Author: Peter Cawdron
Date: 2021-01-17 20:53:05+00:00
Keywords: Space Opera; Speculative Fiction; Fantasy; Space; Fiction; Hard Science Fiction; Science Fiction; Science Fiction Fantasy; Aliens
Description: FIRST CONTACT is a series of stand-alone novels that explore humanity's first interaction with extraterrestrial life. The Prince of Darkness is coming. Comet Anduru skimmed the clouds of Saturn. Rather than being drawn into the gas giant, it skipped back out into space. With the comet heading for Jupiter, speculation is mounting it's an alien spacecraft making its way to Earth. Lieutenant Colonel Nolan Landis and Dr. Kath McKenzie are caught between an angry public and an anxious President as they grapple with the scientific, social, and political implications of First Contact. FIRST CONTACT i
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services LLC - Kdp

Wherever Seeds May Fall

Copyright © Peter Cawdron 2020. All rights reserved. The right of Peter Cawdron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover art: Composite image comprised of Saturn as viewed by Cassini NASA/ESA, the Cygnus 2 reentry from ISS Expedition 40 and Dandelion by La Corvio.

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Dedication

For JB and the crew at JDS Australia

Thanks for all the encouragement over the years

Rendezvous Saturn: November

Incoming

From within the kitchen, Jan calls out, “Honey, can you get the door?”

It’s Saturday afternoon. Nolan is sitting on the edge of the sofa, perched on a cushion, leaning forward with his hands clasped together. His elbows rest on his knees. His eyes barely blink as he stares at the television, lost in thought.

“—first major impact since comet Shoemaker-Levy 9 collided with Jupiter in 1994. Back then, the Hubble Space Telescope caught glimpses of mushroom clouds rising above the planet. A succession of fragments plunged deep into the heart of the gas giant as the comet broke up.”

“Honey?”

“Dark stains saturated the cloud tops, smudges larger than Earth itself, a testament to the sheer—”

“Can you get the front door?”

Nolan’s reluctant but finally gets to his feet.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get it.”

“—Levy 9 was estimated to be a mile wide. After being torn into more than twenty pieces, it struck Jupiter like a derailed freight train. Each impact caused plumes to rise thousands of miles above the cloud tops. The force of each collision was akin to hundreds of nuclear bombs exploding at once—”

Another knock resounds from the door.

“Honey!”

“I’m going. I’m going.”

“—creating temperatures in excess of seventy thousand degrees, hotter than the surface of the sun.”

Jan peeks around the edge of the pass-through connecting the kitchen with the lounge. Nolan is on the move. Although his eyes leave the screen, his mind doesn’t. He listens intently to the commentary as he opens the front door.

“This time, telescopes around the world and in orbit have turned their eyes to Saturn. Now, all we can do is watch and wait.”

“Hi,” a friendly face says as the cool autumn air swirls within the doorway.

Leaves have piled up against the side of the house. They’re resplendent in their golden yellows, oranges, and reds. Snowflakes drift idly by, settling on the already dead lawn. “You must be Noel.”

“Nolan.”

He smiles, but it’s fake, barely breaking from his lips.

“The MUSE mission to Uranus is still several years away from the outer reaches of the solar system, but ESA has turned the probe’s cameras back toward Saturn. This will give us an unprecedented view when Comet An̆duru impacts the twilight zone on the planet—”

A bottle of wine is thrust into Nolan’s hand along with a warm introduction. “I’m Sue. This is my partner, James.”

“Please, come in,” Nolan says, stepping back from the doorway and gesturing for them to enter.

“Hey,” James says, pretending as though the two men have known each other for decades and not mere seconds. They fist bump. For James, there’s vigor in the motion. Nolan is more reserved. He plays along with the social pleasantries that have superseded the handshakes and hugs of yesteryear.

“—named by amateur astronomer, futurist, and science fiction writer from Sri Lanka, Yudhanjaya Wijeratne.

“Yudhanjaya discovered the comet using artificial intelligence. He set his computer to trawl through millions of observations made by NASA, looking for unknown objects. Now, John, you’re going to have to help me with the pronunciation of the comet’s name.”

The letters on the screen look as though they’re from another world.

“Its official name is Comet 13-2027 An̆duru Kumārayā, meaning ‘dim prince’ in the Sri Lankan language Sinhala.”

“Jan’s in the kitchen,” Nolan says to Sue, pointing the way.

“You could call it a dark prince, right?”

“Dim or dark, either will do. An̆duru has an apparent magnitude of 23. To put that in perspective, it’s as faint as Nix, one of the moons of Pluto. An̆duru is incredibly difficult to see from Earth.”

“So glad you could make it,” Jan says, poking her head through the open pass-through. Sue joins her while James mills around in the lounge.

“—all eyes are watching—”

“You watching the comet, huh?” he says.

“—waiting for the predicted breakup as the comet passes the Roche limit—”

“Yeah,” Nolan replies, feeling compelled to be polite but desperately wanting to hear what’s being said.

“Interesting stuff, isn’t it?” James says.

Nolan surrenders. As much as he’d like to zone out and watch the impact, he has to be social. Jan would kill him if he disappeared into the study to watch it online.

“—that tore Shoemaker-Levy 9 apart, but we have yet to see that from Comet 13-2027 An̆duru—”

“Would you like a beer?” Nolan asks, ignoring the television. He’s determined to play the role of host.

“Sure. What have you got?”

It takes everything Nolan has to reply with a smile. Forced conversation is painful at the best of times, let alone when a once-in-a-generation event is unfolding in real-time. A simple, ‘Yes,’ would have sufficed, but James wants to peruse the menu. It’s not like there’s a broad choice of craft brews or a selection of internationally renowned beers in his fridge. If he was offering wine, it might actually matter, but... ah, chill out, Nolan.

“—with Saturn almost one and a half billion miles away, the impact has already occurred, but we are yet to see it—”

Nolan says, “There are a couple of Coronas and a Bud Light.”

“I—Ahhh. Mmmm.”

Nolan’s already halfway to the kitchen. He pauses, turning back, waiting for James to make a decision. Hell, this ain’t McDonald’s—there are only two goddamn choices!

“—like someone waiting on mail via the Pony Express in the late 1800s, the speed of light forces us to wait for news from afar—”

“Do you have any limes?” James asks.

“Limes?” Nolan replies, raising an eyebrow, surprised by the notion and trying not to sound annoyed. “Yes. I think we have a couple. Would you like one in a Corona?”

“—with over an hour delay—”

“I’ll have a Bud Light.”

For fuck’s sake! Nolan turns away and heads into the kitchen, trying not to slam the swinging half-door off its hinges.

“How’s it going out there, honey?” Jan asks, smiling warmly.

“Fine. Good,” Nolan replies, doing his best to remain composed. He opens the fridge and grabs a Bud Light and a Corona, opening both bottles and setting them on the counter. Nolan hesitates. Fuck it—it’s my house! He slices a fresh lime and squeezes a wedge into his beer, pushing the rind down into the neck of the bottle. What the hell? He can always watch a replay on YouTube. Just go with it, Noel—he jokes with himself. Ah, you’re too goddamn uptight. Lime in beer is perfect.

Jan asks, “Do you want some chips and dip?”

“Yeah, that would be great,” Nolan says, resigning himself to being hospitable. He clips the bottles under the wing of his arm and takes a bowl of chips and an ornate ramekin full of dip from his wife.

As Nolan walks back into the lounge, he sees James has changed the TV channel.

“…and the Patriots have scored a third touchdown! We have five minutes remaining in the fourth quarter! Oh, and look at the coach for the Bengals. He is absolutely losing it!”

“He’s not the only one,” Nolan mutters under his breath. He stands there stunned, on the verge of dropping the chips. The bowl tips. Jan rushes past, taking the bowl and putting it on the coffee table. She grabs the remote. With seasoned practice, she switches back to NASA Live.

“You’ll have to understand,” she says as the coverage of the comet comes back up. “For us, this is kinda like the Super Bowl.”

“—if calculations are correct, we should be seeing images any moment now—”

“Oh,” James says, leaning back on the couch. He’s sitting in Nolan’s spot, facing the screen square on. “Sure. I just figured I’d get a quick update while he was…”

Nolan puts down the dip and hands James a Bud Light as that particular sentence fades into obscurity.

“What do you do for a job, Noel?” James asks, quickly correcting himself with, “Nolan?”

Susan glares at her husband.

“—here at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory where image processing, color correction, and light enhancement is handled—”

“I’m in the Air Force.”

With pride, Jan says, “Nolan’s just been promoted to lieutenant colonel.”

“Huh?” James says, surprised.

James is beefy. Broad shoulders. Thick triceps and biceps. Trim stomach. Legs carved from tree trunks. Clearly, he loves the gym.

Nolan is slight of build. As a pilot, that gave him a little more room in the cramped confines of an F-22 cockpit. On becoming a desk jockey, he had to start watching how many beers he sank. The Battle of the Bulge is being fought yet again.

Nolan’s shoulders are narrow, but that works to his advantage. Throughout his life, people have underestimated him. The few martial arts moves he’s picked up mean he could put James square on his ass. Oh, if only. Ah, alpha male pissing contests. Would humanity be complete without them? Yeah, don’t answer that, he thinks, moving on mentally.

Sue says, “You’re in the Air Force? Up at Cheyenne?”

Closed question.

Perfect.

Nolan could simply say ‘Yes.’ He could let the conversation die at that, but tonight’s important to Jan.

Sue is mentoring Jan through her doctorate in applied psychology. This dinner is Jan’s way of being friendly, showing Sue she’s thankful for her support.

Nolan met Jan while on rotation in North Carolina. He was a wet-behind-the-ears second lieutenant, fresh out of the academy. She was in college. They had kids shortly after she completed her master’s degree and her studies went on hold. Now, just over two decades later, Jan has to scratch that itch again. It’s not about job opportunities so much as a sense of accomplishment. For Jan, this is an assault on Mt. Everest. She knows she has something to contribute to the field. She’s determined to make up for lost time.

What’s really important anyway? The interests of his wife, or some dumb comet hitting a gas giant well over a billion miles away? An̆duru’s a novelty, not a necessity. Nolan does his best to ignore the commentary coming from the television.

“—opportunity to learn about the complex levels within Saturn as Comet An̆duru dives deep into its core, stirring up atmospheric layers—”

Nolan turns his back on the TV. James and Sue are the center of his attention.

“I’m only there one day a week. Most of the time, I’m doing data analysis just down the road at Fort Carlson.”

“Is it just like in the movies?” James asks. “You know, a secret base buried in the heart of a mountain?”

“An̆duru is hyperbolic. It’s traveling so fast it would fly right through our solar system with only a slight deflection. With a velocity of almost five hundred kilometers per second, An̆duru could cross the entire Continental US in under ten seconds! The kinetic energy of such a massive, fast-moving object is unfathomable, it’s—”

“Yes, it’s just like the movies,” Nolan says, knowing that’s what everyone wants to hear. This time, his smile is real. To his surprise, Sue is genuinely interested. She hides behind a glass of red wine, holding it near her lips but not sipping, intent on what he has to say. It’s the novelty. Nolan doesn’t understand why, but apparently, he’s more interesting than the comet. Perhaps it’s the personal association with the almost mythical military icon NORAD.

Jan is happy. This is what she wanted—for everyone to get along. Having a mentor  that’s both academically focused and personally supportive is important. Developing a doctorate thesis and mounting a successful defense to earn a Ph.D. is like running an ultra-marathon. She needs a support team. Although science is primarily about what can be documented, it’s also about connections. The days of the lone scientist discovering the secrets of the universe while hidden away in solitude are gone. Now, it’s all about collaboration. If you want to build a penthouse, why start in the mud when there are plenty of skyscrapers you can renovate? In the 21st century, it’s true to say scientists stand on the shoulders of giants perched on the shoulders of other giants, who in turn are standing on, well… Cirque du Soleil, eat your heart out!

“—if it wasn’t about to hit Saturn, An̆duru would punch clear through our solar system and out the other side—”

“I work in ECW. Electronic Counter Warfare. Basically, we hack the hackers, or at least, that’s the theory.”

“Is the base classified?” Sue asks.

“—JPL is telling us the first images have arrived. They’re being assembled line by line using advanced artificial intelligence to correct for errors—”

Nolan ignores the screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the image changing, flickering as camera angles shift, drawing him in. The allure is hypnotic, but he fights the temptation to look.

“What happens within the base is classified,” he says. “But the basics are pretty well documented. That big long tunnel you see on TV isn’t for access as such. It’s designed to funnel a nuclear blast straight through the mountain, passing beside the actual base and out the other side. It’s like leaving both doors open and letting the wind blow through your house. No matter how windy it is, it won’t affect the bedrooms, right? Same idea. The base itself is offset, hidden behind massive twenty-ton doors.”

“Twenty tons? What are they made of?” Sue asks.

“—and there it is on approach. Comet An̆duru is being pulled in by the astonishing gravity of Saturn, dragged through the rings—”

“Steel and concrete,” Nolan says. “You know those heist movies where someone robs a bank with a ridiculously thick, safe door? Well, they’re like that, only thicker.”

James says, “Cool.”

Although they got off to a rough start, Nolan’s warming to the big guy. If only he can keep his mind focused. The damn commentary on the television is not helping. Maybe Jan should have left the football on.

“—enhancing theses images with false color to give us a better idea of what’s happening—”

“Oh, you’ll like this,” Nolan says, immersed in his recollections of the Cheyenne Mountain Complex. “We have a Subway in there.”

“What? Like a train station?”

“No, Subway sandwiches. You know. Foot-long meatball subs.”

“—glowing as it heats up on approach—”

“Really?” Sue asks.

“Really. I get lunch there all the time. There’s a barber, a dentist, and a whole bunch of stores. Most of them are closed, but they’re ready if needed. The gym is open 24/7. They do spin classes, aerobics. There’s even a sauna.”

Jan smiles, saying, “Now even I didn’t know that. Seems all the secrets are coming out.”

“—punching through the rings—”

Nolan says, “Oh, yeah, there’s an entire city down there, but most of it is in mothballs. The base itself isn’t in one central location. Instead, there are lots of tunnels cut into the granite. The buildings are mounted on massive steel springs, acting as shock absorbers.”

“Look, there it is,” Sue says, pointing at the television. “The comet thing! It’s happening!”

“Oh, yeah,” James says. “This is it!”

Nolan’s relieved. For the last few minutes, he felt as though he was playing chicken, facing down an eighteen-wheeler as the excitement grew in the commentary behind him. Thankfully, it was their guests that blinked. Jan’s smiling. She knows how his mind works.

As the comet moves across the night side of the planet, it forms a fiery arc. Compared to Saturn, it’s tiny. A pencil-thin line streaks through the dark clouds.

“—the speed increases as gravity accelerates the comet—”

Nolan sits on the arm of the couch. Jan stands next to him, resting her hand on his shoulder. Her fingernails touch the back of his neck. Whether it’s deliberate or subconscious, it tells him she’s happy.

“—and there it is! Impact! We have contact deep in the southern hemisphere of the planet, well below the rings—”

Sue sits beside James. Both of them lean back, sinking into the aging couch with its sagging springs. Now that something is actually happening on Saturn, they’re engrossed in the coverage.

Another commentator says, “An̆duru struck well below Saturn’s equator, at a latitude of approximately 25 degrees. If this was Earth, An̆duru would have hit near the Tropic of Capricorn, in line with Australia and South Africa.”

There’s no video footage as such, just individual images taken during the impact. The bandwidth between the orbital telescopes and Earth isn’t up to streaming video. For now, it’s a case of sampling images at set intervals. High definition video will come, but not for several days as each frame is meticulously downloaded.

As the comet moves into the daylight side of Saturn, a black line streaks across the cloud tops. It curves over the colored bands wrapping around the gas giant. It’s as though someone has scratched a glossy photo.

“What’s happening?” James asks, speaking over the commentary. “Is that it? Is that all there is? I was expecting something bigger. Like an explosion.”

“—waiting on confirmation of the impact as we see the comet clip the planet—”

Large black plumes appear like ink blots on water, scarring the upper clouds. Ripples form in the atmosphere.

Sue says, “That’s really big, right? It just looks small from this far away, huh?”

She’s talking to Nolan, looking for confirmation, but he’s speechless. His mind is set on record, wanting to shut out all distractions and absorb every detail. He nods. To his surprise, the dark clouds appear elongated, stretching out around the planet. It’s as though a series of impacts occurred, and for a moment, Nolan wonders if An̆duru finally broke up. To his surprise, a thin black line leads away from the billowing clouds.

“What’s that?” James says, speaking over the commentary.

“—appears to have grazed the planet—”

“What does he mean, grazed?” James asks. “Why did he say that?”

Nolan doesn’t know. The term ‘grazed’ is an observation, not an explanation.

“—acute angle causing An̆duru to skim the edge of the atmosphere, skipping off the thicker, lower layers—”

“Skipping?” Sue says, pointing at the image of the approach, the elongated impact, and the departing trail. A single jet-black line traces its way across a small portion of the planet, curving with the shape of Saturn. In the center, a series of hazy black blobs billow through the cloud tops.

“—rebounding out into space—”

“Nolan? Honey?” Jan says, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “What just happened?”

“Oh, that’s very cool,” Nolan says, realizing he’s not going to get to hear the commentary. Jan wants to understand what they just witnessed. Nolan’s not sure he can describe this with scientific precision. Even so, he’s got a fair idea what the astronomers at NASA will be saying.

“Okay. Imagine skipping a stone across a pond. If the angle is shallow enough, your rock doesn’t sink, right? It skips across the surface, bouncing off the water. That’s what just happened, but on a cosmic scale.”

“—ARCTRIX will have a better view of the incident, but we will have to wait at least another half an hour for those images to arrive—”

“So that’s it?” James asks. “What now?”

“Hmm,” Nolan says. “It depends how much momentum the comet lost, but it could curl back a second time and hit somewhere else on Saturn. Or maybe it’ll keep going like a bullet ricocheting off concrete.”

“Wow,” Sue says.

“How did it stay intact?” James asks. “Aren’t comets like snowballs? Shouldn’t it have gone splat?”

Nolan shrugs. “Good question. No idea.”

“Well,” Jan says, clapping her hands together. “The timer just went off in the kitchen. Lasagna’s done.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Nolan says. “I need to make a quick call. I want to make sure Chuck caught that.”

“Sure.”

Nolan slides the patio door open and walks outside, closing it behind him. He’s hit with a wall of cold air but barely notices. Nolan walks across the wooden deck and taps a speed dial number on his cellphone. An automated voice answers.

“You have reached the after-hours number for the North American Aerospace Defense Command. If your matter is urgent—”

“Uniform Romeo Golf Echo November Tango.”

There’s clicking on the line before another automated voice speaks.

“Identification?”

Snowflakes drift through the air, landing on the deck beside his bare feet.

“Landis, Nolan. Foxtrot Romeo 19346.”

He goes down the handful of steps to the garden. The lemon, lime, and apple trees planted by his wife last spring have all been denuded by the cold, stripped bare of their leaves. His toes press into the soft mud by the edge of the path, but he doesn’t care.

A computerized voice says, “Challenge: Spanish rain.”

The US military learned the folly of complex passwords long ago and switched to pass-phrases. The forced complexity of passwords with numbers and letters, upper and lower case, along with non-alphanumeric characters, creates an illusion of security. They might befuddle brute-force password-cracking programs, but they also ensure people write their passwords down. Anything outside of someone’s head is vulnerable to compromise. Instead, NORAD uses a challenge/response unique to each person that changes every month. Using conceptual association, the military can outflank even the smartest artificial intelligence.

When challenged by the Spanish rain, Nolan replies, “French red wine.”

Nolan hates red wine. To his palate, it’s insipid, which makes it perfect for his challenge association. It’s not something someone would guess about him. Why French? Why not? Rain knows no national border or lines on a map. It’s his association. He can associate Spanish rain with anything he wants. The point is for him to remember something unique from one month to the next so he can be identified remotely. To others, Spanish rain might inspire a quote from Don Quixote or My Fair Lady. The variations are such that, with only one chance to pass the challenge, it’s impossible to beat.

“Verification complete,” is the electronic reply.

Seconds later, a human answers. “Duty watch, Sergeant McAlester. How can I help you, sir?”

“I need a broad spectrum social media sweep against the following accounts and anyone that works for them. Keywords: Saturn, comet, An̆duru, impact.”

“Go ahead.”

Nolan rattles off organizations he’s certain are following the events around Saturn. “NASA, JPL, SETI, IAU, ESA, Roscosmos, the Astronomical League, Planetary Society, ALMA, ESO, and SKA.”

There’s silence for a few seconds before the sergeant replies.

“Sir, there are over ten thousand accounts associated with these organizations.”

“I know,” Nolan says. The sun dips below the mountains, plunging the landscape into the shadows. “I’ll need you to feed these to me by 7 am Monday. Anything unusual or out of the ordinary and I want to know about it.”

“Understood.”

“Thanks,” he says, ending the call and turning to go back inside.

Lizards

Andy’s angry.

In a low growl, he says, “There are lizard people among us.”

Forty-eight years old, overweight and bald, he slams his hand on the desk in front of him. The microphone shakes as he yells, “I’m not kidding! I’m not making this stuff up! I wouldn’t lie to you! I couldn’t! I have a duty to tell you the truth.”

Fifty webcams record his every word from a variety of positions. A wide-angle shot takes in his desk, along with a wall of video screens behind him. The other cameras are set to capture different angles from headshots to side-profiles. Andy’s vain. Any shot that accentuates his jaw is perfect. Motion-tracking ensures he’s always center-of-frame.

He points at nothing in particular, but the audience won’t know that.

“That thing out there. That comet that flew past Saturn. Yeah, they tell you it’s a comet. That ain’t no comet. It’s an alien spaceship! It’s a warship! I’m telling y’all right now, they’re on their way here. The lizard people! They’re coming for their own.”

Although his online videos appear studio quality, Andy doesn’t work with a production crew. He uses a machine-learning algorithm to automagically pick the right shot. The computer’s decisions are based on various inputs, from the cadence of his speech to his physical gestures. Automated shot changes act like a drug, lulling his audience into acceptance. Andy needs to keep them pliable, passive, and open to suggestion. His videos are theatrics mixed with conflict. He’s an actor on a virtual stage.

Veins bulge in his neck.

Spittle flies from his lips.

“They call it An̆duru, but that’s not its name. Can’t you see what they’re doing? Already, they’re trying to bury the truth. Call it what it is. An̆duru Kumārayā. The Prince of fucking Darkness! Make no mistake about it. This thing is satanic!”

Andy understands the need for pacing. He can’t keep his performance on turbo boost or the heights of his rhetoric become meaningless. There have to be lows. He softens, looking thoughtful, changing the dynamic, calming himself as he explains.

“Listen. A lot of people trust me. They tell me secrets that could cost them their lives. Those on the dark net. They know. They’ve seen them—these reptilian monsters. They have risked their very souls to get me this information so I can share it with you. I need you. We need you. Humanity needs you to understand.”

As the intensity in his voice increases, the computer algorithm decides how to frame his tirade. It selects low shots, looking up at him to make him appear dominant. A monitor is set below his teleprompter, showing him what’s being broadcast.

“The end is coming, my friends. This is how it starts. But most people are blind. They’ve got their nice new car, their cell phones and computer tablets, their trips to the mall. All the while, an invasion is underway. But you. You understand.”

A red LED indicates how the primary shot is changing, being passed from one camera to another by his AI.

“Lizards, people! Lizard people! Hybrids! Part human, part reptile. That’s what I’m talking about!”

Andy points at the primary camera. The broadcast algorithm detects his gesture. The camera zooms in to capture the expression on his face. Veins bulge on his neck. His cheeks flush with anger.

“It doesn’t matter whether you believe me. They’re real regardless of what you believe. I’m just the messenger. I’m delivering the warning. You decide what you’ll do with that, but I’m telling you, they’re here to enslave you.”

For a moment, he's frustrated. He looks, but there’s no one else there with him in his garage studio. His voice echoes off the concrete floor.

“They came here. From Space. They came here to take over. But there are too many of us. That’s the problem. There are billions of us. So how do you take over hundreds of different countries and cultures containing billions of people? You don’t. You can’t. So you adapt. You infiltrate. You manipulate. You lie. You steal. You cheat.

“You see, they have to stay hidden because if people saw them and their lizard skin, they’d rebel. These creatures would have a revolt on their hands. No. They don’t want that, so they scheme. They slither. They entice and bribe. They use the systems of this world. The money! The power! The prestige!”

Andy lifts a water bottle and takes a quick swig, just enough to wet the back of his throat.

“Make no mistake,” he says, rounding out his online show. “They’re watching you. They’re watching me. They’re watching this goddamn video. They will do anything to discredit us. Anything to get at me. Anything to make me look like I’m crazy. But you know. You’ve followed me over the years. You know I’m honest. You know you can trust me. You know I’d never let you down.”

Andy glances at notes he scrawled on a sheet of paper over breakfast. He wants to be sure he’s hit all his points. Once he’s satisfied, he says, “Stay safe, my brothers. Be vigilant. Watch for signs. Look after yourself, ’cause no one else will.”

He pauses for dramatic effect. The wall of interlocking video screens behind him displays an American flag fluttering in the breeze. It’s computer-generated. Stars dominate a blue background. Blood red stripes alternate with white fabric as pure as the driven snow. Were it a real flag, it would be twenty feet high.

“This is Andy Anderson for Truth@War, signing off.”

With that, Andy flicks a switch beneath the desk, shifting the broadcast to a set of ads. Infomercials will fill the remaining twenty minutes of the Angry Andy Anderson’s Hour of Truth. His tirades rarely reach sixty minutes. Yet another machine-learning algorithm will pick between almost eight thousand video clips he’s accumulated over the years. It’ll match the content with this morning’s material and keep his channel flooded with relevant clips.

Andy steps away from his desk and the illusion is shattered. Just out of frame, the wall screens give way to a wooden door leading from his garage to his overgrown backyard.

Beyond the glare of the studio lights, his garage looks distinctly suburban. The cameras are mounted on an intricate scaffold surrounding his desk like a cage. Behind them, there’s a workbench with a soldering iron, along with a row of tools mounted on the wall. Paint drips and new drywall reveal where Andy repaired a roof leak last summer. A lawnmower and grass trimmer sit idle near the far wall along with an empty gas can.

Andy hits another switch, killing the lights and the air conditioning. The cameras have already powered down. The computer server running his website is on a separate circuit. Dozens of red LEDs flicker in the shadows. He steps into his kitchen, leaving the illusion of his virtual world behind him. Dirty dishes fill the sink. A dog rushes up to him with its tail wagging. Andy scratches its head and rubs its ears as he walks into the lounge.

“Good boy.”

Mail has piled up beneath the slot in the front door. One of the envelopes is caught in the flap, forcing Andy to pay attention to the bills and advertising brochures scattered by the entrance. He flicks through them just like all of his neighbors, only instead of being an accountant or a store clerk, Andy makes his money selling merchandise. Most of his money comes from direct sales, meaning he’s selling in name only. Some chump orders a Truth@War t-shirt or a hat saying, “Loud and Proud American,” and Andy’s bank balance goes up. The entire transaction is handled by some faceless company and an equally faceless fan. All Andy has to do is sit back and watch the money roll in.

Oh, he’s met plenty of fans at gun shows and conventions. Autographs are obligatory, as are vigorous handshakes. Fuck the politics of COVID. That goddamn mess was just a stunt, or so he told his audience. As much as he denied it, there was no way in hell Andy was going out of his house without a mask and a bottle of hand sanitizer. Besides, wearing a mask made it easier to hide his identity. God forbid his fans learn otherwise. But that was yesteryear. That’s over now. Except when it isn’t and the damn thing flares up again.

Andy opens the envelopes one by one. Bill. Junk. Junk. Junk. Interesting offer. More junk. Another bill. All anyone is ever after is money. One letter catches his eye.

Municipal Court:

Summons: Driving Under the Influence

“Fuck.”

Andy tosses it on the kitchen table. He can’t ignore that one. Bill. Junk. Junk. Junk.

District of Columbia Family Court

Custody Hearing

“Fuck this shit!”

Andy slams the thin sheet of paper onto the kitchen table. Anger is all he knows. Muscles flex in his arms and shoulder. Veins appear on his forehead. He grinds his teeth, but it’s all in vain.

“Damn it!”

He pounds the table with his fist. The dog jumps, disappearing with its tail between its legs. Andy breathes deeply, slowing himself. He doesn’t understand. To him, this is an insult, an affront to his pride. The world should bow before him, but it doesn’t.

A truck rumbles by outside. A robotic arm picks up his trash can, emptying it. Hydraulics surge, crushing the waste. The brakes ease and the truck moves on next door.

Andy doesn’t want to relent, but life moves on. He doesn’t want to surrender to the moment, but time compels him. He has to give in. This isn’t one of his videos. There’s only so long he can stand there enraged.

Although he doesn’t want to admit it, Andy’s forced to give in. His muscles ease. If he hasn’t won, he’s lost—that’s all his mind can process. To lose is more than he can bear. Andy sulks to the fridge, opening the door and pulling a beer from the shelf. He’s hungry, but all he sees is wilted lettuce, an empty milk carton, and a half-eaten carton of Chinese takeout. For a brief moment, he sees his life for what it is and he doesn’t like what he sees.

Andy pops the top off the beer.

Tabletop

Nolan is always early on Monday mornings. For him, it’s the best way to attack a week rather than feeling overwhelmed before it’s even started. Today he arrives at Fort Carlson before seven. Coffee in hand, he walks into a nondescript building in the heart of the military base.

ECW. Electronic Counter Warfare. It’s a lie, but there it is on the door leading to his floor. Information is the oldest weapon in war. Even in modern times, information has been more useful than bullets or bombs.

Lies win wars. During World War II, the British built tanks out of balsa wood to fool German reconnaissance. The Allies misled Hitler about the location and size of the force being deployed on D-Day.

When Iraq invaded Kuwait, the US deployed fake military bases, scattering them across the desert. They ran smoke machines and loudspeakers to divert attention from the real attack.

Back when SEAL Team Six was first conceived, there were only two SEAL teams, but the Soviets didn’t know that.

Deceit saves lives. In the same way, Nolan and his team work on everything but electronic counter warfare. They often joke that the real meaning of the acronym ECW is End of the Civilized World, as their job is to plan for the unthinkable. If the world is going to end on Tuesday, the US government would like prior warning.

Nolan knows before he gets to his desk. He can see the pile from the walkway. Damn, there must be three to four thousand pages stacked in front of his chair. Fuck. That’ll teach him for not being more precise in his request. He should have said he wanted electronic copies of social media posts. A spreadsheet would be ideal. He needs to be able to search and arrange the results, but no, he’s assailed by a mountain of paper. The US military prides itself on being effective, not efficient. He has all the information he wanted but in hard copy format. Sigh.

Nolan ignores the pile for a moment, pushing it aside and logging into his two desktop computers. NORAD runs several independent computer networks. SECNET is rated top-secret. Far from being a cliche, the top-secret network is physically isolated and requires a separate computer to access. Nolan’s SECNET computer has no Bluetooth or wireless connectivity. There are no ports into which anything beyond a keyboard and mouse can be inserted. Still, it’s not as bad as the poor bastards in charge of the nukes. Down there, they’re running green screens with data stored on eight-inch floppy disks. To Nolan’s delight, these near-mythical pieces of flexible plastic are not merely save icons after all. The launch teams don’t even get a mouse. Their system runs in an archaic form of DOS, but that’s all that’s needed to destroy entire civilizations—coordinates and a command.

Once he’s logged in, he sends an email asking for electronic copies of the social media posts and for all subsequent updates to be sent in a spreadsheet. Someone somewhere is smiling at his pain. They’ll laugh at what they thought of as an unreasonable request that ruined their otherwise quiet weekend on rotation.

With a sip of coffee and a pen in hand, Nolan begins reading the posts and tweets and God knows what all the other variations are called. He’s methodical. Within a few minutes, he’s enjoying himself. He scans each page and makes a quick judgment, writing notes in the margin. He sorts the results into three piles—cold, lukewarm, and hot.

Nolan finds his stride.

One conversation, in particular, grabs his attention. At first, he’s not sure how it met the criteria for inclusion. The keywords he defined barely register. This exchange could have been easily overlooked. Whoever’s working on his project is on their game.

Dr. Kathleen McKenzie, an astronomer at NASA’s Ames Astrophysics Laboratory, is discussing the comet in a public science forum. A quick check of her online biography tells him she has a dual Ph.D. in quantum physics and astrophysics. She’s had an engaging discussion with her peers on social media. Hers is one of the few posts from Sunday that extends over a page. Nolan finds the discussion intriguing. By Sunday, the astronomers and scientists had time to mull things over. Nolan’s aware he’s seeing reasoned consideration rather than comments made in the heat of the moment.

Anyone still tracking this thing?

Anyone else bothered by what they just saw?

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Given its inbound velocity, I’m not surprised there was a ricochet.

An̆duru was moving so fast it was like a stone skipping on water.

Sara Hendi, JPL

I kinda expected it would graze Saturn from its angle of approach.

But I thought it would be torn up in the process.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

How the hell did it stay intact?

We should have ended up with a string of pearls.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

Still calculating the stress on A. when it passed the Roche Limit. It was well beyond the binding force of its own gravity or any Van der Waals attraction.

Not like any comet or asteroid I’ve ever seen.

An̆duru should have been torn apart.

Spaghetti, anyone?

Pete Conrad, ALMA

An̆duru’s looking a lot like Óumuamua.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

I’m thinking the big A. is probably an iron core rather than an ice comet.

An̆duru is hyperbolic and underwent heavy acceleration to get here.

Probably broke up when ejected from its original star system.

Picked up enough ice along the way for us to think it was a comet, but it’s not.

Could be all that’s left of a disrupted moon thrown out of orbit.

Sara Hendi, JPL

So it’s a splinter?

A big ball of iron?

Was A. once a molten core?

Pete Conrad, ALMA

Maybe.

Need better imaging.

Could be analogous to one of our own asteroids—16 Psyche.

Sara Hendi, JPL

That would explain the bright radar signature.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

But why the ecliptic?

A. is coming in on the same plane as the planets.

Moving against their orbit.

What are the odds?

Anyone else think that’s more than a little crazy?

Kath McKenzie, NASA

What was the impact energy as it grazed Saturn?

Sara Hendi, JPL

From the cloud shapes and sizes, it was the equivalent of at least several hundred megatons of TNT.

Might have even made it to a billion tons!

Need to run a few more scenarios to be sure.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

Damn.

How the hell is A. still in one piece?

Sara Hendi, JPL

Should have been ripped apart.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Do you know what else I find strange?

Pete Conrad, ALMA

What?

Kath McKenzie, NASA

We’ve got US, European, Chinese and Australians looking at this thing. Everyone’s involved except the Russians.

It’s like they don’t care.

Pete Conrad, ALMA

Unless they can get a few rubles out of it, they never care.

Sara Hendi, JPL

I’m working on the current trajectory.

Can anyone check my numbers?

I have A. inbound toward Jupiter.

Will send model & orbital calculations.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

WHAT?

???How the f__k is that possible???

Hohmann Transfer?

Sara Hendi, JPL

No.

Still going way too fast.

It’s pretty much a brachistochrone trajectory.

Nearly a straight shot.

A little like the fall of an arrow.

Saturn bled off some of A’s speed.

Roughly a third.

Now ~330 km/s.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Damn that’s fast!

NASA’s Solar Parker Probe once pushed 200 km/s.

But this thing is moving at over a million kilometers an hour!

Still well and truly hyperbolic.

Pete Conrad, ALMA

And it’s going to hit J?

Are you sure about that???

Jupiter might be big, but it’s a damn small target at that distance.

Sara Hendi, JPL

We’ll find out in about a month.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

You’re thinking this is natural?

Prof Alvarez, ESA

Natural. lol.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

The approach was against Saturn’s orbit.

Like Voyager, but in reverse.

Is this gravity-assisted braking along with heavy aerobraking?

Prof Alvarez, ESA

Oh, no. It’s not…

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Yeah, let’s not encourage that line of reasoning.

Sara Hendi, JPL

Oh, boy. The tinfoil hat brigade is going to love this one!

Pete Conrad, ALMA

It’s not aliens.

It’s never aliens.

You know that.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Yep. It’s never aliens.

Sara Hendi, JPL

Until it is.

Pete Conrad, ALMA

Nolan’s lost in the conversation. He’s trying to imagine the reasoning of the various scientists and astronomers discussing the path of Comet An̆duru. This is the closest he’ll get to reading their minds.

“General Cooper is ready for the tabletop exercise.”

Damn it! Nolan looks at the time. 9:55 am. The original pile of printouts is almost gone, sorted into piles on his right. He looks up at the staff sergeant rounding up the usual stragglers.

“Oh, okay,” Nolan replies. “Just got to send a quick email.”

Nolan’s mind is alive with ideas. If he were asked to express a single, coherent opinion about Comet An̆duru, he’d be in danger of waffling on for hours. His mind struggles to distill a succinct answer.

Nolan’s an oddball. He’s more interested in the obscure than the obvious. The lack of Russian interest seems strange. Given they spent a generation locked in a space race with the US, he finds their absence curious. The Russians sunk hundreds of millions of rubles into the International Space Station. Why are they silent when it comes to An̆duru?

He needs confirmation of his suspicions but thinks better of putting a request in an email. He swivels in his chair, facing his aging SECNET computer with its yellowing keyboard. The kind of information he’s after will only be in the hands of a few senior officers within the Atlantic and Pacific theater support staff. With a few keystrokes, he activates the messaging app.

FROM: CINCNORAD

TO: CINCPACFLT, CINCLANTFLT, CINCNELM, BALTOPS

MESSAGE: CONFIRM RUSSIAN SUBMARINE MOTION TO HOME PORT

MESSAGE ENDS:

His finger hovers over the Enter key. The staff sergeant stands impatiently by the door, drumming his fingers against his trouser leg. Subtle. With a little more time, Nolan would direct his message to half a dozen key individuals, but his message should be routed by each office. It’s an inquiry, that’s all. Technically, General Cooper should sign off on flash traffic from NORAD, but it’s not unheard of to jump a few hurdles to get a quick answer.

“Coming,” Nolan says, pressing Enter to send the request. As he rises from his seat, a sensor beneath the cushion is triggered, locking both computer screens. As annoying as it is when going to get coffee, it ensures no one walks away from their computer screens without locking them.

“Hey,” Captain Donald Gardner says, greeting Nolan by the door. “Are you ready to go to war?”

“Do we know the scenario?” Nolan asks as they hurry down the steps to the basement conference room.

“No, but I hear you’re on the red team.”

“Oh, fun,” Nolan replies as they walk down a windowless corridor.

The basement is divided into three rooms used for secure meetings. Soundproof partitions hang from the ceiling, but they’ve been rolled away, extending the space available. There are no windows. The basement has been meticulously shielded, cutting cell phones off from Wi-Fi and mobile network access. Even so, the duty officer collects phones from each person as they enter the room. The officer labels them with a large white sticker and an obnoxious felt marker. He drops them unceremoniously into a plastic bin where they await retrieval. No audio. No video. No images allowed. At least, none beyond the cameras recording every comment made. Uncle Sam is never more effective than when he’s spying on himself.

Everyone here has top-secret clearance. They could all get access to the supporting documentation if needed, but this is a thought experiment. It’s an opportunity to walk through strategies and discuss scenarios in a live, chaotic manner, which is the best way to mimic war.

Each participant is checked off a list and given a designation—a label with a role and a colored sticker indicating their side in the conflict. Gardner gets blue with the description ‘Logistics.’ Nolan gets red. ‘Counterstrike.’

“Told yah,” Gardner says, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Have fun, buddy.”

Nolan smiles. “Oh, always.”

Tables have been set up around the room with maps of the various theaters laid out on them. Although the maps are oversized, there’s plenty of room to walk around. Seeing familiar shapes from different angles helps spur the imagination.

General Cooper takes to a low stage at the front of the room.

“Normally, we’d give you an initial briefing, time to plan and prepare, and then set you to work, but today we’ve got something a little different. Given the global nature and sensitivity of the proposition, we’re keeping this one quiet.”

Nolan’s intrigued. Ordinarily, tabletop exercises consider specific theaters of war.  Scenarios like Malaysia seizes the southern Spratly Islands, triggering a land grab with the Philippines also claiming islands inside the archipelago. An enraged China reacts with gunship diplomacy. The US responds by dispatching a carrier battle group in support of the Philippines. What happens next? De-escalation? Local skirmishes? Regional war? Global? How should the US react to each possible outcome?

General Cooper pauses, looking around the room before saying, “Can we defang Russia without triggering a nuclear escalation?”

“Oh, fuck,” Gardner says under his breath.

“Nope, nope, nope,” Nolan replies.

The general continues. “I want to know if we can use our conventional global strike capability to disarm Russia without either side firing a nuke?”

Nolan murmurs, “This isn’t going to end well.”

The general presents a couple of slides outlining the parameters of the war game. He lists assumptions, resources, restrictions, and timeframes, setting the teams to work.

Over the next four hours, heated discussions break out around the room. Some officers are designated as conflict arbitrators. They make the final call on the degree of success for each strategy, moving markers across the maps. They highlight theoretical outcomes with colored blocks. Most of the analysts focus on the European theater. They assess whether an overwhelming number of hypersonic glide missiles could be used to disable nuclear silos. Russian airfields are targeted with cruise missiles. Considerable time is spent discussing how to hunt down mobile launchers.

Space Force talks about the need to disable Russian communication assets in the opening moments of the war. They target land-based and orbital platforms.

Navy specialists account for Russian submarines and the ability to take them out of play with precise timing.

Hubris is low. Serious consideration is given to practical difficulties and the uncertainty involved. For the most part, Nolan just observes the discussions, walking between tables. He listens, watching, waiting, thinking.

“What’s bothering you?” General Cooper asks, walking up beside him.

“They won’t see it as surgical,” Nolan replies. “To the Russians, this will be apocalyptic. And when there’s nothing left to lose…”

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Nolan points at the map, saying, “Germany will be the first to go, followed by France. Even without nukes, the Russians will exact revenge on the West, pouring across the border. My fear. My worry…”

“Yes,” the general says.

“…is that we’ll be forced to use nukes to contain them.”

The general nods.

“And you?” he asks. “You’re on Russian counterstrike. How do you combat this? What’s your response when your nuclear forces are decimated? Your command and control is crippled. What would you do?”

“Me?” Nolan says. “I’d have an insurance policy.”

He walks to the North American table and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a quarter. Nolan places it on the map a hundred miles from New York, in the middle of the Atlantic.

“What’s this?” the arbitrator for North America asks as the general watches.

“A two megaton nuclear explosion just off the continental shelf. You see, the Russians don’t need to hit America. They just need to get close and we’ll lose Newport, New York, Long Island, and Atlantic City to a tsunami.”

“No, no, no,” a nearby naval analyst says. “We’ve already neutralized all the subs in the Atlantic.”

“Not a sub,” Nolan replies, tapping the quarter. “Could be a drone. Could be a nuke already on the seafloor with a deadman’s trigger. Maybe it has a subsurface radio buoy on a tether. It could have been there for decades. Take out their satellites and you inadvertently take out the East Coast.”

“No,” the analyst protests. “You saw the asset list for this run. You can’t just make stuff up. There was no mention of your mysterious, mythical, magic bomb.” The analyst protests to the general, saying, “He’s cheating.”

“Is he?” the general asks.

Nolan says, “If it’s not in the Atlantic, then they’ve rigged the Pacific. Although they’ve probably rigged both.” He points, adding, “Bye-bye LA.”

“How is this fair?” the analyst asks.

“Fair?” Nolan counters. “This is war! We have to recognize our weaknesses, not just our strengths. We have to consider unknown factors coming into play, not just the summary of intel reports.”

The general crosses his arms over his chest. His head tilts. His eyes narrow. This is what he likes to see—his team reaching beyond assumptions and challenging each other.

“You cannot go to war without unknowns,” Nolan says, picking up his quarter and turning it over in his hand. “Regardless of whether it’s Vietnam, Iraq, or Afghanistan, our biggest mistake has always been underestimating our enemy.

“We cannot ignore our geographical weakness. If I were the Russians, I’d have an insurance policy like this in place for just such a first strike event.”

Nolan pockets the coin and looks to the arbitrator, who nods, placing a black block over New York City. Gone.

“Damn it,” the naval analyst says.

“Figure it out,” the general says. “I want solutions, not complaints.”

Gardner walks up behind Nolan, brushing close enough to whisper, “You really are a bastard.”

Nolan tries not to laugh, knowing it would be horribly misunderstood by everyone else.

The general returns to the stage and calls the war game to an end. He thanks the participants, which is something Nolan finds strange. Their theoretical musings would have cost hundreds of millions of lives on both sides if played out in the real world. To Nolan, the value in these exercises is in talking themselves out of rather than into these crazy ideas.

Russia

It’s almost three in the afternoon by the time Nolan gets back to his office. There’s another large pile of paper stacked ready for inspection. Ah, the military. The ops team would have seen his email from this morning and ignored it—for now. Nolan will eventually get his electronic copies. They just want to let him know the bigwigs don’t always get their way. He eats a late lunch at his desk, trying not to get crumbs everywhere while he looks at the printouts.

Work-to-rule has always been a passive-aggressive act of defiance in the military. Technically, no one’s done anything wrong. They’ve just been slow to react, that’s all. Nolan doesn’t care. He’s been there. He remembers his time at the bottom. To get angry and react would reward the E-5 staff sergeant tasked with this. Besides, whoever it is, they’re probably overworked and understaffed. Needling him is their way of pushing back. Everyone needs breathing space. After this morning, Nolan’s come to enjoy flicking through the pages. It gives him time to think. Too many people mistake speed for productivity. Sometimes, it’s more productive to slow things down. As tedious as this is, he’s less likely to miss something than when scrolling through comments.

Can we please stop jumping to conclusions?

Imagine a single drop of rain falling from the sky and hearing someone call out, ‘Tornado!’ That’s what it’s like when EVERY tiny little unexplained event in space is somehow ALIENS!!!

Seth Graham, SETI

Nolan pauses for a moment, looking down at the sheet of paper. This is the only post on the page, but none of the keywords he was looking for are present. It’s relevant, though. It seems the E-5 is taking this seriously. They want to give him a well-rounded view of what’s unfolding on social media within the scientific community.

Let’s be honest.

There’s nothing I’d like more than for this to be an alien spacecraft.

Seriously, that would be revolutionary.

It would change the way we look at the universe and even how we see ourselves.

But let’s not get ahead of the science.

Bill Knight, Planetary Society

Underneath his healthy skepticism, Knight is on the verge of conceding.

The more Nolan reads, the greater his confidence grows. By focusing on the social media feeds of astronomers and astrophysicists, he’s filtering out cultural noise. Fringe ideas might be popular, but they’re a distraction. He needs to avoid hyperbole. It’s another ten minutes before something else catches his eye.

An̆duru has been reclassified as an extra-solar asteroid. Following its interaction with Saturn, it’s glowing in infrared. An̆duru now has an apparent magnitude of 12. It’s currently visible to most observatories as a smudge. Although its motion is not obvious, it can be spotted as a dim object near Saturn.

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

Nolan slows his pace when he reaches new posts by the NASA team from Sunday’s chat.

We’re a long way from being able to see any detail on An̆duru.

It’s just too small. Too distant.

All I’m getting in the images is glare.

Sara Hendi, JPL

I managed to get timestamped imaging from Keck and ALMA to verify calcs.

Parallax is working beautifully relative to both distant stars and our own planets.

Had fun working with the MUSE images from the other angle.

Lining their parallax with our viewpoint has been an eye-opener.

This thing is really booking!

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Still standing by J as a destination?

Seems highly unlikely.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

Oh, yeah.

Ran multiple sims.

All agree.

Got a date.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Oh, you are such a tease.

Sara Hendi, JPL

Dec 12th.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Merry Christmas!

Prof Alvarez, ESA

Ho ho ho.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

The door opens and a sergeant walks in. She peers around, looking lost, briefly talking with someone then hurrying to Nolan’s desk.

“Sir?” she asks. “Lieutenant Colonel Nolan Landis?”

“Yes,” he says, smiling warmly and trying to put her at ease. “How can I help?”

“Sergeant Jacinta Andrews,” she says, handing him a sheet of paper. “I’ve been assigned to your data collection job.”

“Ah,” he replies, taking the page from her and noting its distinct lack of electronic format. He remains quiet on that point.

She adds, “I thought this was important—that you should see it immediately, sir. I didn’t want to leave this until tomorrow.”

To Nolan’s surprise, Andrews has zeroed in on the same group conversation that interested him. Her transcript, though, is more recent.

Anyone able to raise Julian at SAO RAS?

Sara Hendi, JPL

Hyperbolic objects are his field.

He should be all over An̆duru.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Nope.

SAO RAS is offline.

Pushchino and Pulkovo have also gone silent.

I get data feeds from them, but someone pulled the plug over the weekend.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

UAO is down. Dunno why.

Pete Conrad, ALMA

Sheesh. Just when we need them.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Nolan looks up at Andrews. At a guess, she’s in her early twenties. Her hair has been meticulously pulled into a bun with clips to hold stray strands in place. No makeup. Shirt buttoned tight against her neck, crisp and neatly starched. Piercing eyes.

He looks back at the paper and then at her again.

“I’m not sure—”

“Russian, sir,” she says. “They’re all Russian observatories. SAO RAS is the Special Astrophysical Observatory of the Russian Academy of Sciences on the edge of the Black Sea. UAO is an observatory outside Vladivostok, right on the Pacific. It’s within spitting distance of China and North Korea.”

“They’re on opposite sides of the country,” Nolan says in surprise.

“Yes, sir.”

“Someone’s shut them down. Someone up high.”

“My thoughts too, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. This is—”

“Nolan,” Gardner calls from the hallway. “General Cooper wants to see you.”

Gardner doesn’t have to say any more. His tone is far too formal. The general is not happy.

Nolan’s anxiety shoots through the ceiling. He wants to chase down additional information about the Russian observatories, but the general won’t wait. As it is, the Russian silence screams at him. Convincing Cooper about what he’s pieced together won’t be easy, but Nolan’s got to try.

“Great work,” he says to Andrews as he gets to his feet. Once again, his computer screens go dark.

“I’ll keep looking, sir.”

It’s only then that it strikes him. His request was open-ended. With no finish date, it was handed off to whoever sat at the end of the chain. Thankfully, Andrews is up to the task. She’s diligent, taking what must have seemed frivolous quite seriously. She probably wasn’t even told about the update to use electronic data. It doesn’t matter. She senses the importance of her work—and she’s thinking. Andrews isn’t running on autopilot.

“I appreciate your efforts,” he says, nodding as he leaves.

Nolan jogs down the corridor. General Cooper’s secretary sees him coming and opens the door in advance. Oh, she knows the drill. Inside, the general is pacing, talking to someone on the phone.

“Yes… Yes… He’s here now… I’ll get to the bottom of it… Of course… Yes, sir.”

The door closes behind Nolan. General Cooper stares at him, still talking on his phone.

“I will. Thank you, Admiral.”

He puts his phone facedown on the desk and says, “Have a seat.”

It’s a command, not a courtesy. The general’s corner office affords views of the Rockies on one side and the city on the other. Beyond the buildings, farms and prairies open out in the distance.

“That was Admiral Jacobsen, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He wants to know how the hell we learned about classified Russian submarine movements before any of his senior staff?”

“I, umm—” Nolan says, but General Cooper cuts him off.

“Apparently, Atlantic Command was taken off guard by your request. When they looked, sure enough, the Russians were in motion.”

“It’s—”

“Then there’s Harridan at Pearl. He would like to know how we gained access to a top-secret assessment that hasn’t been shared with anyone outside of CINCPACFLT operational command.”

“I was—”

“I assured Harridan my team was not going rogue. I told him no one had circumvented his protocols or had any kind of backdoor access to his secure room. Tell me I didn’t lie to him.”

Nolan swallows the lump in his throat. “That’s correct, sir.”

The general’s eyes narrow as he says, “You should have come to me first.”

“Yes, sir,” Nolan replies, breaking eye contact.

“Would you like to explain yourself?”

The general leans back in his chair. He looks relaxed, but Nolan has his doubts.

“It was a hunch.”

“A hunch?” the general explodes, slamming his palm on the desk. He’s not giving Nolan any room to explain. “This isn’t your high school chess club! You’re telling me that, from behind your desk in land-locked Colorado, you can guess at the orders being sent to enemy war machines hidden beneath the ocean? This isn’t a game of Clue. Don’t tell me it’s Colonel Mustard in the library with the goddamn candlestick! These are top secret commands being issued to twenty-four thousand tons of nuclear-powered ballistic missile-carrying submarines!”

The general leans forward in his chair and stares down at Nolan. “Don’t bullshit me. How the hell did you know what the Russians were doing?”

“This is going to sound crazy,” Nolan says. The general doesn’t look amused. He does, however, allow Nolan to speak.

“End of the civilized world, right? That’s what we’re paid to do. Think up threats we hope will never materialize. We plan for the unthinkable.”

General Cooper is pragmatic. He’s been around long enough to see the whim of Presidents sideline many a good leader. With a chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and eyes as blue as the sky, he seems to stare straight through Nolan. Now he’s got his frustration off his chest, he concentrates on every word.

“Well,” Nolan says, pointing north along the Rockies. “Somewhere out there, the Russians are doing the same damn thing. Just like us, they’re planning for the unthinkable.”

Cooper nods. Nolan swallows the knot in his throat, knowing how absurd his next few words will sound. He has to phrase this in just the right way. Cooper’s a hard man, but not unreasonable.

“Over the weekend, something scared them.”

Cooper’s eyes narrow. He has to know Nolan’s referring to Comet An̆duru grazing Saturn.

“The Russians are consolidating. They’re recalling their most effective fighting assets. They’ve even locked down their civilian observatories.”

Nolan’s aware this last point will come as a surprise, but Cooper doesn’t blink. The general must know where this is going. Nolan fights the temptation to blurt out a crazy idea. He has to present this in a way that’s palatable.

“As we look deeper at their activity,” he says, “I suspect we’ll find more of their science, engineering, and military industries going dark, especially those related to ICBMs.”

From behind a poker face, General Cooper asks, “So what scared them?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? What the hell would scare the Russians more than us?”

He leaves that point hanging for a second.

“On Saturday, an obscure extra-solar comet approached Saturn.”

Nolan pauses, wondering if he’s about to be cut off, but Cooper is intrigued.

“What should have been a purely astronomical event—a comet colliding with a gas giant—turned into something else. The comet grazed the planet, skipping like a stone on a pond.”

“Why did that scare the Russians?” the general asks.

“For two reasons,” Nolan says. “First, it should have disintegrated like a lump of clay bouncing off the road. The energy released during the event exceeded a hundred megatons. An̆duru should have shattered.”

“But it didn’t?”

“No,” Nolan says. “And that leads to the second point. After skipping off the surface of Saturn, An̆duru soared out into deep space again. Now, it’s heading for Jupiter.”

Cooper shakes his head. “I don’t see why that’s a problem for the Russians.”

“Imagine if I won the lottery,” Nolan says. “A cool hundred million dollars. What would you think?”

“You lucky bastard.”

“Now, imagine I won the lottery again the very next day and collected another hundred million bucks. What would you think?”

“I’d think you cheated.”

“Exactly,” Nolan says. “That’s what happened here. As big as Jupiter and Saturn are, they’re tiny compared to the distance between them. For an interstellar asteroid or comet or whatever to collide with one of our planets is a one-in-a-billion event. For it to align so it goes on to hit a second planet is… impossible.”

“Now hang on,” the general says. “You want me to believe this thing is an alien spacecraft?”

“It’s not what I want you to believe, sir,” Nolan says. “It’s what the Russians believe.”

“How certain are you about this?”

“I’m not, but this thing has got a bunch of American scientists scratching their heads and it’s spooked the hell out of the Russians. It really comes down to what happens when An̆duru reaches Jupiter. If it smacks into the side of it or sails right past, no problem. But if the same thing happens again and it skips back into space, we’re way beyond the realms of chance!”

“I don’t get it,” the general says. “Why would aliens want to bounce off a bunch of planets in our solar system?”

“Stopping in space is like braking on black ice,” Nolan says. “An̆duru is going so fast it would sail clear through our solar system, barely noticing even the sun’s massive gravity.

“Doing anything in space requires energy. A lot of energy. Energy to get started. Energy to stop. Why carry all the fuel you need to slow down when you can skim a few planets and get the same outcome? We do this all the time when returning from orbit.”

“Okay,” Cooper says. “I’ll bite. Why subs? Why did you think the Russians would recall their submarine fleet?”

“Because that’s what I’d do.”

“Explain.”

“We fight our wars on land. Whether it’s the Army, the Marines, the Navy, or the Air Force, our wars are about land and eventually occur on land. It’s all about boots on the ground. If An̆duru is hostile, we are completely unprepared for celestial warfare. Space Force can take out communication satellites, but even that’s in support of warfare down here. We have no ability to wage war in space. None.”

“But subs?” the general says, returning to the issue of the Russians.

“Subs are a mobile missile delivery system. If we’re going to fight in space, their missiles need to be retrofitted so they’re capable of hitting orbital targets.”

The general nods, saying, “So from our perspective, we’re talking about Minuteman and Trident missiles?”

“Yes, but we can’t just aim nukes at some marauding alien.”

“Why?”

“Regardless of whether we’re talking about Russian, Chinese, or US missiles, they’re sub-orbital rockets. Basically, they throw a few tons of H-bomb on a ballistic trajectory across the ocean. They can’t reach orbit.”

“So what are the Russians thinking?” the general asks.

“Their subs are a hidden strike force. Something that can’t be detected from orbit. Something that can be moved around the board at will. My guess is, they want to retrofit their missiles to reach orbit.”

“And that’ll work?” the general asks.

“You’re asking me? Personally?” Nolan says, pointing at himself. “I’m not sure. I understand what they’re doing and why, but I doubt the effectiveness. Subs are important. They’re an ace in the hole, but I’m not sure how to play that hand when it comes to An̆duru.”

Cooper is intrigued. “Why?”

“For two reasons. First, we don’t know what An̆duru actually is. All we know is it has heavy shielding. If it can survive an encounter with a gas giant, anything we throw at it will be like taking on a Panzer with a BB gun.”

“And second?”

“Nukes are heavy. The heavier something is, the harder it is to throw. Even if they can retrofit their missiles with a kick stage, the chances are they’re still only going to be able to reach a low Earth orbit. There’s no reason to think An̆duru will come in low. If it is hostile, it could sit off at a distance and pound us with bombs or whatever.

“We’re sitting at the bottom of a gravity well. There’s nothing to stop An̆duru dropping rocks on us.”

General Cooper asks, “So what about you? You’re a smart man. You’ve been an analyst for over a decade. What do you think? Do you think this is a hostile alien spacecraft?”

Nolan pauses. “I’m not sure it’s even alien. We won’t know until it reaches Jupiter. As for hostile, if it is, we’re fucked.”

General Cooper leans back in his chair. The springs squeak as he turns, looking out the window. The Rockies are blanketed in fresh snow. Contrails cross the sky. He chooses his words with care.

“Why the rush? The Russians have broken cover. They’re making for Murmansk, Sevastopol, Vladivostok, and St. Petersburg. Normally, we’re playing cat and mouse with them beneath the waves, trying to detect them without being detected. And they’re playing the same goddamn game, but not anymore. Hell, some of their older subs are on the surface. Why are they showing their hand?”

Nolan replies, “Time is the enemy. It takes time to redesign missiles and retrofit subs. They must know more than we do. Much more. They’re scared. They have to be, or they’d never exposed their subs. I bet there’s someone in the Kremlin right now asking why the American’s still haven’t reacted.”

“I don’t get it. Why panic?”

“In a month, An̆duru reaches Jupiter. Depending on its speed, about a month later, it’ll be on our doorstep—and from there, everything changes. Everything!”

That’s it. That’s all Nolan’s got. Beyond that, he’s guessing. Nolan’s expecting an explosion of profanity from the general. Cooper’s known for being colorful with his language. A well-placed, ‘Fuck!’ would be in order, but the general’s quiet. The silence between them is strained. The general leans forward, taking his phone from the desk and turning it over. The screen is active. There’s a call in progress. Oh, damn. Nolan shakes his head. He’s been played by a pro.

“Have you heard enough, Admiral?”

“Yes,” is the distant reply. “And I don’t like it. I don’t for one minute think little green men are on their way to invade Earth, but I agree with his reasoning. The Russians are spooked. They believe it. We need to figure out why.”

Cooper says, “I’m in touch with Langley and Fort Meade. They’re aware of a communications blackout in Russia following the recall. Whatever the Russians are doing, they’re being awfully quiet about it.”

“The President is not happy,” the admiral says. “The Europeans are turning up the heat on us. They get damn nervous whenever Russia starts looking unhinged.”

“We’ll keep working the problem,” the general replies.

“I need Landis in Washington,” the admiral says. “We’ve got to stay ahead of this thing.”

General Cooper looks Nolan in the eye as he replies, saying, “I’ll make it happen.”

Nolan’s shaking. It’s involuntary and barely noticeable, or at least he hopes so. He doesn’t want to react like this, but his palms are sweaty. His arms tremble. He breathes deeply, trying to shake the anxiety of the moment. It’s strange. Mentally, he’s settled, or at least he thinks he is, but some part of his brain is not convinced. He grabs the back of his hand, rubbing it with his thumb to break the cycle.

The admiral says, “Until we figure this out, this discussion goes no further.”

“Understood,” the general replies.

“Landis, Nolan,” the admiral says with undue formality. “Who do you need on your team?”

“Team?”

“Who or what do you need to stay on top of this? Are we talking about military assets? Commercial? Civilian? University research centers? Observatories? Whatever you need, it’s yours. We’ve got to figure out what the Russians know. Give me names.”

Nolan is speechless.

“We’ll come back to you with a list,” General Cooper says.

Kath

Kath puts her phone on the counter beside the bathroom sink. She draws the curtains across frosted glass windows. Steam rises from the tub as she undresses, leaving her clothing crumpled on the floor.

“Ow, a little hot,” she says to herself as she steps into the bath.

Although it’s autumn, she should have mixed in more cold water.

She lowers herself slowly, holding on to the rim of the tub and easing into the water. Bubbles rise from a scented bath bomb resting at the bottom of the tub. A candle flickers in the low light. The water level rises around her. Finally, she’s resting on the bottom of the tub with her arms draped over the edge.

Somewhere high above Los Angeles, a helicopter is flying around. LAPD, no doubt.

Living in Pasadena, not more than two miles from where Ventura Freeway joins the interstate, there are always sirens.

The joy of modern astronomy is that data can be transmitted around the world. This allows researchers to work from home and avoid being confined to a lonely observatory on some remote mountain top. The curse is the converse. As much as Kath enjoys the convenience, she hates living in a noisy city. Somewhere out there, someone’s sitting in quiet solitude, watching the stars from a darkened dome.

Kath tunes out the chopper.

An obligatory, “Ahhhhh,” escapes from her lips. She closes her eyes and rests her head on the cool porcelain enamel.

Kath lies there feeling content, soaking in the heat. This is the one time of day she can switch off her mind. Most people prefer showers to get clean—they’re quick and efficient. Baths are therapeutic, especially for Kath. Her thoughts usually travel at close to the speed of light. She loves nothing more than zipping between nearby stars, probing the secrets of the universe within the confines of her own mind. Baths are different. Baths are time spent on Earth.

“What are you?” she whispers. So much for hopping into a bath and disconnecting for a while. Somewhere out there, a splinter of iron is racing through the eternal night of deep space. She imagines it blotting out distant stars, leaving Saturn and her magnificent rings far behind.

Rather than romanticizing about the possibility of an alien spacecraft, Kath’s mind rummages through such mundane things as the binding energy of iron. She tries to understand how An̆duru survived its encounter with a gas giant. Iron combines with elements such as nickel and carbon to form dense crystal matrices. Some of these molecules can be as rigid as reinforced concrete. Perhaps, she dares think.

Kath wonders how much mass An̆duru lost to abrasion. She imagines An̆duru has been worn smooth on at least two surfaces by its collision with Saturn. If it’s made of iron, the leading edge must look like a melting glacier. Given the amount of energy released during that glancing blow, An̆duru must have lost a significant portion of its original mass. Its shape would have changed.

Kath’s seen plenty of iron meteorites. Most have regular pitting, making them quite distinct. To the untrained eye, they look as though they’re made from some obscure black clay that’s been squished and molded before being fired in a kiln. They’re covered in smooth, elongated dimples. Oh, if only NASA had a probe that could intercept An̆duru, but the comet is hundreds of millions of miles from Earth.

