> Sarah Chu

> Date: March 20th, 2028

> Location: Schriever Space Force Base, Colorado

To get to the National Space Defense Center, Sarah had had to pass through security twice -- first to get on base, then into the restricted area. So, of course, she had to go through another security checkpoint. That was military life.

Commander Wilson and Squadron Leader Milbourne presented their military IDs, passports, orders, and USAF-issued Visitor Access Request. Captain Delvecchio, of course, just presented his pass.

Sara, lacking anything other than her own ID and the temporary pass she'd received at the gate, had to fill out additional forms. The Security Forces airman was polite and patient, but Sarah's cheeks burned with embarrassment as she tried to hurry. Three officers were waiting on her to fill out paperwork. Four, counting the freaking general.

She wrote faster than she had since her last astrophysics final. She just hoped it would be more legible this time.

At least it was becoming less and less likely she was about to be hauled before a tribunal. She doubted that took place at the NSDC's main ops building. And she'd have been sent to talk to a JAG officer first. That's how it worked, right? Did the Space Force have its own JAG officers, or were they all Air Force? She honestly didn't know.

“Done?” Captain Delvecchio asked when Sarah straightened up.

“Yes, sir.” Nervous, Sarah tried straightening her uniform.

“This way, then. Commander.” He nodded to Wilson, as if asking permission -- military courtesy was to be observed, of course. It wouldn't due for an officer two ranks lower to seem to be telling a superior, even from another service, what to do.

“Certainly, Captain,” Wilson responded. “Please lead the way.”

Forms observed, they started down the hallway. Sarah almost laughed, though she knew it was mostly nerves. At least Wilson seemed pretty relaxed. She'd heard the Royal Navy was even more uptight than the US edition, and their officers all had sticks surgically implanted up their exhaust ports. But Wilson didn't seem to be anything like that.

But what were two British officers doing visiting NSDC? Especially at the same time Sarah had been summoned before a two-star general? She couldn't think of anything that required both a pair of foreign officers and a lowly Space Force E-3. She wasn't an analyst. She didn't have any unusual clearances. Her job was just cataloging and tasking, that was it.

If it were him, Rick would have probably been excited. Sarah just hoped she wouldn't throw up.

The facility they finally entered was similar to the room Sarah normally worked in. That felt a little surreal, but that was just nerves talking. There were only so many ways to arrange computers, tables, and chairs without adding in impractical Hollywood-style visuals. Probably the Navy would have arranged it like a carrier CIC, but in reality the tables were just arranged like a standard operations control room. She wondered how the Brits handled their own version, since they didn't have a dedicated Space Force equivalent and a lot of their space assets were controlled by the RN.

Less than half the terminals were occupied by Guardians, so Sarah immediately assumed the room was being used for big-picture stuff. Reinforcing that impression, of course, was how the main monitors were displaying a simplified diagram of XGEO space -- the area beyond geostationary orbit, including the moon and Lagrange points. It looked like the plot for an Artemis mission to her.

Just below it, two women were arguing. One was clearly a civilian in a tailored pantsuit; tall, willowy, and with a pinched kind of face that made her look perpetually sour. The other was short and squat, with close-cropped hair, and most importantly, the uniform of a Space Force major general. The other Guardians in the room, mostly noncoms, were clearly pretending not to listen.

“-- not prepared for rapid expansion,” the civilian was saying. “It's already bad enough with SpaceX running rampant in orbit doing whatever they choose. The previous administration was far too lenient with them. We needed more time to pass laws to govern this kind of thing. Rushing now out of alarmism is just --”

“Alarmism is hardly the term, Ma'am,” interrupted the general, obviously Franklin. “We already know they're hostile, and they could be back at any time.”

“We cannot appear to be monopolizing space, much less militarizing it, General! The Outer Space Treaty --”

“. . . was intended to prevent the Cold War from spilling over to orbit,” Franklin pointed out. “No one seriously thought we'd need to defend against an alien threat. The treaty will be amended or declared null and void by next year. Assuming the aliens don't make the choice for us by then.”

“Specialist.” Delvecchio placed a hand on Sarah's shoulder, gesturing toward an unused terminal.

Sarah was grateful for the opportunity to duck out of the way, and had to stop herself from bolting for the chair. She sat down, pretending to get very busy. Which was pretty hard, since the only thing she could probably access on it was a game of solitaire. Though, knowing military compartmentalization, even that was probably password-protected.

“The President will not agree to that.” The woman scoffed, like Franklin had just proposed breaking a law of physics. “If the aliens come back, we will negotiate. Everyone wants something, it's just a matter of finding out what. We should be trading with them, not taking hostile action just because we don't understand their intentions! Provoking them needlessly is going to damage our ability to start a dialog with them.”

