Kirya and Nero

Prologue

Peter Whitte stood in tense silence, his eyes raptly glued to the array of monitors in front of him. With the utmost scrutiny did he mentally note ever weather update, arrival confirmation, and security checkpoint. The last of his attention was occupied by the little wireless comlink that whispered in his ear. Peter sometimes felt like a giant spider, with a keen grip on millions of strands of information. And he never forgot how easy it is to lose one strand in a million.

He afforded himself a split-second glance at his watch before straightening his sleek black suit jacket and anxiously adjusting his earpiece.

"Less than ten minutes," he said. "Is everyone in position?"

"Yes, Mr. Whitte."

"We can't afford any more mistakes. Are you double-checking?"

"And triple-checking," his assistant said with a sigh.

"Sorry," Peter said absently. "Y'know, they say first impressions are everything. But they don't have any sayings about all the other times."

"They probably figured it was obvious."

Peter chuckled and glanced over his shoulder. Jennifer Page was completely absorbed in her tablet, scribbling notes and checking security updates. She was young – mid-twenties, if he was any judge – and smartly dressed. With her hair pulled tightly back and her focused brown eyes hidden behind a pair of reading glasses, she gave the sharp methodical impression of a librarian.

Peter considered himself very lucky to have found her. All of his other assistants had cracked under the intense pressure of his employ. But it wasn't tyranny or cruelty that kept sending Peter to the agency. His poor bright-eyed aides were simply overwhelmed by the sheer workload Peter was forced to delegate.

But he still had to admire their effort.

"The Eraknian shuttle has arrived, sir," Jennifer said over the tapping of her stylus. "The ambassador is on his way to the pavilion."

"I'd tell you to relax," Peter said, "but that would make me a complete hypocrite."

"As always, sir, I promise to take a break after you take a nap."

"No sleep. Coffee. Bureaucracy runs on caffeine, Ms. Page. And so will spaceports," he added as he turned back to the monitors.

"All the same, I don't think they'd let the first Earth-based spaceport be run by a bunch of zombies."

"I suppose. Could be detrimental to the image. Letting them all down, especially after all the work it took to get here in the first place."

Indeed, it was only through intense campaigning and ceaseless committees that the Interplanetary Affairs Council finally green-lit the construction on an island off the coast of Florida. Japan lobbied for the commission, as had Russia, but the IAC chose to bestow the honor and responsibility on NASA's old Cape Canaveral site. Many agreed that there was a kind of poetic symmetry about using the home of the Apollo missions as the launching point for humanity's next grand endeavor into the universe.

And as the council-elected overseer of the new facility, Peter Whitte was one perpetual step away from a nervous breakdown.

"Why is there work going on in E-Terminal?" he asked, peering anxiously at the glowing displays. "That was supposed to be delayed until after the presentation."

"I'll check the maintenance log. Maybe they're having electrical problems again."

Peter snorted. "A billion dollar budget and we still have glitchy wall sockets. Still, better we find it now than on opening day."

He tore his eyes away from the screen to check his watch again.

"Almost three. Time to impress an alien ambassador."

Peter adjusted his tie. When he was finally satisfied, he turned to leave the monitor station.

"Uh, sir?" his assistant called tentatively.

"Yes, Ms. Page?"

"There's no maintenance scheduled for E-Terminal today."

Peter hesitated, then returned to the security monitors. "An emergency patch, maybe?"

"No, sir. The South Wing foreman reports all electrical systems working. And he doesn't have anyone in the terminal."

As Peter examined the display, an unwelcome shiver crept up his neck. One jumpsuited worker was busy with an access panel. Two more hovered over him. Peter didn't recognize any of their faces, but he did see the fidgety hands and shifting glances. He also saw the brick-sized parcels and a jumble of wires.

"Security!" Peter squawked into his comm pin. "Priority alert! South Wing, E-Terminal!"

He whirled and bolted through the door with his aide at his heels.

"Secure the ambassador!" Peter wheezed as he ran. "Get him to safety and do it quietly! He doesn't have to know anything if nothing's wrong."

"Y-yes sir!"

"Be calm and be fast. I'm counting on you!"

Peter didn't wait to watch her leave. He burst into a stairwell and barreled down to the first floor.

I don't need this! he fumed as he hurtled down an empty corridor. I don't need one of these days again!

The end of the hall echoed with the frantic stamping of combat boots and the clatter of assault rifles.

Hoarse shouts came muffled through a double door ahead. Peter balked. He planted an ear against the cold metal. There were no more footsteps, but the voices still rang out.

"On you knees!"

"Get on the ground!

"Hands on your head!"

"Mr. Whitte! What're you doing here?"

Peter jolted and whirled around. A security officer had materialized at his side, and was just as winded as Peter himself.

"Don't jump out like that!" Peter snapped. "You trying to give me a coronary?"

"Sorry, sir. Only, it's not protocol to have the director at an alert response. Could be dangerous, sir."

"What's going on in there?" Peter demanded.

"Not sure yet, sir. Just got here, myself."

As if on cue, Peter's comm pin joined the conversation.

"Targets in custody. Removing to detention facility. Bomb squad moving in."

The officer must have noticed Peter's distressed expression. "I wouldn't worry, sir. Probably a false alarm, like last time."

"I hope so," Peter said.

The double doors swung open and the officer motioned Peter to one side. A troop of guards in full riot gear marched through the opening. Buried in the center, like the nucleus of a well-armored atom, were the three workmen. The first two struggled a bit, with fierce defiance etched into their faces. But the third...

The third man could just as easily be strolling along the beach. While his companions fought every step of the way, the third man was calm and collected – almost smug. There was the hint of a shrug in his shoulders, as if he was saying "Fair's fair, you got me."

As the third man passed by, he glanced up into Peter's face... and winked.

"Get out!" the comm pin shrieked. "Get out now!"

Peter felt a hand seize the back of his jacket and push. He tried to run, but it was like moving through syrup. He was dimly aware of other bodies stampeding through the doorway. It was all chaos and confusion. There was a deafening roar, an impact like an invisible freight train, a concrete wall flying to meet him...

... and then there was darkness.