EARTH


SHE STRODE INTO THE PLACE AS IF SHE OWNED IT.

SE3 was quiet, especially outside. No doubt some zealous UFO watcher had marked her plane coming into Groom Lake with enthusiasm – another super-secret Black agent, bringing the latest reports on the endless alien autopsies and telepathic tests and back-engineered technology being exploited for some secret government cabal that planned to rule the world or defend it from – or sell it to – aliens overlords.

They weren't too terribly far off – at least as far as the back-engineering aspect went. She had come from another base that also officially didn't exist, code-named "Serendipity"; located approximately 50 kilometres northeast of Wood Buffalo National Park in Alberta, Canada, and roughly that southwest of Fort Smith in the Northwest Territories - her Raptor Project nearing completion. The base was an international concern, supervised by the clandestine side of the UN, which had been set up to oversee the development of alien technology for the benefit of the planet, and not just one nation.

Naturally, the American government had had kittens, puppies and canaries when Crichton had proposed, revealed and then insisted on it. Aeryn Sun was nominally in charge, and made sure she got her way. She didn't care about the squabbles or petty nationalistic bleatings of any of the countries involved. However, the main control branch was in the United States - they'd managed to threaten and cajole their way into that, at least - and it was there she had to report.

Aeryn was crisp efficiency and business, brooked no delays and suffered no fools. This work was important – vital to the survival of the species as a whole. Well, the Human species, anyway.

It was a wonder she was still as calm as she felt. They had been only arns away. Finally… only arns away from the first real real-world tests. If it worked… a day, a week at the most. But not another month – soon, soon, soon. They insisted on speed and then delayed with endless bureaucratic nonsense. Like this.

It was a wonder anything got done on this planet.

Aeryn walked calmly through the base and seemingly-endless checkpoints – and by the time she'd actually gotten into the base proper it had begun to grate on her nerves. She'd been challenged five times as she entered "The Box", as Air Force pilots called the airspace around the base, even with her transponder and full identification readily readable by base computers.

She was just not suited to this political nonsense, this evasion and slyness – not remotely, did it only out of necessity. Soon, with luck and care, she'd put it behind her. Still and all, fighting against that, well, it kept her, she had realized, sane - or at least, mostly sane. Up at dawn, up to her armpits in blueprints, specs and exotic materials, building her fighter, preparing it for the prototype, his prototype - a Human-built Hetch-drive.

John Crichton's dream. His obsession.

She sometimes wondered what'd they'd been thinking. If they had just stayed on the other side of the wormhole…

The wormhole.

He was a hero. No – The Hero. He'd punished the US for their petulant insolence and insistence and pulled his 'end run'. They'd gone on television and publicly announced that he had returned with advanced technology that he was developing and would use for the benefit of all humankind. She invited all scientists of the Earth to participate.

Apparently, there had been a few heart attacks in Washington at that, and fury that even now had not abated. "Serendipity" had been birthed from that stance. Since the disaster at the initial site, the new Hetch-drive was being reassembled there. He had been correct, as well, he did understand it better, and it was going along much more quickly, much more safely.

Well then, frell them all, anyway.

They became a worldwide phenomenon, in spite of government spin. They had thrown themselves into the work because they both knew they didn't really have much else together.

John had dictated his life out there – which in remarkably short time became a book (she'd helped, but she'd not read it, she was still learning English at the time) – it had been a smash hit and a worldwide bestseller. It still sold well. He'd turned over all the rights to his father and sisters, and they were considering movie options – or perhaps a television series, from it. She wondered why, but thought she knew – hoped she knew, the real reasons.

"I know this important, Aeryn." He'd told her. "But I'm starting to wonder if anyone can be trusted with it."

Aeryn worked hard, but she was a soldier, not a tech. A warrior, not a mech. Not even the government inviting her to try out various fighter craft for her assessment and possible recommendations helped. They were, compared to what she flew, hopelessly outmoded. She'd pushed them all to their limits, past them, crashed thirteen of them. Her recommendations filled a manual ten denches thick. In just a few months, she'd revolutionized how planes were built, handled, flown. It didn't matter. It was a drop in the bucket compared to all the technology spinoffs that were flowing out of Serendipity, from the myriad teams there exploiting the technology. Aeryn had to admire their ingenuity. Those scientists were coming up with things for the technology her own people had never considered.
She was glad that Humanity would benefit from all of this, but she couldn't help but wonder at the cost. What they were paying and what might be paid in the future.

She found herself wondering, too, if John realized it.


HIS ENGINE WAS NEARING COMPLETION, but they still needed something to put it in, and that's where she'd come in:

The Raptor Project. Aeryn would design a fighter craft that would easily outstrip anything on the planet, and he'd supply the engine. "The Bone", he called it. A concession to the Americans, something to keep the resources flowing.

Oddly enough, when he'd proposed it, she started becoming suspicious of his motives.

The government had been enthusiastic about the idea, naturally, and she'd been sent to "Area 51" to set it up, get to work. She'd sat down with the tech boys and sketched out, as best she could, a Prowler.

