The Alien Creator

by Michael Miller

  Dr. John Myers answers, standing over the shoulder of Bobby Rafferty. "Our new method of collecting engine sound prints is working as designed. Traditional radar still can't find them. It works on capturing unique engine vibrations matched using sound-wave oscillation software. Right now, they're in a holding pattern three-hundred fifty miles out."

  "What's the closest asset?" Wilford presses.

  "Hubble Telescope, sir."

  "Is it offline? No sir; the team at Greenbelt Flight Center didn't feel it's at risk and NASA agreed."

  "I don't care what Greenbelt or NASA think." Wilford snaps. "Shut it down before it's too late."

  "I'll make that call," Myers replies. "I don't think we've communicated mandated protocol for taking assets offline, sir."

  "Gentlemen, Cyborg is edging closer to the Hubble Telescope," Rafferty announces calmly. "I'm afraid it's too late to save it," he adds as Myers puts the phone back in the cradle. "I'm also picking up additional vibrations that don't match engine noise. Something is about to happen and I doubt it's good news for the home team."

  Area-51 Hangar

  Glum faces permeate the scientific team while making final preparations to launch X-37D. News that the ten-billion dollar Hubble Telescope, the size of two full-grown elephants, is lost, moods are somber as people consider what's next. Moving up the schedule by a week or two, pilots Joe Mettars and Ray Thompson are confident they can again set down on the Navi hull. As busy scientists and engineers handle tasks around the spacecraft, everybody stops working when six large soldiers, toting combat gear, enter the massive hangar and approach Metz, Goddard, and Zote.

  "This must be your entourage, Zote," Goddard whispers. "I think size isn't going to be an issue," he follows as the large muscle bearded men with knives, pistols, brass knuckles, and automatic weapons carry their bulky gear toward the futuristic spacecraft.

  Once the lead officer from Delta Force shakes hands with Dr. Metz and introduces team members, the five amazed NCOs continue staring at Zote with utter amazement.

  "This is Dr. Billy Goddard of Global Space Company and the Andromeda android Zote, gentlemen," the chief engineer grins, noting drooping jaws. "Say hello Zote."

  "Once shaking hands with Billy after noticing the youth's odd clothing and tennis shoes, the Army officer moves toe-to-toe with the seven-foot android offering his hand. Metz winces, thinking he's about to get a broken hand while unaware of Billy's clever coaching. "I'm Captain Alvin Beck," the handsome thirty-some Army officer says squeezing the bulky robot's flexible hand. "It's good meeting my first bona fide alien, Zote," the officer smiles looking at the machine with trepidation.

  Zote's demeanor is steadfast while surveying the six men, the smallest about six-four. "You are welcome, Captain Beck," it responds almost eye to eye, his deep voice full and strong. "There is an evil force coming we must destroy."

  Soldiers are stunned how the robot communicates as if English is a first language. "I heard there's a bar fight and we want in," one of the five tall muscle-bound Army Sergeants grins.

  As most chuckle at images of a bar fight they wonder if Zote understands the joke. Quickly, Billy comes to his rescue when the android seems confused how to reply. "Zote, that's a form of humor characteristic of our military. Gentlemen, Zote learns quickly but often misunderstands euphemisms like that one."

  "My bad," the Sergeant answers though true regret doesn't register.

  "Show them where to stow gear aboard the spacecraft," Metz advises Billy. "Wheels up in two hours."

  Alien Spacecraft

  Nervous White House staff, joined by a large contingent of key decision-makers, press Global Space Company to keep them up to date. Still angry at the loss of Hubble, Wilford is out of sorts as the powerful alien ship moves closer.

  "Where are they heading?" President Wilford says to John Myers via the video conference. "Do we know?"

  "Our guess is the International Space Station, sir. They've bypassed dozens of probes, unmanned spacecraft, and spy satellites above 600 miles, thus Cyborg has adjusted the strategy. It's picking and choosing targets it feels threaten the invasion."

  "Why is our space station threatening?" Wilford counters. "There are no weapons."

  "I doubt he knows that for certain. Cyborg will attack anything complex, especially if people are inside. The X-37's super-cannon surprised him, so he'll be more cautious. I think we should warn ISS right away," Myers sighs sadly. "They don't have much time left. We're guessing a few hours."