“Relax,” she says to herself.

Kath breathes deeply, feeling the water swell around her. She exhales and the water recedes. Clear your mind. Let it go. Breathe. Relax. Just—

Her cell phone rings.

Kath pinches her eyes shut, wanting to block out the sound of bongo drums beating within her bathroom. Worst ringtone ever. If anything, it sounds like she’s being pulled into a game of Jumanji. It’s great for getting her attention in a busy office, but at home, it’s overkill. The wireless speaker in her bathroom stops playing classical music, picking up the call instead. Drums echo off the tiles. She grits her teeth in annoyance. Not now. I don’t want to know.

Kath takes a deep breath, holds her nose and slips beneath the water. She slides down the porcelain, letting her knees protrude above the waterline as she rests on the bottom of the tub with her eyes shut.

The phone stops ringing.

With a slight push of her feet, she slides back up, rising out of the water. Soap suds wash over her hair. She wipes her eyes and takes another breath.

The phone rings again.

Damn it. She hoped the call would go to voicemail, but it didn’t ring long enough to switch. Yet again, she pinches her nose and slides under the water. No sooner has she disappeared beneath the suds than the phone stops.

Kath lies there, letting tiny bubbles escape from her lips as she waits. The empirical scientist within her is intensely curious. She relaxes. No one calls back.

After almost a minute, she surfaces. Immediately, the phone rings. Kath wipes loose strands of hair from her face and laughs.

“Hey, Siri. Answer the phone.”

A stranger’s voice comes through the speaker. There’s a hum in the background, like the drone of someone on a plane.

“Dr. McKenzie? Dr. Kathleen McKenzie?”

“Kath,” she replies. “Only my mom calls me Kathleen, and you’re definitely not her.”

“Dr. McKenzie. I’m sorry to call you at home—”

“Who the hell is this, and how did you get my number?”

“This is Lieutenant Colonel Nolan Landis from the North American Aerospace Def—”

“NORAD?” she asks, cutting off any possible reply with, “Bullshit!”

Water ripples around her.

He says, “I need your help.”

“What the hell does NORAD want with—wait a minute, you rando perv? How do I know you are who you say you are?”

“I—ah.”

“Where is this going?” she asks, not letting him finish. “What’s next? Friends on Facebook? Swapping photos at night? Titties and dick pics?”

“No, I—”

Kath’s taken him off-guard, which is precisely what she intended. She can hear the stress in his voice. Her use of vulgar terms is deliberate. They’re well-placed disruptors, allowing her to take control of a conversation she never wanted and didn’t initiate. Nobody walks over Kathleen McKenzie. Being a science communicator on Twitter, Facebook, Snapchat, and Instagram has given her a thick skin. Kath eats trolls for breakfast, preferably with a side of hash browns.

“The timing,” Kath says. “How did you know the exact timing of each call?”

As she speaks, she notices red and blue lights outside, flashing across her bathroom window. The colors are out of sync. There has to be several police cruisers out there, but they don’t have their sirens on. She pulls the curtain aside. Although Kath can’t see through the frosted glass, it gives her an idea where the lights are coming from. Police cars have blocked off either end of the street outside her apartment.

“FLIR,” the voice on the phone says. “Forward-Looking Infrared Radar.”

“You’re spying on me?” Kath says in alarm, grabbing her towel from the countertop and pulling it to her chest. A helicopter flies low over the roof but quickly pulls away.

“We can’t see anything,” the stranger says. “Just a block of white when you slip beneath the water.”

“What the hell is going on?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “This isn’t the way I wanted this to go down. I asked for something low-key. I told them there’s no rush, but the President is anxious to get on top of this. When her request got passed down the chain, it somehow became a command.”

Kath gets out of the tub, wrapping herself in the towel.

“An̆duru?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kath tucks in her towel and grabs another one, rubbing her hair briskly.

“The helicopter,” she says. “Could you?”

“Already gone,” the lieutenant colonel replies. The thumping of the rotors grows more distant.

“Am I under arrest?” Kath asks, wondering if her front door is about to be broken down.

“No. The cars outside are to escort you to the airport.”

“Where’s the plane going?”

“Washington.”

Kath says, “It’s not aliens, you know that, right?”

“It’s never aliens,” the lieutenant colonel replies.

Kath laughs, knowing he took that from her very public discussion. That particular portion of her online chat has gone viral. A number of celebrities and influencers have picked up on the exchange, promoting it as rumors abound about An̆duru. If the speed with which capitalism moves is any indication of sentiment, the public’s given up on An̆duru being a comet. Kath’s even seen t-shirts for sale on Instagram with the wording:

It’s not aliens

It’s never aliens

Until it is

Hell, Kath’s tempted to get one herself. She stops and thinks for a moment before saying, “I could refuse, right?”

“Yes,” he replies. “But you won’t.”

“Why?” she asks, feeling a little miffed at the implication he knows her better than she does herself.

He says, “Because you’re being given a front-row seat to the most significant event in human history, if not life on this planet as a whole over the last 3.8 billion years.”

Kath nods in agreement but doesn’t reply.

As an afterthought, he adds, “I thought you’d be incensed if a scientist wasn’t at the forefront of this.”

“Oh, I would.”

“Then you’ll come?”

“No funny business, right?” Kath says. “With the exception of genuinely classified information, I need to be free to talk about this with my team and with the public on socials.”

“Understood.”

“And I keep my cell phone. And my tablet. And my laptop.”

“Agreed.”

“And I have unrestricted access to the internet at all times. No blackouts.”

He hesitates. “There may be places where that isn’t possible.”

There’s silence on the line. This time, it’s her opportunity to say, “Understood.”

“One more thing,” the lieutenant colonel says. “Where was An̆duru before this?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, not grasping his question. “You mean, where did it come from?”

“No. Before it grazed Saturn. Is there any chance this wasn’t the first encounter?”

“Oh,” she says, surprised and excited by the notion. “You mean with Neptune or Uranus?”

“Yes. Can you backtrack it? Can you tell if the same thing happened to either of those planets?”

“That’s an interesting idea,” she replies. “Yes, I can work backward from data collected before the impact. Why?”

“I’m sorry, doc. I can’t discuss that over an insecure line.”

And with that, Kath feels a chill beyond the cold seeping through her bathroom tiles.

Nolan asks, “Can you run the numbers on that and get back to me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he says, bringing the conversation to a close. “The car’s outside. See you in Washington.”

Trust

“I don’t trust them,” Andy says, leaning forward. He gets close to his gold-plated microphone, lowering his voice so the sound doesn’t distort.

There’s an art to the hypnotic stream of consciousness he weaves into his online video shows. It takes highs and lows to work. To shout all the time would be to lose the effectiveness of shouting. No, Andy understands the need for changes in pitch and rhythm. Like a snake charmer, it’s not the music that hypnotizes the cobra. It’s the motion, the sway, the beat. It takes skill to hold an audience captive. Andy knows how to ply his craft.

“I don’t,” he pauses for dramatic effect. “You might, but I don’t.”

Andy takes his time, making as though he’s carefully considering his next point. His lips tighten. He’s about to impart a secret, something intended only for the initiated.

“They call us ignorant. Why is that? Is it because all this stuff is complicated? Or is it another means of control? Is it a way to sideline us? To stop us from asking the difficult questions?”

Andy sits back, working his unseen audience. Timing is everything. With a flick of his wrist and a slight nod, he draws in his audience, knowing how they will respond.

“They say, ‘Oh, I have a Ph.D. You couldn’t possibly understand this without years of study. I’ve spent decades working on this. You need to listen to me…’

“Why? Why can’t I understand? I’m not dumb. Why do I need you to be my high priest? I don’t. Do you think I’m stupid? What the hell is so complicated you can’t explain the basics to me in an hour? A day? Or even a week? How about a month? Are you serious? Do you expect me to believe this bullshit is so complicated I can’t understand it myself?”

Andy points at one of the cameras off to his right. His computerized video system picks up the gesture and selects that camera as the lead point of view.

“If you can’t explain it to a child, you don’t understand it yourself.”

He throws his arms wide, knowing another camera change will follow.

“You know who said that?

“Einstein.

“That’s right. Albert Einstein told Louis de Broglie, and I quote, ‘All physical theories… ought to lend themselves to so simple a description that even a child could understand them.’

“But you and me?

“No.

“We’re told to trust the experts. Don’t think. Don’t ask. Don’t question. They’re right. You’re wrong. End of story. Well, I call bullshit!”

He picks up a sheet of paper. It’s blank, but no one will know that. It’s a prop. It helps with pacing. He holds it up as though it were an exhibit in court. His audience will think they’re seeing the back of something important.

“It’s the liberal elite. If you don’t have a degree, you’re not worthy.

“In their minds, you’re no better than an animal. And that’s the way they treat us, like dogs. Strays. If they could, they’d take the vote from us. But not here. Not in America. Because you and I—we won’t let them, goddamn it!”

Andy slams his hand on the desk. It’s time to cool things down. He needs to appeal to reason. He’s got to bring the viewer around to his opinion. Andy lowers his voice, pointing at the sheet of paper in front of him.

“It’s dumb. They mistake degrees for intelligence, but the two are not synonymous. You can be smart without a piece of paper telling you so. And you can be a goddamn fool with a degree.”

An appeal to religion is one of the best ways for Andy to cement a point in someone’s mind, not that he believes in anything beyond himself. Church is for the needy, but that won’t stop him from invoking the Bible.

“Saint Paul. He knew. He understood.

“Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools!

“Don’t you see, it’s the arrogance, the ego that dumbs us down.”

Andy sips from an empty mug. To anyone watching, it’s convincing, but he never swallows. It’s a ploy. Simple things make him relatable. He rests the cup in front of him, placing it carefully to one side, just off-camera. The stand below the primary camera contains a teleprompter and a broadcast screen, allowing him to see the active image. The words displayed there act as a reminder, keeping him on track.

“They’re coming,” he says. “The lizards. Don’t doubt it, my friends. That alien spaceship. The dark prince. It’s not heading to Jupiter. Mark my words. I’m telling you now, it’s coming to Earth.

“And when that happens, you’re going to have to make a decision. You’ll have to decide, who do you believe?

“Do you believe all the experts? Because I don’t. Do you believe the government? I don’t. Do you believe scientists? I don’t, because I know, they’re as human and fallible as I am. Don’t be fooled by their lies, my friends.”

The clock on the far wall reads 10:27 am. Andy’s got to be in court by noon. As much as he wants to press on, he’s pushed for time and that frustrates him. If he’s not out of the house in the next ten to fifteen minutes, he won’t make it downtown in time.

“Damn it!” he says, slamming his fist on the table. “Don’t believe their lies. They’ll tell you these creatures come in peace, but how do they know? I’m telling you, peace only comes from the end of a sword—out of the barrel of a gun. That’s a universal truth.”

Andy stands, leaning forward and pressing his fists against the table as he screams at the camera, “They will not replace us! Do you hear me? They will not. They won’t take my guns or my freedom. America, the real America, the heartland won’t allow it!”

As the minute hand moves toward the half-hour mark, Andy grabs the sheet of paper, crumpling it into a ball as he yells, “This is our country. Our world. Nobody tells us what to do, goddamn it!”

He throws the paper aside in disgust, turning back to the camera and staring down the lens.

“No surrender! Never. Not in America. This is the land of the free, baby.”

And with that, he steps back, saying, “This is Angry Andy Anderson for Truth@War, signing off.”

Immediately, the computer algorithm running his online show cuts away to a bunch of ads. Eventually, the system will switch back to a collection of relevant rants. The entire show is available online and rebroadcast at strategic times throughout the day, catering to the needs of his audience.

Andy walks away from the desk. He opens the door, stepping from his studio into the kitchen. It’s as though he’s passing between worlds, stepping from one reality to another. He forces himself to leave his anger behind. In the real world, he’s a shell of the bluster in his show. Andy feels the hypocrisy, but he ignores that weight. He’s got to keep his guard up. If he admits he’s anything less than righteous, his world would crumble.

Admiral Jacobsen

The first thing that strikes Nolan about the Pentagon is the sheer number of parking lots surrounding the building.

As his driver swings around to the south entrance, Nolan realizes that’s not the half of it. Thousands of cars line an area the size of a dozen football fields. If he worked here, he’d pace around it out of curiosity. The main parking lot seems to stretch well beyond a quarter-mile. To anyone watching him walk around the lot, his interest would seem strangely bizarre. For Nolan, such mundane acts are a coping mechanism—a way of dealing with anxiety. After waking refreshed this morning in a local hotel, he’s already feeling exhausted. Somehow, he’s got to find his rhythm outside of his regular routine.

The driver notices Nolan staring out across the wrong side of the road.

“That’s the Pentagon there, sir,” the driver says, directing his gaze to the other side of the access way. They pull up in front of the three-story complex.

Nolan’s never been predictable. He doesn’t do obvious. His specialty is the obscure. As he’s nervous about meeting Admiral Jacobsen from the Joint Chiefs, he does a little arithmetic to calm himself.

Forty to fifty cars per row. Ten to twenty rows in this lot. By his estimate, there are ten to fifteen parking lots scattered around the Pentagon. That’s roughly six thousand cars, possibly as many as eight thousand. Given parking spots are always at a premium, being reserved for the upper ranks, the Pentagon must house at least thirty thousand people. And he has to find just one.

“Is everything okay, sir?”

“Umm, yes. Fine.”

The driver pulls up and Nolan gets out. His initial impression of the Pentagon is someone got the plans wrong—they built a skyscraper lying on its side. The width of the building is impressive, and he can only see one side of it. This face alone must be close to a thousand feet in length. He walks up the broad outside stairs, being dwarfed by the building.

Inside, he passes through a security checkpoint that includes a bag scan and a metal detector.

“Can I help you?” PFC Jones says from behind a broad reception desk.

“I’m here to see Admiral Jacobsen.”

“Department of the Navy. Take corridor two. Third floor. A Ring. Room A3505.”

“Thank you.”

Nolan feels better. He loves specific detail. He’s been directed with military precision. He marches along the broad marble corridor. Polished wooden panels reach up to waist height, running along the walls. The corridor is lined with memorabilia. There are paintings, flags, and display cases filled with the artifacts of war. He’s at home.

Nolan walks into room A3505 with a spring in his step.

“Hi, Lieutenant Colonel Nolan Landis from NORAD to see Admiral Jacobsen.”

“Okay,” a helpful enlisted sailor says from behind a reception desk. “You’ll need to go to the Office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Take corridor four. Second floor. E Ring. Room E2122.”

“Thank you.”

The novelty of being in the Pentagon helps Nolan keep his enthusiasm high as he navigates the endless corridors. After a few minutes, he enters room E2122.

“Hi, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Nolan Landis from NORAD to see Admiral Jacobsen.”

“I’m sorry,” yet another enlisted soldier says from behind yet another reception desk. “Looking at the admiral’s schedule, he’s working out of Fleet Operations today. Take corridor seven to B Ring. First floor. Room B1057.”

Nolan stands there for a moment, staring down at the young soldier. It’s not this man’s fault, he tells himself. After an awkward few seconds, he thanks him, turns and heads for the next room.

Walking into Fleet Operations, Nolan already knows what he’s about to hear, but he goes through the motions anyway.

“Hi, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Nolan Landis from NORAD to see Admiral Jacobsen.”

“I’m sorry,” a young woman in a navy uniform says. Nolan pinches his eyes shut. Far from being in orderly heaven, he’s found himself in bureaucratic hell. She continues, so he opens his eyes and fakes a smile. “The admiral isn’t here today. If you go to the main office of the Department of the Navy, they’ll be able to help.”

The pressure is rising inside Nolan. In perfect unison with the sailor in front of him, he says, “Corridor two. Third floor. A Ring. Room A3505.”

“Hey, how did you know that?” she asks, cocking her head sideways.

“I’ve already been there. They sent me to the Joint Chiefs. Who sent me here.”

“Oh, the admiral is normally here on Tuesdays, but normal is becoming more and more abnormal these days.”

“Understood. Thanks,” Nolan says, bottling up his frustration as he leaves.

Rather than marching along the corridors back to room A3505, Nolan’s shoes drag a little. He’s getting a glimpse into how difficult it is to get anything done at the Pentagon. No one thought to call ahead and check. Everyone’s been polite and helpful without actually helping at all. Time is being wasted.

“Back again,” Nolan says as he walks into room A3505.

“Umm, you were looking for Admiral Jacobsen, right? He’s—”

“Could you check?” Nolan asks, firmly but politely cutting off the receptionist.

The silence that follows is tense, but Nolan’s finished with his tour of the Pentagon. The sailor clicks god-knows-what on a computer positioned so only he can see the screen.

“Do you have an appointment scheduled with the admiral?”

As much as Nolan hates to admit it, he doesn’t. He simply hopped on a plane and came to Washington as ordered.

“I’m here at the admiral’s request,” Nolan says. “General Cooper from NORAD sent me.”

“Have you spoken to General Cooper this morning?”

Nolan breathes deeply. This is a standard-issue military response. Oh, so someone else is involved? Wonderful. Go and annoy them. Grrrr.

Nolan ignores the question.

“Can you find the admiral and let him know I’m here?”

The sailor looks back at his computer screen and says, “I can’t just call him.” He taps furiously at his keyboard. “His personal assistant says he’s in a meeting at the White House.”

Nolan’s anxiety spikes.

“Can you send him a message?” he asks. “Passing it through his PA?”

“And he’ll know who you are?” the man asks.

“Oh, yes. He’ll know. We spoke yesterday.”

“Understood, sir. Please take a seat.”

Begrudgingly, Nolan walks over to a bench seat. He sits there, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his sweaty hands together. The sailor at reception confers with a colleague and disappears into a back office. After a few minutes, a captain comes out.

“Lieutenant Colonel Landis?” he asks.

Nolan gets to his feet. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t reach Admiral Jacobsen at the moment. Perhaps you would like to make an appointment?”

Nolan is frustrated. “Could you please just get a message to him? I’m here at his request.”

“I can’t promise the message will get through.”

Nolan hands the captain a business card, saying, “Here are my contact details.”

“I’ll pass these along,” the captain says, handing the card to the receptionist who immediately begins typing up the information.

“Thank you.”

With that, Nolan leaves. Once he’s out in the corridor, he realizes he doesn’t know where he’s going. He’s got nowhere to go. He could head around to the Air Force wing and get a visitor’s certificate sent over from NORAD, but he’s a spare wheel. Back in Colorado, Nolan has both a position and a place inside the grinding military machine. Here, he’s a stranger—a straggler. Nolan feels lost. He walks on blindly. There’s got to be a cafeteria around here somewhere. Coffee. Coffee would be good. Even military-grade sludge.

His cell phone rings. Unlisted number.

“Landis,” he says, answering the call.

“Where the hell are you?” is the reply.

“Admiral Jacobsen! I’m in the Pentagon, just down from your office.”

“Why the blazes aren’t you here at the White House?”

With those few words, Nolan feels his heart sink.

The admiral continues. “We’ve been waiting for you all morning.”

“Me?”

“Get your ass over here!”

“Yes, sir.”

The phone goes dead, and it’s then it hits him—nothing’s changed. Nolan still has no idea where to go beyond some vague notion of a location. Exactly where is the admiral within the White House? Nolan’s sure he’ll get there and be run around again. He’ll bounce between junior staffers, trapped in some bizarre form of bureaucratic purgatory.

He pinches his eyes shut, muttering, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” to the dismay of those walking by. All he can do is try, but he already knows what’ll happen. He’ll get lots of polite but utterly futile help from people who have absolutely no idea.

Footsteps pound down the marble corridor behind him. Nolan turns, seeing the Navy captain looking wide-eyed. He’s got a cell phone in his hand.

“You got it?” he asks. “You got the call?”

“Yes,” Nolan says, on the verge of laughing at the insanity of his predicament. He’s still no wiser than he was an hour ago. How can he actually find the admiral?

“I’ll take you over there,” the captain says, and Nolan’s face lights up. “This way.”

Finally.

They jump into an elevator and descend into the basement of the Pentagon. The captain explains, “There’s a private subway between here and the White House. I can have you there in less than fifteen minutes.”

“Awesome,” Nolan says. “And you know where we’re going, right? I mean, you know exactly where we’re going within the White House, yeah?”

“Yes. Admiral Jacobsen is meeting with the communications director in the West Wing. He’s waiting for you there.”

There’s silence between them as the elevator descends.

Yes!

If Nolan wasn’t in dress uniform, he’d perform a fist pump.

“Is he normally this stressed?”

The captain laughs. “Oh, you caught the admiral on a good day.”

Finally, Nolan can relax. The door to the elevator opens and the captain waves him out onto the platform, jogging to a subway car. A uniformed officer holds the doors open. Nolan’s phone rings again. He sits on a plush velvet seat and answers as the train pulls away from the underground station.

“Landis here.”

“Where are you?” a woman’s voice asks.

“I—umm. I’m on a train. In the subway. Heading to the White House.”

“Everyone’s been going insane over here trying to find you.”

“Ah, who is this?” Nolan asks.

“Kath.”

“Dr. McKenzie?”

“Yes. The communications director gave me your number.”

Nolan hates this. The stress is killing him.

“Hey, you were right,” she says, but she’s far too cheerful.

“About what?”

“Comet An̆duru. Running the clock back, I found it passed within about two million miles of Neptune. Given the planets were separated by almost two billion miles, that’s damn close. As we’re working with poor data, that’s within my margin for error.”

“What are you saying?” Nolan asks.

“It could have grazed the ice giant,” Dr. McKenzie replies, getting to the point. She adds, “What are the odds?”

“What indeed?” Nolan asks, happy to be reminded of why he’s here in Washington. For a moment there, wandering the corridors of the Pentagon, he’d lost all sense of purpose.

“Yeah, and it gets better,” Dr. McKenzie says. “Having two data points gives me a lot more to go on. So An̆duru skims Neptune, presumably conducting a similar braking maneuver, and then heads on to Saturn, right?”

“Right.”

“But that means it bypasses Uranus. This tells us something about the range of motion available to An̆duru. The angle of deflection coming off Saturn was 7 degrees. If we assume that’s a nominal value for that speed—a comfortable maneuver—then we have learned something valuable about An̆duru. We’re getting a feel for its structural limits. We can use that to figure out the region this thing came from.”

“Okay?” Nolan replies, but his voice betrays the fact he’s not quite following her.

“Imagine an archery target or a paper target at a gun range. Lots of concentric circles. Everyone’s trying to hit the bullseye, but most people miss, hitting some of those outer rings, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, we’ve got a lousy grouping. Our shots are all over the place. If we trace An̆duru’s approach on a paper target, we can visualize the planets being on the concentric circles with the sun as the bullseye. Neptune’s on the outside. Closer in, we’ve got a bullet hole for Uranus and then Saturn. Closer still there’s a hole for Jupiter, then Mars, Earth, Venus, and Mercury.”

“Okay?” Nolan replies.

Lights flicker past in the tunnel outside.

“This is where it gets interesting. An̆duru goes from Neptune to Saturn, skipping Uranus entirely. Why? Because Uranus is too far forward in its orbit. An̆duru’s tracing a smooth curve as it dives into our solar system, curling in toward us. It’s only intersecting with the planets that align with its approach.”

“I don’t get it,” Nolan says.

“It’s following the most efficient path to shed its speed relative to the sun,” Dr. McKenzie says. “When it passes Jupiter, it won’t make for Mars. Like Uranus, Mars isn’t on the right path.”

“But Earth?” Nolan asks, aware she’s leading him to this conclusion.

“A turn of just 8 degrees,” she says. “We’re in the firing line.”

“So it’s coming for us?”

“So it could come for us,” Dr. McKenzie says, correcting him. “We won’t know for sure until An̆duru passes Jupiter, but it’s a reasonable assumption, consistent with what we’ve seen so far.”

The subway car comes to a halt. The doors slide open.

“We’re here,” the captain says.

“I’m downstairs,” Nolan says.

“You’re missing the point,” Dr. McKenzie says. “It’s not just that we know where it’s going. We know roughly where it came fr—”

“I’ll be right there,” Nolan says, cutting her off.

He hangs up and rushes after the captain, who says, “This way.”

They take an elevator to the foyer of the Eisenhower Executive Office and pass through a security checkpoint. To get to the White House, the two men have to cross a parking lot. All the guards are facing outward, looking away from them. They’re inside the main security cordon but still under the watchful eye of Marines in parade dress. Soldiers stand at attention beside various doorways with loaded weapons. They’re guarding the interconnected buildings surrounding the White House.

“Over here,” the captain says. He leads Nolan to the West Wing entrance and through another security checkpoint.

“Captain James Banner,” he says, showing his credentials to the guard. “I’m escorting Lieutenant Colonel Landis to Admiral Jacobsen in the communications director’s office.”

The duty officer scans their IDs, recording information about their movement within the security zone. After a quick call, the officer admits them.

“Down here,” the captain says, leading him to a room along a side corridor. He stops and knocks.

“Enter.”

The captain opens the door, gesturing for Nolan to go in.

Dr. McKenzie is standing in front of a whiteboard. She’s taller than she appears in her online profile. With vast, sweeping arcs, she’s drawn a rough outline of the solar system, complete with the position of the planets and the approach of Comet An̆duru.

Admiral Jacobsen is leaning on a desk. General Chalmers, the Chief of Staff for the Air Force, is sitting on a filing cabinet. The communications director is in his seat, but he has swiveled to face Dr. McKenzie, leaving his computer screen unlocked behind him. Nolan barely notices the slight figure of a woman sitting on the windowsill. She’s relaxed, partially obscured by the admiral and the general.

“Madam President,” slips from his lips. The President’s wearing a pantsuit. She’s got her arms resting in her lap, enjoying the autumn sun coming through the window. If anything, Nolan suspects she’s trying to put them at ease.

“Oh,” the President says warmly, smiling at Nolan. “So this is your UFO specialist?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the admiral says.

UFO specialist? Nolan cringes. He couldn’t think of a worse way to describe his role. He doesn’t believe in little green men in shiny flying saucers, or he didn’t.

Dr. McKenzie understands. She says, “Although the object is unidentified, Nolan and I have had some lively discussions about the inbound artifact.”

The President asks, “Is this thing in any way related to those grainy pictures we’ve all seen?”

“No,” they both say in unison. Nolan joins Dr. McKenzie, having found an ally in their shared understanding of what’s happening.

“As best we understand,” he says, “this is entirely unique.”

“And it’s alien?” the President asks.

Nolan and Dr. McKenzie look at each other, both wondering who should answer.

Nolan says, “Its motion is too precise to be an asteroid or a comet.”

Dr. McKenzie nods in agreement.

Nolan says, “The real issue here is timing. We’ve got roughly a month before it reaches Jupiter. At that point, we’ll know for sure if it’s coming straight for us.”

“When you say, straight,” the President asks, “How straight? Will it be here in a day? A week? A month? A year?”

Dr. McKenzie says, “The object’s shedding speed every time it encounters a planet, slowing its approach. Once it passes Jupiter, it’ll take another month to reach Earth.”

“So we have two months?” the President says, addressing the admiral. “One month where there’s still some doubt. Then another month, and it’s on our doorstep. Have I got that right?”

“Yes,” the admiral says.

“Yes, ma’am,” Nolan says, reinforcing that point.

“And the Russians?” she asks.

Nolan replies, “I think the Russians had some warning. Although we missed it, An̆duru passed close enough to Neptune to have skipped off the clouds there as well. Based on their behavior, I suspect the Russians saw that. At first, An̆duru would have been a curiosity, a footnote in some Russian scientific journal. But when it went on to skim Saturn, they knew they were dealing with something other than a comet.”

“And they’re recalling their subs because?” the President asks, leading the conversation. Admiral Jacobsen is conspicuously quiet. He’s clearly already said enough to her. The President probably knows far more than Nolan about the location and direction of the Russian submarines.

Nolan clears his throat. “As an analyst, it’s my assessment they’re preparing a second-strike capability in the event our visitors are hostile. Their subs are mobile and easily hidden. The Russians want to upgrade their nuclear missiles to reach targets in orbit. They can only get that by retrofitting their subs.”

“Now wait a minute,” Dr. McKenzie says. “You think the Russians are going to go to war with An̆duru?”

She looks at the general and the admiral. “You too. You think there’s going to be a war. No, no, no. We know nothing about them. There’s no reason to think they’re going to be hostile.”

“It’s a chance we can’t take,” the admiral says.

Dr. McKenzie shakes her head. “This is crazy.”

“That attitude,” the President says, pointing at Dr. McKenzie, “is precisely why you’re here—to balance the debate.”

As a military strategist, Nolan feels compelled to say something to break the impasse.

“It only makes sense to prepare for the worst, even if we expect them to be friendly.”

Dr. McKenzie shakes her head.

“Steve?” the President asks, talking to her communications director. “What are you thinking?”

The director has been making notes on a sheet of paper. He reads out a few points he’s jotted down.

“I’m concerned about the name,” he says. “An̆duru. It means Prince of Darkness, right? That’s not a good name for an alien spaceship. Can we change it?”

“It means regal or royal, but dim, barely visible,” Kath replies. “It’s a term describing how difficult it was to spot. An̆duru is just a name, like Mars or Saturn. You can’t read too much into its name.”

“But people are reading meaning into that name,” the President says.

The director says, “If this is alien, it’s going to be a bombshell. It’s going to scare a lot of people. We’ve got to control the conversation. Talk about peace while quietly preparing for war.”

“This is insane,” Dr. McKenzie says.

The President holds up her hand, wanting Dr. McKenzie to let the director speak.

“I think we need to get out in front of this. We don’t want to be playing catch up on something this volatile.”

The President says, “Even though the science isn’t settled?” She points at Dr. McKenzie, adding, “I mean, we won’t know for sure for about a month, right?”

The communications director gets to his feet and points at the whiteboard.

“I don’t mean to sound dumb or anything, but where’s Earth?”

“Right in here,” Dr. McKenzie says, tapping the region near the Sun.

“And that’s to scale?” he asks.

“Roughly. Space is big. Much bigger than we think. This thing has come a very long way. It’s trying to reach a very small destination right at the heart of our solar system—Earth.”

“Damn!”

“How confident are you about this?” the President asks. “I mean, they could miss us entirely, right?"

Dr. McKenzie says, “If you’d asked me a month ago, I would have said this whole scenario was impossible. Having seen An̆duru graze Saturn and knowing that might have also happened out by Neptune has me in a tailspin. If it skims off Jupiter, there's no doubt at all it’s an alien vessel.”

The President says, “But it’s not your ass on the line. It’s mine. If I go out there and say ET is dropping by for coffee and this thing turns out to be a rock, I’ll look stupid.”

The President looks for a response, but heads drop around the room. She provides her own rebuttal, saying, “But if this is a visitor from another star, and I sit on that, I’ll be labeled a fool.”

Dr. McKenzie says, “There’s always some uncertainty in science.”

“We can qualify that,” the communications director says. “People are going to be looking for leadership on this—strong leadership. We need certainty. The country, the markets, the international community—they need to know that we know what we’re doing. They need reassurance that this is being handled in a competent manner. We need to avoid panic.”

“And how do we do that?” Dr. McKenzie asks. “How are we going to convince people not to panic?”

“Ah,” the director says with a smile. “We have to make this boring.”

The President laughs. “God, I love you, Steve. How do we make the single most significant event in human history boring?”

The director says, “The media is going to go nuts. Social media is already going into meltdown. The news is going to be saturated with 24/7 commentary, guesswork, fake news, and conspiracy theories.”

“And?” the President asks.

“We throw a wet blanket over the whole thing. We make this routine. We hold daily briefings. Keep them short and on point. We make out like An̆duru is nothing special. We make the discussion commonplace. Within a week, it’ll lose its novelty. In a month, it’ll be the norm. We use our position to slow things down. Keep people calm. We keep repeating the same message—there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I like it,” the President says. She claps her hands together, signaling the discussion is over. “Let’s not keep them waiting any longer.”

The President scoots down from the windowsill. “Dr. McKenzie, you’ll be on my left. General Nolan, on my right.”

“Ah, Lieutenant Colonel, ma’am,” Nolan says, not sure where they’re going but feeling it’s important to get his rank correct.

The President looks at him with a stern face, saying, “Not anymore.”

As they file out of the director’s office, Nolan whispers to Dr. McKenzie, asking her, “Who have we kept waiting?”

Dr. McKenzie smiles, saying, “The press.”

Press

Nolan’s anxious. Kath can see that from the way he stiffens as they walk through the West Wing toward the press briefing room.

Kath may have only just met Nolan, but she’s a shrewd judge of character. The way he reacted to her challenge about dick pics and his reaction when walking in on the President tells her he hates being surprised. She pities him. She’s here for the ride. Stepping out in front of a room full of reporters doesn’t faze her in the slightest. Kath defended two Ph.D. theses in two different, albeit related fields. That was intimidating! Fighting for recognition in the astrophysics community forged steel in her soul. She suspects the newly appointed general would rather sit in a cubicle somewhere and line up his talking points with meticulous care. Chaos is not his forte.

As they walk into the crowded briefing room, it’s clear the press corps is bored. They’re caught in casual banter, leaning over seatbacks and standing in the aisles. When the President appears, they jump back into their seats. Kath finds their shift to professionalism amusing. Pens are pulled from jacket pockets. Notepads are opened.

Kath and Nolan stand at the back of the podium, flanking the President as she steps up to the lectern.

“Good afternoon.”

President Elizabeth Rose Aston is relaxed. Perhaps comfortable is a better term. If she’s nervous about what she’s about to discuss, it doesn’t show.

“Last weekend, we watched in awe as NASA streamed images of a comet colliding with Saturn. Normally, an astronomical event wouldn’t require a presidential address, but something remarkable occurred. Instead of plunging into the gas giant, the comet bounced off the atmosphere. It acted like a stone skipping across the surface of a pond.”

The President continues reading from a teleprompter.

“As speculation mounted, our scientists watched and waited, looking carefully at the evidence. I’m told asteroids and comets regularly hit planets like Saturn. Impacts occur up to sixty times a year, but most of them go unnoticed.

“Once every two or three years, the gas giants are struck by objects as big as the Titanic. These impacts leave dark smudges in the clouds. Such collisions aren’t as rare as we might imagine. With so many impacts occurring, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that eventually one of them is a near miss.”

She pauses, looking at the reporters for a moment and ignoring the cues on her teleprompter.

“But last Saturday was different. It’s not just that a comet skipped across Saturn, but that it had previously skipped Neptune. Now it’s heading toward Jupiter.”

The press corps erupts. Reporters jump out of their seats. Questions are thrown at the President like footballs. In the midst of the cacophony, one word comes through clearly—aliens. The President raises her hands, wanting to continue.

“At this point, we do not know that this is an alien spacecraft, but it is a possibility we are actively considering.”

Again, the room explodes with questions. Reporters get to their feet, yelling. Pens are pointed. Arms are waved. Notepads are used as flags to gain the President’s attention.

“Please,” she says over the commotion. “I understand you have questions. We all do. That’s why I’ve asked Dr. Kathleen McKenzie from NASA’s Ames Research Center and General Nolan Landis from NORAD to accompany me. If I were to answer your questions, I’d be guessing. Instead, I’ll defer to the experts.”

As the shouting subsides, she says, “We are in the midst of something quite remarkable. This is an unprecedented and historic moment, not only in the history of our country, or even our species, but for life on this planet as a whole.

“It will be a month before An̆duru passes Jupiter. At that point, we will know for sure if it is heading toward Earth.

“I am instituting a daily briefing schedule. My administration intends to keep Americans fully informed. This is new for all of us. It’s exciting. There’s no need for any fear. Transparency is important. We will provide you with the most accurate, up-to-date information possible.”

Kath has her doubts about the term, ‘transparency.’ The President won’t be sharing her options for war with the American public.

Again, reporters call to be heard. Questions ricochet off the walls of the room like bullets. The President points at a reporter in the second row and the others fall silent.

“What do we know about the intent of these creatures?”

The President turns to Nolan, saying, “General, would you like to field that question?”

Nolan freezes. His eyes are like saucers. He stutters. The term ‘creatures’ has thrown him for a loop. There’s been no discussion about the intelligence behind An̆duru.

He starts to step forward, stuttering. “O—kay, wh—well, we’re still, ah—”

“Allow me,” Kath says. The President nods, gesturing for her to walk up to the lectern. “First, as the President said, we’re yet to confirm this is an alien device.”

Kath’s careful to avoid loaded terms like spaceship and UFO, knowing how her words will be scrutinized. Traditional media is going to focus on its own narrative. Social media pundits will magnify and distort her words to suit their agendas.

“We have yet to establish the exact nature of An̆duru, but it’s not a comet.”

The reporter asks, “If this thing that bounced off Saturn isn’t natural, what is it?”

“No one said it’s not natural,” Kath replies. “Life is natural. Alien life might be unknown to us, but it too is entirely natural. If An̆duru is an alien craft, it’s not in any way supernatural. We’ve known for a long time that, just as life arose on Earth, it could arise elsewhere. Up until now, we’ve lacked evidence for this idea, but it’s a reasonable explanation for what we’re now observing.”

“Are they hostile?” the reporter asks, getting to the heart of his question.

“No,” Kath replies, offering only one word as an answer.

She’s determined to make the press work for their sound-bites. Kath understands the game. She’s been involved in science communication long enough to know it’s an uphill battle at the best of times. For every one person trying to promote rational discourse, there are hundreds of others ready to shout out the latest conspiracy theory. Kath has given a measured response. There’s no ambiguity. There’s no uncertainty to exploit. Clear, succinct answers cannot be misrepresented.

“How do you know?” the reporter asks.

Nolan and the President are quiet. She’s drawn the short straw. They’re happy for her to field the question that’s on everyone’s mind—Should we be afraid?

“We’re hostile,” she says, turning the question around on the reporter. “Fighting is something humans do really well. It’s only natural we’d assume extraterrestrial life would also be hostile, but we have no reason to think that. In fact, we have every reason to assume otherwise.”

Again, she’s holding back, baiting the press. Kath can see from the look on the reporter’s face he’s far from happy. Gimme that goddamn sound-bite!

Kath is doing all she can to keep isolated snippets from becoming the only talking points. If this exchange is replayed, she wants it to be as a comprehensive discussion. She knows her deliberate, slow pacing will help calm nerves. Right now, she can imagine the various network news anchors going nuts, pulling their hair out. The media thrives on the speculation science abhors. Sensationalism sells.

“What reason?” the reporter asks.

Fair question.

“Because they’re slowing down,” she says. “Let’s look at what we do know. Their navigation system has them cruising from Neptune to Saturn and then on to Jupiter. That’s remarkably precise. That’s like hitting a golf ball in LA, bouncing it off a few buildings in London, and sinking a hole-in-one in Moscow.”

“So this isn’t surprising?” the reporter asks, seeking clarification.

“No. Not at all. We’ve used Jupiter to speed up. They’re using Jupiter to slow down.”

The reporter nods.

Kath continues. “If An̆duru were hostile, something like a missile, it wouldn’t bother slowing down. If there are aliens out there that want to destroy us, all they need to do is throw a rock at us and,” she claps her hands for effect, “we’d go the way of the dinosaurs.”

Okay, there’s your sound-bite.

She points to one of the other reporters for a follow-up question.

“Why skip through the clouds on other planets? Why not come straight to Earth?”

“Great question,” she says, stalling for time. She’s not sure where to begin on what could become an overly technical answer. “Going anywhere in space is difficult. Space travel requires lots of fuel. When you see a rocket sitting on the pad ready to launch, 90% of its mass is fuel. Imagine a car that’s pretty much just a gigantic fuel tank on flimsy wheels.

“Getting anywhere in space takes a helluva lot of energy. But it’s not just getting there that’s the problem. Stopping takes just as much energy as getting started.

“Picture yourself driving from New York to Baltimore. Imagine it took the same amount of fuel to stop as it did to start. And if you don’t stop, you’ll find yourself hurtling on toward North Carolina. From there, you’ll drift to Florida, South America, and eventually Antarctica.

“Remember when New Horizons flew by Pluto? Ever wonder why it didn’t stop? It couldn’t. Pluto was so far away we couldn’t give New Horizons enough fuel to stop. We took as many photos as we could while we sailed by. From there, New Horizons drifted out into the unknown.

“When it comes to spaceflight, changes in speed are called delta-v or the difference in velocity. Unlike on Earth, if you don’t actively change your speed, you just keep going. It’s a bit like driving on black ice.”

Kath is aware her answer is longwinded. She’s in danger of causing the reporter’s eyes to glaze over. She’s also mindful of the director’s advice to bore them with detail. Kath is careful not to talk too long, but she’s also determined to slap down the hype. By answering at length she’s taking the wind out of their sails.

“Changes in velocity are expensive, so we minimize them every chance we get. And remarkably, so do they!

“We’ve all seen runaway truck lanes on steep mountain roads. They look like side roads, but they’re only a few hundred yards long and full of gravel. Often, they run up the opposite slope. If the brakes on a truck fail, drivers can turn into these lanes and the gravel will slow them to a stop.

“In the same way, An̆duru is plowing through the clouds of gas giants to slow down without using its engines to brake. It’s saving fuel.”

Oops. So much for the idea that they’re only ‘actively considering’ An̆duru as an alien spaceship. By dancing around one point, Kath’s blundered into another. If she’s wrong about An̆duru, she’ll never live this down.

She smiles, hoping she’s said enough. The reporter sits down.

For now, the press haven’t figured out her strategy. They seem perplexed at the answers coming at them. Some questions are answered with a single word. Others invite an impromptu physics lecture. In all cases, Kath’s sidestepping the regular press briefing style. She’s trying to defuse the tension.

Another reporter asks, “What role will the military play in this?”

Kath steps back. This question is for the President, who brushes past, stepping up to the lectern.

“Our armed forces are subordinate to civilian control. They will function in the same manner they always do. As Dr. McKenzie said, we don’t anticipate hostilities.”

“But you have a military advisor?” the reporter counters.

“I do,” the President says, gesturing to Nolan. This time, he’s ready.

“As the President has outlined,” he says, resting his hands on the lectern, “the military’s role is in support of civilian efforts. In the same way we assist FEMA during hurricane season, we are standing by, ready to help in any way we can.”

“So you’re not expecting a fight?” the reporter asks.

“Contrary to what you see in the movies, the majority of America’s military assets are dedicated to logistics. We’re really good at supply chain management, intelligence, and analysis.”

Damn, he’s quick, Kath thinks. He’s lying. Well, he’s bending the truth. Behind the scenes, the military is scrambling. If the Russians are retrofitting their missiles, somewhere someone is doing the same thing here in the US. Nolan would know for sure, but he’d never admit it—not to her.

Nolan says, “This isn’t Hollywood. Tanks and planes can’t fight in space. As impressive as an F-22 raptor is, it can’t go into orbit. No, our role is peaceful. We’re here to support the civilian effort.”

“But if they’re hostile?” the reporter asks.

The President cuts in before Nolan can reply, stepping up beside him at the lectern.

“They’re not. We can’t read our own fears into what’s happening. We have to remember, this isn’t about America or China or Russia. This is about all of us.”

“Yes,” Kath says as Nolan backs away. She’s excited. Enthusiasm gets the better of her. Kath doesn’t mean to intrude, but the President doesn’t mind. She steps to one side, giving her the lectern. “We have to stand together. Remember, we have to see this from their perspective as well as our own. They think we’re the aliens. They’ve seen Earth from a distance. They’re sending a probe here in the same way we sent probes to Mars or the moons of Jupiter. They’re exploring. Like us, they’re curious.”

The President is content with that answer. She steps back as Kath continues.

“We’ve looked up at the night sky and wondered about our place in the universe. We’ve asked, where is everyone? We felt sure we’d find life among the stars, but we can only examine a small portion of our own galaxy. Faced with silence, we looked deeper. When it seemed as though no one was home, we spotted An̆duru. We can see this strange object using the planets in our own solar system to slow down. To me, that’s exciting.”

Another reporter calls out, “So you’re not worried about an invasion?”

Kath laughs. For a moment, she’s not only addressing a room full of reporters but the entire country and the world at large.

“There’s no invasion or attack or whatever,” she says. “There’s a good chance they don’t even know there’s an intelligent species down here. They’ve simply spotted life at a distance and are coming here to investigate.”

“They don’t know about us?” the reporter asks, surprised by the idea.

“Not at first,” she replies. “Not when they initially set out for Earth. By now, they’ve picked up our radio signals, but they probably still don’t know that much about us. They know there’s life down here, but that’s about all.

“You have to remember just how vast distances are in space. We estimate An̆duru entered our solar system at upwards of six hundred kilometers per second. At that speed, it could travel the length of the Continental US in a couple of heartbeats. As fast as that is, it’s only a tiny fraction of the speed of light.”

Kath looks down at a handful of numbers hastily scratched on a Post-it note scrunched up in her hand. She doubts her calculations. Kath should have laid everything out in a spreadsheet. Double-checking assumptions is always wise. It seems Nolan isn’t the only one that would prefer a cubicle and a bit of time to compose himself.

“Based on its speed, An̆duru took centuries to get here. Depending on its point of origin, it could have been sent when Columbus set sail for the Americas. For that matter, it could have launched during the reign of Alexander the Great. Or as far back as when the first stones were being laid for the pyramids. We just don’t know. The only thing that’s certain is that it has been out there a long time.”

She fiddles with her paper, hoping she hasn’t missed a decimal point somewhere.

“At the speed An̆duru was traveling when it entered our solar system, it would take five hundred years to cover one light year.

“Regardless of where it’s from, it set out long before we began broadcasting our intelligence to the stars. So no, they don’t know anything about us as an intelligent, spacefaring species. At least not until they got quite close.”

Kath sees an opening in the reporter’s stunned response. If he’s in shock, so is everyone else. When faced with the unknown, most people become defensive, retreating in fear. Kath has the opportunity to steer the ship in another direction.

“We need to lead with science. Whatever this is, it’s the product of science. Regardless of where you go in the universe, hydrogen has only one proton. Two plus two equals four. For every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Science gives us our best shot at interacting with An̆duru.”

Several more questions are called out but the President brings the briefing to a close.

“As we learn more, we’ll share more information with you. For now, it’s important to focus on the science, and that’s going to take time. We will see you again tomorrow at 10 am. Thank you.”

She turns and walks away from the lectern, followed closely by Nolan so Kath falls in line behind them. Once they’re outside the room, the President swings around, holding her finger barely an inch from Kath’s face. Until this point, the President has been calm. Now she’s enraged.

“Do not,” she says, emphasizing those two words through gritted teeth, “talk about interacting with this thing. Understood?”

Kath nods.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the President says. She stalks off, leaving them standing alone in the corridor.

Layers

“I told you,” Andy says, pointing at a camera barely visible against the glare of his studio lighting. “You heard it here first on Truth@War, but now it’s been confirmed by none other than the President of the goddamn United States of America.

“Comets ain’t dark. Calling this thing dim or obscure never made any sense. An̆duru Kumārayā. It’s the Prince of Darkness. That goddamn comet is an alien spacecraft! There’s no hiding it. It’s all in the open now. We’ve won. Call it what you will. I call it Satan. Lucifer. Beelzebub. Don’t you see? We’ve caught these bastards in their lies.”

He chuckles, looking down at his notes. Breaking eye contact and laughing are effective ways of building rapport. They’re mixers. They’re different ways of engaging with his non-existent audience. Oh, hundreds of thousands of people will watch him online, but Andy has to play to an empty garage. He has to appeal to an audience that’s not seated in front of him. Real-time feedback is missing from his virtual world, so he has to imagine their response and react to that. People love spontaneity. Somewhere out there, they’re laughing with him, rejoicing that he’s been proven right.

“We did it! You and me. We forced their hand. They had no choice. They had to come clean.”

Andy smiles. He knows the drill. Anyone that’s good at vlogging has to be a master of body language. Smiles are an art form. People think they involve the mouth and perhaps even the teeth, but that thinking’s too small. Smiles encompass the jaw, the cheeks, the eyes, and even the brow. If they’re to be believed, they need to involve the whole face, otherwise they come off as cheap and insincere.

“Now, the thing you have to understand is layers. A conspiracy is a secret. As soon as it’s revealed, it’s no longer a conspiracy—it’s a fact. What did you see in that press conference? Do you know what I saw? Layers.

He taps the desk, letting his passion flow.

“They only ever give up a little information, just enough to gain your trust, but don’t be fooled. There are layers to their lies. They tell you there’s a spaceship. They don’t tell you how they know. They won’t tell you they’re already talking to them.”

“NASA does this all the time. NASA sends electromagnetic radio waves to space probes around Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. You don’t seriously expect me to believe we’re not talking to this thing as well? Ha! They’re already in contact. They’re taking orders from their overlords.”

Andy presses a pressure mat with his foot. The image on the screen behind him changes. A dark, menacing spaceship appears, moving against a backdrop of stars. The details are vague. The warship is elongated. Spikes extend from the bow. There are turrets in the shadows. It’s fake, but it looks convincing. Andy paid almost five thousand dollars for this animation, but it was worth it.

“This has always been and will always be about taking our freedoms!” He bellows, “The United States! That’s what they hate. They hate that we’re united. That we have freedom of speech and the ability to defend that speech.

“I’m telling you. You can’t trust them. They’re lying. Right now, they’re preparing the camps. They’re going to round up dissenters. No one will be able to speak against the arrival of their masters. They won’t allow it.

“Don’t believe them. Don’t listen to their lies!”

Jorge

Jorge stands in front of a wooden bench on a decrepit pier in Vera Cruz, Mexico. Beside him, the day’s catch rests on ice. Seagulls squawk, floating on the breeze, looking for scraps. Flies buzz through the air.

He holds a six-pound sea trout by the gills and runs the back of his knife across its skin. Starting at the tail and working up to the head, he strips away the scales. An old electric pump feeds seawater out of a rusting tap. Loose scales swirl within the stainless steel basin, washing down the drain and back into the sea.

Jorge’s brutish and quick. He handles the fish as though it weighs almost nothing. Once scaled, he flips it over, slices open its belly and scoops out its innards. With a flick of his hands, he dumps them into the sea, much to the delight of the gulls.

Jorge uses a hatchet to sever the head. He runs his knife along the spine, filleting the fish. The head, tail, and spine go into a tub for use in a broth. The fillets are stacked on wire trays, ready to be smoked. He’s lost count of the number of fish he’s handled. Once it mattered. When he was younger, the count was a matter of pride. Now, it’s enough to know he must finish before dinner.

Dozens of rickety piers dot the beach. They reach from the city slums to well beyond the low tide mark. Waves wash around the support pillars. Trawlers nudge car tires tied to wooden piles.

All along the beach, kids wade into the water. Most of them are cooling off after the heat of the day. Some are fishing. They’re trying to catch the flounder and speckled trout that come in to feed on the offal floating on the waves.

Behind him, the sun slips below the mountains. A breeze blows in from the Gulf. Jorge finds his rhythm. Grab a fish, descale, gut, lop off the head, and slice a couple of fillets. Grab another. And another.

By the time Jorge finishes, the Moon has risen. He pushes a cart with ten trays packed with fillets into his makeshift smoker. Originally, the metal shell was a commercial dry-cleaning machine owned by his sister. Like all things, it broke down once too often and was discarded. Jorge traded the parts and kept the frame. He cut a hole in the top to act as a chimney and set up a tray for the wood fire. He repurposed the steel racks that once held fancy clothing to hold his fish.

Jorge starts a fire and waits for the flames to build. He adds bark soaked in lime juice and herbs. Pungent white smoke billows within the empty shell. Jorge slides the trays in and closes the door. After four hours of smoking, his fish will be ready for the market.

“Hey, Papa. Dinner’s ready.”

“Coming,” he replies. “Just cleaning up.”

Maria is good to Jorge. Too good. She should be living her own life, not caring for her aging father. Besides, Jorge’s convinced he can tend to his own needs. If he can handle a trawler at sea, can he not clean his own house and cook his own meals?

Jorge’s wife died a couple of years ago from a disease he couldn’t name. In America, she would have had a chance. In Mexico, she went from healthy one day to dead by the weekend. While Jorge struggled to understand what was happening, Maria knew. She’s a nurse at the local hospital. She pleaded with the doctors for help, but her mother slipped away before the antibiotics she so desperately needed arrived from the US. Maria and her boys moved in a few weeks later and have stayed ever since. Jorge told her she didn’t have to, but Maria is like her mother. She’s as kind as she is strong.

Jorge wants to feel useful. Perhaps that’s why he spends so much time at the local orphanage instead of with his own grandsons. Oh, he loves Maria and the boys, but he’s drawn to the orphanage. He finds a sense of purpose in helping others.

Jorge seals the plastic tub full of fish heads and tails. He hoses down the pier as the cool of evening falls. Once he’s finished, he kills the electric pump and drags the tub over to the tiny shack he’s proud to call home.

Waves lap softly at the shore. Time to relax.

Jorge sits on the porch and kicks off his boots. Insects swarm around the light above him, but he doesn’t care. It’s cooler out here. Besides, he loves the smell of the ocean. After eighteen hours on his feet, he’s not moving.

Jorge sailed for the fishing grounds just after midnight. He spent the early hours of the morning trawling forty miles offshore. Coming back, his first port of call was the tourist market beside the main docks. Spanish mackerel, red snapper, and wahoo fetch a reasonable price from the rich. Tonight, some American will be feasting on his catch in a fancy hotel somewhere in Tampico or Cancun. Most of his haul was sea trout, which is good eating in the slums, especially when smoked.

His eyes grow heavy. Tomorrow, he’ll take his fillets to the market. The next day, he’ll do this all again. For now, he can rest.

“Here you go, Papa,” Maria says, handing him a bowl of beans and smoked tuna—he saves the best fish for his family.

“Thank you.”

Chilies bite at his mouth, reviving his tired soul.

“Evening,” Padre Jesus says, coming along the boardwalk.

“Hey, Padre. You hungry?” Jorge says, patting the seat beside him.

“I’m full,” the padre says.

“I have your fish heads on ice,” Jorge says, pointing to the tub.

“Thank you, my friend.”

“I’ll bring whatever doesn’t sell to the orphanage tomorrow.”

“You are doing the Lord’s work,” the padre says, sitting beside him.

Jorge has his mouth full so he doesn’t reply, but he smiles, nodding. His daughter Maria stands in the doorway listening.

“Have you heard the news?” the padre asks.

“News?”

“They say, aliens are coming.”

“From Honduras?” Jorge asks, surprised. Those fleeing decades of civil unrest in Central America usually stick to the coastal roads along the Pacific. He’s only ever seen a handful of refugees risk the mountain pass to Vera Cruz. Too many bandits.

Padre Jesus says, “From Saturn.”

“Saturn?” Jorge laughs, spitting a mouthful of rice back into his bowl.

He looks out at stars rising over the Gulf, asking, “From there? Out in space?”

“Yes, my friend. They’re coming here.”

“Here?” Jorge asks in disbelief. “To Vera Cruz? Why would they come here?”

“Not here,” the padre says. “To Earth.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know.”

“Are they like the man from Krypton? The Superman?” Jorge asks. “Faster than bullets and stronger than steel?”

Padre Jesus laughs. “I don’t know.”

“Did you know about this?” Jorge asks his daughter.

“Everyone knows. It’s all they’re talking about on the American TV.”

“This is a joke, right?” Jorge asks. “You’re making fun of me because I’m a simple man.”

“No, Papa.”

Padre Jesus says, “You’re a good man, Jorge. No one would make fun of you.”

“This is strange,” Jorge says. To him, it’s a fairytale come to life.

“It is very strange,” his daughter says.

He looks up at the stars, asking, “Which one is Saturn?”

“The one with the rings,” the padre says, “But you need a telescope to see them.”

“Will binoculars do?” he asks. “I have some on the boat.”

“Maybe,” the padre replies.

“Wait here,” Jorge says, putting his meal aside. He jogs across the sand to the rickety old pier. His boots pound on the wooden boards. Jorge’s pier services six boats, giving him some modest rent. His trawler is an aging thirty-footer. Rust stains surround the portholes. Nets hang from poles mounted above the rear deck, ready to cast when he puts out to sea again.

Jorge grabs a pair of binoculars from the cabin. It feels unnerving to turn his back on the stars rising over the Gulf. Somewhere behind him, someone is watching. He hurries to his home, handing the binoculars to Maria.

“Can you find it?”

“I can try,” she says, using an old Android phone to connect to the Internet and search for Saturn in the night sky.

“Okay,” she says, pointing. “It should be right up there. The bright one in the middle.”

Maria looks through the binoculars, focusing them.

“Oh, yeah. There it is. You can see the rings.”

“You can see it?” Jorge is excited. He takes the binoculars from her and peers into the darkness. “I can see Saturn. Where is the alien?”

“Oh, you can’t see the alien,” Maria says as Jorge hands the binoculars to the padre. “Not yet. Only NASA can see it.”

Jorge laughs. “I think they are fooling us. It’s fake. There’s nothing out there.”

Padre Jesus lowers the binoculars. “My friend, there are many things we cannot see. That does not mean they’re not real. No one has ever seen God. You cannot see love or faith, but we know these things are true.”

“You believe them?” Jorge asks. “The Americans?”

“I believe something wonderful is happening,” the padre replies.

Jorge says, “Then that is good enough for me.”

Coffee

“If you want… No, that’s fine… Umm, huh. Okay. Yeah, I get it… I understand. It’s not your fault. Tread lightly, babe.”

Kath doesn’t mean to eavesdrop on Nolan’s phone call. She’s wandered down to the cafeteria in the basement of the Eisenhower Executive Office at 11 pm. She’s after a caffeine hit. Stupid, dumbass brain.

“Decaf Latté,” she says to Jonathan, the night manager. That’ll teach her mind for silly cravings at a crazy hour. There’s no way Kath’s going to give in to her desire for caffeine. Instead, she’ll fool her mind and still get a decent night’s sleep.

One of the surprising things about working for the President is there are no formal hours. Kath’s been woken at four in the morning to answer questions. On other days, she’s slept in till eleven. There’s an unspoken agreement that they’re all putting in the hours without a nine-to-five clock. Kath’s quite happy with that as her circadian rhythm marches to its own beat. When the science demands it, she stays late.

Jonathan’s a geek. Most people yawn when she talks about galaxies and supernova, but not Jonathan. He might not have a degree in astrophysics, but he loves chatting about the stars. For Kath, it’s refreshing to talk about something other than An̆duru. It’s therapeutic bouncing ideas off someone that strives to make the perfect cup of coffee. Perhaps it’s that they both have a passion for excellence.

“Oh, you’re going to love this,” he says, frothing milk for her drink. He taps a little chocolate powder on top and pulls out a contraption made from bent paperclips and rubber bands. “I’ve been practicing all day.”

“Cool,” Kath says, watching with interest.

“A long time ago,” he says, twisting the tips through the foamy milk, slowly drawing them to a point.

“In a galaxy far, far away,” Kath says, finishing his quote. She loves the miniature spiral galaxy he’s created on top of her coffee. Kath smiles, waving her credit card over the pay station. “Your talents are wasted here, my friend. We need you at NASA.”

He grins, wiping down the coffee machine.

As she turns, Kath hears a distant, “I love you too.”

Nolan puts his phone on the table. He sits there, staring at a poster promoting personal hygiene. There’s no way he’s actually interested in it.

“May I join you?” Kath asks.

“Sure.”

“How’s it going?”

“Oh,” he says. “I’ve managed to get a couple of the Keyhole satellites re-tasked so we can—”

“That’s not what I mean,” she replies, sipping her coffee.

“Ah,” he says. His eyes drop to his phone. “Yeah, my wife Jan is less than impressed at me being stuck here for the next couple of months. We kinda thought we were over that part of military life. When you’re young, you jump on command. You don’t ask how high. Then you have a family and kids, and all of a sudden, you want to know how long you’re going to be jumping for Uncle Sam.”

“How many kids do you have?” Kath asks.

Nolan opens the photos on his phone, saying, “Two. A boy and a girl. Eddie’s twenty. Samantha is fourteen going on twenty.”

He flicks through pictures from a ski vacation, showing them to her. The smiles she sees are brighter than the overcast day around them.

“Pictures are funny, aren’t they?” Kath says. “They’re a split second forever frozen in time—more vivid than any memory.”

“They are,” Nolan says, putting his phone down. “And you?”

Kath opens her phone. “Here’s my baby.”

She shows him four pictures of her with her Bichon Frise. Floppy white ears frame a pair of beady black eyes and a button nose.

“They’re toy dogs,” Kath says. “Perfect for apartment living and someone like me with allergies.”

“Nice,” Nolan says, being polite. It’s clear he’s not much of a dog person. It’s the lack of comment about any dogs he’s had. Dog lovers enjoy talking about the breeds they’ve raised. His silence is telling. It’s okay. Some people like dogs. Others like cats. Still others are content by themselves. Kath’s mom says pets are surrogates for children. With a cheeky grin, Kath told her it’s the other way around.

“It’s important, you know,” she says, closing her phone. “Having something other than work to focus on.”

“It is. So who’s looking after…?”

“Newt,” she says. “It’s short for Newton. I left him with a friend.”

A friend? That’s vague, Kath. Family friend? Friend from work? Old friend? Friend with benefits? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Kath can almost hear the gears grinding in Nolan’s mind. She had no desire to talk about her on-again/off-again partner. Why are you so uptight about your personal life? You’re the one that wanted to talk about something besides work. What does he care? He’s not judging you, and even if he was, who cares?

She relents, opening her phone and flicking to a photo of an unshaven man with long hair pulled into a topknot. He’s crouching next to Newt in a lush green park, smiling as he pets him.

“This is Eugene,” she says. “He’s an associate professor of English at USC.”

“English?” Nolan says with a hint of surprise in his voice.

“We all speak it,” Kath says, joking with him. “It’s more common than you’d think.”

Nolan laughs.

“Shakespeare and quantum mechanics is an odd combination, huh?”

To which, he says, “All combinations are equally unlikely.”

“Oh, now you sound like the physicist,” she replies.

“So what hobbies do you guys have?” Nolan asks.

“I tend to think of my work as a hobby. Eugene would disagree. On the weekends, we enjoy getting up into the hills and hiking. Nature helps clear the mind, you know?”

Nolan nods.

“And you,” she asks?

“Oh, I’m a guitar tragic,” he says. “My kids think I suck. It’s a bit of a running joke in the family. It’s my taste in music they don’t like, I guess. Too old. Too nostalgic.”

“Do you play in a band?” she asks.

“I wish. I used to. Back in high school. A long time ago. These days, it’s just the occasional strum on an aging twelve-string.”

Kath cannot imagine Nolan on stage with a guitar. It’s the uniform. It screams of military precision and being stiff and formal.

Nolan asks, “Do you think they’ll understand humor?”

“Oh, now that’s an interesting question,” she replies. “I don’t know. I think so. I sure hope so.”

“What about things like love?”

She sips at her coffee before answering.

“I’m going to say, yes. Emotions aren’t unique to humans. Chimps will laugh at magic tricks. Rats enjoy being tickled. Animals care for their offspring. That seems obvious enough, but they’ll often go further. Elephants have built thickets around people lost on the savannah. They have no reason to protect them from lions and hyenas, but they do.”

“Huh?”

“Intelligence seems to demand things like being playful and caring.”

Nolan says, “But no dad jokes, right? They won’t like them.”

“Nobody does.”

Nolan grins. “Why do gulls fly over the sea?”

“No,” Kath replies. “Please. Don’t.”

Nolan doesn’t care. This is intelligent playfulness at its best.

“Because if they flew over the bay, they’d be bagels.”

Kath hangs her head.

“Get it? Bay—”

“I get it.”

“—Gulls?”

Nolan laughs at himself. Of course he does.

“I do wonder what they’ll make of us,” she says, unable to suppress a smile after his lame-ass joke. “I mean, we have all these quirks and foibles that make us quintessentially human. Maybe they do too. Maybe the biggest discovery that will come out of this is that they’re not all that alien after all.”

“Now there’s a thought,” Nolan says.

“It’s the real reason we’re here, right?” she says. “I don’t mean here as in looking at An̆duru or here in Washington, but here as a civilization. We’re more than roads and suburbs, huh? We’re more than Bud Lights and a pickup truck.”

“We are,” he says.

“As much as I love science, it’s not what makes us human. It’s all the other things.”

“Here’s to things other than work,” Nolan says, raising his disposable coffee cup as though it were a glass of wine.

“Yep. They’re the reason we’re here,” Kath replies, touching the rim of her cup to his.

“Cheers.”

