Kindred Star

By M.D. House

Intelligent life on another planet. Human intelligent life. Many Toryllians had long thought it possible, but seeing these people for the first time-these Earthlings-was challenging to process. It would be easy to live amon

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.D. House
• Release date: May 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781087993072

M.D. House

M.D. HOUSE is the author of "I Was Called Barabbas" and "Patriot Star." Before beginning his second career as a writer, he worked for twenty-five years in the world of corporate finance, strategic planning, and business development, mostly in the Chicago, Illinois area. Now, M.D. House lives in Utah with his wife, where he spends his time writing and enjoying his children and grandchildren. Learn more about him and his work at www.mdhouselive.com. The sequel to "I Was Called Barabbas," titled "Pillars of Barabbas," comes out in March 2021.

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Copyright © 2022 by M.D. House. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the author.

Other Books by M.D. House

The Barabbas Trilogy (Christian historical fiction)

I Was Called Barabbas

Pillars of Barabbas

The Barabbas Legacy

The Patriot Star Series (science fiction)

Patriot Star

The Servant of Helaman

Contents

Prologue: A New Dawning

Swirling Shards

Fresh Contacts

Settling In

First Dominoes

Entanglements

Cloudburst

Predators

Sleepers Awaken

Detours

Uncertain Steps

Contact

Strategic Shifts

Forging Bonds

Deep Fires

Falling Scales

Revelation

The Razor’s Edge

It Begins

Foreshadows

Dancing

Crash Course

Old Secrets

Dogs of War

Escalations

Earthquakes

Dancing with Strangers

Unlocked

Next Level

Galactic Front

Epilogue: Soulfire

VISITORS GUIDE TO TORYL

Note: Sun and Moon designations for phases don’t have any connection to actual positioning of the sun and the moons; actual moon phases follow an independent schedule

Prologue

A New Dawning

R elax, Anistan. The universe won’t end before we get there.

Yes, ma’am. Anistan’s stance slackened somewhat as he clasped his hands in front of him. He still seemed to be at attention, or at least ready to leap at an instant, his rigid, serious exterior mirroring the solid metal walls of Toryl’s first interstellar spacecraft, The Tev.

Mei’ Shera shook her head and pursed her lips into something she imagined was half smile, half grimace. She shouldn’t have expected anything different, not from Anistan. The man never seemed to flinch in his discipline, nor did he show anything much in the way of sharp feeling, at least not that she had noticed. It wasn’t healthy—even she knew that. You could only shut down your emotions for so long, and Anistan had apparently been doing it since their uncomfortable encounter in the Hall of Magistrates in Seraelin nearly half a year ago. The desperate battle against the traitor Akazhiel’s Internal Security troops had followed, with Anistan in the thick of it. That had surely left some scars as well.

No, she persisted patiently, I mean, take it easy for a while. You’ve been going non-stop since well before we launched. I don’t think I’ve seen you take a break since we left Toryl—and not even in the two months of training before we left.

Ma’am, the Five Traits of Piety are—

She raised a forestalling hand. I know the Five Traits, Anistan. I believe in them too now, just like you knights. But believing in them is one thing, living them another, and you must have balance or they become harder and harder to follow. She paused, realizing what she had said. It bordered on profound.

The expression on Anistan’s face hadn’t changed a bit, her marvelous insight apparently wasted on him. He merely nodded, which meant he’d heard her words but had no intention of heeding her advice. She could order him to stand down, had almost done it numerous times. One or two days of rest and recreation would do wonders for him. But would he really let himself enjoy it? And how would she monitor his ‘rest?’ She felt a sudden surge of exasperation, but let it pass and turned to gaze at the holographic star maps hovering near the far wall of the forward meeting room where she had known she would find him with his books and videos, holos and maps. Maybe she should have listened to her husband. Coren had told her not to worry about Anistan, not to try to persuade him to ease up on his regimen, but she had stubbornly determined to try at least one more time.

She turned back to Anistan to take her final shot. He hadn’t moved a millimeter, not even his eyes. Anistan, I understand and appreciate you’re completely focused on this mission, and I know as well as you do how important it is. But you’re no good to us if you’re burned out before we get there. We need you—and your knights—in top form. That means—

I’ll be in top form, Commander. That’s a promise.

He hadn’t interrupted her before; this was new. So, he was either starting to crack, as logic told her should be happening but which she didn’t believe in her gut, or he was becoming absolutely sick of her. Okay, the latter, but at least she was having some effect.

She stared at him for several seconds, during which time he blinked maybe once. Finally, she folded her arms and nodded slowly. "Fine, Anistan, but at least show a little emotion—excitement, maybe—about what we’re doing. This is not just a mission. It’s the most fantastic adventure anyone on Toryl has ever taken. We’re the first people to explore another inhabited planet. The first. I won’t order you to ease up, but at least help your men recognize the honor and get a little enjoyment out of it."

What she’d said sounded silly to her after the fact, but Anistan signaled acquiescence by snapping to attention and saluting her. All this blasted saluting, she thought with a frown as she poorly returned the salute. Why did they have to make us co-commanders? Coren could have handled it all by himself and that would have been just fine. She had felt reasonably comfortable leading her own people of the Avre Tiera back on Toryl and helping them re-integrate into Irrianite society after the civil war. But directing a starship with some of the best scientists in the world on board, plus a contingent of knights, on the first interplanetary exploration mission ever attempted . . . that was a far different story. And she didn’t get to spend enough time with Renni and Nemara, their adopted children from The Maze. Renni was almost eleven now, and Nemara had recently turned six. They had come a long way in the last three-plus years, healing faster than adults, but their past still haunted them at times.