Then, contrary to both John's wishes and expectations, she'd requested training further north, left them to figure it out, wanted to join a combat team, some special forces brigade or squad or whatever – she needed to feel 'normal', she'd said. Before she could begin. So, she went. She didn't know why she had the need, but it was there, and she needed it, so she went.

Eventually, she came back.

It didn't make it any less bitter, but it was a purpose. It was all she really had. John and she spent little time together, nowhere near enough, and Aeryn was feeling it, even though it looked as if John wasn't.

Things had fallen into their patterns and she had settled down, got to work, and tried to deal with it. Like he'd said, it was only 'temporary'. A long temporary.

The wormhole was still out there. It was only a matter of time, and she knew that. Scorpius couldn't find it – he hadn't a clue where it was – yet - although there was little doubt he'd pursue that knowledge with an unwavering determination.

The Raptor was as close to a Prowler as they could manage. She knew Prowlers, and she knew the would-be capabilities of the Raptor. She was the finest pilot in all of Peacekeeper space, so she was certainly the superior of anyone on this mudball. Do as she told them and their dream of 'total air superiority' would be a complete reality. But, for some inexplicable reason, the Generals quibbled. They moaned and growled about the cost. She remembered once she had gotten fed up and rounded on one of them, received a reprimand. She smiled. Like she gave a cold dren.

To punish them for their nonsense, she moved the Raptor to Serendipity, also. John had been 'officially cross', but had admired her 'brass', as he called it. He had given her the oversight of the thing, hadn`t he?

She wanted it over and done. She wanted results and she wanted her relationship back – before she didn't. It was selfish, she thought, but not too selfish. She was a practical woman, did practical things and sitting and agonizing over things she couldn't change was not in her makeup. Today, though… there was something in the air, some instinct had gone off in her head and she couldn't trace why - it was probably that instinct that had prompted the thoughts seeping through her head. She tried not to think it, but it wouldn't go away.

Once again, that old dread of having chosen wrongly, of having made a colossal mistake, oozed through her brain.

A mistake. It seems so unfair to call it that. But why does it feel like one?

It had taken her awhile, but she now thought she understood it, and it was a bitter pill: Crichton had a choice to make – her or Earth. He chose, was choosing Earth. He chose the security of his planet and its billions over her, and she understood.

She was a soldier, and she understood duty.

It didn't hurt any less, however.

Aeryn stopped in the doorway to the offices of the Holding facility, brushed non-existent lint from her custom-made black uniform, removed her gloves and tucked them into an epaulet, readjusted her beret. She nodded once at the OD, marched smartly to the gleaming elevators, swiped her card, got in. The car hummed silently downward, the murmur of it eased her nerves, reminded her of the omnipresent purr of Moya.

Moya…!

No. Do not go there.

One frelling disaster at a time.

The current one was, yes, Stark. Stark. Always Stark. The Humans hadn't a clue what to do with him. He had no technology, and he'd had his own odd celebrity, but they didn't really like his ideas of 'passing on' and 'afterlives'. You could not shake a Human loose of his favorite mythology easily.

He'd gone seemingly mad, and had had to be restrained, so they sealed him in one of their vaults in Area 51 – called the "Tank". Aside from his gibbering, he'd only said five identifiable words, the first two being "Aeryn, now!"

At any rate, they called her and so here she was, and she admitted to herself a certain level of irritation over the whole need to take time away from her work.

Aeryn stepped into the "Tank" to be greeted by casual activity, and no one seemingly in a hurry to do or go anywhere. Upon inquiry, she was told that their 'guest' had 'quieted down' once he knew she was coming.

Aeryn stopped before the 'Tank', eyed Stark with disapproval. He was crouched in a corner of the stainless steel and glass room, that 'furtive animal' stance he always took in full force. She sighed silently to herself, hit the intercom.

"Stark. I'm here." Waited.

Stark looked at her, but didn't react. He seemed agitated, but no more than usual.

"Stark, I'm here," she tried again. "What was so important?" Each word she spoke seemed to cause him to tremble more vigorously.

"Stark!" she raised her voice to get his attention, which snapped him around, to stare directly at her, as if noticing her for the first time.

"He is coming." He told her through the intercom, his agitation rising. "He is coming!"

"What? Who is coming?"

As if seeing horror and calamity in his mind's eye, Stark began to quake, and yell, which quickly became an agonized shriek.

"He is coming!"

At a tech station, someone hit a button and pink mist suddenly flooded the chamber. Stark reeled, staggered drunkenly and then collapsed.

"Sorry, Officer," a tech told her. "He goes into a complete frenzy and we don't want him to hurt himself."

"No, of course not," she said sourly, mind spinning around what he'd said. Once again, Stark's explanations were as clear as hydrohonium steel.

'He is coming?' He, who? Almost instantly she thought Scorpius. Surely no one else would or could work Stark into such a paroxysm of anxiety. Granted, now that he was unconscious – albeit with a smile on his face from the mist – she was unlikely to find out any time soon.