“Ma'am.” Franklin sounded like she was carefully choosing her words. “As I just explained, not establishing an orbital presence cedes the ultimate high ground to --”

“The answer is no, General. We will not move forward unilaterally, or anything else Senator Tulson is saying this week. The United States has monopolized space enough as it is. We will be focusing on partnerships to provide resource sharing to all people around the world, not just the United States military!”

Awkwardly, Sarah glanced at the Guardian next to her, an E4 named D. Tipton, according to his nameplate. He nodded at her, leaned in slightly, and whispered, “Lowak. SecComm.”

Sarah mouthed her thanks, but frowned. The Secretary of Commerce? It wasn't unusual for Space Force to interact with the US Department of Commerce. It was the part of the federal government that oversaw regulation of civilian space assets not directly overseen by NASA or the FAA, so this wasn't the first Commerce official she'd seen walking around a Space Force facility. But those were all low-ranking bureaucrats. Suddenly finding herself in a room with a freaking Cabinet Secretary was almost as bad as getting summoned before a general, and now she had both at once.

She resisted the urge to duck her head to hide behind the monitor. Barely.

Commander Wilson cleared her throat. “General. Ma'am. If I may?”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The Secretary glanced sharply at the newcomers, as if only now realizing someone had walked in on her conversation. “And you are?”

Wilson came to attention. “Commander Olivia Wilson, Ma'am, Royal Navy.”

Lowak just looked even more irritated. “What's the British Navy doing here?”

Sarah tried not to wince; even she knew it wasn't called the “British” Navy. Tipton saw her expression and gave her a pointed eye-roll of agreement.

“Commander Wilson is here to liaise on the anomaly I showed you earlier,” General Franklin supplied. “It was her team that identified it. Commander, this is Robin Mary Lowak, Secretary of Commerce.”

Sarah perked up at that. Anomaly? What anomaly?

“If I may say, Ma'am,” Wilson said again, “I guarantee His Majesty's Government has no issue with the Americans taking the lead in space on this issue. That is precisely why we are here, after all. The only nations in the world with the practical launch capacity to put up early-warning systems, much less any possibility of a defense, are Russia, China, India, and the United States. India is solidly in fourth place, and we have no desire to place our hopes in the Chinese or Russians.”

“That's all well and good.” Lowak waved a hand dismissively. “But the UK is hardly in a position to speak for the rest of the world. Certainly there are only a few large-scale space programs, but other nations can and do have their own -- and quantity is a quality all its own, you know. We have an opportunity here to grow our international partnerships, and we won't be wasting it. And I guarantee that the Vice President will be making that policy clear at the National Space Council meeting next week.”

Sarah glanced around as surreptitiously as she could. The other Guardians in the room were doing their best to act like extras in a movie, the kind not paid enough to react to what the main cast was doing. She was having a hard enough time with that herself. What the Secretary was saying was ridiculous. Sure, other nations had some launch capabilities -- France was actually better at it than India, for example -- but when it came to launch capacity, quality was quantity. Having a launch facility was not the same thing as having a fast turn-around time, and most of those nations didn't have a lot of heavy-lift capability.

“I will take the proposed mission under advisement, General,” Lowak snapped, her raised voice cutting through Sarah's distracted musings. Whatever proposal the Secretary was talking about, the emphasis indicated “advisement” meant will consider after the next ice age. “But I guarantee that even if the President authorizes it, it won't be a Space Force mission. That would be inappropriate. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get to my plane.”

Secretary Lowak didn't quite storm out in a huff, but she made a good go at it. Captain Delvecchio stepped over to the door in time to open it for her, then followed after her.

“Useless waste of oxygen,” Franklin muttered, just loud enough for the room to hear -- but not so loud that it invited comment from anyone there.

Even Sarah understood the subtext of that statement. One did not get to high rank, much less flag rank, by being careless in front of the rank and file -- or guests. Franklin wanted the room to know her opinion of the Secretary of Commerce. The room or, probably more accurately, the British officers. After all, it wouldn't do for a general to apologize for a ranking member of the federal government . . . out loud.

“Secretary Lowak happened to be passing through on her way to a campaign event in California,” Franklin went on, now turning to look Commander Wilson in the eye. “She felt the need to comment on the proposal in person.”

“Understandable, Ma'am,” Wilson replied, her brogue conveying just a hint of commiseration. “I've briefed Members of Parliament myself.”

In other words, Sarah thought, still pretending to watch the screen in front of her, politicians gonna politician, on either side of the Atlantic.

“Fortunately, she is not in my chain of command, so we're proceeding as planned.” Franklin nodded at the other officer. “You must be Squadron Leader Milbourne. I've read some of your work.”

Wilson sighed theatrically.

“Yes, Ma'am, thank you.” Milbourne grinned at Franklin's questioning look. “Sorry, Ma'am. The Commander and I had a bet going for how many Americans would call me Captain before we ran into someone who knew RAF ranks. I won't say I won, of course, but I didn't lose.”

“Ah.” Franklin didn't smile, but nodded as if it was completely understandable. “By all means, Squadron Leader. Take the Navy for all you've got. Colonel Newman?”