  "All right; that's my job," Wilford allows. "I want a list of the people on ISS. Since not all are Americans, I'll think about how best to tell them. After Zulov, I'll start calling. Get your people working right away, Charlie. Has there been any attempt to make contact with Cyborg?"

  "Negative response; I don't think he's going to talk any time soon based on what Zote said. Cyborg's coming to kill us," Myers adds. "Zote didn't mince words. Besides, I don't think it has the same capability of communicating since Zote took his translator."

  "All right; nothing we can do about that. The news cycle is about to explode. Get ISS on the line and I'll talk to them so all of you can listen in," he tells Chief of Staff Charles Brody and staff, "then get President Zulov; I can't have him thinking we're hitting his people. If he's in bed, get him up."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Space Station

  nce President Wilford gets off the unbelievably demoralizing International Space Station call, the six station members, representing Japan, Spain, Russia, and United States, stare at the others with stunned looks and churning stomachs. Sadness permeates feelings until one of them cracks a joke about when Godzilla eats the Japanese Prime Minister. Once relaying the punch line, eight p.m., the six astronauts break out laughing along with NASA staff in Johnson Space Center admiring their rebounding spirits, bravery, and courage. After a few moments of frivolity, the dedicated members decide to adjust cameras and relay news about the aliens as they approach. Being proactive about their plight is the way they want to be remembered.

  "Let's rotate and get forward cameras pointed at them," the Commander says. "NASA, let's pipe Global Space into this call. Let's see if they can tell us where they are right now."

  "Roger, we can do that. Hold on," an edgy flight director agrees.

  Minutes pass until Global Space Bobby Rafferty, Senior Telemetry Engineer, comes on line. "Piping you through now, go ahead Bobby," the operator from NASA says.

  "Hello, this is deep space telemetry engineer, Bobby Rafferty, at Global Space Company. How can I help gentlemen; over?"

  "Bobby, this is Commander John Young of the International Space Station. We have the sad news from President Wilford and wish to help, using what time we have left, providing close up pictures of what's coming. Our cameras are excellent and should be able to provide details you probably don't have. Colleagues are standing by to redirect cameras; over."

  "Commander Young, my boss is on his way back to the control room, but I'm sure he'd be on board. I'll send coordinates via this line. You should have them in a few seconds. I estimate Navi is about one-hundred miles from your current location."

  "Thanks, Bobby; you already have a name for this alien vessel; over?"

  "It's a long story, Commander and classified, I'm sorry to say. We know the ship is five stories and made of radar-defeating metamaterial. Only recently, we figured how to find them and overcome some type of cloaking device. I'm sorry to say they destroyed the Hubble Telescope a short while ago."

  "I see; so they have destructive firepower," Young laments. "I suppose it's Murphy's Law these aliens are the nasty kind."

  "Yes, Commander; nasty fits them well. My boss, Dr. John Myers, is here now. I'll get him up to speed and we look forward to your live feeds; over."

  "Thanks, Bobby."

  International Space Station

  Moving seventeen-thousand miles per hour two-hundred fifty four miles above the Earth (five miles per second), the six-man crew finishes making fina
l orbit and camera adjustments for Kodak, Nikon, and Sony equipment. While the station is visible to the naked eye and best seen at dusk and dawn as the third brightest object in the sky, the crew try forgetting they won't see another dawn.

  "High-def streaming should begin any moment," Commander Young announces. "The mobile Celestron telescope picked up the alien craft exactly where you said it'd be so initial views should be spectacular," he follows excitedly, almost forgetting why they're drastically rearranging normal routines aboard the expensive craft. "It also confirms your new tracking method is spot on."

  "Thank you for those kind words, Commander," Dr. Myers responds as White House bigwigs, NASA engineers, and Global Space employees watch. "I'd like to take credit but the mastermind for finding them is Dr. Billy Goddard, one of our team members indisposed at present."

  Wilford breaths sighs of relief Myers didn't reveal Goddard's connection with the X-37D, secrets along with Defiant satellites they won't share unless necessary.

  "All right, the system has finished rebooting," Young smiles. "Here come the live pictures."