Rendezvous Jupiter: December

Battlespace

“Three weeks,” General Cooper says, berating a meeting of scientists and engineers at the Los Alamos. “It’s been almost three goddamn weeks since we learned about this thing, and you’re telling me we’ve got nothing? No strategy to counter a threat from outer space?”

Nolan clenches his jaw. He’d rather let the scientists speak so he can better understand their issues. Interrupting isn’t helping. Three weeks may sound like a long time to Cooper, but the problem is too complex. Throwing more people at it won’t solve anything. Nine women can’t produce a baby in a month.

Developing rockets takes years. Decades. Even though they’re starting with established designs, there are a myriad of constraints. Any upgraded missile has to fit inside the silos on the aging US submarines. They have to work with existing (often antiquated) control systems. And then there’s testing. What’s the point if the damn thing doesn’t work when it gets up there? Hitting an object in orbit isn’t easy. Blink, and you’ll miss a target that’s racing by at twenty-eight thousand kilometers an hour. Trying to hit anything in space is akin to firing a bullet at another bullet swirling around within a hurricane.

Orbits are predictable, but only if the target isn’t under propulsion. Hitting something that’s moving around under its own steam takes the already insane complexity off the charts. Given all that, three weeks for a bunch of technical papers outlining a strategy isn’t bad. If only ET wasn’t about to arrive on their doorstep.

“We have to be accurate,” the lead engineer says in his defense. “These aren’t hand grenades. We can’t simply deploy explosives in orbit.”

Although there’s plenty he could say, Nolan doesn’t speak. Cooper’s done enough damage. Nolan’s got to try to salvage what he can.

There are twenty-seven people crammed into the elongated basement meeting room.  Nolan counted them as they entered. How the hell are they going to get twenty-seven people to agree on anything? He’s heard it said that zebras are a horse designed by a committee. It should be black. Make it white. No, black. No, it needs to be white.

“We have nukes,” General Cooper says. “Why do we have to be accurate? The damn things will take out a city. You don’t have to hit a specific street or even a suburb. Just get close and—wham!”

“It doesn’t work like that,” the engineer says. “Nuclear weapons operate by superheating the atmosphere. They force the air into a wall of overpressure. This then rolls out like a tsunami, destroying everything in its wake. That doesn’t happen in space. There’s nothing to heat. Nothing to compress.”

“So what does happen?” Cooper asks.

“A flash. A burst of radiation,” he clicks his fingers, adding, “And it’s over.”

“What about a thermonuclear device?” Nolan asks. “A hydrogen bomb?”

“Slightly better,” the engineer says. “You’ll get a ball of superheated plasma, basically a miniature sun, but it’ll be gone within seconds. It’ll only cover a small area. We’re talking hundreds of meters, maybe a kilometer. Nukes in space are nothing like what you see on Earth.”

Nolan did not want to be dragged into this meeting, but he’s glad he’s here. He needed to witness this conversation firsthand. He hates it, but he knows it’s important.

Everything about the meeting feels wrong. Perhaps it’s the setting. Basement level 2 is at least twenty-five feet below ground. The room is ugly. There are no windows. Warm stale air falls from the ceiling. Fine dust clings to the vent cover. The filters haven’t been cleaned in decades.

Fluorescent lights cast an unnatural glow. Occasionally, one of the tubes flickers. The wallpaper is from the eighties, at least. Hell, it’s older than he is. As for the desk, Nolan’s not sure how anyone got it through the door. For all he knows, the damn room was built around it. The wood is old and worn but has been recently varnished—for the fifth or sixth time.

“So, what the hell do we do?” General Cooper asks.

The engineer looks uncertain. It’s not that he’s intimidated by the four generals in the room. Nolan understands what he’s feeling. This guy gets one shot at convincing the brass. He wants to get it right. It’s difficult to balance arguments while keeping the conversation focused.

“War in space is different to fighting on Earth. The distances are immense. Orbital mechanics have a significant impact on strategy. Even if we develop a weapon that could cripple an alien spacecraft, we have to be careful. The shrapnel from an exploding spacecraft could create a long-term orbital hazard.”

Being a SCIF, or skiff as they’re colloquially called, the room is a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. No unauthorized electronic devices are allowed beyond the door. A scanner ensures nothing untoward enters the room. The handful of laptops and phones inside the room are plugged into a raised wooden centerpiece built into the desk.

General Cooper isn’t listening. He says, “So we fire conventional missiles at them. Use high explosives. Hit ’em with something like a modified Hellfire or a space-enabled AMRAAM.”

“Even that has its difficulties.”

“Explain.”

“In a firefight, stray bullets hit buildings and hillsides. Imagine if they didn’t hit anything at all. What if they continued racing back and forth across the battlespace? What if they kept going until some poor soul stuck their head up? That’s what happens in space.”

General Cooper looks across the table at Nolan.

The engineer says, “It gets worse. If enough shrapnel is flying around up there, it acts like a minefield. We could be denied access to space for years, possibly decades.

“This is known as Kessler’s syndrome. Unlike a minefield, there’s no way to defuse the problem. We could end up with a cloud of debris moving at twenty-eight thousand kilometers an hour in all directions. Launch anything from Earth and it has to run that gauntlet to get into space.”

Cooper nods, saying, “So we could end up hitting ourselves years later.”

“Yes,” the engineer says. “This is a real problem. There are already over a hundred million bits of space junk orbiting Earth. Most of it is smaller than your fingernail but still as lethal as a bullet. If we just start blowing things up, we could take the count to over a billion. Fight an extended war in space and debris could reach into the trillions.

“It’s one thing to fire a missile with a known velocity and a predictable orbital path. It’s another to deal with a swirling cloud of shrapnel. We need to be aware, we could hurt ourselves. In a worst-case scenario, we could leave ourselves locked-in on Earth, unable to reach orbit.”

“But what goes up must come down, right?” General Cooper asks. “I mean, these fragments won’t stay up there forever.”

“Orbits are like a banked NASCAR track,” the engineer says. “They’re not nice neat, circular patterns. They’re ellipses, squashed circles. A large explosion in orbit would result in debris on a wide variety of paths. Some shrapnel would go down, but we have to think in three dimensions. Most of it will be on the same plane. Some of it will go considerably higher. It’s—It’s—It’s like putting an egg in a blender.”

Someone asks, “Do we even know if any of our weapons will work? I mean, they can plow through gas giants, right?”

Nolan says, “Think of their spacecraft like a police officer holding a ballistic shield. A frontal assault is pointless. An assault there will only reinforce their resolve. Our only chance is from the side or the rear.”

“Even that might be futile,” the lead engineer says. “To be effective, you probably need to detonate inside the thing, which makes all this even more insanely complicated.”

Nolan shrugs. He may well be right.

Several other attendees have questions. Some of them are scientists, others are fellow engineers, but there are also executives, project officers, and line-managers. They’re not experts. They’re the people who coordinate experts. As far as Nolan is concerned, they should shut the fuck up. An argument brews, with the lead engineer being forced to defend his position.

“We must address these issues! Physics doesn’t care about timelines or agendas.”

The dynamic shifts. People are getting frustrated. Nolan has already identified a couple of cliques. They’re all supposed to be here to protect Earth, but the meeting degenerates into a turf war.

General Cooper tries to focus the discussion. “Okay. We have a problem. We have a weapon we need to use but can’t. Have I got that right?”

Someone starts waffling on about payload delivery.

Nolan’s past caring about pleasantries. He cuts the man off, saying, “We need to control the high ground.”

His statement is out of context. No one’s sure what he means. Even the lead engineer on the orbital missile project seems confused.

“Space isn’t flat,” Nolan says, wrestling control of the meeting away from the technical debates. “We live at the bottom of a gravity well. It’s like living at the bottom of a hill.”

“So we locate these things in space?” General Cooper says. From his tone of voice, it’s clear he thinks that’s obvious, but that’s not what Nolan means.

“We’ve missed the big picture,” he says. “It’s not a question of putting missiles in subs or on an orbital platform. If anything, that increases the risk of shrapnel locking us in, right? We’ve got to dominate the high ground.”

“I’m confused,” the general says. “If being in orbit isn’t the high ground, what is? The Moon?”

“Not quite,” Nolan replies, getting to his feet. He squeezes past a few people to join the engineer at the front of the room.

“May I?” he asks, pointing at the whiteboard.

“Sure,” the engineer says, rubbing it clean.

Nolan draws a circle representing the Moon orbiting Earth.

“Has anyone here ever gone wakesurfing?” he asks. No one replies. “You’ve got a bunch of reservoirs, lakes, and rivers around here, right? Lake Powell. The Rio Grande.” Heads nod around the room, but no one offers any personal anecdotes. “Has anyone gone wakesurfing on them?”

A lone hand is raised at the far end of the room. A young woman in civilian clothing keeps her hand below shoulder height.

“Good, good,” Nolan says. In a kind voice, he asks, “Can you explain wakesurfing to the rest of us?”

Nolan’s ready to jump in with an explanation if she falters, but his question is designed to engage. He’s a stranger at Los Alamos. As far as most of the people here are concerned, he’s one of those NORAD generals with phallic missile infatuation—the bigger and harder, the better. He’s trying to change that misconception.

Nolan turns his back to the meeting attendees, adding several lines to his drawing.

“Ah, wakesurfing is like regular surfing,” the woman says. “Except, instead of riding a wave on the ocean, you’re surfing on the wake of a speedboat.”

“Exactly,” he says, adding a couple of dots to his diagram. “If you can surf, I recommend wakesurfing. You just stand there on your board, riding the wave kicked up by the speedboat. Surfing in California, I’d catch waves that lasted maybe a minute. When you’re wakesurfing, you can ride a wave for four or five minutes. Essentially, you’re standing still relative to the boat. No rope or anything. You hang back a few feet, riding the wave as the boat races over the lake. You’re surfing the wave kicked up by the speedboat.”

General Cooper’s brow is furrowed, but he knows Nolan. This is important. Like everyone else, he’s waiting for the ah-ha moment.

Nolan adds five dots and numbers them.

“The Moon throws up a gravitational wake as it orbits Earth.”

“It’s difficult to depict in a drawing, but remember the Moon is in motion. All of these points are moving. They’re being dragged around Earth. All five of them are being tugged by Earth and the Moon. That tug-o-war causes what’s known as Lagrange points. These are gravitationally neutral positions in space.”

He taps the whiteboard.

“These are the high ground. If you park a spaceship at these points, it’ll coast, riding through space like a surfer riding a wake.”

A few of the engineers talk in hushed whispers.

Nolan says, “From these points, you can go anywhere with very little energy. One, two, and three are small and slightly unstable. Anything at four and five will be stable for millions of years.”

One of the dissenters from earlier says, “I don’t see how this solves our problem. If anything, firing from these hilltops would be worse. The orbital paths would be more complex depending on the direction you launch in.”

“They’re better,” the lead engineer says as he studies the diagram. “At least from there we have some predictability.”

“Oh, I think you misunderstand me,” Nolan says, tapping numbers one, four, and five. “I think this is where they’re going.”

For a moment, there’s no noise beyond the hum of the air conditioning. Nolan pushes the lid back on the marker.

General Cooper says, “We need a presence in each of those locations.”

“Exactly,” Nolan says. “We’re thinking too small. We’re thinking like the Earthbound species we are. It takes a herculean effort for us just to get into orbit. We assume any action will occur right over our heads, but that’s not going to be the case. They’re not going to park a few hundred kilometers above the surface or even up in a stationary orbit. An interstellar spacecraft is likely to position itself hundreds of thousands of kilometers above Earth. They’re not going to play nice and close. They’ll dominate one of these points of stability.”

The wakesurfing consultant at the back of the room mutters, “We are so fucked.”

Nolan laughs, appreciating her candor.

“Oh, we are. This is our battle sphere. The problem is, we can barely leave the planet with anything of size.”

He taps at the number five, saying, “Getting out here is tough. The further we go, the lighter the payload. We’re trying to ski uphill.”

General Cooper addresses the room.

“This is why you’re here. We need to figure this out. Workshop this thing. I don’t want problems. I want solutions. Figure out that damn orbital debris issue. Figure out what we can use as a weapon. Figure out how we can get to these points in space. I want goddamn answers.”

A murmur of agreement ripples around the room.

General Cooper brings the meeting to a close by barking, “Dismissed!”

Two Days from Jupiter

Kath adjusts her computer screen. She makes sure the webcam catches her face correctly and doesn’t cut her off at her bangs.

“Two days out,” Sara Hendi says from her office at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena. “An̆duru is right on track to skip across Jupiter. I make the angle of incidence less than ten percent. An̆duru’s coming in on the ecliptic. It'll strike the equatorial zone. There are lots of high-altitude clouds in that region. The white ammonia ice crystals will give us some really good imagery. The contact heat is going to vaporize the ice and expose the underlying dark sulfides. We should get a really good view of the pressure wave. That will allow us to calculate the impact energy with a lot more precision than we had out at Saturn.”

“It’s not aliens,” Kath says.

“It never is,” Sara replies, laughing.

“Until it is,” Pete Conrad says from the Operations Support Center in the Atacama Desert. He’s 14,000 feet above sea level in the Andes.

He switches to a live view of the ALMA array. Silver radio telescope dishes dot the desolate plain. Frost blankets the desert, reflecting sunlight. The distant hills are red and clear of ice at this time of year. It looks as though he’s on another planet.

“How’s the weather there on Hoth?” Professor José Alvarez asks from the European Space Agency. Although it’s summer in Chile, the temperature drops below freezing at night. It takes most of the day to warm up.

José is in Brussels, where winter has fallen. The trees outside his office window have lost their leaves. Although they’re half a world apart, both locations are roughly the same temperature.

“Oh, it’s brisk,” Pete says.

“So when do we call it?” José asks. “When do we say for sure this thing is an alien spacecraft?”

“It’s a little late for that,” Sara replies. “It’s all the media talks about these days.”

“I know. I know. But when do we call it? When do we make it official?”

Pete says, “If it survives this encounter and deviates toward us, we have a bona fide extraterrestrial object inbound.”

Kath nods.

Sara asks, “Are we ever going to call it a UFO?”

In unison, everyone on the call says, “No!”

“Alright,” Kath says. “So you’re an alien scientist. You’ve spotted Earth through a telescope. You have the opportunity to send an interstellar probe across star systems on a journey that spans generations. What equipment do you put onboard?”

“My first concern,” José says, “would be redundancy. Why send one probe? We sent Pioneer 10 and 11 to the gas giants, followed closely by Voyager 1 and 2.”

“So you think there’s a second An̆duru out there somewhere?” Kath asks, surprised by the notion. “Wouldn’t we have seen it?”

“Not necessarily. In the 1970s, NASA’s Voyager launches were separated by a mere two weeks. They followed slightly different trajectories and are now separated by trillions of miles!”

Kath makes a note. “Okay, so you think we should be looking for An̆duru 2 on some other inbound course?”

“It’s a fair bet,” Sara says. “We would never limit a high-value science target to a single mission.”

“There was only ever one Cassini,” Kath counters. “Or one New Horizons.”

“Whenever we can,” Sarah says, “we double up. Think about Mars. Viking 1 and 2. Spirit and Opportunity. Sometimes the duplication is in terms of sequential missions as technology develops. Perseverance followed Curiosity using the same chassis design. Single missions are the exception.”

“Oh, the conspiracy theorists are going to love this one,” Pete says. “Here comes the invasion fleet!”

“Let’s keep this quiet,” Kath says, trying not to laugh. “We need to make sure we keep an eye out for any other inbound objects, but without raising any alarms.”

“On it,” José says. “I’ve got Morrison at the Vera Rubin asking how he can help. I’ll get him to do an extra-solar survey looking for anything passing through the Oort cloud.”

Pete says, “They may have a single mission with onboard redundancy, like the ability to 3D print parts. That might give them the confidence to send just one spacecraft.”

“And the payload?” Kath asks. “What instruments would you expect?”

Sara says. “They’re going to need radar imaging to look below the clouds. They’ll be interested in our geology. They’ll probably look for plate tectonics. They’ll be curious about how aeolian and fluvial processes have shaped the land. Ground-penetrating radar would reveal a lot of this. It would also pick up artificial structures such as buildings and archeological sites. When they see those, there will be no doubt about the existence of a civilization down here.

“We’ve got to remember, for them, all this is new. Features we take for granted, like geothermal regions, are going to fascinate them as they consider how life first arose here.”

“Will there be a lander?” Kath asks. “Or is An̆duru just an orbiter?”

No one can answer that question. Yet. Kath’s interested in the perspective of her science team. She has her own thoughts on this, but she wants their input.

Pete says, “A lander is going to be difficult but not impossible. From that distance, they’d have a fair idea about our atmospheric composition. They’ve probably mapped seasonal temperature variations. They’d have an estimate for Earth’s gravitational pull. All this would give them some idea about our weather and the kind of corrosives that might damage a lander.”

José says, “Honestly, if there’s a lander, it would be a secondary mission objective. I can’t see it being a primary. There’s too much risk of losing the craft.”

“A lander is going to add a lot of complexity,” Sara suggests. “Essentially, you’ve got to have two separate spacecraft, one piggybacking on the other, like Cassini dropping Huygens on Titan.”

“It’s an opportunity they wouldn’t want to miss,” Pete says. “Big risk, yes, but there’s also a big reward. They know there’s life down here. You can’t observe life from orbit, not beyond noting things like forests or algae blooms. Nah, if they’re coming all this way, they’re going to want to examine life in detail.”

Sara says, “They’ll probably opt for an equatorial landing. Less seasonal variation. Easier to predict environmental factors.”

Kath asks, “So if there’s a lander, what approach would you expect? Are we talking something that’s static? Would it be like Viking? Landing and staying in one location? Or would it be a rover? Or perhaps something airborne? Would they explore the seas or the land? Given 70% of our surface is covered in water, they might not expect to find life on land.”

Sara nods, agreeing with that point. “It took more than three billion years for complex life to evolve on Earth. It took another couple of hundred million for that to migrate to the land. Sampling our oceans wouldn’t be a bad assumption on their part.”

“Have we considered what they’ve already seen?” José asks. “I mean, they saw something, right? They looked from afar and spotted life down here. What did they see?”

“Bio-signatures. Possibly photosynthesis,” Pete says. “Algae blooms are big enough to influence the light spectrum reflecting off the ocean.”

“So their lander might be a splasher?” Kath says. “Something like a boat or a submersible?”

“They might have something amphibious,” Sara says. She holds up a model of the Perseverance rover with its six rocker-bogie wheels and extension arm. “We take target selection pretty seriously here at JPL. When going to Mars, there are a lot of considerations. We want to maximize our time in the target zone. It’s not enough to pack a rover with instruments. We have to be able to navigate the terrain and avoid anything that might threaten the longevity of the mission.

“I suspect they’ll have thought carefully about their mission goals and duration. They’ll have a lower and upper bound on what they want to accomplish. Like us, they’ll want to minimize the risk of microbial contamination. That might limit the tech put onboard.

"All missions come with a degree of uncertainty. They won’t have rushed this.”

She puts the model down.

“I doubt they have specific targets. I suspect they’ll have some kind of onboard decision-making process, something like an AI that’s going to make the final call.”

“So no crew?” Kath asks. There’s silence, which surprises her. Kath expected them to jump on this line of reasoning. She’s thought long and hard about it, but she wants to hear their thoughts.

“It’s the trade-off that has me worried about that,” Pete says. “If they’re coming in hot, using the gas giants to shed their speed, they’ve got serious concerns about fuel. I suspect they’ve squeezed every ounce onto that craft. Nothing’s been wasted. No excess. No room for a crew.”

Kath nods but doesn’t respond, waiting for the others to contribute.

José says, “I’m with Pete on this one. The force-load when passing through the clouds on Saturn has got to be 50 to 60 gees. Any organics would be turned into spaghetti.”

“So we think it’s piloted by AI?” Kath asks.

When there’s no response, she asks the question that’s been bugging her. The President was quite clear about this issue, but she wants the opinion of her science team.

“How do we talk to them?”

No one answers. They’re all there on the screen in front of her, but no one wants to speak, which confuses her.

“What’s the problem?” she asks.

Pete is the first one to reply, but his question floors her.

“Who’s we?”

“W—What?”

“We’re divided,” José says. As he speaks, Kath realizes they’ve already discussed this between themselves. “We’re a single species divided into warring factions. Who should speak to them? The American President? The Security Council? The United Nations General Assembly?”

“Even that kind of thinking is too small,” Pete says. “We’re more than nation-states. When we ask who should speak for us we need to consider what defines us. Scientists, representing our collective reasoning? Political leaders, representing our social structures? Or religious leaders, representing the vast majority of humanity?”

Sara says, “Who’s to say we won’t all speak at once? I mean, it’s not like the Russians and the Chinese are going to line up behind us. They’re not going to be polite and wait their turn. Pete’s right. Sooner or later, religious beliefs and political ideologies are going to muddy the waters. Our words are layered at the best of times. What will they make of us? How well will our words line up with our actions? Often, it’s what’s not said that’s more important. This is a minefield, Kath.”

“Then there are your new friends,” Pete says. There’s something about his tone of voice that speaks of frustration.

“Me?” she replies. “My friends?”

Kath knows what he means, but she wants to hear him say it. She wants him to articulate his concerns to the group.

“It’s the whole, ‘We come in peace,’ thing, right?” he says. “Nobody actually believes that. Oh, we might, but nobody else does. Certainly not the President or any of her advisors. And as for your friend the general, who’s to say he’s not planning to blow them out of the sky the moment they reach Earth?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Kath says. No one comes to her side of the argument. The silence is awkward. “Why would we—”

“Why wouldn’t we?” José asks. “Whoever gets that thing could harvest technology that’s thousands of years more advanced than our own.” He peers over his reading glasses, saying, “You don’t think they haven’t thought of that? Because I have. Do you really think everyone’s going to play nicely? Do you expect the US, Russia, and China to share what they learn? And how will an alien species interpret any interference with their equipment? Will they treat it as an act of war?”

Pete says, “You have to remember, this is the single most disruptive event in human history. Regardless of country or culture, people are scared. Nations do dumb things when their populations are afraid. What if someone adopts a position of shoot first, ask questions later?”

“They’re not hostile,” Kath says.

“You know that,” Sara says. “I know that. But what if they do something unexpected? What if some tin-pot dictator starts shooting at the lander? Hell, sending a lander could be seen as the start of an invasion.”

“But it’s not,” Kath says.

“How do we know?” Sara asks. “Will the UN take our word for that? Can you imagine anyone letting an alien rover roam around the countryside? What if it ventures north? What if it rolls through Washington or New York City? How do you think that will go down?

“What about Moscow? Or Beijing? And it’s not just the local population that’ll freak out. Can you imagine the US reaction? We’d be paranoid as hell about those damn commies interfering with it. Our right-wing media will go apeshit. They’ll say the Chinese are harvesting its tech. I can imagine the presence of a lander leading to war between us.”

José says, “Here we are preparing to fight off the alien hordes, and we end up killing each other. What would they make of that? They’d think we’re mad.”

“And we are,” Sara says. “We routinely kill each other.”

“Fratricide, right?” Pete says. “We squabble—as individuals and nations. We forget we’re all part of the same species.”

“Will they understand our confused position?” José asks. “I mean, to them, such behavior might be barbaric. We think we’re civilized. They might disagree.”

Sara shakes her head.

Pete says, “And then there’s the risk of contamination. I can imagine a scenario where alien microbes accidentally exploit our adenine/thymine-rich environment. If their microbes displace these acids with any of a hundred other amino acids, we’ve got serious problems. They could silence protein production. If there’s a runaway effect, it could wipe out bacteria as we know them.”

Kath says, “These are—”

But she’s cut off by José. “These are not unfounded concerns.”

“We’re physically isolated,” Pete says, simplifying the discussion. “That isolation has allowed us to flourish. Mixing celestial biospheres could be disastrous, even if it’s accidental. If our biospheres compete at a microbial level, we could find ourselves on the losing side.”

“What’s the risk?” Kath asks.

Pete replies, “There’s a low risk of disruption. More than likely, the two biospheres will be incompatible. They’ll simply ignore each other. But if they do interact, we’re in deep shit.”

José says, “Even though this is hypothetical, if the Russians or the Chinese believe it’s possible, they could act against An̆duru. They could start a war.”

“Where would that leave us?” Pete asks.

“There’s no governance,” Sara says. She’s frustrated. “Not really. Even the UN is little more than a token gesture of cooperation. We are not unified. If we can’t agree on who should speak or what should be said, perhaps we shouldn’t be talking to them at all.”

José says, “Whoever speaks to them will no doubt misrepresent us. They can’t help misrepresent us as we’re scatterbrained.”

“Look at us,” Pete says. “Humans are nuts! A third of all Americans believe in ghosts. One in ten think the stars rule their lives. How are we going to explain flat-earthers to our extraterrestrial visitors? Hell, there’s already a conspiracy theory going around that An̆duru is a hoax. Can you imagine that conversation with ET?  Hi. Welcome to Earth. Oh, by the way, some of us think you’re fake. You must get that everywhere you go, huh? Ignore the nutters calling you the Prince of Darkness. Don’t worry. We’re not all mad.”

He laughs, adding, “How’s that going to go down?”

José laughs. “Perhaps we shouldn’t say anything.”

Sara says, “That might be for the best.”

Kath is overwhelmed.

“There’s another possibility,” Sara says.

“What’s that?” Kath asks.

“We might not be able to talk with them at all. I mean, look at our Martian rovers. They transmit metrics, but they’re not designed to hold a conversation with anyone.”

“She’s got a good point,” Pete says.

“Yes,” José says. “If An̆duru is fully-automated, it would be like talking to a brick wall. Given the time lag between here and wherever it came from, a conversation was always going to be off the books. To save weight, it wouldn’t surprise me if there was no means for us to interact with the craft. If I was them, I wouldn’t include an interface as I wouldn’t be expecting any communication, only data collection.”

Kath slumps in her seat.

Sara says, “I need to sign off. I have a dozen other meetings before this damn thing reaches Jupiter.”

“Yeah, me too,” Pete says.

“Hey,” José says, smiling. “Look on the bright side—it might go splat!”

United Nations

One day out.

Nolan does not want to be in New York. He’d rather be catching up with the team retrofitting the Trident missiles, regardless of his misgivings about them. Even with a stripped-down payload and extra fuel, they can only reach around four hundred kilometers above Earth’s surface. That’s barely the orbital height of the International Space Station. He’s been pushing the team for a final, highly maneuverable kick-stage. Nolan wants to be able to remotely control the warheads. It’s wishful thinking. As there are communications satellites orbiting as high as thirty-six thousand kilometers up, reaching four hundred kilometers into space is underwhelming. Damn, they’re trying to cram decades of R&D into a few weeks.

The motorcade weaves its way through the streets of Manhattan. For the most part, the streets are empty. The city that never sleeps is glued to the television. Everyone’s waiting for the encounter with Jupiter, listening to pundits and their predictions.

The President addresses Nolan and Kath, saying, “You guys are eye-candy. You’re not here to talk to anyone or persuade anyone of anything. Just smile and nod, even if you disagree with what’s being said.”

Nolan smiles and nods even though he disagrees with the President’s approach.

“Yep, just like that,” the President says, pointing at him. Oh, she knows his type too well. Like a three-piece suit, military uniforms provide a thin veneer. They’re costumes in a play. They give him something to hide behind.

Nolan does not understand diplomacy. To him, it’s recursive—a play within a play. What is the military but diplomacy by brute force? Nolan doesn’t get the need for pleasantries to hide blatant hostility. Fuck ‘em. Life in the Air Force is blunt, hard, caustic. Feelings are for weekends. Dr. McKenzie, though, seems swept up in the glamor of the moment. Her eyes have a glazed look.

“As far as those at the UN are concerned, you’re celebrities,” the President says. “If you’re asked any questions, keep your answers brief. Stay within the bounds of what we’ve already discussed. No bombshells. Nothing new. I want you guys to sound like a scratched record bouncing over the same track a dozen times. Understood?”

Both of them nod. Only Nolan smiles.

The car pulls up at the front of the United Nations building. The President says, “Welcome to the den of thieves.”

Nolan is in full parade dress. This is the first time he’s worn the insignia of a brigadier general. The difference between a silver oak leaf and a silver star might seem trivial, but he wears it with pride. If he’s to hide behind something, let it be a symbol of authority.

Questions are hurled at them as they step out of the President’s beast of a limousine and follow her into the UN building. Reporters stand behind a cordon, reaching out with microphones and smartphones. Cameras catch their every move. Yeah, they really are actors on a stage.

Walking into the General Assembly, Nolan marvels at the chain of decisions that led him here. It all started with a hunch about the Russians overreacting.

For Nolan, joining the Air Force was a coping mechanism. People go into the military for many reasons—patriotism, family tradition, or to get through college. When Nolan walked into the recruitment office, though, it was to find a sense of identity. He was a bright, moderately athletic teen. Good looks and a sense of humor made him popular, but, like his uniform, that was a cover, allowing him to hide.

Deep down, Nolan never understood what others saw in him. Somehow, he managed to keep his anxiety bottled up, but Jan saw through him. As he stands to attention by the side of the stage, waiting to accompany the President, he keeps his arms straight, but not out of military precision. No, he’s hiding his sweaty fingers in his palms, tucking them out of sight. The rim of his hat and his tight collar cocoon him. Outwardly, he looks immovable, but Jan knows. She’ll be watching this on TV. She’ll catch a passing glimpse as the camera pans, and she’ll see through the hard lines on his face. She’ll recognize his posture as unduly stiff. And just as she did on their wedding day as they stood before the altar at St. Mark’s, she’ll tell him to relax, whispering to him through the television.

Nolan breathes deeply.

“...the President of the United States of America.”

Nolan and Kath follow the President on stage. They’re props in her performance, standing back and on either side of her—Kath to her right, Nolan on her left.

“Esteemed ambassadors, leaders and representatives,” the President begins. “I stand here before you not simply as the President of the United States, but as your equal.

“The advent of An̆duru has changed the way we see not only the universe but ourselves. Our history on Earth is checkered. Humanity has rarely been humane. For too many, equality is a dream, an illusion, an ideal that has never been reached. We codify it in laws, but in practice we fall short. Now, though, our innate equality has been highlighted in a way we never thought possible. Our lives are juxtaposed against intelligent life from another world. Finally, we see that each of us counts for one and only one. And out there, somewhere in the darkness, comes another.

“Never before has there been an event like this—contact with life that evolved around another star. For humanity, this is the great equalizer. For the first time, we are united, but not out of fear or in response to heartache or disaster. We’re united in awe of finding our place in this vast universe.

“With nothing to guide us beyond our own reason, we come together not as nations but as a single species. Humanity has always been one. We’ve just never seen that so clearly before. We’ve allowed ourselves to be fractured by language, wealth, gender, the color of our skin, even lines drawn on a map. All of that is folly before the advent of an intelligent alien species.

“The time for debates has passed. The time for discussion has come and gone. The arm wrestle of ideologies is moot. We must recognize the need to stand together. United. Our message to the world must be, No one stands alone.

“As President of the United States of America, I pledge the resources of this great country to peaceful contact. I challenge all countries to join the United Nations First Contact Commission. We need to be unified in welcoming our visitors. Together, we will reach out to an envoy from another world. Together, we will make history.”

No sooner has the President folded her brief speech notes than the assembly erupts. Members call out from across the hall. Questions are thrown at the moderator.

A translator speaks and the crowd falls quiet.

“The member from the Russian Federation: You speak of equality, but as you are leading this effort. It is not unity but submission you demand of us.”

“Not so,” the President says. “Like the rain that falls and the air we breathe, First Contact knows no national boundaries. The passage of An̆duru ignores all differences in our language, culture, politics, and history. We need to stand together. No one is questioning your national sovereignty, only calling for unity. None of us have a crystal ball. The future is veiled to us all.”

The moderator doesn’t allow a rebuttal, moving to the next question.

“The representative of the People’s Republic of China: You speak of unity, but how can the imbalance between us be resolved? Eritrea does not have a space program. Bhutan has no observatories. Serbia has no radio telescopes. How can we be one?”

The President replies, “The United States will make all scientific research related to An̆duru freely available. We call on other nations to do likewise.”

“The ambassador from the French Republic says: You come before us flanked by a scientist and a military officer. What are the intentions of the United States should An̆duru prove hostile?”

“I’d like to point out that there are three of us here today,” the President says. “Dr. McKenzie represents our scientific community. Although General Landis is a military officer, he holds a defensive rather than an offensive position. He is part of NORAD—the North American Aerospace Defense Command.

“Do not be fooled. There are three of us here for a reason. Our scientific and military efforts are subordinate to the will of the American people. It is the official position of the United States of America that An̆duru does not pose a threat to life on Earth.

“Should circumstances change, the United States will use its military might for the benefit of all.”

Nolan swallows the lump that forced itself up into his throat. This is the first time the President has admitted there’s any kind of military contingency.

“The member from the United Kingdom: Will the United States take unilateral action against An̆duru in the event it is hostile?”

The President seems almost weary in her reply. “The United States is committed to working with the United Nations. First Contact should be a chance for peace.”

It’s not an answer. The President has sidestepped the question. Nolan’s not the only one to realize that but no one challenges her on that point.

Standing there under the gaze of an entire planet is intimidating. Questions continue to come from the assembly for what seems like hours. In reality, they’re finished in less than thirty minutes.

Nolan’s not sure how others perceive him. They don’t see him as he is—just one more person caught up in this whirlwind, trying to make sense of things. Nolan’s dedicated his career to being forward-looking. His mind embraces challenges. Whereas some people find their competitive spirit surge when watching football, for Nolan, it’s peering into the unknown. He enjoys trying to make out shapes in the shadows. Nothing, though, prepared him for An̆duru. Not only is An̆duru beyond anything he imagined, it’s more crazy and bizarre than he could have ever imagined. That scares him. Oh, he’d never admit as much to anyone other than his wife, but he feels inadequate. The idea of an advanced alien spacecraft approaching Earth is unsettling.

An̆duru leaves Nolan in the dark.

Court

Andy’s phone buzzes within the breast pocket of his three-piece suit. As the court hasn’t been called into session, he pulls it out, glancing at the lock screen. There’s a news feed notification.

Comet An̆duru survives encounter with Jupiter.

Scientists say now en-route to Earth.

“Put it away,” his lawyer says briskly.

“All rise,” the bailiff says as Judge Emmet O’Shea enters the courtroom.

The judge sits, instructing the court, “You may be seated.”

Andy looks across the aisle at his ex-wife Justine and her lawyer. If she notices, she doesn’t respond. Is it pride, anger or embarrassment that keeps her facing forward? Or indifference? She’s wearing a dark, long sleeve dress and little to no makeup. For once, she’s straightened her hair, destroying the ringlets that usually drape over her shoulders. She looks plain. A stranger. Her hair is lifeless, lying flat against her scalp.

Looking back at the day they got married, it’s hard to imagine they would end up here. Seeing her in a white wedding dress took his breath away. The smiles. The flowers. The sun streaming in through the stain-glass church windows. It’s like a dream. Andy feels a pang of regret, but not at anything he’s done. It’s the outcome he resents. If only she hadn’t been so damn headstrong. Like every point of conflict in his life, someone else is to blame.

The court officer says, “Petition V-36221 is now before the court. Justine Palmer versus Andrew Joseph Anderson. This motion is for sole custody of the couple’s only child, Susan Elizabeth Palmer-Anderson. At the moment, the subject is residing with her mother. Child safety concerns were raised in the initial separation proceedings C-344341. This hearing is a continuation to determine whether joint-custody is warranted.”

The judge says, “I have been informed that attempts at mediation have failed. After reviewing the case file, I will take closing arguments before passing judgment. The lawyer for the defendant may begin.”

The hideously overpriced legal shark next to Andy gets to his feet.

“Your honor, the case for my client revolves around the need for the stability of his family beyond these proceedings.

“During a time of separation, emotional stress is heightened, not only for my client but for his wife and child. Divorce proceedings are underway. An amicable settlement is being negotiated. It is time to bring the stress of legal disruption to a close. We want to ensure that, going forward, all parties are treated equally and fairly.

“It is our position that to deprive Elizabeth Palmer-Anderson of access to her father would cause her undue hardship. A healthy parental relationship is important for her emotional development and wellbeing. By granting joint custody, both Justine Palmer and Andrew Joseph Anderson can share in raising Elizabeth. They can both support her physically, financially, and emotionally. It is our position that estranging Elizabeth from her father would cause her psychological trauma. By sharing custody, Elizabeth would be afforded the stability and assurance that comes from two loving parents.”

The judge makes a few notes in the case file as the lawyer talks.

After a few more remarks, Andy’s lawyer takes his seat.

Although he should be paying attention, Andy’s angry. He clenches his fists beneath the desk, trying to hide his frustration. Outwardly, he looks relaxed. He holds an appropriate half-smile, appearing warm and pleasant. Within his soul, a fire rages.

The judge waffles on for a few minutes. The jargon he uses annoys Andy even further.

Justine’s lawyer stands to speak.

“Your honor. It is our assertion that Andrew Joseph Anderson poses a risk of physical violence to his wife and daughter. Andrew regularly engages in online conspiracy theories—”

“Objection, your honor,” Andy’s lawyer says, getting to his feet. “My client engages in performance art. His videos are a form of entertainment akin to an actor on a stage.”

“This is not harmless theatrics,” Justine’s lawyer says. “The defendant’s videos are taken seriously by millions of people. His video channel is known for inflammatory remarks.”

“Objection overruled,” the judge says.

Justine’s lawyer continues.

“It is our position that the defendant’s conduct heightens his paranoia. His delusional behavior is a clear danger to his pre-teen daughter, Elizabeth.

“His history of verbal abuse and threats has been documented in separation proceeding C-344341. Our position is that Justine Palmer should be granted sole custody. Visits should only be conducted in the presence of a court-appointed third-party.”

Andy’s fingernails dig into his palms. His fists tighten. It’s all he can do not to clench his jaw. His lawyer writes something down, but Andy knows it’s a ploy. They’re both acting before the judge. They’re trying to downplay their opponent’s concerns, but Justine’s lawyer isn’t finished with his case.

“The court-appointed psychiatrist has noted Andrew has a tendency to escalate from verbal insults to intimidation. My client admits she has not been subject to physical assault. She has, however, been subject to unmistakable abuse. Household items have been thrown around. Chairs have been kicked over. Glasses have been smashed on the floor. Phones were broken. Credit cards were cut up. Laundry baskets were kicked downstairs.”

Andy can’t take anymore. All pretense is gone. He sits there with his hands locked together on top of the desk, no longer hidden from sight. His knuckles go white. He stares straight ahead, rocking slightly, not making eye contact. He has to block out the discourse or he’ll erupt. Although he remains silent, he cannot help but mouth his disdain through gritted teeth. Bitch. Cunt.
Fucking whore. His attorney notices and nudges him. He hands Andy a glass of water, trying to snap him out of it. The ploy works. Andy sips at the water, desperate to remain calm.

The plaintiff’s lawyer finishes his arguments. The judge waffles on for a couple of minutes. Andy cares, and yet he doesn’t. Deep down, he knows the next few minutes will influence a decade of his life. He can’t breathe. He needs to get out of this goddamn courtroom.

“It is the judgment of this court that the best interests of Elizabeth Palmer-Anderson are served by her mother. Justine Palmer will be the sole custodian. Andrew Joseph Anderson is granted fortnightly access rights. For a period of twelve months, access will be conducted under the supervision of a court-appointed social worker.”

Andy closes his eyes, pinching them shut. A cascade of deep reds and purples swirl before him. He hangs his head.

The judge continues regardless.

“After twelve months, visitation will be reviewed. At that point, consideration will be given on whether to allow unsupervised visits. Court is dismissed.”

Andy still has his head bowed and his eyes shut. Chairs scrape on the floor. Briefcases are opened and closed. Someone types on a keyboard. Justine talks to her lawyer as she leaves. As much as he tries, he can’t bend reality to his will.

Andy’s lawyer gets to his feet.

“I’m sorry.”

Finally, Andy opens his eyes.

Barely anyone hears the words he whispers.

“Fuck you. Fuck all of you.”

The Announcement

Normally, the President doesn’t attend the White House daily briefings on An̆duru. There have been times when even Nolan has skipped them, leaving Kath to field questions. Today, though, the President is on point. Kath can’t help but admire the woman’s fortitude.

Ever since the news broke about An̆duru, President Aston has been subject to relentless criticism. In the eyes of her political rivals, every step she’s taken has been wrong. She was premature going public while there were still doubts about the nature of the comet. She should have addressed Congress and the Senate in private. She should have considered the impact on the stock market. She was just wrong, ‘full stop,’ the pundits said.

From both sides of politics, the one thing everyone agreed on was the President was wrong to address the United Nations. Her demand to widen the UN Security Council to include all G20 nations for the duration of the encounter was a mistake. The print news said involving the G20 was arrogant. There were too many voices. Too many agendas. Too much confusion. Conservatives said, only the five permanent members of the Security Council should vote on resolutions about An̆duru. Liberal think-tanks complained the G20 did not go far enough. They said it didn’t and could never represent humanity as a whole. Twenty’s an even number, they complained. As roughly half of the existing members of the Security Council were also in the G20, the council was taken to a total of twenty-eight. Another even number. Everyone agreed this would lead to deadlocks. The UN was already gridlocked with endless bickering and arguing. But it seems the rancor only ever came from the TV. Every night, Americans were reminded their President was reckless, presumptive, misguided, arrogant. But now, she’s the only person on the planet absolutely everyone wants to hear from.

“An hour ago, the world watched as Comet An̆duru rounded the gas giant Jupiter. As predicted, the vessel remained intact, reduced speed, and changed course for Earth.”

An announcement like this should cause an uproar. Questions should erupt from the reporters present, but no one breathes. The silence within the room is akin to a funeral. No one wants to break the moment.

Nothing she’s said is new. Everyone’s known this for over an hour, but hearing it from the President of the United States of America is validation.

“There can be no doubt,” she says, pausing. The next words are right there on the teleprompter, urging her on.

Kath and Nolan stand behind the President, flanking her. The scrolling text comes to a halt. Someone somewhere hits the pause button, waiting for the President to continue. Her words linger. No. Doubt. Kath understands. From here, it’s all uncharted territory.

“We are not alone.”

The President breathes.

“From somewhere within the constellation of Taurus, an alien civilization turned its eyes to the skies. They looked into the cosmos, longing, searching, hoping to find others in the darkness.”

Kath likes the way the President uses the word darkness in a context other than the name of the comet itself. As it is, there’s been too much made of An̆duru being the Prince of Darkness. That meaning was never intended, but it’s all the crackpots seem to focus on. When Yudhanjaya Wijeratne named the comet, his intention was something regal but obscure. Being Buddhist, he never meant Satan. Far from that, he imagined a jewel out of reach, but western society is nothing if not consumed by conspiracies.

The President speaks with deliberate pacing.

“Their scientists peered through telescopes. They examined the sunlight that reflects off our oceans and swirling clouds and found signs of life. Like us, they’re curious. They long to learn more about the strange, exotic lifeforms that inhabit the obscure planet we call Earth. They undertook what might be the most ambitious feat of exploration in their history. They reached out across the vast empty expanse of space. They sent a spacecraft intent on confirming their findings and learning more about our astonishing home.”

Kath spent several days with the President’s speechwriter. Together, they refined this section of what’s become known within the White House as The Announcement. To defuse tension, Kath recommended the journey be described from the perspective of the extraterrestrials. She felt that change in point of view would help reduce the uncertainty. Drafts were shuffled back and forth with red pen marking edits and changes. One sentence, in particular, became a heated talking point, but to the President’s credit, it remained in the speech, exactly as Kath intended.

“Their voyage is akin to that of Charles Darwin sailing to the Galapagos.”

The President wanted to include a reference to Christopher Columbus discovering the New World. Kath stressed the importance of avoiding American-centric history. She pointed out that Columbus raided the Caribbean for gold and took slaves. Nolan suggested Magellan, but Magellan was a crusader. He boasted about bringing Christianity to the savages.

Likewise, the exploration of James Cook was marred with violence toward indigenous populations. Kath insisted that, to avoid what could be perceived as colonial bias, the only terrestrial comparison was with the voyage of the HMS Beagle. She knew the best way to downplay any supposed hostile intent was to lean on the scientific discoveries of Charles Darwin. She smiles, proud to have won that battle.

“Little could they know that we, too, have long wondered about the emptiness that surrounds us. That we too have longed to find life beyond our own world. That we have looked out at the silence, curious to know if there were others like us somewhere in the cosmos.”

She clears her throat.

“In forty-one days, An̆duru will approach Earth and contact will be made. For the first time in history, we will no longer be alone in the dark. We will be part of life on a cosmic scale. Space will no longer be an empty void. Instead, the light of life has bridged at least two separate star systems. This gives us hope of others waiting to be discovered in the darkness.”

To Kath’s surprise, the President pauses before saying, “We will not be taking questions today. Thank you, and God bless America.”

Wait a minute. That wasn’t the plan.

The President has cut her speech short. She skipped several paragraphs, ending without a Q&A session. Before coming out, she agreed to defer questions to Kath and Nolan, but she turns and walks off stage. The two of them stand there for just a fraction longer than they should, hesitating, confused.

Nolan falls in behind the President. Reluctantly, so does Kath. To her surprise, there’s no volley of questions from the press. They had to have known in advance what was going to be discussed. They would have come prepared. Like everyone, they’re stunned by what’s unfolding.

Outside the press room, a gaggle of Secret Service agents swarm around the President. They don’t seem concerned about any actual threat. They shield her as she talks with her communications director. Kath and Nolan stand further down the corridor. This is one aspect of public service Kath never appreciated before working in the White House. Her expertise is on-call. If her insights aren’t needed, the various assistants she works with beneath the President are quite happy to waste her time. To them, it’s not wasted. As best she understands it, she’s a fire extinguisher—always necessary, rarely used. Although it’s frustrating given her scientific workload, she understands.

Jim McGuire, the President’s Chief of Staff, sees them waiting. He walks over.

“That’s all for today,” he says, apparently speaking on the President’s behalf.

Kath can’t even begin to imagine the pressures being shouldered by the President. As much as Kath considers An̆duru the overriding concern, President Aston has to keep the nation calm. She’s navigating a path for the country as the world watches.

“Is she all right?” Kath asks, seeing the President with her back against the wall and her head bowed. She’s crying. The President has a hand up, covering one side of her face as she listens to another advisor. She’s fighting to stay composed, wiping away tears.

“We’re not ready for this,” McGuire says. He walks with them, ushering the two of them from the West Wing. “We are so not ready. Even with another month up our sleeve, we just… She can’t get the kind of cooperation she wants from Congress, let alone other countries. At the moment, the only one standing with us is Canada. Even the Europeans are jaded. They’ve been burned before. They feel as though all the bluster is just hot air. They’re afraid they’re going to be abandoned if chaos unfolds, so they’re preparing to go it alone.”

Kath nods.

“Understood,” Nolan says as they walk toward the door.

“Check in with me tomorrow,” the Chief of Staff says. “Let’s see if there’s been any progress.”

Outside, a chill hangs in the air. Snow blankets the ground. The sun is low on the horizon. Vapor forms on their breath as they cross to the Eisenhower Executive Office.

“Are you ready to head back to the hotel?” Nolan asks.

Loaded question. Kath isn’t a workaholic, but there’s always more to do. There are always a bunch of emails in her inbox or projects she needs to work on. Although she’s tempted to return to her office in the Executive Building, she’s exhausted. Marine One descends beyond the trees behind them with a red light flashing on its belly. The President is being whisked away somewhere.

“Yeah,” she says.

“I’ll get us a car.”

Pizza

Snow falls from the grey sky.

Kath and Nolan wait by the guardhouse on the edge of the White House security cordon. Government chauffeurs aren’t known for being punctual. A marine stands resolute inside the flimsy hut, trying to stay warm.

Kath has her tablet computer tucked under her arm. She turns it on and checks social media. There are a few interesting articles on the composition of An̆duru. She opens them in background browser tabs. Given the trip to their hotel can take up to half an hour in heavy traffic, she’ll have plenty of time to read. Twitter is going nuts.

Beam me up, Scotty. Ain’t no intelligent life down here.

I, for one, welcome our new overlords. Could they please take our old overlords?

Do anal probes come in a variety of sizes? #askingforafriend

Where the hell is Will Smith when you need him? #ID4

A nondescript Buick pulls up. Government plates. Dull brown. Uniformed driver. Nolan opens the back door for Kath. She slides across the seat, making room for him to get in behind her. A blast of heat rushes from within the vehicle. Ah, nice and toasty. Kath slips on her seatbelt and goes back to looking at her tablet.

“Huh?” Nolan says, sitting beside her. He raps his knuckles on a Perspex screen cocooning the driver. The shield reaches from floor to ceiling, wrapping around the back of the driver’s seat all the way to the dash. “This is new.”

The driver doesn’t respond.

Kath doesn’t pay any attention. Transparent screens like these are used in police patrol cars and taxis all the time. Usually, they get assigned an Air Force staff car, but this driver is wearing an army uniform.

“Where to?” the driver asks.

Nolan says, “Gateway Park, just off Arlington Boulevard.”

The driver punches the address into a digital map, saying, “Oh, yeah. I know the Gateway. Traffic’s heavy across Roosevelt, but I should have you there within half an hour.”

“Good, thanks,” Nolan says, sitting back and putting on his seatbelt.

Kath’s distracted. There’s an interesting article on the geopolitical implications of An̆duru, but she can’t focus on it. Nolan’s a creature of habit. Every other time they’ve shared a car, he’s always put his seatbelt on straight away and then talked to the driver. Also, he’s not one to stare out the window. He tends to lose himself in emails on his smartphone. Today, though, he stiffens, sitting up straight and watching the sun set across the frozen city. He seems unsettled. Perhaps it’s subconscious. Everyone’s a little jumpy after seeing the passage of An̆duru past Jupiter.

Kath tries to concentrate on her article, but something’s off. After a few minutes, Nolan asks the driver, “Why are we going south?”

“Accident.”

Kath looks across at Nolan. His eyes convey all the meaning she needs. An accident where? It must be somewhere along their regular route. Most drivers would offer that up casually in banter, but their guy remains tightlipped. There’s nothing either of them can do about traffic congestion, but that their driver doesn’t provide a street name seems strange.

Kath looks out the window on her side of the car. In the distance, a red light flashes on top of the Washington Monument. She nudges Nolan, pointing. They’ve never gone this way before. The car speeds up.

“Why have you turned?” Nolan asks. “Why are we going east?”

“Bad traffic. Big accident.”

The New York accent evaporates. The driver’s sentences are clipped. English is a second language. All pretense is gone.

Nolan clutches at the door handle. Child lock. He flicks it several times as he says, “Stop the car. Let us out.”

“You are safe,” the driver says.

The car accelerates toward a traffic light turning green, yellow, and then red. They rush through the intersection. Horns sound.

“Stop the goddamn car,” Nolan yells, kicking the seat in front of him.

Kath slips her tablet into the side pouch on the door. She holds onto the handrail as the vehicle swerves onto the wrong side of the road. They race past cars coming to a stop at the next intersection.

“What’s happening?” she yells.

“Please. No alarm,” the driver says. “You are safe. We need to talk.”

Kath’s heart races.

Nolan reaches forward, grabbing the back of the front passenger’s seat. He clips a button on the side of the headrest and pulls it up, removing it from the seat.

“What are you doing?” Kath asks.

“Improvising,” Nolan says. It’s only then Kath notices the long steel prongs below the headrest cushion. “Call 911.”

“R—Right,” she replies, searching for her phone in her jacket pocket.

“Calm, please. No alarm,” the driver says, swerving madly through the traffic as he increases speed. Tires squeal and skid on the slick concrete.

Nolan unclips his seatbelt, increasing his range of motion. He sits forward, grabbing the headrest with both hands.

“Seatbelt,” the driver says, glancing in the rearview mirror. “For your safety.”

Nolan ignores him. He begins hacking at the Perspex barrier. He hammers the plastic, hitting it with thundering blows. Cracks appear, but the Perspex holds.

“Please. No,” the driver says, peering over his shoulder.

Nolan wedges the steel prongs between the Perspex and the roof and pulls. He tries to dislodge the thick casing, but it’s screwed in place.

“No signal,” Kath says, staring at her phone in disbelief. “How the hell is there no signal?”

It’s then it strikes her. She loaded the articles on her tablet before she got in the car. Somehow, the driver has jammed their electronics. She flicks the button to open the window beside her, but like the door, it’s locked.

“Talk, that is all,” the driver says, swinging hard on the steering wheel and taking a corner at speed.

Nolan is thrown outward against the door. Being unable to break the Perspex, he turns and strikes at the window beside him. Metal prongs punch through the glass as he yells, “Do not fuck with the US military!”

Fragments of broken glass cascade out onto the road. Nolan’s clinical and yet ferocious. With determination, he runs the prongs around all four sides of the window, clearing away the shattered glass. On the street, people point and yell in alarm. Cell phones are raised, filming the car as it races past.

To Kath’s horror, Nolan leans out the empty window. He’s got his upper torso through the opening and is yelling at bystanders as they whizz by. He lines up a group of pedestrians standing beside a restaurant on the next corner.

“Call 911,” he yells, tossing his wallet to them. “We’re being kidnapped!”

A bewildered-looking teenager catches the wallet. At the same time, the driver slams the vehicle into a hard turn, running a red light. Cars race through the intersection, braking and skidding to avoid them. A truck swerves, tipping.

The wind whips past. Nolan slips. He doubles over, leaning against the outside of the car door. The concrete road rushes past just inches from his head. His fingers grip at the door frame behind him. He’s doing all he can not to fall from the vehicle. The headrest bounces down the street.

Kath is terrified. She grabs his ankles, desperate to pull him inside the car. Traffic signs flash past inches from his head, threatening to decapitate him. With all her might, she pulls, trying to haul him in, but he’s too heavy. The vehicle fishtails on the slush and ice leading to a darkened backstreet.

The road ahead is blocked. There’s road work on one side. A construction worker waves a flashlight. A glowing orange cone signals them to slow down. Red brake lights shine through the gloom immediately in front of them.

The driver rides up onto the sidewalk, squeezing between buildings and streetlights. Trash cans go flying. Pedestrians duck into doorways.

Kath has hold of Nolan’s belt. She pulls, dragging him back into the car. The side mirror is smashed as the car scrapes along a brick wall. Nolan falls into his seat. Sparks fly through the night.

Having passed the roadworks, the car swerves onto the road again.

“What the hell were you doing?” Kath yells at Nolan.

“Getting help,” he says. “At least now they know who’s in here.”

“You scared me!”

“I scared you?” Nolan says, pushing against the rear seat. He arches his back, kicking the driver’s Perspex cage with both of his feet. The car rocks, but the Perspex holds. “This asshole scares me!”

“Please, only talk,” the driver yells.

It’s then the realization strikes her. This has all gone wrong, and not just for them. The driver’s terrified. He’s clearly well-trained, but he’s panicked. What should have been a slight diversion hasn’t gone according to plan.

“We’re going to die,” she says, rocking with the car as its engine screams into the darkness. Sirens sound in the distance. Red and blue lights wash over the buildings around them as police vehicles close in. A helicopter flies low overhead. Its thumping rotor blades are right above them. A blinding white light illuminates the vehicle.

“We’re all going to die,” Nolan replies.

“Great. That’s just bloody great. Thank you for that insight,” Kath says, struggling against her seatbelt. The tension sensor has locked, holding her firmly in place.

Nolan pushes himself over into the front passenger’s seat and grabs at the Perspex guard. His fingers pry at the point it meets the dash. He begins jerking at the clear plastic, edging it away from its mounts.

“If we’re going to hell, this asshole’s coming with us,” Nolan says, gritting his teeth and tugging at the plastic. Rivets give way. The padding on the dash starts to tear as he pulls on the screen.

“Stop. Just stop,” Kath yells, appealing to both of them.

“Stop this goddamn car,” Nolan growls, able to make eye contact with the driver.

Nolan bends the mounting point of the Perspex shell, ripping it from the dash. There’s enough of a gap for him to reach through. With his neck buckled against the windscreen, he strains but he can’t quite grab the steering wheel.

The driver panics, running another red light.

Kath never even sees the truck that hits them. Eighteen wheels tear at the concrete as the truck’s brakes scream into the night. She tries to brace, but nothing can prepare her for the ferocity of the impact.

The truck’s chrome bumper slams into the rear of their car, crushing the thin sheet metal. The trunk lid pops open. The vehicle spins, pivoting around the front right tire. The driver swings on the steering wheel, trying to counter the force.

Kath’s hair flies sideways. Shockwaves race through her petite frame, rattling her skull. Her head flicks over on her neck. Every muscle in her body seems to contract, stiffening as her arms are flung out before her. Shattered glass rains sideways through the cab of the vehicle.

Nolan bounces off the dash. He flies into the front passenger’s door and ricochets up into the roof before coming to rest on the front seat. He’s inverted, with his legs up and his head in the footwell. He tries to brace himself, but the erratic driving has him barely able to avoid bouncing around.

The car accelerates, pulling away from the intersection. Five other vehicles are involved in the collision. The police helicopter loses them in the confusion. The sudden loss of the blinding spotlight causes darkness to descend. Kath’s eyes struggle to adjust to the low light. As they rush down a service road leading to the wharves, she catches sight of the chopper circling. It’s trying to find them but is heading in the wrong direction.

“Only talk,” the driver says. He’s bleeding from a gash to his head. His hands are shaking.

“Fuck talk,” Nolan somehow manages from the front of the car, but all his fight is gone. He raises an arm, trying to right himself. His hand falls across his chest as he slumps upside down in the footwell.

At least one police car has seen them. It goes airborne as it races down the road behind them. Its siren blares. Emergency lights flash, chasing them toward the docks.

Their car slides into a steep corner, peeling away from the main road as the offramp passes under a rail bridge. To Kath’s horror, a dumpster rolls down the embankment toward them. Dark figures guide it, but it’s out of control. The dumpster bounces wildly as it careens over the rough ground beneath the bridge.

The driver slams on the brakes, pulling in hard against the curb. The dumpster rushes at them from the side. The car lurches to a stop as several men run from the shadows.

The dumpster jumps the curb, coming to a halt behind their car. Someone slams their hand on the roof. Kath winces.

A parked car in front of them roars to life. It pulls out onto the road with its wheels squealing. Kath is dazed. It’s a dark brown Buick with a smashed rear window and a dented trunk. There are mannequins in the back seat. Before she can say anything, the car accelerates, burning rubber and racing away.

“Wh—”

Someone’s beaten the back of that car with a tire iron. Her staff car probably looks worse, but that someone’s tried to replicate the damage is bewildering. It implies a level of sophistication, planning and coordination she never expected.

To her horror, two police cars speed past, chasing the other car, racing right by them. A spotlight illuminates the other vehicle as the police helicopter rejoins the chase. Kath is in shock. She sits there stunned, watching as their doppelgänger passes under several other bridges along the riverside.

The silence around her is unsettling. It takes a moment to realize she’s no longer in motion as her inner ear is still swirling. The engine is off. The driver’s door is open. There’s no one around. She peers out into the shadows.

They’re alone.

Abandoned.

Nolan groans.

Kath tries her door. Unlocked. Gingerly, she unclips her seatbelt and gets out. Her legs are unsteady. She holds onto the side of the vehicle as she makes her way around it.

The dumpster has been pushed hard up against the back of their car, obscuring them from the main road.

A metallic sign has been slapped on the open front door of the car.

Papa Ricci’s Pizza

“What the hell?”

Kath holds onto the hood as she works her way around the dented vehicle. Someone’s positioned a sign on top of the roof, advertising what she’s sure is a fictional pizza store. It must be battery power as it’s illuminated, glowing softly in the shadows. Suction cups hold the sign in place. The caricature of a Roman chef smiles at her, holding a drooping slice of pizza.

“I don’t understand,” she mumbles. Her hands are shaking. She fumbles with the door handle on the front passenger’s side. “N—Nolan.”

For his part, Nolan has almost righted himself. He’s facing sideways, leaning against the shattered Perspex shell. His bloodied hand holds onto the dash. He’s half in the footwell, half on the seat. Kath reaches in, grabbing his arm and helping him out. Snow swirls around her but she’s beyond feeling the cold.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Me?” she says, looking at the gash on his head and his bloodied, torn uniform. “Are you?”

“I’m fine,” he replies. “I’ll be fine.”

His use of the future tense is a correction of his previous lie.

A phone starts ringing. In her confused state, Kath pulls her own phone from her pocket. The screen is dark.

Nolan has his back to the car, leaning against the door frame. He’s shaking, looking down at his trembling fingers. Behind him, a phone rattles on the roof, vibrating as it rings. It’s been abandoned in front of the glowing pizza sign.

Nolan turns, throwing his arm over the roof of the car rather than reaching across the thin sheet metal. From how he moves, it’s clear he’s in pain and doing all he can to push through the hurt. His bloodied fingers grab at the phone. He drags it closer until he can pick it up. Rather than pulling the phone back, Nolan steps away from the car, allowing his arm to fall from the roof.

“Let me,” Kath says, taking the phone from his fingers. She presses the green button to answer the call and switches to speakerphone. “Hello?”

“Dr. McKenzie?” a strange voice asks.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Is General Landis with you?”

“Yes,” she says with a quiver breaking in her voice.

Nolan waves at her, mouthing the word, “Phone.”

“General Landis?” the male voice asks.

Kath holds out the phone for him, but he shakes his head, mouthing but not saying, “Your phone!”

She hands him her phone. It’s locked. He presses the photo button, bypassing security and going straight to the camera.

“This is Landis,” Nolan says for the benefit of the conversation on the abandoned phone. He switches Kath’s phone to video and hits record, holding the two phones next to each other. Smart.

“I am sorry for any discomfort you may have endured.”

Nolan looks pissed. His jaw is clenched while his lips are pulled tight. Veins appear on the side of his neck. It seems it’s all he can do not to explode in rage.

The voice on the phone continues.

“There has been a... misunderstanding. Our agent was too, how shall we say, zealous.”

Kath and Nolan lock eyes. He mouths the word, We. Kath caught that too. As much as she wants to blurt out a bunch of questions, she remains silent. She wants to ask, Who the hell are you? But she follows Nolan’s lead.

“American generals are… challenging in ways we did not expect,” the voice says. The speaker is baiting Nolan, but he’s determined not to give anything away.

“You must understand,” the man says in response to a reply he never actually received. “These are sensitive times. There is much unrest. We do not want to inflame internal or international relations.”

This time it’s Kath that mouths, ‘We.’

Nolan replies to her, mouthing the word, ‘China.’

Kath doesn’t know how he arrived at that conclusion as there’s no hint of a foreign accent. If anything, the man they’re speaking with, or listening to as is the case, seems to be from the Midwest. He senses Nolan’s reluctance to engage in conversation and anticipates his questions.

“We have concerns about our neighbor to the north.”

Kath mouths, ‘Russia?’

Nolan nods.

“We feel they are taking us on a path to war. Our intelligence suggests they will take the least provocation as an excuse to attack our new friends. You understand, of course?”

Nolan and Kath look at each other. Neither speaks.

“We cannot be seen to support American policy. You must appreciate that as it would be counted as weakness and used against us. We are a proud sovereign nation. We will assert the interests of our people, but we need America to know we stand with her. Were war to break out, we would side with the eagle, not the bear.”

There’s silence on the line, but Kath can hear the faint sound of talking in the background. To her, it sounds like something is being discussed in Chinese.

“I am authorized by the highest power to grant you one request as a token or proof of our solidarity with America. Anything you ask will be granted.”

The wind whips around the decrepit rail bridge. Snow swirls through the air. The cold creeps up Kath’s legs. She cannot imagine what Nolan could ask for. An all-expenses paid holiday to Waikiki? The notion of being gifted anything by a sovereign nation-state is surreal. They’ve been abducted and abandoned. Now they can have anything they want? WTF?

“Anything,” the voice says.

Nolan’s focus is absolute. He could be standing in the middle of a rock concert and he wouldn’t blink. Say something, damn it! Kath is on the verge of grabbing his arm. She wants him to snap back and reply, but he’s waiting, outplaying their adversary.

Finally, the voice offers some suggestions, qualifying what can be offered as proof.

“A blackout in Beijing? A shift of the Renminbi in favor of the US? A fall in the Shanghai Stock Exchange? Name it, and it shall be done as a sign this conversation is genuine.”

Nolan is tightlipped, staring intently at the phone. To be fair, given all they’ve been through, this is an outlandish request. Kath has no idea what they should ask for.

Nothing more is offered.

Nolan looks up at Kath. She can see it in his eyes—the anger, the rage, the hurt. He wants them to feel the pain and fear they felt. He wants them to bleed, but there’s nothing he can do. Ask for anything you want? Nolan will take them for all he can get. With a loud, clear voice, he says one word.