Her mind did offer up another 'he', but her brain just as quickly skittered away from the suggestion. She did not, would not – could not – go there. That other 'he' could not be responsible for such quaking fear now, could he?

She dismissed it almost as she thought it.

One frelling disaster at a time.


"THAT WAS ALL? NO INDICATION AS TO JUST WHOM THIS 'HE' IS?"

In the base's Comm-Ops room, Aeryn eyed the people around the table with a vague trepidation. Humans were dense at the best of times and those charged with overseeing it's politics or its secrets were often the most dense of all.

In charge, however, was a woman named Jocasta Akanke, Director of Dreamland Special Projects, which meant that there would be some sense at the table. She knew as much as anyone did about Stark.

"No." Aeryn told her. She was not one for long explanations, never had been. She was even less so of late. She could see Akanke trying to assess her state of mind. Always probing, that one.

Akanke stood a moment, stretched as she walked a few steps away, got herself a cup of coffee, came back.

"Very well. Given what you know of Stark, to whom do you think he is referring?"

"I'd prefer not to speculate without facts." Aeryn replied dryly. "Stark is the definition of 'manic'. He could mean anything or anyone."

"That wasn't my question, Officer Sun."

Aeryn sighed silently, and crossed her arms.

"That state usually implies Scorpius." She told them, watching them blink and mutter. Yes, they'd been told about Scorpius.

"Are you saying that this Stark is somehow 'predicting' this Scorpius' approach to this planet?" Some general she couldn't identify, on a monitor on the wall behind Akanke.

"I wasn't implying anything." Aeryn told him, still looking at Akanke. "Stark is a Stykera – they have certain …abilities. Scorpius is on the other side of the wormhole – where we left him."

"You made it through the wormhole," Aeryn couldn't identify the woman – another government official – Secretary of Something-Or-Other. "Why couldn't this Scorpius person?"

"I suppose he could. But he'd have to know how, and he doesn't – or at least he didn't when we left," she conceded. "John is confident that he won't crack it on his own."

"Things change," Akanke said, frowning. "Can you think of any way Scorpius could acquire the knowledge?"

Aeryn's frown matched Akanke's. There were possibilities, of course. A breakthrough in his own research. Furlow. She'd stolen too much. If Scorpius had her… too likely. The other possibility her mind once again skittered away from – John had assured her that the encryption would not be broken by any methods Scorpius could employ. She assessed and rethought, and reassessed. She had suspicions, but no way to confirm anything.

"Scorpius is a genius – given the resources... if he is coming, this planet is great danger – and I need to get back to the Raptor and we need to get it operational as soon as possible." She stood, already tired of this, tired of the endless talk and no action.
"Sit down, please, Officer Sun." Akanke said, the voices on screen and around her bent-head murmuring. "We need to discuss this."

"No, you don't," Aeryn told them, not sitting. "You need to do something. You need to act as if he is coming and prepare." She turned. "If he is coming, it's for John, and Scorpius will do anything he thinks is necessary to get him." She started walking to the door.

"Aeryn…" Akanke asked. "What are your recommendations?"

Aeryn stopped, then kept walking.

"Hope for the best," she told Akanke, although she had long since doubted it'd help, herself.


NERADA LAMM LOOKED OVER HER TEAM. All in order. She would be piloting herself, and seated firmly into the pilot's seat of the enhanced Marauder, she trapped herself in.

All these resources for one man. One man's knowledge, she corrected herself. Some supposed superweapon that could stop the Scarrans cold. Well, if it could, she'd get it. If she had to wade through the blood and climb over the corpses of a million aliens to get it and him, she'd do that too. There was no idealism or patriotism involved, no great desire to stop Scarrans or elevate Sebaceans. She'd long since ceased caring about any of that dren.

Nerada Lamm wanted challenge – needed challenge, needed the rush of living on the edge of life itself. Since birth, she'd sought some elusive thing that she could never quite grasp, but knew she needed. She supposed it had become an obsession, but she cared little. As long as she raced along the knife's edge, felt that exhilarating mix of fear/ecstasy, she would do whatever it took to get it. She'd killed lovers and friends and family for it. She could certainly kill Humans to achieve the same ends. She hoped they'd put up a good fight.

She finished her preflight, powered up, checked her troops. Twenty of Scorpius' guards as fodder for any human weapons, should it become necessary. Her team in their places and calm. All as it should be. The Captain of the Frigate that had brought her to this obscure asteroid field called down that they were in position.

With a deep breath, she took the controls and the Marauder rose and banked from the hanger smoothly.

She checked her stats board as the great black welcomed her. There was nothing to be seen but a few rocks in the distance. Sawer confirmed high energy readings from dead ahead, and Lamm shrugged internally and angled toward them. Scorpius assured her it was stable and could be traversed without worry. She didn't worry – as thrilling as it might have been to risk an unstable wormhole, she knew tests of her skill awaited her in the wormhole, on Crichton's planet. She would feed the only desire she knew in life, and she would do whatever it took to sate it, to finally grab it and know intimately, once and for all.