  When initial images come into view, everyone is shocked and alarmed by the dull-black ship's massive size and engineered construction. Several cameras automatically zoom as Young shifts to one with detail of a protruding bridge. Drilling closer in large increments, reddish shadows appear from inside transparent plates protecting alien occupants from zero gravity. Perhaps a couple football fields long, size, girth, and demonstrated firepower leave watchers speechless.

  Alien Spacecraft

  Cyborg allows time for lab minions to collect information by studying the brightly lit space station, the largest visible object gliding over the blue surface far below. In addition to scans of technology and human contents, minions record detail measurements including estimated weight and length, quality of solar panels, type of modular construction, extensive wiring, and sources of power. Results suggest the floating platform appears to be defenseless, though Cyborg wonders if it will attempt to maneuver out of range like the other spacecraft that fired strange objects that damaged the hull. Satisfied it won't be tested, Cyborg spends time deciding the next stop on the way to the planet before giving the order to destroy the alien manned station.

  Conference Call: White House, Area-51, and Global Space

  As a frontal section of the alien spaceship begins pulsating like a beacon, the space station crew provides close-ups of what looks like a coordinating group of pivoting octagonal crystals. Military scientists at Area-51 pay careful attention and discuss what appears to be liquid crystal glass or similar surface, harmonizing into state of coherence of the suspected laser weapon, likely the one that obliterated the famed Hubble telescope.

  Tension ramps as the leaders helplessly watch and wait for the destruction of one of the world's great technological breakthroughs that pioneered protein development, robotic surgery, vaccine research, cancer detection, capillary flows, and other significant advancements most people take for granted. The symbol of capitalism, science, peace, and progress is one of a few examples possible when competing nations pull together. Without further fanfare, all watch as a thick beam of energy strikes the space station with considerable heat and force. Almost instantly, the enormous structure, mostly 2219-T6 aluminum alloy common among supersonic aircraft, explodes into billions of pieces like a mighty puff of wind blowing sand from one's hand. As impacts of the moment registers, shocked feelings give way to anger. In seconds, the two-hundred thirty-nine feet million-ton space station, once occupied by elaborate pieces of equipment carrying six humans, is now debris catapulted in every direction.

  "What a senseless loss. I've had enough of this lunatic from Andromeda," Wilford rants. "Let's prepare the best way to destroy this nemesis once and for all. We'll use Defiant and anything else in our arsenal. We're going to fight tooth and nail. Short of tactical nuclear weapons, nothing is off the table when they come. Make sure Abrams tanks, A-10s, F22s, F35s, Apaches, and whatever else you need is ready for deployment no matter where they land," he commands his resolute generals.

  X-37D Spaceship, Space Dragon

  Veteran Navy officers Joe Mettars and Ray Thompson move through thin layer clouds at thirty-thousand feet guided by Global Space Company's chief telemetry engineer. With six athletic Delta warriors strapped in the cargo-hold along with android Zote and translation minion, Bobby Rafferty ensures the path to intercept Navi is indirect. Clear of commercial traffic, an eerie feeling for controllers monitoring normal busy skies and thousands of aircraft, the last time following September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, Bobby keeps Joe and Ray informed of the enemy's location in the thermosphere based on engine vibrations.

  "Once we know where they enter the mesosphere, we should have our best chance of getting behind them," Bobby Rafferty explains. "Their six is probably our best chance of closing the gap without fanfare."

  "Do you think they don't monitor traffic at their rear; over?" Joe asks suspiciously.

  "Yes, we suspect they do, but there's a surprise waiting for them that will distract attention. That'll be your window to close the gap and set down quickly; over."

  "What surprise; over?" Joe glances at Ray to check his understanding of the plan. Getting shrugs from his partner, he waits for an answer.

  "That information isn't authorized, Lieutenant, over air waves," Rafferty says once John Myers, standing nearby, gives thumbs down. "Stand by; maintain speed, increase elevation to forty-five thousand feet; five degree turn bearing three-twenty northeast; then hold for further instructions; over."

  "Forty-five thousand bearing three-twenty degrees, northeast," Mettars confirms, still wondering what surprise is in store.

