Violet Odyssey- Chapter 2

 

I clapped my notebook closed, leaving my green pen between the pages to mark my place. It always pissed my research lead off that I wrote in green. I'd sat through far too many lectures on professionalism, but Acoustic-Harmonic wave theory was hardly the stuff of great focus and attention these days, so none of my superiors had much fight behind their bluster.

Dubbed the "Music Class" of the scientific world, Acoustic-Harmonics (ACH) and their associated wave theories were all the rage when I was in primary school. People had an idea that the Violet Incursion was caused by radio transmissions from outer space interacting with our ionosphere. Basically, an intelligently designed aurora borealis. At eight years old, I was completely smitten with the idea, and I loved music. It felt natural, so I made it my mission. I'd listen to AC/DC's Thunderstruck and Pink Floyd's Learning to Fly while I did my homework and watched old clips of Odyssey Years with Dad in the kitchen as he made his famous tater-tot casserole.

But that changed fast in 2008, when Swiss researchers won the bid for that cycle's Odyssey Project. Harmonics expert Dorian Schmid (whose poster I absolutely did not have on my wall) tied up the VICA's—the Violet Incursion Cooperative Authority's—budget for the entire decade launching a fleet of 378 satellites into low orbit. Half would listen. The other half would batter the Earth with a barrage of radio frequencies on the night the city appeared.

What happened wasn't exactly nothing, to be fair. During the twenty-four hours leading up to the Incursion, you couldn't turn on your car stereo unless you liked the smell of burning wires and the sound of metal being thrown into a Cuisinart blender. But at T-minus zero, the radio waves went predictably silent. The listening satellites heard precisely nothing. Then all seven hundred million euros' worth of equipment promptly lost the ability to maintain altitude. Every one of the satellites fell out of orbit. Several came down in major population centers.

Thirty-eight people died.

The failure wasn't interesting enough to prove Dr. Schmid had been onto something, but it was enough to disgrace both him and ACH in the eyes of the scientific community. So yeah, I was one of the "Band Geeks," chewing up precious research dollars from a depleted fund left in place under the guise of "covering all the bases." It's safe to say I ate a lot of my lunches alone.

I wore green on Wednesdays.

Not that anyone cared.

I stretched and flopped back into the grass, glancing toward the kids in the oak tree.

The branches were empty.

Instead, they were illuminated by a pair of bright, dandelion-yellow headlights.

Rolling onto my belly, I followed the light back to a black jeep. Swirling blue-green light from the city above mixed with the sterile white of the metal-halide lamps in the valley below, reflecting off its glossy silver paint. On the side, the illuminated symbol of three concentric circles capped by three irregular triangles turned my frown into a sneer.

I shut my eyes. My mouth curled to one side, annoyance hissing through my teeth.

Long, humanoid shadows stretched across my secluded hilltop. The uniformed men standing outside the vehicle had already rounded up the kids and their mom, while a woman in a navy pencil skirt herded them back to their car with the practiced smile of a career administrative zombie.

I cupped my face in both hands and put on a comical pout with my very best imitation of "duck face," leaning on my elbows and kicking my feet lazily against my butt.

Very dignified.

A consummate professional, always—that's me.

"You dudes here to see the show? Could I be that lucky?" I wheedled.

A stony-faced man who looked to be about ten years older and eighty pounds of muscle heavier than me took five measured steps in my direction and stopped crisply, like a well-trained seal. And I don't mean the cool "guns and scuba gear" kind.

"Doctor Ryan." He drew out the word Doctor with the subtle sarcasm I'd expect from someone with— I squinted at his chest—full bird? A colonel? That's... very strange.

"We need you to come with us immediately."

I sat up and brushed the grass off my Hawthorne Heights T-shirt. My eyes flicked to the other guy who remained by the jeep. I thought I could make out chevrons on his uniform, but the headlights were in my eyes now that the Colonel had stepped out of their way.

My jaw wiggled uselessly as I searched for something clever to say.

"Urhhh."