Before her, as if from nowhere, the mouth of the blue colossus suddenly gaped, and with only a moment to savour, Lamm plunged the ship in, and held on.


CRICHTON OPENED HIS EYES TO A WALL OF GREY… ICE?

He was still in his suit, and the last thing he recalled was being grabbed by a giant fist and yanked powerfully down, and across and forward, and wondered why he hadn't been torn apart in the process. He concluded that it was more perceptual than actual.

His suit sensors were blank – operative, but registering… virtually nothing. Just the faintest traces of energy. Whatever this place was – and it looked like an ice floe in a sea of ink – it was basically… inert.

Around him, hanging like a cathedral ceiling were… wormholes, open and slowly – very slowly - spinning. A wall of them – and for a moment he thought they might have been projections – and then abruptly realized that they weren't.

What the hell was this place?

It took him a moment to register the figure before him, and he had a pistol in its face before he'd realized he'd done it. The figure was unperturbed. He looked vaguely like someone Crichton felt he might have known – save for the hollow features and black pits for eyes.

"I'm gonna assume you brought me here." Crichton told him in way of greeting, his suit comm sounding flat as if the air was too thin for the sound to move through. "I'm also gonna assume you want something."

"Time." He said in a strong monotone voice, like a pronouncement of doom.

Crichton just nodded at him. Whatever. He was stuck, so he'd play along. The pistol he put away. The figure looked at him and then intoned again.

"Time."

"Time. Sorry – don't own a watch."

"Time."

Crichton looked at him for a moment, shook his head slightly. Gonna be a word game was it? He really didn't have any of the time this guy was going on about.

"Time. Yeah - and? What? If you ask ol' Steven, it's likely curved, along with the rest of the universe." He paused as the figure seemed to contemplate him.

"Perhaps." The figure said. He didn't nod, yet he gave off the impression somehow that he just had.

"Can I know where I am – or is it a secret?"

"We are at a juncture between states. It is provided to allow this communication."

"The reason being…?

"The precipitation of events has arrived at a point where direct intervention has become necessary."

"What? Johnny screwed up? Don't tell me you're surprised by this."

"Crichton…" The Ancient began, but got cut off.

"He's on Earth."

He shook his head in his helmet. The Ancient seemed to blink without blinking.

"The knowledge has become a danger. Steps must needs be taken."

"Look, Hawking – go whine at John – you guys unlocked his brain. I don't know squat about wormholes. I had no intention of using any, either - until just recently."

"This cannot be permitted to proceed."

"You want John's head? Get in line."

"No."

"No? Listen – if Scorpius goes through that wormhole, more than the pooch'll get screwed. I need to stop him."

"The knowledge cannot be disseminated."

"No, really?" Derisive. "I think I've been pretty obvious in my agreement with that already."

"There can be no copies. No dissemination."

Shit. Here is comes. The other shoe. Waste the copy, tie up everything neat for Johnny-boy.

"You have been brought here to precipitate its destruction. We will facilitate this - now."

Even as Crichton tried to protest, raise his pistol, do anything, 'Hawking' raised his hand and again there was a tremendous multidirectional 'yank' – and Crichton felt himself suddenly hurled… somewhere. The force of the acceleration – if that's what it was – caused him to black out momentarily. The first thing he felt was a feeling of weightlessness upon recovering his wits. His helmet had gone opaque against the sudden glare he'd experienced during the 'yank' and he ordered it to clear. As it did, he looked around, got his bearings.

The blackness of space.

The bright light, in the distance, of a star.

He turned himself around, and 'behind' him, full and blue-white and green and brown revolved a world he'd been certain he'd never see again.

Earth.

Crichton laughed, a short snort of surprise, shook his head. 'Precipitate his destruction', huh? Well, good job, Hawking – nicely done, and just vicious enough to be poetic.

He was in orbit, and his suit only had – tops - five hours of breathable O2 left in the recyclers. The nearest ship was somewhere on the other side of the wormhole.

His choices now were to either suffocate slowly or to pop the seals in his suit and suffocate quickly.

Crichton felt a laugh well up again, and he let it out – one that blended anger, despair, rage and irony all in an harsh barking outburst.

It so frelling figured.


NERADA LAMM did her best to stop the Marauder from spinning, managed after a feverish few microts. The ride down the wormhole had been terrifyingly exciting, and she relished it. Before her, she saw a bright yellow sun and black space, but little else.

She zeroed in on the largest radio source and headed in-system, eventually coming to a blue-white planet and its silver cinder-moon. She pointed the Marauder at the moon. She did not blunder blindly anywhere. Peacekeepers knew nothing of this "Earth", and what information Scorpius had provided told her little of tactical value. She dropped the Marauder on a plain facing the planet and got Sawer to work stealing data from the local satellite net.

After several arns – the bad news. If Crichton was as vaunted as predicted, he was well hidden – scans could not track his movements with any fidelity. Yet… local media spoke, surprisingly - of the deserter Aeryn Sun – and speculation of technologies being developed in secret. It was not a stretch to assume the humans were planning on advancing their spaceflight technologies and exploiting the wormhole. The information was down there, in Crichton's head, and she would do whatever was necessary to acquire it. He didn't even need to be alive for it, as long as his brain stayed intact.