  White House Bunker

  After listening to X-37D radio chatter with Global Space, President Wilford checks with Bob Covelli ensuring the surprise is moving into position. After the CIA Director shuts down a secure satellite phone with NORAD, he moves to the front of the command bunker (PEOC) then changes screen shots to live pictures from a massive low orbit satellite very few know exists.

  "We've turned on Defiant in sector five and expect it to be in position within the hour," Covelli explains calmly, the first time briefing anyone about the expensive stealth tool. White House spectators marvel as the giant satellite, made of aluminum alloy and fiberglass, the size of a 90-passenger school bus, hurtles through space guided by Global Space engineers.

  "What's the plan?" Wilford presses. "We need this to work for X-37 to have a chance of landing undetected."

  "Assuming Cyborg sees it and moves in for a kill shot, we'll distract them with bursts from Defiant. Meanwhile, Myers' team will guide X-37 behind Navi and land on the aft deck while engaging the satellite."

  "Why not destroy Navi and end the threat?" Bull Greer grumps, somewhat jealous the amazing space asset isn't under Defense Department control.

  "This is primarily a deterrence weapon," Dr. Myers explains to the group looking up at the camera as his team of engineers guide X-37D and Defiant satellite from the Control Room at Global Space. "It's geared to disrupt ICBM guidance systems which cause malfunctions and premature explosions. Defiant's laser weapon isn't powerful enough to destroy Navi in all likelihood after what we experienced with the rail gun's Lexan rods."

  "How close do we need Navi to fire at it?" Bull Greer asks.

  "Three thousand miles is what's designed," Myers adds to the discussion. "Russian or Chinese three-stage boosted ICBMs normally fly about seven hundred miles high in arcs to targets. We'd hit it when rising, from fifty to hundred miles keeping radioactive fallout in space. In this instance, we're maneuvering Defiant to about fifty miles as the target descends into its path. Therefore, I don't think range will be an issue."

  "How will you know Navi's flight path and arc? That can't be easy mathematics, Dr. Myers?"

  "You're right, Mr. Greer," Myers nods. "Besides being able to track them, we have an advantage, mathematically speaking, since Navi's trajectory won't be af
fected by friction or gravitation like land-based ICBMs. Applying energy and angular momentum conservation laws to solve the equation needs speed adjustments. Since Defiant's weapon is automatic with necessary calculations, distance is the only unknown factor. However, we must be within a thousand miles to be effective. That's why sticking our nose in their face is the best way of forcing their hand."

  "Let's cut to the chase, gentlemen," Wilford snarls cantankerously. "This means we're sacrificing Defiant," he bellows, still angry from loss of the Space Station. "If we can get X-37 on the hull, that's all we can do. I doubt luring them will be difficult since Defiant is the most sophisticated asset in space. I hate losing it, much less showing our enemies we got it, but Cyborg won't be able to resist, even if we're firing meaningless spitballs. Where is Navi right now?" he says diverting topics.

  "One hundred fifty-seven miles, Mr. President," Bobby Rafferty responds, "They're descending at a rate of ten miles per minute. Cyborg is being very cautious, sir, most likely due to the X-37D's rail gun."

  "And where's the X-37? How are they doing, Bobby?"

  "They're fine, sir. Twenty-seven minutes ago, we made the decision to move them higher. Right now, they're fifteen miles and rising. In thirty-two minutes, the X-37 will be at edge of the stratosphere about thirty miles. Once there, we'll reevaluate when and where to intersect. Until then, we're limiting communication with the crew to keep them dark as possible."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Andromeda Navi Spaceship

  escending at a rate allowing close inspection of assets hurtling around the large round blue marble sphere with white swirls, Cyborg is increasingly focused on counterattacks launched from the surface. Finding no new objects worth destroying in space, a minion finally points to an object on a liquid holograph screen that recently came alive. Far away to be threatening, the bio-mechanical being orders careful inspection of the large object that's changing elevation, a different pattern of movement far above the surface. Once assigning the primary task to minions of studying this new object, the engineered organism ponders reasons for the lack of resistance. Earlier scans indicated many aircraft moving back and forth across the principal land area. However, now that traffic is gone. Concerned it may have missed something, Cyborg orders checks of the cloaking device, weaponry, and readiness of the four landing pods.