“The problem is, Tundra is inherently unstable. If we don’t find a way to stabilize the mechanism used to draw geothermal energy into our shields, we will never have reliable shields. And the very nuclear warheads we need to deflect will destabilize the underlying tectonic… Grant, are you listening to me?

  Grant looked up, momentarily distracted by the unusual vibration on his wrist comm, which he had pre-programmed to go off only when a very specific type of communication channel was used. “I need to go.” Grant said abruptly, before getting up and doing exactly that.

  With a certain degree of apprehension, Grant drove home, taking advantage of his brand new modded out vehicle to speed quite outrageously. Once home, he completed a hasty scan of his surroundings for audio and visual recording devices and stretched his heavy, oversized frame on the double lounge chair, cranking his modified sunlamp to its full power and enjoying the full spectrum of artificial sunlight on his skin. For good measure and in the privacy of his garden, he allowed his skin to take on its natural, scaly appearance. Scientifically, he knew it should make no difference in his ability to draw energy from the radiation, and yet he could not quite get over the feeling that the light felt better on his natural skin. With an entirely human sigh, he activated the quantum entanglement communicator. As he had expected, Daren was waiting for him.

  “Robert has informed me you’re going to nuke Saraya.” Daren spoke the moment the channel opened.

  “I will do no such thing, Daren.” Grant said in annoyance.

  Daren gritted his teeth, letting out a discernible hiss. “You wish to argue moral culpability? Robert is a dead man walking. A dead man breathing – because of you. The ultimate responsibility rests in your hands, Aghrael.”

  Grant, aka Aghrael, winced slightly. Of course, they were all getting sloppy. Other than a handful of the highest ranking officials in the Sarayan presidential administration, no one on Tundra or Saraya seemed to know of their existence. If someone were to overhear Daren mention his true name, they were not likely to draw any meaningful conclusions from that information. On the other hand, if they were to get past his state of the art security and walk in on him in all his scaly glory – well, Grant was in no position to criticize Daren for a slip of the tongue. “While I am not privy to the details” he responded calmly “I would theorize that President Jim Hawk is making the decision to initiate a nuclear attack on Saraya and Robert is merely…”

  “Bullshit.” Daren interrupted, frustrated as much by his own inaction as the situation itself.

  Grant’s eyes widened in surprise. It was exceedingly unusual to be interrupted via quantum comms.

  “James Hawk is Robert’s man. Robert is nuking Saraya and by extension, you are nuking Saraya. We have animals, Grant. We have trees that are taller than the tallest building on Tundra and you want to destroy it all. When was the last time you visited?”

  Grant rubbed the scales along his arm in frustration. Everyone got touchy about nukes. “It is not Robert’s decision.” He repeated.

  “Robert engineered Jim Hawk’s rise to power. And now, the man is fulfilling his purpose, just as Robert intended. How long will it go on? Yes, he continues breathing, but for what? Does he draw breath for anything other than vengeance? It’s been nearly a human lifetime since Dragon City was destroyed and yet Tundra takes vengeance as if it happened yesterday. Who is at the heart of that? For whom did the time pass in the blink of an eye?”

  “Robert is…” Grant paused. He had been about to say Robert was enjoying his job, but that would have been untrue. “Robert appears to be fulfilled by his role.” He backtracked. “And President Hawk is no one’s man but his own. Humans are perfectly capable of holding grudges for a lifetime and beyond. It’s not as if they’re acting out of character.”

  “We have a dead man pulling the strings. And somehow, the result is more death.”

  “The same can be said when humans pull the strings, and they’re lively as can be.” Grant said flatly. “I don’t agree with your interpretation of events. To my knowledge, the planned attack on Saraya is initiated by Jim Hawk, current President of Tundra. Robert is merely facilitating the operation in his capacity as the human head of the Tundran Internal Secret Service. What would you have me do?”

  “The man is over five hundred years old. He has been in this solar system for nearly as long as the humans themselves. Everything he does is beyond human. Rhael is who he is, he cannot be human. Grant, tell him to stop this. Stop the attack on Saraya. If there is anything I can do…”

  “It’s not our place, Daren. And it’s certainly not my place to direct Robert.”

  “Then advise him.”

  “In my official capacity as Frankenstein’s creator?” Grant asked drily, referencing an old earth book Daren had recommended to him, which he naturally never bothered to read.

  “Frankenstein was the creator.” Daren said through clenched teeth. Clearly, Grant had not read the book. “Robert is the monster. Advise the monster, Aghrael. In your official role as the monster’s creator.”