“Spratly.”

Kath leans forward, unsure whether she’s heard him correctly. Did he say, ‘Actually?’ Actually what? She wants him to explain, but there’s no way she’s interrupting the conversation. Personally, she would have asked for their driver in cuffs.

There’s a flurry of conversation in the background in what she assumes is Mandarin Chinese. After a few seconds, their abductor replies, “It will be as you say.”

The phone goes dead.

No sooner has the call ended than smoke begins seeping from the thin cracks in the phone casing. Nolan drops the phone in the icy slush on the side of the road. Flames appear, licking at the metal. They both step back, walking around the front of the car as a pungent grey cloud rises from the phone. Arcs of light flicker before the flames subside.

Nolan stops recording. He hands Kath’s phone back to her, saying, “Time to call this in.”

The Situation Room

Red and blue emergency lights flicker across the railway bridge.

Paramedics arrive first. Two ambulances park on either side of the road, blocking traffic beneath the bridge. The drivers are strategic, parking so their doors open toward the fake pizza delivery car. Light spills out from within the EMT vehicles as the rear doors are opened.

The medics have dozens of questions for Kath and Nolan. There are questions about their families, what day it is, who’s the President, and what they had to eat this morning. In between, they’re asked to flex one foot and then another, raise one arm and then another, and roll their neck gently to the side. Kath gets it—they’re assessing their mental state as much as their physical well-being.

Several police cars pull up, establishing an outer cordon. One of the cops talks briefly with Nolan and then organizes the others. A couple of uniformed officers tape off the area around the dented Buick. Radios squawk with indecipherable chatter.

Kath shivers. A space blanket is wrapped over her shoulders, but it’s her legs that are cold. The medic attending to her is a young woman barely in her twenties. She notices a slight tremor in Kath’s fingers and says, “Would you like something to help you relax?”

Kath’s reply is instant, bordering on aggressive with a decisive, “No!”

“You’ve got some minor bruising, but no major injuries,” the medic says. Kath nods, not wanting to make conversation. She’s trying to hear what’s being said over by the other EMS vehicle. That medic has removed Nolan’s jacket and shirt. He drapes them over the railing of a medical gurney in the back of his ambulance. Blue and black welts have formed on Nolan’s right shoulder, reaching across his chest. Blood seeps from beneath a bandage wrapped around his forehead.

With gloved hands, the medic presses lightly against each of Nolan’s ribs, watching as he grimaces.

“You’ve got a concussion and a couple of broken ribs. As for your shoulder, I think you popped it out and straight back in again. It’s going to be sore for a while.”

“I’ll be fine,” Nolan says.

“You’ll be fine once we get you to the hospital,” the medic replies, wrapping a compression bandage around Nolan’s chest.

Nolan lifts his arms as the medic unrolls the bandage, saying, “I ain’t going nowhere.”

The medic shakes his head but doesn’t respond. He finishes and pulls a space blanket over Nolan’s shoulders.

Nolan’s hands are shaking, but Kath’s pretty sure that’s not from the cold. He breathes deeply, calming himself. Vapor forms as he exhales.

“I’ll get you something for the pain,” the medic says.

“I’m—”

“Don’t,” the medic replies, holding a single gloved finger out and cutting him off. There’s only so far bravado goes. It seems even Nolan knows when he’s beat.

A black SUV pulls up with red and blue lights flashing on the dash, adding to the kaleidoscope of colors bouncing around them. A bunch of suits jump out. They look around the intersection and talk to the cops before walking over. Several of them begin examining the car and the burnt-out phone. The principal agent approaches Nolan. It seems they know each other.

“How are you doing?”

“Been better,” Nolan says. “Have you got anything?”

“The decoy got away. Drove his car off a pier and had us scrambling, thinking you guys were still strapped in the back. We’ve got Metro Harbor Patrol scouring the channel looking for him. Coast Guard is joining the search. The tide is expected to pull him down the Potomac. We’ll get him.”

“And our driver?”

“He was picked up about ten minutes ago. A patrol car caught him hiding in a dumpster about four blocks from here.”

“Good.”

“Listen, I’ve arranged for you to be taken to Walter Reed. You’ll have a full security detail.”

Nolan shakes his head. “Not happening. We need to speak to the President.”

We?

That gets Kath’s attention.

From her perspective, she’s excess baggage. There’s nothing she can add to the discussion beyond what Nolan already knows. Even so, it’s nice to be included. He wants her there for her insights, not her recollection of facts.

“You want to see the President—right now?” the agent asks.

Nolan nods, looking over at Kath for support. She acknowledges him, understanding the gravity of what just happened.

The agent hesitates, “Sir, I’m not sure I—”

“Can you get McGuire on the line?”

“Yes, sir.”

The agent talks with the President’s Chief of Staff and then hands the phone to Nolan. In the quiet beneath the bridge, Kath can hear what’s being said on the call.

“Jesus, Nolan. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, been better.”

“What the hell happened?” McGuire asks.

“Can’t discuss this over the phone. We need to talk to the President.”

There it is again, Kath notes. We.

“Well, she’s here. Secret Service flew her back from Camp David as soon as they heard about what happened. They’re locking us down. POTUS is in the Situation Room with the Joint Chiefs. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they ID’d your driver. He’s a Chinese foreign national with links to embassy staff. POTUS is furious. She wants heads on a goddamn platter.”

“Bring us in,” Nolan says. “We can help.”

“Okay, will do. Can you put Williams back on?”

Nolan hands him the phone, and the agent walks away, keeping the conversation private. A train passes over the bridge, shaking the railway ties. Snow cascades through the night. Kath pulls a blanket over her head, watching as the sudden snowfall settles. Nolan shakes his space blanket, handing it to the medic. He grabs his bloodied shirt from the gurney. Doing up the buttons, though, takes considerable effort. The medic is not impressed.

“You should go to the hospital.”

“I know,” Nolan says, putting on his torn coat. His shoulder must be hurting as he eases his arms into the sleeves.

The medic persists. “You could have internal bleeding. You took one hell of a hit to the head. I really think you should have a cranial scan. You could have swelling around the brain. There could be blood clotting or any number of other unseen injuries.”

Nolan pats him on the shoulder as he says, “Got it.”

“This isn’t a game, general.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he says, hobbling after Agent Williams. Nolan holds his hand out for Kath, helping her to her feet. She too feels stiff. Sitting there in the cold has caused her muscles to seize.

“We’re good to go,” Williams says.

The back of the SUV is warm. Lights flicker past as they drive through the streets of Washington, DC.

For Kath, the streetlights slowly blur, becoming more indistinct with each passing moment. She nods off to sleep, waking only as the driver’s window is lowered and cold air swirls within the cabin. They’re at a security checkpoint outside the White House.

McGuire is waiting for them in the portico leading to the West Wing. He takes them through security and downstairs, coming to a halt before the Situation Room.

“Have a seat.”

McGuire disappears into the room. Less than a minute later, he comes out, saying, “They’re ready for you, general.”

Instinctively, they both get to their feet. McGuire holds his hand out, signaling for Kath to wait outside the room, but Nolan says, “Oh, no. She’s with me all the way.”

McGuire swallows a lump in his throat and nods, standing to one side as they open the door. The President is in full swing, yelling as they enter.

“—don’t care if you have to take the Executive Office apart brick by goddamn brick. I want to know how the hell a foreign agent infiltrated our grounds!”

“Yes, ma’am,” is the reply over the speakerphone. On seeing them enter, the President ends the call. She flicks the button to hang up without so much as a goodbye.

“Nolan,” she says, getting to her feet and rushing around the broad meeting table to greet them. To Kath’s surprise, she hugs each of them. It’s not an embrace so much as taking each of them by the shoulders and leaning in gently. “Kath. Oh, I’m so sorry. This should have never happened.”

The watch officer says, “Ma’am, we have an unidentified cellular device in the room.”

“Ah,” Kath says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone. “Sorry, that’s me.”

Another officer stationed by the door steps forward. He reaches for her phone. Nolan cuts him off, holding out his hand and gesturing for him to wait.

“Ma’am. You’re going to want to hear what’s on that phone.”

The President nods and the soldier steps back.

The Situation Room is covered in wooden panels. Flat-screen televisions adorn the walls. Several of them are active. On screen, those members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff not physically present sit with their aides beside them. Kath doesn’t recognize most of them, but she knows Admiral Jacobsen.

“Please, have a seat,” the President says. “Do you need anything? Something to eat? To drink?”

Both Kath and Nolan wave her away, not wanting to be the center of attention.

“You should be in the hospital,” the President says.

Nolan grins. “Yeah, I should.”

“Okay,” the President says, getting down to business. “We’ve ID’d your abductor as Captain Wei Hunan of the Chinese Ministry of State Security. I’ve summoned the ambassador and—”

“Ma’am,” Nolan says, somewhat reluctant to interrupt. Kath has no idea where he’s going to start or how he will explain what just happened. The incident is still a whirlwind in her mind. He continues with, “If I may—the Chinese are pulling out of the Spratly Islands in the South China Sea.”

Succinct. Kath likes it.

Before the President can respond, Admiral Jacobsen blurts out, “How does he know?” Rather than facing the camera, the admiral turns sideways. He addresses one of his aides, asking, “How does he always know?”

“The Spratly Islands?” the President asks as Nolan laughs, clutching at his sore ribs.

“It’s not what you think,” he says. Nolan’s trying to address the admiral but the President interrupts. She thinks the comment’s directed at her.

“And what do I think?”

“Our kidnapping,” Nolan says. “It wasn’t supposed to be violent. They were trying to get a message to you outside of formal channels. They wanted a backdoor.”

“And the Spratly Islands?” the President asks, confused.

“Kath,” Nolan says, “Could you play the recording?”

Kath fiddles with her phone. Nolan clarifies. “They’re worried about the Russians. The Chinese feel they can’t be seen supporting America. They’re worried about internal optics, but they want us to know they’ll stand with us if hostilities break out.”

“And?” the President says.

“And they offered us anything we wanted as proof. They suggested a bunch of things. Changing currency exchange rates, stuff like that.”

“And you asked for the Spratly Islands?” the President says, raising an eyebrow in genuine surprise.

“Yeah. I figured it’s overt. It’s something that hurts their strategic position. I thought, if they’re willing to surrender those, we’ll know they’re genuine.”

Without saying anything, the President turns and looks at her Chief of Staff. He shrugs, raising his eyebrows. She leans across the table, tapping at the wood in front of Nolan. “Next time you feel like negotiating on behalf of the United States of America, you bleed them dry. You take everything that’s on offer. Is that understood?”

Nolan nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. The President laughs, adding, “Well done.”

“Taiwanese independence would have been nice,” the Chief of Staff says, “but I’ll settle for the Spratly Islands.”

Kath says, “It’s all here in the recording.”

“Good, good,” the President says. “Let’s hear it.”

Kath turns up the volume and brightness on her phone. The battery level is low, but it only needs to last a couple of minutes. She sets the phone in the middle of the table, facing upward, and presses play.

The President and her Chief of Staff stand, leaning forward on the table and peering down at the phone. Kath feels as though she should push it closer, but they could grab it if they want. As it is, it’s quite close to the speakerphone transmitting to the rest of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The view on the screen is erratic. Disorienting. Wind rushes over the microphone, making it difficult to distinguish individual words.

“I am sorry for any discomfort you may have endured.”

The President points at the screen. The illuminated pizza sign is visible over Nolan’s shoulder. She looks at Kath, who shrugs, not wanting to talk over the recording. As Nolan held both phones next to each other, the two of them appear looking down at the screen from either side. It’s as though they’re posing for the cover of some dystopian folk band album. A tremor runs through Nolan’s hand, shaking the image. Sirens sound in the distance.

As the recording comes to an end, the President repeats one phrase.

“We will side with the eagle, not the bear.”

McGuire points at the now blackened phone screen, saying, “I mean, if it wasn’t for this, I wouldn’t believe it.”

They take their seats.

“What confirmation do we have?” the President asks.

Admiral Jacobsen brings up an image on the screen behind him. Azure blue waters surround an island lagoon. There’s a runway and a bunch of buildings on a thin strip of land, along with several ships anchored offshore.

“Roughly half an hour ago, we picked up an increase in radio chatter. There’s considerable activity at the airfields in the Spratly Islands. This level of movement is indicative of mobilization. To our surprise, several ships have departed the region. They’re heading north, and not at a leisurely pace. The wake they’re kicking up suggests they’re under full steam.”

The President nods, looking at Nolan. He’s tight-lipped, hiding his shaking hands beneath the desk. Kath is far more relaxed. Perhaps because, for her, this is surreal. She feels as though she’s in a dream or watching a movie. Geopolitics at this level just doesn’t seem real.

Admiral Jacobsen says, “We’re getting notification of a formal announcement. President Xian is appearing on Chinese state television.”

“Do we have a translation?” the President asks.

“Yes,” the admiral says as a sheet of paper is thrust into his hand by an aide. “This is being picked up by CNN and the BBC, so it’s already well within the public domain. China is making no effort to hide its movements. If anything, they’re telegraphing them.”

The admiral puts on a pair of reading glasses and scans the page.

“Ah, okay, The People’s Republic of China is withdrawing all military assets from the South China Sea…

“We are revoking our claim to the Spratly Islands…

“In these uncertain times, there is a need for calm…

“We are one world…

“China calls on others to deescalate hot spots…

“Pakistan and India…

“Kashmir region…

“Palestine and Israel…

“Ukraine…

“Unprecedented times call for vision and unity…

“Must leave the past behind…

“Work with the Security Council, not against each other…”

The admiral flicks the page, saying, “More of the same.”

“Can you send that through to me?” the President asks.

“Sure.”

One of the generals says, “So they’re the dove now?”

“Are we being played?” the President asks.

“I don’t think so,” Nolan says. “I think they see the bigger picture. And they’re worried about the madman to their north.”

“So we have an ally?” the President asks. “A silent partner?”

“I think so,” the admiral says.

McGuire says, “We have to qualify this, ma’am.”

The President seems to sense his point. Before McGuire can continue, she says, “I agree. At best, this is a narrow exception to the norm. They’re not dismantling their security apparatus or holding free elections. I bet they’ve still got a small army of hackers trying to crack our institutions. They didn’t say anything about Taiwan. I doubt we’ll see them freeing the Uyghurs or backing out of Tibet. Nah, this is a national security gambit. They’re hedging their bets.”

Kath nods, swallowing the lump in her throat. The President’s right.

“If they help, wonderful, but we can’t rely on that,” she says. “In a pinch, I’d trust the UK and the Europeans. Canada and Australia. Not China. But, hey. Maybe I’m wrong. I’m happy to be proven wrong on this.”

“So what do we do?” McGuire asks.

“We play them,” the President says.

McGuire nods. “Keep them close. See if they come through.”

“Exactly.”

McGuire is distracted. He looks at a notification that’s appeared on his tablet computer. “The Chinese ambassador is upstairs.”

The President nods, lost deep in thought. She waits for a moment before saying, “Send him away.”

“Oh, okay,” McGuire says, already on his feet and heading toward the door. “What do you want me to tell him?”

“Sit down, Jim,” the President says. She’s not angry or forceful. If anything, her tone of voice borders on casual, almost indifferent. “It’s time to start playing the game. Tell the desk staff to let him know his presence is no longer required.”

Damn, Kath thinks. Remind me never to play poker with the President.

“Done,” McGuire says, sitting at the end of the table and firing off a message on his tablet.

“We need to send a message of our own,” the President says. “What assets do we have in the region?”

Admiral Jacobsen says, “The USS Ronald Reagan is in Guam. The USS George A. Bush is involved in exercises off the coast of Taiwan.”

“What do you think, Admiral?” the President asks, using tact when she could force the issue. “We recall Reagan to Pearl and send Bush north to Tokyo?”

“That would send a clear response, ma’am.”

“Jim, get the State Department to have a quiet chat with our friends in Taiwan. Tell them we want to respond positively to China. Now’s the time to tread lightly.”

“Understood,” McGuire says. “And the Chinese intelligence officer?”

“Captain Hunan?” the President says. “Get him out of the country. Get Metro DC to turn him over to the CIA on whatever grounds you can find. I want him on a flight before dawn. I don’t care whether it’s through Canada or Europe, but nothing direct.”

“You’re sending him back to China?” McGuire asks, surprised by the decision.

“We need to communicate with clarity without uttering a single word. I want Beijing to know we got their message, and we expect them to live up to it.”

“I like it,” McGuire says. “I can pull a few levers and bury this in the press. There are a couple of reporters over at the Post that owe me a favor. I’ll get them to paint this as a carjacking gone wrong. Switch a few names around.”

McGuire reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a wallet, saying, “Oh. I almost forgot.” He tosses the wallet to Nolan. “You dropped this.”

“Thanks.”

“And you,” the President says, staring down Nolan. “Get your sweet ass to the hospital.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Orphanage

Sunlight glistens off the ocean. Birds soar above the cliffs, riding thermals. Clouds dot the horizon. A storm is forming over the Gulf of Mexico.

The Vera Cruz orphanage is next to the Mission Santa Rosa on a hill overlooking the beach. Jorge drives around to the front of the main building. Truck tires crunch on the rough stone driveway. Padre Jesus must have seen Jorge coming up the winding road as he stands by the door to greet him.

“Good afternoon, my friend.”

“Have your illegal aliens arrived yet?” Jorge says, smiling as he gets out of his truck.

The padre points at the sky, saying, “Not yet. They’re still up there somewhere.”

“Haha,” Jorge says, walking around and opening the back of his truck. “Well, you will have plenty of fish to feed them.”

“Fishes and loaves,” the padre says. “We in the church have specialized in fish sandwiches for thousands of years.”

Jorge likes that. He grabs a cardboard box and hands it to the padre, grabbing another box himself.

“The children love your smoked fish,” the padre says.

“Not many buyers today. What’s bad for me is good for you.”

“Giving is like breathing,” the padre says. “You cannot get more without letting go of what you have.”

“Well, I have eight boxes today.”

The two men walk into the storeroom at the back of the kitchen and begin stacking boxes. Most days, Jorge sells all his catch. Sometimes, there’s a box or two left for the orphans, but the markets were unusually quiet today.

One of the cooks helps, grabbing a box and saying, “This is wonderful. We will make a nice white sauce to go with this. Thank you.”

After unloading the truck, the two men sit on a bench seat, looking out over the bay. Padre Jesus offers Jorge a glass of cucumber water.

“When are they coming?” Jorge asks.

“The aliens?”

“Yes. Your new friends.”

“Not until January—after the Festival for the Conversion of Saint Paul on the road to Damascus.”

“So they have seen the light,” Jorge says. “Will it be like the movies?”

“I hope not.”

“Why are there no nice aliens in the movies?”

“Oh, it’s us,” the padre says. “We are the problem. We project our own fear of death onto them.”

“So we shouldn’t be afraid?”

“No. We should never be afraid of the unknown as there’s no reason to fear that which is neither good nor bad.”

Jorge likes the padre. Most preachers recite liturgy and take confession. Rarely do they offer personal insights into life. Padre Jesus is a thoughtful man. He inspires Jorge to be more compassionate. As a young, selfish man with a violent temper, Jorge spent time in prison for assault and robbery. It was there that he first found Jesus—the real Jesus—the one that lived two thousand years ago. Jorge struggled to find a church he could believe in. Oh, there were plenty of missions with devout souls, but Padre Jesus offered kindness. Against the advice of the cardinal, the padre opened an orphanage. Cardinal Pella demanded Padre Jesus run the orphanage on donations, not church funds. The cardinal thought that would force its closure, but that was twenty years ago. Padre Jesus is still offering refuge to children abandoned on the streets. Jorge respects that.

“What is the church saying?”

“The Holy Father says God’s creation fills the entire universe. He says we should stand together and welcome our visitors from the stars.”

“And you?” Jorge asks.

“I think there is good in everyone, but sometimes people forget that.”

“Most of the time,” Jorge says.

“Everyone is interested in one thing and one thing alone,” the padre says. “Themselves. We all want a roof over our heads. A good meal in our belly. Money to buy the things we need from the markets. I think that is true for all people—billionaires and paupers alike. We think about ourselves first and foremost.”

“And them?” Jorge asks.

“They are getting us to think about someone else. And that’s a good thing. They are getting us to think about how we can get along with each other and with them.”

“Maria thinks this is bad,” Jorge says. “She listens to the American TV. They say there’s a war coming.”

“War is the refuge of a small mind,” the padre says. “When people cannot discuss, when they cannot reason, when they cannot barter or trade, they destroy each other. War never enriches. Regardless of who wins, both sides lose something. So no, I don’t think there will be a war.”

“Hmm,” Jorge says.

“Imagine you sailed to Cuba or Jamaica. Would you go all that way to destroy or to build? To fight or to trade?”

Jorge nods in agreement.

Padre Jesus says, “I think they come in peace—not because it is a cliché, but because it’s the only reason that makes sense.”

Jorge gets to his feet, finishing his drink.

“You’re a wise man, Padre.”

Rendezvous Earth: January

Uber Eats

Kath is sick with nerves.

An̆duru is two days out from reaching Earth.

There’s no time.

There’s never enough time.

Kath has been working with the United Nations First Contact Commission, but she’s frustrated. Bureaucracy and politics hold more sway than science. Equality is the buzzword, but ensuring all nations have equal access to An̆duru is impossible. The discussions she’s had with them have been akin to a bunch of toddlers fighting over a toy.

The phone rings, but Kath’s distracted. She’s mesmerized by the metrics coming in from An̆duru. As the alien craft approaches Earth, it has become the focus of almost every telescope in the world. Ordinarily, she’d consider that a blessing. The problem is she has to trawl through a tsunami of data and research papers being sent to her office. Needles are difficult to find in haystacks. Kath’s looking for clues. She wants to tease out features that might reveal the vessel’s design, but the spectroscopy isn’t helping. If anything, conflicting results from different observatories are confusing her, introducing doubt. As best she understands it, the craft is spinning, but not on one axis. To her mind, though, that makes no sense for an interstellar spacecraft. She has so many questions.

The phone shakes as it continues to ring, finally getting her attention.

“Hello?”

“Dr. McKenzie? This is the Executive Office security point on 17th Street.”

“Oh,” she says, curious why they’re calling her.

“I’ve got an Uber Eats delivery for you.”

“Me?” she replies, wondering if there’s another Dr. McKenzie in the building.

“Yes,” the security guard says. She can hear paper rustling. “The receipt’s got your name and phone number on it.” Kath can hear him rummaging in a paper bag. “Looks like Chinese.”

“Oh, yes!” she yells, exploding out of her seat. From around the office, staff turn to look at her as her chair rockets out from beneath her. She signals an apology with one hand as she continues talking with the security guard on the phone. “It’s been a long day. Sorry for the confusion. I’ll be right there.”

It’s all Kath can do not to run downstairs and along the main corridor. She hits a good stride, weaving in and out of the various executive staff wandering the hallways. Several soldiers stand on guard by the main entrance. Over to the right, one of them stands beside a brown paper bag set on the counter.

“Hi,” she says cheerfully, flashing the ID tag hanging from a lanyard around her neck. “I’m Dr. McKenzie.”

The guard has opened the bag. He lays out the contents on the counter. Kath can see the machinations of his mind. He’s determined not to miss any details and make a mistake that might jeopardize security. On this occasion, though, he’s a roadblock in her way.

“And you ordered this, right?” he asks.

“Yep,” she says, trying to sound confident. Kath bites at her lip. He doesn’t look convinced so she adds, “Sorry, I’m new here.”

“This is irregular,” he says. “We don’t accept personal deliveries. Hasn’t anyone told you that?”

“Oh. Ah. No. Sorry,” she says, trying to work some charm into the equation.

“Okay,” he says, repacking the bag and recounting the inventory. “So we’ve got spring rolls, fried rice, sweet and sour pork, and a couple of fortune cookies.”

“Yes. That’s it. Thank you,” Kath says as he hands her the bag. She saunters away, retreating before any more questions are asked. Kath’s not sure why, but she feels a burst of emotional relief. As she heads back down the corridor, she mutters, “This is soooooo much better than standing in the cold beneath a rail bridge.”

For a moment, she wonders if she should tell Nolan, but she instinctively heads back to her desk. Best to figure out precisely what to tell him.

“Early dinner?” Sergeant Jacinta Andrews says as Kath sits down in front of her laptop.

“Yep,” she says to the one genuine friend she’s made in Washington, DC.

Jacinta followed Nolan from NORAD. She’s become their de-facto research coordinator. She’s particularly good at sifting through emails and correspondence. As Kath and Jacinta are both outsiders, they tend to hang together on weekends.

“Smells good,” Jacinta says. Kath pulls out a plastic fork and begins rummaging through the fried rice, spilling some on her desk. Rather than eating, she’s prying at the rice, separating it, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

“What are you doing?” Jacinta asks. Kath moves on to the sweet and sour pork. She scrapes the sides of the plastic dish, moving the food around, looking for clues. With the precision of a surgeon, she dissects the crusty, deep-fried meat, looking for some kind of secret message. Nothing. Maybe there really is another Dr. McKenzie in the building? Maybe that Dr. McKenzie is about to walk up to her desk and demand her dinner back. If so, she’s going to think Kath is insane.

“There’s nothing here,” Kath says more to herself than to Jacinta.

“What were you expecting?” Jacinta asks, having rolled her chair over beside her. She picks up one of the fortune cookies, asking, “May I?”

“Sure,” Kath replies, confused by an ordinary-looking, entirely delicious Chinese takeout meal.

Jacinta tears the plastic open and cracks a fortune cookie, splitting it in half. A fine roll of white paper appears.

“What do you think?” Jacinta asks. “Am I going to meet my fair prince?”

Kath shrugs. She bites into a piece of deep-fried pork from the sweet and sour, figuring, why not?

“It’s not going to stop,” Jacinta says, reading from the tiny scroll. “That’s a strange fortune.”

“What did you say?” Kath asks, feeling her heart start to race. She takes the thin strip of paper from Jacinta, looking at it carefully.

“Damn it! No,” Kath says. She grabs the other fortune cookie and tears open the wrapping. Kath crushes the cookie, flicking fragments into a trash can as she unravels the thin roll of paper.

“Look for love and you’ll find its path.”

“Oh, that’s much better,” Jacinta says.

“No, no, no. It’s worse,” Kath mutters, dumping the scraps of paper on her desk. She brings up an orbital simulation program on her laptop. “This can’t be right.”

“What?” Jacinta asks, munching on her cookie.

“It’s a message,” Kath says.

“From who?”

“The Chinese.”

“Takeaway?”

“Government.”

“Ah,” Jacinta says, falling quiet and watching over Kath’s shoulder.

Kath brings up a chat window.

Anyone online?

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Sup?

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

Everything okay?

Sara Hendi, JPL

Just running sims.

All good?

Prof Alvarez, ESA

An̆duru is still pulling almost 200km/s.

No change in velocity.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

There’s never been any change beyond gravity assist and aerobraking.

I assume they were saving their fuel for a final burn.

Sara Hendi, JPL

I’m not sure it’s going to stop.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

What? Really?

I was expecting a suicide burn.

Like a Falcon 9 coming in hot and hard.

This can’t be a flyby.

This isn’t New Horizons buzzing Pluto.

Why would they go to the effort of slowing at Saturn and Jupiter only to sail past Earth taking pictures?

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

I don’t know.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Not sure why you’re worried.

I wasn’t expecting a braking maneuver until they reach Earth’s gravitational sphere of influence.

It doesn’t make sense to slow until they’re close enough to be captured by our gravity.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

The problem is our gravity sphere is ~1.5 million kilometers.

At 200 km/s, that’s barely two hour’s travel time!

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Damn that’s tight!

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

No shit!

Kath McKenzie, NASA

No time to react.

Sara Hendi, JPL

Yep.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

You’re worried about the late braking?

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

We’ve assumed they’re conserving fuel.

What if they don’t intend on firing their engines at all?

Kath McKenzie, NASA

You think they’re going to try aerobraking here as well?

Prof Alvarez, ESA

Our gravity well isn’t deep enough.

We’re not a gas giant.

They couldn’t shed that much speed in our shallow atmosphere.

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

We’ve assumed they’re coming directly here.

But they haven’t done anything direct.

They’ve always used planets to slow down.

What if they still intend on that strategy?

What if this is what we’d think of as a VEJGA?

Only in reverse.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

So braking at Saturn, Jupiter, Earth AND Venus?

Only to swing back here once they’ve slowed down?

That would be bad.

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

Very bad.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

Just brought up the orbital paths.

If A. veers by just over 11 degrees at E., it’ll be on course for V.

A subsequent slingshot around V. is doable, bringing it back here in 4 to 6 weeks.

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

Damn it.

I don’t know why we didn’t think of this sooner.

It actually makes a lot more sense.

An̆duru couldn’t lose 200 km/s in Earth’s atmosphere, but it could strip off a helluva lot of its velocity within the thicker Venusian atmosphere.

The clouds of Venus are more analogous to those of a gas giant.

The initial flyby of Earth, though, that will be ugly.

Sara Hendi, JPL

Fuck.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Kath hits print on a bunch of files. Her science team continue chatting, but her avatar is already showing offline, letting them know she’s no longer participating. Kath will catch up on the conversation later. For now, she needs to get in front of the President.

She spins around in her chair, facing Jacinta and asking, “Can you get hold of Dr. Phillip Matzer at Los Alamos? I need an estimate on the effect of high-altitude nuclear detonations.”

“Okay, sure,” Jacinta replies, but it’s clear she doesn’t appreciate the seriousness of the problem.

“I need to know the effect of airburst nuclear explosions at altitudes between 40,000 and 60,000 meters.”

Jacinta takes notes.

Kath adds. “The yield will be between one hundred and five hundred megatons.”

That last point gets Jacinta to pause, swallowing a lump in her throat. Yeah, she gets it. This is bad, really bad.

Kath grabs her printouts and laptop, saying, “Email me the estimates as soon as you can,” as she rushes out of the office.

Stairs fly by beneath her feet. Her fingers barely touch the railing. Her eyes are focused on the next landing, ignoring the staff coming up, dodging her. She gets stares and mutters, but she doesn’t care. For a moment, she forgets where she is. Kath rushes through a security checkpoint and out onto the parking lot separating the Executive Office from the White House.

Snow flurries sweep across the ground, curling around the handful of parked cars. Two Marines stationed on either side of the covered entranceway eye her with curiosity. They maintain their stance, keeping their heads facing forward. Her boots slip on the ice. It’s all she can do not to fall flat on the concrete. Somehow Kath stays on her feet, with her legs darting around like those of a newborn foal. Regardless, she’s not letting go of the paper sheets clutched in her right hand or her laptop tucked under her arm.

Once she’s inside the West Wing, she rushes to the security desk. Usually, they’d sign her in, but the panicked look on her face signals her intent. The officer stationed there is already on the phone. Out of breath and flustered, Kath asks to speak to the President.

“Dr. McKenzie?” Jim McGuire says, rushing out of his office. “Is everything all right?”

“No, it’s not,” she says, pushing past a guard to get to him. McGuire signals with a slight flick of his hand, letting the guard know it’s okay.

“Where’s the President?”

“Umm, she’s in the Oval Office. Nolan’s in there with her. They’re meeting with leaders from NATO.”

“We need to get in there.”

“We?” McGuire says, holding out his hands, wanting her to slow down. “What’s going on, Kath?”

Tears well up in her eyes. Her hands are trembling, but not from the cold.

“We have to do something or millions of people are going to die.”

McGuire doesn’t respond. He doesn’t ask how or why. He simply nods, trusting her judgment and taking her by the arm as he leads her down the corridor.

“Wait here,” he says, leaving her standing in the reception area outside the Oval Office. Kath fidgets. Nerves get the better of her.

McGuire opens the door to the Oval Office like a burglar sneaking into a mansion. From within, voices fall silent.

“I’m sorry, Madam President,” is all Kath catches as the door is closed quietly behind him.

Kath needs to pee. Mentally, she knows she doesn’t, but physically her body is in panic mode. Anxiety tells her to get herself the hell out of there. She squirms. To distract herself, Kath addresses the President’s personal secretary.

“Can I use your pencil?”

“Sure.”

Kath leans forward on the edge of the desk. She scribbles numbers on the back of her printouts, running a variety of calculations through her head and onto the page. Kath keeps herself busy, wanting the sums to talk to her. Quick sketches of orbital paths, dates, and velocities confirm her thinking.

Damn it!

Kath knows she should have seen this coming.

Oval Office

The curved door to the Oval Office opens.

Kath stands to attention, clutching her laptop and papers to her chest.

Several generals walk out, resplendent in their dress uniforms. Medals adorn their chests. Kath lowers her eyes, staring at her shoes as they walk past. As much as she’d like to blend in with the wallpaper, she’s conspicuous.

“—will reschedule for tomorrow,” floats through the air from some nameless analyst.

Damn, she needs to pee. Too late. McGuire stands in the doorway, beckoning to her.

President Aston is fuming. She’s standing behind the Resolute Desk, flanked by the US and Presidential flags. She has her hands on her hips, pulling her jacket wide.

“What the hell, Kath?” she says. “What is so goddamn important it can’t wait half an hour?”

Kath has barely cleared the door and her anxiety is peaking. She’s never been in the Oval Office. Everything is intimidating. Polished wooden floors run around a thick shag-pile carpet. Her eyes glance down, catching a quote from Martin Luther King Jr. woven into the fabric.

…bends toward justice…

She can’t bring herself to step there. Kath breaks her stride and steps over onto the fawn carpet. Even that feels wrong. It’s not just clean—it’s pristine.

There are no corners in the office. Being oval, that’s hardly a surprise, but the effect is such that it feels as though there’s no sense of direction. There’s nowhere to hide.

Nolan stands to one side in his dress uniform. He looks distinctly unimpressed with her.

“Those were our allies,” he says. “Our only allies outside of North America.”

The President nods in agreement.

McGuire closes the door behind Kath, remaining in the room with them. The silence screams. They’re waiting for her to respond.

“Ah,” she says, holding out her laptop and crumpled papers as though they were proof. “It’s not stopping.”

“What?” the President says, twisting her head sideways.

“An̆duru. It’s not going to stop.”

That changes the mood in the room. The President lowers herself into her chair. She has her hands out flat on the polished wood, with her fingers splayed. She’s trying to comprehend not only what Kath’s saying but the broader implications.

“Go on.”

Kath swallows. She steps forward, resting her laptop on the edge of the Resolute desk as she sorts through her printouts.

“We thought it was. We assumed it was, but it’s not.”

“Wait a minute,” Nolan says. “Did I miss something? An̆duru’s coming here, right? To Earth. Why wouldn’t it stop?”

“Orbital mechanics,” Kath replies, struggling with how to articulate her reasoning. Her thinking is sluggish. She feels as though she just bit into an ice cream and came away with brain-freeze. Nothing is firing. Goddamn it. She wants to be better. She struggles to describe what she knows in an eloquent, simple, clear, and concise manner.

“You’ve all seen the movies. Spaceships go racing around with their engines blazing, right? Bright lights as rockets flare. Only, that’s all wrong. Spaceflight is governed by the conservation of momentum. Give something a push and it’s like you’re pushing a puck across the ice. It just keeps going. Stopping takes as much energy as it does to get started.”

“So?” Nolan says.

“So they’re coming in fast. Way too fast. At two hundred kilometers a second. They should be slowing by now. They need to lose roughly 90% of their speed in two days.”

The President says, “And you think that’s not going to happen?”

“With every passing moment, it becomes more unlikely.”

“I don’t understand,” Nolan says. “So they’re not coming here? They’re just going to whizz by?”

“Not quite,” Kath says, drawing concentric circles on the back of a printout. “If you want to get to China, you fly west across the Pacific, right? But you can also fly east, out across Europe and Asia.”

“I don’t follow,” the President says. From the stress in her voice, it’s clear Kath is losing her.

“The point is, there are many ways to get somewhere depending on what’s important to you.”

“So what’s important to them?” McGuire asks.

“That’s the question,” Kath replies, tapping the drawing she’s made. “Best we understand it, An̆duru is running on empty. It’s come so far it’s flying on the smell of an oily rag. When it encountered Saturn, it lost 130 km/s without using any fuel. When it encountered Jupiter, it shed exactly the same amount again. 130 km/s. But it’s still traveling at 200 km/s, and there are no more gas giants.”

Finally, Nolan gets it. “It needs at least two more planets to slow down.”

“Yes,” Kath says, pointing at him with the pencil. “Earth and Venus.”

“Venus?” the President asks, surprised by the notion.

“It’s going to Venus?” McGuire asks, confused. “How did you figure this out?”

“I didn’t. The Chinese did.”

The President and McGuire exchange looks.

“And you trust them?” Nolan asks.

“I trust the science.”

The President doesn’t look convinced.

“An̆duru is not slowing down.” Kath draws on her diagram. “This is the only conclusion that makes any sense. An̆duru has to slow down to make contact with us. Without firing its engines, it needs to slingshot around Venus and come back to Earth a second time. By then, it’ll have shed 90% of its current speed without using any fuel.

“We’ve done this ourselves. When we launched New Horizons, we sent it in the wrong direction. On purpose. Instead of sending it out of the solar system, we fired it in toward Venus. It swung around, gaining speed before racing back past us and out toward Pluto. When it comes to An̆duru, it’s the reverse. It’ll look something like this…”

“Okay,” the President says, shrugging her shoulders. “So this is like a hockey player looping around behind the goal to come to a stop.”

“Yes,” Kath says. “Precisely.”

“That’s not so bad,” the President says. “So they fly by us, cut the corner at Venus, and then come back slower. I don’t see the problem.”

Kath says, “They need both planets to slow down. Earth and Venus. Passing through our atmosphere will release energy on par with a nuclear explosion.”

“Oh, that’s bad,” McGuire says.

“That’s very bad,” the President says.

Nolan asks, “When, where and how big?”

“Ah,” Kath says, sorting through her print outs and pulling one of them to the front. She taps it, saying, “In two days. It’ll enter the atmosphere just after midnight, somewhere near Florida. From there, it’ll pass over the Gulf and out over Mexico. Probably exiting near the Baja Peninsula.”

“And the size of the explosion?” the President asks.

“We’re talking hundreds of megatons spread across that entire region.”

“Fuck.”

Kath’s not sure if that was McGuire or Nolan, but the President is silent.

The President leans forward, propping her elbows on the desk and burying her face in her hands. No one speaks. After a few seconds, she taps her nails on the wood. It’s as though her mind is rebooting, finding new resolve.

“Talk to me,” the President says, sitting upright and focusing. “What can we do?”

“Can we take it out before then?” McGuire asks.

“No,” Nolan says. “At that size and speed, even if we could hit it, we’d still be hit with the debris. Think buckshot instead of a shotgun slug.”

“It’ll be a high altitude pass,” Kath says, followed closely by, “I hope.”

“You’re going to have to explain that one,” McGuire says.

“When An̆duru reached Jupiter, it dived to a depth of a hundred and twenty kilometers. Even that barely touched the troposphere. Looking at the imagery, it’s easy to think An̆duru stirred up the clouds on Jupiter, but it never came within fifty kilometers of them. What we saw was its wake kicking up the clouds well after it had already gone. An̆duru barely grazed the gas giant.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” McGuire says. “If it barely touched Jupiter, perhaps it’ll barely touch Earth.”

The President asks, “If that was Earth, what altitude would it equate to?”

“In terms of the equivalent atmospheric pressure?” Kath says, feeling her palms go sweaty. “Sea level.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, but Venus is a better target,” Kath says, scrambling for good news. “Thick, dense atmosphere. More cushioning. We’re hoping that means they won’t have to lose too much velocity here. And—”

“And what?” McGuire asks.

Kath’s madly trying to collect her thoughts. “They know there’s life down here.”

The President points at her, saying, “So you think they’ll factor that in?”

“I hope so. If I was them, I’d favor Venus over Earth for aerobraking.”

“But you’re not,” the President says. “I need to know what they would do.”

“They’ll want to lose roughly fifty to sixty kilometers per second to make Venus, if not more.”

“And that’s a lot?”

“Given their size, that’s a lot.”

Nolan says, “And that’s bad?”

“Yes. Because there are millions of people along the flight path. We’ve got to evacuate them. An̆duru will reach its deepest point somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico. We’re going to have to evacuate coastal towns.”

“And Mexico?” the President asks.

“And the Bahamas. And Cuba. Puerto Rico. Haiti. All of them.”

“In two days?”

“Not possible,” McGuire says. “We’d need weeks—months to pull that off.”

The President says, “Okay, so we treat this like a hurricane. Get out if you can. Otherwise, shelter in place.”

Kath has her doubts about that strategy, but what else can they do?

“I’m going to have to get the State Department on this,” McGuire says. “Get them talking to their counterparts in these countries.”

“With only two days, there’s no time for diplomacy,” the President says. “We need to make sure everyone’s on the same page. Get the word out through State, but I want a broadcast camera in here. We’ll tell everyone at once. We need to mobilize and damn quick.”

“On it,” McGuire says, running for the door. Kath turns to follow him.

“Oh, no,” the President says, pointing at Kath. “You! You’re not going anywhere.”

Kath is horrified.

The President adds, “I need the two of you to stay here and help craft the exact wording of this speech.”

“Ah.”

As if she can read Kath’s mind, the President goes on to say, “You’ll find a bathroom behind that door. There’s tea and coffee over there. Please, take a seat.”

Kath and Nolan sit on the couches opposite the Resolute Desk. The cushions are stiff and unyielding. It’s as though no one has ever sat on them. The very act seems sacrilege. The President disappears through a side door. The two of them stare at each other. They look lost.

“I might,” Kath says, pointing toward the bathroom. Nolan just nods.

When she returns, the President is seated behind the desk. An assistant applies makeup. Nolan’s still on the couch, but he’s talking to Janice Copeland, the President’s speechwriter. McGuire works with a couple of technicians to set up a broadcast camera complete with a teleprompter.

Kath grabs her laptop, trying to be discreet as she logs back into the conversation with her science team. Jacinta has tracked down the impact of high altitude nuclear explosions.

You guys still there?

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Yep. You talking to the Big P?

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

In the Oval Office.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Showoff.

Sara Hendi, JPL

Pics or it didn’t happen.

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

Come on, Kath. Take a selfie by the desk.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

This is really NOT the time.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Okay.

Fair enough.

I’ve got an update for you on the spin of An̆duru.

A. is rotating around an intermediate axis.

So it’s spinning on the x-axis, flipping around to face in the opposite direction every so often.

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

What??

Kath McKenzie, NASA

It’s kinda like a tennis racket tumbling through the air.

For the record, we would NEVER build a spacecraft like this.

The tip and tail change position every half hour or so.

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

That is crazy!

Kath McKenzie, NASA

I know, right?

It’s like tossing a coin to see which way is facing forward.

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

What about the braking maneuver?

Kath McKenzie, NASA

I hate to say it, but I think you guys are right about A.

The more I look at this, the more a flyby of Earth and Venus makes sense.

After Venus, it’ll loop back toward us, cruising at roughly our orbital velocity.

If I was them, this is how I’d roll.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

I make contact at 4:18 UTC or 12:18 am Eastern Daylight Time.

25o north by 77o3’ west.

Just off the coast of Nassau.

At an initial altitude of 140,000 meters.

They’ll probably dive down to somewhere between 30,000 and 60,000 meters. Any lower and they’d risk hitting some of the more unpredictable, thicker layers in our atmosphere. Too much density could ruin their deflection, so they’ll probably stay high.

Probably.

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

And the impact energy?

Any idea how our atmosphere will react to that much energy being liberated?

By my calcs, this is going to be well into the hundreds of megatons.

But it won’t be nuclear as such, right?

Kath McKenzie, NASA

No, but we have no parallel beyond a nuclear explosion.

I suspect such an extremely high energy pass within the atmosphere will result in a lot of particle collisions.

Too much excess energy in too small an area over too short a period of time.

There’s going to be plasma production. Possibly even fusion.

Electrons are going to be violently stripped away.

It’s not going to be pretty.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

Then you’ve got secondary particle collisions.

Jessie Chambers, Astronomical League

And tertiary particle collisions.

And so on and so on.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

So lots of cascading effects reaching down to ground level.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Yes, but the whole thing will be over in roughly fifteen to twenty seconds.

Prof Alvarez, ESA

Damn.

Okay, got to go and update these guys.

Send me through any more info.

Kath McKenzie, NASA

Kath closes her laptop, but she struggles to switch gears and focus on the conversation within the Oval Office. The speechwriter asks her a few questions. Kath tries to answer as best she can. Her mind is reeling from the implications of An̆duru hitting the upper atmosphere at a hypervelocity. She tries to keep her comments positive, but it’s all she can do to calm her breathing and not have a panic attack.

“Okay,” the speechwriter says, turning to face the President. “I think I’ve got everything I need. Give me a bit of time to get this written up.”

“Sure thing, Janice,” the President replies as the speechwriter gets up and leaves. McGuire returns as the production crew departs. They’ve run cables along the ground, leading to a portable studio control panel set up in the corridor.

“State is contacting each of the countries individually,” McGuire says. “Once you’ve made your address, we’re going to have to follow up with a detailed briefing. They need to know what to expect, what kind of action can be taken. Stuff like that. Detail is the key to avoiding fear. The more information we provide, the better. I’ve arranged for Nolan and Kath to talk to the news networks after your announcement.”

“Umm, that might not work as well as you think,” Kath says, “but not for any of the usual reasons.”

“Go on,” the President says, swiveling in her chair.

“The problem is accessibility. We run into this all the time at NASA. It’s one thing to have clear research. It’s another to get people to believe it. I mean, look at climate change. Hell, for that matter, look at Armstrong on the Moon or the supposed flat Earth. We can’t get roughly a third of the population to believe us on the basics. What are they going to think when we say An̆duru is going to pass through the upper atmosphere?”

“So you think this won’t work?” the President asks.

“They’re going to think it’s an attack,” Kath says. “Or an invasion. For a significant portion of the US population, this will be like throwing gasoline on a fire. At this point, you could say ice cream is cold, and they’d still want to debate you with their alien conspiracy theories.”

Nolan nods.

“Yeah,” McGuire says. “I guess we’re damned either way, right? Tell them the truth, and they’ll distort it. Withhold information, and we’re criminals.”

“Lizard people,” Nolan says. “We’re not just the bad guys. We’re reptiles—if they’re to be believed.”

The President sighs, shaking her head.

“Lizards?” Kath asks, genuinely surprised anyone actually believes that junk.

“Democracy is a two-edged sword,” the President says. “Democracy’s greatest strength is the very thing that weakens it—every vote counts. When it comes to the ballot box, my ignorance is as good as your knowledge. Regardless of whether someone believes in lizard people or quantum mechanics, everyone gets an equal say. There’s no law against stupidity.”

“There should be,” Nolan says.

The President laughs. Kath’s surprised by just how heartily she reacts to Nolan’s comment.

“If only,” the President replies, shaking her head.

“It’s no wonder democracies are so fragile,” Kath says.

“You have no idea,” the President replies. “It’s crazy difficult to get anything done between stupidity, blind ideology, selfishness, and corruption. Governing is like treading water. It takes a helluva lot of effort just to keep your head above the waves.”

“Oh,” the speechwriter says, realizing she’s walked into the middle of a conversation.

“No, it’s okay,” the President says. “Go ahead, Janice. What have you got.”

“All right,” she says, handing the President a printed copy of the speech. “I’ve drawn on some content from a couple of our other drafts, combined them, and loaded them up on the teleprompter. You’re good to go.”

Janice smiles, giving the President a thumbs up.

Oh, Janice, Janice, Janice… If only it was all that simple. Kath would love to be like Janice. She’s got a job to do. She throws herself into it with gusto—and then it’s over. No ramifications. No ripple effects. Damn, she’s good at crafting sentences. If only astrophysics was as neat and tidy. An̆duru has given Kath a continuous headache for what feels like several months straight.

Over the next few minutes, the production team finalizes the setup. Only the woman working the camera remains in the Oval Office. At a guess, Kath assumes that’s to avoid distractions, but it must leave the President feeling very much alone. As it is, even a camera operator isn’t strictly necessary. The shot has been preset to capture the Resolute Desk, the flags, and the drapes hanging over the window. The President is seated in the center of the image.

Kath, Nolan and McGuire huddle around the communications desk in the hallway outside the office.

“My fellow Americans,” the President begins, and Kath finds herself clenching every muscle in her body. Throughout the crisis, as McGuire calls it, President Aston has avoided an Oval Office address. Her reasoning was to try to downplay the severity by avoiding formality. She said she wanted to be a calming influence in the midst of the uncertainty. Now, though, she’s about to outline what must seem like the country coming under attack.

She speaks with gravitas.

“The times in which we live are beyond anything any of us ever expected to witness. Not only have we discovered life elsewhere within the cosmos, we’ve come to the realization it’s reaching out to make contact with us.

“When faced with the unknown, the temptation is to be afraid, but we must not panic.  We must be resolute. Courageous. What to us might seem extraordinary—voyaging across the vast expanse between stars—is commonplace to our visitors.”

The tension in the hallway is unbearable. Everyone stares at the tiny screen showing the live feed. President Aston looks calm. How she does that is beyond Kath.

“We—must—not—panic,” the President says, speaking those words with deliberation. As Kath and the others can see the text on the teleprompter, they can all see she’s deviated from the script. The President knows. She must feel it—the storm that’s coming. Kath’s heart is almost pounding out of her ribcage.

“Our scientists are running various scenarios as they observe the approach of An̆duru. It has become clear to us the craft is traveling too fast to stop.

“Looking at the way An̆duru used Jupiter and Saturn to slow itself, we believe it will continue the same strategy with Earth and Venus.

“I know this must be surprising. Alarming, perhaps. It surprised me to hear Venus was an option. Think of Venus as the catcher in a game of baseball. An̆duru is going to continue to slow by passing Earth and hitting the thick clouds of Venus. At that point, An̆duru will have shed enough speed to loop around Venus and come to rest beside us.”

The speechwriter pauses the teleprompter as the President again deviates from the script.

“We must not panic.”

The President returns to her speech.

“We must remember there has always been a first for every advance in space.

“Sputnik was the first object in orbit, but now satellites are commonplace.

“Yuri Gagarin was the first person in space, and yet now we have tourists going on spacewalks.

“Neil Armstrong was the first person to stand on the Lunar surface, but now there have been similar missions by the Chinese.

“Then there was the first time Hubble looked out at tens of thousands of distant galaxies. Most of them eclipse our own for size. Now we routinely make these observations.

“There was the first time we imaged a supermassive black hole. Now we detect the gravitational waves of black hole collisions several times a week.

“Yet again, we face another celestial first—contact with an intelligent extraterrestrial species.”

Janice stands beside Kath, nodding as the President continues. Damn, she’s good. With half an hour’s notice, Janice has hit the brief.

“We must not panic when faced with the unknown.”

Yet again, that’s not in the speech, but Kath agrees with the President’s intent. It’s the next few sentences that are going to set the world alight.

“Shortly after midnight on Thursday, An̆duru will pass through our upper atmosphere before heading on to Venus. I liken this to a hockey player swinging around behind the goalie, kicking up ice as he comes to a stop. In the same way, An̆duru is going to loop around behind Venus before coming back beside us.”

Another slight deviation from the text, Kath notes, but a good one. Janice is biting her nails.

“An̆duru will enter over the Caribbean. Its flight will take it across the Gulf of Mexico, exiting somewhere over the Baja peninsula. Although this will only take a matter of seconds, our scientists expect there to be some atmospheric disturbance.”

Some? Damn, that’s putting it lightly. Kath wishes she could have got her hands on the speech before it was loaded into the teleprompter.

“To ensure our safety, I am working with the governors of the various Gulf states to effect an evacuation of coastal regions. The National Guard will be deployed to assist the states. FEMA will be mobilized. At this point, we are treating this as though it were a hurricane response spanning the entire Gulf. Where possible, people in the affected region should evacuate north. Those that cannot leave should shelter in place.”

The President stops for a moment, lost for words even though they’re sitting on the screen in front of her. Janice pauses the teleprompter. Everyone waits, hanging on the President’s remarks. She continues, reading from the script, keeping this part of the speech devoid of emotion.

“All flights within the US will be grounded. No international flights will be allowed to arrive or depart. All ships in the Atlantic, Caribbean, Gulf of Mexico, and Pacific are instructed to leave immediately or seek shelter in a nearby port. We are advising emergency services to be on standby. Police, Fire, and EMS are ready to respond as needed.

“The US military will work with those countries on the flight path. We will provide logistical support prior to and after the passage of the spacecraft.

“Although this is short notice, we have already mobilized our military assets ahead of the encounter. We are well placed to respond in an efficient and effective manner.”

She’s lying, but it doesn’t show on her face.

“I know this is unsettling,” the President says, going off script yet again. She is mashing up points from the speech rather than flying solo. “We must not panic. We need to coordinate our efforts. Once again, our country needs to rise to the challenge before it. We are at our best when we work together.

“For over two hundred and fifty years, the Great Seal of the United States of America has read E Pluribus Unum. From many comes one. Together, we will overcome. Together, we will see in a new era in our history. Together, we will be stronger.”

Kath hates the conclusion. To her, it’s wishy-washy, but she gets it. Right now, people are starting to lose their minds. And that’s only going to get worse over the next few days. As bland and tasteless as it seems, the ending sends a message—it’s business as usual. People crave stability. They need reassurance. They need to know the sun is going to rise again tomorrow morning. As much as the saccharine conclusion to the speech may not sit well with Kath, she’s hardly the average American. For most people, this is what they need—a gentle letdown, a smooth, predictable conclusion.

“Thank you, and may God bless America.”

War

“We are at war!”

Andy slams his fist on the desk, shaking the microphone. Veins strain on his neck. Spittle lands on the monitor.

“America is under attack!”

Andy knows how to bait an audience. A US flag dominates a wall screen behind him, filling every square inch. Computer-generated Stars and Stripes wave in an artificial breeze. Patriotism is the great unifier. Regardless of any petty differences, the tribe will rally when under attack, and he plays to that. It’s subtle, but he’s added a few dark singe marks and loose threads to the end of the flag. He’s not sure how many people will notice, but the implication is clear—the flag is in danger of bursting alight.

“War is brutal. There’s no such thing as a clean war. People will die. It’s just a question of who and how many.”

The live-feed monitor set below his teleprompter shows the number of current viewers. Comments are displayed in real-time. It’s not as engaging as a live audience, but Andy uses them to get pumped. Emoticons signal viewer support. Instead of a roaring crowd cheering him on, he sees a flurry of yellow caricatures pulling funny faces. They drift up the screen, slowly disappearing into the background.

Andy hits the turbo-boost button within his mind.

“The Prince of fucking Darkness is coming! This is it! This is the great battle of Armageddon. The End Times, baby. They’re upon us.”

870,000 people have already tuned in—if that’s the right word in the digital age. As he broadcasts during the working day, Andy normally only gets tens of thousands of hits by this point. That he’s closing on a million is exciting. By this evening, he should be up around eight million! His biggest surge arises within about six hours of posting a video as word spreads. His largest view-count is thirty million for a video he did a couple of years ago about the cover-up at Roswell.

“Goddamn it!” he yells, standing half out of his seat. Andy presses his knuckles against the table, flexing his thick shoulders. Theatrics demand improv. He’s at his best when he’s in free-form, winging his killer points.

“This ain’t no game, people! This ain’t a movie! Tom Cruise ain’t coming to save you! There’s no silver bullet to bring down this werewolf! War ain’t like that.

“War is chaotic. War is evil. War is a fire raging out of control. Make no mistake about it, ain’t nothing good going to come from this.”

He slumps in his seat, shifting the dynamic.

“We glorify war because it gives us heroes, but that’s folly. War is savage. There ain’t nothing honorable in war beyond victory, and victory always comes at a cost.

“People are going to die. A lot of people. Millions of people. Billions. But not you. Not me. Why? Because knowledge is power. Knowing what we’re up against gives us the power to defeat our enemy. Military intelligence has won more wars than bombs or bullets. We’ve got to be smart about this.”

The pace of comments and emojis increases. They scroll past too fast to read. More and more people are joining his live-stream. Within minutes, he’s topped a million. If this keeps up, he could beat his record. All he’s got to do is deliver. Feed the beast.

“War is the only logical outcome when civilizations clash. Don’t give me all this we-come-in-peace bullshit! Peace has only ever come from crushing your enemy. You know it. I know it.” He points at the roof, adding, “And they know it!”

Andy watched the President’s emergency address. Since then, social media has been going ballistic. In his line of business, chaos equals cash flow. Controversy brings in the viewers, boosting his ad revenue, which makes up 60% of his income. Even if only a handful of those viewers go on to buy some of his merch, he could get tens of thousands of sales. Sweet.

Andy focuses on the cues on his teleprompter. He understands the need to stay on track and present a cohesive argument.

“Truth is the first casualty in any war, right? You know that. I ain’t telling you anything you don’t already know. So if truth is the first thing to go, you have to ask yourself, have they been lying to us all this time? Ever since this thing passed Saturn?”

He laughs.

“You know they have.”

To his astonishment, the counter on his social media monitor has become a blur. Andy can see it increasing, but he can no longer track individual numbers. He’s clocking thousands of new hits a second and climbing toward two million. Pay dirt, baby.

“So you’ve got to ask yourself, why do they lie? What purpose do these lies serve?”

He throws his arms wide, inviting a response that will never come.

“I’ll tell you. I’ll be honest with you. They lie to catch you off-guard. They lie so you’re not prepared for what’s to come. They lie to keep your defenses down.”

Andy pulls a 9mm Glock from his desk drawer, holding it side-on as he points it at the ceiling. He’s an actor on a stage. He makes sure the camera gets a good shot as he pulls back on the newly greased slide. There aren’t any bullets in the magazine, but his viewers won’t know that.

Andy is paranoid about loaded guns. As much as he may rail on liberals about the Second Amendment, he keeps his guns and ammo separate—and with good reason. His brother shot off his foot with an accidental discharge. A split second’s inattention has left him crippled for life. This Glock has never been loaded, let alone fired. As far as Andy’s concerned, it’s a movie set prop. The dissonance between how Andy handles firearms and the fiery rhetoric in his online shows is buried deep within his soul. Venom drips from his words.

“They ain’t taking my guns! Goddamn libs have always wanted to disarm us, and now you know why—Invasion!

“They laughed at us. Preppers, that’s what they called us. Preparing for the end of the world. Shit, we weren’t preparing for the end of the world. We were taking commonsense measures to protect our way of—”

Andy never gets to finish his sentence. Sirens sound outside. The windows in his garage have been blacked out with cardboard. Blue and red emergency lights flicker through the gaps. There’s thumping on the door.

“Police! Open up!”

“Oh, shit,” he says, breaking character. Without realizing it, his eyes dart down and to either side as he tries to figure out what to do. Panic strikes. Andy’s lost without a script.

The gun falls from his trembling fingers, clattering on the table.

“DC Metro Police. Open the door, Mr. Anderson.”

“I…”

Andy stares straight ahead at the primary camera. He’s oblivious to the way his automated routines have caught onto the change in tempo and zoomed in for a close-up of his face. The color washes from his cheeks. With his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide, he somehow manages, “I’m being raided.”

In seconds, the hashtag #TruthRaidLive begins trending. The yelling and thumping continues. Police officers pound on the front door, the side door to the garage, and the back door leading from the yard to the kitchen. Andy’s stunned. His social media counter races toward three million as his hands shake.

“This is it,” he mumbles. “It’s over.”

Andy gets to his feet, but his trademark bluster and bravado are gone. His arms hang limp by his side. He shuffles rather than walks off set. He’s numb.

Power tools startup outside his home. From where he is in the garage, he can see the back door to his kitchen fall forward onto the tiles. It crashes to the floor with the sound of thunder. Broken glass scatters across the kitchen. Black uniformed figures rush in all directions with machine guns raised. Flashlights flicker throughout the house.

Somehow, he has the presence of mind to hit pause on the computer control panel on the side of his studio garage. The broadcast switches to an image of the Lincoln Memorial. The wording, “Please hold. We are experiencing technical difficulties,” is displayed in a chyron at the bottom of the screen.

Andy’s on the verge of pissing his pants. He has his arms up. It’s all he can do not to drop to his knees.

SWAT disperse throughout his house. Boots pound on the floorboards. Several officers surround him in the garage. One of them grabs the Glock and ejects the magazine, opening the breach to ensure the gun is not loaded. Others run through the lounge and upstairs, checking the bedrooms.

Andy shakes. For once in his life, he’s speechless. The officers are dressed from head to toe in black. They’re wearing gas masks and carrying machine guns, but they’re not threatening him. They have their weapons lowered and their gloved hands out, calling for calm. To his surprise, they’re not here to arrest him. Andy’s still expecting to be thrown to the concrete and cuffed.

After a few seconds, the call, “Clear!” echoes through the house, being yelled by multiple SWAT members. One of them has Andy’s Mossberg shotgun and his hunting rifle. The officer lays them on the garage bench next to the empty Glock. The breaches are open, removing any doubt the weapons are unloaded.

Brigadier General Nolan Landis walks in through the back of the house. He steps carefully around the fallen door and broken glass. The general is wearing Air Force camo gear along with fawn boots. A single star in the middle of his cap commands authority. The flag on his shoulder is hemmed with gold thread. He has a holstered sidearm, but there’s no doubt in Andy’s mind—the general’s ready to go to war. Behind him, Dr. Kathleen McKenzie edges through the doorway. Andy knows them, but not personally. Like everyone in America and around the world, he’s watched the daily briefings.

“Andy Anderson, right?” the general says, walking over and offering him his hand.

Andy’s stunned. He doesn’t shake hands outside of a testosterone-filled gun show. Andy’s never met a general, let alone someone that has the ear of the President. With a limp wrist, he accepts.

“Quite the setup you’ve got here,” Dr. McKenzie says, looking at the studio lights. She examines the thin scaffolding used to position cameras around the set. Dr. McKenzie seems intrigued. Zip-ties hold down dozens of wires. Bundles of neatly packed network cables run across the ground to the control board. They weave their way under rubber mats to avoid anyone tripping on them.

“Sorry about the door,” the general says.

For Andy, it’s time to reboot the core functions of his mind. He blinks, trying to catch up with reality. The SWAT team hangs back, with just two of them remaining in the garage. They stand by the door with their guns resting in front of them.

“What is going on?”

The general says, “We need your help, Mr. Anderson.”

Andy’s being played. Now the initial shock has worn off, he recognizes this for what it is—an attempt to unsettle him. Intimidate him. Control and manipulate him. Damn, for a moment there, it worked all too well.

“Fuck you.”

Dr. McKenzie smiles, turning to the general and saying, “I told you. People like this guy are beyond reason.”

“Reason?” Andy says, feeling his blood beginning to boil. He points at the SWAT officers and the door lying in the kitchen. “You call that reason?”

The general gestures toward the Mossberg. “You can’t be too careful. When you wouldn’t answer the door, we had to assume the worst.”

“The worst?” Andy says, feeling indignant. He could have been shot and killed during the raid. “Where’s your warrant?”

For Andy, this is a reflex response. He’s still trying to find his feet mentally. Asking for a warrant is a bluff, buying him some time. He’s surprised when the lead officer pulls out an envelope and hands it to him. With trembling fingers, he opens the letter. Fancy stationery. Official logo. Formal names and addresses. Signed by a judge. As much as he wants to read it, he can’t. His thinking is fragmented. His mind feels as though it has fractured. Reading even simple sentences is torture. All he catches on the page is the words probable cause.

The general says, “We both know this is a ruse. Would you like to talk about the real reason we’re here?”

“An̆duru,” Andy says with a sense of reverence. “The Prince of Darkness.”

For all the arrogance and ego that floods his mind, respect still holds some sway. This is bigger than him. Bigger than all of them.

“You can help,” Dr. McKenzie says.

“You want my help?”

“You can reach people we can’t,” the general says.

“What?” Andy replies, surprised by the notion. “Why the hell should I help you?”

Kath says, “Because deep down, you want to be the good guy. This is your chance—your moment.”

Andy shakes his head.

“Do it for Liz,” the general says.

“Oh, no, no,” Andy replies, shaking a finger at him. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you bring my daughter into this!”

“How old is she?” Dr. McKenzie asks.

Andy’s not sure why he answers. He doesn’t have to. No one is compelling him. He’s not under oath or being forced to reply, but he says, “Eleven.”

“You don’t think this affects her?” the general asks. “You don’t think she’s not out there somewhere right now watching all this?”

“We have two days,” Dr. McKenzie says. “You can save lives. Millions of lives.”