She was in no hurry, nor a fool. He was obviously well protected, if he were hidden so well. Good. That meant a challenge, and she relished the idea of such a thing, the sheer complexity of acquiring this one man. They would gather as much information as they could – and then they'd strike.


HE HAD FAILED. MISCALCULATED BADLY.

Thadon cursed himself roundly for the chance, wondered how he could have made such a mistake. All indications had been that Shivi'na would be in contact with this group he'd joined, and all he had to do was play his role and wait.

No. His instincts had never failed him. Shivi'na would come, and he would be waiting.

He looked over his companions and knew the time would also come when they would prove a greater liability. He made himself a silent vow.

Woe to any that come between us. Then, he recited his own personal litany, for the focus it permitted him:

I am here in the now. I am powerful, yet I am no one; I am light and dark, fool and wise. I have been. I am. I go on. I will be.

One deep breath, a small smile, and Thadon nodded at an order that came his way, and proceeded to check his equipment, the moment of doubt a long forgotten memory.


WORMHOLES, IT SHOULD BE NOTED, ARE STRANGE ENTITIES.

On the surface, they are nothing more than quantum oddities, tubular ribbons of exotic energy, quirky electromagnetic anomalies that tunnel through the universe and refuse to obey the laws of 4D spacetime with any kind of fidelity. The majority of them are short-lived and not traversable by anything larger than an atom or two, and the energy required to open one and hold it open long enough for a ship to pass through is almost impossibly astronomical.

However, sometime in the past, when Earth itself was simply a moonless, hot lifeless ball being bombarded by the detritus of a young solar system, a race of beings discovered how to use the wormholes' own inherent energy to both stabilize and open them at will. They discovered that they could live inside wormholes, at the nexus points where they met, but that would require radical changes to their physiology.

It was a small price to pay, for the abilities wormholes gifted. What they called themselves now is beyond the scope of anyone limited by a verbal language, but others who would discover their existence called them Ancients.

The Ancients, it must be said, even though they were among the oldest races in the Galaxy, commanded unimaginable power and technology, were not infallible. They'd made mistakes. It had not been a quick process to learn all the intricacies of their new creations and most impressive and dangerous tools. Eventually they mastered them, and in their mastery discovered just how elegant and simple – relatively – the rules binding wormholes and their use actually were, how once understood, wormholes had one real use.

They granted users access to… well, practically anything.

It was not wonder that drove the Ancients to understand wormholes, it must be said. Once they understood that simple law, they nearly destroyed themselves with fear. It took a long time, and nearly exterminated them as a race on several occasions, but they learned the lessons, and they learned them well. They were prepared to destroy whole civilizations to protect the secrets of wormholes. Schisms developed over such views and sects of Ancients split over the millennia - most were hunted into oblivion. Only very few sects escaped the purges, and then only because the Ancients were approaching the twilight of their species.

The Ancients developed a series of simple rules for the employ of wormholes, and they went something, roughly, like this:

Wormholes are not doors, windows or highways. They are mirrors that reflect themselves.

One wormhole is all wormholes. Although not all wormholes everywhere.

What traverses space, traverses time.

To master a wormhole is to become a god.

All gods must immediately be destroyed.

The Ancients had lived by this creed for many millennia, until a serious mistake was made (there was some argument about it actually being a mistake, but that is a question for another time) an alien was – long before his species was ready – exposed to one.

It was the standard method – it looked like an accident, but wasn't, of course. Plucked the alien from an atmospheric flight, scanned and ran the data.

It was a tempting prospect. The planet would benefit immensely from Ancient technology and culture, and the near-planet-wide oceans offered an inviting home.

Arguments flew, and the consensus was finally, no, it wouldn't work, the aliens were too hostile, paranoid, religious and ignorant to wield the knowledge with any sense.

As the alien's planetary system was just outside the terminus of a stable wormhole, and the consensus among the remaining Ancient hierarchy was that the planet be destroyed.

They were simply too violently ignorantly primitive, and they should never have been contacted.

Of course, by then it was too late. The Ancients who had re-engineered themselves to exist on the level they once had – the Caretakers, they were called (to watch and record and recruit and if necessary, obliterate) – sent a representative to test the contactee, perhaps there was some hope.

They needed to take chances.

The Ancients, you must understand, were dying.

They needed heirs.

Sometimes, however, when you`ve been around as long as the Ancients, you can, understandably, forget things.

Sometimes very important things.

Like love.

Like hope.

And what happens when both are lost.


THEY CALLED IT THE "ORBITAL BASE SATELLITE ENERGY RESONANCE VECTOR".

That was the military term for the covert telescope in Earth orbit pointed outward, but not at the stars. More prosaically, they called it OBSERV, and it basically did one thing: it watched 'Earth's' wormhole.

