rage.

As of late, she had begun to make firmer and firmer declarations as such, a hardness taking over her personality that had not existed there in our youths. We were veterans of the same wars, our personal and political lives having run nearly parallel for decades. Though we’d both ever managed to rub the other the wrong way with our respective personalities, she had earned my tentative respect in that time, which only made the expression she wore that night all the more unsettling. The bitterness I saw around her eyes and mouth belonged to a stranger.

She is wearing a terrible dress, tonight, I'll grant you that, I muttered with a bored sort of appeasement. I saw her standing with Old Calla outside chambers and couldn’t believe she’d choose such a wretched color for such an auspicious evening.

The eye roll Dray turned toward me was one I’d seen many times before,  withering in the extreme, full of disappointment and an acute desire to slap me. When she spoke, her voice dripped sarcasm. Because her dress is really the most important thing about her to hate tonight, Laraul? She sniffed. I should think you of all people would be the angriest about this sham. She’s the one stealing your thunder, afterall. By all rights, your pompous ass should be the one receiving a promotion this night. Doesn’t that get under that frigid skin of yours, at least a little bit?

The truth was, few people were capable of getting under my skin as often as Drayana always managed to. She and I had competed with one another for years in a friendly, not-so-friendly manner, trading insults as easily and often as jokes. The worst part was, she knew me well enough to know the truth, and how best to weaponize it. I’m angrier and more confused than you’ll ever know, I thought bitterly, looking upon the procession filing through the gallery below. But I’ll never tell you that. "If I let every slight life threw my way bother me, I’d never stop worrying, I shrugged, earning me yet another roll of the eyes. But... I’ll grant I am confused. How the pauper managed to become a queen is beyond me."

From behind us there came an exasperated sigh, tugging a smile from my lips. When the voice spoke, I knew it belonged to Marceline. Really, though, ladies, I'd rather like to see this without having to listen to your endless prattling. All bone-dry wryness, I loved the ancient Representative and his bored baritone manner if speaking. Drayana, kindly keep your venom to a bare minimum, if only for this evening.

I couldn't help but to smirk at that. I had worked with Marceline for nearly thirty years, and as much as he remained an enigma to me, as time went on I found that his calm, steady ways often worked wonders to bring a measure of sense to the madcap, back-biting intrigue within the House of Representatives. His true age was a mystery much gossiped about within Congress, but my best guess placed him well into his 80's, but he was no less sturdy for it, still tall and handsome in his way. What he thought of me I had ever wondered, he and I having never been quite as close as I would have liked to've been. The scabby-kneed eight year old rebel in me still yearned the for approval of one such as himself; he a hero of sorts I’d admired since I was a girl watching him speak on behalf of those of us stricken by the Ancestor Virus on the news programs and televid screens. I took pride in his warm presence behind me.

Drayana clenched her jaw with annoyance but chose merciful silence instead. Even she knew when to hold her tongue.

The entire House had turned out for this evening, so I couldn't begrudged old Marce for wanting to witness the proceedings. All 532 members of Congress had turned out as their best-dressed selves, although whom amongst my peers had done so of their own accord and whom showed out merely to keep up appearances with one of our own who’d suddenly risen so high, I could not yet guess. I will say there were a great many somber, closed expressions in the chamber that evening, and for good reason. For the better part of a century, those tainted by the touch of the Mother Virus had received precious little recognition or representation within the government.

We viewed the world from vastly different perspectives, Drayana and I, but that evening? We were sisters united that night in mutual hatred and perplexion. I watched the procession below move deeper into the Senate chamber and had to fight the twisting knife I felt in my stomach as we watched the hooded figure in the ugly green dress circulate imperiously through the crowd of Senators. Dray growled audibly, and there was a hushed intake of breath from many gathered amidst the Vice, shocked at the implication of what was taking place below us. The person adjusted the hood covering her head, allowing a glimpse of her face to those of us with proper spots as she turned to exit the room again, and the shock rippled through the balcony in a wave of whispers.