“Yes, General.” One of the officers in the room tried and failed to hide his own grin at the banter, even as Milbourne laughed out loud.

“Pull up the raw on 2028A2, please. Terminal twelve.”

“Yes, General.” The colonel -- who Sarah belatedly realized must be the NSDC commander -- nodded to one of his subordinates, who carried out the order.

The display in front of Sarah blinked to life, displaying tracking data for . . . something.

“Specialist, what do you make of this?” Franklin asked.

It took Sarah a moment to realize she was sitting at terminal twelve. “Uh. Ma'am? Me?” She tried not to swallow.

Franklin gave her a level look, somehow conveying an entire world of displeasure in the quirk of her eyebrow. “Yes, Specialist. You.”

“Yes, Ma'am. Sorry, Ma'am.” Unable to sink through the floor, Sarah went for the data instead. It was clearly radar tracking of some kind. Time, distance, strength . . . She started to relax as she grabbed on to something she understood. “It's obviously in lunar orbit. Returns are erratic, but . . . definitely lunar orbit. Mostly polar, highly elliptical.”

The details were a little sketchy, but that was pretty normal for something in XGEO space. Earth-based radar could have a resolution that could accurately measure the position of a butterfly, assuming it could pick out the butterfly among all the other returns of similar sizes; and of course, that resolution fell off with distance. They could bounce radar pulses off Mars, but only because Mars was significantly bigger than a butterfly. Even then, radar returns would mostly confirm that Mars was still there. Most radar stations only had useful resolution within 200,000 km, at least once you factored in filtering out the noise from small objects.

Most of the action was closer to Earth, and that was Sarah's department anyway. Space Force needed to track everything in orbit in case it was a threat to national security -- whether direct like weapons systems, indirect threats from spy satellites, or annoyances like orbital traffic hazards. Sarah enjoyed the challenge, but deep space tracking was what fascinated her. She'd grown up watching original Star Trek reruns, and she'd thought Chekhov had had the coolest job on the bridge: the navigator, keeping track of not just space debris but charting their path through whole star systems.

Not that she wanted to be on a starship, even SpaceX's version. She threw up at the mere sight of roller coasters. Zero gravity felt more like something out of a horror movie for her. But that didn't mean it wasn't fun to look at space, or help out with a ground team. That was her whole career goal, after all: to go work for one of the civilian space programs as an orbital specialist. Or it had been, before she decided she actually liked the Space Force.

“What else?” Franklin prompted, breaking Sarah out of her thoughts.

“Um.” Sarah scrolled through the data. “Well, it's tumbling pretty badly.”

“Tumbling?” Milbourne asked.

“Yeah, that's why the radar returns have these peaks. Definitely not a natural asteroid. Probably someone's satellite got hit by a meteor. Weird orbit to put a satellite into, though. And . . .” She stopped, going back over some of the data. The returns were fitting a pattern, beyond just the tumbling. Something familiar, yet different . . . “Wait, is this my algorithm?”

“Mostly,” General Franklin answered. “Milbourne here refined it a bit.”

“I had help. And the algorithm was a good one to start with.”

“But . . . how did the RAF get my algorithm?” Sarah looked up at the Brit in confusion. “I just wrote it last week! I have no idea if it works!”

“It works,” Wilson assured her. “One of your officers included it in a data dump my team got. We ran tests with deep space radar to see what might come up. This was the only thing that fit.”

“So that's . . .”

“Something using the aliens' stealth tech? Yes.”

“It works?” Sarah stared at the screen. “Holy crap, it works?”

“From all we can tell, yes,” Wilson answered. “We wouldn't have noticed it without your algorithm. Regular analysis just looks like ghosts or space dust. The program we developed based on your work is what makes it make sense.”

“Only it took us a few hours to work out what we were looking at,” Milbourne added. “You took, what, two minutes?”

“What, this?” Sarah shrugged. “This is easy. Tracking stuff in Earth orbit is harder.”

“Not as hard for you, Specialist,” Franklin stated with finality. “So you'll be doing more of it. The reward for a job well done is more work, with a more demanding boss. Colonel?”

“I -- what?” Sarah looked around, confused. Had she missed something? But the general was already walking away.

“Specialist Chu,” Colonel Newman began, “you'll be receiving official orders soon, but consider yourself transferred to this unit.”

“Yes, Sir. Um. Sir?”

“Congratulations, Specialist.” Wilson smiled warmly. “Looks like you passed your job interview.”

“I didn't know I was applying for a job.” Sarah shook her head. “Wait, which unit?”

“Right now?” Newman responded. “Officially, the general's personal staff, which means you report to Captain Delvecchio for now. But once we get approval from the Chief of Space Operations? Welcome to the National Space Security Joint Task Force. In other words, the alien hunters.”

Newman tapped Sarah's screen for emphasis. “And whatever this is, it's our first target.”