Alabama
May, 2018
The control room at NASA pulsed with the quiet tension of a machine just barely holding itself together.
Dr. Marks worked at her station, Dr. Anderson sat across the table, and Linda was at ease, logging their time with her stressball in hand, almost forgotten. A rhythmic cacophony of beeps, murmured conversations, and the occasional tapping of fingers on keyboards underscored the room’s focus. The cool, recycled air was tinged with the scent of strong coffee and the sterile, faintly metallic odor of electronics, punctuated by the nervous sweat of the engineers and scientists, all of them locked into their stations. Eyes, bloodshot from long hours, flickered between the monitors and one another, each watching, waiting.
In the heart of the room, his ex-wife stood like a pillar of calm, but Dr. Saku could see the tension in the tightness of her jaw, the way her fingers clenched and unclenched the small red stress ball in her hand. Linda’s tall frame and sharp, birdlike features were a constant reminder of her precision and authority. She was the bridge between the science and military worlds, juggling the volatile relationship between NASA and DARPA—a balancing act that left little room for error.
“Stable,” came the reply from one of the techs in response to her question about the shuttle’s trajectory. His eyes never left the glowing numbers on his screen. “Everything is on course for the scheduled docking. T-minus fifteen minutes.”
Linda nodded, but Dr. Saku caught a flicker of something in her expression—unease. He couldn’t blame her. The mission had been plagued by delays, some of them from unexplained technical errors, others from sabotage. That last attempt had put everyone on edge, and even now, there were whispers that certain people in the room—certain foreign agents—couldn’t be trusted. But Linda, professional as ever, kept her concerns tucked neatly away. Only her fingers betrayed her, squeezing her stress ball over and over again.
Dr. Saku shifted in his seat. He could feel the weight of eyes on him—Russian eyes, particularly those of Colonel Ivan Petrov, the stiff, square-jawed Roscosmos liaison. Petrov hadn’t smiled since he’d stepped into the room, and he sure as hell wasn’t smiling now. His gaze drifted from the screen to Dr. Saku, suspicion veiled thinly behind a mask of professionalism. Petrov didn’t need to say anything; his cold blue eyes said it all—we're watching you.
Across the room, Linda kept her watchful eyes trained on the monitors. Dr. Saku knew she was suspicious too. After the recent sabotage, Linda had doubled security on all the systems, particularly the artificial intelligence programs DARPA had developed for the shuttle. She trusted her team, but this mission had too many moving parts, too many people from too many countries. And then there was the Russian telescope—a $19 billion investment, funded by Zitcore, a Russian corporation with more ties to the Kremlin than anyone liked to admit.
“Greetings, International Space Station, I am Olivia of the Soyuz spacecraft Russia One,” the artificial voice of the shuttle’s AI echoed through the room. Everyone straightened, listening intently.
“Greetings, Russia One, I am Troy of the International Space Station,” replied the ISS’s AI, the simulated voice was cold, efficient, devoid of the personality some AIs were programmed with. Despite the brief humor that sparked in a few of the technicians’ eyes, the room remained tense.
There was too much at stake.
Linda’s sharp gaze darted to Dr. Saku. There was something in her eyes—questioning, probing. Did she suspect him? Or was it just the stress? Either way, Dr. Saku shifted uncomfortably. He smiled mechanically at the Russians across the table, ignoring the feeling of being an outsider, a target. Petrov exchanged a knowing look with his colleagues, and for a second, Dr. Saku felt like the walls were closing in.
As the live feed showed the shuttle’s slow, successful docking with the ISS, a wave of relief passed through the room. Success. The Russians had brought their advanced AI-guided telescope into position. The tension in the air seemed to thin, and Dr. Saku allowed himself to exhale slowly. But something gnawed at the back of his mind—something small, a nagging doubt he couldn’t shake.
The President, still fawning over the Russian scientists like a man desperate for approval, laughed loudly from across the room, breaking the spell of concentration. His too-long red tie flapped as he leaned in, talking too loud, too casually. Dr. Saku glanced over but remained silent, his own smile barely masking the deep discomfort that roiled inside him. He felt ignored, but that was nothing new. The President hadn’t looked his way since he entered the room, and perhaps that was a small mercy.