A flush of anger threatened to break a sweat over my brow. How damaged must a  soul be, to be sold so cheaply, I thought.

For over 60 years, the New American government had held the continent together by sheer force of will after the collapse. After the Ancestors had transformed us, the old states of the American republic had dissolved their union, every man looking out for himself, as it were: The Ancestors had come from the stars, their seed-ships raining down through Earth's atmosphere like monsoon winds. No country had been spared by The Mother. A virus given living form through mankind’s sundering: The genetic payload of the Ancestors had been released within Earth’s atmosphere, and had taken months to fully manifest itself in the form of babies born thereafter; their eyes onyx black, their skin starting to show signs of darkening toward indigo shades of night, ridges and horns rising from what should have been smooth brows. In a single generation, mankind was reborn as the first children of The Mother.

People had flocked toward military and air force bases immediately following the invasion, seeking protection and comfort from the mass hysteria in faith and armed force. In their fear and confusion, the populace had quickly acceded to the whims of generals and colonels, and within a matter of months, the long-con of democracy had faded away with barely a whimper, replaced by the strict rule of a quasi-religious military hunta. I was born into such a system, the ideals of rights to freedom and happiness little more than a fairy tale told of a country which no longer existed.

Those such as myself and others of the V.R. had soon been labeled as plague victims, little more than a problem to be solved. And, yet, as the decades had rolled on and governments everywhere began to realize that those such as Marceline would not be getting cured anytime soon, a sort of structural disenfranchisement had been put into place, systematically denying ones such as I from full representation in the laws of the lands. In Y.2092, after the short yet bloody rebellion in which I had participated, the New American government convened its first joint Congress, incorporating the newly minted Vice Representatives, those first 532 of us attached to the rank and file of the 200. Many, many things had changed in the years since.

One of which being the piss-poor placement of the V.R in the steaming upper level of the Senate building. I had been a member of the Vice since its inception some 26 years gone, and am ashamed to admit that I once firmly believed that it had meant something. I can still recall the sense of pride I’d felt at my first conference... how young I was, sweating and smiling through the near-suffocating stuffiness of the V.R. viewing gallery with such naive optimism.

The ensuing years had not changed much, the gallery still a hotbox of intrigue and discontent. Unlike the 200 below we were not even granted seats, but were instead compelled to stand. Many members fanned themselves, sweat glistening on their rippled brows, a palpable tension strung between us. The V.R. Gallery hadn't existed during that first conference, not officially at least. We had been promised a grande remodel of the Congressional floor, room enough for all representatives to be able to congregate as one. They had promised true unification.

Two and a half decades later and what had changed? Not much more than the amount I sweated. In the old days, the heat had gotten to me. Years of exposure had inured me to such discomfiture, though, just as it had old Marceline. Drayana, though, I was pleased to see, had developed quite the pretty sheen of dew upon her forehead. Three years into her first term and the heat still bothered her.

Good, I thought with a smirk. Let the bitch sweat.

From our nosebleed vantage point I could see the doors leading into the chambers below. Although not reckoned a position of honor, it was where I preferred to stand: I wanted to see the face of my new superiors as they entered the chambers, even if they would likely never see mine. Whose hands they shook, who they smiled at and who they did not when they entered the congressional floor meant a great deal to me. Access to inside knowledge was everything in Congress, especially the V.R. where fortunes and position of pride changed weekly, and I prided myself on the ability to know the who's, what's and why's of the machinations within Congress.

Make no mistake, I remain under no illusion of how important I was in the grand scheme of things and, yet, knowledge is the most powerful weapon for those who know how to wield it properly. And, my friends, though I no longer carried a gun or used bullets to punctuate my sentences, I most assuredly knew how to use every truth, lie and fudged fact to my benefit.