She blamed her predicament on the press—or rather, the politicians and media elite who so easily steered each other into exaggerated nonsense. The recent victory over the rebels—make that partial victory—had generated far too much attention for her and Coren. Sometimes she wished she could take Coren and the kids and return to the once secret underground city of her youth—of all her life until a few short years ago. They could easily disappear into those great alien-enhanced caverns among her people. They could continue studying the records and artifacts of the mysterious, long-departed races of apparent galactic wanderers or outcasts who had initially seemed so ferocious in her mind. That would be nice. Maybe they could go there for an extended time after this mission.

She finally smiled and relaxed.

Okay, she relented, not knowing if she had accomplished anything or not. It was doubtful. But one more thing. Call me Mei’ from now on, like you used to. No more ‘ma’am.’

Yes, Mei’, ma’am. Anistan chuckled—he actually chuckled! Maybe she had achieved something after all.

She smirked and threw up her hands in mock defeat, then turned and started walking out of the room.

By the way, said Anistan, causing her to pause and look back from the doorway. "We’re supposed to speak in English—all the time—remember?" It dawned on her that he had been speaking English all along, what few words he had said, while she had spoken pure, undistilled Toryllian.

She cleared her throat to prepare it for the strange English sounds, which she was mastering quite well, though not nearly as well as Anistan, who could probably already pass for a native Earth English speaker. You are correct, Anistan, and I will better do.

I will do better, Anistan corrected with a slight grin.

Mei’s face flushed in embarrassment. She knew that construction. Oh, yes, yes . . . I will do better. Now . . . go study more. She dismissed him with a curt wave and left.

Anistan allowed himself another smile after she left, but only a brief one, tinged with . . . not sadness or regret, but something harder to define. Guilt, maybe? He sighed and rubbed a tired hand across his forehead as he returned to his chair in front of the terminal, which still displayed relief maps of the Atacama Desert on its wide screen. Why he had been looking at those maps he couldn’t remember—oh, yes, one of the most arid places on the planet, the great copper mines on its eastern edge, in the Spanish-speaking country of Chile. Those mines, and others nearby in Peru, provided forty percent of the world’s copper. Extraordinary. And Spanish seemed a beautiful language—maybe he would learn that one next. They had so many languages on Earth! Toryl had one, plus a few close dialects.

He finished his review of the Atacama, then sat back for a moment in thought. The parallels between Toryl and Earth, from what the probes had gathered, continued to astound him. The two planets were nearly the same size and mass, with Toryl only slightly larger. The atmospheres were almost identical, the view of the two celestial orbs from space so similar as to make no difference. Toryl had a bit more land mass, almost twice as many people, and less violent storms, on average. Earth claimed the prize for the tallest mountain ranges and the greatest sea depths, and also the widest ranges of climate. Toryl took slightly longer to make a revolution on its axis, and a bit more time to complete an orbit around its sun, and that sun was slightly larger than the one sustaining Earth. The sun/planet size proportions were identical, though, the additional distance of Toryl from its sun exactly matching the increased mass of that sun, maintaining the precise equation for supporting life. Toryl had two moons, Earth one of larger size. Both planets boasted millions of species of life teeming among land, sea and air, including various types of extremophiles. Most of the species of Toryl were significantly different from their comparable likenesses on the ‘sister’ planet, the most notable exceptions being horses and . . .

… humans. The dominant species of Earth appeared to be human, just like Toryllians in every respect. Human. How had that happened? Could it be they had been designed in exactly the same way? Was the designer the same or different? If the same, did Earthlings (as they called themselves) and Toryllians have common ancestors? Humans adapted, of course, but over just a few thousand years the differences would be minimal. He had gone round and round on the topic in his head many times and hadn’t been able to break out of the circle. They just didn’t know enough, not yet.

It seemed Earth’s scientists were starting to catch up to their Toryllian counterparts in recognizing that life on their planet hadn’t just evolved from inorganic matter or popped into existence. However, many of them still clung tenaciously to a completely unprovable theory that the major forces of the universe—gravitational, electromagnetic, strong nuclear and weak nuclear—had fine-tuned at random to support both the universe’s own existence and, through the thoroughly disproven notion of abiogenesis, the unimaginably complex, information-saturated creation of conscious life within it.

It seemed almost comical, though he knew Toryllian scientists had passed through the same trials in the evolution of their understanding, with politics, pride, and greed often holding them back. The most significant related arguments on Toryl now concerned whether it was a caring master intelligence, like God, or super-advanced races of extraterrestrial beings, who may or may not care at all. If the latter, then humans were a grand experiment existing in a giant petri dish, and they could be expunged at any moment.

Mei’ and Coren, of course, believed Toryllians and Terrans were children of the same benevolent God, or related gods. Perhaps, but that wasn’t the kind of answer Anistan could really sink his teeth into yet, even though he was now an Aegis—or Stormshield—Knight, and the knights believed in those sorts of things. As did his semi-adoptive parents—Merak and Lara Dorvallen, Coren’s mother and father. They were President and First Companion of Irrianon, which still clung to superpower status on Toryl. He grinned to himself and said out loud, "If I have such a hard time believing something like that, why in the world did they ever want me to become a knight?"

As he resumed his studies, his thoughts turned to the social behavior of Earth humans, which had been captured by the probes in hundreds of thousands of news stories, online videos, podcasts, and other television and radio programs, plus literally millions of phone calls, e-mail messages, social media posts, and texts, which The Tev’s computers analyzed for metadata and trends. The people of Earth, it appeared, had the same virtues and vices as the people of Toryl. He had watched hundreds of news programs and documentaries over the last several phases—no, weeks was the word he should use exclusively now, though Toryl measured similar weeks within its phases—showing the atrocities of which Earth humans were capable. He had also witnessed countless examples of noble action and selfless sacrifice, though these behaviors didn’t seem as prevalent on the newscasts.