  “I don’t believe our military has a rank for that.” Grant stretched out his nearly eight foot tall bulk on the double lounger, not bothering to hide the sinuous grace of his movements, as he so often did. He found moving in the more jerky human fashion served him well. And it wasn’t just the humans that felt more comfortable. It was a sign of Daren’s desperation that he would come to Grant, freak that he was.

  “You refuse to intercede?”

  “I do.”

  “Will you at least read the book?”

  Grant hissed slightly. Were they really now using quantum comms to discuss literary analysis? He was the one who would have to renew the entangled particles they used up during this conversation. “No. But if Robert begins eating brains, I will certainly reassess my position on the matter.”

  “That’s zombies, Grant. Frankentstein’s monster did not eat brains.” Daren said sharply.

  “Bodyparts?” Grant asked, unable to contain his bemusement.

  “It is a very short book, Grant.”

  “I’m a scientist, Daren. I don’t read fiction.”

  “It is a philosophical commentary on…”

  “The emperor himself has found Robert’s continued existence to be an inspiration.” Grant interrupted, since quantum comms manners had clearly dissipated into the sun. “It has been over fifty years since his mate’s death. He is dead but he breathes. The longest in the recorded history of our species. My invention works.” He looked down, suddenly realizing he had extended his claws and scraped a layer of hardened Tundran wood off his lounger. Surreptitiously, Grant ran a finger over the damage, grateful that this mode of communication was limited to audio. His people became exceedingly nervous when he showed any sign of aggression. Freaks, him and Robert both, living in a distant backwater solar system over seventy light years from the heart of their civilization and forty light years from the Carda’an colony the humans referred to as old earth. It seemed they were all starting to forget what normal was.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Name one thing, one thing Robert has done that has not been driven by a thirst for vengeance over his mate’s death.” Daren said, his voice softening.

  “Well.” Grant took a surreptitious breath, calming himself. “He has the cat.”

  ---

  Daren shut off the quantum comms channel and leaned back in his chair. It was past noon now, and the brutal light of the Sarayan sun beat down, even through the thick cloud cover and rain overhead. He had failed. It didn’t come as a surprise. He could attempt to speak with Robert again, and at some point he would, but he wasn’t up for it just then. Grant would be talking about the wasted quantum entangled particles for weeks to come. Perhaps it was time for him to pay a personal visit to the thriving Tundran colony, he thought idly. Settled as he was, he wasn’t especially looking forward to the trip.

  Like most humans on Saraya, Daren’s home was inside a hollowed out tree, whose interior was long ago devoured by Sarayan insects and other wildlife. The home was constructed to his specifications, doing away with some of the safety measures the humans practiced to ensure survival in the Sarayan heat, even if their cooling systems failed entirely. While the typical human dwelling offered small, heavily insulated windows to limit the streaming radiation of the sun, he had custom oversized windows installed, giving himself a wide, unobstructed view of the green pond in the forest beyond. He sat back in his heavy, carved wood chair and looked out idly, watching the flying insects and reptiles as they danced over the surface of the pond. The reptiles outnumbered the insects for once, their heavy leather wings better suited to flying in the rain. Their scales shone in the muted light of the sun, reflecting back every color of the rainbow. It was beautiful.

  Pouring himself a cool glass of water into an open and unfiltered glass, Daren settled in with the recording Sophia had provided. He knew Sophia was using the recorded reference to an alien invasion to distract him from his more homicidal tendencies. Her misguided attempt to protect him was touching, as well as exceedingly na?ve. Officially, the Sarayan colonists were not supposed to know of the alien presence on old earth. Unofficially, the crew tasked with raising the four hundred human embryos once a suitable colony had been found, were of course aware of the nature of their mission. Before their deaths, the knowledge was quietly passed on. Today, a handful of the highest officials in the Sarayan government continued to retain that knowledge. The head archivist and sub-head archivist and historian were one of those few. From what Daren had observed, it was typically viewed as an oddity, an entirely irrelevant bit of lore from old earth that may be forgotten entirely over the next few generations. After all, it was well known that there were no aliens on Saraya. Sophia seemed to find his interest quaint and entirely unobjectionable. With a casual shrug and one last glance at the aerial show taking place over his pond, Daren pressed play.

  The camera focused in on the witness sitting alone in a witness chair in the center of a dark, windowless room. As Sophia had observed, the woman was unusually beautiful. Thick dark hair flowed down nearly to her waist and her large, light blue eyes focused directly on the camera, the pupils clearly dilated from some type of mind altering substance, either something she had taken herself, something provided by one of the interrogators, or an unfortunate mixture of both.

