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    Age Of Eli: Book 1
    Age Of Eli: Book 1
    Age Of Eli: Book 1
    Ebook539 pages7 hours

    Age Of Eli: Book 1

    By J. E. Brink

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    About this ebook

    This novel chronicles part I in a science-fictional series spanning 5 decades. This begins in 2001 and fast-forwards to the future in the mid-2020s, when the world experiences a new age of communication with a unifying event connecting everyone and everywhere on Earth. Secrecy is finally disposed of and the world is a safer place. 

    Then ushers in the main characters, Eli Novak and Warren Novatec, who grow up as childhood classmates and intellectual prodigies. They attend the same schools in a continued friendship and mutual interests in each other's work. Eli invents a revolutionary A.I. device called QEPU, which implants into our brains. This device promises to give everyone ultra-human abilities. This is concealed from society as Eli is concerned about how this would change the world if released. Warren alters it as a modified A.I. device contained within a serum to use to his advantage.   

    In reward for his released serum, Warren inherits boundless influence, and is deemed the savior of humankind. However, time reveals a toxic element in the miracle technology. Eli and his visionary girlfriend, Ambrosine, organize a secret plan to fix what has been done. But are they already too late?  If so, our species will never regain its freedom. . .

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAcid Free Publishing
    Release dateNov 30, 2017
    ISBN9781981215843
    Age Of Eli: Book 1
    Author

    J. E. Brink

    James is from a small town in Massachusetts, USA. As a happily married father of five great kids, and community activist, he stands an avid World Citizen seeking a better future for the next generation. In his off-time, he enjoys traveling with family to explore natural parks, inspired by his love for nature and animals.              His research on artificial intelligence brain-interface technology stems from his work as a student at WSU, earning a Bachelor's of Science in Natural Science with a focus on Energy Studies, in the 2000’s.             He achieved Eagle Scout rank, and still adheres to the Boy Scout motto, “Be Prepared.” Dedication to the renewable energy and sustainability spaces, over the last twenty years, informs his fictional dramatizations of the future of human survival amidst the tension between nature and technology.              Follow his work, and read about the sequel to Age Of Eli at https://www.ageofeli.com. 

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      Book preview

      Age Of Eli - J. E. Brink

      For my highly intelligent and creative wife, Melissa, who contributed to, and supported, my ideas.

      J.E. Brink

      _______________________________________________________

      Part I.

      _____________________________________________________________   

      Chapter I. Origins:

      Age of the Heavens

      ELI KNEW NO LIMITS.  He came to us with a life-force of blinding intensity. . .

      OBJECTS IN SPACE DID not frighten Mei-Sun.  She had been dodging debris, seemingly, whether in the air, water, or vacuum, her entire life.  If one collided with her now, the worst that could happen was quick suffocation, or a slightly more prolonged death from suit depressurization; either way, her troubles would be over quickly.  An observer might almost have noticed her shrug, inside the insulated spacesuit, tethered to the outside of her fragile Mule utility craft, free-floating.  And, there might just be someone over there observing, she felt.  She had tried to maneuver her tiny ship in between the sun and the massive object, the better to use her own, human vision to tell what exactly it was.  But it had deployed its probe into a strategic position, as if to prevent her from doing so.  And the probe moved as she moved.  As if in conscious mockery, the big, farther object cast an ominous shadow over her.

      I can’t do anything else with the Mule, she had answered Dr. Lee, over the coms, back in Houston Mission Control.  Request you authorize a spacewalk.  She hadn’t really meant to ask—it was her call—but she’d learned to trust her old mentor Lee’s judgment, and knew he trusted hers. It wasn’t like she had asked Malcolm.  But in retrospect, she now understood why the answer had been a full three minutes in coming.

      On Earth, the mood of celebration that had accompanied the launch yesterday had dissipated.  The entire control room had sobered. Scanners had proven ineffective against the obstacle, and the database of mapped trajectories had nothing to show for millions of calculations.  Dr. Lee knew it would be so; they had specifically chosen to align the new satellite along this orbit for that reason.  The lane had been cleared of space-junk last year.

      You can’t let her go, Doc, whispered Ezra, the only one of many assistants to the Director to address him so familiarly.  "That thing is most

      likely Russian.  The drones can—"

      Inwardly, Lee doubted it.  True, the old Cold War dance with the Russian government, for several decades thought to be over, had flared up again in the 20-teens.  But to actively block a foreign power’s operations like this would come perilously close to an act of war.  He certainly had no wish to call the president, on speculation.  The military would summarily end the mission, as a matter of procedure.  And he had never seen a design like this: from the Russians, or anyone.