Newscasts . . . yes, another new word he had picked up and absorbed into his thought processes, which were now almost fully saturated in the English language—he even dreamed in English. He was American—at least that’s what everybody would believe—and his documentation had already been generated, complete with birth certificate, social security number, driver’s license from the state of Nevada, two credit cards, a bank account with a healthy $250,000 balance, a complete credit history, a high school diploma, even a U.S. Passport showing various stints in several countries over the last few years—the cover being that he had taken both pleasure trips and humanitarian missions for obscure aid societies funded by his mysterious American parents who lived in Switzerland. Those ‘parents’ had recently told him he needed to learn to provide for himself, granting him a sizeable amount of seed money. It was all backed up by the minor electronic surgeries the computers in the probes had performed on a host of Earth systems. All verifiable, all completely believable, unless someone tried to physically locate his parents and talk to them, or find old schoolmates who would remember him. He would get a job when he got there, maybe take some classes at the university, start to see what life was really like there.

That was their mission: immerse themselves in Earth life and report on it. Observe the people of Earth, learn their behaviors and their history, see how they were progressing both scientifically and socially, try to understand what their origins could have been, gauge how they might react to the appearance of another race—or rather, another group of people of the same race—from a different planet. The free nations of Toryl had adopted a charter which laid it all out, proscribing certain kinds of interactions with the people of Earth, with the dual purpose of keeping their identity a secret and making sure they didn’t mess things up for their unwitting hosts. It was a good set of rules, and Anistan liked having sound guidelines when he went into a mission, appreciated being able to provide the same instructions to his people, so they could make better judgements and sounder decisions.

He pulled himself out of his maunderings and refocused. He spoke a command, and the bioscientists’ latest summary came up on his viewscreen. The four bioscientists on board posted a report at the end of each workday, and Anistan faithfully studied it every evening—or what counted as evening. Their work was fascinating and critical. He began reading, paying attention to both the words and the floating three-dimensional diagrams projected above the screen. They were close to perfecting the antibodies that would protect their Toryllian bodies from Earth’s pathogens. They had already ensured, as best they could, that potentially dangerous Toryllian pathogens no longer existed among any of the passengers, so visitors to the surface wouldn’t accidentally cause a potentially deadly outbreak of illness when they landed on the planet and began interacting with its environment and inhabitants. As a byproduct, the scientists had come up with cures for several diseases Earth scientists had so far been unable to solve. That presented a conundrum, but they had firmly decided, based on their charter, that they wouldn’t interfere with Earth’s natural progress—at least not yet—by surreptitiously revealing the cures to Earth’s scientists. Anistan knew they would continue to struggle with it, though, because how long could you watch people die when you knew you had the cures to most of their ailments? The major one they hadn’t yet cracked on board The Tev—at least not fully, it was so devilishly adaptable—was AIDS, but with time and some experience on the planet perhaps they could beat it.

He finished and moved on to a book on finite mathematics, which the probes had copied from a publisher’s electronic archives. He already knew most of the material in the book—becoming an officer in the Civilian Protection Forces of Irrianon required a strong education—so he was now learning English expressions of the same material. He nurtured an unquenchable determination to not only pass easily as a native of Earth—of the English-speaking United States of America in particular—but to be recognized as a well-educated citizen. Of course, he had rejected the college diploma and transcripts which could have been provided for his cover, partly so he could fit in as a ‘genuine’ though somewhat older university student, but also because he didn’t want a job sitting at a desk somewhere. He had been doing enough desk-sitting.

Four hours and various subjects later, Anistan left the forward meeting room and headed for his quarters. He thought only briefly about going to the rec lounge, an idea he occasionally entertained but rarely acted upon. He fell asleep not long after his head hit the pillow.

I’m worried about Anistan, announced Mei’ later that evening, in English, as she entered the quarters she and Coren shared. Coren wrenched his mind away from the book he had been reading—an immersive American mystery novel—and raised his eyebrows. He noted her lips compressed in concentration and worry. Her wavy, dark-brown hair shimmered, even in the sterile lights of the ship.

Huh? was his English response. It was the first word he had mastered.

Anistan, repeated Mei’, coming to sit next to him at the narrow desk on one side of their room, which, while cramped, was still the largest on board. I’m worried about him. I still can’t find him—I mean, reach him. All he does is study and drill his men. He never takes a break, never socializes with anyone. You know, there’s that attractive geophysicist on 4 Deck . . . What’s her name?

Coren shook his head and pretended to be confused. What day is it?

Why? she asked suspiciously.

Because we had this same conversation yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. He smiled to make sure she knew he was teasing. Forget about it. He’s okay. And quit trying to arrange him.

Mei’ frowned. Set him up.

What?

"Set him up. That’s the correct English phrase. And I’m not trying to set him up. I’ve suggested a time or two that he go to the rec lounge at about the same time I knew she would be there. That’s not setting him up. Besides, he’s never shown up."

Coren laughed. You’ve watched to see if he does? He maintained a teasing chuckle he knew she both hated and couldn’t get enough of.

She gave him a playfully warning look, then turned and got up from the desk. She walked the short distance to the opposite end of the room to stare at a map of Earth displayed on a large screen.

We’re halfway there, she noted, switching to Toryllian.

Coren rose and moved to stand next to her, sliding an arm around her waist, happy to speak in their native tongue. Two more phases—about four more weeks.

Captain Saarig is sure they won’t be able to detect us when we come into orbit?

Coren shrugged, then moved behind her and slid his other arm around to join the first, drawing her close and resting his chin on her shoulder. "As sure as he can be at this point. Someone might detect a shadow moving across a telescope, but electronic systems will miss us completely. The trickier part is the landing ships, but we think we have that figured out, too."