  “Your name is Jane Thomson?” One of the interrogators asked. The man was off screen, and would likely remain invisible and anonymous for the duration of the interview.

  “Why not?” The woman responded, her voice flowing like water.

  There was a pause. Daren heard the voice of the interrogator, slightly muffled. “And it says here you’re… an accountant. Is that right?”

  “I do the books.” The woman who may or may not be Jane Thomson said, somewhat dreamily.

  “You work for Jonno Summers and you do the books?” The interrogator repeated, doubt heavy in his voice. Looking at the woman, Daren tended to agree.

  “Yes.” She said softly. She moved as if wanting to do something with her hands, but the cuffs around her wrists, attached to the arms of the chair on either side, prevented her from whatever she intended to do. This was Saraya. Even witnesses were questioned in chains. It was a reasonable precaution, given how Sarayans felt about government authorities, Daren thought with some disgust.

  “You do anything else?” The man’s voice asked, the tone clearly suggestive.

  “I do nothing else.” The woman said, her head tilting slightly.

  “Darling, looking the way you do, you’re not gonna walk around Jonno’s establishment doing the books.”

  “I do nothing else.” The woman repeated. Her eyes were wandering now. She was clearly having a difficult time focusing. “Jonno’s.” She paused. “Jonno’s is a strictly voluntary establishment.”

  “I heard that. You’re not there to make that any easier for him, are you then?”

  “I am.” The woman paused. “I don’t get out much.” She said.

  “Something you should know, then.”

  “Yes?”

  “This here’s a Sarayan interrogation facility. We’re not what you’d call a strictly voluntary establishment.” There was distinct laughter in his voice now.

  For the first time, another woman’s voice could be heard, barely audible on the tape. “That’s one of Jonno’s people. This isn’t the time.”

  “No way she looks like that and…”

  “Have you ever seen this man?” The female interrogator’s voice interrupted more clearly.

  The woman’s eyes, still clearly unfocused, moved slightly to the right, presumably to view the photograph.

  “Maybe.” She said vaguely.

  “Maybe I can help jog your memory.” The male interrogator’s voice suggested.

  The woman’s eyes moved with unnatural slowness, from the right to the left, presumably refocusing on the male interrogator. “Are you…” she paused “you are threatening me?” She said, forming the words slowly, as if she were having a hard time understanding the situation.

  “I’m not threatening you darlin’. I’m offering you a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

  “You are.” She cocked her head. “You are threatening me.” Suddenly, the woman started laughing. It started out as a small stuttering laugh that seemed to build on itself, until the peals of laughter were echoing strangely around the interrogation room. The woman’s head was thrown back, her body shaking with laughter as her arms strained against the restraints attached to the heavy wood chair used for witnesses during interrogation.

  Daren winced. Charismatic, Sophia had called her. That was an understatement. And the whole thing was starting to give him the creeps.

  “You. You are threatening me.” The woman repeated, the dark pupils of her eyes even more dilated now as she stared slightly to the left of the camera, towards her interrogator. “You are nothing.” She whispered. “There is nothing.”

  “Why?” It was the female interrogator who asked.

  It was an idle question, clearly unrelated to the investigation, but Daren could certainly understand the temptation to ask.

  “There is nothing you could do.” The woman said softly. “That I would notice. You think you have power. You think you can make people afraid. You are nothing. You don’t know what power is. They are coming. They are with us. They exist.”

  “Who?” It was the female interrogator’s voice again. Her voice had picked up the easy cadence of an expert interrogator. The words were short, quietly unassuming, nearly invisible signposts to lead the witness in the right direction. She had observed that the witness wanted to talk and let it be known that she was there to listen.

  “The aliens.” The woman said, her eyes now focused on the camera. “They came for us. They came to old earth. They will come for us here. To touch and to hurt – that is not power. That is nothing. Power is to take everything and change it to your will. She closed her eyes. “He can take my thoughts and change them until they are no longer mine. He can make me hurt with a thought. What I feel, what I believe, what I want. It isn’t mine. That’s what slavery is. Until there is nothing left.” Her eyes moved back to the left, towards the male interrogator. “Try me.” She said. “Try and see if you can touch me. If it matters. If there is anything left.” Her eyes opened wider. “Try me.” She repeated, before turning her eyes back to the right. “They are coming for you. One mistake. One mistake and they can take more than you can begin to imagine. More than you ever thought you had. And it can go on and on and on. For years. For decades. For centuries. They are coming. They are coming. They are coming!!!”

  “Fuck.” Daren said out loud to the empty room.