First to enter the chamber was the Trigemony: The highest ranked members of Congress, elected by the 200 Senators and we members of the V.R., though our votes were a mere formality. It took two of us Vice voting together to void the vote of a single Senator, and three of us to outweigh. With their numbers down from the recent assassinations, those 198 gathered below us cheered quite loudly; there was the scent of blood in the water for those who knew how to sniff it out, and the 200 were desperate to seal the wound in their power.

Indeed, as the electees entered the chambers, even members of the Trigemony clapped as they began their ascent up the stairs of the Senate floor. Whether they genuinely approved of their new colleagues I couldn't say, but any time the 200 lost their ability to immediately outvote the Vice on all matters, they got nervous. While the creation of the V.R. had theoretically created an immediate voting majority in favor of the Vice with our overwhelming 532 votes, it was exceedingly rare that the entire Vice Congress voted as one. To enduring embitterment, our 532 votes only counted out to 216 against the 200; therein lay our greatest power, and our most fatal weakness. Twenty six years had not dulled the sting of the government cutting the vote power of the Vice in half, arguing rather baldly that a balance of powers must be upheld. 216 congruent votes had only ever occurred once in the V.R.'s entire history, and the 200 had seen to it ever since that that sort of slip in voting power might never occur again. Somehow, solidarity within the V.R. always seemed to break and vote against its own best interest. A strange thing indeed to those paying attention.

First walked in the congressional president, Kilbridge. Of later-middling years, his iron-grey hair and slightly effeminate features shone brightly in the chamber. Whatever else I thought of the man or his bland, ineffectual policies, I found him inexcusably handsome. He passed through the 200, nodding slightly as he clapped like a cheerleader and passed each row. Behind him came Dalla, her paunchy skin looking of deflated bread dough, jiggling as she nodded to her colleagues and delicately tapped fingers to palm. She was a smart woman, easy to underestimate. Behind her tottered old Danel, tufts of white hair standing out around the crown of his head. Decrepit as the man was, I’d heard many a rumor of his predilections for young, untouched flesh. I couldn’t help but curl my lip as I watched the lecherous old turd feebly hop up the short steps toward the central dais. Fully human and immune to the Mother’s influence, all of them, looking for all the world like endangered animals emerging from behind protective museum glass.   

After them came the newest member-elect of the 200. Drayana was not the only one hissing and cursing as he did so, drawing delicate frowns from those gathered below.

Robero, tall, sturdily built, dark-haired and senatorial. He entered the lower gallery as though he had been born there, comfortable and at home, shaking hands with all prospered to him. A former pilot in the air force, he carried himself in the manner of someone used to being obeyed. Although he appeared pleased, there was somewhat about the way he greeted each member of the 200 that gave pause: Happy to see everyone and warm with none. As I watched I couldn't help but notice that he never leaned in to speak with anyone he greeted. He bounded down the aisle, shaking hands and meeting no one’s gaze, seemingly more interested in passing through than engagement. None of the 200 seemed to like him either, their handshakes perfunctory and cordial at best. As soon as he had passed none watched him go, but merely turned back to the door, awaiting their newest member. Robero paid no mind, stepping lightly onto the tier below the Trigemony and turned to face the crowd. With all of their backs to him, I daresay none noticed his curious, open survey of the V.R. viewing gallery. Why this bothered me I could not say, simply that at the time it felt unnatural. No one notices us... so why had he?

Behind me, fabric rustled.

Noticed that too, have you, Marceline grumbled, his voice pitched enough to reach only my ear. I turned my head toward him, caught his eye and simply nodded. From my right, Dray had cocked her head, peering down at Robero. Clever girl...

Below, the second Representative had again entered the theater. The hood she wore had been pulled away from her face just enough that those nearby could see her. While I couldn't quite see her face, each time she turned to greet a member of the 200 I would catch a glimpse of an ebony arm; a sharp nose, a cat's smile on full lips. She greeted all who extended a hand, lightly and open. Her long fingers gripped hands firmly, patting elbows and back. As she reached the tier and took her place next to Robero, the knot that had been building in my stomach clenched as she drew back her hood.