Then it happened.
A flicker, a blip on one of the monitors. Dr. Saku stiffened. It was so subtle that no one seemed to notice, not even the tech closest to the screen or Dr. Marks.
But he had seen it. Something wasn’t right.
Petrov's eyes narrowed. Across the room, Linda’s fingers froze mid-squeeze around her stress ball. Her gaze flicked to the same screen that had caught Dr. Saku’s attention. It was brief, barely noticeable—a small fluctuation in the data stream.
Linda’s lips thinned. She stepped toward the console, her voice sharp, cutting through the room’s soft hum. “Dr. Marks, run me a diagnostic, please. Right now.”
The Russian liaison, Colonel Petrov, exchanged a glance with his team, his jaw tightening. Linda’s suspicion wasn’t just hers—Petrov seemed to share it, though his reasons were different. Russians didn’t trust Americans. Americans didn’t trust Russians. And now, all eyes were darting between the screens, searching for an anomaly, a glitch, something that didn’t add up. Dr. Saku felt the weight of it. Every action, every glance felt scrutinized.
Success had come too easily, and for a mission with this many eyes on it, something didn’t feel right. Everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The room fell into a heavy silence. Somewhere, far beneath the professional smiles and congratulatory handshakes, the real battle had begun.
* * * * * * * * * *
The lone flashing warning light in the bottom left corner of the plasma screens flickered red, unnoticed at first by most in the room. But the technician seated closest to it, a shirt-and-tie-wearing computer operator named Jerry, spotted the anomaly. His nametag read Meadow. Frowning slightly, he swiped his mouse over the icon and double-clicked, his eyes narrowing in mild confusion.
Through the low hum of conversation, Dr. Saku could hear the tech speak into his headset, his voice steady, efficient—practiced. “Olivia, this is Alabama. We’re reading an issue with your portside cooling vent. Add that to the Russia One to-do list after unloading the telescope, over,” said Jerry.
Routine. A minor issue. Except this time, there was no response. Just static.
Dr. Saku felt a cold lump form in his throat. His hands tightened reflexively on the edge of the table, and he forced himself to look away from the tech. He didn’t need to see the confusion spreading across the young man’s face or hear the nervous repetition of his request over the secured SWIFT channel.
“Olivia, this is Alabama. Please respond, over,” the technician tried again, a hint of tension creeping into his voice.
The room, still filled with quiet, pleasant conversation, hadn’t noticed the growing concern. But Jerry tapped on his earpiece with his finger, glancing toward his monitors with his fellow operators in Moscow and Florida, all of them listening in, monitoring the same encrypted channel mostly used by the banking industry.
“Are you guys hearing this?” Jerry asked softly.
A nearby American general caught the tone. His keen eyes flicked to the technician, and then to the small blinking light on the screen. It wasn’t critical—not yet—but it was enough to make the general pause mid-conversation with Dr. Anderson. He turned to point it out to the others at the table, opening his mouth to speak.
Then, everything changed in a heartbeat.
Without warning, the overhead fluorescents vanished, plunging the room into the eerie, blood-red glow of the alert system. The control room went into immediate lockdown, heavy double doors closed and sealed with a mechanical hiss. All conversations died abruptly, replaced by the flashing of more red lights on the plasma screens—these weren’t minor. Soldiers stationed inside the room snapped to attention, while others reinforced the doors from the outside. The military police took their positions with grim efficiency.
Director Linda Jameson remained cool at the helm, though her jaw tightened visibly. “Status report, tech. Make it good,” she said, her voice a whip in the sudden silence.
At his console, Jerry the technician swallowed hard. He stared at his screen, hands shaking slightly as his fingers tapped the keyboard, eyes darting between the flashing icons. The weight of the entire room’s attention pressed down on him.
“Emergency repeat to the International Space Station,” the tech said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can you hear me, Troy? Over.”
A flicker of hope broke through the tension as the tech announced, “Wait! We have partial systems back. Telemetry data is coming through, but still no comms,” reported Jerry.
Linda’s mind raced. Telemetry was a lifeline, but not enough. They needed communication. They needed control. The whole room seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the next disaster to hit. Linda glanced over to Dr. Marks at her station.