Jocasta Akanke checked the incoming data and then checked it again. OBSERV was controlled from her command, and although the wormhole was public knowledge, that didn't change the covert nature of their observations. IASA watched the area, but their satellites and telescopes were not even remotely as sophisticated as OBSERV.

She was on her third cup of coffee, glanced at the big clock on the wall, watching the big hand slowly head toward five PM. She was sitting at a large conference table, at which she was the only one physically present. The room was surrounded by monitors.

On the largest of the screens before her, General Jeremiah Tecumseh "Tuck" Williams scowled at the reports in his hands. Williams was a veteran of the Black Ops game. He was one of only five people on Earth who knew exactly what it was that had really crashed in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947, and where it was at this very moment. It was not what most people supposed, it was altogether different, but still as world-changing.

Williams was amiable, knowledgeable and quite personable when he wished to be. He had movie-star looks and salt-and-pepper hair. "Tuck" had flown in those early days with Jack Crichton, and they were old friends and rivals.

He was also the overall head of a little known division of the Tactical Air Command – A.S.S.E.T.S.American Space and Special Engineering Tactical Support. The command annex for it, Groom Lake, where most thought it located, was simply what it appeared to be, the testbed for experimental aircraft. Occasionally, they still flew a few planes there, just to keep the UFO buffs happy – and diverted. He did not 'officially' command Groom Lake, although he technically out-ranked Akanke. He respected her mind, and if the truth be told, feared her a little. Extremely intelligent people always intimidated him. She was essential to his process. He did not, if he could help it, either step on her toes or pull rank. She did not know everything he knew, but she yet knew more.

"Was anything observed, Director?" Williams asked from the screen. Akanke shook her head wearily.

"No, General. The wormhole opened and closed twice." Akanke told him, stifling a yawn. "IASA reported it this afternoon. OBSERV reports it opening and closing, but nothing exited that it could detect. However, there has been a great deal of magnetic interference in its vicinity lately, and its observations are not as clear as they should be."

"What's the interference?"

"Tests of the pulse cannon, sir. Part of the 'missile defence shield'."

"Oh, that stupid thing. They should know better."

"Sky Watch reported on the openings as well." Donovan Atkins, Administrator of the Media and Information Control Annex – the real "Men In Black" - stated from a screen beside Williams. His security clearance was only two points below Akanke's, which in practice meant that he would be told a secret, but not right away, and not everything. "NORAD says something came through, but all our sensor platforms counter that assertion. They say they're using something called VDT and they saw something."

"Is that that new Volumetric Displacement Tracking grid of theirs? Supposedly to track 'cloaked' ships or some nonsense?" Abigail Delaney-Ronson, Deputy Secretary of the NSA.

"It's a viable science. Another spin-off of Crichton's efforts. Something invisible or shielded from standard surveillance is still there. It has mass, it displaces air, it bends light fractionally. If these Peacekeeper former comrades of Officer Sun do have cloaking technology, it would be the perfect way to track them." She replied, fatigue stealing over her. She covered a yawn.

"NORAD is just showing off – and trying to justify the expense. What was it – three-quarters of a billion to set up? Advanced technology to track technology that may or may not exist. There were no tracking reports of any object from IASA – and they have access to our own Sentinel Systems."

Akanke nodded. "I've seen the reports, of course. They only just arrived, Secretary. Initial reports and mass analysis suggest an object, but I agree, Sky Watch cannot say with any certainty. It's too ambiguous for my tastes."

"Did NORAD track a second object? The wormhole did open twice." Williams asked, referring to orbital systems.

"No, sir. All the Sentinels with that capability that could have been used are all currently over the Middle East." Akanke told him. Williams scowled. Right. 'Operation Iraqi Hunt something-or-other'.

"I'll have as many of them as possible deployed back to us," Williams told her. "Was there any subsequent track on this supposed object?"

"According to this," She held up a sheaf of documents. "VDT Deep Sky Seven tracked, for seven minutes, an object that had either come through or been ejected by the wormhole," Akanke said. "It attempted to follow the object but the track was lost when the satellite orbited out of range, and thus cannot be confirmed at this time. If it was an object it was relatively small – certainly no 'alien battle cruiser'."

"But for seven minutes? That would seem to be rather definite, Director." Ronson stated, rather dourly.

Akanke nodded.

"Secretary, I would love to be able to send a ship up to verify, but they are rather spare at the moment. There is a shuttle launch in a few hours. We could surreptitiously place one of our automated sensor platforms on it before it goes up, but it'll have to be quick." Williams nodded.

"I'll see to that. I think we'll have to..."

Delaney-Ronson interrupted. "I want to be informed the instant…."

"I'm sorry, Secretary. But after Roswell and Arizona…" Akanke explained, not needing to elaborate on the headache that both continued to be. "Well, we don't take chances. There's far too much paranoia out there – people are already jumpy about 'terror this and terror that'. Throw supposed alien infiltration and/or battlefleets into the mix and watch two-thirds of the country go stark-raving."

"I think you're exaggerating." The Secretary said dryly.

"Ma'am, more people in America believe Oprah more credible opinion-wise than an accredited scientist with fifty years of data to back him up."