After a few moments, Mei’ responded, her tone one of mock threat. Well, for your sake I hope so. She relaxed into his arms and closed her eyes as The Tev continued to slice comfortably through space at speeds once thought utterly unachievable. Coren breathed deeply, savoring both the moment and the entire venture. Two hundred scientists, a hundred Stormshield Knights, a command crew of twelve, his absolutely gorgeous wife, their two adopted children, and a pet manit—which somewhat resembled a large Earth canine and had been named Jethro for a character in an old Earth television series—all anxiously awaited their first physical contact with a kindred planet.

Chapter 1

Swirling Shards

S even, this is One. Report.

No response. Well, he was either dead, or he couldn’t speak at the moment. Why hadn’t he stayed in his car like he was supposed to?

One looked up from his notes and out the windshield of his own vehicle, parked several blocks away from where Seven should be stationed, then at his smartphone screen. According to the GPS, Seven’s car was in the right place. He had probably gotten out to investigate something . . . and without reporting in first. One always seemed to get the hot shots who wouldn’t listen.

After a few seconds a voice came through his earpiece. One, this is Seven. I’m inside. I’m in the men’s room right now. The subjects met someone here, then went to the back through the kitchen. I ordered some lunch, so I’ll be up front waiting for them to come out. Can we hear anything from the back of the building?

The way Seven talked, thought One, he was running the show. Time to reassert some authority. We have no sound, Seven. They’re probably in a soundproof room. Take your lunch to go and get back out to your vehicle. That’s an order.

Silence smothered the other end of the connection for several seconds, and then Seven’s voice came back over the flushing of a urinal. Will do, One. As soon as I’m finished with my lunch I’ll return to my vehicle. Seven out.

One’s face turned red. He thought his head might explode. At a minimum, he could have fried eggs on his cheekbones. Of all the stubborn, boneheaded, insubordinate responses! Okay, he reminded himself as he tried to control his breathing, this guy is one of the Director’s favorites, that’s just a fact of life. Don’t do anything that might screw up your retirement. Let the little numbskull get himself killed if he wants to. Actually, that would screw up your retirement.

Dammit! He punched the ignition button and put the transmission in Drive. Now he had to get himself in position to see the front of the suspects’ building . . . and then he’d likely have to save this young punk’s pimply butt when they figured out he didn’t belong and resolved to do something nasty.

He was soon going too fast, attracting unnecessary attention . . . but he was too angry to exert the necessary self-control. He rounded the last corner with a squeal from his tires, then slowed to look for a parking place along the street, squinting in L.A.’s bright July sun. He was nearly in front of the building. He found a spot . . . just ahead of hotshot’s car. So what if the rules said they shouldn’t park so close to—

He lost sight of the parking space. He lost sight of everything due to the blinding flash ahead and to his left . . . right where the building under surveillance stood. A concussive blast followed almost immediately, spider-webbing the windows of his car. It should have done more than that, he thought, but the notion came from far away, as if he had entered a strange, two-dimensional dream.

He slammed on his brakes as he finally remembered to cover his eyes. Were they damaged? He wasn’t sure, but he thought they weren’t. They didn’t hurt, though maybe that was a bad sign. His heart leapt into his throat at the same time his head hit the steering wheel. No! he shouted inside . . . or did he yell it out loud?

After about thirty seconds his eyes stopped watering so much and he was able to start focusing again. Blessedly. He looked around the car, trying to assess damage. He could barely see out the cracked windows, the dust billowing around his vehicle combining with the shattered glass to reduce visibility to near zero. His car must have been knocked back a few feet given the disarray of papers layering the floor before the passenger seat. Beyond that, the only other thing he noticed was that his engine had died.

A full minute later, still sitting stunned behind the steering wheel as his ears began to recover and pick up the sounds of screaming and car alarms—which his brain sluggishly processed—he tried to make out the small, third-generation Chinese restaurant operating as a safe house for Chinese agents in the U.S. for the last several years. The building must have been strong to contain most of the blast inside, largely sparing the structures around it. But it had definitely given its life to do so, as there was little left standing. The chances of surviving such a blast if you were inside at the time were approximately nil.

One let his forehead fall to his hands, which had turned white from clenching the top of the steering wheel. He shook his head slowly, knowing he needed get out and start helping people. He would never be able to explain this. The blame would all fall on him. And guess who would have to tell hotshot’s beautiful young wife—the Director’s niece—what had happened to her husband?

He found his phone, wondering if the agents watching the back of the building had reported the incident already or had been killed. As Agent in Charge, he would be expected to report in anyway unless he were physically unable. He almost was, he rationalized. And he felt like he was going to be sick all over his FBI vehicle.

Command, this is One, he said in a monotone, still numb from the shock of such a blow to his career. We appear to have lost Seven. He was inside the building when it exploded, and I had just arrived to provide backup. Seven was not authorized to enter the building. He hadn’t planned on throwing in that last part just yet, since the Director wouldn’t want to believe it anyway, but why not.

A long silence from the other end followed, then a crackle of static, and finally the Director’s own voice invading his mind through his earpiece. Surprise, surprise. One, I want to see you, report in hand, tomorrow morning. And you’re in charge of doing a full scene assessment. Don’t plan on getting any sleep tonight. The Director’s voice shook with barely controlled rage by the time the transmission cut off. The phone was suddenly a large rock in One’s hands, or maybe tied around his neck, heavier than a left offensive tackle off his diet. He let it drop, barely heard it clatter over the gear shift and onto the floor. He stared at the building again for a long minute as the dust settled further, thinking and feeling nothing at first, but then noticing the tightening knot in his stomach, panic and frustration burning its way through his chest and up the back of his neck into his head. This wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, and now . . .

One erupted inside his car in much the same fashion the building had exploded. Luckily, the car didn’t take much damage from this detonation, but his fists did. He was still pounding at the helpless steering wheel when he thought he heard another thumping sound, coming from outside the car, on the A-pillar in front of the passenger window. He stopped, glancing over. Then he froze as if glaciated for the last thousand years.