Her... The shock that alit within me when I first heard of her appointment several days prior, began to shiver its way through the collected audience of my fellow  V.R. as they recognized one of their own. Genya... Vice Representative Genya, who I had served with since the inception of the V.R. Genya, whom I had fought beside in our youth against the New American government, both of us demanding a voice in the policies that governed our lives. My Gen. My Genya...

Seeing my old lover standing beneath the Trigemony in benediction, my once battlemate ascending to the 200, struck me like a fist. The sight should have filled me with joy to see one of our own ascend those stairs, to partake in the power, but it simply made me ill. How? How could she? How had she? No member of the V.R. had ever been raised to one of the 200, especially not a third generationer like Genya. Her feral smile showed delicate fangs, her long limbs a signpost of the Ancestors; a body made for killing. Eyes made for hunting. Her genetic mutations stood out like a sore thumb, marking her for what she was: The strongest drop of mongrel water allowed into the relatively untouched genepool of the Representatives.

Of a certainty, there were those gathered below us in the Senate chambers whom had minor changes, but none whose body had succumbed so completely to the Mother virus. She was a predator amongst lambs and we all felt it. The focus of the entire V.R. gallery was upon Genya... How had she done it? When had she done it? The shock of seeing her standing there struck no less a chord within me than any others. Indeed, I'd wager to say that I was the most profoundly dumbstruck.

The simple, hard fact that I’d been so completely blindsided by it struck a cord of fear in my gut… someone had played the game better than I. Behind that trickle of fear came a wave of anger.

A frisson of whispers swept through the chambers as the Trigemony called congress to order. Danel, the ancient speaker of the house, banged his gavel several times.

All ye gathered, the shriveled old man boomed, his voice far more confident than his body looked, we congress this day in order to welcome a new brother and a new sister within our fold!

The hall broke out into applause, though it was decidedly muted from the gallery.

Five weeks ago, Representative Ela and Representative Reed were murdered as they visited the western states. An act of barbarism that is wholly dismissed by this ennobled government!

Again, applause, mixed with the odd hiss.

Never before has such an abominable act been committed upon the venerable body of this government, and we gather today not simply to elevate two amongst us to the rank of Senator, but as a rebuke, to PROVE that our work here shall not be stopped. That such vile acts as murder and sedition will never be tolerated!

Danel banged his gavel, as though to punctuate his sentence. Will never be bowed to! Bang.

Will, and MUST, never be bowed to! Bang.

This time, the entire congress erupted into performative applause, and though my clapping was somewhat less effusive, I was loathe to be seen not agreeing. Such is the way of keeping up appearances in government.

After the applause had subsided, the old speaker moved to one side, making way for the Executive Officer. Try as I might, I couldn't keep the sneer from my face; it's a failing of mine that what I think often shows up on my face. I make no excuses. I sneered, and so did nearly everyone else in that chamber. Executive Officer Dalla was a deeply disliked woman. As the saying went, 'If Dalla's lips are moving, they're weaving lies.'

Such was her fate as the mouthpiece of the Trigemony. I hated her no less for it, though she’d never been anything but cordial to me in our dealings with one another. She was the sort of person married to tradition and stature, elevated to a position of esteem due to her gift for defending the government’s latest position, no matter how outwardly abhorrent those positions were. She seemed to relish the infamy, smiling out at the Congress, wearing her hair in a blunt bob of black, all thick angles and bangs. The cowl-robe she wore made her short frame look like a sack of potatoes with a head floating atop it. The microphone was positioned squarely in front of her smiling face.

My esteemed colleagues, her mellifluous voice filled the chamber. How such a honeyed sound could come from such a woman, I will never know, but she practically purred into the microphone, sending goosebumps up my arms.