“You,” the general says. “Not me. Not Dr. McKenzie. Not President Aston. You.”

Andy breathes deeply.

Fuck this shit.

He hates this!

His lips tightened, but nothing more is said to convince him. They know. The decision is his. He bites at his lip. His nostrils flare. Right now, he has a choice. He could be defiant and belligerent, demanding they leave. He could restart the broadcast and go nuclear, unleashing holy hell on them, but they’re right. For once, this isn’t about numbers. It’s not about view counts, or merchandise sales, or gaming the system. Lives are at stake, including his daughter’s.

As much as he doesn’t want to, he says, “What do you need?”

Dr. McKenzie can’t help but smile. She knows his question is a concession. Without saying as much, he’s capitulated.

The general says, “Your social media presence reaches millions of people we would otherwise miss. We need to warn them. We need them to take the approach of An̆duru seriously.”

He laughs. “You really have no idea, do you?”

Both of them are perplexed by his comment. Andy continues with, “You think I somehow hold sway over these people? I don’t. They don’t come to me for answers. They already believe this junk. They don’t trust their local mailman, let alone you or me. They want their suspicions confirmed. That’s all. As for me? I’m not the coach. I’m the cheerleader. The crowd is already behind their team. They just need to get pumped for the game.”

Dr. McKenzie says, “But they listen to you.”

He shakes his head. “Oh, you are in for one helluva ride.”

“But you’ll help, right?”

“And there’s nothing in it for me, huh?” Andy asks.

“Nothing,” the general says. “There’s nothing in this for any of us.”

Andy nods in agreement.

“Well, I’ve only got one spare seat in here, so one of you guys is going to have to sit on the tool chest.”

As coy as it seems, with Andy rolling a stool and chest around behind his desk, he’s avoiding the obvious tension. They wouldn’t be here unless they were completely and utterly desperate. For them, this has to be a last roll of the dice. Andy’s not the good guy. He’s not evil either, at least, not in his mind. He’s an opportunist. Sitting between them, he feels like a fraud.

The general says, “We’ve got CNN, MSNBC, and FOX on their way here, but this is your scoop. We need to get this out on as many networks as we can, but your studio gets the credit.”

Andy wishes the general hadn’t said that as it makes him feel like even more of a heel. They’ve compensated him when, strictly speaking, he’s fanned the flames. He points at the monitor, barely visible against the studio lights.

“Nine million people are already online,” he says. “Nine million people champing at the bit, frothing at the mouth, waiting for the gate to bolt open. Are you sure you want to ride this bronco?”

“Do it,” the general says.

Andy shakes his head, saying, “It’s your funeral.” He works with a keyboard and mouse hidden out of sight below the desk. “And we’re live in five, four, three.”

Andy sets the broadcast to start with a narrow headshot, excluding the two of them.

“And we’re back,” Andy says, smiling as he slips into his online persona. Although he uses the pronoun ‘we,’ no one can see the others, not yet anyway. It’s the royal ‘we’ of Truth@War. Dopamine fires within his brain, making him feel good, rewarding him. They say power is the ultimate drug, but for Andy, it’s adoration. He’s at home under the bright studio lights. When he looks into the camera lens, he’s able to forget his outstanding bills, his divorce, and his overdue car payments. Already, he can feel adrenaline surging in his veins. The chumps beside him have no idea what’s about to unfold.

As there are three of them in his homemade studio, Andy’s got to control the narrative. He needs to keep his AI broadcast software focused on him until he’s ready for the reveal. It’s time to amp up the audience for his guests. He slaps his hand on the desk, knowing precisely how his rant will be covered by the cameras. Braggadocio will keep the others out of sight.

“It happened! It finally happened! I’ve been raided!”

Kath flinches. Nolan sits back slightly. You’re welcome, Andy thinks, unable to suppress the smile on his face.

“Goddamn SWAT burst through the back door. There’s fucking glass everywhere. I counted six inside. Haven’t been outside yet, but emergency lights are flashing across the windows. There’s got to be at least a dozen more waiting in the wings. Jesus fucking Christ, that was intense.”

He gestures with his hands, making as though he were pulling a long gun hard into his shoulder. “Machine guns out. Black tactical gear. Gas masks. Gloves. Combat boots. Stormed through every fucking room, breaking furniture, searching for guns, drugs.”

His social media counter rockets toward twelve million. Comments flash by. Andy keeps an eye on the transmission monitor. He doesn’t want the image going out to contain the others—not just yet. Andy knows his audience. He’s got to prime the pump.

“So here I am. I’m in the studio with my arms raised, expecting 9mm of red hot metal to punch through my rib cage. I think. This is it. Fuck. This is how I die, bleeding out on the concrete.

“And then they stand down. They lower their guns. And I’m like, what the hell? I don’t know what’s happening.

“It’s then I see him walking in through the back door like a boss. Brigadier General goddamn fucking Nolan Christopher Landis!”

Again, Andy slaps the table in front of him, only this time he uses that momentum to rise out of his seat. He jumps with excitement, pushing his seat back, knowing the constant motion will keep the focus on him. Although his behavior seems chaotic, he’s avoiding a wide-angle shot from kicking in. He’s got to stay active or fourteen million people are going to see who’s sitting on either side of him.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he yells, pointing at the ceiling. “This is it. It’s that thing out there. The goddamn fucking Prince of Darkness. We’re two days out and they’re raiding me!”

Andy leans on the desk, edging closer to the main camera. Both the general and Dr. McKenzie shift their seats further away from him. They’re shell-shocked by his performance. Hah. Fucking amateurs!

“Why? That’s what you’ve got to ask. Why raid me? Why raid Truth@War?”

He thumps the desk, playing to his audience as he says, “You!”

Andy steps back. As he’s on his feet, he knows which cameras will be used. The monitor confirms he’s the sole subject. Time to bring the performance forward.

“They don’t want me. They want you!”

He laughs, pointing at the camera.

“They want to talk to you!”

He sits, pulling his chair closer, saying, “I’m not fucking with you. I know right now, some of you are thinking, goddamn Angry Andy Anderson is yanking my chain, but I’m not. Here they are. And they’re here for you.”

With that, he pulls a couple of wireless lapel mics from the drawer, realizing his motion is being tracked. Andy doesn’t need to look at the monitor to know that, in turn, they’ll both be visible.

“General,” he says, handing him one mic before turning the other way. “Dr. McKenzie.”

“Thank you,” they both say, which Andy finds hilarious. They’re too goddamn polite.

He slaps his thigh, laughing as he says, “Oh, welcome to the wildest mother-fucking rodeo on this asshole of a planet!”

Rodeo

Andy looks at the two SWAT officers standing by the rear door.

“Okay, there’s too much mustard in this horse shit sandwich. While we’re hanging, waiting for the other networks to arrive, let’s take some questions. We are live in the pre-game.” He addresses the audience, looking down the nearest camera and saying, “Anything you want. We’re going free-fire. Shoot questions to me in the chat. I can’t promise we’ll get to all of them, but ask anything you want.”

Dr. McKenzie says, “Ah, we’re really just here to—”

“Oh, no,” Andy says, waving a finger at her. “It don’t work that way, babe. Before we get to what you want, you have to answer what we want.”

The general nods. He gets it. This is a two-way street.

“And here’s our first question, picked at random from M. Chisom in Salt Lake City, Utah. Be honest about 5G. It causes viruses and cancer, right?”

The general makes a polite gesture toward the doctor.

“Oh,” Dr. McKenzie begins. “Okay. What can I tell you about 5G? Alright, 5G has been around for a long time. And by a long time, I don’t mean ten or twenty years, I mean 13.8 billion years—ever since the Big Bang. It’s only recently we gave it a name.

“You see, 5G is part of the electromagnetic spectrum, just like visible light. The only difference is 5G is less energetic than light. If you’re standing beside a 5G tower with a streetlight, you’re getting higher wavelengths of energy from the light than the tower. So, no, it doesn’t cause diseases like COVID-19. It couldn’t. It’s simply not energetic enough.

“Besides, 5G has always been around. All we’re doing is giving it some structure instead of leaving it as a random, chaotic mess of static. Oh, and get this, part of the 5G spectrum was used for television back in the analog days. So it’s nothing new—just a new name.”

The general says, “Change can be scary, but new doesn’t mean bad.”

“Exactly,” Kath says, “And sometimes, new is simply rebranding.”

Andy raises an eyebrow, surprised by what he’s hearing. “Okay, did not know that. Right. Next. Mighty Mouse from Houston, Texas, asks, What about vaccines causing autism?”

Dr. McKenzie jumps at the question, saying, “My brother has Asperger’s, so this one is personal for me. Do you want to know? Do you really want to know? Because I won’t take any crap on this.”

“I want to know,” Andy says, loving the heat she’s injecting into the subject. “Hell yeah, we all want to know. Tell us, doc. Let us have it.”

She pauses. Her complexion changes. Her cheeks flush with color. This strikes deep. Andy baits her.

“I don’t want no fancy words,” he says. “Don’t try to blind me with science. Give it to me straight, doc. No bullshit.”

“No bullshit,” she says, composing herself. Andy can see she’s trying to channel her anger. He’d rather she let fly, but she’s methodical.

“In 1998, a single study said the measles, mumps and rubella vaccine caused a ‘development disorder.’

“The study stopped short of saying autism, but that was the implication. Here’s the thing, though. It was based on twelve children. Just twelve. Since then, there have been studies that have looked at well over a million kids and… crickets.

“Turns out, this guy lied. Not only did he look at a small number of children, he lied about the results. Even though his lies were exposed, a lot of people are still afraid of vaccines. And all because of one asshole!”

Yeah, Andy thinks. This is more like it. Let the fire rage. Ratings, baby. Ratings.

“When the COVID-19 vaccine came out, people were scared of side-effects. Side-effects? They forgot about the actual effects of COVID-19 itself. I guess we’re always scared of the boogeyman hiding in the closet. It was crazy!”

Andy can see the passion in her eyes. Dr. McKenzie’s thinking about slamming her hand on the desk in mimicry of him. He can feel it. She likes being unbound. Andy wants to tell her not to hold back. He almost says something, but he doesn’t want to break her train of thought.

“Do you know what’s really interesting?”

“Hit me,” Andy replies.

“Back in 1998, there were already nine studies looking at whether vaccines caused childhood diseases. They all concluded there was no evidence for the idea. Since then, there have been over nine hundred subsequent studies looking at vaccines and autism. Not one of them has found a problem. Not a single one. And yet people are still afraid.”

Andy’s engrossed in the discussion.

Dr. McKenzie says, “Science starts with questions, not answers. Scientists are human. If anyone wants to find a cause for autism, it’s us. We want answers. Solutions. But we won’t invent them where they don’t exist. So this guy lies, and we spend decades double checking—just in case!”

Andy says, “I guess, deep down, we’re not all that different, huh? We all want answers.”

“Yes,” she says. “The difference is in what satisfies our thirst. Science is just a bunch of ideas that have been tested. That’s all.

“No scientist will object if you claim the President of the United States is a lizard-person. They will want to know how you propose to test your idea, though. Until it’s tested, it’s meaningless.

“By themselves, ideas are nothing more than the churning of a restless mind. Ideas have to be proven to have merit. Without testing, they’re worthless.”

Andy says, “That’s just common sense, right?”

“Science is not common sense,” Dr. McKenzie says, surprising him. “Common sense tells me the sun goes over my house during the day. I can see it!” She points to her right, slowly bringing her arm up above her and over to the left. “The damn thing starts over there. Rises above the trees. Looms high over my balcony. And then sets on the other side of my apartment, dropping behind the mountains.

“There’s nothing in my daily experience to convince me otherwise, and yet that perspective is entirely misleading.

“The funny thing is, there’s nothing wrong with this kind of thinking in daily life. Even though it’s incorrect, I still refer to sunrise and sunset. But the sun doesn’t rise or set. Earth turns. And yet, that distinction makes no difference in ordinary life. I can be a successful mechanic or work at the corner store, and I’m no poorer for thinking it’s the sun that orbits Earth rather than the other way around.”

Andy asks, “So flat-earthers aren’t all that crazy?”

“They’re not crazy, but they are ignoring science. They’re isolating themselves, cutting themselves off from learning more about the world around them. They’re retreating two and a half thousand years into the past. Personally, I’m happy to side with Pythagoras. He and Aristotle and Eratosthenes did the math. They figured this out long before we put satellites in orbit.”

“If they’re not crazy, what difference does it make?” Andy asks.

“Ah,” Dr. McKenzie says. “It’s a matter of precision. If you want to build a house, you don’t need to account for the curvature of Earth. You can treat the ground as flat. It won’t make any difference. But if you want to build the Golden Gate Bridge, you have to take into account a spherical Earth. Even though the bridge pylons are perfectly straight, they lean away from each other as the Earth curves. That affects the length of the suspension cables and their tolerances. How they’re going to handle an earthquake, stuff like that. Oh, but it’s only a few inches. Yes, but keep building bigger and longer things and you’ll find it becomes ever more important to be precise. When it comes to flights between countries, the shortest distance in three dimensions follows a curve when drawn on a map.

“If you’re happy to live like the Amish, you’re welcome to consider the Earth as flat. But if you want things like GPS on your smartphone, it would be wise to accept science.

“The thing you have to understand is science is not normal. What’s normal is superstition. What’s normal is jumping to conclusions. If science was the norm, it wouldn’t have taken us tens of thousands of years to figure out the basics.”

Andy asks, “So why do we jump to conclusions?” He pauses, laughing as he adds, “Asking for a friend.”

“We see patterns,” she says. “That’s just what we do. Look at a cloud and you won’t see water vapor condensing in the air. You’ll see the Lion King or an alligator. You’ll see everything that’s not actually there. Why? Because our brains are hardwired to make snap decisions based on fragments of information. This way of thinking was essential to surviving in Africa. Lions really could creep up on you in the long grass. Recognizing that shape out of the corner of your eye was invaluable, but it’s a lousy way to make decisions in the 21st century.”

Andy nods as she continues.

“The reason people don’t trust science is because it’s not obvious. If it was, the choice would be simple.

“Also, we’re hardwired to be suspicious of strangers. As most people don’t know any scientists personally, they struggle to trust them. Was 9/11 an inside job? If you’ve been watching Dave’s YouTube channel and Dave’s a funny guy and Dave says yes, so will you. You sure as hell won’t believe some grumpy scientist you’ve never heard of before.”

“Okay,” Andy says, picking up another question from his social media feed. “LibTears from Gunnison, Colorado asks, Why should I believe in climate change?”

“You shouldn’t. Next question.”

“Wait? What?” Andy replies. He dangled some bait, but she didn’t bite.

“No one is trying to change your beliefs,” Dr. McKenzie says. “I don’t want you to believe in climate change. I want you to understand it.

“Beliefs are overrated. The Eiffel Tower is in France. It makes no difference whether you believe that or not.

“Our beliefs are irrelevant. Understanding is far more important than beliefs.

“Beliefs control people. Understanding inspires people.

“I don’t want to control anyone. I want LibTears to step outside the bubble and learn for himself. I want LibTears to understand. I want him to be inspired to act.

“Don’t overcomplicate climate change. You don’t need a Ph.D. to understand this. Look at the global temperatures over the past century. They’ve risen in line with fossil fuel emissions. The whole concept really is as simple as the Eiffel Tower is in France. Climate change shouldn’t be a political issue or a point of contention.

“Science is not a question of beliefs.”

Andy is stunned by her answer. He looks at his social media monitor, wanting to pick up another question. The live view count has reached forty-nine million and rising! He’s about to say something when several network crews come through the back door. Their broadcast cameras have lights and microphones attached. There’s someone in a suit with a lanyard hanging around their neck directing traffic. They only let a couple of people from each team through.

Andy says, “And we are ready for the main event.” He switches on a portable camera and manually overrides his automated system. This gives him control for a moment. He turns the handheld camera around, reversing the view as he yells, “Let’s get ready to rummmmble!”

Andy swivels the GoPro around, adding, “You can see the SWAT team over there. Wave boys. Be nice.” Neither officer flinches. “And here come the broadcast networks. Okay, it’s time to talk about all things alien. We ain’t barking at a knot no more. It’s time to ride, my friends.”

He turns off the portable camera and the studio cameras kick in again.

“In two days,” the general says, “shortly after midnight, Comet An̆duru is going to pass over the Gulf of Mexico. We really don’t know what to expect. Given what we’ve seen on other planets, we anticipate the release of vast amounts of energy. We need the public to take this seriously.”

“How vast?” Andy asks. “Are we talking nukes?”

“This will not be a nuclear detonation,” the general says. “In 1908, we saw something similar over Siberia in Russia. An iron meteorite skipped off the atmosphere, coming in at a low angle and bouncing back out into space.”

“Tunguska,” Andy says. “You’re talking about the Tunguska event!”

“Yes. But nothing hit the ground. There were no fragments. No crater. But it released enough energy to flatten trees over eight hundred square miles. Basically, it devastated an area the size of Rhode Island.”

Andy points at the desk in front of him, “And you think that’s going to happen again, but over the Gulf?”

“Yes.”

“Only bigger?”

“Yes.”

“How much bigger?” Andy asks, feeling that’s a pertinent question. He senses reluctance from the general on this point.

“Ten times bigger.”

“And how big was the explosion over Tunguska?” Andy asks. “What would it have equated to in megatons?”

The general defers to Dr. McKenzie with a slight wave of his hand.

She says, “Roughly thirty megatons.”

“So An̆duru is packing somewhere around three hundred megatons?” Andy asks.

“Yes.”

“Fuck!”

“That’s one way to put it,” Dr. McKenzie says.

“And over the Gulf, that’ll cause what? A tsunami?” Andy asks.

“It’s possible,” she says. “It depends how deep An̆duru descends into our atmosphere before being deflected.”

Andy is unusually quiet in the way he poses his questions. Normally, he shouts. That he’s subdued is probably unsettling for his viewers. This is no longer about theatrics. In a soft voice, he asks, “How big will the wave be?”

“Ah, we really don’t know, but we advise anyone living within fifty miles of the coast to evacuate. People should avoid low-lying areas, estuaries, and river mouths for up to four hours following the event.”

Andy shakes his head. He’s got nothing. Dr. McKenzie waits for a follow-up question. She nudges his foot.

“Okay. Well. That’s interesting.” He raises an eyebrow, screwing up his face. “Alright. What else can we expect? What should we be doing?”

“Good question,” Dr. McKenzie says, smiling. She appears a little too cheerful as she responds, “Do not look directly at the event. You should be indoors, not outside. Preferably in a basement, against the south-facing wall. The more stuff there is between you and the passage of An̆duru, the better.”

“So basement parking garages are good,” Andy says. “Hilltops with a pair of binoculars, bad.”

“Very bad,” Dr. McKenzie says. “Like you’ll never see anything ever again kind of bad.”

“Got it. What else?”

“We’re evacuating oil rigs and refineries in the region. Utility companies will disconnect from the grid for at least an hour, so there won’t be any power during the encounter. This will affect all homes and businesses and even services such as streetlights. Police and paramedics may not be available immediately before or after the event. Please do not use 911 for anything other than a life-threatening emergency.

“We’ve advised hospitals to take themselves offline at midnight. Patients should be moved to a safe area, preferably a basement parking garage. Backup generators should be disabled. Any devices that use battery power should be disconnected.”

“Wait?” Andy says. “Any device? Like everything?”

“Yes,” Dr. McKenzie says. “We’re anticipating an electromagnetic surge covering most of North America. At midnight, your viewers should disconnect their television from the wall. They should unplug computers, fridges, microwave ovens, dishwashers, dryers, hot water heaters, bedside lamps. Everything.

“It’s not enough to simply turn your devices off. You must unplug them. You should disconnect the battery in your car. If possible, you should take the battery out of your cellphone and laptop. Take the batteries out of your flashlights and portable radios. If you have an old-style fuse box in your house, you should turn off the mains power and remove the fuses. People with newer homes should flip their circuit breakers into the off position.”

For Andy, the most terrifying aspect of what he’s hearing is the matter-of-fact way in which Dr. McKenzie describes what should be done.

“We do not recommend using candles. A naked flame always presents a fire risk. Please, do not use candles or gas lanterns. In some areas, it may not be possible to restore power immediately. Emergency services have access to diesel generators, so they should be back online, but you may be without power for several hours. Please be patient during this time. There’s no need for panic.”

“N—No need?” Andy says, stuttering in disbelief. “We’re under attack. How is this not an act of war?”

“This is not an attack,” the general says. “Let’s be clear about that. The vessel is simply using our upper atmosphere to slow down, just as it did when it reached Saturn and Jupiter. And it’ll go on to do the same thing around Venus.”

“We’re being cautious,” Dr. McKenzie says. “An̆duru could pass us by barely scraping the atmosphere. In which case, it’ll be nothing more than a streak in the sky, but we can’t assume that. We need to be prepared.”

“So this isn’t War of the Worlds?” Andy asks.

“No.”

“How can you be so confident?” he asks. “You’re a scientist. You want us to trust you about 5G and vaccines. Where’s your evidence about An̆duru?”

For a moment, Dr. McKenzie looks down at the desk, hanging her head, resigned to what’s coming.

“Science isn’t about absolutes,” she says. “Science is about being willing to learn more.”

“So this could be the end of the world?” Andy asks. No sooner have those words been spoken than he regrets them, knowing the uncertainty they’ll stir up.

“It could,” she says begrudgingly, “but it’s not. All I can tell you is, we’ve looked at this from every angle. We’ve taken into account every piece of evidence available to us. We’ve tapped the brightest minds alive. An̆duru is not attacking Earth. It’s simply slowing down. It will continue to slow when it rounds Venus. Once it has reached a regular orbital speed within our solar system, we expect it to come back beside us.”

“And then what?”

Dr. McKenzie shrugs. “Then everything changes.”

Evacuation

A helicopter flies low over the slums. A speaker blares over the sound of the rotor blades thrashing at the air.

“An evacuation order is in place for Heroica, Vera Cruz. Tune in to Radio One or your local television news for more detail. Everyone must evacuate. You need to leave now. You must move fifty miles inland.”

People stand around looking up into the sky. The military helicopter makes its way over the city, repeating its message. Jorge ignores it, chopping the head off another fish and gutting it as he stands on the edge of his pier.

“Papa, we need to go,” Maria says, running up beside him as he works on the fillets.

“There is no storm,” Jorge replies, pointing at the clear blue skies out above the Gulf of Mexico. “Hurricanes go north, toward America, not south.”

“It’s not a hurricane, Papa. It’s the alien.”

He grabs another fish. His ax thunders down on the head of a Red Snapper he’s picked out for dinner tonight. He would have sold it to the traders at the port, but somehow it got mixed in with the sea trout. Jorge’s looking forward to eating Snapper.

“The alien isn’t coming here,” he says. “Why would the alien come to Vera Cruz?”

“Papa, it’s on the TV. The American President. She says the scientists tell her so.”

“And you believe her?”

“Mexico believes her,” Maria replies. “They evacuated Laguna and Tampico yesterday.”

“It’s a beautiful day,” Jorge says, laughing. “If the alien comes here, we will feast together on Snapper.”

“You don’t understand. It is going to pass through the sky, unleashing nuclear bombs.”

“Nonsense,” Jorge says, filleting the Snapper. “Why would the alien do that?”

“Papa, please. The hospital is relocating to Cordoba. They’re letting us take our families.”

“Then take them,” Jorge says. “Take the boys.”

“Oh, Papa, if you stay here, you’ll die.”

“I’m not leaving my boat to the bandits.”

“The aliens are coming. Tonight. We have to leave. We must.”

But to Jorge’s mind, such a concept is too fantastic to believe. Here? They’re coming to Vera Cruz? Maria grabs him by the shoulders, turning him away from his catch, but he pulls back. Her hands drop to her side.

With tears in her eyes, Maria pleads with him. “It’s just for a day, Papa. Please. I can get you a seat on the bus, but you must come. Now.”

Jorge puts down his knife and rinses his hands under the running seawater. With calloused thumbs, he wipes away her tears.

“I’m an old man. This is all I have left. You. You’re young. You go. Me? I have nowhere to go. I could never start again. I will take my chances with the alien.”

Maria sobs, burying her head in his chest.

“Think of the kids,” she says. “If not your own grandchildren, then those in the orphanage. What will they do without their papa? Who will bring them smoked fish?”

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s being stubborn. His eyes drop from hers. The helicopter circles back, flying low over the water with its speaker blaring. The side door is open. The loadmaster is pointing. From behind the dark visor on his helmet, he stares at them, perplexed by their inertia.

Jorge has tears in his eyes. They refuse to roll down his cheeks. For the past forty years, this is all he’s ever known. There’s comfort in routine. Change scares him. Whether it’s the approach of an alien spacecraft or fleeing to Cordoba, it’s heart-wrenching to leave his life behind. He feels as though he’s being stripped naked.

The drab olive green helicopter flies on, corralling the locals.

“I will come,” he says, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Maria doesn’t say anything. She simply looks into his eyes. Her lips tremble, revealing her anguish. She knows how hard this is for her father.

“You go on ahead,” he says. “I will take the truck up to the orphanage and help Padre Jesus with the children. We’ll meet you at Cordoba.”

Maria wipes her tears. She leans in, kissing him on the cheek, saying, “Hurry. Be quick.”

With that, she turns and rushes back into their home. Two teenaged boys stand on the porch beside hastily packed suitcases. Seeing their mother pleading with their grandfather is distressing. They quiz her, wanting to know what’s happening with their papa.

Jorge picks up his ax and slams it into the wooden board. He severs one last fish head. His routine is broken. His life is over. There’s no drive. No more relentless rhythm. He turns away from the pier, turning his back on a rack half full of fillets. A dead fish lies on the chopping board. Blood oozes from its severed spine. Thirty or forty fish lie stacked on ice in a crate beside the bench, destined to be snatched by eager gulls.

Each step he takes is like wading through the surf. He’s turning his back on the only stable life he’s ever known. Jorge walks across the sand to his home one last time. As he opens the door, Maria is exiting out the back. She calls out, “I love you. I’ll see you in Cordoba.”

“I love you too,” he replies, picking up the keys for his truck from the kitchen table.

One last look around his home and he leaves. Jorge doesn’t pack any clothes. Deep down, he doesn’t believe this is the end. It can’t be. It feels strange leaving his tiny color television, his worn couch, the beds, the fridge, the kitchen table. They’ll all be there tomorrow, of that he’s sure. Aliens be damned.

It takes almost half an hour to drive to the orphanage as the roads are clogged. What should have been five minutes up the hill is an obstacle course. Jorge drives slowly, winding between people fleeing with their possessions on carts. He rides up on the shoulder of the road, straddling a drainage ditch, only to get caught behind a broken-down tractor.

When he finally gets to the orphanage, he’s greeted by Padre Jesus.

“The alien is coming,” Jorge says. “Everyone is leaving. You and the children must leave.”

“I know. I know. We are waiting on buses.”

“I can help. I can take supplies in my truck for the kids. Food. Clothing.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Together, they load up the truck. Jorge stacks canned food and buckets full of potatoes taken from the cellar. Bedding and suitcases are jammed into the gaps.

As the sun sets, with the roads clearing, there’s still no sign of any buses coming to collect them. The padre says, “You should go.”

“What will you do?”

“We will wait.”

“And if no one comes?” Jorge asks.

“We will shelter in the cellar.”

“Then I will wait too,” Jorge says.

Padre Jesus pats his shoulder, saying, “You’re a good man, Jorge.”

Night falls.

No one comes for them.

Hours pass by slowly.

Jorge helps Padre Jesus drag a bunch of mattresses down to the cellar. They line them up in the far corner, away from the damp patches where mildew grows on the bricks.

A single light bulb glows over the cellar entrance, casting a soft glow over the outside stairs. The door is open. Wooden crates line the side of the stairway. They’re empty. Soon, they’ll hold apples harvested from the orchard. Until then, they block the stairs, narrowing access down the side of the orphanage.

Padre Jesus brings the last of the children downstairs. Thick wooden beams crisscross the ceiling. Condensation drips from the rough-hewn brickwork. Moss grows near the windows up high on the north side.

Most of the children are tired. They curl up beneath blankets in the dark. A few sob quietly. Padre Jesus brings them to the front, keeping them together so he can comfort them.

“What do you think will happen?” Veronica asks. She’s one of the few children that’s not upset by the disruption around her. She decides she wants to squeeze between Jorge and Padre Jesus as they sit on one of the mattresses near the door.

It takes Jorge a second to realize she’s talking to him as Padre Jesus has turned to one side. He pats the back of another child, trying to ease them to sleep. As Jorge’s an adult, he’s supposed to know about these things—apparently. He doesn’t, but he’s not sure he should seem ignorant. It’s important to show children confidence.

“We will be fine,” he says.

“But them?” Veronica asks. “What will they be like?”

He laughs. “You’re a curious one, huh?”

“I want to see them,” she says.

“So do I.”

“What do you think they’ll look like?”

“I don’t know,” Jorge replies, thinking about it for a moment. “They’re probably wondering the same thing about us. We have butterflies and goats, dolphins and squid. We have flowers and trees, bats and birds. I think they’ll look strange, but I think they’re going to look at us and all our animals and think we’re the strange ones.”

Veronica likes that answer as it stimulates her thinking.

“Maybe they’ll look like an elephant with eagle wings.”

Jorge plays along. “Or a furry octopus.”

Veronica giggles, saying, “Or a monkey with a snake for a tail.”

“Or a spiny cat.”

“Or a unicorn with rainbow poo,” Veronica says, laughing at herself.

Jorge ruffles her hair, saying, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Or a fish with wings.”

“Ah, we already have those,” Jorge says. “I see them when I’m out in my trawler.”

“Really?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah. A big old Tuna starts chasing a school of them and—whoosh—they jump out of the water and fly over the waves.”

“No way.”

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “Sometimes, they fly into my boat.”

“Hah,” she cries aloud. Veronica claps her hands and then falls silent, suddenly realizing she’s supposed to be quiet.

“They are the easiest fish to catch as I don’t even need a net.”

“I’ve never been on a boat,” Veronica says.

“When all this is over, and my grandsons have returned, we’ll go out together and look for the flying fish. Okay?”

Veronica hunches her shoulders, quietly clapping her hands in excitement.

“Shhh,” Jorge says, seeing other kids looking over, unsure what’s going on.

If he goes out to sea on an off-day, without the need to actually catch anything, Jorge could take twenty kids along with Padre Jesus. He smiles. He’s made a rod for his own back with this promise. No orphan is going to want to miss out on a boat ride. He’ll have to take all the kids out over several trips. But, hey, it’ll be fun.

The Bunker

Everyone’s got something to do except Nolan.

Kath’s on her laptop, typing messages to her science team. She’s engrossed in discussing the various measures they have in place to record the encounter. Although most of the observations are Earth-based, there are dozens of satellites observing the approach of An̆duru. There’s even a couple of low-tech observations being undertaken from Houston using the equivalent of a child’s pinhole projector. They’re on wind-up, mechanical timers, exposing photographic plates. In this way, they can avoid any electronic interference.

Andy Anderson’s broadcast is on a loop. It’s racked up over eight hundred million hits, which is far more than anyone anticipated. People are watching it all around the world. It seems everyone’s nervous. Everyone wants some assurance, but it’s too late. An̆duru is here. The alien spacecraft just passed Lunar orbit and is thundering toward Earth. The Apollo astronauts took three days to travel the distance An̆duru will tear through in less than thirty minutes.

Nolan should be at NORAD. At least there, he’d be useful. He suggested it, but the President said she needed him here with her. He peers at Kath’s laptop, watching a discussion unfold within her science team, but he’s redundant. He feels useless.

The President said he could have any resource he wanted at his disposal. As usual, Nolan over-thought things and ended up hating his choice. This is why his wife loathes buying Christmas presents for him. His likes are too goddamn whimsical and obscure. Nolan asked the President for access to IMS, the International Monitoring System. It’s a bunch of satellites looking for the launch of ballistic missiles. Nolan felt sure the Russians would try something stupid, but there’s no activity at their fixed missile sites. Like China and the US, they’ve stood down. As IMS is an international collaboration, Nolan’s got data streaming in for India, Pakistan, Iran, and North Korea. Even the US is included. There’s only so long he can stare at null results.

Nolan’s bored. He’s a general without a command. For anyone he talks to, he’s a distraction. With the best of intentions, he’s meddling, slowing things down. Even his old team at Fort Carson has to backtrack and bring him up to speed on things. Damn it!

When Nolan’s anxious, his mind wanders.

An alien spacecraft is less than half an hour away from tearing through Earth’s upper atmosphere and Nolan would rather be playing Candy Crush. Nerves. Anything to get this over with. Time is a drag.

The bunker is depressing.

Most people know there’s a survival bunker beneath the White House. What they don’t realize is it’s actually three bunkers stacked on top of each other. The upper level is a hundred feet beneath the North Lawn. It contains the Presidential Emergency Operations Center. Normally, this is where they’d be as it’s a communication hub, but the Secret Service wanted to go deeper. Unknown threats demand prudence.

The second section is a long-term living area designed for up to fifty people. It spans six subterranean floors, with four month’s worth of supplies. But it’s not deep enough for the President’s security detail.

Even though the encounter will occur over the Gulf of Mexico, thousands of miles from Washington, the Secret Service isn’t taking any chances. They’re following the continuity of government protocol for surviving a nuclear attack. They’ve got everyone in the basement section.

Down here, comfort is not a consideration. The concrete walls and floor are unfinished. Fire suppression pipes crisscross the ceiling. The fluorescent lights are covered in steel mesh. A couple of folding tables have been taken from a stack on a crate and set up in the middle of the room. Like the others, Nolan’s sitting on a folding steel chair. This is not the stuff of movie sets or conspiracy theories. The basement is designed for survival, not luxury.

Water seeps from a crack in the wall. At a depth of 1200 feet, the basement can survive a direct hit from a nuclear warhead. Whereas the other levels within the bunker are the result of covert construction, the basement is part of a natural cavern. The entrance has been carved from bedrock. The floor and ceiling have been lined with reinforced concrete.

There are three points of access. No elevator. Just lots of dusty concrete steps winding ever deeper. Then there are two mysterious doors made from plate steel. They don’t look like they’ve been opened in decades. No doubt they lead to concealed exits miles away from the White House.

The President walks in, having descended the stairs in tennis shoes and a pantsuit.

“Please, don’t get up,” she says. One of her personal assistants jumps on a landline, informing those up top that she’s on station.

Aides distribute wind-up LED lights, vigorously turning the cranks to build up charge. The glow they offer is nothing compared to the overhead lights. If there’s a blackout, though, they’ll be the only lights within a quarter-mile of solid rock.

The President’s surgeon is on hand with a couple of nurses. They’re equipped with EMT first-aid backpacks and oxygen cylinders. Nolan’s not sure quite what they’re expecting. Air circulation is the only thing that worries him about being so deep.

Directly opposite him, at the far end of the table, an aide has two boxes of matches and a box of candles—just in case. Great, if everything goes to hell, we can watch ourselves suffocate.

Nolan finds this level of preparation comical. Kath and her team have run the sums. Nothing is going to happen—not to them in Washington, DC. Unshielded electronics will probably take a hit from what is essentially an EMP burst. Beyond that, this is overkill. If anything, it’s a good dry run. According to the math, An̆duru will reach Venus in a little over a week. Once it’s shed its speed there, it’ll be at least another month before it circles back to Earth.

Nolan wonders about An̆duru. What the hell is going on up there? They must have their own cameras running. They’ve got to be learning more about Earth with each passing moment. What are they thinking? Coming in on the dark side of the planet, they’ve got to be able to see cities lighting up the night. They should have been able to see that for months. Why continue with a plan to buzz the planet? They must know that’s going to be nerve-wracking for us.

Someone’s distributed water bottles to everyone, but no one’s opened them. Like Nolan, they probably realize there’s no bathroom down here and don’t want to pee into the bucket in the corner.

Network cables snake their way over the table toward a router. A fiber optics cable leads into the stairwell, disappearing into a conduit.

After talking with several people in the basement, the President makes her way around toward them.

“Just a couple of minutes out,” Kath says. Her laptop is perched on top of a second laptop that has its battery removed. That’s all the contingency she needs.

“Okay,” Nolan replies. He has only one laptop, so he shuts it down and removes the battery. His preparation for the passage of An̆duru consists of staring at a blank screen.

“How are we going?” the President asks, leaning forward between the two of them.

Nolan gets up, offering her his seat. She sits as an aide brings over an extra chair for him.

“What am I looking at?” the President asks.

Kath points at the various boxes on her segmented screen, explaining each one.

“Ah, here’s the view from Miami, Havana, an oil rig in the Gulf, Houston, Monterrey in Mexico and the Baja peninsula.”

“And these?” the President asks, pointing at a bunch of graphs in separate boxes along the bottom of the screen.

“They’re monitoring radiation levels. The flickering line you see is normal. Just a bunch of cosmic rays, tiny bits of uranium in the surrounding concrete, things like that. This will give us the ability to estimate the energy release.”

“And that one?” the President asks.

“That’s buoy heights in the Gulf, monitoring sea level. It should give us some indication of any wave formation.”

“So now we wait.”

“Yep,” Kath replies. She brings up a timer racing down toward zero. Nolan hates these things. They’re always overkill. This one has milliseconds. The passage of each second screams by in a blur of numbers. For Kath, there’s probably some reason for that level of precision. For Nolan, it’s a point of anxiety. It feels like they’re screaming toward a brick wall.

“One minute,” Kath says. If she’s nervous, it doesn’t show. Her mind is probably so busy trying to process everything, she has no bandwidth for nerves. The President, though, shifts her seat slightly away from the table. She leans forward with her elbows resting on her knees, positioning her eyes level with the screen.

“Thirty seconds.”

Nolan’s right leg begins shaking, bouncing up and down as he sits there waiting. Just get this over with, damn it! A small crowd gathers behind them. Aides peer past the President, looking over Kath’s shoulder at the tiny windows on her screen.

“Ten, nine, eight.”

At that point, Kath stops counting.

No one breathes.

Nolan’s expecting the counter to come to a sudden stop at zero, but it doesn’t. It continues into negative numbers, racing away again. Nothing happens.

“There,” the President says, pointing at one of the boxes on Kath’s screen. A slight blur appears in the darkness. The alien spacecraft is elongated, almost cigar-shaped. Before Nolan realizes what’s happening, it’s a streak tearing across the screen followed by a wall of static.

It’s the same story on each of the other screens. There’s nothing. Then a streak. Then static. One by one, the cameras die.

Within the bunker, the lights flicker and fade, leaving only the soft illumination of the hand-cranked camping lights. The laptop screen is blank.

“That’s it,” Kath says. She slams the lid on her laptop, swapping it out with the backup. A fresh battery is inserted into the second laptop and she fires it up—all in a single motion. Damn, that was like watching a Marine switch out a magazine on an M4.

“It’s all over,” Kath says. “An̆duru is gone.”

“God, I hope so,” the President replies. Her analysts and officers scramble to get back online and find out what the hell happened up top.

“So it’s safe to go up?” one of the President’s aides asks.

Kath is distracted, willing her laptop to start quicker, but she manages a confident, “Yes.”

“Okay,” the President says. “We’ll convene in the Situation Room.”

Slowly, the bunker empties. One officer remains behind, waiting for the two of them. Kath is determined to check whatever metrics made it through the encounter. Nolan is loath to stray from her. His mind feeds on facts. At the moment, he feels starved of detail. He can’t bring himself to fire up his laptop. He’s still trying to formulate his own internal assessment of what just happened. Damn, it’s hard to be objective when you’re buried under a million tons of rock.

After a few minutes of trying, Kath concedes, saying, “This is not good. Everything got knocked out.”

She’s referring to their carefully shielded high-speed cameras. Nolan’s more worried about US military and civilian infrastructure. Did America just get blown back into the Stone Age? His mind is reeling from the implications of barely fifteen seconds as the alien spacecraft passed through Earth’s atmosphere. What the hell is going to happen when that thing comes back into orbit?

As they pack up their laptops and head for the seemingly endless stairs, Nolan tries to lighten things, saying, “I hope you didn’t skip leg day at the gym.”

Midnight on the Gulf

Most of the kids are asleep, but not Veronica. She sits cross-legged on one of the mattresses as Jorge and the padre talk at a nearby table. She’s playing with a couple of dolls, whispering to them, telling them not to be afraid.

The light bulb over the door blows, plunging the cellar into darkness. Before either man can react, a bright flash of light illuminates the outside stairs. It’s as though someone’s turned on a high-powered spotlight, shining it over the cellar windows. As quickly and quietly as it came, the light is gone, leaving them in darkness.

“They’re here,” Veronica says.

Jorge is sluggish to respond. His eyes haven’t adjusted to the sudden darkness. Veronica is on the move. He can hear her shoes on the bricks. She’s running for the door. She wants to see the aliens.

“No!” he says, chasing after her, stumbling in the dark.

“What’s going on,” another child asks.

“Nothing,” the padre says. “Go back to sleep.”

With his arms out in front of him, Jorge waves his hands around in a bid to avoid crashing into crates in the dark. He runs for the cellar door. Outside, moonlight floods the stairs. He catches a glimpse of Veronica disappearing over the top of the stairs and scrambles after her.

“I can see them,” she says.

Veronica comes to a halt on the gravel driveway winding along the cliff top behind the orphanage.

Jorge’s not sure what she’s referring to. Veronica’s standing by the north-east corner of the main building, out on the edge of the orchard. He jogs up to her. She smiles, pointing into the sky.

“Look!”

The night sky is crystal clear with one exception—a single, dead-straight cloud has cut through the darkness above them. It’s billowing, catching the high altitude winds. If he didn’t know better, Jorge would think this was the contrail of a jet, but there’s an eerie green glow around the edges. Lightning crackles along the length of the cloud.

“It’s beautiful,” Veronica says.

Jorge wouldn’t describe it as beautiful. Unnerving is a better term. He picks up Veronica, resting her tiny frame on his broad, muscular forearm. She wraps her arm over his shoulder and around his neck. Veronica squirms, wanting to see the entire length of the cloud.

“It came from over there,” she says.

Out across the Gulf, where the cloud is thickest, lightning strikes at the sea several times a second. Jorge waits for the break of thunder, but it’s too distant. That’s when he sees it—the ocean turning white on the fringes. Jorge has no idea what he’s looking at, but he knows it’s not good. He runs for the stairs. Maria said something about a wave, but this is different. This isn’t a wall of water. It’s moving too fast. It’s as though the surface of the ocean is being churned by some invisible propeller. A vast, curved cloud descends, rushing across the Gulf, sweeping in toward them.

There’s no time. The storm is moving so fast it’s almost on top of them. Rather than rounding the edge of the stairs, he jumps the low stone wall, wanting to drop down to the fifth or sixth step. While in midair, the wind hits. A wall of compressed air sweeps down on the orphanage like a wave crashing at the beach. Jorge is thrown down the stairwell. Thunder breaks around him. Trees are uprooted from the orchard. A car tumbles over the gravel. Walls collapse. Bricks fall. Glass shatters.

Jorge crashes into the empty crates, breaking them as he tumbles down the stairs. He loses his grip on Veronica. She collides with the doorframe, falling onto the landing outside the cellar. Wooden beams splinter and break. Dust swirls around them.

Then comes the silence.

A warm, wet, sticky fluid drips from Jorge’s forehead. He’s groggy. Disoriented. He reaches up, feeling blood oozing from a cut on his scalp. He’s not sure how long he’s been lying on the stairs. His rib cage hurts.

“Veronica,” he says, only his voice sounds strange—distant. He can hear himself and yet he can’t. Blood drips from his ears.

Veronica is covered in a layer of fine white powder. Jorge cries. He picks up her frail body, cradling her, whispering to her as he clears the dust from her face.

“Please,” he says, holding her close. She feels fragile. Her arms are thin. Her skin is soft beneath his rough, calloused fingers. Jorge tries to find a pulse. Nothing. His lips tremble. “Veronica?”

Jorge’s in shock. He staggers up the stairs and into the night, carrying her into the darkness.

The orphanage is gone, so is the church.

At first, he’s confused. Then he realizes the two-story building has been reduced to rubble. Collapsed walls lie crumpled against the ground. Wooden support beams have been snapped like twigs. In the distance, down by the beach, fires rage, burning through the slums.

Jorge falls to his knees. He lays Veronica on the ground, being careful to rest her head on a clump of grass. As he goes to stand, a tiny hand reaches out, touching his wrist.

“Hey,” he says, looking into her eyes. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

She speaks, but he can’t hear her. He can’t hear anything beyond the high-pitched whine in his ears. Slowly, sounds come into focus. Veronica cries. Her tears clear away the dust from her cheeks.

Jorge works his hands over her shoulders, elbows, and wrists. He squeezes her knees and ankles, looking for a response that’ll reveal the extent of her injuries. Being a nurse, his daughter Maria insisted on teaching him advanced First Aid—something he never thought he’d need. At no point does Veronica grimace. No broken bones. She’s got a large bruise on her forehead and scrapes on her arms and legs, but she’s conscious. Crying is good. Veronica would disagree, but it tells him she’s going to be okay. She’s in pain, but she’s avoided serious injury.

“Listen,” he says, finally able to hear his own voice. “I need to go and look for Padre Jesus and the others. Do you understand?”

Veronica sits up. Her lips are downturned, but she nods.

“I’m going to be over there. I’m not leaving you. I’ll be right back. You stay here. Okay?”

“Yes.”

Jorge is relieved to have heard her, however faint her voice may be. He gets up. Pain seizes his joints. Whereas he wants to jog back across the gravel driveway, he can barely walk. A fire breaks out in the ruins of the orphanage. Jorge hobbles on one hip, pushing through the pain to get to Padre Jesus.

He shuffles down the stairs to the cellar, using his arms to steady himself. His legs tremble. He pushes against the brickwork to stop himself from falling. Once on the landing, he begins clearing away broken wood and fallen bricks. As much as it hurts, he forces himself into a rhythm. It’s just like cleaning fish. Jorge focuses on one section of debris and then the next. If the wood is light enough, he tosses it up over the edge of the stairs. Bricks get stacked to one side on the remains of the crushed crates.

“Padre Jesus,” he calls out, working himself inside the doorway. The doorframe is intact, but the wooden support beams in the roof have fallen. Bricks and rocks have collapsed into the cellar. “Can anyone hear me?”

Jorge is methodical. He works with the loose rubble, trying to tunnel into the cellar rather than remove all the debris. He follows a narrow opening and works to shore it up as he leans into the darkness.

“Padre?”

A feeble, “Jorge,” echos back at him through the darkness.

“Hold on, padre. I’m coming.”

Jorge gets hold of a clump of bricks, wrenching it free. He turns, making his way back to the stairwell, only to be greeted by Veronica. She has her arms cradled, ready to take the load from him. He doubts her ability to carry the weight, but the sad look on her face is such that he understands. Like him, she will do all she can to free survivors. He releases the weight of the bricks into her outstretched arms. Her shoulders sag, but she keeps hold of the debris. Veronica turns and stacks the bricks. It’s a struggle, but she’s as stubborn as the old fisherman.

Tiny fingers protrude from the rock pile, wriggling to get free.

“Easy,” Jorge whispers, shifting more debris.

“I’ll pass the children through to you,” Padre Jesus says from the darkness. He pushes a child ahead of him.

One by one, children crawl through the gap. Some of them are crying. It’s the ones that aren’t that worry Jorge. They limp on crushed bloody feet. A few nurse flayed arms. For now, shock insulates them from the pain.

“That’s it. That’s all,” Padre Jesus says from the darkness. Jorge wants to question him, to insist there are more, but the padre’s voice conveys sorrow. There’s resignation in his words.

Jorge turns to Veronica. Their eyes lock and she says, “Twelve.” Never before did Jorge consider how the simplest of words could hurt so much. Twelve out of how many? Sixty? Seventy? His heart sinks.

He lies on his belly, pushing into the tunnel and reaching out with his hands. Broken timber beams threaten to crush him. They shift as his shoulders make contact with the rubble.

“And you,” he calls out. “Where are you?”

“I—I’m,” Padre Jesus begins. “Leave me. I have run my race.”

“No.”

“I’m stuck. Pinned. My legs. I can’t feel my legs.”

“Reach out with your hands,” Jorge says. He shuffles with his feet, trying not to dislodge any rocks as he inches forward into the darkness. A tiny hand touches his ankle behind him. Fingers grab his skin, just above his sock. Without uttering a single word, Veronica is pleading with him to go no further. Jorge understands. She’s scared. She doesn’t want to lose him. Neither does he.

“Please, padre,” Jorge says, stretching his arm into the darkness. He shifts his hand over the rubble, feeling an opening. His fingers touch thin strands of hair. He feels around, shifting broken bricks and dirt. His fingertips detect a face, eyes, the outline of a nose, lips, blood-soaked clothing, but no life.

Jorge pushes further in, feeling the rocks shift over him. Veronica’s hand tightens around his leg as she follows him into the darkness.

In the darkness, he brushes against the palm of an outstretched hand. Fingers close over his.

“Is that you, my brother,” the padre says.

“It’s me,” Jorge says, squeezing his fingers.

Jorge wriggles forward a little, getting a good grip on the padre’s wrist, locking his fingers around his arm.

“I’m going to pull you out, okay?”

There’s no response. Jorge edges back, but it’s difficult to get traction without bending his knees. Arching his back causes rocks to shift. Debris threatens to crush and entomb him. Dust clogs the air, making it difficult to breathe. Padre Jesus turns side-on, grabbing at Jorge’s arm with his other hand, getting a firm grip. He grimaces, groaning as Jorge pulls him.

Crawling backward is slow, exhausting work. Jorge rocks on his elbows and knees, ignoring the ache in his leg and the blood dripping from his forehead. The padre cries out in pain, but Jorge doesn’t let go. He backs out into the landing in front of the collapsed cellar. Jorge’s legs are free, then his waist and finally his chest.

“Nearly there.”

Padre Jesus is hyperventilating. He tries to help, but Jorge does most of the work, dragging him through the rubble.

Once Jorge’s outside, he’s able to kneel and edge the padre the last few feet. Padre Jesus is weak. He collapses as Jorge drags him out. Jorge grabs him under his arms and pulls him free of the debris. It’s then he sees the padre’s legs.

“Is he okay?” Veronica asks. “Is he going to be okay?”

Jorge can’t lie. “We need to get him out of here.”

Ideally, Jorge would like someone to carry the padre’s legs. They’re a bloody mess. The padre’s feet have been crushed. Mangled flesh oozes from his shoes. His lower left leg is broken. Blood drips from a white bone protruding from his torn jeans.

Jorge cradles him, lifting gently. He has one arm behind his back and the other tucked under his knees.

“Easy, my friend,” Jorge says, climbing the stairs.

A dozen children stand inert on the gravel driveway, numb to what they’re seeing and feeling.

“What are we going to do?” Veronica asks, staying close to Jorge. He hears her but doesn’t know what to say. What is there any of them can do beyond survive this moment and hope for the next?

Jorge rests the padre against a tree.

“I’m sorry, my friend. This is going to hurt.”

Padre Jesus whimpers, bracing himself. He presses his hands against the dirt. His fingers clutch at rocks on the ground as Jorge straightens his broken leg. Rather than screaming into the night, Padre Jesus has the presence of mind not to cry out in agony. The children are already terrified. He grits his teeth, moaning.

Jorge removes his shirt, wrapping it over the padre’s injured leg, bundling it up so it acts as a bandage. He ties a length of wood against the padre’s leg, acting as a splint.

“Listen,” Jorge says, addressing not only Padre Jesus but the children around him. “I’m going to go down to the city. Maria keeps a First Responder kit in the cupboard. It has painkillers and bandages.”

He takes Veronica by the shoulders, saying, “You’re in charge, okay?”

Trembling lips precede a slight nod.

“I want you to keep everyone together. Hug each other. Stay warm. I’ll be back soon.”

“You promise?” she asks.

“I promise.”

Padre Jesus can barely speak beyond a whimper, but he manages, “Be careful, my friend.”

Aftermath

Nolan pushes on up the seemingly endless concrete stairs.

The battery-powered emergency system is still working, lighting each landing. Coming down from the White House, the team was able to use elevators most of the way. They only had to walk down a couple of hundred feet to the basement. The trek back up, though, is a marathon. The elevator is out of order. By his estimate, there are over a thousand stairs between them and the East Wing. Voices echo down from above. They’re indistinct, but the prospect of reaching the top urges them on.

By the time the two of them reach ground level, Nolan can feel a solid burn in his thighs. His lower left calf muscle is starting to twitch, on the verge of pulling. Getting old. Damn it.

A staff member leads them through to the West Wing.

The Situation Room has been expanded, overflowing into the hallway. White House staff have pushed narrow tables up against the far wall in the corridor. They’ve positioned laptops and landline phones every few feet. Network cables disappear into a bundle snaking its way over the table legs. Chairs have been neatly pushed in, maximizing the space. Staff squeeze back and forth along the corridor. Getting around someone that’s seated demands timing.

Most of the President’s Cabinet are operating out of Camp David. SecDef, SecState, and the Secretary of Homeland Security have remained by her side. Their aides work magic, reaching out to departmental staff working through the night. Everyone’s trying to assess the damage to infrastructure around the country.

Nolan gets a glimpse inside the Situation Room itself. Standing room only. The televisions are black with one exception. Although the sound is off, subtitles reveal CNN is reporting from the southern coast. There’s footage coming in from somewhere near Corpus Cristi. The rolling chyron catches his eye.

NOAA are reporting deep water buoy displacement between 30-40 feet.

Expecting waves to increase in height in shallow waters

Estimates range from 120 to 140 feet in height.

A wall of water is expected to overwhelm Padre Island and Galveston.

Surge flooding is predicted to occur in Houston, New Orleans, Mobile, Pensacola, and Tampa.

A general evacuation is in force for all areas within fifty miles of the coast.

Evacuate now if you are in these regions.

Someone pushes past Nolan, squeezing into the room with a sheet of paper held high like a flag. They’re trying to get someone’s attention without yelling.

Kath grabs a seat at the dead-end of the corridor just beyond the Situation Room. Smart. Nolan sits beside her. She’s got her own laptop and fires up both that and the one provided, sitting them side by side.

Nolan logs on to his laptop and checks mail, chat, and secure channels. There’s a lot of activity, but none of it is directed at him. As much as he wants to jump in, he needs to let people do their work. As frustrating as it is, he’ll hinder rather than help.

The officer next to him is working the phones. He’s got the White House Immediate Issues database open on his laptop and is taking calls. Although he answers, “White House Communications Center,” he’s speaking so fast that the phrase merges to become a single word. In barely a second, he rattles off, “Whit-Ouse-Communique-Cinder.”

When he finishes his call, Nolan asks, “How can I help?”

“Oh, general. You don’t need to.”

“All hands on deck,” Nolan says. “I’m not above fielding calls if it’ll help.”

“Okay,” Sergeant Eugene Russo says, leaning over and logging Nolan into the database using his own credentials. “Punch 101 to pick up the next waiting call. Triage is being handled by McGuire. He’s looking for summary information—who called, where they’re from, what they’re reporting, the impact, and if possible the expected resolution time.”

“Got it,” Nolan says, seeing the fields in front of him.

Over the next half an hour, the two men race through calls. “Whit-Ouse-Communique-Cinder,” seems to roll off the tongue.

Utility companies inform him of blown transformers, burned-out power plants, melted insulation. These aren’t problems that can be fixed by simply rebooting a computer. A good portion of America is going dark for days, if not weeks.

Amidst the gloom, one call, in particular, gets Nolan’s attention.

“Dr. Jackie Williams here from the Department of Energy.”

“Go ahead, Dr. Williams.”

“I need to speak to someone with an understanding of nuclear science.”

“I can log your call,” Nolan says. “From there, all calls are being triaged for importance and impact.”

Dr. Williams’ voice quivers. “You don’t understand. This is extremely important. It’s impossible. I’ve got to get this through to senior management. Someone needs to know what just happened.”

Rather than working herself into a frenzy, she’s coming down from a panic attack.

“Please hold,” Nolan says. He taps Kath on the shoulder, asking, “What do you know about nukes?”

“Nukes?” Kath says, alarmed.

“Power, not bombs,” Nolan clarifies.

“Ah, the basics.”

“That’ll do.”

He switches the phone to speaker and moves it around the other side of his laptop so it’s closer to Kath. Around them, there’s a constant stream of voices, a cacophony of sound. Individual words are seemingly indistinguishable. They could be in a bar on a Friday night.

“I’ve got Dr. Kath McKenzie with me,” Nolan says over the background noise. “Go ahead.”

“This is Dr. Jackie Williams from DoE. We’re fielding dozens of calls from nuclear reactors around the country. They’re asking us what we know about the alien spacecraft. They’re saying they saw spikes in their reactor heat exchange. I’ve got at least two with failed core pumps and pressure leaks.”

Kath says, “They should have been in a safe position to prevent reactions.”

“That’s the crazy thing,” Dr. Williams says. “They were!”

“What? That’s not possible.”

“I know!”

“And you’ve confirmed their boron control rods were down at the point An̆duru passed overhead?”

“Yes,” she says over the commotion around them. “They’ve sent me graphs showing neutron counts going through the roof. These spikes lasted for about thirty seconds after the passage of your spacecraft. If we’d been under load, we would have had meltdowns. Multiple meltdowns.”

“Where?” Kath asks. “Are we talking Southwest?”

“Nope. We’ve seen this as far afield as Vermont and Washington State. I can’t even raise those in the Southwest.”

“How is this possible?” Kath asks.

“I was hoping you’d know.”

“And now?” Nolan asks. “Is there a current danger of reactors going into meltdown?”

“No,” Dr. Williams replies. “But you don’t understand. The physics are all wrong. This is not possible. It shouldn’t have happened. Anywhere. Not with the boron rods lowered. We were in safe mode, but it was as though we were running hot.”

“She’s right,” Kath says. “This is impossible, and yet it happened.”

“Okay,” Nolan says. “I’ll flag this as a priority call.”

“And this is Dr. Jackie Eliza Williams from the DoE, right?” Kath asks.

“Yes.”

“Alright, I’ve got your contact details here on my screen. I’ll send you my details and loop you into a broader discussion on this.”

“Good. Good,” Dr. Williams says, sounding relieved.

“Thank you,” Nolan says for no other reason than he’s not sure quite how else to end the call. After hanging up, he turns to Kath, saying, “Bad?”

“Real bad,” Kath says. “Like this would worry Albert Einstein level of bad.”

“Oh.”

“Can you reach out within the military,” she asks. “Anything with a nuclear reactor. Anything with nuclear weapons. We need to know how widespread this problem is.”

“But it’s over,” Nolan says. “Right? They’re gone.”

Kath doesn’t answer straight away. Finally, she says, “Oh, they’re gone, but I get the feeling this might just be the beginning.”

The Wave

Jorge limps to his truck. Although he’d parked in front of the orphanage, his truck is now thirty feet further down the road. The cab is half in a ditch, with the rear pushed up against a telephone pole.

The keys are still in the ignition. It’s a bad habit but one he doesn’t regret tonight. He turns the key, looking for the telltale light of his diesel glow plug. Nothing.

“Damn it.”

As he’s on a slope, he turns the ignition on regardless and releases the handbrake. The truck begins rolling down the hill, giving him enough momentum to steer out of the ditch and onto the road.

Jorge puts the truck in gear and pops the clutch. The diesel splutters but refuses to come to life. He’s started his truck like this before with faulty glow plugs, but not at night when it’s cool. He tries again. A cloud of black smoke bursts from the exhaust. The engine splutters. Rather than starting, the motor simply turns over. If anything, the mechanical action slows rather than drives him on. As he’s descending a steep slope, it’s not a bad option. Jorge approaches the city. He puts his truck in neutral and lets it free-wheel across a concrete bridge. With what little momentum he has, he steers into a side street and toward his home.

Fires rage across the city, lighting up the night. Flames lick the sky. Smoke billows into the cool air. People stagger through the darkness, oblivious to what’s happening around them. They wander in front of his truck as it quietly rolls to a stop. He’s a hundred yards from home. Being in the lee of the hill, his old shack has escaped the full force of the pressure wave that hit the orphanage.

Jorge gets out and rushes toward his house, loping rather than running, favoring his good leg.

“Jorge?” a voice calls from the darkness. Antonio and Juana, two of his neighbors, ride up to him on bicycles. “Jorge, what are you doing here? Maria said you’d gone.”

“I was at the orphanage,” he replies.

“We’re leaving,” Juana says.

“I have another bike,” Antonio says. “It’s a child’s bike, but you could ride it.”

Juana says, “We’re heading for Cordoba.”

“I have to help Padre Jesus,” Jorge says.

“The wave is coming,” Antonio says.

“We have to get inland,” Juana says. “To the mountains.”

“Go,” Jorge says. “Tell Maria, I’m with the orphans.”

Antonia and Juana ride off into the smoke, pedaling hard, turning toward the hill by the orphanage. Antonia races ahead. Juana stands above the saddle of her bicycle as she hits the incline. She rocks, shifting her weight from one pedal to another, determined to keep up with her husband.

Jorge runs into his house. He flicks the light switch. Nothing. Moonlight drifts in through the windows. He rushes through the kitchen, bumping into chairs in the dark. Inside the hall cupboard, he finds a First Responder kit. Maria uses it for paramedic duty on the weekends. It’s a big, bulky backpack. Jorge throws it over his shoulders. He grabs at the straps, tightening them, adjusting the weight. Damn, it’s heavy.

Outside, there’s an unusual noise. Flapping. Only it’s not curtains caught in a breeze or a wooden shutter moving with the wind. Jorge steps out onto the porch. Hundreds of fish lie scattered across the exposed seabed, flipping around. They’re desperate, trying to find any remaining pools of water. His trawler is lying on its hull, leaning to one side in the mud along with boats and ships all along Vera Cruz. Peering through the darkness, the waterline is nowhere to be seen. The ocean has drawn back well beyond the low tide mark.

“This is not good.”

Jorge runs. Adrenalin masks the pain in his hip and leg, allowing him to jog along the boardwalk. Rather than backtracking to the road and losing time by going inland, he takes the coastal path. Padre Jesus loves this walk because it catches the cool sea breeze.

Sand flicks from Jorge’s boots. Before long, the path ends, and he runs through the dunes. Beach grass is crushed beneath his boots as he tries to avoid the slower, soft sand.

The trail winding up the hillside next to the cliff weaves back and forth. His lungs are burning, while his heart feels as though it’s about to burst out through his ribs. At seventy-eight, it’s been half a century since Jorge ran this hard. Pain seizes his chest, shooting down his arms. Sweat runs down his neck.

“Mother Mary,” he manages between breaths. “Don’t fail me now.”

Jorge’s boots catch on the rocks. He stumbles but refuses to relent, forcing his weary thighs to push on. Somehow, his legs drive him higher.

“I ask this not for me,” he says, leaning forward and gripping at the straps leading over his back. “But for them.”

Jorge rushes up the rocky path. Within a hundred yards, he’s in agony. His heart is about to explode. His arteries ache, struggling to pump blood to his lungs. His body is screaming for oxygen. He thumps himself on the chest, hitting his pectoral muscles.

“No, no, no.”

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, his body is shutting down, forcing him to slow. Lifting each boot is like dragging in a net when the winch fails on his trawler. Inches pass like miles.

“I—I can’t,” he says, turning and falling into the grass clinging to the hillside. He lands on the backpack. Willpower alone cannot overcome his aging body. He surrenders, sucking in air. For a moment, he lies there with trembling arms. Jorge leans against the First Responder backpack. His boots slip on the loose gravel. The path is narrow. It’s barely wide enough for one person at a time. Stones fall away, cascading down to the rocks below.

Out at sea, something catches his eye. It takes a few seconds before he realizes what he’s looking at in the moonlight. A wall of water is rushing toward the coast, rising over the horizon, sweeping down from the north. White tips are visible at the crest, catching what little light there is in the darkness.

Jorge gets to his feet. There’s no time to follow the path. He cuts straight up the hill. Weary fingers grab at saplings and bushes. Every twenty feet or so, he crosses the trail. For a moment, he lowers his arms, allowing blood to run back to his fingertips before pushing higher.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think the roar behind him was from a jet engine, but it’s the wave thundering in toward the coast. With a firm grip on a sapling growing out of the side of the hill, he turns. A hundred-foot wave decimates Vera Cruz. The wall of water swamps the town, extinguishing flames. Black water drowns the slums, rushing inland, flowing around buildings. The wave follows the network of roads, reaching toward the farmland. Within a matter of seconds, entire city blocks are swamped. Buildings crumble, slipping beneath the dark water.