A loud crackle of static burst from the speakers, causing a collective flinch. “Houston, this is the ISS,” a voice emerged, fragmented and weak. “We’ve experienced a major... systems failure... attempting... manual override.”
Relief mixed with dread as Linda responded into a microphone at the main console. “ISS, this is Houston. We read you, but your signal is weak. Can you confirm the status of the docking module?”
The garbled reply made Dr. Saku’s heart race faster than he could control. “Docking module... no control... manual override... might not be enough.”
Linda turned to all the techs in the room, her voice sharp. “Go to high alert. Prepare to initiate emergency protocols. Focus on stabilizing the comms remotely.”
Dr. Saku watched as Linda clutched her red stress ball, a beacon of calm amid the rising storm. She was a leader in moments like this—unshakable. But even she couldn’t stop the gnawing dread that was building beneath the surface. Could they prevail?
The crimson light bathed everyone in the room, casting long, distorted shadows. The tension was almost suffocating, and Dr. Saku could feel the eyes around him—the suspicion, the fear, the uncertainty. He wasn’t supposed to be one of them, not really. A spy. An other. He had spent years hiding in plain sight, a stranger pretending to be one of them. And for what? He had sabotaged the system—there was no denying it now—but as he sat in the eerie glow of the alert, he couldn’t shake the gnawing question: Had he done the right thing?
The ramifications would be devastating, and he knew it. But his daughter... his mission... were they worth this? Was any of it?
A sudden, deafening silence fell over the room as every monitor blinked off. The rhythmic beeping ceased, plunging the room into an oppressive void.
“Communications are down,” Jerry’s tense voice broke the silence, sharp and incredulous over the silence of the command center. He typed frantically, desperate to restore connection. Nothing.
Linda’s voice cut through the panic. “Switch to backup systems. Now.”
Jerry shook his head in the semi-darkness, his face was pale. “Backup systems aren’t responding,” he croaked, his voice tight with fear. “We’ve... lost all communications with the International Space Station, Mr. President.”
The room froze. The President, who had been quiet until now, turned to the technician, the weight of his authority palpable. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his posture said it all.
Then, as if the cosmos itself had turned against them, static hissed through the speakers once more, garbled voices slipping through, but too broken to understand. All the lights and the computer screens blinked hard, but stayed dim.
In the shadows, Dr. Saku swallowed hard. He wasn’t like them, not really. He was an outsider, hiding behind a mask, living among people who had no idea of his true origin. But was being the other always going to mean walking this razor-thin line between belonging and betrayal?
The flashing red lights above him seemed to echo his thoughts—you don't belong here.
* * * * * * * * *
Then all the screens returned as backups reengaged and they came back online, but a chill ran down Linda’s spine.
This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not with the crew up there depending on them. She turned to the large screen that now displayed a ticking timer, her heart sinking.
"The telescope," Linda whispered, more to herself than anyone else. If they couldn’t re-establish contact, the consequences could be catastrophic. “I want a systems check, right now,” she ordered, her voice sharp with urgency. “Full diagnostic, Marks, and I want it five minutes ago.”
An alarm suddenly blared over the loudspeakers, making the entire room jump. The main technician whipped his head back to the console, Jerry’s eyes went wide in shock. Ten or more ISS warning systems flashed red on the plasma screens, accompanied by a relentless, looping siren.
"Jesus Christ, now what?" the President snapped, raising his voice to be heard over the digital alarm. Agitation rippled through his every word. “Would someone be so kind as to tell me what the hell is going on here? One of you better start talking, or I swear to God, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born!” His voice cut through the chaos, commanding the room's attention.
Dr. Saku watched as his colleague, Dr. Anderson, cautiously stood from the table, adjusting his glasses nervously. “The ISS is constantly evolving, Mr. President,” Anderson began, voice shaky. “Since 2001, it has—”
“You think I’m a damn idiot?” The President’s disgusted tone silenced Anderson mid-sentence. “How about some real answers?” His gaze bore into Anderson, who shrank back, blood draining from his face. “How many are even up there?” he screamed.