Unlock your doors! shouted Seven. He said it twice more before One finally complied. Seven opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, feet crumpling the scattered papers. He clutched a bag in his hand which smelled of Chinese food. There wasn’t a scratch on him.

How . . . ? One whispered hoarsely. He didn’t even know how to finish the question, just stared in stunned perplexity at the ghost sitting next to him.

Seven shrugged, his slightly heavy breathing the only sign he had experienced a close encounter with death. One of the Chinese agents came out from the back rooms and left in a hurry. From the look on his face I figured I should follow him, so I stuffed my lunch in a bag and left. I lost him two blocks down, unfortunately, and then I heard the explosion. When did you get here?

I . . . um . . . when it happened. One was doing a little better, cognitively. He had almost gotten out another complete sentence.

Any idea who would have done this? Seven seemed completely normal now, as if everything had happened at a distance and this was a routine part of the job, no big deal. Maybe he thought they were on a movie set, and the stuntmen were all okay. One shook his head and stared absently at the building’s remains.

Seven tried to answer the question himself. "It couldn’t have been the Russians, could it? They lost three of their better agents in there, and the whole ‘sacrifice all for the motherland’ thing isn’t what it used to be in old Mother Russia’s ranks. But why would the Chinese do it?—unless it’s a rogue group, but China doesn’t do rogue groups very well, does it? Maybe. There was the Chinese agent who left right before it happened, and three of his comrades got toasted. That doesn’t make any sense unless he and they are on different sides. Is there anybody else who might be involved?"

After a few seconds, One gave Seven a blank look. I have no idea who did this.

Seven nodded in understanding. Well, we’d better start doing some digging. We should try to help a few people, too. Maybe someone here can tell us something. The boss is going to want some answers.

One nodded dumbly. Yeah, the boss.

Ten days later, FBI Director Henry Hank Sowell pored through the latest update on the investigation into the explosion at the Chinese restaurant. He grew more frustrated by the second. What little of the bomb material that had been found and analyzed revealed no good clues as to where it had come from—only that it was highly sophisticated. Duh, they knew that. His agents had so far failed to locate the Chinese agent who had vacated the area just before the explosion, and the neighbors had been everything but helpful, choosing instead to blame the FBI for the explosion, calling the Chinese embassy and the local police constantly about harassment. It was turning into a political nightmare, and the President wasn’t too happy about it. Damnation, but these people knew how to cover up a bad party.

He was about to pull out more of his already thin and quickly graying hair when a light knock sounded. His door was open, so he swiveled in his chair as he barked, Yeah, what is it?

It took a second to recognize the young man at the door. Yes, one of the junior guys on the high-tech surveillance team.

Sir, began the tech apologetically but earnestly, there’s something you need to see right away. We picked it up off the Air Force’s systems.

The Air Force? NORAD?

Yes, sir. Right this way, sir. The young agent motioned Hank to follow him. Irritated, wondering how a junior agent could order him around but needing a break, he got up and followed. They proceeded to the elevator bank, took a car to the second basement, and soon stood before a heavy steel door Hank had only seen twice—he didn’t get down here very often. The agent took out a small electronic key and inserted it into the lock, which whirred for a second, after which a square panel next to the door lit up around the edges and the agent placed his palm on it. After the lock clicked, he opened the door and they entered a large room filled with the latest in high-tech surveillance equipment—the Toy Room, as some had recently started calling it.

The agent—Jack? John?—led Hank to a large monitor. Another agent sat in front of it, fingers hovering over a keyboard, completely absorbed by what the monitor displayed. To Hank it was a hopelessly complex maze of blinking symbols and chaotic lines he couldn’t begin to understand without help.

This is it, sir, announced the agent—Jack it was, Hank finally determined after getting a look at the man’s ID badge. Young Jack was obviously working hard to mask his excitement. He pointed at an area of the screen that could have represented the Pacific Ocean or the Lincoln bedroom of the White House for all Hank could tell. The Air Force spotted a large bogey which appears to have moved into high orbit, having come from the general direction of the moon. It would have to be man-made, er . . . non-naturally-occurring, to achieve its current, stable orbit.

Hank squinted at the screen, ignoring the man’s clumsy attempt at political correctness, but still couldn’t make out anything. It’s not one of ours? He blinked as he looked at Jack.

No, sir. We’ve confirmed that. Three times. The Air Force is tracking it . . . trying to track it, anyway. They can’t get a good permanent lock on it. We’re patched into their systems right now—part of the new information-sharing agreements.

Hank’s eyebrows rose at the thought of being linked into the Air Force’s most sophisticated systems, but he would revel in that later. "There’s definitely something there? There’s no doubt about that?"

It appears so, yes, sir. We don’t have any other systems this sophisticated that can back it up, but we’re pretty sure this one is operating properly. We’ve run every kind of diagnostic we can think of.

Can the object be seen from the ground?

Jack frowned. We’re working on that, sir. So far, no luck. We’ve had telescopes pointed right at it, or at least we think they were pointed right at it . . . and we noticed nothing but some faint distortions that could be any number of things.

How big is it? Hank gestured, trying to appear as if he knew exactly what his agents stared at with such rapture.

Whether or not Jack noticed he was probably pointing at the wrong area of the screen, he was right to ignore it. Best estimates are that it’s at least five or six hundred feet long, a couple hundred feet in diameter, roughly cylindrical in the middle and tapered at both ends. Only the newest, most sophisticated equipment can even catch glimpses of her . . . the rest of our stuff is completely blind.

Hank looked hard at Jack, then at the other agent, whose ID wasn’t visible, furrowing his brow and assuming the dreaded look that had earned him a variety of creative nicknames. Darth Shredder was his favorite. "Are you sure this is not a natural phenomenon?"

Jack swallowed, but looked Hank in the eyes. Yes, sir. It can’t be, because—

Does the President know about this?