As our venerable Speaker has said, we gather today so that we may assure to those we were elected to represent that this glorious nation remains strong. That we as a country are one united body, in spite of our differences. That we are no longer divided by such petty conceits as genetic purity. I stand before you today unbent, unbowed by the recent acts of terror which claimed the lives of our beloved colleagues. They both believed in the idea that those affected by the so-called Mother Virus are no less, and no more, than those whom yet remain immune.

At this, her head lifted slightly to gaze toward us in the V.R., a look I’m sure she thought benevolent, but felt more patronizing than anything else. She had said that we were no less, but what I’d heard was the no more part…  I never knew Ela, but I knew for a certainty Reed had most certainly believed that those of us with the virus were, in fact, something… more. He was ever a radical in that way. Still smiling up at us, Dalla continued.

We honor their memory by continuing onward with the good work of unification! The right work of governance! And so, we honor today Representive Robero of New Illinoise District, and Representative Genya of Capitol District New York City as the newest members of this proud Senate!

More polite applause. As Robero nodded and waved, Genya kept her hands demurely folded in front of her, bowing her head sweetly. Someone had clearly instructed her on how to act... very little of the applause was for her, I noticed. Drayana stared daggers in Gen's direction, not bothering at all to clap, and she was visibly not the only one. I was glad of the fact that Genya’s suspicious ascension at least hadn’t passed my fellow Rep’s by.  The applause quickly died away.

Today..., Dalla took a moment to gaze out over those gathered, raising her chin proudly. After a moment, she raised her eyes toward the V.R. viewing gallery again, a knowing smile playing around her sparse lips. She held the moment, letting the silence drag, her eyes combing the entirety of the Vice Representatives. Today, we make history.

With that she held out a hand and beckoned Robero forward. He smiled widely, adjusting his dressing robes. He was wearing his cut in a rather dapper fashion, closely trimmed to his body in such a way as to remind those who saw him that his body had been altered very little by the virus. He was a perfect specimen of the 200, handsome and confident and human. He raised a hand and she raised a hand, open palms facing outward in a sign of openness and trust. She recited the law and what was expected of him. Robero, handsome Robero, smiled and acquiesced, nodded and shook Dalla's hand firmly as he took his oath of office. It was well done, and the entirety of the House applauded. His confidence bothered me. There was something in the way he gave his oath, a smile playing around the edges of his eyes... I mistrusted it.

Calm down, old girl, I chided myself gently. I pinched the thick webbing of one thumb between two fingers of the other hand, something I often did to tame an oncoming headache. You’ll spook the horses if you keep jumping at every shadow. Someone pulled a fast one over you is all… not that big of a deal.

Dalla looked down and shuffled several papers atop her podium, letting silence fall again before looking up. She was smiling.

And now, to history, she said, turning her gaze once more to the V.R. Gallery. I do believe that on this fine day, I have the especial pleasure of welcoming into the 200 our first ever candidate from the ranks of the House of Vice Representatives. Please, allow me to say...

Lying bitch! A shout rang forth from the opposite side of the V.R. Gallery. I never saw who it was. Representative Laural was the first nominated but you wouldn't allow it!

At that, a thrill of murmurs erupted around the hall, and I felt several hundred pairs of eyes settle upon me all at once. The feeling was unsettling. Sheer force of will is what kept my eyes locked onto the podium of the Executive as I schooled my face into one of calm boredom. Hidden inside the sleeves of my robes, though, my fingers continued to knead the other hand furiously. Dalla’s eyes met mine, if only for a brief second, across the distance. I can't be sure, but I could almost swear that her head had bowed a fraction of an inch, her smile widening.

She clucked her tongue. Such language, when you should be so honored. My business has only ever been with dealing in truths, unlike some, she sniffed dismissively. She then held forth a hand to Genya, who stepped forward with a raised chin. Dalla rested fingers lightly on Genya's shoulder, never quite looking her full in the face. "Be welcome, Senator Genya of NYC district, to the 200!"