      The drones are unresponsive, Lee cut him off.  The old man sighed. He had affection for all the young people around him, for Damien and Ezra, for all who made these launches a reality, but for Mei he harbored especially tender, fatherly feelings.  And yet, she wouldn’t be Mei if he denied her the risks she insisted on taking.  They’d have to scrub the mission, if some solution didn’t appear soon.  No alternate satellite lanes were available in the traffic-jammed heavens of 2024; not that they could spare the resources for.

      Lee spoke to himself, but Ezra could catch much of what the old man said, from long habit.  Better let her try.  If she can at least get a metallurgical scan, we’ll know the origin—.  And the decision was made.  He picked up the headset and punched the Mute Intercom button on the console, so that only he and Mei could hear the conversation.

      But to Ezra he said, momentarily closing his fist about the headset microphone, Get Malcolm up with those rescue pilots, but have them hang back awhile.  We don’t want to provoke resistance.  His former grad student scuttled off to another part of the Control Center.  Lee scanned the large room—most of the mission team members were intent upon their instrumentation, pointedly avoiding his gaze, as he made this critical decision.

      Affirmative, Mei, do so. Twenty-meter tether, no more.  If the scans won’t resolve at that distance, don’t try any heroics; pack it in, and let Malcolm take over.

      Several moments of silence.

      Acknowledged, came Mei-Sun’s reply. Keep in constant contact. Roger.  Static.

      The clipped and militaristic nature of these responses, Dr. Lee had come to understand from her.  She was all-business now, undoubtedly already half-dressed and squirming out of the cramped suit locker, securing her shielding equipment and instructing the Mule’s computer to prep for airlock-break.  But it also meant she was off the script—the mission was in her hands now, almost literally—and the decisions would now default to her authority.  Nothing like this interception, holding up the deploying of the satellites, had happened before.  He wished he had asked Ezra to bring him back one of those double-shot synthetic coffees.  It would be a long, tense night.

      The old man was half-right.  Within a scant ten minutes, everything had already gone horribly wrong.

      Seventeen hours prior, planetside.  T-minus 30 Earth-minutes to Event.  Broadcast on all live TV networks and online feeds, the world could not help but focus on this historic launch.  And the cameras did provide amazing footage, given all the drones gyrating above ground to catch the action, close-in. But none could capture the spaceship’s outline, so massive was this build. That became the job of the few human news crews, parked with their mobile units at the two-kilometer minimum distance mandated by the Y Agency.  At thirty-five meters in diameter along the main hull, and one hundred-five meters tall from base to peak, the Transcendence stood higher from the concrete than a football field is long!

      The high-definition details of the illuminated rocket were impeccable. Viewers could see the sealed rivets in the side of bay doors from a drone feed at one hundred seventy-five meters.  As one of the reporters put it, that's the equivalent of spotting, from your window, a single Carpenter ant strolling along a neighbor’s front steps, across your suburban street.

      Inside the cargo bay, out of public view, an impressive line of satellites sat ready to deploy. Robotic arms held tight the main satellite, against the tremendous G-force of leaving the Earth’s atmosphere. This specialized array was quite advanced for its broadcasting and relaying internet capabilities. They named the delivery vessel Transcendence, for the team at Space Y felt this mission would improve the world, this time and finally, for everyone who dwelt upon it.

      Selected specifically for this launch was a twenty-two-person international crew for flight operations. In addition to its hardware, the ship held the best skilled and trained astronauts ever employed.  Today began the first of twenty scheduled missions.  Originally, sixty manned missions were planned.  But the decision had come down to allow AI robots to take over after the first third, saving time and resources.  Much less risk if ‘bots could finish, under always-hazardous conditions. A few of the higher-ups, in NASA and the US government, expressed vague and mysterious concerns that things might not go as planned.  Dr. Lee had wondered at that: space-travel in 2024 had become almost routine.  Only later would it become apparent why.

      Night fell on the paved plains of the Florida base. Like clockwork, the light show started, and the area around the pad illuminated in the settling darkness.  Cheers and applause drifted on the breeze.  It felt, to many, like the rock concert of the millennium was about to begin.  An electric buzz had rippled through the crowd, safely gathered seven kilometers away from the pad.

      The awful blast noise would be heard clearly, twenty-five kilometers away.  Yet disposable microphones implanted all over the launch pad caught the ignition for the audience at home.

      Among them, Eli's father, Luka, and mother, Celeste, watched in anticipation. With such a revolutionary space program for humankind, the world remained dubious as to how much it stood to upset the status quo. For the first time, global inter-connectivity would be possible for all human beings, living anywhere on the planet, regardless of geographical or political boundaries, or the technological and economic development of one’s country.  It meant all telephones, watches, tablets, VR glasses, and the rest could access the grid and communicate freely—in both the informational, and financial, senses.