Salt spray flies through the air. The wave breaks against the cliff beneath the orphanage, rising up the rocks and roaring in anger. Water splashes over the hillside, swirling as it rises toward him. Waves slap at the trail, washing away trees and shrubs.

Jorge pushes higher as the water rises, swelling below him. Waves crash, soaking him, catching his legs. Rocks shift beneath his boots, threatening to send him plunging into the dark sea. His fingers grip at a clump of grass. The roots shift, coming loose as he scrambles, kicking with his legs, driving higher. Seawater washes over his boots, eroding the loose dirt beneath him. His fingers slip on the wet bark of a thin sapling.

Above the roar of the water, a young girl’s voice carries on the wind, yelling, “Hold on!”

To Jorge’s horror, Veronica slides down the hillside toward him. She slips, skidding on the loose rocks and foliage.

“No,” he yells, fearing she’ll lose her footing. From somewhere deep within his soul, he finds reserves he never knew he had. With a surge of strength, he launches himself up onto the next section of track. No sooner is he there than Veronica comes barreling toward him. She throws her arms around his neck as he sits there on the trail. Below them, the water subsides, washing inland, submerging the land. Capsized boats bob on the surface, dragged along by the current.

Part of the hillside collapses, sliding into the murky waters. Veronica takes his hand. She tugs, urging him on.

“You’re going to be okay,” she says, repeating his line back to him. She pulls on his arm. Jorge would laugh were it not for his legs trembling beneath him.

He follows along behind her, saying, “Yes. I think we’re going to be okay.”

Nuclear

Without going through official channels, getting anything out of the US military is nigh on impossible. The handful of bases Nolan can reach are besieged by suspicion. Oh, yeah, this is the White House calling, huh? Right. Fuck off.

Finally, he gets hold of one of his old squad buddies at Andersen Air Force Base in Guam.

“Steely, this is Nolan.”

There’s a slight pause before he hears the reply, “Jesus Fucking Christ, Landis. What the hell is happening over there?”

“It ain’t pretty,” Nolan says, leaning forward and muzzling the phone. Although everyone around him has top-secret clearance, Nolan knows what he’s about to ask is going to be alarming. “Listen. I need you to do me a favor. I’m in Washington. This thing has got a lot of people rattled.”

“No shit.”

“Can you check the armory for me? Are you still carrying the B-61 nukes as an option for your B-2s?”

“You’re kidding, right? It’s the middle of the goddamn night. Everyone’s on a razor. Right now, they’d shoot at shadows. You know we saw it, huh?”

“You saw An̆duru?”

“Yeah, damn thing was booking due west. Looked like a shooting star, only brighter and curving through the sky like a goddamn arrow. Level with me, buddy. Are we under attack?”

“I don’t know,” Nolan says. “I need to know the status of those B-61s. Are they dummies? Or the real thing? Do they have an active core? Are they intact?”

“Intact? You’re fucking with me, right?”

“No,” Nolan says.

“Sweet Jesus. They’d better be intact.”

“Find out for me, will yah?”

“Hold on,” he says.

While he’s waiting, Nolan logs into the IMS app spying on nuclear activity around the globe. The secure site is up, but access is slow. He brings up recent satellite imagery. Nolan cocks his head sideways, propping the phone between his chin and shoulder as he works with his laptop.

The International Monitoring System is designed to avoid nuclear misunderstandings between countries. IMS tracks the possibility of ballistic launches. It also monitors known nuclear arsenals and fixed launch sites. And it’s not limited to Russia. IMS includes satellite imagery of the Minuteman missile silos scattered across Montana, Wyoming, Nebraska, and the Dakotas. Any activity is automatically logged for compliance checks against arms limitation treaties. Even website maintenance is flagged as it can be used to covertly switch out warheads. With most launch locations set underground, thermal imaging and ground-penetrating radar are used to ensure compliance. Logs are kept of any vehicles visiting known sites.

In the background, Nolan can hear Colonel Steele jumping in a vehicle. He’s talking to someone at a military checkpoint.

Nolan brings up imagery from Russia. He checks the timestamp—barely an hour old. Derzhavinsk, Kansk, and Svobodny all have multiple emergency vehicles on site. Fire engines. Trucks. Water tankers. Irkutsk and Uzhur have smoke drifting from their silos. The concrete covers on the Teykovo site are open. Dark, pungent smoke billows from a cluster of five silos deep in the Siberian wilderness. The lids on these sites are rarely opened. Each lid weighs over a thousand tons. They’re built from reinforced concrete and designed to withstand a first strike. Nolan’s never seen one open before, let alone all five at once.

In the background, he can hear chatter over the phone. A car engine idles. There’s a heated discussion unfolding in Guam.

“You cannot approach any closer, sir. I’m sorry. We’re dealing with a potential broken arrow.”

“You catching this?” Steely asks Nolan. “DoE manage these things on base. They’re not letting anyone get close.”

“Yeah,” Nolan says. “Can you get any more detail?”

“Listen,” Steely says to someone standing nearby. “I’ve got the goddamn White House on the line… No, I am not shitting you. What do you know? Tell me what you know.”

It’s hard to make out the exact reply over all the chatter in the corridor outside the Situation Room, but Nolan catches a few key phrases.

“Radiation alarm… armory sealed… nuclear material exposed… Cannot access until specialists suit up…”

“Did you get that?”

“Yeah, I got that,” Nolan says. “Hey, email me updates, okay?”

“Will do, buddy.”

Nolan hangs up. His hand lingers on the phone. His eyes gaze down at the laptop keyboard. For a moment, he’s numb. He brings up IMS imagery for the Dakotas, but the latest images are from twelve hours ago. Nolan has no idea about the frequency of satellite passes. He can’t wait any longer.

“Dr. McKenzie,” he says, which gets Kath’s attention as he hasn’t called her that in months.

“Have you got any updates?” she asks.

“You?” he asks, ignoring her question for a moment.

“I’m still trying to put all the pieces together,” she says. “Sarah Hendi at JPL heard from the team at IceCube. Their experiment blew a gasket.”

“Ice cube?”

“IceCube’s an observatory at the South Pole. A bunch of highly-sensitive detectors buried in the ice. It’s looking for neutrinos from supernovae, black hole mergers, stuff like that.”

“And?”

“And it got fried. As An̆duru passed through our atmosphere, it created plasma in its bow wave. We were expecting this. The shockwave triggered a cascade of highly energetic subatomic particles. Neutrino measurements went off the charts. But it makes no sense. Neutrinos are neutral. They can’t cause spikes in a nuclear reactor.”

“General,” Sergeant Russo says from beside him. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I’ve got NORAD on the line asking for you.”

“Sure,” he says, turning away from Kath as she begins poring over the data.

Russo transfers the call to him.

“Landis here.”

“Tell me you saw this coming,” General Cooper says.

“I wish I had, sir.”

“I don’t know what the view is like from there in Washington, but out here, it’s bad. Even heavily shielded equipment has been fried. Nellis and Castle are out of action—entire bases taken down. McMasters got permission to relocate a dozen squadrons to Eielson up in Alaska. Spoke to him half an hour ago and they’re good, but anything in the southern states is a goddamn paperweight. They hit us hard. Real hard.”

Nolan types as the general talks, wanting to capture all the detail in the incident log.

“We have lost a good portion of our airpower,” Cooper says. “We ain’t fixing this overnight. It’s going to take a long time to claw this back.”

Nolan fights against the lump rising in his throat. “Understood.”

“I’ll let yah go, but keep an old dog in the loop, yah hear?”

“Will do, sir.”

As the line goes dead, a popup window appears briefly in the bottom right of Nolan’s laptop screen. It’s a preview of an incoming email from Colonel Steele out of Guam. The subject line reads: Grafenwoehr and Greenham Common also reporting broken arrows.

Nolan doesn’t need to read any more. He taps Kath on the shoulder as he gets to his feet, saying, “We need to talk to the President.”

“You don’t understand,” Kath says, obsessing over a spreadsheet full of numbers. She points at her screen. “Neutrinos don’t do anything. They’re entirely neutral. Tiny. Light. They barely interact with anything. They can fly right through the entire planet without hitting a single atom!”

“Could they cause this?” Nolan asks, squeezing past someone as he works his way into the Situation Room.

Kath follows him, replying, “A hundred trillion of them pass through you every second—regardless of where you are. Day or night. They’re ghosts. They’re everywhere all the time.”

Nolan pauses, turning back to her. “But could they?”

Kath’s eyes dart around. “Ah, maybe. I mean, at high enough volumes and energies. In theory, they could dislodge protons or neutrons from heavy elements like uranium. But we’ve never seen anything like this in the lab or at an observatory.”

“Yes, we have,” Nolan says.

“When?”

“Just now.”

The President sees the two of them pushing through the crowd and beckons them over. Several aides move back from the table, less than impressed at being sidelined by them.

“Tell me you’ve got some good news?” the President asks. “This thing is gone, right?”

“Yes,” Kath says. “We’re tracking it on course for Venus at 117 km/s. It shed roughly a third of its speed as it passed over the Gulf.”

“We’re in a bad way,” the President says, shaking her head. “We’ve lost the electrical grid throughout the Southwest. It’ll be days before it’s back online. My biggest worry at the moment is getting portable power to hospitals before their backup generators run dry. We’ve got looting in LA. Fires raging in Houston. Then there’s food supply. Just getting trucks moving again is going to be difficult. Motors aren’t restarting. Even diesel engines. If our supply lines fail, we’ll have real problems. And we’ve got a humanitarian crisis unfolding south of the border. Mexico did not take this well. Neither did Honduras.”

She flicks a button on the TV remote, changing the channel as she asks, “Have you seen this?”

An eerie green glow fills the dark sky, waving like a curtain in a breeze. Below the ghostly haze, sprites reach down into the clouds. They appear as faint red funnels, barely visible in the night. Lightning crackles from on high, breaking from the stratosphere. Lightning bolts reach down into the low cloud cover, causing them to glow from within.

“That,” the President says, pointing, “is scaring the shit out of people. Tell me you expected this? Tell me this is normal.”

Kath says, “Oh. Ah, yeah. A high energy discharge like this will cause auroras. They’ll dissipate slowly over the next week. They won’t be visible during the day, though, only at night.”

“Good,” the President says. “So I’m not lying when I tell people we’re not being invaded.”

“No, ma’am,” Nolan says. “But we have been disarmed.”

The President’s eyes go wide.

“What???”

Fallout

“Everyone out!”

The President points at the door, but her eyes are on Nolan’s laptop. He’s brought up the IMS satellite imagery. Fires rage within nuclear silos in Russia.

“SecDef and Joint Chiefs only.”

Kath flinches, turning toward the door. Nolan reaches out, gently taking her arm. He assures her she’s exempt from the President’s ire. At a guess, she’d rather bail like everyone else. For someone that’s socially awkward like him, it’s funny seeing her wracked with anxiety for a change. Oh, he hates being caught off-guard, like when he was called in to speak with General Cooper or after the abduction, but this is different. For him, having strangers over for dinner the night An̆duru passed Saturn was more mentally taxing than being locked in the Situation Room with the President. It’s the formal nature of the relationship. Somehow that relieves the pressure. Regardless of the implications of what’s being discussed, Nolan’s able to compartmentalize the setting. He has a job—a function. All he has to do is his duty. Simple. Not easy, but straightforward. They both sit at the table.

“Explain.”

The President’s curt. Her clipped comments are the only sign of the stress she feels. She breathes deeply, bracing herself for what’s to come.

Admiral Jacobsen squeezes into the room, pushing past the half-open door with a handful of papers. McGuire is there as well. Apparently, like Nolan and Kath, he’s both invisible and exempt.

There’s no easy way to say this, so Nolan goes with, “They took out our nukes.”

The President shakes her head, saying, “What?”

“And not just us,” Nolan says, pointing at the Russian missile silos.

“What am I looking at?”

“Emergency vehicles responding to a radiation leak.”

“Wait a minute,” the President says. “You’re saying these creatures took out the nuclear capability of an entire planet? Across all nations? In just a few seconds? How is that possible?”

“Ah,” Kath says. “Elements like uranium and plutonium are unstable. They’re so heavy they’re slowly falling apart regardless. Half-life, right? You’ve heard of radioactive decay?”

The President nods.

Nolan relaxes. Kath is on edge. He might not understand the exact details, but he grasps the essence of what just happened. Kath is panicked. Whatever she says is going to be gobbledygook. She might as well blurt out a bunch of random scientific terms for all anyone in the room cares. It’s impossible to condense decades of research into a few sentences. The pained expression on her face reveals her anguish. She struggles with how to articulate this for the President. She’s going to end up with a word salad.

“The plasma formed during the high altitude braking maneuver caused atoms to fuse.”

Kath brings her two fists together, visually portraying what she’s describing.

“That fusion released a surge of subatomic particles cascading through the atmosphere. From what we understand, it formed a neutrino shockwave. An invisible wall moving at close to the speed of light.”

She rests her trembling hands on the wooden table.

“Neutrinos are harmless. Billions of them pass through us every second. Most of them come from the Sun. Not only will they pass through us, they’ll pass right through dozens of planets without hitting anything.”

“But?” the President says.

“But occasionally, they hit a nucleus.”

“Occasionally?”

“Under normal circumstances, yes. Large atoms, like uranium, are big targets. They’re also more loosely held together.”

“And?” the President asks, showing astonishing restraint as Kath struggles to get to the point.

“The surge that came when An̆duru passed overhead was off the charts. That surge caused our nuclear material to overheat.”

“Have any of our nukes detonated?” the President asks. “Are we going to wake to mushroom clouds in the sky?”

“No, ma’am,” Kath says. “The design of our weapons is such that nuclear material is kept below critical mass. The shockwave of neutrinos caused our uranium and plutonium to overheat. The temperature would have reached five to six hundred degrees.”

Nolan says, “Enough to disable but not detonate our bombs.”

“Yes,” Kath says.

“Jesus,” the President says. “So An̆duru buzzed Earth, knocked out the US electrical grid, and disabled every goddamn nuclear weapon on the planet?”

Kath shrinks a little. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she manages a sheepish, “Yes.”

“How sure of this are you?” the President asks, turning to Nolan.

“I’ve heard from US bases in Guam, the United Kingdom, and Germany. They’re all reporting nuclear accidents. We won’t know the full extent of the damage until dawn when we can collate responses from across our nuclear triad.”

“But it doesn’t look good?”

“No, ma’am. There might have been some nuclear devices that survived. But given we’re seeing this as far afield as Siberia, though, I doubt it.”

Kath says, “We’ve also had damage to civilian reactors.”

The President buries her head in her hands.

Nolan hesitates. He doesn’t want to burden the President with more bad news, but his sense of duty compels him. She needs to know what they’re dealing with.

“We may have sustained damage to nuclear-powered vessels like our aircraft carriers and subs. Again, we won’t know for sure until we can get everyone to report in.”

“Mitch,” the President says, addressing the Secretary of Defense. “Have you heard anything?”

“Isolated nuclear incidents, ma’am,” he replies. “But we’re still trying to establish communication with a lot of our bases. If they’re managing a radiation leak, they’re probably scrambling to contain the problem. We may not get formal notification until they’ve got things under control.”

“I want to know,” the President says. She presses her index finger against the desk as though it were a button on a keyboard executing a command. “I need to understand our military readiness across the board.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How long before this thing comes back?” she asks, addressing Kath.

“That depends on its final speed after passing Venus, but it’s going to be months, not weeks.”

“So this is a shot across the bow,” the President says, turning to the Secretary of Defense, who’s gone distinctly pale.

Kath jumps on that point. “We still don’t know that this was intentional.”

The President laughs, shaking her head. “Kath. We would be naive to think this was an accident. They know what they’re doing, right? You’ve said as much yourself. For us, this visit is a surprise. For them, it’s the result of planning and preparation.

“We have been hit with a measured, targeted attack. The passage of An̆duru was designed to cripple our most effective deterrent. I know you want to believe they come in peace. They don’t. That much is clear. Whether we like it or not, we are at war.”

Kath hangs her head.

“Whether it’s weeks or months, we don’t have long,” McGuire says.

Nolan says, “And Earth is huge. We have no way of knowing where they’ll make landfall, but if I was them, I’d be going to the hardest-hit areas.”

McGuire shakes his head. Nolan gets it—it’s not that McGuire disagrees but rather that he hates the implications for the US.

“We have to be ready,” the President says, gesturing to McGuire. “I need to talk to the British and the European Union, followed by the Canadians and the Australians. We’ve got to start thinking about defense.”

“What about the Chinese?” Admiral Jacobsen asks. “And the Russians?”

“We’re in this together,” the President says. “Regardless of whether it’s South Africa, Saudi Arabia, India, or Indonesia, we need to stand together. If one of us is attacked, we’re all in the fight. No country should stand alone.”

“Agreed,” the admiral says. “We could set up geographic defense zones. Have each country manage and monitor their own zone. If an attack comes, we all wade in.”

“Okay,” McGuire says. “This is going to take some work at a diplomatic level, but it’s the only viable approach.”

“I need options,” the President says. “I need scenarios. Based on what we’ve seen, what’s likely? How can we defend ourselves? What weaknesses could they exploit? How do we protect our people? Do we evacuate major cities to reduce the way our population is concentrated? What industries are critical to a protracted war? Should we be hiding some of our strike capability, like the Russians are doing with their subs?”

Kath shakes her head.

Nolan says, “We have an X-37 already armed and in orbit.”

The President raises an eyebrow, as does Kath.

Nolan explains. “They’re a miniature shuttle—a drone.”

“What’s it armed with?” McGuire asks.

“A rail-gun,” Nolan replies. “It’s the modern equivalent of a crossbow. No explosives. It’s simple and effective.”

He brings up an image on his laptop, showing them a spacecraft sitting on a runway. A couple of engineers stand next to the vessel, giving them some perspective. The X-37 is small for a spaceship. It’s roughly the size of a delivery van, perhaps slightly longer.

The X-37 looks like a miniature Space Shuttle. Its delta wings, along with its white upper body and black underbelly, are all familiar. Dark tiles line the leading edge of the wings and the tip of what should be the cockpit, but there are no windows. The front of the craft has been sealed with white panels.

The Space Shuttle was huge, big enough that engineers could walk beneath it. They’d have to crawl beneath the X-37.

“No crew,” Nolan says. “We timed the orbit so it was on the other side of the planet during the encounter. That bird can stay up there for years if needed.”

“Okay,” the President says. “So we have an ace in the hole.”

“Wait?” Kath says. “You’ve been planning for this all along?”

“We’d be negligent if we didn’t,” Nolan says.

“You want to go to war with them?”

“Nobody wants anything,” the President says. “They came to us, remember. Unannounced. Uninvited. And hostile.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Kath says.

Nolan is stunned. He’s used to debates within a leadership group, but not dissent. In the Air Force, there comes a point where swallowing pride is mandatory. Once a decision is made, the discussion is over. Time to unify. Make the best of it and move on. But Kath is digging in. It’s as though she has no respect for authority. If it weren’t for Nolan including her in the early days of the crisis, she wouldn’t be within several thousand miles of this room. Regardless, she feels she has a right to speak out.

“This is madness,” Kath says.

“How so?” McGuire asks. “Since when has the defense of the United States been madness?”

Kath taps the desk in front of her, saying, “War is not a universally understood concept, even here on Earth. The only animals that go to war are those with territorial colonies—humans, chimps, meerkats, ants. You don’t see tigers going to war, or elephants, or eagles. War doesn’t exist for sharks or snakes.

“As big as we think it is, Earth is tiny. There’s no territorial incentive for them to start a war. We’re interpreting this as an act of war, but it could be a purely defensive measure. None of our bombs went off, right? They may not even have the concept of war. For them, this could be an entirely pragmatic move for their own safety. This could be the celestial equivalent of a police officer taking a gun from a suspect.”

“Kath,” Nolan says, but she cuts him off.

“No, wait a minute. You’re sitting here planning the end of the world without having all the facts.”

“We’ll never have all the facts,” McGuire says.

“We can’t wait any longer,” the President says. “We listened to you. We listened to the science and look at what happened. We were sideswiped. Blindsided. I cannot allow that to happen again. We must defend ourselves.”

“From what?” Kath asks, incensed. “From a civilization that’s hundreds, perhaps thousands of years ahead of us? That is equal parts insane and unrealistic. If they can strip the entire planet of nuclear weapons in under a minute, what do you think they’ll do to an M1-Abrams tank?”

She laughs, shaking her head in disbelief.

“What would you have me do?” the President asks, exasperated. “Nothing?”

Kath speaks with careful deliberation, slowly enunciating each word. “Do—not—panic.”

McGuire raises his voice, pointing at the far wall, on the verge of yelling as he says, “People are dying out there! Don’t you get that?”

Kath points at the table in front of her, saying, “And we can make that worse. Us. Right here. Right now. We can make that exponentially worse if we make ill-informed snap decisions.”

“Like what?” Nolan asks.

“Like emptying our cities,” Kath says, referring to one of the earlier points. “It’s winter. All our supporting infrastructure is focused on sustaining millions of people in cities. Food. Water. Electricity. Fuel. Health. Roads and rail. If we panic and people scatter, they’ll overwhelm the surrounding communities, and people—will—die. A lot of people.”

Reluctantly, the President nods.

Kath says, “We can’t sit here thinking the enemy is out there somewhere in space. Our own fear can be just as explosive and damaging.

“We’re in uncharted territory. We need to proceed with caution. An̆duru isn’t predictable, but humans are. If we panic, we’ll react without thinking and make things worse. It’s a lot harder to undo a problem than it is to avoid it in the first place.”

“So what would you have us do?” Nolan asks. It’s notable that neither the Secretary of Defense nor the President asked that question. He’s sure they’re wondering the same thing.

Kath leans forward with her elbows on the table, pushing her hands up through her hair. She doesn’t know. None of them do. They’re guessing. To be fair, they’re all basing their comments on decades of expertise in their various fields, but this has never happened before. No one has any relevant experience to guide them.

Kath says, “I think we need to continue the two-pronged approach. We continue with the same strategy—throw water on the fire. We do everything we can to hose down any panic. Keep people calm.”

“That’s going to take more than smooth words,” McGuire says. “We are way beyond that.”

“No one is going to buy it,” the Secretary of Defense says. “Not anymore. We’ve already sold them that line. Repeating it is going to leave us looking like a bunch of liars. The public is going to assume we have something to hide.”

“And we do,” Nolan says.

McGuire adds. “This is going to get out. We have to accept that. There’s no way to contain something this big. We can keep these nuclear accidents quiet for a few days, but sooner or later, someone’s going to put all this together and realize the extent of what just happened—and the shit is going to hit the fan.”

Nolan says, “Think about the UK, France, Russia, China, India, Israel, Pakistan, Iran, North Korea. They’re all dealing with this. As soon as someone breaks ranks and goes public, it’s going to be very obvious what just happened.”

“I’m with SecDef on this,” McGuire says. “We can’t lie. As soon as we do, we lose all credibility. We need the trust of the people.”

“So we’re agreed,” the President says. “We have been attacked.”

From around the room, each of them nod in agreement—all except Kath.

The President reiterates her position with, “This is an act of war.”

Kath counters with, “If you say that, people are going to panic.”

To which McGuire says, “Our supermarket shelves are already empty.”

Nolan says, “We can avoid panic if we show we’re competent. We’ve fought wars before without hysteria. We have to treat this like any other war.”

“Yes,” McGuire says, liking that point. “We mobilize industry. We show strength. Confidence.”

Kath shakes her head in disagreement. She mumbles, “Not gonna work.”

The Secretary of Defense doesn’t care for her assessment. He says, “We have to win the war of popular opinion. Yes, we need to avoid panic. The only way to do that is for our people to be convinced we’re going to win.”

“But we’re not,” Kath says, feeling exasperated. “Because there is no war. If there was, and they wanted to win, they wouldn’t be skimming our atmosphere, they’d be hurling asteroids at us. And if they did that, there’s not a goddamn thing we could do about it.”

The President is quiet, weighing the options before her.

“Don’t give up on science,” Kath says, pleading with her. “Please.”

The President puts her hand out, resting it on Kath’s arm as she says, “You have to understand—there are different levels of reality in this world. You may not like that. I know I don’t. But you have to accept it.”

The President points at the door leading to the corridor. “Those people out there. They don’t have your composure. Your confidence. Your understanding or patience. They’re going to interpret this the only way they can—as an act of war.

“And I’m not just talking about America. Everyone beyond that blast-proof fire-door will see this as a precursor to a bigger attack—if not an invasion. They’re going to call it Pearl Harbor. Now you may know that’s not the case, but try telling that to the Russians or the Israelis or the government of Indonesia.”

Kath lowers her head.

“It’s my job to steer America through this,” the President says. “It’s my job to ensure every contingency is covered and every possible measure is pursued. It’s my job to work with other nations to secure our future. We can’t ignore what just happened. We have to call it out for what it is.”

Kath withdraws her hands from the table.

“Okay,” the President says. “So we declare a state of emergency, activate FEMA, and initiate the Defense Production Act. What’s the focus? Where do we need our industrial resources?”

Nolan says, “There’s no time to tool up. We need our existing defense industries to go into overdrive, but there’s no sense in getting automotive manufacturing plants to try to build missiles. Given we only have a month or so, it would hurt rather than help the effort.”

McGuire says, “But there would be some value in transferring materials. The defense industry would benefit from additional labor.”

“Yes,” the President says.

Nolan nods. McGuire is madly making notes.

“What about from a scientific perspective?” the President asks, offering Kath an olive branch. To Nolan’s mind, this is what makes Elizabeth Aston a great President. She’s inclusive, even of those she’s sidelined.

Kath is sullen. She says, “Like the military, the scientific community doesn’t need things so much as organization. From my perspective, the focus should be on civilian needs, stuff like bottled water and non-perishable food. That’s where panic is going to set in. People also need to understand there are some things they shouldn’t stock up on.”

“Like what?” the Secretary of Defense asks, genuinely intrigued by the notion.

“Gasoline. Extra cylinders for a BBQ would be fine, but the more gas someone stores, the more dangerous it becomes. The temptation will be to store gas in whatever’s available, but you’ll get leaks. A build-up of fumes can lead to a fire, stuff like that. It’s just not smart. People will think it’s smart because they want to avoid shortages, but it’s not.

“The same’s true of medicine. When summer rolls around and temperatures soar, the shelf-life of unrefrigerated medicine is short. At the moment, this will be a concern for countries in the Southern Hemisphere, but it’ll hit here too, eventually. We need to stop people from hoarding. They need to trust the system to deliver when needed or people will die. A lot of people will die. Things like insulin, asthma inhalers, heart medication. If there’s a run on those things, society will get ugly real fast.”

The President nods. Like Nolan, she can see Kath is trying to help.

“How do we stop people panicking?” Nolan asks.

McGuire laughs. “You’re new to politics, aren’t you?”

“It is a good question, though,” the President says.

Kath says, “Give them a placebo. Something to distract them. Something to believe in.”

“Like what?” the President asks.

“I dunno. Could be anything. It’s not really important what it is, so long as they think it’s important. Give them something to do so they feel confident about what’s coming.”

“What would you suggest?” McGuire asks.

Nolan asks, “What about a faraday cage? You know, for shielding electronics.”

“That might have worked a few hours ago,” Kath says dryly. “But it’s probably not relevant anymore as An̆duru isn’t likely to cause another pulse.”

“We don’t know that for sure, though, do we?” McGuire says, clearly liking the idea. “And importantly, they don’t know that.”

Nolan says, “We tell people to turn their garages into faraday cages so they have somewhere they can go to be safe. Line it with chicken wire and duct insulation.”

Kath glares at him.

“What?” he says in his defense. “Being busy is good, right? It will give people something to do. Keep them occupied.”

The President says, “Well, it’s a bit too much like tinfoil hats for me, but yes, I can see things like this working. It’ll give people an outlet for their energy. Jim’s right. Keep them busy and they won’t panic.”

Kath says, “We should continue preparing for peaceful contact. I know. I know. We’re at war and all that, but we should follow the advice of the UN First Contact Commission. We should try to make peaceful contact in orbit. If not there, then in the three locations identified as potential landing sites—the Sahara, the Mojave desert, and the Mongolian Steppes. If you want to drive down fear, you can do that by emphasizing contact in places that have low habitability, well away from cities.”

The President is quiet.

Kath continues with, “When people get scared, they internalize their fear. It becomes personal. We need them to frame things in a controlled manner—at arm’s length from themselves. If I think an alien warship is going to fly over my home, I’ll freak out. But if it’s happening somewhere over there—wherever there is—I’m going to feel a lot more comfortable.”

McGuire says, “Good. Okay, so we’ve got some practical alternatives to suck the oxygen out of this fire.”

“I like it,” the President says. “Distracting people is good. It allows us to get things done.”

“And arm ourselves to the teeth,” the Secretary of Defense says.

Kath hangs her head.

Nolan, though, is enthusiastic.

There’s nothing the military likes more than a plan.

Helicopter

Jorge rummages through the First Responder’s kit. Maria has stocked the pack with extra-strength painkillers, but it’s the appearance of the backpack itself that provides the most comfort. Seeing it unfold along with rows of neatly packed bandages and medical scissors, large tweezers, vials of saline solution, and ointment gives the kids hope.

Maria would be proud. Even though he barely knows what he’s doing, Jorge dons a pair of blue, disposable plastic gloves. He looks like a professional. This gives him an air of authenticity that helps calm the children. Veronica is his assistant. She tends to his every whim as he kneels in the dust. She finds various items when it feels as though his weary eyes are betraying him. Tomato stakes from the garden become splints. By the time Jorge’s finished with Padre Jesus and the injured children, the antibiotic cream and compression bandages are gone. Torn plastic packaging lies strewn across the ground.

One of the older children salvages a few blankets and pillows from the wreckage of the orphanage. He gathers the kids together under the tree and helps them settle.

Jorge wraps a blanket over Padre Jesus, keeping him warm against the night. He crushes painkillers, crumbling them into the padre’s mouth, but he doesn’t have any water he can give him.

“Thank you, my friend,” the padre says as Jorge finishes tending to his wounds.

Jorge is exhausted. Each blink of his eyes seems to take progressively longer. He leans on the backpack for a moment, resting his eyelids for a second.

Tiny hands shake him.

Sunlight blinds him.

“Wake up,” Veronica says, grabbing at his arm as it rests across his chest.

It’s dawn.

A helicopter flies low over the ruins of Vera Cruz. Jorge gets up, fighting his weary muscles. Several of the kids are standing on the hillside in front of the decimated orphanage. They wave their arms, swinging them back and forth, but the distant pilot doesn’t see them.

“We need a mirror,” Jorge says, walking over to the collapsed walls of the main building. Veronica never strays more than a few feet from him as he climbs up on the broken roof tiles and support beams.

“There,” she says, pointing. Shattered glass surrounds the upturned remains of a ceramic bathroom basin.

“Careful,” Jorge says, picking up a piece of broken drywall and tossing it aside. “Don’t cut your fingers.”

Veronica crouches, which is something he finds difficult. Jorge bends from his waist, looking among the debris. Slowly, Veronica pulls at a piece of mirror the size of a book, edging it out of the rubble and handing it to him.

They make their way back to the driveway, picking their way over the ruins. Jorge begins signaling with the mirror. He holds it so the silver surface catches the sun rising above the horizon. It’s guesswork, but Jorge directs the reflection at the helicopter. His movements are coarse as he’s playing with the angle, trying to cover as much area as he can. He can only hope a glint of light catches the eyes of the pilot. After a minute, the helicopter suddenly soars high in the air. It races up to an altitude of several thousand feet before turning toward them.

Veronica knows. She begins jumping, waving her hands. Jorge flashes the mirror a few more times. The helicopter faces directly at them, accelerating toward the hillside. The kids cheer. Jorge rushes over to Padre Jesus.

“They’re coming,” he says, pointing. The padre forces a smile, but he can’t speak. He’s in a horrific amount of pain.

An army helicopter circles the ruins, flying around the hill before picking a landing spot. The skids touch down at the point the gravel driveway meets the road. Several soldiers get out. With heads down, they run in toward them, carrying packs with a red cross set on a white background.

The rotor blades wind down but don’t stop. They slow to a leisurely pace, turning once every few seconds.

The lead soldier runs up to Jorge, but he’s not Mexican. The flag on his shoulder is comprised of three horizontal bands—yellow, blue, and red.

“How many of you are there?” the soldier asks, trying to conduct a headcount on the kids as they bounce around, excited at being rescued.

“Two adults. Twelve children.”

Veronica tugs on Jorge’s trouser leg, and he corrects himself.

“Thirteen.”

“Where have you come from?” Jorge asks, noticing the same flag on the side of the helicopter.

“Ecuador. We’re part of the humanitarian search and rescue mission. We came up early this morning in the back of a C130.”

Already, one of the medics is tending to Padre Jesus. Another examines the children with splints and slings. The loadmaster brings a stretcher over, laying it next to Padre Jesus.

The lead soldier says, “Okay. We’re going to take you to a field hospital further up the coast in Xalapa.”

“No, no,” Jorge says. “We need to go inland. My daughter. She’s an emergency nurse. She evacuated to Cordoba.”

“What’s her name?”

“Maria Rosa Ramírez.”

“Okay, let me talk to command. Come on, let’s get you on board.”

Jorge rounds up the kids. At first, he’s worried they might be afraid of climbing onto a helicopter, but they’re thrilled. Even those that are injured get caught up in the excitement. Padre Jesus is carried on a stretcher. The loadmaster positions him at the back of the helicopter. The children are seated on the floor of the cargo hold.

The pilot prepares to take off. The loadmaster closes both doors. He stands, holding onto a handle near the ceiling. Jorge joins him. Veronica is irrepressible. She kneels on the bench seat separating the cockpit from the hold, chatting with the pilot.

“I saw the alien.”

The pilot isn’t sure what to make of that comment. He replies, “Ah, huh,” turning and looking sideways at her cheerful smile. To be fair, Jorge’s not sure what the hell he saw either. Veronica bubbles with excitement.

“It breathes fire like a dragon!”

Jorge reaches out and gently pats her shoulder. Veronica takes his hand and sits down, ready for flight, squeezing his fingers. The rotors wind up to speed and the helicopter lifts smoothly into the sky, leaving the ground far behind.

From the air, the devastation is heartbreaking. The wave washed inland for miles, swamping homes, buildings, bridges, and farms.

Although the water has receded, debris lies scattered across the countryside. The beachfront is gone. It’s not merely that the pier and his house have been swept away. The shoreline itself has shifted over a hundred yards inland. Sunken rooftops are visible beneath the waves. The bridge Jorge drove over marks the start of the new beach. The creek running under the bridge is easily three times the size it was last night. One end of the concrete bridge has collapsed. Everything Jorge’s ever known is gone, having slipped beneath the ocean. His life has disappeared into the Gulf of Mexico, but not Maria, not Padre Jesus, not young Veronica. As much as it hurts to see his livelihood destroyed, he’s still got his family and friends.

The helicopter flies over the ruins of the slums.

Telephone poles and trees lie strewn along muddy roads. Roofs have become detached from dwellings, allowing Jorge to see inside hundreds of decimated homes. Occasionally, a roof is visible in a crop field or on the side of a railway bridge. Boats appear randomly in the middle of an otherwise pristine forest or perched on the median strip of a freeway. Upturned cars littered the roads. There are bodies, but from this height, they look like rag dolls. Jorge doubts the children peering out at their devastated homeland realize what they’re looking at. They seem more in awe of the helicopter than the heartache below.

The flight time to Cordoba is just a matter of minutes. A makeshift shantytown has popped up outside the city, about ten miles beyond the reach of the wave. The helicopter descends toward a field hospital. A large Red Cross dominates the canvas on the roof of the main tent. A helipad has been marked out with stones weighing down strips of fabric, giving the pilot a designated landing area.

A medical team awaits the chopper. They stand on the edge of the field with a couple of hospital gurneys. It’s not until the helicopter lands and the engine winds down that Jorge sees Maria rushing in toward him. He hops down from the helicopter and onto the muddy grass, helping lower each of the children to the ground. Nurses lead them away. It’s no surprise that Veronica is the last one to leave the chopper. Rather than jumping down like the others, she grabs hold of Jorge’s neck and swings into his arms.

Maria comes up to him, yelling over the whine of the engines.

“Oh, Papa. You had me so worried. I thought I’d lost you.”

“This one,” Jorge says, smiling as he looks at Veronica. “She’s a wild one like you. She took good care of me.”

Maria smiles, leaning in and kissing him on the rough stubble that’s formed on his cheeks.

NATO

Three days have passed since An̆duru buzzed the Gulf of Mexico.

Nolan’s barely slept, catching brief naps whenever he can. There’s just too much to get across. He’s not sure how long he can go on like this.

“Thank you for attending this virtual NATO meeting,” the President says. She’s seated within the Situation Room, talking to a camera, watching responses on a wall-mounted screen.

The President is flanked by the Secretary of Defense and Admiral Jacobsen, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Nolan is seated next to the admiral. The seat on the far side of SecDef is empty. It doesn’t go unnoticed by those on the video call. That seat could be for any member of the US Cabinet, but given Nolan’s been included, there’s a deeper meaning at play.

“Dr. McKenzie is not joining us?” the President of the French Republic asks.

“No,” the US President replies, drawing her lips tight. For a moment, it seems that’s all she’s going to offer but the strained silence demands more. “At this point, our focus is on political cohesion and military coordination, not scientific inquiry.”

It’s a brutal slap down. Nolan holds a steely gaze, but he’s fighting a lump rising in his throat. Kath knows about this meeting. She knows she wasn’t invited. He saw the anguish in her eyes as he left the Executive Office for the West Wing. It hurts, but she’s a loose cannon. The President cannot afford any more liabilities. The world needs certainty. Nolan understands that. It seems Kath accepts that too, although he’s sure it stings. As for him, he feels as though this conversation is missing depth, but he knows the President’s right. NATO’s nuclear forces have been crippled. Earth is defenseless.

“We need to talk about containment and cleanup,” Chancellor Müller says, highjacking the agenda. “There’s been torrential rain in the Rhineland, causing flooding in Büchel. We know this is hampering US efforts to deal with spilled nuclear material. You have to give us access to the base. We can help. We need to prevent leaks from contaminating the environment.”

The Secretary of Defense flicks through a pile of papers. “Ah, we have a NEST team onsite coordinating recovery.”

“It should not be like this.” Chancellor Müller taps the desk in front of him. “We should not have to escalate to the highest levels of the US government to get cooperation on a local matter.”

President Aston raises her hand, interrupting SecDef as she says, “Chancellor Müller is right. I know nuclear security is an imperative, but right now, we’re stretched so goddamn thin we have to make things happen. We can’t be a roadblock in the way of good, commonsense measures.”

“Exactly,” the Chancellor says.

The President addresses SecDef. “Give local commanders the latitude to involve NATO resources where it makes sense. We shouldn’t be slowing down recovery efforts.”

“Understood,” SecDef says, hurriedly scrawling notes.

“How concerned are you about forced nuclear disarmament?” the Spanish President asks. That this question is coming from a non-nuclear country is telling. This is the question everyone’s thinking but no one’s asking.

“Very,” the U.S. President says, being careful with her words. “The U.S. and Russia have the most to lose from disarmament, but this also impacts countries like France and China.”

She sips at a glass of water, barely taking anything to drink, using that motion to pause and gather her thoughts.

“Regional conflicts between nuclear powers have always been a concern for the United States. It doesn’t matter whether that’s Israel and Iran or Pakistan and India. But now, as far as the balance of power goes, it’s all about conventional forces. In the short term, at least, the nuclear arena is a level playing field.

“Our message is simple. Forget about regional squabbles. Help us with global security. I hope all nations will suspend their differences and focus on the greater threat—An̆duru. Call me naive, but perhaps beyond this, we can start thinking as a single species instead of ideological factions. Throwing these damn things at ourselves has always been a dumb idea.”

The Prime Minister of Belgium speaks with a distinct accent. The video call automatically enlarges his screen before them.

“I’m concerned about Russia. We’re detecting trace amounts of cesium-137 in the air. What does the US know? Has there been another Chernobyl?”

The US President breathes deeply, steeling herself. She speaks with cold deliberation, laying out the facts without embellishing.

“We’re monitoring multiple nuclear incidents in Russia and several of the former Soviet states. We suspect there were mobile nuclear launchers positioned in eastern Ukraine and Kazakhstan. Our satellites are showing uncontrolled fires at several nuclear power stations in the north of the country. We have offered what assistance we can but political cooperation with Moscow has ceased.”

No one dares breathe.

“Russia is blaming the US for the global disarmament. They’re saying we failed to act against An̆duru when we could. They’re going it alone. They’re withdrawing their mobile infantry and armored divisions from the border with Western Europe. Our intelligence says they’re preparing for what they see as the defense of Saint Petersburg and Moscow.”

Nolan’s got his hands out in front of him, clenched together on top of the table. White knuckles face the camera as the President continues.

“We do not agree with their assessment. We do not think the conflict with An̆duru will escalate into an invasion or a ground war. That is not our position.”

“What is your position?” the Prime Minister of Italy asks.

President Aston hesitates. Nolan cringes, unsure what she’s going to say. Ultimately, she’s the boss. This is her call. His job is to support her decision. As it is, he’s a stage prop in this conversation. Nothing is likely to be directed at him. He’s there to project the strength and confidence the US currently lacks.

“Our position is that Earth has been attacked.”

She pauses. No one else dares speak.

There’s no doubt each country on the call is recording this meeting. Analysts will pore over every inflection in the President’s voice, each word she utters, and even what she doesn’t say. If Nolan was working for any of these countries, he’d have a team of intelligence officers dissecting the meeting. He’d watch the facial features of every other world leader, wanting to understand their reaction to the US position.

It’s a given the President’s remarks will be leaked. He knows it. She knows it. They all know it. It’s just a question of to whom? News outlets are the most obvious point. Anonymous sources will speak off-the-record. From the President’s perspective, clarity is important. From here, the message is only going to become ever more muddied.

“What we know is the attack was limited in scope. It was targeted against our nuclear arsenal, but it is important to keep this in context. No attack was made on any specific population center. No attack was undertaken on our industrial capability or food production. This was not a knock-out punch—even within Central America and the American Southwest, where there has been considerable loss of life and a significant impact on the electrical grid. The damage we’ve suffered was a secondary effect rather than a primary target. In military parlance, collateral damage.

“Based on this, it is the position of the United States that An̆duru is not launching an all-out war against Earth.”

Nolan breathes deeply, flexing his fingers.

The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom asks, “Then what is its goal?”

“At this point, we do not know,” the President replies. “But we can rule out some possibilities. If the occupants of An̆duru wanted to destroy us, they could have—just a few days ago.”

Nolan squirms in his seat at that sobering thought.

The President says, “The United States is shifting its production capabilities. Our goal is to survive a protracted engagement with An̆duru.”

“A military engagement?” the French President asks, seeking clarification.

“It’s a possibility, but our focus is on civilian resources. We need to prepare for any disruption in the production and distribution of food, water, and medicine. Now is the time to form strategic stockpiles. Whatever happens, civil unrest will only make the situation worse.”

“And?” the French President asks, apparently sensing something more.

“We will continue to pursue peaceful, scientific contact with the alien vessel. Our preference is to avoid conflict. Our hope is that clear communication can avoid misunderstandings.”

Several of the NATO members talk with their advisors on mute.

“What about China?” the French President asks.

President Aston pauses a little too long for Nolan’s liking.

“China is—being helpful. We all need to come together. Right now, we need to establish a zone-defense plan on a global basis. If An̆duru continues hostilities, we need to be ready to come to each other’s aid. China, Indonesia, and India have agreed to work together in Asia. Africa worries me. It’s so vast. We have so little coverage. Then there’s the Pacific, the Indian Ocean, and the Antarctic—these regions are indefensible. As much as we need to prepare for war, our hope is for peace.”

Ideas

“You all made it!” Kath says through the thin microphone wrapping around the side of her face. She’s seated at her desk in the Executive Building across from the White House. As much as she can, she puts on a brave face. Being cut out of discussions in the Situation Room hurts. All she can do is focus on the science. Her video conference call spans some of the most unusual places on Earth.

From the top left of the screen, Kath examines each view.

Dr. Jessie Chambers from the Astronomical League is sitting on a pitched roof in rural Ohio. Behind her, barren cornfields stretch into the distance. Asphalt shingles line the roof. A bird sits on a satellite dish behind her. Blue cloudless skies stretch forever.

“How’s the Midwest?” Kath asks.

“We still don’t have any mains power,” Jessie replies. “Our solar inverter blew, but I’ve rewired a few of the panels and can scrape together about 30 watts. Not enough cabling to reach inside, so I’m perched on the roof.”

Kath smiles. “And you, Sara?”

Sara Hendi usually broadcasts from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s main office in Pasadena. Today, she’s sitting in what could be a garage anywhere in Los Angeles were it not for the ungainly sight behind her. The steel roller door is open, allowing light to flood the floor. Rather than a muscle car or some electric hybrid, she’s sitting beside a Mars rover. It’s not a mockup. It’s a fully-functional clone used for testing on Earth. Wire bundles wind their way over the pristine white chassis. A camera sits idle on a thick mast rising from the main deck, pointing down at her. Six metal wheels keep the vehicle well off the ground, giving it a clearance of almost four feet.

“I’m in the Mars Yard,” Sara says. “It’s the only place with any power. Excuse the mess.”

Kath laughs. It’s forced. Fake. But right now, it’s all she’s got. In the background, she can see a Sojourner. It looks as though someone took a shrink ray to one of the larger Perseverance or Curiosity rovers. These prototypes once drove around the fourth planet, paving the way for their bigger cousins. With the upper deck being an array of solar panels, the sojourner looks like a mechanical cockroach compared to its nuclear-powered brethren.

“How are you doing, José?” Kath asks. “It looks like Spring has come early.”

So far, everyone has been quite positive. Professor José Alvarez, though, looks panicked. Kath’s comment about Spring was more than an observation. She could see the distress on his face and was trying to offer some comfort.

“Not good,” he says, although why isn’t immediately clear. He’s sitting in a picnic area in Switzerland. Behind him, a field full of dandelions and daisies lead down to a forest of fir trees. Beyond them lies a pristine, blue lake flanked by a mountain range. Snow clings to the peaks.

“People are freaking out,” José says. “We’ve had rioting. Looting. This is not like the Swiss. I had to get out of the city.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kath says, lowering her head. “I really am.”

There’s nothing she can do. She could enquire further, but she needs to keep the conversation focused. José knows. He doesn’t elaborate. They all know. They’ve all seen something similar in their own cities, everyone except Pete Conrad at the ALMA observatory in the Atacama Desert. Down there, there’s no one to riot.

“How are you, Pete?”

Like Jessie and José, Pete’s outside, only it looks as though he’s on another planet. Beyond the white radio telescope dishes dotting the barren plain, there’s no sign of life. Were it not for the bright blue sky, he could be on Mars. Boulders lie scattered across the ground. Behind him, a rocky mountain range stretches into the distance.

Comparisons with Mars aren’t superficial. With less than a millimeter of rain most years, the Atacama is fifty times drier than Death Valley. It’s been like that for almost forty million years.

Pete Conrad has never been called Peter—not even on his birth certificate. Being scientists, his parents named him Charles but called him Pete in honor of the Apollo 12 astronaut Pete Conrad. Being the third person to walk on the Moon, that Pete was the first to be forgotten. Not by everyone, but by the public. This Pete’s parents are distant cousins of the actual Pete Conrad. They couldn’t hide their sense of pride in their family’s accomplishment. As for radio astronomer Pete Conrad, he’d love to walk on the Moon like his great uncle. For now, the magnificent desolation that is the Atacama Desert will suffice.

Pete starts talking, but there’s no audio. Although it’s summer in the southern hemisphere, it’s bitterly cold in the high altitude desert. Pete’s wearing a thick winter jacket with the hood up. The faux fur surrounding his face is blown sideways by the wind. Pete’s wearing a headset with a tiny microphone reaching around by his lips.

“We can’t hear you,” Kath says.

“Is that better?” he asks as the wind howls past. “Sorry, I’ll stay on mute to keep the noise down.”

“No power, huh?” Kath says.

“Oh, we’ve got plenty of power,” Pete says. He picks up his laptop and turns it sideways so the camera catches the image next to him. He’s sitting cross-legged on the rough stones. A cable snakes to a tiny, portable satellite dish pointing into the sky.

“No internet.” He replaces the laptop, adjusting the screen so it captures his face. “Had to piggyback off a commercial satellite. Latency is a bitch, but I’m here.”

Kath says, “Thank you all for joining this call. I know it isn’t easy.”

The wall of tiny screens has one blank panel. Someone has logged in anonymously. Their camera and microphone are disabled. The others must have noticed, but no one’s said anything so Kath says, “We’ve got a guest speaker with us today.”

“Oh, who?” Jesse asks. From the tone of her voice and excitement, it’s clear she thinks it’s someone in a position of authority, perhaps even the President.

Kath says, “Andy. Would you like to say hi?”

Andy Anderson activates his mic and camera. He’s unshaven, sitting in front of blackened wall screens in his garage studio.

Andy offers a wave but doesn’t say anything.

At the point Andy began broadcasting, Kath was careful to observe the facial features of her team. Their sense of surprise turns to disappointment. It’s not hard to see they don’t think he should be part of their virtual meeting.

“I’ve asked Andy to join us as we need his help.”

No one speaks. Yeah, she thinks, academics can cast shade without uttering a single word. Okay, then.

“Awkward, right?” Andy says before Kath can continue. “Yeah, it’s like that for me too. Ah, this is like attending confessional. I know you guys aren’t priests. You’re not going to offer me a few ‘Our Fathers’ and ‘Hail Marys’ to make everything better. And I don’t expect that. Seeing An̆duru pass through our skies has changed a lot of things, and not just in the scientific realm. Some of us old farts have had to change our ways.”

The silence that greets Andy’s comments is painful. He hangs his head, looking away from the camera and raising one hand as he adds, “I just wanted to say, thank you.”

Again, there’s silence. Kath’s known the people on this call for over a decade. Although Andy may not realize it, she’s sure it’s nothing personal. They’re not the kind of people to hold a grudge. They’re probably still shell-shocked at the pace with which everything’s unfolding, including Andy’s change of heart. She tries to move the conversation along.

“You’ve all heard the President’s position, right?”

There are nods, but the team remain quiet. Kath understands. They’re scientists. They’ve had time to consider what’s happened over the past few days. Any response will be carefully measured.

She says, “Between the US, the Europeans, the Russians, and the Chinese, the consensus is we’ve been attacked.”

Kath’s not telling them anything they don’t already know.

“They think we’re at war with An̆duru. I disagree.”

She gets a few nods.

“I’ve invited Andy along because we have a PR problem. War is dominating the headlines. It’s all anyone’s talking about. We’ve seen too many goddamn awful Hollywood movies to believe anything else. People are expecting flying saucers and death rays. That’s not going to happen. You know that. I know that. But how do we convince others?”

Pete asks, “How can Andy help?”

His question is brutal but honest. Kath, though, doesn’t answer him.

“We’ve got to get better at combatting conspiracy theories.”

José asks, “You think the talk of war is a conspiracy?”

“It’s premature,” Kath says. “But war is all the media are focusing on. From there, it doesn’t take much to spiral into the latest conspiracy theory. We’ve got to balance the discussion—provide an alternative viewpoint. The last thing we need is people shooting at An̆duru.”

Sara says, “Yeah, I’m less than impressed by all the chest-beating over this thing. It’s almost like they want a war. First Contact isn’t supposed to be a pissing contest.”

“The question is, how do we engage with the public on a global basis?” Kath asks. “And that’s where Andy can help. He knows how to fly under the radar and make waves.”

“Apparently, these days, I’m a government shill,” Andy says, shrugging.

“Welcome to the dark side,” Jessie says. “We have milk and cookies.”

Pete laughs. “If only it paid well. That’s the real conspiracy.”

Kath ignores them.

“Science communication is something we know well. But it’s an attempt to reach rational people. That’s not who we need to reach.”

“You need the psychos,” Andy says, grinning.

“So how do we do it?” Kath asks. “How do we douse these flames?”

Andy shakes his head. He’s still grinning. He clearly never thought he’d be in this situation.

“Okay. The first thing to realize is what your audience wants. They want certainty. Absolutes. They want to feel in control. They want to be right.”

“Huh?” José says. Like Kath, that last point strikes him as profound.

“Your average Joe wants to be right. He desperately wants to be right even when he’s demonstrably wrong,” Andy says. “The difference is, you scientists are comfortable with uncertainty. You don’t mind being proven wrong. You know you’re not in control. Everything about you is anathema to people like me. If you want to reach me, you’ve got to play by my rules or I’ll tune you out.”

“How?” Sara asks.

“Speak with passion. We want to see you get angry.”

“Why?”

“Because it shows us you’re human. Not a machine. We associate anger with reason. Sounds strange, but think about it. You’re trying to reason with us without actually showing us the importance of your reasoning. When you get angry, it tells us you’re invested. To be angry is to be human. You get angry when it costs you something. If you want to win us over, we’ve got to see the veins bulging on the side of your neck.”

Pete jots down a few notes.

“Consider this,” Andy says. “The same thing said two different ways.” He sits up straight, placing his hands out of sight in his lap. “The government is not telling you the truth about the faraday cages. They’re just trying to distract you. Trying to keep you busy doing something—anything. They don’t know what’s going to happen. They’re just trying to avoid panic.”

“Okay,” Kath says, nodding. “So, how would you say that?”

Andy launches himself forward, slapping his right hand firmly in the middle of his desk. “It’s a goddamn lie! Faraday cages? Are you kidding me? That crap didn’t work last time. What makes you think it’s going to work now? Chicken wire and tinfoil ain’t gonna do shit in your garage. Oh, but they don’t care. See, they’re trying to distract you. They wanna keep you busy. Preoccupied. So what are you going to do? I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to…”

Andy’s voice trails away as he politely asks, “What is it they should be doing?”

Pete laughs, saying, “How about, be nice. Talk to your neighbors. Make sure they have canned goods and bottled water.”

“No one’s coming for us personally,” Sara says. “How would you convince them of that? How do you stop people from panicking?”

“Oh, easy,” Andy says. “Remember, they’re looking to you for an alternative point of view, so give them one.”

He looks down the camera, firing up as he says, “There are eight billion people on this rock. No one’s coming for you! No one. Oh, but if they can make you afraid. If they can get you hunkering down in your cellar, clutching your rifle, shooting at goddamn shadows, then they’ve won.

“No one is coming for you. While you’re sitting down there, they’ll be up here talking with them. You’ll be shrinking in fear. They’ll be learning the secrets of the universe. America’s a democracy. You have a right to be involved.”

Sara shakes her head in disbelief, laughing. “Oh, where were you when I was defending my doctorate thesis.”

Andy smiles. “Hey, you’re you. I’m me. You don’t have to be exactly like me, but be passionate. Don’t shy from getting angry. Speak from the heart.”

“I like that,” José says, pointing at his camera.

“We pull our punches,” Pete says. “We’re too damn nice.”

“Hell yeah,” Andy says. “You don’t have to be outlandish like me, but you’re not helping anyone if you hold back. They’ll only ever see that as a weakness.”

Kath is about to speak when people throughout the office stand. That everyone rises in near unison gets her immediate attention.

“Oh, gotta go. Sorry,” she says, pulling her headset off as Nolan approaches. Beside him is the stoic figure of the President. Kath locks her desktop, not because she’s trying to hide the meeting but rather so her camera and microphone no longer transmit.

“Please,” the President says, gesturing to those in surrounding cubicles. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Ah, hi,” Kath says, at a loss for what else she could say. It’s been three days since An̆duru passed over the Gulf. Three days and endless meetings. The President hasn’t requested Kath’s presence so she kept herself busy. She’s been collating observations and working with the UN First Contact Commission. Nolan’s barely left the West Wing.

For Washington, the passage of the alien spacecraft was little more than a summer storm. Electricity was restored before dawn. Life continued as usual. The Southern states were hit hard, but America is nothing if not resilient. Aid has been pouring in from Canada and the European Union.

Kath’s nervous, but she can’t put her finger on why.

It’s the President.

President Elizabeth Aston doesn’t do house calls. People go to her, not the other way around. Why is she here? If she wants to speak to Kath, why didn’t she get someone to call Kath over to the Oval Office? The President’s done that dozens of times since Kath’s been here in the nation’s capital.

“How are you doing?” the President asks.

Ah, a polite but meaningless question. Oh, Kath has no doubt about the President’s sincerity, but this is a pleasantry. She doesn’t actually want to hear specifics. Kath is succinct and polite in her reply.

“Fine.”

Well, she was fine until the President of the United States of America walked up to her desk unannounced. Disposable coffee cups clutter her trash can. Damn, she’s been meaning to buy a reusable plastic cup. Printouts lie scattered to one side of her desk. Kath should have sorted them, filed them, or thrown them out. Crumbs have gathered in the rows of her keyboard. The Resolute Desk this ain’t.

Kath stands awkwardly beside her desk, trying to hide the mess.

“Nolan’s been talking to me about First Contact,” she says.

“Okay,” Kath replies. She’s unsure what the appropriate response is as she doesn’t know what Nolan has said.

“You’re convinced they’re peaceful, right?”

“Yes.”

“Nolan’s pushing for our first encounter to occur in space.”

Kath is unsure why the President’s recounting this as though she were describing a summer holiday. None of this is new. Why has it brought the President to her desk?

“You’re going to like this,” Nolan says. “NASA had an Orion on the pad, ready to launch. When we announced the alien craft wasn’t stopping, the launch team realized the Orion was vulnerable, so they got it out of there.”

“They launched?” Kath asks, surprised she hasn’t heard anything about it.

“No. NASA decoupled the capsule. They stuck it on a transport plane and flew it up to Greenland.”

“Greenland?” Kath says, still curious why the President is here as now Nolan’s doing all the talking.

“Yes. They rolled it into the caves beneath Thule base, protecting it from An̆duru.”

“Smart,” Kath says, still not clear on why he’s telling her this. To her mind, an email would have sufficed, but, all right.

“They’ve got that thing shrink-wrapped,” the President says. “There’s a C-5 Super Galaxy inbound from Greenland taking the Orion back to Florida. It’s refueling at Andrews Air Force Base in about an hour before flying on to the cape.”

Kath nods, more concerned about the meeting she was in with Andy than anything she’s heard. She wonders what her team has moved onto and hopes they’ve stayed on task.

“I want you on that flight,” the President says.

Kath shrugs.

“Sure.”

Galaxy

The wind howls along Pennsylvania Avenue. Snow falls from a dark sky. Snowplows keep the streets clear, pushing ice and slush against the curb. Snow drifts bury the stone wall surrounding the Executive Building.

Kath slides across the backseat of a government car, making room for Nolan. No Perspex shell around this driver. She can’t help note that, even though these days they always have a security escort. An unmarked car pulls up behind them.

The drive to Andrews Air Force Base is quiet. Nolan’s engrossed in his phone, responding to messages. His thumbs ripple over the tiny keyboard at the bottom of the screen. Kath prefers her tablet. She chats with a few of the scientists in her team. After talking with Andy, they’re determined to back their message with a little theatrics. Being boisterous won’t work for José as it goes against his personality, but he’s keen to use props and visual aids. It’s a case of injecting excitement and passion into their interviews. As part of the UN First Contact Commission, they have a shot at influencing public opinion.

A military escort leads their car through the base and onto the airfield. Navigation lights flash from the underbelly of the Super Galaxy. Nothing could prepare Kath for the immense size of the plane. It’s a warehouse with wings. Engines whine, ignoring the cold. The ground crew finishes refueling.

Their car comes to a halt beyond the wingtips of the plane. Rather than extending from the middle of the fuselage, the wings peel away from the top of the massive craft. The engines are easily twenty feet above the tarmac.

“This way,” one of the aircrew says as they get out of the car. “Careful on the ice.”

The engines are idling, slowly turning over, longing to return to the skies.

A set of stairs is lowered from the fuselage, coming to a halt several feet above the runway. Nolan gestures for Kath to go first. She clutches her tablet beneath her arm and steps up, holding onto the railing as she makes her way inside the plane. It’s only now she stops to think about the practicalities of rushing off to Florida. Kath’s excited to talk with the astronauts on the First Contact mission, but she doesn’t have any spare clothes or toiletries. She doesn’t let that dull her enthusiasm. She can always slip away to the local mall and buy some underwear. The astronauts are their ambassadors. If all goes well, they’re going to meet an intelligent alien species in orbit. Kath’s keen to reinforce the need for peace and understanding.

The weather in Florida will be an improvement over Washington. How long are they going to be down there? No doubt someone’s been tasked to figure out accommodation and a return flight.

Pallets line the cargo hold. Strapping secures the load. Thick white plastic wraps around the distinct teardrop shape of a space capsule. Kath is in awe of what she’s seeing. She’s never been this close to spaceflight hardware.

“Hi, I’m Nikki,” a woman in a NASA jumpsuit says, greeting her. “Commander of the Orion First Contact mission.”

“K—Kath.”

Dr. Kathleen McKenzie is starstruck. Several other astronauts and NASA engineers gather around, introducing themselves. They describe their roles but nothing sinks in. Kath needs time to process this. There are lots of smiles. To them, she’s the celebrity.

She peers past the Orion at several other large pieces of equipment wrapped in plastic. Nothing about their odd shapes gives anything away. Space stuff. She can make out what looks like a communications dish, but she has no idea what it’s attached to.

The cargo hold is spacious. The two of them are seated on the side of the fuselage and given a short safety briefing along with a set of noise-canceling headphones. The Super Galaxy begins lumbering down the runway. The plane accelerates at what feels like a leisurely pace. The rumble through the fuselage betrays the thundering engines. It seems like they’re never going to get airborne. The Galaxy creeps into the air, slowly gaining height.

“Have you been into space?” Kath asks.

“Four times,” Nikki says. “It never gets old.”

“I bet. So, tell me about your mission?”

Being inside the White House during the passage of An̆duru gave Kath access to everything and nothing at once. There are only so many hours in a day. Kath had to pick and choose what she focused on, chasing down ideas, often ending up in a rabbit warren of confusion. Once she surfaced, she’d explore some other facet of the encounter, but it meant she missed out on the broader planning. NASA has been preparing for physical contact with An̆duru. If anything, the President has given her a dream assignment. Rather than dealing with public unrest, she gets to think about the science of First Contact.

Nolan’s listening on the same channel. He’s sitting on the other side of Kath and leans forward with his hands on his knees as Nikki continues.

“The mission has been designated Iris, the goddess of the sky. In Greek mythology, Iris used rainbows to connect humanity with the gods.”

Nolan says, “Now that’s cool.”

“Yeah, there’s a nice parallel with our eyes and how the iris controls the amount of light coming in. The idea is, we are the eyes and ears of humanity up there.”

Kath says, “I’m relieved to hear there’s a positive spin on all this.”

“We’re hoping for the best.” Nikki points. “That’s the Orion over there. Behind it is the contact probe. We’ll launch with the probe attached to our docking port, but it’s a drone. We’ll run it from the end of a five hundred meter tether.”

Kath’s surprised. “It’s not radio-controlled?”

“No. The idea is to reduce our electromagnetic profile around An̆duru. We don’t want them to think this is in any way hostile or threatening. Also, this will allow us to avoid the possibility of picking up any interference from An̆duru.”

“Oh, nice,” Kath says. For her, this is Disneyland. “What’s in the probe?”

Nikki smiles.

“Lots of toys. We raided the shelves at JPL and repurposed a lot of their instruments.”

“Did you meet Sara Hendi?”

“Sara oversaw the development of the X-ray Lithochemistry Spectrometer. The first version was deployed on the Mars Perseverance rover. Sara has given us the ability to switch from a panoramic sweep of An̆duru down to sections as small as a postage stamp.”

“Oh, nice.”

Kath’s repeating herself, but she can’t help it. Elvis and Graceland have got nothing on the JPL workshop.

Nikki says, “We’ve got a variety of instruments onboard. The idea is to start with passive monitoring. We’re going to look at anything being radiated by the vessel. From there, we’ll switch to active tools like ground-penetrating radar. That’ll allow us to peer inside the craft.”

“What about communication?” Kath asks.

“The Orion will go radio-silent. We’re going to shut down everything on approach, possibly even the capsule’s life-support. The crew will wear suits for the duration of contact. We want An̆duru to interact with the probe in the first instance. That’ll give us time to understand what we’re dealing with.”

“Smart.”

“In the same way, we have passive and active communication protocols.”

“Okay.”

Kath is loving this. There’s a whole aspect of First Contact she hasn’t considered before now. NASA’s had its finest and brightest working on strategies for months. For Kath, it’s humbling to hear the outcomes of their research.