There was a pause, so brief, behind her words: there for a fraction of a moment before it was swallowed by thunderous applause. But still... it had been there, and those of us in the chambers with smarts enough to recognize it paid heed.

Oh, Gen, you beautiful idiot... they're going to have you killed, I sighed inwardly. Something deep within me ached at the wide, proud set of her brow; the ram-like curve of her horns thrust back over her head like a crown; the alien sweep of a mane that sprouted from her brow and ran down her back. Genya was a liar and a cheat, but seeing her surrounded by enemies made an unnamed something swell and growl within my breast.

Even after all this time... I took a deep breath in order to steady myself.

From my left, kind Ulleah leaned against my shoulder. You know, whispered the plump woman, her hang-dog eyes meeting mine, I could still have her killed. Just saying, babygirl.

I couldn't help it: I laughed, quickly covering my mouth. Dalla's head flicked toward our direction, a frown over her lips. I felt my face reddening as I placed a secretive hand over Ulleah's forearm, squeezing it and catching her eye. I have a feeling our colleagues below already having something similar in mind. I shook my head and continued to smile, sweet Ully shrugging, turning her bored gaze back to the proceedings.

Whatever else could be said, I had friends amidst the V.R., and not all were quite so thrilled to see my former love elevated so highly, so quickly. Only some six years in the House, her rise into the 200 was, to say the least, meteoric. None had done so before, and the taint of that slight was felt immediately. She had been elevated, but in the eyes of her peers, she was still a nobody. To those of us of her former peerage, she was a betrayal.

Drayana gripped the banister before her, her gleaming claws sinking slightly into the polished wood’s surface.

That lying, conniving cunt.

I cringed inwardly. I despise that word.

Charming as ever, Dray. Truly.

She favored me with her best curdled-milk look. Something perverse in me loved to see it: it meant I was doing my job.

Children, Marce interjected, could you..

But he got no farther.

As Drayana and I had exchanged looks, a man had moved to the front of the packed crowd of V.R.'s on the opposite side of the chamber. As Marceline had interjected, the man had scrambled clumsily atop the rail of the balcony. Looking up, I was just in time to see the dumbfounded looks upon the faces of the Vicer's standing behind him. Belatedly, realization sinking in that something was amiss, a couple hands moved toward him in order to pull him back, but late. Too late.

Blessed is the Mother, he shouted, his voice high pitched and cutting across the room.

Blessed are the Scions!

Heads all over the chamber began to turn, even as his body already tipped forward in an inexorable arc toward the chambers below him. Hands, reaching out, fingers curling around a scrap of fabric... late. Always, always too late...

And thus he fell. I know now that it was a mere twenty feet, but that fall seemed to take forever in my mind. Unto my death I will never forget the faces of those V.R.'s reaching out toward the falling man; a futile grasping at reality. Their faces frozen in a rictus of terror; of surprise. They saw the bomb and they didn't see the bomb.

And the man... Vice Representative Alloran his name was. I remember to this day the soft curl of brown hair over his frightened black eyes; his lithe body falling arms akimbo; an odd bulk strapped around his chest with crude wiring and lengths of leather; his mouth a sad, round O; the shape his hands made as his body landed with an unimpressive thud upon the chamber floors below, sending members of the 200 scrabbling away from his fallen form.

There was a second after his body landed when I thought everything was fine, that this had simply been an odd outburst from a nondescript member of the House. Everyone paused, turning to look at Alloran's sad, broken form... I remember looking toward the speaker's box where Genya and the Trigemony had stood only moments before.

Dalla and Kilbridge had disappeared through the nearest doorway within the intervening moments, leaving behind a dazed Danel and sickly-looking Genya. Only Robero stood as a single unmoving point in a sea of chaos, a look of profound sadness upon his face as he looked toward Alloran's fallen form. I only had time enough to register this fact before the bomb strapped to Vice Rep. Alloran's chest detonated, a gold-red bloom of fire enveloping his form, washing over those unlucky enough to still be gathered near him. The concussion rocked my body before the roar of sound hit me, knocking me off my feet; blotting out consciousness in a tidal wave of fire and shrapnel and screams.