      True, many difficulties had to be overcome, not least of which was Earth’s highly variable weather.  And the polar regions had proven a major challenge, due to the tilt of the planet’s axis.  But Dr. Lee had delegated the best minds to solve these technical issues, one at a time, over the course of the past few years.

      Not as straightforward were the political alliances and compromises necessary.  But, thankfully, Lee had little to do with that.  He had merely accepted several speaking engagements, at conferences held in places as remote as Siberia and central Africa, to explain (with the aid of cutting- edge visual aids and his universal translator) how the technology’s time had come.  That, coupled with the efforts of a few entrepreneurs who were able to creatively engineer the project to be self-financing, proved convincing to the last holdout nations.  They were to retain the autonomy, after all, to restrict access of their citizens to certain outside content, based on cultural ideology.  But that had always been the case.  Lee privately nursed the opinion that even this restriction, once the system was in place and operating for a few years, would finally fall away.  The planet would then be truly free.

      Inevitably, the mass media got on board and did its usual best to ruin the event by over-saturation.  Luckily, several unrelated news items conspired to drain some of their collective energy, such as another high-level earthquake under the mid-Atlantic, which capsized one large naval vessel from the United States.  Consequently, this launch might even survive the hype, by living up to it.

      Here it was, then, the final ten seconds.  All delays gotten over.  The ignition fire momentarily blinded the crowd, even gathered seven kilometers distant.  They lowered their placards, ceased their chanting slogans of peace and freedom, as one body.  As vivid as the footage from 16K HD cameras could be, nothing could replace the emotion of being present.  Finally, lift off.  The towering missile began to claw its ponderous way off the surface of the planet.

      After a few seconds, a shockwave of heat and pressure washed over the crowd, and everything turned surreal.  What a sight: the colorful rocket driving higher, lighting up the early morning sky like a premature sunrise. The entire hull’s length displayed bright lines of green, indicating the green light to continue the mission into space. Higher and higher, Transcendence climbed.  The feeling of joy among the assembled spectators, and certainly inside Mission Control, amounted to an intuitive, almost spiritual connectivity.  Even through the viewscreens all over civilization, commentators fell silent and, for a few precious seconds, only the feeling, the sublimity, was transmitted.

      Mission Control Commander Damien of Space Y, thoroughly

      pleased with the launch, shook Dr. Lee’s hand as the vehicle passed low orbit altitude.  Only then did the two men seem to let out a shared breath. The younger was nicknamed MC, for his stellar abilities as a motivational speaker.

      Forgoing the intercom, Damien called out across the large room: Does it get any better than this, folks?  Here’s what Space Y is all about!  Let's keep our focus here.  Still, everyone should find a moment this morning to hug your teammates for the remarkable effort on a phenomenal launch! Cheers greeted this, hands in the air, pumping fists of excitement. Smiles spread across every face, both at Mission Control and, mere seconds later, among the Transcendence space crew, for someone surreptitiously live-fed the remarks through her YouTube channel to them.  What a start to the day!

      Following the announcement, Damien personally ushered in the colossal, multi-layered, vanilla-frosted chocolate cake to the still-bustling crew on the ground.  There stood a thirty-centimeter model Space Y rocket that looked like the same as the real thing now in the sky above. The frosting read the number 8888 on the second layer down, representing the 8,888 satellites going into space, inaugurating the program predicted to reach completion on its two-year anniversary, in 2026.  In the same tradition as NASA, all had cigars ready to light up.  The non-smoking policy was not to be upheld on this day!

      Damien even sported his finest beige vest, made of authentic beaver fur from Canada. He strutted across the floor, as smooth as any Hollywood stunt/break dancer. Not your typical techie, he appeared more much a movie actor than the MCC, to Lee.

      Very well, the old man seemed to think, amused: the program needed a face with straight, white teeth.  He himself relished no glory; only the work mattered.  The official plaque on Dr. Bob E. Lee’s office named him Flight Director Advisor—who, though classified strictly as a consultant, stood in reality as the top technical man on the ground—and who, among myriad duties, coached the Flight Directors and MCC for all major events. After the lights had been turned out, and the music died, and others had gone home to their families, Dr. Lee sat at his desk, night after night, calculating all the possibilities for risks in space.  Gamma radiation from the Sun was a very real threat.  Absent the protection of Earth’s atmosphere, protective anti-radiation shielding had to pass stringent testing, whether in spacecraft or suits.  But the risks not only included personnel.  For example, if the astronauts outside the payload bay docks of the ship, assembling the specialty antennas, were surprised by a strong burst of gamma radiation at the wrong time, this could damage the equipment irreparably.