Um . . . no, sir, I don’t believe so. Apparently, she’s in the middle of dinner with her family, and the Air Force wants to find out more before talking to her. We’ve been . . . um . . . monitoring some of the Air Force’s internal communications—just those relating to what’s going on with this . . . um . . . issue, and mostly through the official patches we have set up with them.

Hank hummed thoughtfully. The unofficial intercepts were a risk, but a minor one. He hadn’t gotten caught yet, and he could already count half a dozen times he’d received key information benefitting his positions. Does SETI know anything about this?

Jack gave him a puzzled look. SETI, sir? Hank guessed the speculation in the Toy Room was that it was something the Russians or the French or perhaps even the Chinese had cooked up, maybe a real object, maybe a fancy hallucination, but surely not aliens. Um, no, sir, we haven’t informed SETI.

Do it. Get their help on this. What else is the Air Force doing about it?

They’ve already tasked a Falcon 9 to get a Dragon into orbit. It’s on the move to a launch frame at Kennedy if the President decides to okay an emergency mission.

After they decide to tell her about this . . . object.

Yes, sir. The astronauts, by the way, will be briefed within the hour on the possibility. The Air Force wants to be able to react fast to any orders the President might give.

Hank whistled softly. Boy, they’re serious about this thing. Then he frowned and spoke softly to himself. And they want to make themselves look good by waiting to tell the President. General Horn’s an imbecile.

His eyes snapped to the young agent seated before the screen, which startled him. You’re sure the Air Force is aware we know about this?

Uh, yes, sir. They just don’t realize how much we know. I mean, they know we’ve seen the sensor data and some of the more mundane communications about it, but—

But they probably think we don’t know how to read that data . . . at least not very well . . . and I presume the info on SpaceX and the astronauts wasn’t meant for our eyes. Hank smiled as he turned his focus to Jack. Make sure we stay in the loop. I don’t care how much you snoop. And well done, son.

Yes, sir, thank you, sir, replied Jack as Hank turned to leave.

He looked back before reaching the door. Where’s your supervisor?

She called in sick today, sir.

Hank’s grin returned. Well, she’ll be disappointed she missed out on all the excitement. This new investment is certainly paying dividends. I’m going to call the President. I want you with me. He didn’t pause to see if Jack followed or not. The young man would need to re-attach the lower half of his jaw first, though.

They’ve seen us.

Say again? Captain Saarig pinned his gaze on the surveillance officer on duty, a bright young man with a distracting, deep-red birthmark hovering above his right eye.

They’ve seen us, sir. They resolved a weak signature, which they are able to track. We didn’t detect it at first.

The captain of The Tev, a large, square-shouldered man with clefts in his chin and nose and thick, graying black hair, squinted, his vision switching to the front viewscreen showing the planet below. He knew he looked formidable, even without the slight paunch he’d recently acquired and even when he wasn’t tense. Have we intercepted any communications about us?

The comms officer replied, her voice clipped and professional. No, sir, not yet. But there is activity now at their spaceport in— the woman paused, apparently trying to remember how to pronounce the odd name —Florida. It looks as though they’re planning to launch one of their small reusable spacecraft.

Saarig turned toward his second-in-command, standing on the other side of the Command Station. Lieutenant Shanra, can we break their link?

The lieutenant, her coppery hair pulled back in a tight knot behind her head, her demeanor the epitome of serious competence, met the captain’s eyes and shook her head. The AI is working on it, but right now the only way to break the link is to ride a knockout wave back on their signal and destroy the sensor which painted us. From what we can tell, the remainder of their sensors can’t see us at all, just the one.

Saarig frowned, wrinkling his forehead. I see. Well, we’d better let the mission commanders know—this is their decision to make. Comms, get me Commanders Dorvallen and Sunvail.

Madam President, this is Hank Sowell. I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner. President Naomi Tesla’s family had already finished and left the dining room, and Hank felt awkward watching the leader of the free world nibble at some dessert through the video feed. The President preferred face-to-face communications.

What is it, Hank? He couldn’t tell if she was upset or not. Absently, he readjusted his tie.

Madam President, a large unidentified object has entered high orbit around Earth. It appears to be intelligent. The Air Force is tracking it, and we’re calling SETI at this moment.

The President coughed, processing the information.

Are you sure, Hank? she asked with more calm than he felt. Did I hear you say you’re calling SETI? Is this like any of the others? Does the Air Force have an assessment yet?

The Director allowed himself a small smile, glad to be the first to bring this to her. It would gall General Horn to no end, and maybe get the tactless geezer a good tongue-lashing from the President to boot. We don’t know yet, Madam President, and while there’s only one object, as far as we can tell, it’s far larger than anything else we’ve seen. It’s also . . . well, cloaked. We’re considering other possibilities, of course, like the Chinese, Russians, or French. I might suggest we get a SpaceX craft ready for possible use at your discretion. This time his smile was inward. How would old General Horn react when the President told him the FBI Director had recommended what he was already doing, with her agreement?

Hmmm . . . Tesla took another small bite of dessert. Why hasn’t the Air Force told me about this?

They’re seeking additional confirmation, Madam President. We have access to some of their information, as you know, and we deemed it a sufficient, credible threat which you needed to be made aware of ASAP.

A longer pause followed, and Director Sowell started to get nervous. Had he miscalculated in his haste? She had made clear on several occasions that she didn’t like her cabinet members currying favor or playing politics, but . . . well, the game was in his blood. Very well, Hank. I want another report in half an hour. And call General Horn for me and tell him I’d better have something from him within the hour. And no, I won’t be chewing him out.

Crap. Yes, Madam President.

The feed cut off abruptly, and Hank Sowell grimaced. He had just slipped up, and placed himself on point for an issue that could end up devouring him. He wished now he’d let General Horn make the first call.

Commanders, we have a situation. The captain spoke in Toryllian, which was allowed on the bridge and for all ship operations.