"Point taken," the Secretary nodded.

Atkins asked, "Are there parallels to the Arizona Anomaly?"

The "Arizona Anomaly" was used to describe the arrival of John Crichton and Aeryn Sun.

"It's too early to speculate, sorry." Akanke had to tell them. "Until we can confirm that momentary track – and even if it was observed for seven minutes, my concern would be where precisely it went." She shrugged. "As far as we can tell, the object was in Earth orbit and now is not. If it were debris, a meteor, which isn't impossible, then it's of no concern. If it is not, it needs to be found. That may be the equivalent of a microscopic needle in a planet-sized haystack, however." Williams scowled, not liking the idea as it would divert already stretched resources, and Delaney-Ronson and Atkins finally agreed, nodded, signed off, after extracting a promise from Akanke to keep them updated.

Williams waited until Akanke nodded at him.

"Your thoughts, Jocasta?" He asked Akanke, noting the fatigue in her eyes.

"I'd really rather not speculate, General."

"How much of that object track were you actually able to follow?"

"Something came through. That's definite, but we don't know what. NORAD has confirmed via VDT that it was an object, size indeterminate, but large. It could be anything – a ship, a probe – a rare mineral composite rock."

"An invisible rock."

"Well, a very shiny crystalline one. Sometimes, to sensors, they can look the same. "

"I see. Any further developments of which I should be aware?"

"Officer Sun is on her way back to Serendipity." Akanke yawned again.

"I had wanted to speak to her, Director."

"I know, General. She, however, felt it important to return immediately."

"Do you think it is as serious as she paints?"

"We certainly shouldn't discount what she says. In my professional opinion, I believe we should act as if it's entirely possible, if not imminent."

"I'll take it under advisement." He sounded distracted. "There's a helluva lot to coordinate if we have to active the Protocols."

He thought, read more on his tablet. Akanke felt her eyelids start to creep closed. She'd been awake for a long time.

"I should have at least one more of the Sentinel satellites available to you by tomorrow morning. With any luck, it'll be one of the armed ones. Have the supercomputer there analyze all the data. You know the drill. If this is the precursor to anything, we'll have to activate first phase Protocols. I'd rather not, but if such caution is warranted…"

Akanke blinked.

"I agree, certainly, General, but there's nothing to say they are here. It's all too vague. There is no real evidence."

"We'll see." He frowned. "Not everything crashes in downtowns. If I wanted to watch someone – despite the UFO buff claims to the contrary, I'd invest in cloaking technology. I want people dispatched to Serendipity. We should be able to provide a few 'extra technicians' to help things along."

"Sir, we will reap as many, if not more, benefits from this technology. Simply because there's UN oversight…" Akanke sighed. The old argument. For Christ's sake, how many wars do we need to be in?

"I understand Crichton's desire to have things open, but it's the wrong move and has always been. We should have direct control over any technology he develops. You know this better than anyone - it's just prudent in the current political climate."

"Yes, sir." She replied, feeling heavy from the insistence of sleep, tired of the nonsense of the paranoid military mindset. She could feel Williams looking at her intently, looked back up at him.

"Do you really believe we should be that concerned?"

Akanke eyed him for a moment.

"Obliquely, sir, but yes."

Williams thought about it – or appeared to think about it, nodded, Akanke just looking at him.

"I'll want updates on anything significant." He pursed his lips, thought another moment. "I don't like that object appearing out of nowhere. Not coming out of the wormhole. Do you follow me? What about that track earlier in the Pacific?"

"Lost, whatever it was. We could never get a decent lock. IASA is insisting on dismissing it as a meteor that broke up over the ocean. I tend to concur." He considered it for a full minute before replying.

"Lots of meteors this week." He said dryly. "Very well. Begin the preparatory work-up to activate first phase Crichton Protocols."

"Shouldn't we wait until we have more reliable data?"

"It's just the preparations, Director."

Akanke simply nodded, not caring to argue. She was far too tired. Williams looked Akanke over.

"You should get some sleep. Delegate someone to watch this in your absence."

Akanke just nodded again.

"Yes, sir."

Williams popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth. It was a indulgence he could never shake.

"I'm heading back to Cheyenne Mountain. Depending on how the next 24 hours go, I may be there or I may head to SE3, based on circumstances. 'Request' Crichton's return from Australia. I want him where we have easy access to him. If this is a precursor to something larger, we may have our work cut out for us."

"Of course, sir."

Williams signed off, and the screen went blank. If it were the precursor to 'something larger', it could quickly become serious. Deadlyserious. World-changing serious. The Crichton Protocols dealt with nothing less than the invasion of Earth by extraterrestrials. It had been discussed. Aeryn Sun had laid out the capabilities of her people, and more than clearly delineated their priorities and ruthlessness. Advanced supercomputers had crunched the numbers.

The Protocols had three phases. Williams had simply told her to begin the preliminaries – a lead up, a sort of warning to those who needed to know that at some point in the future, the First Phase might be activated. One had to love the military mindset.