“Our mission goal is to establish contact. We want to let them know there’s a space-faring intelligence down here. We’d like contact to remain in space for as long as possible.”

“Agreed,” Kath says. “No chance of biological contamination or misunderstandings.”

“Exactly. Our passive comms uses a pattern of pulses to represent the first ten prime numbers. In this way, we’re looking to convey that we use a base-ten numeric system. The pulses will move through the electromagnetic spectrum from UV to radio waves. Visible light will be repeated. Hopefully, they’ll realize that’s the sweet spot for us, but we want them to interact and respond wherever they’re comfortable.”

Kath says, “So using simple math as a common point of understanding?”

“Yes. From there, we have several scenarios we can use to proceed further. As an example, introducing mathematical symbols. 1 + 1 = 2 followed by 2 + 2 = 4. By combining the established pulses with symbols, we can start talking with them using math.”

“Oh, I love it,” Kath says. “So two flashes, the image of a plus sign, two more flashes, the image of an equals sign, and then four flashes?”

“Yeah. Arithmetic is our most basic form of logic. By approaching them like this, we’re trying to show them we’re interested in communicating. We’ll keep it basic, but we can introduce subtraction, multiplication, and division using the same approach.”

“Do you know what I like about this?” Kath asks. “When people down here see you doing preschool sums with an alien intelligence, they’re going to put away their damn guns.”

Nikki laughs. “Oh, I hope so.”

Hours drift by as they talk, bouncing ideas off each other.

The Galaxy descends.

Twenty-eight wheels touch down on the Merritt Island runway beside the Kennedy Space Center in Florida. The aircraft comes to a halt. The nose cone opens and the front ramp lowers. Light floods in. The breeze is cool but not cold. A flatbed aircraft tractor comes up the ramp to remove the cargo. The loadmaster directs them to the side door.

Kath could stand there all day watching, but they’re ushered down the stairs and to a waiting car. It’s a short five-minute drive to Kennedy. Kath can’t wipe the grin from her face. She’s always wanted to visit but never had the opportunity and would never have been able to get the VIP tour.

Nikki escorts them through the reception area in the main building and up to a corner conference room. The view out the windows is stunning. The Vehicle Assembly Building seems to rise from the surrounding swamp. The vertical doors have been raised, revealing an SLS rocket within. An orange central core is flanked by two white solid rocket boosters, but it’s missing its payload—the Orion. The SLS is mounted on a mobile crawler. Massive steel treads dwarf the engineers walking through the building. In a few weeks, they’ll carry the rocket to the launch pad. Broad empty gravel roads stretch toward the sea, beckoning for use. Lightning towers surround the sloping sides of the concrete launch pads. Beyond them, the Atlantic seems to stretch forever.

On the other side of the VAB, raised roads line the causeways. They crisscross the grasslands and waterways. Kath can see the airport. The Galaxy still has its nose cone raised. Kath can’t resist. She pulls out her smartphone and grabs a panoramic shot only to have it ruined by a flock of egrets flying past. The birds settle on a nearby creek. Kath takes a second photo, posting it on Instagram.

“What’s next?” Kath asks Nolan as Nikki leaves them, going to get someone.

Kath wonders how she can be of help as the team seems to have covered every possible angle.

“Dunno,” Nolan responds, pouring a cup of coffee from a heated carafe in a kitchenette at the back of the room. “Do you want one?”

“Sure.”

Nikki returns with someone wearing a lab coat.

“This is Dr. Jacobs. He’ll be taking care of you from here.”

“Okay?” Kath says, confused.

“I’m going to need blood and urine samples,” the doctor says, opening a medical kit.

“Ah, what’s going on?” Kath asks, turning to Nolan.

“Wait a minute?” Nolan says, laughing. “Are you telling me you’re only just now figuring this out?”

Kath’s eyes go as wide as saucers, staring at him, wanting an answer.

Nolan points at the rocket sitting in the Vehicle Assembly Building. “The President said she wants you on that flight.”

“That flight?” Kath says, getting to her feet and pointing out the window at the Super Galaxy sitting on the runway. “I thought she wanted me on that flight!”

“Why would she want you on that flight?” Nolan asks.

“I don’t know,” Kath says, frustrated. “But I’m not an astronaut.”

“In four weeks, you will be.”

Kath goes pale. “You don’t understand. I don’t do heights.”

“You were just in an airplane.”

“No windows,” Kath replies. “I always sit in the center.”

“It’s not that bad,” Nikki says. “Think of it like a rollercoaster. A big rollercoaster.”

“You’re not helping,” Kath replies. She turns back to Nolan, saying, “Why me?”

“Why us,” Nolan says, correcting her. “Because the President is confident that, together, we’ll make the right assessment. Colonel Falcone here will be the pilot, so we’re in good hands the whole way.”

Nikki smiles and offers a friendly wave.

“You’re an astrophysicist,” Nolan says. “You dream of outer space.”

“I dream of black holes swallowing stars,” Kath says, lowering her head as she glares at him. “There’s a difference.”

He says, “I can’t think of anyone more qualified than you to go up there.”

“I’m qualified to talk about space, not to go up in it!”

“Oh, come on,” Nolan says. “It’ll be fun.”

Orbital Rendezvous: March

Launch

“T minus one minute.”

Kath is lying on her back in a custom-fitted seat. She has her knees up in front of her, staring out the window at a beautiful blue sky. Her position isn’t simply the result of the Orion facing upwards. It’s a deliberate design choice, ensuring blood flow to her head. We wouldn’t want anyone blacking out while being blown apart, now would we? That’s enough, Kath.

A series of voices chat over the radio.

“LOX is secure and at pressure.”

“Weather is go.”

“Range is clear. You are go.”

“Tracking is go.”

“Safety is armed.”

“SLS is running on internal power.”

“Coming up on thirty seconds.”

A gloved hand reaches over and grabs her arm, pressing through the stiff layers in her spacesuit.

“Remember, we get the easy part,” Nikki says, talking to her on their internal comms. “We get to sit back and enjoy the ride.”

Nolan is quiet. He was talkative during breakfast.

Like all astronauts going into orbit, they’ve been in quarantine for the last few days. Kath is a magnet for the flu. This winter, though, she somehow avoided getting sick, damn it!

The past four weeks have been a mix of technical instruction and intense physical training. For a couch potato like Kath, lunges, stomach crunches, press-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups, and free weights have been torture. Then there were the progressively longer runs around the Cape. So much fun. Their personal trainer works with Hollywood heavyweights, getting them into shape for movies. He must have a bunch of signed NDAs as she couldn’t get any gossip out of him. Between exercise and a diet of stir-fried vegetables and lean meats, Kath has never been so healthy. By the end of her training, she was comfortable running ten miles every other day.

From what Kath understands, they were supposed to be trained at JSC, not KSC. When a lively argument broke out during one of their early meetings, Kath reminded everyone that NASA is an acronym. It’s no surprise everything NASA deals with is also an acronym, but acronyms are meaningless to outsiders. Someone blushed and pointed out that JSC is the Johnson Space Center in Houston. KSC is the Kennedy Space Center, better known as the Cape. Kath was quite happy to stay at KSC. She loved the history and mythos surrounding the place. The director of flight operations wanted to fly them to Houston for training. But given the damage caused by the wave, JSC was in no state to host them.

Training occupied fourteen hours a day. Kath got up, brushed her teeth and that was it. Her ‘me time’ was over. Four hours in the classroom. Two hours exercise. Four hours in the simulators. Another two hours of exercise, followed by two hours of recall and review. Meals were sandwiched in there somewhere.

The only way to stay in the loop with what was happening outside their training was by listening to audio while exercising. Sergeant Jacinta Andrews made her way to Florida on a commercial flight and continued working for Kath and Nolan. While they were studying, she’d trawl through incoming correspondence and attend meetings on their behalf. She compiled a daily summary, picking bits of audio from various discussions. Jacinta distilled the progress on projects into a personalized 45-minute daily podcast. Kath and Nolan would reply in writing or using audio clips.

More than once, Kath found herself locked in imaginary debates with her science team. She’d run along the causeway out toward the launch pad, rattling off ideas into a recorder. On a good day, she’d run along the beach between LC39A & B, but always under the watchful eye of her instructors. Given the swamp between the pads still had the odd alligator sunning themselves on the bank, Kath didn’t mind human company.

Sundays were their day off. For NASA, a day off meant one classroom session and an endurance run in the morning. Sunday afternoons, though, were bliss. Kath spent hers soaking her weary body in a spa pool. She’d chat with her partner Eugene on video calls. They always seemed to end too soon. Nolan would disappear to spend time with his wife and kids. The President invited both families to the Cape for the launch. Eugene brought Newt, but by then, Kath was in pre-launch quarantine. She could only greet her dog from behind a floor-to-ceiling glass window.

“Ten seconds.”

Goddamn it!

Kath’s heart is beating out of her chest.

Kath got a lot of advice from the other astronauts on what to do during the launch. In the heat of the moment, the only thing she remembers is, “In through the nose, out through the mouth.” Breathing 101 doesn’t help.

Kath’s nerves are on edge. She was in too many risk assessment meetings at the Cape. She heard the complaints of flight engineers feeling rushed by a quick launch. Senior managers objected to hundreds of mechanical test reports. With a pristine build, the mean-time-to-critical-failure for the Orion is eighteen months. Engineers expect a year and a half to pass before anything critical breaks. After the electromagnetic pulse that came in the wake of An̆duru, though, several subsystems were downgraded to 45 days. She’s launching in a death-trap, but it’s all they’ve got—all Earth’s got. Kath pinches her eyes shut.

With her visor down, the sound of her breathing is amplified.

“Nine. Eight. Seven.”

“Main engine start. Ignition.”

“Three. Two. One. And we have liftoff of the Iris First Contact Mission to An̆duru.”

The shudder that rocks through Kath’s body is like nothing she’s ever felt. It’s deep, resonant, causing her vision to blur.

“We have cleared the tower.”

No one talks within the Orion. Listening to the flight controllers reading from their checklists is stressful enough.

There’s something surreal about the vibrations that rumble through her. Instead of being shaken violently, it’s as though the very molecules in her body are being torn apart. Her muscles, sinew, ligaments, and bones are being stretched on the modern equivalent of a torture rack.

Rather than being thrust up, Kath feels as though she’s being pushed down. She’s being driven back into her seat. It’s the lack of any tacit feedback. There’s no wind in her hair, no telephone poles rushing past on the side of the road, just the monitor mounted in front of her. On the screen, a rocket roars into the sky. She could be watching a replay.

“Roll maneuver complete.”

Kath tries to distract herself from her impending sense of doom. Somewhere two hundred feet below her, three Rocketdyne engines are propelling her toward space. Together, the engines produce over two million pounds of thrust. They churn through several tons of hydrogen and oxygen a second. One loose bolt. A carelessly discarded rivet in one of the fuel tanks. A forgotten wrench. If just one fragment reaches the turbo-pump—Boom! Kath is cursed with an astonishing memory. She knows it’s happened before. When the first stage of Apollo 8 was righted, someone heard a spanner fall. If not for that, Borman, Lovell, and Anders wouldn’t have made it into orbit.

Don’t think about it, Kath.

Don’t.

“Abort mode 1-B is active.”

Kath’s been briefed on the different types of abort at various stages and altitudes. She took Nikki’s advice—you really don’t want to know. Being accelerated to eighteen times Earth’s gravity in barely a second may or may not be a survivable event. Her background in physics is a curse. Even a back-of-the-envelope calculation tells her that equates to a car crash at several hundred miles an hour.

When Kath first entered the Orion simulator several weeks ago, in what seems like another decade, she was surprised by the rough finish. In the movies, everything’s futuristic—smooth lines, aesthetic curves, minimalistic designs. Reality is different. Every screw is accessible. Tiny guards protect toggle switches, preventing them from being bumped while floating around in space. Nothing within the cabin is particularly pleasing to anything other than the eye of an engineer.

“Mach 1.”

There’s a shimmer on the edge of her vision. Clear skies shine from above. The azure blue is obscured by the rim of her helmet. Kath has to focus on something so she looks there, watching as wisps of cloud float by.

Kath knows considerable thought has been given to even the most mundane features within the Orion, but reason escapes her. The shiny, machined aluminum parts and austere vent covers seem frugal. It frustrates her that she doesn’t understand the design. Everything has a purpose, but she’s lost in ignorance.

Labels have been plastered over every moveable item within the Orion. They scream, Space Flight for Dummies.

The word Release is plastered on the hatch above the handle as though that weren’t obvious. On either side of the handle is Latch and Unlatch. Isn’t the reverse a given? To be fair, the engineers are trying to be there for the astronauts during an emergency. In a pressure situation, these distinctions will avoid confusion. They could be the difference between life and death.

Then there are the random struts. Thin metal poles run at an angle within the cabin. They’re designed to help with structural integrity, but it’s not apparent when or why they’re needed. Perhaps during reentry? This is what bugs Kath most. The Orion is a contradiction of the bleeding obvious and the infinitely obscure. Her mind short circuits.

Two red straps of thick webbing bind a white plastic bag next to the main hatch. The label beneath it reads Egress Ladder. Well before their launch, Kath decided that was her favorite label. It’s a reminder that all this will come to an end. At some point, they’ll splash down in the Gulf, kicking up a wall of spray as their parachutes drift lazily to the water. Once Navy divers are on location, they’ll pop the hatch and finally open that pouch, draping the rope ladder over the outside of the Orion.

Kath won’t be the first one out.
She’s not sure why she’s so confident about that particular detail, but she’s pretty sure she’ll follow someone. She’ll climb up out of the hatch and be struck by the warmth of the Sun and the smell of the ocean. Kath’s barely launched and already she wants to get out of the Orion. After a lifetime of imagining the stars and longing to leave Earth, she realizes the folly of such dreams. Earth is our only home.

“Max-Q.”

Yet another flight milestone rolls by. Their rocket has passed the maximum aerodynamic pressure on its structure. Now the atmosphere is thinning out, they can open up the throttle. Yay.

Breathe, Kath.

Don’t worry. Relax.

The Orion is capable of holding six astronauts. On a long-duration spaceflight, resources such as food, water, and oxygen are at a premium so the decision was made to limit the crew to three. Kath would be more confident with a bit more experience onboard. Once they’re in orbit, though, they’ll have plenty of space to stretch out.

The passage of An̆duru caused flooding in Florida. Being on the Atlantic, the Cape was spared. The Johnson Space Center in Houston, though, was swamped. The roof in the Neil Armstrong Operations and Checkout building collapsed. Water damaged equipment stored there. The primary spacesuits for the Iris mission were ruined. They’ve been assured the backup suits they have are flight-worthy, but it’s one more worry nagging at the back of Kath’s mind.

Kath reminds herself that rocket flight is mercifully short. Spaceflight isn’t, but the launch itself, getting into space, will only take a few minutes. Their Orion is configured for a long haul flight with a service module and solar array. The overall length is about the size of a small bus, but they’re confined to the capsule at the tip. The crew has enough supplies for 90 days, stuck in a tin can the size of an SUV. Three long months, and yet Kath will be in orbit before her Mom drives out of the parking lot at Kennedy.

Nikki told her the surprising thing about spaceflight is the boredom. As adventurous and romantic as it seems, there’s an awful lot of mundane drudgery. Lots of floating around. Waiting. Oh, what Kath would give for that right now as her seat shakes beneath her.

The SLS rocket thunders into the heavens.

“Coming up on booster separation.”

The sky fades. Kath barely notices until she’s staring into the darkness.

“Separation complete.”

Now they’re above the bulk of the atmosphere, the shaking subsides.

“The next flight milestone is MECO.”

There’s silence for a few seconds, followed by, “And we are staging… We have main engine cut off. Second stage ignition. You are looking good, Iris.”

“Copy that,” Nikki says.

The transition between stages is smooth. Rather than being shoved in the back, Kath feels a gentle push, slowly increasing in intensity.

Nikki asks, “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m good,” Kath says. She’s doing good now. For the past few minutes, Kath’s been fighting off a panic attack, but now she feels immense relief.

“We’re going for an eccentric orbit,” Nikki says. “Normally, we’d go for something almost circular, but as we’re headed for deep space, the second stage is going to give us a bit of a kick. We’ll run the tank dry and push as high as we can before it falls away.”

Kath knows that’s the plan, but hearing it from Nikki is reassuring.

There’s nothing to do. That’s something Kath never considered before when thinking about astronauts. Rockets are glamorous, but when launching into space, everything’s already done. Months of preparation by the launch team are now playing out autonomously. All the work is long over. It’s a case of letting the architectural and engineering decisions play out.

Nikki reaches up, switching screens. She gives them a view of the glowing engine bell beneath their second stage. The burn is precise, with barely any flicker. A tiny flap of tinfoil-like insulation shakes on the edge of the screen. Although it looks like it’s caught in the wind, it’s vibrating with the spin of the turbo-pump. Flecks of ice race past, dissipating in the exhaust.

Minutes pass like hours.

“Iris, Houston. You are coming up on SECO.”

“Copy that, Houston. Coming up on second engine cut-off,” Nikki replies.

She switches to their internal comms and says, “Are you ready to fly like a bird?”

Kath surprises herself with an enthusiastic, “Yes.”

Nolan doesn’t respond. He hasn’t said much of anything since they were in the elevator leading up the launch structure to the capsule.

“And we have SECO.”

Kath feels her arms drift slightly as the second stage burns out and falls away.

“Iris, Houston. We have you in orbit with a perigee of 480 kilometers and an estimated apogee of just under 7,000 kilometers. Congratulations. You guys get the scenic tour.”

“That we do, Houston,” Nikki says, laughing as she releases the straps holding her in her chair. “We’re sure looking forward to lighting that kick stage later today.”

Nikki drifts forward. She swings her legs around, saying, “You can remove your helmets and move around.”

Kath disconnects the hose exchanging her air. She disables her life-support. From here, she’ll breathe air from within the Orion. She raises her visor and releases her harness. To her delight, she’s floating an inch above her seat. The sensation is akin to the time she bathed in the Dead Sea. It feels as though she’s unusually buoyant.

As long as Kath maintains roughly the same horizontal position, she can avoid nausea. In her mind, up has the couches below them and the hatch above. If she drifts in any other orientation, her inner ear riots. Having been seasick during a Caribbean cruise as a postgrad, she knows the telltale signs and rights herself.

Staying busy is the key. Given too much time, her mind kicks in at a deeper level and starts sounding warning alarms. As it is, she feels as though she’s falling rather than floating. Stop to think about things too long and her heart seems to rise in her throat. Reaching out and taking a handhold, though, calms her. There’s something about holding onto the spacecraft that reassures her she’s going to be okay.

Nolan releases his harness, but he grips the armrest, groaning.

“Are you okay?” Kath asks, turning toward him. His face is pale. Their eyes meet and she knows. It’s the slightly bloated look in his cheeks, the way he’s holding his lips, the furrow on his brow. She’s about to say something when he heaves, vomiting within his helmet. Chunks of partially digested breakfast cling to the inside of his visor, hiding his face from view.

Nikki reacts immediately.

“Get his helmet off.” She’s already pulling a medical kit from beneath the seats. “If he gets that in his lungs.”

Nothing more needs to be said.

Kath’s helmet bounces around the Orion as she spins, twisting upside down. Within a fraction of a second, her legs are above her. She collides with the turret-like tunnel leading to the main hatch. Now she’s inverted, she grabs Nolan’s helmet and fiddles with the latch, trying to get the catch to release. Nolan panics. His arms lash out, but Kath’s above him and upside down, well clear of his gloved hands. He grabs at his own helmet but misses the latch.

Kath’s got it. She twists the helmet, pressing her legs out against the sides of the tunnel so she can get some leverage.

Nolan’s helmet comes loose. Vomit drifts through the air.

Nikki is behind him. As Nolan’s still caught up in his harness, he’s still roughly in place. Had he been floating around the cabin it would have been impossible to help. Nikki pushes a wet wipe over his face, clearing vomit from his nose and eyes.

“Easy,” Nikki says as Nolan splutters for breath, spitting vomit through the cabin.

A pack of disposable wipes summersaults through the air.

Kath grabs them, tearing out another one and handing it to Nikki.

Nikki repeats her motion, pushing the cloth against his face. Kath shoves another wipe into Nolan’s gloved hand. He grabs it, spitting into it.

“Goddamn it,” he manages to say.

“It’s okay,” Nikki says. “Breathe.”

“Breathe?” Nolan says, coughing and spluttering. “Trying.”

“Slow things down,” Nikki says. “No rush. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Somehow, he nods in agreement. If Kath had been drowning in vomit, she would have lashed out, but Nolan calms himself. Nikki wipes his forehead, cleaning his hair.

Globules of sick float through the Orion like tiny planets.

Nikki says, “Try to catch those.”

“On it,” Kath replies.

Due to the way surface tension works in space, most of the vomit remains within the helmet as it bounces around the capsule.

Once Nolan’s face is cleaned up, Nikki holds up an injector, saying, “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

“Gimme the good news,” Nolan says, still looking green.

“The good news is this puppy will make you feel a helluva lot better.”

“And the bad?”

“Sorry, bud. You’re gonna have to strip down. This thing needs to kiss your ass.”

Kath laughs. Even Nolan finds it funny. Once he’s out of his suit, Nikki gives him an antiemetic injection to reduce his nausea. Kath does her best not to look. She focuses on cleaning the inside of his helmet, but spew has already soaked into the padding.

“That’s not going to be pleasant to put on,” Nikki says, pointing at the helmet.

“No spares, huh?” Nolan says, pulling his trousers back up.

“Nope.”

Nikki uses a bungee cord to position the helmet over the return vent to dry. She’s got the visor up, allowing air to swirl within as it’s drawn back into the scrubbers and recycled.

“Iris, Houston.”

“Go ahead, Houston,” Nikki says.

“Looks like you guys are having fun up there.”

“Oh, yeah,” Nolan says.

His hair is matted down with spew. Kath uses a towel and some water to clean his face. To her delight, blobs of water form like tiny transparent planets. They could be balls of glass suspended by magic. As soon as they touch the towel, they’re sucked in, leaving the cloth soaking wet.

The CapCom in Houston continues.

“Mission Control has postponed the kick stage burn until tomorrow. We want to give you guys a bit more time to adjust. Your schedule is clear. Three hours downtime. Eight-hour sleep cycle. Then we’ll conduct the transit burn to send you out to Lagrange point four.”

“Appreciate it,” Nikki says. “Iris, out.”

“Houston, out.”

“I’m so sorry,” Nolan says.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Nikki replies. “Astronauts get sick all the time. Normally, they don’t paint the inside of their helmets, but you’re fine.”

Nolan uses a cloth to wipe around his neck.

Nikki busies herself, but she’s preoccupied. Given Houston has delayed their next burn, they can relax. Something’s bothering her. Something other than the launch and Nolan becoming sick.

Kath asks, “What are you thinking?”

“Oh, ah,” Nikki says. “Iris. It’s real now. I mean, it felt real down there, but now we’re up here—this is actually happening. We’re making contact.”

“We are,” Kath replies, realizing something’s troubling the commander.

“Just us,” Nikki says.

Kath agrees. “Just the three of us on behalf of an entire planet.”

Nolan finishes cleaning himself.

“Does it bother you?” Nikki asks. “I mean, An̆duru. Does it bother you they haven’t said anything? They haven’t responded to us. Nothing. Not a peep.”

“No,” Kath says. If there’s one thing An̆duru’s taught her over the past few months, it’s to be decisive. “This is kinda expected. When we send probes to Mars or Jupiter, we have what we call mission modes. There’s the interplanetary mode while we’re in flight. Most of our equipment is shut down. Then there’s the landing mode or the orbital insertion mode. A few more instruments come online. But it’s not until the observation phase begins that everything is switched on.”

Nikki says, “And you think that’s what they’re doing?”

“Yes,” Kath replies. “The amount of radiation produced when they skim through the atmosphere of a planet would fry their electronics. They have to shield their equipment while in flight.”

“So you think they’ll switch everything on once they get here?” Nolan asks.

“It’s what I’d do.”

Nikki’s quiet.

“You don’t agree?” Kath asks.

“It bothers me,” Nikki says.

“Why?”

“We’re too confident.”

Now it’s time for Kath to remain quiet.

“Confidence is the ace of spades,” Nikki says. She points at Nolan. “He knows what I mean.”

Nolan explains. “It’s a saying in the Air Force. The ace is the highest or lowest card in the deck, depending on how you play it.”

Kath gets it. “Play it wrong—”

“—and you lose,” Nolan says.

“Anyway,” Nikki says, shrugging off the conversation. “We’re supposed to be in a rest cycle. Time for some sightseeing.”

She drifts over beside one of the windows.

Kath comes up beside her and looks at an entire planet stretching out before them. She’d rather continue the discussion, but Nikki’s said her piece. For Kath, the issue is unresolved. To be fair to Nikki, it can’t be resolved until they make contact. If anything, the beauty of seeing Earth from space is a welcome distraction.

Out beyond the thick glass, Earth is in shadow. A thin blue glow lights up the horizon. It’s iridescent, like the shell of a beetle. Clouds obscure a darkened Europe. Cities light up the night. A thin green line weaves its way through the atmosphere. Hints of red and pink are visible on the fringe.

“What’s that?”

“The auroras,” Nikki replies.

“Wow,” Nolan says, drifting beside them.

France and Italy are visible in a spiderweb of lights stretching around the coast. Golden silk threads reach across the land. Snow blankets the mountains. Dark patches reveal the deep waters of the Mediterranean.

Kath whispers, “Beautiful.”

Honesty

Time is meaningless in space.

What seemed like the adventure of a lifetime has become drudgery. Iris is a bitter, endurance marathon. The end is nowhere in sight.

After twenty-seven days, Nolan is struggling within their tiny tin can. They’re adrift in the darkness. Mentally, he’s going downhill.

Each day is the same.

Each day is a lie.

Each fake-morning, they wake in their sleeping bags, staring at the stars beyond the windows, only these aren’t the stars of his youth. There’s no vibrancy to them. Depth, yes, but they seem lifeless even though at least two of them aren’t. Sol and some other nameless star in Taurus have cradled life. Nolan never thought he’d miss twinkling stars. It’s strange to admit it, but the stars seem cold.

Earth is both a distant orb and a vague memory.

Their days are repetitive. When it finally comes, night falls with a flick of a switch. There are no sunrises or sunsets, just an electronic clock telling them it’s time for a rest cycle.

Nolan finds it difficult to sleep. Often, he wakes with a start, responding to the sharp sensation of falling off a cliff. It’s a dream and yet it’s not. He is falling. He might as well be plunging headfirst down an elevator shaft. The concrete basement, though, never rushes up to kill him.

Nolan’s heart pounds within his chest. Adrenalin surges through his veins. After waking in a sweat, it’s impossible to drift back to sleep. At night, hours pass like decades. A handful of emergency lights glow dimly in the dark. Starlight drifts within the cabin. Then another artificial day dawns automatically. The lights brighten over half an hour and the next fake-day begins.

Their meals are meager, not only to conserve resources but because burning calories doesn’t come easy in space. Once their launch couches were folded away, Nikki set up an exercise bike at the rear of the capsule. Every day, they take turns working out, desperately trying to break the sweat that comes so easily at night. Then there are the elastic bands. Resistance training is important. They need to retain muscle mass. It’s impossible to lift weights in the weightlessness of space. Instead they slip thick bands beneath their legs and flex, working their thighs, calves, biceps, and triceps. It’s not pretty.

Houston feeds them information about events on Earth, but Nolan has his doubts. They’re being told what NASA wants them to hear. Paranoid? Maybe. Maybe not.

Perhaps the worst part of their journey is there’s no privacy.

Each of them gets time to chat with their loved ones once a day over the radio. There’s no video, though, just a series of still images delivered at a frequency of about two per minute as they talk.

Talking is a misnomer. With a time lag of a few seconds, talking is difficult. Nolan’s words have to traverse space and time. They bounce from the Orion to the Deep Space Network and on to Houston. From there, they take an electronic path to his home in Colorado. Delays are inevitable. Speech involves either awkward silence or talking over the top of each other. Jan has been awesome, but they end up tripping over each other’s words. They both apologize. Then they both wait for the other to start talking again. It would be comical if life within Iris weren’t so austere.

Jan always has a smile. Sometimes it’s fake. Nolan doesn’t say anything about that. His smiles are real. For her, it might be arduous speaking to him every day, saying the same things about whatever mini-drama unfolded in Whole Foods or the escalating price of gasoline, but for him, it’s refreshing.

Bathroom breaks are the only time they have any fun within the Orion. Oh, the actual act of going to the bathroom in front of the others is disconcerting. After almost a month, they’re used to someone quietly huddling by the return air vent and strapping themselves in. The unspoken protocol is to turn and either look at a computer tablet or gaze out the window. Number twos are particularly pungent—given the interior of the Orion is smaller than his bathroom in Colorado Springs, that’s hardly surprising. The fun part is when they flush the tanks after a day or so. Urine forms an instant constellation of stars released into the vacuum of space. Tiny crystals form, catching the sunlight. For a moment, there’s a tightly packed globular cluster slowly drifting into the shadows. That their urine dumps are beautiful is bizarre. No one cares.

Usually, fecal matter is stored for the duration of a flight. On long hauls, though, it has to be dumped. Lumpy asteroids float away from the Orion. Perhaps one day, they’ll light up the night sky down on Earth. They’re big enough to blaze through the upper atmosphere for a few seconds, vaporizing in a ball of fire. Perhaps someone down there will look up with admiration and point. Little will they know that burst of light trailing through the darkness is astro-excrement.

The orbit of the Orion is helical. Iris twists through space in a series of distorted S-curves and figure-eights. The spacecraft is following a gravitational manifold. It winds through the invisible gravitational ebbs and flows of both Earth and the Moon.

Iris weaves its way between distant Lagrange points. Most of their time is spent out in the far reaches of Lagrange points four and five. From these gravitational hilltops, they’re almost as far from the Moon as anyone on Earth. Earth itself appears tiny. The blue planet is framed like a postcard in the window. Continents haven’t been discernible for weeks. Clouds swirl across a marble. Occasionally, there’s a slither of dirt on the edge of an ocean, but there’s no way to tell what they’re looking at. Australia? South America? Africa? Nolan never appreciated just how much water covers Earth until he began looking for land between the thick white clouds.

At the moment, Earth is slowly slipping into the shadows, dissolving into the dark of night. Nolan assumed Earth would always look spherical, but like the Moon as seen from Colorado, Earth waxes and wanes. From out here, the planet seems to disappear.

While they were down low, almost hugging the planet from space, Earth looked magnificent. Seeing their home beyond the windows was a delight. From deep space, it’s terrifying to see just how small Earth is against the dark void.

Nikki’s working on one of the main screens, checking the status of equipment on the probe. Kath looks bored.

“Where did you grow up?” Nolan asks, surprising himself he hasn’t asked Kath that before now.

Kath perks up.

“On a farm outside of Billings, Montana. We grew corn, wheat, and sometimes squash.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Wow, what?” she asks.

“I can’t imagine you as a farmer. I guess I always figured you as a city slicker.”

Kath laughs. “Well, these days I am. At least, when I’m not in space. My folks still have two and a half thousand acres a couple of hours outside of Helena.”

Nolan’s curious.

“How does a young girl growing up on a farm in Montana end up with a Ph.D. in astrophysics?”

“You get to see a lot of stars at night.”

“Oh, I bet.”

“My dad brought me my first telescope when I was fourteen. It was better for bird watching than stargazing, but that didn’t stop me from sitting on the back porch. I’d turn off the lights and stare into the sky. For me, the fuse was lit when I saw the moons of Jupiter.

“Dad told me how Galileo once pointed a spyglass at Jupiter and saw four tiny stars in a line beside the planet. Over the next few nights, Galileo realized they were moons. They were just like Earth’s Moon. That realization changed our world forever.

“I thought it was cool. There was Jupiter. Sitting high above Caribou Peak. Just a speck of light in the dark. Then I’d peer through my telescope and see her secret moons. It struck me as profound that Jupiter had always been there with her majestic moons. The Babylonians, Egyptians, and Greeks had all seen her, and yet they hadn’t. They’d dreamed of gods, but Jupiter was more wonderful than anything they could imagine. I felt as though I’d joined an exclusive club comprised of just me, Dad, and Galileo.”

Nikki has stopped what she’s doing and is listening intently to Kath.

“Granddad wasn’t impressed with me chasing stars at college. Our farm has been in the family since the 1800s and once spanned ten thousand acres. It’s been passed down to the oldest child for generations. He felt I should take that mantle. He did not want me running off to study at some fancy East Coast university. God, I love him, but he’s a relic from another era.”

“And he’s still alive?” Nolan asks.

“Just turned 97. Hell, he retired before I was born!”

Nolan nods.

“What about you?” Kath asks. “Why did you join the Air Force?”

As tempting as it is to rattle off the obvious answers like, I’ve always wanted to fly, or my dad was in the Air Force, or to protect our way of life, they’re lies. Oh, sure, they were factors in his decision, but not reasons. What the hell? We’re probably about to die, he thinks. That’s the one thing no one has mentioned since they launched.

Iris is the canary in the coal mine that is Earth. Sure, they’ve got a remote probe, but Nolan’s not stupid. He knows. The probe gives NASA some plausibility. On paper, it gives the crew a chance. In reality, An̆duru has been stubbornly unresponsive. It’s clearly alien. There’s life, but it’s conspicuously quiet. There had been hopes of establishing contact once the vessel rounded Venus. It’s passage back toward Earth could only be described as leisurely compared to the way it screamed into the solar system. Kath may be confident, but Nolan finds himself siding with Nikki. The silence bothers him.

Back on Earth, President Aston has thrown the US economy into total war. If it doesn’t help in a fight, it ain’t important. Commercial flights have either been grounded or repurposed to help with establishing the defense of the United States. Food production is focused on stockpiling reserves. Manufacturing has been directed toward weapons production. Some industries have looked at innovative ways for the population to hunker down. The President’s determined to squeeze every last drop of preparation out of the days before First Contact. She fears conflict. The longer he’s in space, the more Nolan agrees with her approach. Whoever these aliens are, they’re not friendly. Friends make an effort.

Iris is the wild card in the deck. It’s one last gambit in a vain hope for peace. Iris is an attempt at physical interaction with An̆duru—at arm’s length from Earth. Their job is to poke the bear.

Kath reiterates her question. “Why did you go into the military?”

Nolan has to be honest. “To hide.”

Kath looks confused, but Nikki doesn’t. She smiles. She gets it.

“We’re not transmitting, are we?” Nolan asks.

“No,” Nikki replies. “Flight recorder’s running, but it remains local. It only holds 48 hours worth of data.”

Kath is alarmed.

Nolan explains.

“Imposter Syndrome, right?” he says. Nikki nods. Kath doesn’t. Like most people he knows, she’s surprised, perhaps shocked by that admission. People judge on appearance. They don’t mean to, but they do. But unless he’s looking in a mirror, Nolan never sees himself as others do. He’s only ever seen someone trying to be better than themselves, which is circular and ultimately futile.

“Oh, I love flying. My dad was an avionics engineer working on the F-18s. Nothing made him prouder than the day I got my wings, but for me, the Air Force was a way of hiding inside the machine. Following orders gave me the certainty I lacked. Eventually, it became second nature, but it’s always been second.”

“You’re a thinker,” Nikki says deadpan.

“So are you,” Nolan says, recognizing the same traits in her. That point gets a slight smile.

“Okay,” Kath says. It’s the first time he’s seen her speechless.

“It’s funny,” he says. “We make decisions in life, thinking we know where they’ll lead, but the truth is—we have no idea. I never thought going into the Air Force would lead me here.”

“And you?” Kath asks, turning to Nikki.

“The only way you get to be an astronaut is by being ultra-competitive. Regardless of what you do, nothing other than first place will ever suffice. There’s a long line of astonishingly accomplished people you need to leapfrog into space.”

She pauses, breaking eye contact as she continues.

“It’s easy to burn out. You’ve got to keep up the façade.”

Nolan says, “Gotta stay hidden.”

Nikki laughs. “Oh, yeah.”

Nikki’s only offered two words in reply, but the depth behind them is clear. She’s compressed over a decade of her life into that passing remark.

“You learn to say what people want to hear,” she says. “It’s about riding the wave. You’ve got to keep your balance on the board.”

Nolan points at her. “I like that. That’s a good way to put it.”

Kath says, “You two. Honestly, why do I feel like—”

“Iris, Houston,” comes over the radio.

Nikki is a consummate professional. She pushes the transmit button and casually replies, “Go ahead, Houston.”

And just like that, the moment is gone.

“Transmitting the latest update on An̆duru. Trajectory remains constant. We estimate it coming to rest at L1 in four days.”

Nikki replies, “Copy that, Houston. Do you have an intercept burn for us?”

Everything has changed. Nikki’s demeanor, the tone of her voice, the pitch and volume, even the color in her cheeks. Time to be an astronaut again.

Over the radio they hear, “We have you firing at L4 tomorrow morning and cruising into place at L1 approximately 30 hours after An̆duru. It’ll be a slow drift, designed to have you come to rest within L1 without the need for a burn.”

“Okay,” Nikki replies.

Kath is floating in a body-neutral position beside the exercise cycle. NASA periodically releases audio, video, and still images of the crew taken while they’re conversing with Mission Control. It’s part of the campaign to hose down the fear of war—as if that were possible. When they left, the hysteria on Earth was going ballistic.

Nolan notices the telltale red LED recording light come on. Kath doesn’t. Nothing says relax like an astronaut in a jumpsuit drifting in space. Maybe it will work for some. Kath looks as though she’s floating in an invisible spa. Her arms are up almost at shoulder height, while her hands are drifting in front of her.

Houston says, “Recommend you rehearse probe deployment this afternoon.”

“Will do,” Nikki replies.

“Copy that. Houston, out.”

And with that, the transmission ends.

“All right, this is genuinely exciting,” Kath says.

“Finally,” Nolan says. He feels spent. Right now, he’s ready to walk in the front door of his house in Colorado Springs. It might be an aging three-bedroom, single-story weatherboard house with asphalt tiles on the roof, but damn it, it’s home. He can’t help wonder if he’ll ever see it again.

Nikki displays the topographical map Houston sent up. A swarm of elongated circles and ellipses depict the invisible gravitational tides that surround the Earth and Moon.

“Okay, we’re here. We were about to swing around L4 on our way to L2 on the far side of the Moon. Instead, we’ll conduct a short burn and change course, bringing us in toward L1 in front of the Moon.”

“And An̆duru?” Nolan asks.

“An̆duru is skirting Earth, coming in between L3 and L5. It’s avoiding the planet’s pull, following this curved line toward L1.”

“She’s cruising,” Kath says.

“We’re yet to see her under power,” Nikki says. “Imaging from Earth shows minor course corrections. There’s some kind of cold-gas propulsion at play but no rockets.”

“Interesting,” Nolan says.

Nikki continues. “From L1, a slight nudge will take An̆duru toward Earth. It seems she’s happy to sit off at a distance on arrival. Hopefully for a while.”

“I can’t wait to see her up close,” Kath says.

“Well, that makes one of us,” Nolan says. It’s supposed to be a joke. No one laughs.

“What contingency do we have?” Nikki asks, looking at Nolan.

“Contingency?” Kath says, confused by the question, but Nolan knows what Nikki’s asking.

“Joint Command has two X-37Bs out there.”

“Really?” Kath says, but she’s faking surprise. She had to know there would be some kind of military option, even if it were to prove futile.

“Armament?” Nikki asks.

Damn, Nolan loves a straight shooter. He respects that. Rather than being glib, he gives her an accurate, technical answer. Their lives are held in the balance. It’s only fair they know all the options.

“X1 has twenty-four tungsten-tipped depleted uranium shells. They’re fired using an electromagnetic pulse, accelerating them to forty kilometers per second. The idea is, at that speed, any misses will fly out of the solar system.”

“Oh, nice. So you’ve got a rail gun?” Nikki says, nodding her approval.

“Bunker busters. Good to a depth of two hundred meters on Earth.”

Kath is quiet.

“And?” Nikki asks.

“The X2 holds a firecracker. She launched from Vandenberg Air Force Base around the same time we took off from the Cape. The team at Los Alamos cobbled together a B83 thermonuclear bomb from spare parts and melted cores. The minimum yield is 1.2 megatons. They’ve packed in a couple of tritium chambers. If the design holds, the yield could be upwards of 18 megatons.”

“Oooooh—a Roman Candle,” Nikki says, joking with him.

“It won’t even scratch the surface,” Kath says. “Such a blast is trivial compared to what An̆duru has already withstood passing through the gas giants.”

All Nolan can say to that is, “We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t try.”

Kath nods, conceding that point.

“So where are they?” Nikki asks.

“Trailing us,” Nolan replies. “Somewhere out there.”

“Huh,” Kath says. She’s not impressed.

Nikki drops the discussion. She busies herself, checking god-knows-what metric on the command console. It’s a bluff. There’s nothing demanding her attention. She must realize these devices are a backstop. They’re being held in reserve if the Iris mission fails. Failing, in this context, means they’re dead. Not a pleasant thought. As much as Nolan would love to return to their previous, open conversation, it’s over.

An̆duru

“Approaching to within 100 km,” Nikki says.

It’s been a long week with their capsule drifting into the unknown. An alien spacecraft waits for them in the darkness. The tension has been unbearable, dragging on for days.

“Copy that,” is the reply over the radio.

The crew of the Iris has suited up for the encounter with An̆duru. They’re strapped into their couches even though they aren’t under thrust. This is the first time they’ve worn their bright orange ‘pumpkin’ suits since the launch.

The inside of Nolan’s helmet stinks. Thankfully, their visors are up and they’re breathing cabin air. The suits are a precaution, but against what? Nolan picked away some of the dried, crusted vomit but gave up after a few minutes. The idea of tiny flecks of dehydrated sick floating through the air didn’t seem like an actual solution.

Trying to do anything meaningful while wearing a liquid-cooled pressure suit is akin to the Michelin Man changing a tire. It can be done, but with difficulty. At the moment, the crew are connected via umbilical cords to the Orion’s life-support system. The valves are closed as they’re breathing cabin air with their visors up. There’s no point inflating their suits and ballooning unless they need to. Should the capsule depressurize, they can drop their visors, don their gloves, and flood their suits with pure O2 in seconds.

Even though he’s wearing a pair of flight diapers, Nolan has no desire to urinate. It feels wrong to pee within a spacesuit. He’s an adult, not a toddler. He emptied his bladder before suiting up and is determined to hold out as long as he can. He certainly doesn’t want to shit himself during the encounter—physically or metaphorically.

Nikki strips the suits of their survival gear. She removes the flare guns, whistles, inflatable vests, mittens, and signaling mirrors. No need for excess baggage. Removing the waist harness makes the suits much more comfortable. The likelihood of being winched into a helicopter this far from Earth is remote, to say the least.

Nikki has her gloves on, but she’s told Nolan and Kath they don’t need to wear theirs.

Both Nolan and Kath prefer the dexterity of actual fingers on their tablets over their glorified ski gloves with stubby rubber fingertips. As the locking rings for their gloves are located halfway along their forearms, that gives them quite a bit of freedom. Nolan stowed his gloves in the now-empty pouches on his lower legs where they’re within easy reach.

Their portable life-support packs are mounted on the inside of the cabin. Nolan isn’t fooled. They’ll only be needed if the Orion suffers a catastrophic failure. By that point, the crew will be dead. Pleasant thought.

Two of the screens in front of them display images of An̆duru. One is in infrared, the other in visible light. The alien craft is pitch black. Only the leading edge catches the sunlight.

“This is your show,” Nikki says, turning to Kath. “Talk to me. What are we looking at?”

Nolan grins. Poor Kath. No one knows what to expect, but answers are demanded of her. Their capsule is live streaming audio and low-quality video, along with a host of other metrics. The primary communications dish is on the probe. All transmissions appear to come from there, not the capsule. They have a second, backup dish if needed, but the Orion appears dark.

The President is in Mission Control along with representatives from the UN Security Council. The televised broadcast is delayed by 30 seconds. Presumably, someone will cut the feed if aliens start bursting out of their chests or whatever. The weight of an entire planet bears down on them. Billions of people watch their every move, scrutinizing each word.

“Well,” she says, tapping the screen. “It’s definitely alien.”

Nolan hides a smile. Brilliant answer. That’s one for the history books. Right up there with one small step.

An̆duru is ten kilometers long and roughly five kilometers in width, but it’s barely a kilometer thick. From a distance, the craft looks as smooth as a river stone. It would be ideal for skimming over a lake—or a gas giant, for that matter. Zoom in and the leading edge is scarred. Deep gouges stretch up over the body of the massive spacecraft. They’re grooves. It’s as though a carpenter has taken a chisel and carved an intricate series of channels along the vessel.

“An̆duru is rotating,” Kath says, looking at text messages streaming in from her science team back on Earth. “You can see it catching the sunlight, turning about its longest axis, but it’s at a leisurely pace. JPL has confirmed its rotation matches a sidereal day. So this is really interesting. An̆duru is matching Earth’s rotation and orientation. That’s a deliberate strategy.”

Nolan wants to ask why, but it feels like a dumb question. He’s pretty sure everyone on Earth is wondering the same thing. He’d love for Kath to elaborate, but she’s busy checking text messages on her tablet.

Nikki says, “That’s going to make station-keeping interesting. We’ll be able to sit above the craft, but if we want to lower the probe anywhere along the length of An̆duru, we’re going to have to be under power.”

“Copy that,” Houston replies.

Iris drifts above An̆duru, approaching from the north as viewed from Earth. Sunlight glistens off the frozen surface, catching a smattering of ice crystals on the dark hull.

Nolan’s not sure what everyone back on Earth is expecting, but First Contact is laboriously slow. The Orion is floating like a cork on the ocean, being carried along by the ebbs and flows of a gravitational tide. NASA wants to ensure there’s no possibility of the Iris mission being interpreted as hostile. The goal is to drift into place unpowered, following the natural orbital path of objects within the Lagrange point. Patience is important. Nothing is going to happen quickly. At first, Nolan found the tension maddening, but now he’s resigned himself to the dull monotony of waiting. The Orion has been in this configuration for eight hours now. It’s another six hours before they make their closest approach. Perhaps this is what the people of Earth need—to be bored by aliens.

Slowly, more detail comes into focus.

“The grooves you can see are caused by ablation,” Kath says. “Each time An̆duru passed through the atmosphere of a planet, its outer shielding gets stripped away. This is similar to the heat shields on our capsules.”

Kath’s found her An̆duru rhythm. To Nolan, it’s a bit like island time in Hawaii. She’ll go several minutes without saying anything and then drop a gem on the audience. Although it’s subconscious on her part, Nolan thinks it’s perfect. Humanity is manic. Social media has fanned the flames. TV and movies play to our evolutionary twitches. The constantly shifting viewpoint keeps our primate brain hooked. An̆duru has its own pace.

After what seems like an eternity, Nolan asks a question that’s bugging him.

“Why aren’t we seeing equipment? Engine bells? Hatches? Windows? Antennas?”

Kath doesn’t answer. At first, he’s not sure she’s heard him as she doesn’t even acknowledge him. Instead, she continues flicking through messages on her tablet.

Finally, she says, “I suspect what we’re seeing is their shielding. The craft itself is beneath all that.”

Nolan doesn’t say anything, but he’s surprised by her comment. He turns, wanting to face her but not being able to. The rim of his helmet and his seatbelt prevent him from shifting around.

“An̆duru has been in space for hundreds, if not thousands of years,” Kath says. “That’s a long time to be exposed to harsh cosmic radiation. ESA has been analyzing the spectrum coming off An̆duru. They suspect the outer layer is an advanced ceramic resin. It acts like a cocoon, protecting the interior of the vessel.”

“So no engines?” Nolan asks.

“No need,” Kath says. “If you can calculate your orbital path with this kind of precision, you only need the initial shove. When we send probes to Mars, it’s akin to a golfer hitting a ball in Los Angeles and sinking a hole-in-one in Scotland. An̆duru takes that further, minimizing its fuel/energy expenditure to maximize its payload. Very clever.”

Hours drag by.

An̆duru never seems to get any closer.

Out of nowhere, Kath says, “The corrugation we see rippling over the outer surface of An̆duru is deliberate. Spectroscopy is revealing a different composition in the ridges. The shape helps disperse energy. It dissipates heat by increasing the surface area.”

Like everyone on Earth, Nolan’s waiting for something more, but Kath falls silent. Apparently, that piqued her interest, so she shared what, to him, is a horribly obscure insight.

Finally, the distance drops into single digits. From where he is, Nolan can’t see An̆duru. If he was to loosen his straps and float up to the windows, it would be there, dominating the view.

“Deploying probe,” Nikki says. She works from an electronic checklist with timings for each step. A burst of white gas appears, flashing over one of the windows. Nolan cranes his neck, wanting a glimpse of the probe as it departs. Solar panels unfurl, catching the golden rays of the sun. The tether is visible as it unwinds.

Kath says, “We’re seeing signs of fresh cracks in the outer shell.”

She zooms in. A fracture runs into the darkness, barely visible on the black shield of the alien vessel.

“I’m not sure how long these have been there,” she says. “But they must have appeared after contact with Venus. If they’d been there during the atmospheric maneuver, the superheated plasma generated by the flyby would have cut the craft in half.”

Over the radio, Mission Control says. “Iris, you are coming up on five kilometers and are GO on approach.”

“Copy that,” Nikki replies.

The closer Iris gets to An̆duru, the slower it moves. NASA calculated a parking orbit for the Orion. Both spacecraft are in motion. In the same way cars and trucks drive next to each other on the freeway, they’ve matched An̆duru’s speed and heading.

Nolan shifts in his seat, wanting to get comfortable. He’s barely touching the padding. He pees. It’s the result of nerves and a slowly bulging bladder. Warm urine seeps into his diaper. Over time, it’ll cool, leaving him sitting in cold, damp padding. He’s not looking forward to that. Thankfully, he hasn’t had any bowel movements. Yet. Disposable adult incontinence diapers are anything but comfortable. Given the crew didn’t really need to be suited up until now they’re on final approach, Nolan’s less than impressed at the occasional squishy feeling. He floats slightly above his seat with the straps loose, trying to ignore the sensation.

Each of them have a snack pack. NASA thinks of everything. Months ago, somewhere in Houston, someone planned their First Contact encounter as a culinary affair. Foodstuffs and drinks have been spaced out to ensure they stay hydrated and satiated. They’ve come up to another meal point. Although no one at home realizes, within the span of a minute or so, they all reach for their snack packs. Food bars and drinks have been strategically Velcroed beneath the monitors. Nolan takes a prescribed sip of reconstituted juice and bites into a granola bar. To be fair to the mission planners, they’ve worked in some good variety. The latest snack tastes of peanut butter. Although eating seems trivial, humans are like rockets—they need fuel.

“Three kilometers out,” Nikki says, again working from the playbook. “Extending the probe to two hundred meters.”

“Iris, you are GO to turn on the Christmas Tree.”

“Copy that,” Nikki replies, working with her controls.

The probe is bait—a lure for some dark, deep-sea monster.

Nikki powers up the probe.

At the top of her screen, almost out of reach, a large red button appears, marked Abort. If anything happens to the probe, Nikki can hit that and the tether will detach from the Orion. At the same time, the spotlights and the attitude control jets on the probe will light up simultaneously. The idea is to make as much commotion as possible until the tanks are drained. Hopefully, that diverts attention from Iris. Nikki will then be given two options—get the hell out of dodge or drift on by. The hard abort option is a ‘slew and burn.’ This has them reorient the craft and fire their main engine for a direct return. They’ll accelerate away from An̆duru and back to Earth. The soft abort is ‘play possum.’ This will shut down Iris. The Orion will go completely dark while the crew switch to their suits for life support. All electronics will power down, leaving the capsule inert. It’s a case of play dead and hope for the best.

“Bringing up radar imaging,” Nikki says.

This is it.

“Pinging An̆duru at two gigahertz.”

If An̆duru perceives this as hostile and reacts, it’s time to cut and run—that’s Nolan’s preference.

“Navigation lights are on.”

The probe is symmetrical. In part, it had to be as it needed to be aerodynamic during launch, but the design is deliberate. NASA wants to signal intent to the aliens. This ain’t a rock. Someone built this probe. Hopefully, that makes them curious.

An̆duru is homogenous. It flipped end-over-end while on approach. It could be mistaken as natural. It’s no wonder it was initially designated as a comet. There’s no mistaking the probe, though. It’s bigger than Iris itself.

NASA wants to send a message in the physical design of the probe. Nothing is hidden. There’s no ulterior motive. NASA wants the aliens to recognize this as an artificial structure. The use of red strobe lights by the main instrument bay and a single blue light on the nose cone is also deliberate. They signify the narrow band of light visible to humans.

No response.

“Spotlights,” Nikki says, pausing for the prescribed ten seconds as she turns each one on. “And we are live with one… two… three… four… and five.”

Beneath them, an area the size of a football field is flooded with light. The surface of the alien shell is smooth. Cracks run across the grooves. They’re fractured and irregular but clearly visible.

Nikki says, “The probe is holding steady at three hundred meters beneath Iris. Local altitude is two hundred meters. I see no response. Iris is holding steady at four hundred and ninety-six meters.”

Nikki uses the attitude controls on the probe to turn it through 180 degrees. This allows Kath and the scientists on Earth to see how the shadows move, giving them an idea about the depth of the grooves lining An̆duru.

Nikki works with a joystick extending from the arm of her couch. The view on her monitor is from the probe. As her controls are also used for the Orion, a red banner stretches across the bottom of the screen with the wording, Probe Remote Control Active. It wouldn’t be good to forget which craft she’s steering. With a slight touch and a puff of gas, the probe turns again, panning across An̆duru. A few seconds later, Nikki brings it to a halt with another deft touch on her joystick.

After what feels like an eternity, Houston says, “Iris, your telemetry is coming through clear. We see no response from An̆duru. You are GO for close contact survey.”

“Copy that,” Nikki says. “Descending to investigate one of the crevices.”

If Nikki’s nervous, it doesn’t show. She works with her controls and the probe descends closer to An̆duru.

“Approaching at half a meter per second.”

“Copy that,” is the response from Houston.

Although he knows this is a critical moment in First Contact, Nolan can’t help himself. It’s not in his nature to stand idly by with unresolved questions.

“Where did they come from?” he asks.

Kath holds out her hand, signaling, ‘Not now.’

“Taurus, right?” Nolan says, remembering the constellation mentioned in one of the press briefings. For him, An̆duru is an enigma. Nothing makes sense. It doesn’t look like anything they’ve ever seen. Why was the craft tumbling as it passed through the solar system? Every vehicle ever developed on Earth has a clear front and back, a bow and a stern. But not this thing. Having a bunch of unanswered questions leaves him feeling unsettled.

“How far away is Taurus?” he asks.

“Ah,” Kath says, not really listening to him. She’s trying to concentrate on the metrics pouring in from the probe. Kath is looking for clues, but Nolan’s worried they’ve missed the big picture. She pauses before replying, “Taurus is an entire constellation. It’s not at any particular distance, being a loose grouping of stars at a variety of distances.”

“What distances?” he asks.

Nolan’s aware everything that’s being said is being transmitted back to Houston, but he’s anxious. This is not the time, Nolan. Sit back and shut the fuck up. But he can’t. Something’s wrong. His quirky brain demands answers.

At some point, there has to be a reason for what they’re observing on An̆duru. Kath said the outer layer acted like a heat shield. Okay, he can roll with that, but the cracks worry him. Any machined part would break open along clearly defined lines. When the Apollo Lunar Module took off from the Moon’s surface, explosive bolts and guillotines fired, severing the vehicle in two. This allowed the top half of the craft to launch back into space, leaving the base and legs on the lunar surface. Clean cut. But not An̆duru. To him, the cracks on the surface of the alien spacecraft look like the parched desert crying for water.

Kath is annoyed.

She may not like it, but to Nolan, being annoyed is good. It’ll get her thinking and push her outside her comfort zone. She swipes to one side on her monitor and a document appears on his tablet: Taurus. The outline of a bull is visible on the first page, but only the head and shoulders. Large horns protrude into space. Muscles ripple on its thick chest. Hooves trample the heavens. How the Greeks got that image out of a handful of stars scattered across the sky is beyond him.

Beside each star is a name. In some cases, it’s an ancient term, like Alcyone or Pleione. The majority of stars, though, are labeled with a number and an abbreviated form of the constellation, like 13 Tau and 72 Tau.

“The closest star is Gliese 176,” Nolan says, reading from a list he’s sorted on his tablet.

Kath is not happy. She rattles off, “It’s a red dwarf. A variable star. A couple of exoplanets orbit close in. It’s probably not the point of origin. Too chaotic for life.”

“But it’s thirty light-years away.”

“So,” she says, turning toward him. Her lips are drawn tight. It’s all she can do not to tell him to zip it—he can see that in her fiery eyes. For that matter, he’s half-expecting Houston to ask him to be quiet during the final approach.

“You said it would take them five hundred years to travel a light year. That would mean they spent fifteen thousand years in transit.”

Kath has had enough. She doesn’t say anything, but she gestures with both arms, exaggerating her movements. She positions one hand on top of and the other beneath the screen in front of her. She needs to focus on her work. Her nostrils flare. With a slight huff, she turns back to the screen.

Nikki leans forward, looking across in front of Kath at Nolan. She raises an eyebrow as if to say, ‘What the fuck, dude? Can’t you see we’re busy?’

They’re too close. Nolan wants to say that, but he doesn’t mean physically. He remains silent as he knows that’s how that particular phrase would be interpreted.

Nikki sits back, saying, “Fifty meters. Slowing descent to a quarter of a meter per second. Surface probe armed.”

“Copy that.”

Nolan is troubled.

Over the past four months, all anyone has talked about is An̆duru. Speculation has been rife. Culturally, all their fears have come at them at once. Scientifically, there’s only been a thin sliver of information available. Most of their reasoning is conjecture.

Politically, An̆duru has been disastrous for the United States. Even now, suspicion rages over the Iris mission—hence the live stream and the presence of observers from Russia and China. The United Nations wanted the mission to represent the leading nations in the UN First Contact Commission. There was no way an American President was putting anyone other than Americans on Iris. To be fair, no one had time to overcome written/spoken language/cultural barriers. But any arguments about the difficulty of operating NASA equipment were nullified by the inclusion of two amateurs.

The Russians fought fiercely within the UN and on social media, pushing the case for inclusion. The unintended side effect was a higher degree of confidence in the science around An̆duru than was warranted. Any doubts were drowned out within the debate. NASA and ESA felt they understood the motives of their celestial visitors. Looking at An̆duru, Nolan’s not so sure. They’re too damn close to this thing. It isn’t meeting any of their expectations, but it seems no one has stopped to recognize that.

“They didn’t come from a star,” he says, trying to provoke a broader discussion.

“What?” Kath snaps.

“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“Don’t you,” she begins, stuttering. “I—It’s just—”

Kath gets it.

Her demeanor changes as the realization hits.

The allure of the monitor buzzing with information no longer holds sway over her mind. She looks deep into his eyes. The cogs are turning.

“Twenty meters,” Nikki says.

Nolan ignores Nikki. “They couldn’t have come from a star. They could have never achieved the precision we’ve seen across a distance of thirty light-years. That’s a travel time of fifteen thousand years!”

Kath’s mouth hangs agape.

“We’ve never seen any kind of rocketry or exhaust,” he says. “Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

Nikki interrupts, saying, “Everything strikes me as strange.”

Finally, Kath says, “We’ve got this all wrong.”

“Yes! Exactly,” Nolan says, pointing at her, glad to have found a companion in the insane asylum that is the Orion capsule.

Nikki locks her controls. She releases the upper clips on her seatbelt and leans half out of her couch. She’s shocked by what she’s hearing.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “What do you mean wrong?”

Nolan taps at the screen before him. “Look at the cracks. Look at the way they run across the grooves, not with them. Look at how they’re jagged and broken.”

Nikki says, “I don’t get it.”

“It’s natural,” Kath says.

“As opposed to?”

“Mechanical,” Nolan replies.

“Wait. What?”

Kath points at Nikki’s screen, saying, “We’re down to five meters.”

Nikki swings around in her seat, working with her controls and trying to sound professional as she says, “Ah, Houston, we are on hold at five meters.”

Like a deep-sea submersible surveying the darkest reaches of the ocean, the probe comes to a halt just above the surface of An̆duru. Floodlights illuminate the night. Most of the surface is as smooth and black as obsidian glass. Below them, a jagged crevice has opened in the undulating surface of the alien spacecraft. Darkness lies beyond.

“Pulling back to twenty meters,” Nikki says.

“Copy that,” is all Houston will add to the discussion. Nolan has no doubt they’re hanging on every word.

There’s silence for the best part of a minute as Nikki withdraws the probe. Kath is madly checking something on her tablet. Nolan stares into the dark void opening up beneath them. The surface of An̆duru has split apart with what looks like tectonic activity. Jagged tears widen in its hull. Nolan tries to make out subtle shapes in the shadows, just outside the reach of the spotlights.

“Okay,” Nikki says, temporarily disabling her controls so she won’t accidentally bump them. “Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

First Contact

Nolan taps the screen. “It’s organic.”

“What?” Nikki asks. “As in alive?”

Nolan’s finger traces a faint outline in the darkness as he mumbles, “Look at the cracks. It’s breaking apart like an eggshell. What the hell is down there?”

“We assumed too much,” Kath mutters, shaking her head.

“This thing is coming apart,” Nikki says.

“How deep is that ravine?” Nolan asks.

“Ah,” Nikki replies, searching through the data being returned from the probe. “Radar imaging makes it just on three hundred meters. Beyond there, An̆duru is hollow.”

“We need to get the probe in there,” Nolan says.

“To do that, I’ll need to take Iris below five hundred meters,” Nikki replies. “Houston, this is Iris requesting permission to descend to one hundred meters.”

Nolan’s expecting a quick response. To him, it’s a no brainer. They’re here. They need to see inside this damn thing. With the probe limited to a tether length of five hundred meters, they have to descend if they want to see what’s happening within the alien artifact. Nolan can’t think of it as a spaceship anymore. That illusion has been shattered. The problem is An̆duru is rotating. It’s difficult to hold a set altitude.

An̆duru’s rotation matches that of Earth. One surface of the alien craft will face them for roughly twelve hours, but it’s in motion. They can’t hover over a particular spot for more than a few minutes without it drifting away. Getting low is dangerous. It demands frequent bursts from their jets to reposition the Orion overhead.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking this is not good,” Nikki says. “This is very not good.”

Kath’s fingers ripple over the tablet Velcroed to her thigh. Text messages come pouring in from her science team. Nolan recognizes the surnames—Hendi, Conrad, Alvarez, Knight, Chambers. His comments have spurred a flurry of conversation back on Earth. They just needed to be nudged in the right direction.

“Iris, Houston,” comes across the radio.

“Go ahead, Houston,” Nikki says.

“Iris, you are clear to descend to one hundred meters.”

“Copy that.” Nikki says, turning to the others as she adds, “Are you guys ready for this?”

They both nod.

“Okay, here goes. Setting the probe to autonomous mode, maintaining twenty meters. Withdrawing tether as we descend.”

Nikki switches controls.

A short burst of the attitude thrusters on the Orion changes the direction they’re facing. Nikki swings the craft around and over. Although the term is descend, to Nolan it looks as though An̆duru is above them. He looks up, seeing the massive alien object creeping closer. From his perspective, they rise toward the fractured, glassy surface. He can see their remote probe almost immediately above them. Its spotlights glisten off the polished surface of the strange alien artifact.

“And we are at one hundred meters and holding,” Nikki says.

“Iris, Houston. You are clear for probe deployment within An̆duru.”

“Copy that.”

Once again, Nikki switches her controls to the probe. With a deft touch, she positions it over the open crevasse. Nikki takes the probe well beyond the Orion, allowing the fracture on An̆duru to slowly pass beneath them as the alien artifact turns. As she lowers the probe, she has to adjust its position. She has it drift slowly backward. The net effect has the probe remain still relative to An̆duru. She’s one helluva pilot.

“Descending.”

Nikki tilts the camera, giving them a forward view.

“And we are beneath the surface.”

A sheer wall faces the probe. From above, the fracture appears jagged. Beneath the surface, the walls are as smooth as glass.

“What are you thinking?” Kath asks Nolan. Usually, that’s his question for her.

“This is not an interstellar probe.”

“Passing through two hundred meters,” Nikki says.

The smooth wall slides past, barely changing with depth.

Kath says, “ESA is reporting five other crevices opening at roughly even intervals.”