Oh? asked Mei’, standing before Captain Saarig with Coren. She tore her eyes away from the breathtaking view of Earth to focus on the captain.

What seems to be the problem? Coren seemed less impressed with Earth and its swirling masses of clouds, at least for the time being.

We’ve been detected by the Americans.

Mei’ glanced at Coren, catching his frown, then turned back to Saarig, who seemed to have relaxed slightly. Perhaps he had been worried about their immediate reaction, that they might interpret a gross failure on his part. Well, that would be determined later, but so far she had been impressed with the captain.

"Just The Tev, or the probes we have out, too?" she asked.

"Just The Tev, due to her size."

For how long?

About twenty Earth minutes.

What do they know? She tried to imagine what the ‘Earthlings’ who had spotted them might be thinking.

The captain shook his head and shrugged. Not much. We just penetrated some of their secure communication nets, and they’re baffled. They realize we’re not just a floating object in space, because we’ve entered and maintained a stable high orbit, and we’re cloaked. They also know, of course, that we’re not one of theirs. They’re spooked we might be Chinese or Russian.

Mei’ let her eyes rove to the planet again. How clearly can they see us?

Minimally, replied Saarig. Only one system can paint us at this time, and that’s just a glimpse. The rest of their equipment is blind as a one-eyed gorgin.

Coren turned his head to gaze at Earth as well. You’re sure it’s just the one system?

So far. But of course that could change as they recalibrate other systems using data from this one.

Can we block it?

Saarig shook his head. No. But we can knock it out.

Mei’ wanted to give that option some serious thought, but Coren gave an immediate and emphatic shake of his head. No. Absolutely not. We’re not here to take any hostile actions except in case of dire emergency, and destroying this sensor would make them even more suspicious, maybe even panicked. They could even start fighting with each other. He looked at Mei’, his eyes inquiring if she agreed with his assessment. It was uncanny sometimes how they communicated without speaking . . . and wonderful, mostly. He probably noticed the guilt in her eyes from having seriously entertained the captain’s option. She gave him a slight nod, and he turned back to the captain.

Find another solution, Captain. One that makes us either disappear or look like something different than what we really are. If we can’t find such a solution, we have some serious planning to do, and our primary mission is a bust . . . at least for now.

Saarig seemed about to ask a question when Lieutenant Shanra approached from behind him wearing a broad smile. Commanders, I think I may have found an answer.

The captain stepped to the side and stared at her in surprise.

Mei’ inclined her head toward Shanra, who she really liked. Saarig was competent, but he was too gruff and imposing. Or at least too often. Let’s hear it, Lieutenant.

Okay, please come over here to the data table, Commanders. She led them to a large, circular flat panel set on a horizontal plane at about waist level. Various navigational displays currently occupied the space both on the surface of the table and in holographic form above it. She voiced a command, and the table went blank. Then she uttered a string of commands. In the air above the table appeared a holographic re-creation of Earth, with a small object representing The Tev orbiting it. The Earth’s sole moon could also be seen, not far from The Tev.

She took a deep breath, then launched into her idea. You can see where we are and where Earth’s moon is in relation to the planet, yes? Everyone nodded. What we do is this. We start a controlled degradation of our orbit, but a very specific one. When we reach—

Won’t that alarm them? interrupted Saarig. A meteor the size of this ship would have a high chance of surviving passage through their atmosphere without losing enough of its mass to become innocuous.

A risk, replied Shanra. But even if they announced something to the public, or it leaked, there wouldn’t be much time for panic. You see, we’re at an extremely high orbit, and once we reach this point— she indicated a light blue sphere which had appeared at a point along their planned descent —and if we’ve built up enough speed, we’ll bounce off the atmosphere given our oblique trajectory and experience a minor slingshot effect, drifting away from Earth for a time. Then, when the moon is here— the moon moved to a new position very close to a purple sphere farther away from Earth —we fall into a gravity well from their moon. In about twelve hours we’re orbiting their moon, and once we reach the far side, we maintain our position until we can figure out this new system they have and how to prevent it from detecting us. And we still have the probes to be our eyes and ears.

She stopped and waited for reactions, appearing hopeful her idea would be viewed as having merit.

Would they believe it? asked Coren somewhat dubiously.

Mei’ offered an answer before Shanra could. They’ll want evidence of what happened to us . . . like something spun off out of their moon’s orbit, or an impact crater. If we leave the moon’s orbit via another slingshot effect we’ll end up either drifting back toward Earth or running nearly parallel with it for a while. Maybe we’ll have figured out their sensor by then, but if not, they’ll have more time to track us, perhaps calibrate other sensors on us—that’s too much of a risk, I think. So, an impact crater? Coren, what do you think?

Coren’s brow creased. We’re too big. Their moon gets hit by hundreds of meteorites a day, but they’re relatively small. A rock our size slamming into it would potentially knock it off its course, create a crater the size of . . . their Texas. Well, maybe not that big, but it would be potentially catastrophic. An idea seemed to hit him. But . . . what if we appeared to have ‘skipped’ off the moon and gone hurtling off in a different direction, out of range of their sensors? We could descend near the moon’s surface and create evidence of such a glancing impact, just in case they check it out, and they’d almost have to believe we’re not . . .well, what we are.

Mei’ took a few moments to ponder, then nodded. I agree. Let’s do it. Even though it won’t fool everyone, it’ll cause enough doubt to buy us time. Captain Saarig?

The captain looked like he’d eaten something sour, but he nodded. It sounds like it will work. Plus, we need to do something quickly, and I don’t have any better ideas.

Okay, then, said Mei’. Lieutenant Shanra, make it happen. We’ll stay here on the bridge to monitor reactions on Earth through the probes. Good job, Lieutenant.