Nothing need actually be done by anyone other than SE3 at this point. It seemed strange on the surface, but it was meant to prevent anyone from overreacting until all the evidence was in.

The full First Phase put Area 51 and every Air Force base in the United States on provisional alert, pending direct confirmation and severity of the possible threat. IASA would also be informed and asked to confirm all satellite initial readings. Only those with sufficient clearance would be informed. Standard project pseudonyms would be used to misdirect. If the threat were considered serious, Second Phase would be activated. John Crichton would be moved – by force if necessary – to Cheyenne Mountain and a facility that awaited him deep underground. He didn't know it, but Crichton would be in what basically amounted to a vault, deep underground, below Cheyenne Mountain.

It was also his pyre, and tomb.

If necessary.

Second Phase was the informing and putting on alert of the White House, Congress, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Strategic and Tactical Air Command in Cheyenne Mountain, as well as the informing of NATO allies and the Security Council of the UN.

Third Phase was full deployment, all American forces currently engaged anywhere in the world would be put on alert, all other governments on the planet – through secret treaties - informed, and a general announcement made to the public. The nuclear arsenal of the planet would also be put on alert and pointed at the sky. Satellite defences, such as they were, would be redeployed.

By then, it was expected, Earth would officially be at war - and John Crichton's knowledge could not be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy.

Akanke mused as she walked out the door – projections for such a war were not optimistic, given what they were told by Sun and the supercomputers – Earth could hold out for two days, perhaps - before complete and total defeat. There was no other outcome. Utter subjection was as inevitable as the sun rising in the morning.

The entire American armed might, arguably the most sophisticated on Earth, would last, in the best case scenario, if it could be fully deployed and all other current theatres of engagement disregarded – including the optioning of nuclear and satellite defences – would last a grand total of two hours and thirty-two minutes.

If the entire planetary military – all armies and fleets and airforces and nukes could be deployed from every nation on Earth, the planet would last approximately three days, seven hours and twenty-one minutes – depending, of course, if the Peacekeepers decided to fight on the ground and not simply bombard the planet from orbit.

In that case, Earth forces would last approximately 62 minutes and fifteen seconds – the time it would take for one Command Carrier to orbit the Earth, identify, target and then destroy all major capitals. According to Sun, Peacekeepers had hundreds upon hundreds of Carriers. It was a big Galaxy.

The computers' recommendation: immediate surrender to avoid undue casualties, which it estimated as total in all engagements.

She shook her head. Futile.

She went to her office and sat down on her couch. They'd activate Phase Three, she thought again, then defeat and ruin in slightly more than an hour. All for something only one man had – the key to that damn wormhole out there.

Akanke sighed, hating the thing even while wishing she could see it herself, curled up on her couch and fell promptly asleep.


John Crichton paused on the steps of his private plane and looked to the cloudless black sky over a rather secret base in the middle of Australia's Woomera Prohibited Area. The stars were many and pinpoint-sharp. A shooting star darted by.

He couldn't have said why he looked up, and a second later, he was stepping onboard and ordering his pilot to return him to North America, having forgotten he'd done it at all. John's plane was equipped with his back-engineered technology. He'd be in Serendipity in two hours. The plane would take a parabolic course that would put him in orbit briefly, let the Earth rotate below him and then return him to Earth.

He had a great deal of work to do. Preliminaries of the Protocols activated? John felt a trill of fear race up his spine. It was too soon! He wasn't ready yet! He needed more time for his plan to come to fruition – his real plan. Everything he was doing now was incidental, although he certainly meant to leave his planet better than how he'd returned to it.

It figured. He had to go faster now, had to work harder. Had to be ready.

He watched the clouds race by, smiled grimly to himself. His government, his world – even Aeryn herself, had no idea as to his true intentions for this new ship they were building, or the special project he'd had DK overseeing back there is Australia, away from prying eyes. They all thought it some exotic weapon – another bone to the American government. It wasn't for them. It wasn't for anyone.

Not now.

Not yet.

Someday.

When Humanity grew up a bit more. Then, perhaps.

His smile widened slightly. No, it wasn't a weapon.

Not …exactly.

Not exactly a weapon, but in the right hands, it most definitely could be.


"ALL PROBES AND TELEMETRY FROM LAMM'S FLIGHT SHOW THE WORMHOLE IS STABLE, SIR."

"Excellent, Braca." Scorpius smile in satisfaction. Another day, perhaps two. The repeater was only two-thirds finished, but the teams would simply have to work harder. Success was too close to hand.

"The instant the teams are done, Braca. We go. Do you understand? The instant."

"Understood, sir." Braca nodded to him. "I'll have them redouble their efforts."

"Yes. There's no time to waste." Scorpius watched the display of chaotic energy on the screen. Indescribable amounts of energy were tearing spacetime apart, knitting it back together, only to shred it again. To master that power… Scorpius shook his head. Power was simply a means to an end. Power for its own sake was power turned to no purpose, and Scorpius had purpose aplenty. No time to waste indeed.

No time at all.

NEXT TIME ON

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EARTHFALL, PT 1:

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