“Great,” Nolan says, shaking his head.

“Coming up on a depth of three hundred meters,” Nikki says. “Slowing descent.”

“Picking up internal heat,” Kath says. She switches the view to infrared, which shows a clear gradient in the glass. The increase in temperature becomes more pronounced the deeper the probe descends.

“Pitching down,” Nikki says.

She points the nose of the probe into the darkness. Spotlights illuminate the bottom of the casing surrounding An̆duru.

“Will you look at that,” Nolan says. “It looks like agate—a thunderegg.”

“Egg?” Nikki calls out, alarmed by that notion.

“A geode,” Nolan replies, clarifying his comment. “On Earth, volcanic gases get trapped in pockets of lava. From the outside, geodes look like rocks, but crack them open and—”

He gestures to the crystals glistening beneath the spotlights. The interior of An̆duru  is hollow. The cavern is covered in a chaotic mess of hexagonal columns that reflect and refract the light. A cascade of color dances within the chasm. Crystals rise from all sides, reaching toward the center. They’re semi-transparent. The motion of the probe causes light to ripple around the massive, empty chamber.

A few of the crystal columns rise hundreds of feet, far further than they could on Earth. Most of them are a jumble, stretching around the edge of the cavern. They crisscross each other, branching at different angles. The columns are perfectly straight, being capped like a pyramid. It’s as though an obelisk like the Washington Monument has been copied using murky, smoky glass.

Thousands of crystal structures have been broken and discarded. They lie scattered throughout the cave.

“It’s beautif—”

Kath stops mid-sentence.

Out of the darkness, a vast creature rushes at the probe, thrashing against the sides of the chamber. A dark shape collides with the crystals lining the cavern, breaking them. Splinters ricochet behind the animal. Claws grab at the columns rising from within  An̆duru, allowing the creature to propel itself on. Hundreds of white spikes flash before the camera. They’re arrayed around a circular mouth, curling back into the creature’s throat like hooks of bone. What appears to be teeth are set in sequential layers reaching down the animal’s throat. The serpentine-like creature is not happy about being caught in the light. Jaws flex and close on the probe. Metal is crushed in utter silence. Then comes the darkness. Static flickers on the screen and the probe is gone.

Nikki says, “What the—”

Before she can say any more, the Orion is jerked toward An̆duru. The capsule rocks, being dragged in by the tether. The cabin twists around them.

“Shit,” Nolan says. His computer tablet flies out of his hand. It crashes into a backpack and spirals around the cabin.

Nikki is hard at work flicking switches. In the confusion, she’s still operating the now dead probe. Nothing actually happens onboard the Orion.

“Damn it,” she says, frantically changing controls. A series of sharp jerks drag their spacecraft toward An̆duru. “Tether away.”

They’re being drawn closer to An̆duru.

“It’s stuck,” she says. They’re being hauled in. The Orion is shaken like a rag doll. “The release mechanism is jammed.”

A warning light flashes as their spacecraft collides with the edge of the chasm. Two of their four solar panels crumple. They collapse like tinfoil as the craft scrapes against the surface of the alien structure. The Orion is being dragged into the fracture. Smooth dark glass glides past the windows as they’re pulled within An̆duru.

“Get us the hell out of here,” Nolan yells.

“On it,” Nikki says. She cranes her neck, peering out the windows of the Orion. She’s struggling to understand their orientation relative to open space. Bursts of gas turn the vessel. “I can’t see it. I can’t find the goddamn opening.”

Nikki works with her joystick controls. She fires the attitude thrusters, spinning the craft around as they sink deeper within An̆duru. As depressing as the cold, pitch black, dark of space has been over the past few weeks, there’s nothing else Nolan wants to see. He’d be happy with anything other than the fractured resin lining the alien artifact.

“There!” Kath yells.

A single star drifts over one corner of the far window, giving them a sense of direction. Metal scrapes against the chasm. Chunks of obsidian-like glass break free from An̆duru, pelting the hull of their spacecraft as they’re dragged deeper.

“Firing now,” Nikki yells.

The main engine at the rear of the service module ignites. A burst of fuel and oxidizer surges into the engine chamber, unleashing a violent exothermic chemical reaction. A wall of superheated exhaust gas rushes from the engine bell. With that, they’re pushed back in their seats. The edge of the Orion scrapes along the side of the chasm, crushing the hull as they race out into space.

“Houston, Iris,” Nikki says, keying the transmit button. “Houston? Are you reading us?”

Nikki fights with the controls to maintain a rough heading. The thrust from the main engine launches them toward Earth.

Iris feels lopsided. The craft rotates. It seems it wants to spin out of control, forcing Nikki to fire the attitude thrusters to keep them facing in the same direction. The Orion shakes under the stress of the burn. After a minute or so, Nikki cuts the main engine and the rush of acceleration disappears.

Nolan’s body drifts against his seatbelt as his heart threatens to burst out of his chest.

“Houston, Iris?”

Nolan is silent, willing the equipment before them to spring back into life. Being hundreds of thousands of kilometers from home, he feels helpless. Nikki works frantically with the controls in front of her, talking them through what she sees.

“We’ve lost three solar panels. Batteries one, four, and five are failing… Shutting down auxiliary circuits. Damn, it’s going to get cold in here… Fuel is good, but I’m not getting any readings from the attitude controls on the port side. I think they’re gone… The Orion’s umbilical is damaged… pressure is spiking in the service lines… Gotta shut them down… external coms is offline.”

She flicks through the metrics flashing up on her screen.

“Oh, no. This is not good,” she says. Neither Nolan nor Kath respond, giving Nikki room to elaborate. “Sensors are showing the heat shield has shifted against the Service Module. Damn it! I did not come up here to die.”

Nikki slams her fist into the side of the command console before burying her head in her hands for a moment. There’s quiet as she breathes deeply, steeling herself.

“Okay,” she says in response to something neither of them actually said. Her training is kicking in. She composes herself. “Let’s see what’s working. What can we work with? I need solutions.”

Nolan’s expecting Kath to say something, but like him, she’s in shock.

Nikki says, “…and we’re venting oxygen from the cabin. Fucking great!”

Coming at the end of a very bad list, Nolan’s sure this last point is in the category of absolutely catastrophic. Damn it!

“Visors down. Gloves on,” Nikki says. She unclips her harness, removes her umbilical cord and floats out of her seat. “I need you guys to run on emergency until I can figure this thing out. We’ve got reserves within the Orion itself, but we won’t be getting anything from the Service Module.”

Nikki pushes off, drifting in front of them. Her visor is up. She’s brisk. She grabs the umbilical cord leading from Kath’s suit to the main supply line. Nikki checks the point at which it connects to the port on the left side of Kath’s trouser leg. Then she grabs Kath’s wrist, twisting it so she can see her suit’s control panel.

“You’re good.”

Nolan sees what she’s doing and makes sure his umbilical port is open. He holds up his wrist so Nikki can see the readings.

“Good,” she says, leaving them strapped in. Nikki pulls on his seat harness, tightening the straps. Too late, but okay.

“Wh—what are we going to do?” Kath asks.

“Find that goddamn leak.”

Nikki’s still got her visor up. Nolan would feel a lot more comfortable if she lowered it. That she hasn’t suggests she’s being cautious, getting them to run on the Orion’s life-support system. As much as he wants to trust her professionalism, he’d feel a lot more confident if she was running on an umbilical. If they lose her, they’re screwed—not that they aren’t anyway.

Nikki grabs a packet of orange juice. She removes the cap on the straw and squeezes, easing a few bubbles into the air. Orange blobs undulate within the cabin. They drift upwards in response to her motion. After a few seconds, they peel away as if falling to one side. Nikki follows them, watching as they approach the edge of the far window. The closer they get, the faster they move. One by one, they collide with the thin joint running around the window frame. The juice is sucked out into space,  leaving an orange smudge on the plastic.

“Can you fix it?” Kath asks.

“I don’t know,” Nikki replies. She swivels upside down and rummages through a storage compartment. Nikki squirts the contents of a tube onto the panel beside the window. She follows up with a daub of clear liquid from another tube and mixes a paste together with a tiny plastic knife. “This is epoxy resin. If this doesn’t hold, nothing will.”

Nikki massages the gooey white paste over the joint, sealing it with a strip of duct tape.

“Okay,” she says, breathing heavily as she turns back toward them. “I’m going to vacate the capsule to give this stuff a chance to set without being sucked out.” She works with the controls on her screen, saying, “The cabin will be lowered to a vacuum, but you’ll be fine in your suits. Nothing to worry about.”

Nothing. Yeah, Nolan doesn’t believe that for a second. Given they’re lost somewhere between Earth and the Moon, he’s worried about everything. At least she finally lowers her visor and connects to the umbilical cord extending from beside her seat. The cord is roughly six feet in length, limiting her movement. Nikki positions herself in front of the two of them. She peers over the monitors in front of the hatch, making sure she can see both of them. Nikki takes both of their gloved hands and talks over the intercom. “We’re good. We’re okay, right? We’re going to be fine.”

Nolan laughs. His voice breaks, betraying the rush of emotion he feels as he says, “Liar.”

Nikki laughs as well, but her laughter is far more refined. “That’s it. A little humor won’t hurt.”

She squeezes their fingers through the thick glove material, holding them tight. Right now, they all need a reboot.

Kath asks, “Was the camera running? You know, the one that shows the glowing engine bell.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nikki says, working her way around to face the control panel. She begins punching in commands as she says, “Why?”

“I—I want to see what happened. I need to see that thing.”

Nikki brings up the video and jogs the position, rewinding to the point where the main engine fired within An̆duru. The video replays in silence. The main engine flares, pushing back the darkness. Claws are visible on the edge of the frame, climbing up toward them, only they’re huge. Each one is easily ten feet in length.

The Orion clears the chasm. An̆duru falls away. The severed tether flaps into and then out of the fiery exhaust. Large chunks of the surface crack open, widening the chasm further.

“It’s breaking up,” Nolan says.

“We have to establish contact with Earth,” Kath says. “I think I know what’s happening.”

“What?” Nolan asks.

“Something my grandfather would warn us about each spring,” Kath replies. She pauses, picking her words with care. “Birds gather wherever seeds may fall.”

Wherever Seeds May Fall

“Houston, Iris?”

There’s no reply.

“Well, it was worth one last try,” Nikki says. She gathers the loops of a tether together into a bundle, working them like a garden hose and handing them to Nolan. “Okay. I’m going to spacewalk and see if I can reconnect the high-gain antenna.

“Nolan, you’re going to be in the hatch. You and Kath will remain on umbilicals, with you on a double to extend your reach. I’ll use a life-support backpack. That’ll give me twelve hours. I shouldn’t need more than an hour. I hope.

“Kath, you watch the control panel. Tell me as soon as you see mains power being restored to the communications array.”

Nikki switches to a backpack, talking as she does up the straps.

“Our pumpkin suits aren’t designed for EVAs. They’re intended to manage depressurization within the Orion, but a short EVA will be fine. If the cooling fails, I’ll fry to a crisp, so I’m going to make this quick.”

Nikki opens the hatch. All that lies beyond the white rim of the Orion is the endless darkness of deep space. There are no stars. Nothing. She addresses Nolan.

“If you get too hot standing in the hatch, act like a BBQ rotisserie chicken and keep turning. You want to try to even out the temperature. If you have to, drop back inside.”

“Understood.”

Nikki pulls herself through the open hatch.

Black boots drift up before Nolan, knocking gently against the clear faceplate of his helmet. Within seconds, Nikki is out of sight. She clambers over the side of the Orion and into the narrow band between dark and light.

Nolan pushes off the back of the console, bringing the bundle of cord with him, letting it out slowly. With his upper torso above the hatch, he gets his first look at the damage. Whereas once they had four solar panels, now there’s only one. Scars streak the side of the Orion. The launch access hatch is surrounded by crushed sheet metal. Deep scratches have worn the craft bare at points. Panels have been dented and torn open. A couple of them are missing, exposing the insulation, tubes, and wiring beneath.

The spacecraft is tumbling end over end at a leisurely pace, slightly off-axis. Seeing the shadows change makes the motion more obvious. Nikki reaches for what scant handholds there are on the Orion as Nolan lets out the tether behind her. He can hear her breathing heavily over the intercom. She’s working hard as she pulls herself up to the ports connecting the Orion with the Service Module.

“I—I can see the main joint. It’s been crushed. Several of the lines have been severed,” she says. Nikki works sideways around the curved edge of the Orion. She inspects the damage to their lifeboat. “The mounting plate is bent. Ah, the Orion has shifted sideways. We’re not seated properly on the service module. We are not aligned.”

Nolan turns with her motion, facing her as she grabs the rim of the Service Module. Nikki works her way into the darkness. Lights on the side of her helmet come on.

“Damn it. The heat shield is damaged. We’ve lost a chunk the size of my backpack. The honeycomb beyond that is cracked. I can see the goddamn titanium support structure.”

Nikki goes silent, breathing deeply for a few seconds and calming herself. “I’m sorry, guys. We’re not going home.”

With that, she pushes on. Nolan wants more. The end of his life shouldn’t be announced so casually. Surely, there’s more to be said. There must be something they can do. What chance do they have? That Nikki offers no alternatives is brutal.

Nolan watches as her orange pressure suit and her white backpack disappear over the rim of the Orion, followed by her black boots. Just like that, she’s gone. He continues letting out the tether, unable to see her as she searches for handholds on the Service Module. Occasionally, there’s a tug on the line.

The heat of the sun radiates through the back of his helmet. It’s uncomfortably warm rather than scalding hot.

“Okay,” Nikki says from out of sight. “I’ve reached the antenna. The dish is bent. Reconnecting the cable. Give it a try.”

From within the Orion, Kath says, “Houston, Iris. Houston, do you read us?”

No response.

“Houston, this is Iris.”

They get a partial reply. “Iris—away—cannot—over.”

Nikki grunts, working with something out of sight. “You should see an emergency transmit option. Top right. Push that.”

“Done.”

“Okay, tell ‘em. Tell ‘em about the seeds and the birds. You’re now broadcasting on the international emergency channel.”

“Ah, Houston,” Kath says. “This is Iris. Get Sara Hendi on the line. Tell her this thing is a celestial predator. Top of the chain. She’ll understand… Okay? Okay?”

The response over the radio is, “Copy, Iris. We hear you.”

Nikki says. “You’re going to have to hurry. I can barely hold this thing together.”

“Okay,” Kath says yet again. Nolan looks down at her from where he’s positioned in the hatch, peering over the collar of his helmet. Her gloved hands are trembling. She’s stressing, unable to compress her thinking into a coherent message. He wants to say something, to urge her on, but it won’t help. Come on, Kath. This is the final hurdle.

Kath clears her throat. As much as he and Nikki want to push her along, she seems determined to bring everything together.

“We’ve wondered about the silence. We’ve looked out at the stars and we haven’t seen anyone. Why? We thought, maybe it’s us. Maybe all civilizations have to pass through some great filter. Maybe they fight among themselves like we do and end up destroying themselves. Or maybe the universe is a dark forest. We thought, maybe there’s someone else out there, some advanced civilization that wipes out the competition. We wondered if anyone would be so callous, destroying other civilizations before they could reach the stars. But no. That’s not it.

“Don’t you see? They’re not smart. They’re not intelligent. They evolved to prey on life as it emerges on other planets. Nolan was right—they hide between the stars. They avoid the gravity wells, drifting between systems. They’re like locusts. They lie dormant, watching, waiting for life to flourish.

“Every living thing follows a lifecycle. Eggs hatch to become larvae, which cocoon to reach adulthood. Then the cycle starts again. An̆duru is a cocoon. To mature, these things have to grow. They have to feed. That’s what’s missing when it comes to An̆duru. They need us to complete their lifecycle. My grandfather once told me, birds gather wherever seeds may fall. These creatures are drawn to Earth as a food source.

“You’ve got to destroy them. Get deep inside that thing and detonate. You can’t let them make landfall. Not on Earth. You’ve—”

“I’m sorry,” Nikki says. “I—I can’t hold it any longer. It’s burning through my gloves.”

“They heard us,” Kath says, sounding manic, on the verge of sobbing. “They had to have heard us.”

“I hope so.”

Nolan takes up the slack on the line as the top of Nikki’s helmet appears on the edge of the Orion. She clambers over the Service Module, but she loses her handhold.

Nikki scrambles, trying to grab hold of the Orion as she drifts out of reach, floating into space. Nolan reels her in, pulling slowly on the tether and drawing her toward him. Her gloves are black. The rubber on her palm and fingertips has melted. He retreats inside the capsule, helping her in. Rather than grabbing handholds, she uses her gloves like a boxer, nudging instead of holding onto the rails.

Once the hatch is shut, Nikki says, “W—We need to pressurize the cabin,” but it’s clear she’s in no state to help. She stabs at the controls with her disfigured gloves. Her hands are shaking.

“Let me help,” Nolan says.

With pressure restored, the crew open their visors. Nolan grabs a medical kit. To his surprise, vapor dances on his breath in the chilly air. Kath removes Nikki’s gloves. Blisters have formed on her hands. Her fingers are covered in burns and red welts. Nolan applies some cream and binds her hands with a compression bandage.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Kath says.

“It’s okay. They heard us,” Nikki says, gingerly working her hands back into her gloves. “I know they did.”

“I hope they heard enough,” Kath says.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Nolan says, seeing the Moon as it drifts over the window. From this distance, An̆duru isn’t visible.

“We’re still venting,” Nikki says, checking a readout on the display screen. “Goddamn it. I’d hoped the epoxy would hold, but it hasn’t. We have to depressurize to conserve oxygen.”

Nolan’s heart sinks. The Orion has become a tomb. They can’t reenter Earth’s atmosphere with a broken heat shield. That would turn their crypt into a crematorium. He wonders about the future, trying to imagine the cosmos beyond the span of his own life. How long will the Orion drift in an eccentric orbit? Are they destined to crash into the lunar surface or plummet to Earth?

Somewhere out there, remnants of the Apollo missions from the 1960s are still drifting through the dark void. Snoopy was the name given to the Apollo 10 lunar ascent stage. Rather than abandoning it to crash on the Moon, NASA sent it into a heliocentric orbit around the Sun. Perhaps like Snoopy, one day, amateur astronomers will search for Iris among the stars.

After changing into fresh diapers and suiting up again, they don their helmets and prepare to depressurize the capsule one last time. It’s futile, but it’s human to fight for life.

“Alright,” Nikki says as they strap in. “I’m going to try to stabilize the craft before we run out of juice. Keep your backpacks handy. Once we lose electrical power, we’ll have some oxygen under pressure, but the pumps won’t run. Scrubbing CO2 is going to be an issue. Eventually, we’ll have to switch to our backpacks.”

Nolan admires her perseverance. There’s no reason to go on, but she persists regardless. He goes along with the procedure dutifully. If nothing else, discipline provides a way to deal with fear. What would you do, Nolan? Panic? Scream? Spend your last minutes hyperventilating? Damn, Nikki is calm under pressure, helping him keep himself together. She’s probably thinking the same about them. Their tacit, unspoken agreement not to talk about death is all that keeps them focused. Like Scott on the Antarctic, with base camp too far away, they’re determined to remain calm until the bitter, cold end.

“Can we still see it?” Kath asks once Nikki has corrected their spin.

“An̆duru? The Prince of Darkness?” Nikki says, bringing up the long-range camera. “Maybe.”

Nolan’s not sure what their distance is from An̆duru, but the image before him looks like that of a raisin in the dark. Rather than being crisp, the view is hazy, on the outer limits of what’s possible with their remaining camera.

“That thing in there,” Nikki says. “I don’t understand. How could it evolve to live in a vacuum?”

“I don’t know,” Kath replies. “Evolution is fickle but predictable. Evolution will exploit any niche available to it. Eyes exploit light, so over fifty different variants have evolved on Earth. Flight exploits air, so we have birds, insects, mammals like bats, and even plant seeds that have taken to the skies. Hell, there are spiders that fly by releasing silk threads that act as sails.”

“But a vacuum?” Nikki asks.

“Species love niche environments. It means they can own them, and by owning them they can avoid the direct competition that drives other species extinct. We have plenty of extremophiles on Earth. A vacuum is just another extreme environment. We’ve got microbes that live in complete darkness around volcanic vents on the seafloor. Somehow they thrive under pressures that would squash us like a bug on a windshield.”

Nolan echos Nikki’s sentiment with, “But a hard vacuum, that’s different, right? How likely is that?”

“It’s as likely as the scalding water kicked up by a geyser. Or the inside of a nuclear reactor. Space is the single biggest environment there is—and there’s plenty of energy. From the perspective of biological life, if you can exploit a vacuum, you’ve got it made.”

She laughs, adding, “Space is like New York. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.”

“I guess,” Nikki says.

As an afterthought, Kath says, “I can imagine a scenario where these things evolved beneath the surface of an ice moon orbiting a gas giant. The first time they break the surface, they die. But if that moon is like Europa or Enceladus, regularly erupting with geysers bursting out into space, eventually, something might survive. And if it survives and makes it back beneath the surface, it gains an evolutionary advantage.

“On Earth, we have microscopic organisms called water bears. We’ve stuck these critters on the outside of spacecraft. We’ve exposed them for months on end to a hard vacuum, harsh cosmic rays, and extreme temperature variations. On returning to Earth, it was a case of just add water! If tardigrades can do that, why can’t they?”

“But how did they end up with An̆duru?” Nolan asks.

“It’s a nest—a hive,” Kath replies. “We’re only seeing a glimpse of their lifecycle. Like parasitic wasps or a colony of fire ants, there are phases they need to progress through. The last stage would be launching these seed pods across space with astonishing precision.”

Nikki says, “So it’s an invasive species—like rats on driftwood. Instead of following ocean currents to some distant land, these things follow gravitational pathways.”

“Yes,” Kath says. “And like the isolated species on those islands, life on Earth would be unable to compete with such an aggressive predator.”

A flash lights up the screens in front of them, erupting from within An̆duru.

Nikki punches a few buttons, magnifying the image as she says, “Looks like Houston got your message.”

The view is blurry. The onboard AI image processing algorithm kicks in, upscaling the footage. Bands of fire appear, highlighting the chasms that have opened up on An̆duru. From this distance, it looks as though lava is spewing out onto the surface of the alien pod. Molten blobs seethe and boil, defying the darkness.

For a brief moment, superheated gases surge out of the gaps and cracks in the thick shell. Plasma glows as it tears through the alien husk. Gases expand into the bitter cold vacuum of space. It’s not an explosion as such. There’s no billowing fireball or clouds of smoke. Over a matter of a few seconds, fiery geysers erupt from the cracks on An̆duru. They fade into the eternal night, leaving a shattered hull breaking apart.

“That’ll be the X-37,” Nolan says. “They must have slipped it inside one of those chasms.”

The cracks on An̆duru radiate heat, dissipating the energy of a thermonuclear blast within its core. Several large chunks of the outer hull come loose, drifting into space, revealing a layer of thick, gooey molten rock.

“Now that,” Kath says. “That’s beautiful!”

Desert Sun

A blue glow seeps in through the windows of the Orion.

Kath is so cold she’s beyond shivering. She can barely see past the ice crystals that have formed on the inside of her helmet.

A soft mist emerges with each breath. It’s been nine hours since they switched to their life support packs, six since her heating coil failed. It’s been a day since they ran the batteries on the Orion dry, two days since any of them ate or drank, and four days since a thermonuclear explosion tore through the heart of An̆duru. With the death of the Orion, internal comms failed, leaving them isolated from each other. The three astronauts are hidden behind the glass faceplates in their helmets, unable to talk in a vacuum.

Kath’s mind is shutting down. Reality is a blur. Dreams offer bitter solace. Those points at which she wakes are only brought about because a spasm of pain ripples through her legs. Long ago, she withdrew her fingers from her gloves, bunching them up into a ball inside the rubberized palm material. She curled up in a fetal position. Occasionally, she bumps into one of the icy panels lining the inside of the Orion. Her lips are parched, while her skin is cracked.

The hatch on the Orion is open.

There were numerous cracks in the cabin following their encounter with An̆duru. Rather than allowing air to escape into the vacuum of space, Nikki depressurized the capsule. She had them take turns standing in the opening, warming themselves in the sunlight. With their suits failing, it was like trying to gently warm a frozen turkey in a blast furnace. Fatigue set in and the extreme temperature differences became too much to bear. Why prolong the suffering?

A long, deep sleep is the best death she can hope for.

The only thing that’s kept Kath going is seeing Earth looming larger in the window. One last glimpse of home and it’ll be time to sign off.

With their batteries dead, there’s no way to fire the main engine. Nikki said their orbit would bring them close to Earth. Three thousand miles above the surface isn’t that close, but at least Earth is no longer a postage stamp in the window. Their orbit will see them swing around the planet and soar out toward the Moon again. Gravity has trapped them between these two celestial bodies. They’re doomed to repeat this loop for eternity. Kath wants to see her home one last time. She hopes to spot Montana from orbit, giving her a chance to say goodbye.

A dark shape passes over the windows, blocking the sunlight reflecting off Earth. Kath winces, shrinking in fear. A burst of adrenalin causes her heart to surge. As quickly as it came, the shadow is gone. Her joints are stiff. Somehow she unravels. She kicks with one boot and drifts to the nearest window.

Nolan is curled up in a ball near the exercise bike at the rear of the craft.

Nikki is dead. Her body floats inert. Her back is arched while her arms and legs are outstretched. Not long now, Kath thinks. She can’t bring herself to pull her arms away from her chest. They’ve been locked in place for hours, held rigid against her suit in a bid to stay warm.

They’re somewhere over the Pacific.

Brilliant white clouds blind her, causing her to squint as she tries to make out any sign of land. Which way are they going? Is America, Asia, or Australia about to pass beneath them? From this height, there’s no sign of life, let alone humanity, but it’s a beautiful day down there. To the south, storms swirl, obscuring the ice of Antarctica. Beneath her, the clouds look like candy floss. A light smattering of white has been daubed across an azure blue ocean. Earth is serene. Warm. Inviting.

She turns, catching something out of the corner of her eye.

Light shines within the open hatch of the Orion, but it isn’t the sun.

Kath reaches out, forcing her arms to respond. She ignores the rush of cold that clings to her skin. Her undergarments are frozen. She rests her hand on the edge of the opening, stopping herself from drifting out into space. Two stars shine in her eyes, blinding her. Instinctively, she reaches up, slapping at rather than grabbing her visor. She drags it down over her face, unable to see beyond the lights.

Kath feels drawn to the stars. Although she knows it’s impossible, it seems as though she could reach out and touch them. Pushing forward, her backpack catches on the edge of the hatch, knocking her to one side.

The twin lights disappear, leaving her eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness.

As her upper torso clears the edge of the hatch, Kath finds herself bathed in the sunlight reflecting off Earth. Warmth seeps through the insulation in her suit. Down below her, the Baja Peninsula is visible. It’s moving on a strange angle. No, it’s her and the Orion that are strange, crossing from southwest to northeast. She’ll pass over Texas along with some of the southern states, but not Montana. Her heart sinks.

Wait. Where did those two lights come from?

Kath turns in the hatchway.

Bursts of gas dart from the leading edge of another spacecraft. Fine white puffs of gas dissipate into the darkness as the vehicle maneuvers.

Black nose cone. White body. No windows.

In her dull state, Kath struggles to understand what she’s looking at. Is her mind playing tricks on her?

Black tiles line the leading edge of the delta wings. At the rear, there are twin tail fins, rising up at opposing angles. A set of cargo bay doors open, revealing an array of complex machinery. It’s a space shuttle, but it’s not. It’s too small. Barely the size of a SUV. There are logos—Boeing, NASA, USAF, USSF.

The craft hangs in space, slowly positioning itself in front of the Orion.

Waiting.

She raises her sun visor, wanting to get a better look, trying to convince herself this isn’t a cruel dream. Kath pulls herself back inside the frozen capsule. She pushes her fingers into her icy gloves. The cold is painful. She floats over to Nolan, grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking his pumpkin suit and yelling, “Wake up!”

He can’t hear her.

His eyes flicker.

With a firm grip on his stiff suit material, she pulls him close, pressing the faceplate on her helmet against his. Kath yells at the top of her lungs, “Goddamn it, Nolan! Wake up!”

His eyes go wide. Even though they’re in a vacuum, vibrations pass between their two helmets as the glass touches. He can hear her. His lips move, but he can’t talk. She pushes again, saying, “Outside. They’re out there. Waiting for us.”

Nolan looks past her at the hatch.

Although their helmets are no longer touching and he can no longer hear her, she pushes him on, saying, “Go. I’ll get Nikki.”

Nolan’s movements are achingly slow. He reaches for the opening with both arms outstretched.

Kath cradles Nikki’s limp body, pulling her toward the hatch. She’s dead. She has to be, and yet Kath cannot give up on her, not while there’s at least a sliver of doubt.

Ahead of her, Nolan pushes off, drifting through twenty feet. He has his arms outstretched, ready to grab the machinery within the other craft. From within the Orion, Kath watches as he collides with one of the cargo bay doors. Nolan ricochets, bouncing off the thin panel. His legs swing wildly, colliding with a support strut, but he has a handhold. He works his way into the cramped confines of the cargo bay. Once he’s set, he turns back to the Orion and beckons Kath to follow.

Kath struggles. Maneuvering through the hatch is an ordeal given her frail state. Trying to steer an unconscious body ahead of her is nigh on impossible. Kath pushes Nikki on, working her up in front of her as she positions herself beside and below the hatch. She grabs one of Nikki’s boots, clinging to it as she pushes her out into space.

Kath follows, but with only one free hand, it’s difficult to avoid bumping into the Orion. Her backpack catches yet again on the rim of the hatch. Her spacesuit is unnatural and bulky. She feels as though her chest is three feet thick, but she’s not letting go of Nikki.

With her chest above the opening, Kath grabs Nikki with both hands. She spreads her legs wide, holding herself within the hatch. Weightlessness is supposed to be easy, but all her muscles are aching. She’s breathing hard.

Kath pulls Nikki in beside her as her waist clears the hatch. She keeps her legs inside the Orion. What seemed simple for Nolan looks impossible to her. Perhaps it’s all in her mind, but the other spacecraft appears to be drifting away. She needs leverage if she’s going to make the jump. She needs something to push off to cross the distance between the two spacecraft.

Nikki’s limp body bumps against the outside of the Orion as Kath positions herself. She makes sure she’s got a good handhold on her friend. Kath grabs the thin canvas strap extending between Nikki’s waist and the rim of her helmet. That strap is designed to keep the collar of her helmet from drifting up. It makes for a great handhold.

Letting go of the Orion is hard. Nolan made it look easy. He just pushed off and drifted across the void. To her, it looks as though the gap is widening. Perhaps it is. Whoever’s remotely guiding the other vessel is riding a fine line between getting close and not colliding with the Orion.

Kath talks to herself.

“On three,” she says, steeling her mind.

Kath has a good handhold by the hatch. She bends her knees, ready to spring out, but, damn, there’s a whole lot of nothing out there. What if she misses? What if she collides with the other craft, coming in too hard and can’t get a grip? What if she bounces away from both spacecraft? Damn it.

From the shadows, Nolan beckons for her, holding out a gloved hand, reaching for her.

“One. Two.”

She rocks back and forth, trying to summon strength in her thighs.

“Three.”

With that, Kath launches across the gap. She twists out of control. By dragging Nikki along with her, Kath’s center of gravity is skewed. Physics demands equilibrium and she tumbles. Earth flashes by. Shadows move within her helmet. Darkness falls only to be washed away by the brilliance of the nearby star. Without a blue sky, it’s impossible to think of it as the Sun. Somewhere out there is another spaceship. It was just there, right in front of her. Now there’s just flashes of blue, black, and a blazing star that seems too damn close.

Kath’s backpack collides with the military spacecraft. She bounces, rebounding out into space. As she turns, the gloved fingers on her left-hand brush against one of the cargo doors.

She needs both hands.

If Kath lets go of Nikki, she’ll die, if she’s not already dead. Even if Nikki is alive, who’s to say she or any of them will survive reentry. They could run out of oxygen before the craft makes it back to Earth. Kath knows she should let go of Nikki. It’s the only option that makes any sense, but she can’t. The fingers of her left glove glide across the aluminum panel making up the cargo door. So close and yet she can’t bring herself to let go of her friend. The fingers on her right glove tighten around Nikki’s strap. Either they both make it or they both die. Fuck.

Kath’s efforts are counterproductive. By trying to grab one of the support struts, all she succeeds in doing is pushing herself away from the spacecraft. Her fingers slip and she’s left clutching at the vacuum, mere inches from the open cargo hold. As she’s rebounding away from the vessel, those two inches might as well be two hundred thousand miles.

The distance increases but she refuses to let go of Nikki. Together, they spin out of control, spiraling away from the X-37.

Nolan hangs half out of the equipment bay, reaching out into space, grabbing at Nikki’s backpack. He grabs one of the straps and yanks the two of them back toward the cargo hold.

This craft is carrying a rail gun. Its ammunition is spent. Even so, there’s not much room within the cargo bay. Nolan’s up near the front. He drags Nikki in as Kath gets a firm grip on part of the exotic gun. The cargo doors begin closing, catching her boots. She draws them in, squeezing beside some rigid mechanical device. Cables snake along the wall. Darkness closes over her.

There’s no roar from the rocket engines.

The craft accelerates smoothly.

For Kath, the bay is claustrophobic. She feels entombed. Her helmet presses against the closed doors. She’s jammed hard up against the rail gun. Kath can only move one hand. She’d like to turn on her helmet spotlights and look at her oxygen meter. How much time has she got left? How long will it take to get down? It’s difficult for her to shake the feeling she’s trapped in a coffin, running out of air. It’s the darkness. She’s alone with nothing beyond the sound of her own manic breathing. Easy, Kath. Slow things down.

After what seems like hours but is probably only minutes, the engines cut out. Once again, she’s weightless, shifting slightly in the cramped confines of the cargo bay. Waiting. If anything, having hope is cruel. When she thought she was going to die, she accepted her fate. Now, she desperately wants to live, but there’s nothing she can do locked in the darkness.

Seconds stretch into eternity. Her mind is running at a million miles an hour.

Mentally, Kath’s reviewing everything that could go wrong. The most obvious point is the X-37 wasn’t designed for conducting an orbital rescue. Even simple things, like the weight distribution of the astronauts, could be enough to tilt the vehicle. Enter on the wrong angle and they’re a fireball in the night. The flight controllers back in Houston have no idea where the three of them are within the cargo bay. In a small vehicle like this, the extra weight would change the handling of the craft. At best, they’ll land off-course or have to correct in the lower atmosphere. At worst, they’ll burn up. Great. Just great.

Although she’s never gone through reentry, Kath knows it when it finally happens. The craft turns. Engines fire in short bursts. The vehicle changes its angle. Slowly, a sense of weight returns. She can feel it—the pull of an entire planet bringing her home. Heat builds, radiating through the metal. Her helmet is jammed in place against the cargo door. Kath keeps telling herself she’s going to make it.

Outside, temperatures reach in excess of four thousand degrees. A flicker of light appears along the seams of the cargo bay doors, bathing the astronauts in an incandescent orange glow. Kath hates herself. For once, she wishes she didn’t know. In this case, ignorance would be bliss. Beyond the thin skin of the X-37, temperatures are approaching those within the Sun. The heat shield is so damn hot that, if it was dipped in a raging volcano, molten lava would cool rather than heat the thin fiberglass honeycomb.

The craft shakes, being buffeted as it enters the atmosphere. Kath can feel the computerized flight controls making tiny adjustments. After a month in space, it feels as though someone’s pushing on her, kneeing her in the small of her back. What was one person becomes two, three, and then four invisible people piled on top of her as the g-forces increase. The vehicle shakes, screaming into the atmosphere. It’s disconcerting to hear the howl of a banshee inches from her head, just beyond the thin metal. Then, as suddenly as it began, it’s gone, replaced by the sound of the wind whipping by. The orange glow is now a pale blue.

The craft turns, only this time, it’s different. Kath’s become accustomed to rockets pushing her. Now, though, she can feel the wings twisting, turning, riding the air currents. Her heart races.

Where’s the goddamn ground? Rather than gliding, it feels as though the craft is falling, plummeting to Earth. There’s control but no thrust. For someone that hates looking out the windows of an airplane, she’d sure love to see the ground right now. For that matter, a pilot would be nice, or a steward talking calmly over the intercom.

Wheels are lowered. She can feel them descending beneath her, catching the wind.

The craft banks hard, swinging wildly to one side, turning sharply as it drops like a stone. Kath’s heart is in her mouth as the craft levels out and finally pitches up. Seconds later, she feels the thud of wheels touching down. The craft bounces. After what feels like an age, the nose cone lowers, touching what has to be the roughest runway she’s ever landed on. From the cargo bay, Kath can feel every bump thundering through the airframe, but she’s down. She’s home. She’s made it. She’s alive.

When the vehicle finally rolls to a stop, the silence is refreshing. Kath doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Sirens sound in the distance. Helicopters fly low overhead. For the first time since reentry began, she relaxes, feeling her muscles melt. Kath lies there, breathing deeply. There’s yelling outside, thumping on the thin skin of the craft. The cargo bay doors open, revealing the most beautiful blue sky in all of creation. No clouds in sight.

A face appears above her, wrapped in white protective clothing and a clear visor. He’s talking, but Kath is beyond hearing. Words drift by. An arm is offered. A boot steps into the narrow gap beside her. An engineer clad in white lifts her out of the belly of the miniature shuttle. Someone rolls a staircase up to the craft, but it’s designed for an actual airplane. It reaches well beyond the cargo bay. Hands grab at her. Two more ghostly white assistants reach for her from the stairs.

The sun beats down on the desert. Distant mountains surround a salt flat. A helicopter lands roughly a hundred yards away, kicking up dust.

No sooner have her two assistants got her down from the spacecraft than they haul her into the desert. They drape her arms over their shoulders and run, surprising her. Kath tries to move her legs. She wants to help, but her boots scrape along the ground, bouncing against the rocks. Once she’s well clear of the spacecraft, they lower her to the dirt. Medics rush in from a nearby ambulance. Kath reaches up and releases the locking ring on her helmet. She twists the helmet sideways and pushes it up, gasping for air. Someone signals, ‘No,’ but she has to breathe fresh air. The smell of gritty salt, dirt, dust, and sweat was never so sweet.

A medic shoves a plastic mask over her face and opens the valve on a green oxygen cylinder. Elastic bands hold the mask in place, despite her protests. Kath wants real air. Nothing processed. But the young woman in front of her insists. Medics and soldiers gather around. They’re blocking the view. Kath wants to see the others.

“Where’s Nolan? Nikki?”

“They’re fine. They’re going to be fine. You’re all going to be okay.”

Kath knows when she’s being lied to. She squirms, wanting to see through the sea of legs. The spacecraft sits out on the makeshift runway. Another ambulance has pulled up closer. They’re lowering someone onto a gurney. That has to be Nikki, as Kath can see Nolan being led to yet another ambulance. Like her, his legs drag behind him as two medics carry him on.

“I need to check your extremities,” a medic says. Unusual term, but okay. Kath doesn’t think anything of it until they remove her gloves. Her fingers are as black as coal.

Truth

Four weeks and eleven surgeries later, the three astronauts are on stage in the ceremonial East Room of the White House. Nikki lost both of her feet to frostbite but she’s learning to walk on prosthetics. Kath and Nolan both lost fingers and toes. Microsurgery allowed them to retain their thumbs and a couple of fingers. It’s been a long, slow, painful month of rehab.

After presenting them with the Presidential Medal of Freedom, President Elizabeth Aston gives each of them a few minutes to speak. Dozens of television cameras transmit their words across the country and around the world. Nikki talks about her gratitude for the US Space Force conducting an orbital rescue. She thanks the medical teams for the support the three of them received while in hospital. Nolan tries to remain stoic, but cries when he mentions his wife and how she’s supported him through the years. He speaks at length about the mission. With the damage the Orion sustained, he accepted a slow, cold death. He thought he was dreaming when the X-37 arrived.

Kath’s turn comes too soon. She’s not prepared. She hobbles up to the lectern. Kath’s still learning to walk without most of her toes. President Aston holds out her hand, helping her.

Standing there, looking out over a sea of heads, she admires the ornate chandeliers. The 18th-century cornice running around the ceiling leaves her feeling as though she’s been transported back in time. Life-size paintings in gilded frames adorn the walls. Kath is out of place. She grips the lectern, looking down at the stubs where her fingers once were. Her right hand has been reduced to a thumb and index finger. Her left hand has a thumb and a few stubs reaching to the second knuckle.

“This isn’t the end,” she says. “Those fuckers will be back.”

Smiles evaporate around the room.

Yeah, Kath never was one to stay on message. What’s anyone going to do about it? Is the President going to wrestle the mic away from her? Perhaps a few of the Secret Service agents are thinking about escorting her off stage. She can’t give the usual platitudes.

“We thought we were going to die up there. We accepted that if it meant you guys down here had a chance.”

Her eyes settle on Andy, the vlogger that helped them get the word out about An̆duru. Nolan invited him. Kath asked Nolan why. It wasn’t that she disagreed with his choice. She was curious about his motivation. Nolan said anyone that wants it deserves a second chance. She liked that. They too have been given a second chance, albeit minus a few fingers and toes.

Andy’s seated at the end of the third row by the fire exit. His head drops. He’s ashamed. He shouldn’t be. He’s changed. Perhaps he feels he still has a way to go. As raw as that feeling may be, it’s a start. Social media hasn’t been kind to Andy. In his absence, others have sought to become merchants of lies. Keep your head up, Andy. Yeah, she’s going to take her speech way off-script!

Kath clears her throat. “We get back down here and—fuck!”

Her swear words flowing a little too easily. If anything, they’re a symptom of the hurt she feels. All the trimmings and trappings of prestige are stripped away. Kath is raw with emotion. A horrified President fidgets behind her. Kath doesn’t care. She looks down the barrel of the main camera as though it were a gun.

“Conspiracy theories abound. Apparently, we never launched. Oh, the rocket went up, but we were on a sound stage in Hollywood—the same one used to fake the Apollo landings.”

She holds up her disfigured hands.

“Even this is fake. There was an accident, or so the story goes, an explosion on set. Convenient, huh?”

Kath leans forward on the lectern, resting her weight on it to relieve the pain in her hip.

“I—I just don’t know what to tell you. I can’t believe the toxic comments I’m seeing on social media. I did a lot of reading while I was in the hospital. A lot. And it ain’t just about us here and now. We’ve got serious problems, people. Our culture is delirious with conspiracy theories. We’re running a fever.

“Did you know roughly half the Russians think we faked the moon landings? Yeah, fake history isn’t a uniquely American problem. But half? Oh, and get this, when it comes to us, roughly one in four Americans have their doubts about Neil and Buzz.”

She shrugs her shoulders.

“How did we get to this point? How did we become so damn vulnerable? When did we stop thinking for ourselves? We’re being manipulated. The trolls are laughing at us, but even they don’t get it. These are self-inflicted wounds. We’re doing this to ourselves.

“When so many people think we faked five separate lunar landings over four years. When they think we faked eight hundred pounds’ worth of moon rocks. You’ve got to ask yourself, what the hell is wrong with us? What is it that makes us so damned suspicious on the one hand and yet so utterly gullible on the other?

“How did half of us get duped into believing historical events like 9/11 were staged? And by our own damn government? Oh, we’ve got our reasoning. Well, we think it’s ours, but it’s not. Someone planted the idea. Someone sowed doubt. Someone lied.”

McGuire is in the front row. He’s doing everything he can to get her to stop without actually making any overt motion. His eyebrows are raised. His cheeks are puffed. Furrows line his brow as he seeks eye contact with her. Oh, Kath can see him just fine. Seems he’s desperate to avoid a train wreck. If he could get away with it without a camera turning on him, she’s sure he’d raise a finger to his throat. Cut, cut, cut! No doubt, President Aston is thinking the same thing, although from behind a frozen half-smile.

“I don’t think we’re stupid. That’s not it,” Kath says. “If anything, we’re too damn smart for our own good. Oh, the irony. We know we’re not dumb. The problem is, that attitude makes us overconfident. Arrogant. Leaving us easily fooled.

“We’re eager. We want explanations—answers. And when we get one we like, we don’t question it. We hold onto it like a dog with a bone. God forbid anyone tells us we’re wrong.”

She picks up a glass of water hidden out of sight beneath the lectern, lifting it to her lips. The glass trembles in her hands. Water sloshes around, betraying how fragile she is. Kath doesn’t care.

“So this is what happened out there at the Lagrange point. Are you ready? Because this is the truth. Whether you like it or not. Whether it fits in with your goddamn ideology or not. Whether you want to believe it or not.

“We came face to face with a species that consumes entire worlds. Like us, they’re an apex predator. Like us, nothing stands in their way. They transform planets the way we conquered entire continents. In the same way we backed even the most ferocious tiger into the darkest depths of the jungle, they’re unstoppable. They consume everything in their path.”

She laughs, shaking her head as she adds, “We’re not all that different.”

The silence that follows is painful, but Kath doesn’t care. She hopes her words make people uncomfortable.

“Life spreads. Life is aggressive. Life dominates. That behavior is hardcoded into the DNA of every living organism.

“All living things have lifecycles. They start as eggs and move through adolescence into adulthood only to repeat that cycle. Without something to impede them, all life grows at an exponential rate. Here on Earth, species keep each other in check. Disease, limited food and predation keep populations stable. Not so among the stars.

“These things are like voracious caterpillars. The resin-like pod we called An̆duru is a cocoon. They would have devoured our world. Once finished, they’d move on into some adult form, something that could spread through space like insects on the wind. They’re the reason for the Great Silence. Whenever and wherever life arises, they feed.

“We got lucky. Had they arrived a thousand years ago, a few hundred years ago or even just a few decades ago, Earth would be yet another lifeless husk floating in space. Our planet would have been stripped bare like a field of wheat devoured by locusts.”

McGuire’s face is blank. Okay, she’s got his attention. Kath straightens, looking into the cameras at the back of the room as she speaks.

“They will be back, but we have a plan. We’ll build a fleet of autonomous spacecraft to orbit Jupiter and Saturn. We’ll arm them with thermonuclear warheads. We can’t hurt an An̆duru-class alien pod, but we can knock it sideways. We can detonate in the clouds and send it spiraling into the heart of a gas giant, but only if we work together.

“We have to grow up. We can’t cling to myths and fables. We can’t continue to undermine ourselves by holding on to childish conspiracy theories. We can’t shrink in fear of change. We can’t balk at the advent of a new vaccine or dumb rumors about 5G and god-knows-what-else. If we can’t change, forget about alien invaders, we’ll destroy ourselves with fake news.”

Kath rocks on the lectern. Her legs ache. The deep tissue damage she sustained to her arteries means she struggles to stand for more than a few minutes at a time. Her medal swings on her neck. She’s got to stay focused.

“The hardest thing to accept in life is that things are going to change, but change is needed. We have to embrace the things that scare us, not run from them, or hide behind mediocre lies. We’re better than this.

“It’s time to stop bickering like kids in a schoolyard, peddling lies. We’ve got to stop letting our fears get the better of us, because it doesn’t stop with An̆duru. That’s where it starts. If we don’t, it won’t be marauding aliens we have to contend with, it’ll be the extinction of our world at our own hands. Honestly, I don’t know what terrifies me more—them or us?”

A wave of guilt sweeps over her. Now she’s vented, she feels as though she owes the audience some thanks. The back row contains some of the surgeons and nurses that helped in her recovery.

“We’re capable of so much more,” she says.

Kath lifts up her medal with what’s left of her right hand. She holds it beside her face so the news crews can get the shot they were after all along. Flashes go off as she smiles for the cameras.

“So thank you. Thank you for coming to get us in orbit. Thank you for patching us up and putting us back together. But most of all, thank you for refusing to shrink from the challenges we face.”

Kath turns and hobbles away as the audience rises, cheering.

The End

Afterword

Thank you for supporting independent science fiction.

With a pandemic sweeping the globe, life has been crazy. It’s been heart-breaking to see this disease ravage the world. Far too many lives have been lost.

My book sales are down 75% on the same time last year. The publishing company I worked with on Retrograde and Reentry closed its doors. I approached several big-name agencies and publishing companies with this novel, but they wouldn’t even consider it, let alone read it. So when I say, ‘Thank you for supporting independent science fiction,’ I mean it. Without your support, novels like this would not exist.

If you’ve enjoyed this story as an ebook, you might want to grab a copy of the paperback to sit alongside some of the classics on your bookshelf.

If you’d like to be notified when the sequel is released, sign up for my email newsletter. The working title is Generation of Vipers.

Please take the time to leave a review online and tell a friend about Wherever Seeds May Fall. Your opinion of this novel is far more important than mine.

I’d like to thank Sri Lankan academic, futurist, and science fiction author Yudhanjaya Wijeratne for his encouragement. He named the fictional comet in this story. His award-winning debut novel Numbercaste provides a chilling look at how social media can be abused to control populations. Unfortunately, Numbercaste is in danger of being fact rather than fiction. His latest novel, The Salvage Crew, is narrated by none other than Nathan Fillion (Firefly/Castle).

Although the characters in this novel are fictitious, Kath McKenzie was inspired by the real-life astrophysicist Dr. Katie Mack. Dr. Mack regularly discusses scientific discoveries on Twitter. When the extra-solar comet/asteroid ‘Oumuamua soared through our solar system she joined the chorus of scientists saying, “It’s not aliens!”

In the words of Carl Sagan, “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.” Should aliens ever arrive on Earth, tens of thousands of scientists like Dr. Mack will be more than happy to review and confirm the evidence. If an object like An̆duru were to skim Saturn or Jupiter, I’d be checking her Twitter feed for updates. Dr. Mack has a non-fiction book called The End of Everything (Astrophysically Speaking) that is well worth reading. It examines the various possible futures awaiting our universe.

Wherever Seeds May Fall is the fifteenth novel in my First Contact series. These stories explore obscure solutions to the Fermi Paradox. If you told me I’d write fifteen to twenty books on this subject when I started a decade ago, I would have thought you were mad. I thought four or five would be a herculean effort. The great thing about this series is there’s no order. As all the books are about First Contact, they’re all equal first. Although the settings and characters may change, the overall subject remains the same. Think of the First Contact series like Black Mirror or The Twilight Zone. Each book is a stand-alone episode. If you’ve enjoyed Wherever Seeds May Fall, be sure to check out the entire series.

In the summer of 1950, while sitting around a table having lunch, physicist Enrico Fermi casually asked his colleagues, “Where is everyone?” His fellow scientists laughed. Fermi had done the math. He understood that, given the sheer size of the universe, there should be other intelligent species out there. Twelve billion years is plenty of time for civilizations to rise and spread, so where were they?

Fermi’s Paradox has captured the popular imagination, but there’s been too much paranoia about flying saucers and alien abductions. We need to focus on science, not speculation. At this point, I’d settle for microbes on Mars or perhaps single-celled alien critters living beneath the ice on the moons of Jupiter. Will we ever find ET? I don’t know, but our ability to search the skies is improving. Instruments like the James Webb Space Telescope may be able to detect photosynthesis on exoplanets.

Life is extraordinary, but there’s no reason it should be unique to Earth. The lack of any extraterrestrial signals has been called The Great Silence.

One explanation for this silence is the Great Filter. The idea is there’s a catastrophic event common to all emerging civilizations. Being an intelligent species, we have our own share of hazards to negotiate. We may not make it to the stars. We could be wiped out by a long list of problems. Humanity could be destroyed by nuclear war or environmental collapse. But perhaps we’ve already passed through the Great Filter. It could be something as simple as the leap to multicellular life during the Cambrian Explosion.

One possible filter is the Dark Forest.

This concept was popularized by Stephen Hawking and Chinese author Liu Cixin in The Three-Body Problem. To survive in a dark forest, you need to be quiet and cautious. Yelling attracts attention. In this context, ‘yelling’ is carelessly transmitting radio signals into space.

Wherever Seeds May Fall explores an alternative form of the Dark Forest. Instead of an advanced civilization attacking all comers, the threat might come from animals that have evolved to survive in space.

Science fiction is a genre that tries to capture aspects of known science in a fictional setting.

As much as possible, I try to keep my stories plausible. Fiction is, of course, make-believe, but it can give us pause for thought. Stories like this are not real, but if they conform to the known laws of physics, they can give us some idea about what could unfold while entertaining us. Inevitably, there are always minor points that get missed, but I tried to ensure the plot and pacing are realistic. And yes, I really did submerge myself in a bathtub to check whether I could hear a phone ringing from beneath the water.

Wherever Seeds May Fall is based on a historical event. In 1994, the comet Shoemaker-Levy 9 struck Jupiter with the force of six million megatons. If it had hit LA, the crater would have consumed all of southern California. Debris would have spread over nine thousand miles! At the point of impact, Shoemaker-Levy 9 was traveling at 60 km/s or 134,000 mph. The resulting fireball reached temperatures in excess of 30,000 C or 54,000 F.

In this novel, An̆duru is a category of meteor/comet known as an Earth grazer. These pass through the upper atmosphere, releasing energy before skipping back out into space. The ‘Tunguska Event’ decimated over a thousand square miles of forest in Siberia. It was probably an Earth grazer as no crater or impact fragments were ever found.

Over the past decade, we’ve become aware of extra-solar visitors. Far from being UFOs, these are natural objects from outside our solar system, racing through space. Óumuamua made headlines around the world, but it’s far from being alone. In 2019, comet Borisov whipped around the Sun at 177,000 kilometers an hour, covering almost 50 kilometers a second (30 miles a second).

In 2020, the Global Meteor Network detected an Earth grazer traveling at 34 km/s. The asteroid dipped down to an altitude of 90km before ricocheting back out into space, much like a small An̆duru.

In space, the overriding concern is fuel. When traveling between planets, the size of a spacecraft is constrained by a balancing act with the amount of fuel required to get there. Far from what’s seen in science fiction, there’s generally a short burn of a few minutes followed by months of cruising. When the NASA Curiosity Rover launched for Mars, scientists likened it to hitting a golf ball in LA and landing a hole-in-one in Scotland.

This novel uses the concept of gravity braking and aerobraking to show how an alien spacecraft might approach Earth without using excessive amounts of fuel.

Gravity assist is the equivalent of cheat codes in a computer game. It allows for changes in velocity without using any fuel! Gravity assist describes how a spacecraft can speed up or slow down using the gravity of a planet as it orbits the Sun. If you threw a tennis ball so it bounced off the windscreen of a passing car, you’d get a similar effect. The ball would be accelerated by its interaction with a moving object. Instead of a car, gravity assist uses the mass of a planet to provide a little extra oomph.

Gravitational assist used by Cassini to reach Saturn

Image credit: NASA/Purdue University, Indiana

NASA’s Cassini probe launched from Earth in 1997. It used a Venus-Venus-Earth-Jupiter Gravity Assist (VVEJGA) to reach Saturn. This allowed it to travel far further than it could have using its engines alone.

Space agencies use this approach to save fuel when going to planets such as Mercury (which involves speeding up) and the outer gas giants (slowing down).

The Voyager missions of the 1970s used this concept to travel well beyond their fuel range. Gravity assist allowed them to conduct a ‘Grand Tour’ of the planets on their way to interstellar space.

Remarkably, the most fuel-efficient way to get to Mars is to head in the opposite direction and fly past Venus! Although it will take longer to get to Mars, this approach increases the mass that can be sent and even allows for shorter overall missions. In Wherever Seeds May Fall, the approach is reversed by An̆duru, allowing it to slow down.

Some other, random details supporting this novel are:

Yes, the Cheyenne Mountain Complex really does have a Subway sandwich shop in the heart of the mountain.

Yes, there really were only two SEAL teams when SEAL team six was developed. The idea was to fool the Soviets into overestimating the strength of US Special Forces.

Yes, there really are over a hundred million pieces of debris already in orbit. Fighting in space is stupid beyond belief as it will only make this problem worse.

Yes, NASA’s Voyager space probes were launched on identical rockets barely fifteen days apart. Now they’re separated by three trillion miles and traveling at vastly different speeds. Spaceflight is deceptively complex.

Could the US defeat Russian forces without using nuclear weapons? It’s an incredibly dangerous proposition, but the answer is a nervous yes.

Yes, NASA teaches its astronauts that, in the event of a communication outage, they can talk to each other by touching their helmets together. This allows vibrations to pass through the glass even though the astronauts are in a vacuum.

In this story, An̆duru disarms all the nuclear weapons on Earth. Although it’s purely theoretical, a surge of neutrinos with energy in the range of 300 TeV to 1 PeV could fry the core of a nuclear weapon on the other side of the planet! Such a surge would cause a warhead to superheat but not detonate!

Neutrinos are harmless. They’re whizzing through us all the time—a hundred trillion of them pass through you and me every second of every day. The Sun produces a phenomenal amount of them, but as they don’t have any charge (+/-) they don’t react with matter. Collisions with a nucleus are rare in normal circumstances.

Scientists have even taken a photo of the Sun as seen THROUGH Earth using nothing but neutrinos. Yes, that’s right. They pointed a camera at the ground, at night, and took a photo of the Sun on the other side of the planet!

Neutrino image of the Sun as seen through Earth

Image Credit: R. Svoboda and K. Gordan (LSU)

These tiny, energetic particles pass through Earth as though it wasn’t even there. As only a tiny fraction of them collide with anything, it took over a year to create this photo.

If you wanted to block all the neutrinos coming from the Sun you would need a wall of lead roughly a light-year thick as they barely interact with anything!

When it comes to heavy metals like uranium, the probability of a collision is higher than for lighter elements like oxygen. Scientists have calculated that, given enough neutrinos at a high enough energy, the effect could trigger a nuclear reaction without reaching critical mass. Just enough neutrons would be released to destroy a nuclear weapon, but not enough for an explosion. For the sake of this story, I’ve ignored any effect on biological matter when such a wave was unleashed. I’ve portrayed this as a means of disarming the entire planet in a matter of seconds.

During the Apollo 9 mission, astronaut Rusty Schweickart described urine dumps at sunset as “the most beautiful sight in orbit.” I had fun working that into this story. I felt it reflected how even mundane tasks in space can be surreal.

The spacesuits used by the crew of the Iris are based on the NASA ACES suit. Although primarily designed for launch and landing, these suits are fully functional and can be used for EVAs.

And yes, antiemetic injections are delivered to the butt—even for astronauts.

Conspiracy theories are the mental equivalent of tooth decay. They eat away at people’s minds.

While discussing conspiracy theories in this novel, the point is made that not all conspiracies are make-believe. Some are real. As an example, Exxon knew as early as 1977 that fossil fuels were causing climate change. In what has to be the most morally repugnant corporate campaign in history, Big Oil not only buried the science, they actively spread disinformation. Oil companies turned the public against scientists, and all for the sake of a lousy buck.

There’s a quote going around on the Internet that says, conspiracy theories make dumb people feel smart. That’s not true. There’s nothing dumb about believing a conspiracy theory. It’s entirely natural, which is what makes it all the more alarming. The quote should be, conspiracy theories will make anyone feel smart. Any point of logic that clicks in your mind will release a burst of endorphins—including this one. How meta is that? We’re hardwired to think. The problem is, conspiracy theories only pass the lowest bar. They tickle the mind. They excite our thinking by gaining agreement on superficial points. I heard a prominent commentator say, “COVID-19 doesn’t spread outdoors. It’s almost like it was designed in a lab.” Can you see it? Can you see how the logic plays with our reasoning, drawing us closer, wanting us to embrace it? On the surface, it sounds plausible. Think a little deeper and the flaw becomes obvious. COVID-19 evolved in the close confines of a cave among tightly-packed bats so it’s no surprise its spreads effectively indoors. Pull at one thread and the conspiracy unravels. Don’t let yourself become cornered by a conspiracy. Think outside the box.

When it comes to the autism/vaccine debate that has plagued medical science for the past couple of decades, there’s no controversy. There were already nine comprehensive studies looking for any possible link prior to Andrew Wakefield’s fraudulent study. Since then, there have been over nine hundred studies and still the irrational and unfounded fear of vaccination persists. Five cohort studies followed over a million children and… crickets.

Just this morning, I read the results of a research paper that followed 650,000 children over several years. The conclusion was, “MMR vaccination does not increase the risk for autism, does not trigger autism in susceptible children, and is not associated with clustering of autism cases after vaccination.”

Over 50% of American’s think 9/11 was faked. Roughly half of all Russians think the US faked the Moon landings in the 60s. Within the US, polling in 2019 revealed upwards of 9% deny the landing ever happened. Another 17% are undecided, so roughly 1 in 4 Americans doubt Neil Armstrong walked on the Moon. Given this is the single most extensively documented technological event in modern history, it is madness to think anyone could be talked out of it—but humans. We have trolled ourselves into absurd positions.

The denial of basic facts is a serious problem for society. When this kind of distorted logic is applied to vaccinations, pandemics, or political decisions, the consequences are horrific. Lies cost lives.

Vaccines have changed our world for the better. In the West, they’ve all but eliminated debilitating diseases like polio. That people fear the cure is both perplexing and heartbreaking to behold.

Our pig-headed obstinance to cling to what we want to be true regardless of the facts has never been more evident than during the pandemic. Nurses reported people dying in denial of COVID-19. I’d like to think that, like Angry Andy Anderson, people can change, but we’re often our own worst enemy. If I can offer just one word of advice: listen to the science, not the hype.

Could an alien species survive in space?

Maybe.

Life is astonishingly resilient, even in environments as harsh as a vacuum.

Cryptobiosis is a metabolic state of life that’s almost indistinguishable from death. The wood frog, as an example, develops a kind of antifreeze in its blood, allowing it to survive frozen in ice. Tardigrades have been frozen to within one degree of absolute zero for months on end and survived. The eggs of brine shrimp (sold as sea monkeys) can remain viable even when desiccated. Scientists have revived yeast used by the Pharaohs of Egypt. Space is a hostile environment, but it is not impossible for life to survive, especially if that life lies dormant and cocooned within an asteroid.

An̆duru had a complex reproductive cycle. How likely is that to evolve? Great question. I’m glad you asked.

On Earth, parasites that inhabit the intestinal tract have a problem that’s similar to An̆duru’s. How do you get from one nice, warm, cozy place to another? Instead of planets, we’re talking about guts, but the principle is similar in that there needs to be a workable strategy or the parasite will go extinct. Hookworms accomplish this by laying eggs that come out in feces. But having someone accidentally stand on the newly hatch larvae is still a long way from another stomach. The larvae have to burrow through the skin. The bloodstream, though, still isn’t the gut. So how do they get to their nice, warm, cozy home? They get pumped to the heart and out to the lungs. From there, they bore through the air sacs into the lungs themselves. Humans then cough them up into the throat where they’re swallowed and—voila—they’re back home in a gut where they can reproduce.

Sounds crazy, right? Toxoplasma gondii is even more bananas. It can only reproduce in cats. So it has a problem. How does it get from one cat gut to another? Cats are renown for being fastidious with their excrement. Enter the mouse. Mice eat cat poo. But a mouse gut isn’t the nice, warm, cozy home Toxoplasma gondii’s looking for. Ah, but cats love eating mice. Toxoplasma gondii exploits this and drives mice insane. Yep. Toxoplasma gondii manipulates those tiny rodent minds so they’re no longer afraid of cats and—voila—the cycle is complete.

Given time, natural selection can solve the most intractable problems with clever solutions. Could a seed pod like An̆duru actually exist? It’s not outside the realms of possibility.

Again, thank you for supporting independent science fiction.

Writing is hard. It’s like running a marathon blindfolded. Novels often surface for a brief moment before slipping beneath the waves of obscurity. If you’ve enjoyed this story, please tell someone about it.

I’d like to thank my wife for putting up with my crazy ideas. Oh, she suggested adding the sections about Jorge, giving us the perspective of an everyday person in another country instead of just a bunch of high-flyers in the White House. I think that adds an extra dimension to this story. My thanks also go to my editors, Ellen Campbell and David Jaffe. Technical assistance came from Per Hansen, who has worked with Lockheed Martin and Blue Origin. Per helped fine-tune a number of points around the launch and flight of the fictional Iris mission. I’d also like to thank the following beta-readers for helping refine this story further: Ben Honey (NASA), Didi Kanjahn, Bruce Simmons, Petr Melechin, and LuAnn Miller. These guys are super-fans! Their help in polishing this novel is deeply appreciated.

Please take the time to leave a review of Wherever Seeds May Fall online. Your opinion is important, but no spoilers.

You can find all my novels on Amazon, and you can find me on Facebook and Twitter.

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Peter Cawdron

Brisbane, Australia