      Only a short hour-per-shift work-window for the spacewalk connection phase was allowed. Everything must move efficiently during those operations. Tethered assemblers floated outside each payload dock, shaded by the Transcendence’s hull structure from direct sun exposure, as the construction required a large area.  Each signal transmitter required a tapered, telescopic barrel to pinpoint the microwave signals necessary to hit the proper targets on the planet’s surface. The barrel design required absolute rigidity, up to twelve meters in length.

      Scant hours after entering its designated high orbit in the zero-grav zone, the intra-ship coms announced the mammoth vessel’s imminent arrival at the first satellite location.  The assembly team enthusiastically suited up, and gathered on the pier to deploy the apparatus.  The concept of day and night aboard would now begin to fade, and then disappear.  They would eat and rest in eight-hour shifts.

      Before the first twenty-four hours had elapsed, then, the second and third satellites followed suit. Only then did the construction crew foreman decide to get some sleep.  It had been much longer than that, for her.  She left word with her relief to get her up in time for breakfast, ten hours later, and well in advance of the fifth deployment window.

      Alone in her bunk—only two high in this compartment, which had to hold all of her manuals as well as personal gear for her and her roomie, Alicia—Mei-Sun doused the warmth-enhanced LED lighting, said prayers for her parents and the people of her ancestral village, and summarily passed out cold.

      It seemed she barely had time to dream (and these were, as often as not, nightmares tied to specific memories,) when she jostled awake. Groggy, only a single three-watt glow from the floor allowed her to recognize where she was.  A sweat had broken out under the thin layer of standard-issue uni-garment all the astronauts wore.  What was it?  And then she realized:  an alarm.  Not her personal one.  Ship-wide call-to-quarters.

      Alicia had drawn third watch.  She had only been out of the academy two years and, she reasoned, one had to begin at the bottom.  The idealism that had carried this voyage out of the gantry and into orbit, after an insufferably long time on the drawing board, she did not share.  To her, it meant only initiation into her space-legs.  But at least, even though merely a Lieutenant JG back in the fleet, while in The Chair the crew addressed her as Commander—and that made her feel as if it might actually happen someday.  Possibly even aboard a ship that would draw more adventuresome duty.  Meanwhile, it would be a long two years scattering ‘sats.

      Just before the fifth satellite release procedure was scheduled to begin, the navigator called out an anomaly, in the distance.  Alicia had been dreaming of coffee. An eerie glow, mostly eclipsed but detectable, appeared from out of the vastness of dark space, away from the sun but from beyond the obscure backside of the moon.

      What is it? half-yawned, half-demanded Alicia, as Number One of the relief watch.  Shifts had been timed so that she and Mei rarely occupied their quarters simultaneously.  But they were all still adjusting to the new sleeping schedule.  She hadn’t even learned everyone’s names.

      "Unclear.  Radar shows a large mass, though!  Larger than

      Transcendence."  What he didn’t add was the mass appeared three to four times that of their weaponless ship.  Once, ten years ago, the navigator had been a Chief in the Canadian navy, until commissioned as a Warrant Officer into the newly formed Space Agency.  Until this moment, he had never missed the north-Atlantic.

      But even this vague intelligence woke Alicia up.  Range.  Bearing and speed?

      At the time, the Chief had considered Space Y a lateral move, and he had been considering retirement, anyway.  Or perhaps an instructorship at the Academy.  But he had given over the notion, after considering all the Ensigns and Lieutenants he’d served with.  And yet, here he was, babysitting a boatload of kids after all, and an officer himself, to boot, even if a Mustang. His Lieutenant did show promise, though.  Just headstrong.  As the most experienced hand aboard, then, he knew enough to feed Alicia the information in slow and digestible knots, so she could process it, and make rational decisions.

      Still a half million klicks out.  And decelerating, at least.  Currently less than 1,000 mps. . .800 miles-per-second.

      Well, that was something—but, disturbingly, also as telling as non-ballistic movements.  Braking meant the object had to be some sort of craft.  Alicia’s last meal of protein paste turned to acid in her gut.  But she snapped to, fully alert now, flipping up a plexiglass shield and punching the nearest shipwide alarm.  The cockpit, only large enough to accommodate four people, was instantly bathed in red light.

      I asked for a bearing, Mister.  No—let me guess.  It’s headed right for us.

      Aye, Commander.  Collision course.

      Leadership of the construction crew had been given to Mei-Sun, a year before the crew had even been assigned.  She was online even before the actual Skipper: Trouble, Commander? her voice came through to the cockpit (privately she addressed her friend as ‘Leesh, but not over an open com.)