Chapter 2

Steven ~ Y.2032

I woke up the same moment everyone else did, the entire course of human history coming to an end as I sipped an extra-sweet cappuccino at my favorite coffee shop. A book by Christopher Hitchens had sat open in my lap for the better part of an hour, my fingers absently fiddling with the yellow paper jacket. I’d given up all hope of getting through the heady book days before, and had decided to use it as a prop while I engaged in my favorite secret hobby: people watching.

I glanced back at my book as a tall asian woman sat down at the table next to me, her light floral perfume wafting. She placed her phone on the table's surface, crossed her arms and began reading the menu hanging above the plain Formica countertop.

Having nowhere to be and no one to be where with, I had spent the morning nursing my drink, occasionally sneaking a flask of bourbon from my backpack to top it off. Thinking about wandering over to the bookstore across the street I closed my book and stood to make my way out. As I did, the woman's phone chirruped loudly with a news notification. She reached toward it as I stood, meeting my eye with a furtive smile, and I found myself letting the bourbon take over, thinking I should say hello to her. She was pretty and I was bored. Making my way to the garbage bins and thinking of a witty joke to make, I heard several other phones around the enclosed space begin to go off with alerts as well. The volume of ambient conversation quickly dimmed as people dipped their heads to see what was happening, the sound of inoffensive college kid music the only sound for several moments. The pretty girl had looked over at me, her face full of fear, when my phone began to vibrate in my pocket...

How could any of us have known what was coming? I’d grown up on a steady diet of Hollywood blockbusters, watching cities around the world get destroyed by alien laser beams and watched as heroes slayed horrible monsters, there glorious spacecraft whizzing across a Saturday morning television screen, but when fantasy became reality, it was as if we’d been frozen in our tracks, locked in blocks of ice by some super villain. When they came, they cut our way of life out from under us completely.

We were so innocent when we thought ourselves alone in the universe... so confident, so full of wonder and certainty in our dominion over all things. Mankind had evolved and prospered beneath the vicious boot of evolution and natural selection, thrived so thoroughly, in fact, that we thought ourselves unconquerable inheritors of, well... everything. The land, the air and sea, the Moon and planets and stars. The Mother saw an end to that child’s fairytale.

I was just as blind-sided as everyone else standing inside the café that day. I’d never spared much thought for invasions or the politics of foreign enemies; looking back on that willful ignorance, I laugh. I’d grown up in rural Iowa but had moved to San Francisco as soon as college was finished, going to work for a small publisher named Exegesis Books. In reality, the publisher was little more than a husband-wife team, Jerry and Malia Carr, pumping out small run prints from their apartment, and they’d needed an extra pair of hands. We made hemp-bound art and poetry books for children, as children tend to be rabid consumers of Baroque and Post-modern art. Somehow, the company managed to sell copy and pay the bills, and so I’d stayed. 

I was drowning at the time without being aware of it: single, buried in college debt, alone in a filthy city I had grown to love which didn’t love me back. Feeling like you're in control of your own future when you're young is an intoxicating thing, and I thought at the time that I was making a genuine go of it. Whatever it is. When I was a kid, I’d dreamt of being a marine biologist, fascinated by nature documentaries and the alien life dwelling just beneath the oceans and seas.

I’d been taking a break from formatting text for a new collection Malia and Jerry had envisioned, combining the art of Basquiat and the poetry of Baudelaire, the day the news broke: A large object astronomers had spotted beyond the orbit of Neptune was turning slowly toward Earth but rapidly gaining speed. By all accounts of a week prior, the mysterious object would pass nowhere near Earth, it's relatively slow path leading it toward the opposite side of the solar system over the course of several months. A cosmic curiosity much studied by doctorate eggheads and amateur physicists, a ship passing in the night of space. An oddity and little more to the public. The object was dim and hard to focus telescopes on, so images were fuzzy and more frustrating than not, so those like me had been content to ignore the headlines in the Science sections of news alerts.