That was all I managed.

His expression suggested my stirring reply had not impressed him.

At last, my common sense caught up with the moment, and I shook my head.

"I'm not on duty this cycle. None of the junior researchers in ACH are."

None of the senior ones either, for that matter, I thought with a flat stare.

"We're not truancy and accountability officers, Mr. Ryan. And it wouldn't really matter if we were, would it?" He tipped his head toward the sky. "I would also request that you don't waste any more time gibbering like a helium farmer and join us in the jeep. That concludes the request portion of our visit."

I noted the swap from Doctor to Mr. with the tiniest, wounded smirk.

"I drove here. Can I follow you?"

"Not an option." He gestured toward the uniformed woman in the pencil skirt, who was returning in the red glow of the little family's retreating taillights. "Specialist Chen will return your car to staff parking."

The Colonel held out a hand.

Scowling, I fished my keys from my pocket.

"I guess we really are done with requests, huh?" I muttered, dropping them into his hand with more than a little dramatic flourish.

He grunted and passed the keys to Specialist Chen. She gave me a furtive glance before climbing into the driver's seat of my car.

A moment later, music erupted from the speakers far louder than it had any right to be. A heavy-metal cover of Africa nearly rattled the fillings out of her teeth.

A barking laugh escaped me.

The Colonel didn't look remotely amused, but the other guy by the jeep suddenly found something very important to occupy himself with just out of view.

The Colonel jerked his head toward the back seat of the jeep. I raised both hands placatingly and climbed in.

To my surprise, I was joined by the second guy, who I could now see was a Staff Sergeant.

Rivers, I noted.

In all the fuss, I'd never looked at the Colonel's name tag.

A third man sat behind the wheel, having never left the vehicle. I must not have noticed him because of the headlights. The best I could make out was his crew cut.

The Colonel took the passenger seat, and the jeep was bouncing down the hill before anyone bothered to say, "Buckle up!" or, "Can I get you a tasty beverage?"

I pressed my lips into a flat smile and looked deadpan at my fellow passengers in turn.

"So... to what do I owe the pleasure of this abduction?"

The Colonel had already pulled a clipboard from the door pocket beside him and was scribbling on it, pointedly ignoring me. He handed it over his shoulder to Staff Sergeant Rivers, who added his own signature beneath the Colonel's and another above it, presumably the driver's. Rivers passed the clipboard to me with a blank stare.

I returned one of my own.

I barely glanced at the form before confirming it was another non-disclosure agreement. I signed more of these than I did lunch tickets, and that was saying something. I loved lunch.

I scrawled my oversized, barely recognizable signature across the page, making sure to overlap Rivers' signature just a little, then handed the clipboard back toward the Colonel. He simply nodded at Rivers instead, who took it from me and tucked it back into the door pocket.

Colonel Killough, I'd learned from his neat, formal cursive signature, gave me a hard look. For the first time that night, he no longer seemed merely confident—or bored by the assignment. Something behind his eyes had shifted.

After a long moment of grinding his jaw, he spoke in careful, measured syllables.

"There has been a signal from the Incursion. No one can make any sense of it yet, but it started six hours before the event. Radio is down, just like it always is, and yet we have a transmission broadcasting over UHF Guard. It's not English, or any other discernible language. Except for one word... and an origin signature."

My blood ran cold.

The Brass City had never communicated in any detectable way before.

Ever.

My inner communications nerd immediately started racing through the possibilities, my tongue sticking out slightly like it always did when I was thinking hard.

Then a chilling question punctured every happy thought.

"What does this have to do with me?" I mumbled, probably quieter than I should have over the rattle of the jeep on the gravel road.

Either the Colonel had exceptionally sharp ears, he'd anticipated the question, or he simply didn't care how quietly I'd asked it. His answer cut through the jeep like a knife.

"The word was 'Richie.'

"And the signature was ID AE18-01."

For a heartbeat, my mind refused to connect the dots.

Then it did.

The transponder from Aeris. My Father’s Shuttle.