      Trusted personally by Dr. Bob E. Lee to run this operation, her job in a way was more critical than anyone’s aboard. A highly intelligent astrophysicist originally from Japan, Lee felt Mei-Sun possessed the right stuff if an emergency should occur. No one took initiative, showed courage, yet remained calm, like her.  Yet she hadn’t joined the service.  As a civilian contractor, Space Y had nevertheless endowed her with command authority over anything to do with mission-related operations. Her duty was to the citizens of Earth, all of them, who would benefit from the new satellite array.  Who knew how many lives could be saved by the ability to communicate with every willing human being across the globe?  She could do here what all the police and firefighters in the world could never accomplish.  Never again need a human life be lost because of information blackout—or so she hoped.

      A crackle came back.  Alicia sounded tough, as always, but uncharacteristically serious.  We’ve got a bogey at three hundred- thousand, nearly halted, and drifting this way.  For now.

      Mei-sun wasn’t sure she heard correctly.  And since when did fiberoptic com-lines crackle with static?  A bogey.

      You got it. . .a big one.

      Halt ‘sat deployment ops immediately, Mei snapped.  Her eyes darted to the cabin chronometer.  Was it Five, or Six, going out?  She shook her head, grabbing her uniform trousers.  She had slept longer than she thought.  In her mind, she was already halfway down the ladder, to the pier.

      Back at Mission Control, Dr. Lee received word of the alert. Seemingly sleepless himself, he had exchanged a few authoritative messages with the Transcendence, and been asked to stand by.  Well, he thought.  Now was the time to let the crews do their duties.  It had happened sooner than expected.  But he had best not interfere, unless absolutely necessary.  His most immediate concern was for Mei-Sun, almost an adopted daughter to him.  He immediately knew that Mei would want to leave her in Second-in-Command to assume the team lead. In this matter, she would have to investigate herself.  She certainly wasn't afraid for her own sake, if something went wrong.  But, Lee smiled grimly to himself, that might just be the problem.

      The pier had cleared out, as the construction crew had scrambled to emergency stations.  Mei-Sun was halfway into a deep-shielding undersuit when Malcolm, also recently awakened and with tousled hair and crust in his urgent eyes, appeared through the hatch.

      Where are you going?  he asked, putting himself between her and the airlock.

      They weren’t friends.  Hardly knew each other, in fact.  He had to be handled.  Captain.  You sent out a drone already, I’m sure?  The book called for it, as the first procedural move, after scans and a hail.

      ’Course, he answered, folding his arms, his feet set at shoulder width.  Mei-Sun hoped he didn’t think he was going to bar her way, bodily.  It can’t approach closer than 3000, though.  At first, I thought it was blocked by some sort of energy shielding we can’t scope.  But the thing’s actually withdrawing from our drone, keeping distance.  When we withdraw, it advances again.

      And no response to communications, Mei-Sun added this as a statement, not a question.  Somehow, deep in her belly, she felt she knew the object would prove impenetrable.  Unless she did something about it.

      Malcolm nodded.  Mei-Sun could sense a stalemate building; she had no time for this.

      That thing is standing in the way of the mission, the same way you’re in my way, right now.  She meant he should interpret this as a reference to her ultimate authority, on matters of the array.

      But he surprised her.  I don’t see it that way, he replied.  "It’s made no move against the first four satellites.  I had the Chief ping them. Diagnostics all show green.  I’ve seen no reason to believe this is mission-oriented, or aggressive.  It’s interested in us."

      Mei got impatient, and snapped back, This craft could be Russian in origin.  They were one of the last holdouts at the summit.  We suspected this might happen.  The measurement calculates this as small enough— He cut her off.  "Small—you’re wrong.  It’s gigantic.  Even the

      Russians—"

      She cut him off in turn, by addressing the ship-wide intercom.

      Computer!

      Ever-vigilant, the shipboard main computer responded.  Go ahead, its placid voice intoned.

      Patch me through to the bridge.

      A second elapsed, and Alicia’s voice came over the speaker.  Cockpit, go ahead, Pier.

      Commander, what’s the status of the object?  She could hear Alicia conferring with Warrant Officer Rawling, whom Malcolm called the Chief, in deference to his function on Transcendence.  Navigation formed only a fraction of his duties.

      The object has withdrawn another quarter-million, and released a smaller object about the size of our own drone.

      What’s it doing?  She shot a glance at Malcolm, whose eyes had widened.

      Nothing.  They’re just sitting out there, staring at one another. Computer, end link.

      How in the Hell could you know that?  Malcolm’s arms had uncrossed, and Mei-Sun had pushed passed him, to the helmet locker.