A few days later, everything changed.

What hadn't been leaked with the initial news reports was that the object had been tracked by satellites for nearly a year without the public knowing: Discovered the previous summer, astronomers had initially thought the object to be a new dwarf planet in the Kuiper Belt, a free radical closer than any other seen before. After a few months of observation, though, one Dr. Emma Laughten began to notice a subtle shift in the planet’s projected orbit.

Over the course of several nights, she was able to postulate the new trajectory of the massive object and was startled to see that it's path was now set to pass within the orbit of Neptune. Though no obvious dangers could be proven, she began to wonder if such a gravitational disturbance of two such large bodies in space could pose hazards to the Earth, flinging rogue asteroids in Earth’s direction. Dr. Laughten peered through her telescope and entered the raw data into her computer, and after several alarming, sleepless nights, she showed her findings to colleagues, and over the course of several months the group had come to the conclusion that their findings should be brought to the defense department's attention. While the object was yet too dim and too distant to image directly, what they did know was that the object they had begun to jokingly refer to as Bob was oblate, dark and nearly 100 miles in diameter. Bob was moving in a trajectory that would cut across the rim of Neptunian orbit and drift safely away from Earth.

As they had watched, though, they’d begun to register a drift in the planetoid’s course. What began as a raised eyebrow over a mathematical anomaly quickly became a trill of alarm as the object's course had completely altered direction. Six days after the initial story broke, what had begun as a quiet, slow moving point of interest drifting very, very far away had quickly become a fast moving something that had made a seemingly deliberate turn toward Earth, falling toward the planet like one magnet calling to another.

Oh, holy shit, said the café’s manager. Several heads turned his way as he held up his phone, his homely face registering disbelief as he adjusted his baseball cap and looked around the shop with incredulity. We made contact with E.T., man. Aliens! Actual fuckin’ aliens!

The words made perfect sense, but the sentence itself was just... nonsense, especially coming from the manager, Jim. He was a nice guy, but with a face like a parking barrier, it's safe to say that no one had ever expected to hear that mankind had contacted aliens for the first time from someone looking like, well... Jim. He looked around gleefully at the room full of people, his joy quickly fading toward annoyance as he failed to get anything more than stunned silence from the rest of us.

Pulling my phone from my pocket I stepped out of the café and lit a cigarette. I remember hearing earlier in the week about a mysterious object floating through our neck of the galactic wood but hadn't much bothered to pay it any mind. Stories about space never seemed to interest me overly much, as I’d never had much interest in sci-fi or fantasy books, so the deeps of space never held my young imagination in much thrall. But there it was: What had begun its life as a dim, large object moving slowly through the system had quickly increased speed and changed direction. Looking back, I honestly can't say if advanced notice would've helped anyone very much, but that remains a bitter, nagging question for the planet after all these years... If the world's governments had allowed their citizens to know about the object long before it made contact, would we have been better off? Would mankind have survived? I'll never know the answer to that, and such questions never seem to be given to us in order to be answered. No. Life only ever seems to be one long line of half-answers cobbled together to fit the question posed by existence. By the time the public became aware of the object, it was already too late to fight. 

As I stood smoking, watching a bus load of tourists pull up to a stoplight, Jim exited his shop, his eyes still glued to his phone. He glanced up at me briefly, pulling a cigarette from his pocket , and I offered my lighter. As he lit up, a woman from the bus turned and took our picture. Jim blew out a cloud of smoke and gave her the middle finger, turning to me.

So, Stevie, what the hell? Aliens, man! Never thought I'd see the day, man, but I always knew they were out there. They had to be!

He passed my lighter and went back to checking his phone