Shanra saluted smartly, letting a small smile slip through her soldier-like façade, then moved quickly back to her station. Saarig, Mei’ and Coren approached the main communications console, sitting and donning full headphones to hear better. Within seconds, Mei’ felt the ship fall out of its orbit and begin to tumble slowly. The artificial gravity systems were indifferent to the changes in their orientation to Earth’s surface, of course, but it still felt like they were upside down half the time, since the external cameras showed their changing position relative to the planet.

Reactions on Earth filtered in more or less as expected. As only the United States had detected them, no relevant chatter emerged from other nations. Activity on various U.S. government communications nets increased rapidly, with no information volunteered to the public. Technicians on Earth hurriedly made calculations, projecting impact somewhere in central South America. Soon afterward, somebody figured out what might happen if they reached high enough velocity and glanced off toward the moon, and the number of communications flying over the nets increased again. After three hours and a perfect bounce maneuver, the moon began to pull at The Tev. Lieutenant Shanra reported it wasn’t quite enough to put them on the right trajectory, so Saarig ordered a bit of help from the steering jets, in tiny bursts that individually wouldn’t attract much attention.

After three more hours, speculations on Earth came fast and furious that the mysterious object would either crash into the moon or slingshot back around. Relief that it wouldn’t impact Earth crumbled, because a moon knocked off its normal orbit could be a big problem, too, and the object might return and crash into Earth anyway. The Falcon 9 stood ready on a launchpad with a Dragon, but so far hadn’t received authorization to go, since nobody was sure what it would be able to do. Nuclear missile targeting systems had no chance of finding the object, so they were quickly pulled off the table.

The Tev descended toward the surface, and soon a glimmer of hope dawned among the Americans tracking it. Could it really bounce harmlessly off? Prayers accompanied some of the calculations, and when the anomaly didn’t reappear from the other side of the moon, headed for Earth, and the moon’s orbit hadn’t deviated in the slightest, the celebrations commenced—still within highly confidential circles, of course, the public blissfully unaware. A few other countries, especially the other members of the Five Eyes, had started to pick up on portions of the conversation, some illicitly, but with the threat gone and evidence scarce, interest died quickly.

As The Tev took up a stationary position on the far side of the moon, Mei’ watched as Coren visibly relaxed and got up from the comms station. None of them had taken any long breaks. Her own mind felt like it had run forty darovs—about forty-five miles. Coren breathed deeply and gazed at the dim camera views of the Earth’s moon.

Excellent work, Captain Saarig, Lieutenant Shanra. Now, we have to reposition the probes and keep monitoring communications. Captain, I want two people up here doing that, not just one, until we get this new sensor of theirs figured out. Mei’, shall we? The last part he said in English as he extended an arm toward her. She smiled and rose, bowing coquettishly as the captain’s face turned slightly red, then grasped Coren’s proffered arm.

We’ll see you in a few hours, Captain, said Mei’ as Coren led her off the bridge. Get some rest. You, too, Lieutenant Shanra.

Very good, Commanders, said Saarig as he saluted. In his last report, he had admitted he was still getting used to the fact his commanders were married. He had also noted he believed they were effective, their status as national military heroes in Irrianon well deserved. Mei’ was good at detecting flattery, and Saarig seemed sincere. She was glad they had a good captain, gruff or not. President Dorvallen had chosen well.

"No, no, no! I’m telling you, that can’t happen. Well, it can, but the odds have gotta be . . . pshhh . . . a billion to one. If somebody bet on it, they’d be rich now."

Hey, what else would it be? Tell me.

Mike Hammersmith had been a technician at SETI for five years. He stared blankly at his screen for a few moments, mind racing, then shook his head. "I don’t know, Chuck, but you’ve been doing this longer than I have. Don’t you think this could’ve been the genuine article? An alien spacecraft that knew we had detected them and tried to make us think they were a hunk of space crap? I mean, come on, this is SETI—we believe in spaceships and little green beings and stuff, right? And so does the military!" He was getting worked up again, his emotions a rollercoaster.

Chuck shrugged, annoyingly calm. "Yeah, I know we’ve seen others, but none of them this large. And we still don’t know much about any of them. At least I don’t, but they keep me away from all the really classified stuff because I’m too much of a blabbermouth. Mike, if you think you’re onto something, then keep working on it and find a way to prove it. Nobody’s going to believe it until you can show them hard facts. That’s one thing I know for sure after working here for so many years."

Mike blinked, then gave a begrudging smile, his blood pressure dropping a notch. "Yeah, you’re right. And I will keep working on it. I’ll find that proof—I guarantee it."

Chapter 2

Fresh Contacts

The lights shone bright, bordering on harsh, not like they would have in the old days, when most meetings like this happened in the dimly lit back rooms of disreputable establishments, or in run -d own hotel rooms in the bad parts of town, or in dank, dirty warehouses. While definitely an improvement, the meeting itself would still be unp leasant.

Ivan Orlov began the serious discussion after somewhat strained and overly formal pleasantries had been exchanged. He wasn’t happy, a fact he didn’t try to hide. "You know why we wanted to meet. We need to understand what happened at Sha Yang’s. This alliance we have forged— he said it with a half-sneer, right eye twitching as it often did when he was either concentrating or angry —may depend on it."

The two Chinese agents glanced at each other, wearing concerned and bemused expressions. Typical Chinese, thought Ivan, trying to appear innocent. At least they can’t hide behind a language barrier here—we both have to use English. What an irony that is.

He was certain the thoughts passing through the minds of the two Chinese agents were that these Russian SVR operatives were as bullheaded and brash as the rest of them, never taking the time to think out their words before they said them. Chinese agents—according to Chinese agents—didn’t make that kind of mistake. They were more intelligent, more careful, more professional in their work. Ivan didn’t concur, and their constant arrogance rankled him.

The more senior Chinese Ministry of State Security agent, a tall, wiry man