      It’s what I’m here for, Captain.  To know.  We can recover that probe, bring it back right here into the payload dock.  Then we can argue.  Now will you help me get this propulsion Mule prepped, and pressurized?

      But the radiation protocols—

      No one down here but me and you, suited up.  I’ll decontaminate the whole dock with soap and water afterward, if I have to.  For some reason, though a sense of urgency greater than the lost mission time had crept upon her, she felt compelled to negotiate, get his buy-in.  She could always call up Lee, but she was a bit concerned he might not support her in this. Still, what choice had they?

      That small one might be a bomb, you know, Malcolm offered this final objection a bit lamely.

      Sure.  You’re the one who said, a few minutes ago, it wasn’t aggressive.  If they meant us harm, they’d have already inflicted some. She turned her back on him.  Zip me up, would you, Captain?

      As they argued, Dr. Lee, some thirty-six thousand kilometers below, stared at the feed from the drone camera.  He also audited the ship’s internal coms, but kept clear of the bickering.  The move here was risky.  But he also knew that this craft was detrimental to the mission's interest, if only by holding up progress.  But it might even be parsing all the encrypted data, as it was close enough to monitor the closed-loop system between the Transcendence and Houston. Security remained critical to the Space Y project; another hungry space agency could still deploy a global system, one with more draconian controls on it.  Mei had determined to take the bull by the horns, and steer the auxiliary space-mule to capture the probe. A single astronaut could fit into this specialty craft, as its design could only accommodate one hundred-thirty kilograms.  Its manipulator arms had been designed to recover damaged satellites, but it also doubled as an escape pod.  At any rate, whatever the purpose of the strange probe, Mei had enough intelligence training to accidentally disable any communication dish it bore, during recovery.

      Malcolm had closed the hatch behind her, and the seal blocked out all external sound.  She pressurized the Mule’s tiny cabin.  A knock on the observation port showed Malcolm waving goodbye, and then curling his fingers into a V, for Peace.  She responded with a thumbs-up, and he left her view.  This was the last sight of another human being she would have for a long, long time.  Turning her eyes to business, the controls were laid out like a sophisticated racecar arcade game before her, and, on second thought, she raised the visor of her helmet, breathing freely now.  She couldn’t see well in the darned thing; in all these years since John Glenn, why hadn’t someone designed a better one?  Meanwhile, the cockpit seemed more in her control now: despite its name of the Mule, this baby’s size allowed it to accelerate to intercept a meteor threatening to impact the ship, or even worse, a missile launched against the space shuttle from another space agency.  And it had great maneuverability.  She had simulated in one, during her months of training.  Many were trying to control the skies and the heavens in the 2020's, and the Transcendence needed some kind of defensive and offensive capability.

      She called back on the open channel, to Malcolm.  Ready to launch and rendezvous with the target.

      Captain Malcolm responded, If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to run whoever it is off, by brute force.  This mission can’t be scrubbed—it’s too important.

      Only silence greeted this from the pod.  She was waiting him out.

      He sighed, adding affirmatively, Opening bay doors.  You’re clear in ten seconds; mark.  Fire off, when ready.

      She gripped the steering joysticks with passion welling inside her.  The Mule took the most fractional bit of thrust, in the now zero-gravity environment, and leaped out of the doors.  Mei-Sun then set the guidance system to lock on the target object.  I’m switching to jet propulsion mode.  In case it has wheels and tries to outrun me on approach. . .

      No one had the least intimation such a run might happen.  Everything had moved so slowly, thus far.

      Just watch your fuel, then, a voice answered back.  It was Alicia’s. Mei-Sun also sensed a reply of a different nature coming from Malcolm, but he must have squelched it.  No sense arguing now.  The die was cast.

      Malcolm’s voice, as serious as anyone had ever heard it, rang instead through all the ship’s coms: All personnel remain in General Quarters (everyone now understood this to mean battle stations) until cleared.  The Mule has launched and is moving away.  Recall the drone; Mei-Sun has the ball.

      Then he added, Recon One and Two crews, stand by.

      Damn him, he means it, Mei-Sun thought.  Well, I’d better not screw this one up.

      At this point, all the coms were open between the Mule,

      Transcendence, and Mission Control, with only a very short delay in transmission.  Still, the effect could be disconcerting.  Dr. Lee, do you have your ears on?

      About three seconds passed.  I do, came the terse, familiar voice of the old scientist.  It usually comforted her.  But now, tens of thousands of kilometers away, he seemed to second-guess her.  But it’s only the radio delay, she told herself.

      Fast approaching the target probe, entering the looming shadow of the much larger ship, even at this distance, she reported, Closing within 1300 meters.

      C’mon, little guy, she whispered, Don’t spook now—Mei-Sun’s not here to hurt you.  I just want a better lo—

      It moved a bit slow to start, but then retreated sharply.  No thrusters visible, though.  That’s weird.

      She goosed the throttle a bit, testing; the probe again sprang into motion.

      It's bolting!  I have it locked in, though. . .closing in.  She twisted hard on her own propulsion control, sparing a glance at the fuel gauge. The Mule wasn’t tasked for high speed maneuvers, except as a last resort. She couldn’t rely on more than a few minutes at afterburn.  Sure enough, the fuel gauge already read eighty percent.  As Mei spoke, Dr. Lee on Earth, Alicia, and even Malcolm all wore expressions of concern.  What was the nature of this strange craft, and why play a cat-and-mouse game? Lee’s voice crackled through, Captain, do we have a good visual of this, yet?  We should have something to identify, by now.

      Lee and his ground crew had been scanning through images of all the existing Russian, Chinese, or European satellites in orbit, and had moved on to the few declassified space vehicles. Scattered over many screens were intelligence photos, and even a few blueprints.  Eight large wraparound screens devoted to the task should easily match a familiar pattern, if the Mule’s cameras would only send something useful.  Hugely expensive software had gone to work.  But the small probe, and the mother-craft (as Lee had begun thinking of it) defied even decent imaging —the first by virtue of its speed, the second by distance and an apparent lack of form.  Then he concluded, This is like nothing we know on Earth. The nearest extrapolation shows a hexagonal hull design with perfect symmetry. That’s no Russian spacecraft.

      Damien, no longer in his liaison-to-public persona, leaning over the shoulder of his radar operator, noted the track of the probe as it evaded Mei-Sun’s tentative pursuit.  He pointed a finger at the screen, in several points.  He blanched at Lee’s conclusion, the same one he had arrived at. Then strode over to Dr. Lee, in close enough to confer softly without the microphones catching it. He asked, What’s your theory, Bob?  The smaller one has made some suspiciously deft movements. Dr. Lee, with decades of research in all matters astrophysical, had made a casual study of UFOs and space mysteries since his youth, in the twentieth century.  Dr. Lee recalled an instance when an object fitting a similarly vague description was spotted near the Apollo 17 astronauts. The photographic quality back in the 1970s might charitably be called grainy; so, the Air Force had written it off.  Now, Mei Sun was in hot pursuit of perhaps that same truth!

      Suspiciously deft, as in. . .? he prodded his colleague.

      Damien cleared his throat.  But his voice remained discreet.  As in, a narrowing spiral in the direction of the big craft.  It can match the Mule’s speed and maneuvers, apparently.  Besides drawing her in, it’s almost as if—

      Lee finished the thought for him: As if it’s making her use up her fuel. . .

      Damien frowned.

      Instantly, Lee punched the direct channel to the bridge, in space:

      "Transcendence, call up your R-interceptors.  Now, Captain Malcolm."

      After several seconds, the channel re-opened and he could hear the Transcendence commander barking orders.  Then, "Already done, sir.

      What’s the—"

      Launch immediately.

      Another delay.  It had begun to infuriate Lee, those few seconds.

      Yes, sir.

      Then he switched channels.  Mei, break off your pursuit. We have reason to believe the bogey is hostile.  The Recon lads are going to have a go at it.  Mei paused in thought, hesitating to answer back. Her fingers eased, ever so slightly, off the sticks.  As she did so, the probe in her reticule, too, slowed.  She was so close to it. She had a very clear image now.

      The pilot responded, "Understood.  However, I’m close, within fifty meters.  They won’t get this chance. Plus, I have a heat signature on the large space craft: readings are off the scale, even at this distance.  A lot of energy; believe it capable of solar-proximate thrust.  If not that, it must

      be powered up for an imminent jump to FTL." She let all this hang, in the static.

      Lee exchanged a significant look with Damien.  The latter checked the readings coming through.  I’d have to concur with her; there’s no time for further analysis.  What he did not say, what Lee or anyone else with basic astrophysics or engineering training did not need to hear, was what Mei-Sun had concluded.  Shielding was not the only problem in approaching the sun; the gravity well would crush any known craft long before it burned up.  The power required to do so defied all logic.  But, the alternative boggled the mind.  Every school child learned what FTL meant:  Faster Than Light.  Interstellar travel.

      Sweat beads started down Lee’s slender face. He was being watched by all in the Command Center.

      The old man forced himself to concentrate; go over all the implications, later.

      Captain, how far out are those reconnaissance craft?  This on open coms again.

      Malcolm checked the current astro-map of near space. Adjusting trajectory.  About four minutes out.

      Too long.  Mule, what’s your fuel status?

      Mei-Sun had tried to will this question from being asked.  She had herself, irrationally, avoided looking at the instrument which now read: fourteen percent reserve.  Thankfully they weren’t moving, she and her target.  She had begun to drift in closer, resisting the urge to deploy the manipulator arms.  No need to spook it. . . She might still be able to recover the probe. . .so close. . .

      Twenty-eight percent, Mei-Sun lied.  She strained her face.  Too much?

      Damien shot Lee another look, up from an old-style clipboard.  He had a pen in his hand, scribbling calculations furiously.  The younger man shook his head: not likely.  Lee’s nerve finally broke.  "Get out of there,

      Mei. This smells like a trap!"

      Mei-Sun could clearly see the probe with her naked eye now, out of the viewport Malcolm had waved goodbye through.  Forty meters.  Thirty-five.

      It hadn’t moved.

      Its hull indeed had been shaped as a flat hexagon, obsidian as space itself, reflecting no light.  Bare of doors or rivets.

      Mule, respond.  Mei!

      Lee knew her.  For a long time now.  Her own life meant little to her.

      Only the mission, whichever mission it happened to be.

      An alarm buzzed inside her small cockpit.  Fuel gauge: nine percent.

      The probe squatted there, in the vacuum, tantalizing her.  Inviting her.

      But another part of her knew.  Even if she could take it in tow this very second, she would be on Bingo fuel, and only momentum could carry them both back to Transcendence.  If she were to return under her own power and land in the dock with any kind of safety, it had to be now.  There were no tractor beams to assist her.  How could she have been so stupid?  Some nagging feeling told her that Recon could never get this close.  The thing had allowed her to approach.  Her. Like a wild animal, hesitating at food held out by a human being.  It had led her a merry chase, and now she faced a no-win choice. . .

      She let out a long breath, so deep it momentarily fogged the viewport.

      She was furious with herself.  Mei-Sun blipped one thruster in defeat, spun the craft around, and started heading back in direction of the Transcendence. Just then, the probe appeared directly in front of her.   Whoa.

      She called back to the Command Center: Are you getting this, Houston?  Got a situation, here.  Instinctively, she triggered the hydraulics, activating the manipulator arms, waving them.  She could hear and feel the grinding reverberate inside, shuddering the Mule.  The probe, however, seemed unimpressed.

      The alarm sounded again.  Fuel reserves: six percent.  Just enough to start back.

      Dr. Lee exclaimed in urgency, Return to the ship, now!  Malcolm, how much faster can those reconnaissance fellows reach her?

      Malcolm’s reply seemed to take longer than three seconds to come through. "We were at fifty-seven seconds out.  But. . .Recon One and Two report difficulties.  They’re just. . .stalled.  Thrust at zero capability.  They can’t get there.  They can’t go backward.  She’s alone."

      Meanwhile, Mei-Sun had already re-sealed her helmet and flooded her suit.  She felt the pressure all over her body increase, in a slightly comforting way.  The fuel gauge, however, now read Zero. Bingo, in pilot’s jargon.  Funny, she smiled through gritted teeth, only to herself.  I never won anything before.

      All Lee and Damien and Ezra heard, was . . .do anything with the pod.  Suggest you authorize a spacewalk. . .

      Back aboard Transcendence, Malcolm knew better than to meet Alicia’s eyes.  He had known all along not to do this.  No one had listened.  And now they were helpless.  The only other alternative was to bull his own, huge ship into the situation and hope the bogeys didn’t call the bluff.  But it might make matters infinitely worse.

      Thankfully, the Mule has plenty of 02, Mei-Sun’s last coherent thought echoed in her mind.  The tether spooled out behind her, as she free-floated toward the probe.  It had a very distinct outline now, and her helmet camera had begun snapping photos continuously.  It blocked out the stars before her.  Still, she felt no fear, only fascination.  While still several meters distant, she stretched out with her arms.  She wanted only to touch it.  Perhaps, then, embrace it, as if it were something she’d been chasing her entire life.

      Later, they’d discover that the photo transmissions and video feed were empty.  No, not empty, exactly.  Everyone had seen the probe, the mother-craft on the viewscreens.  But nothing had been recorded.  Actually, much had: the stars, the moon afar off, and the sun, so much farther.  Glimpses of the Transcendence, even Recon One away off, immobile, and the tether wagging.  It would all be gone over, later, scrupulously.  But no hexagons, no eerie lights, no extraterrestrial craft.  Just: blank, cold space where the visitors had come and gone, in silence.

      But now, here, in these moments of time, there were suddenly ten of them, more, converging on her.

      They hadn’t come from anywhere.  No bay doors

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