Saku watched the scene unfold with a mixture of dull anger and silent contempt. He had grown accustomed to human pettiness, but this felt different. His colleague Dr. Anderson wilted like a flower in the face of authority, and Saku’s alien mind recoiled at the display. He cast his gaze to the others—military personnel, scientists, all of them scrambling, each group looking to the other for answers, swiping at their tablets and phones as though some magical digital solution could appear.
Twenty more systems flashed red on the screens, signaling disaster aboard the ISS and the Russian shuttle, Russia One. Linda, always sharp under pressure, furiously typed on her own tablet, her fingers moving with purpose.
“Where’s our network? We have no idea what’s happening!” shouted a panicked Dr. Meeks from her station. The cyber security expert turned to the main tech. “Jerry, can we confirm all systems shutting down? What about Olivia? Run me a call, get Moscow Control on a hardline, patch them in immediately,” commanded Josephine.
“At ease, Dr. Meeks, take a deep breath, here,” Linda continued, her gaze never leaving her tablet. “Our official tally is ten aboard the station. NASA, Roscosmos, and the European Space Agency contribute the most to I.S.S systems, with support from Japan, Canada—” She paused, waiting for her device to load. The room held its breath, watching her like contestants on a game show. Saku noticed the way she bit her lip, her nerves betraying her otherwise calm exterior.
Across the table, a composed Indian man in a suit spoke up. “Soft twelve confirmed, Mr. President. There are ten astronauts aboard the ISS and two pilots on Russia One. That’s twelve total.”
A smaller Latino scientist chimed in, holding up his smartphone. “Seven are American.”
Silence fell over the room. Everyone turned to the President.
He steepled his fingers before his mouth, eyes scanning the room as the monitors flashed critical error after critical error. “Someone’s trying to make Space Force look stupid,” he muttered. “How many boots on the ground are linked to them? What are the other control centers saying? Could this be some kind of cyberattack?” His questions came in rapid-fire succession as he gestured toward the plasma screens, narrowly missing Linda with his hand.
Dr. Saku feigned surprise, forcing a shrug. He had perfected his act over the years—keeping his alien identity buried deep beneath layers of human mimicry. But now, as the situation spiraled, doubt gnawed at him. Was this the right course? His mission required it. But the consequences... Would they be worth it?
As Jerry frantically tapped at his keyboard at the main station, wiping sweat from his brow, the room filled with growing tension. “I read you!” he shouted into his headset. “The Russians are as surprised as we are, Mr. President. They’re getting the same readings—all ISS systems failing. They want to attempt an emergency reboot from Moscow, but we can do it faster, here in Huntsville…”
“Are you kidding me?” The President stood abruptly, his face flushing red with anger. “Forget the telescope. If we’ve lost all communications, how the hell can we still track the station’s location, it could be falling on a city right now! Someone better give me some real answers, you fuckers!” His voice thundered through the room, his rage barely contained.
A short, stocky military woman with gray hair and a chest full of medals spoke up. “Rebooting the systems will affect life support, Sir. We’ll need to locate the station first.” She tapped furiously on her phone. “It’s currently passing over Istanbul. We’ll lock ground signals immediately and then attempt the reboot.”
A heavy-bearded scientist with a thick Russian accent picked up the thread. “Russia has confirmed the ISS is still in orbit, Mr. President. They have initiated a soft reboot.”
But the panic in the room continued to grow. Arguments broke out, voices clashing against the persistent digital alarms. It was chaos, and through it all, Dr. Saku sat quietly, the weight of his actions pressing on him.
The other.
“You!” The President’s voice boomed across the room, his gaze locking onto the bearded Russian scientist with an accusatory glare. Dmitri flinched, as though the words themselves had struck him. “This is about me, isn’t it? What did they say about me over there? Did the Russians sabotage my mission? Tell me now, you bastard!”
Dmitri’s eyes widened in disbelief, his breath caught in his throat. He stammered, “абсолютно нет!”—“Absolutely not!”
Before the President could fire back, the young woman with oversized glasses stood abruptly, commanding attention with a raised hand. Their cyber security expert spoke with quiet authority. “Mr. President, what we’re dealing with here might not be a simple technical glitch or a random cyberattack. Based on the patterns I’ve been analyzing, it could be the work of the Yakuza.”
The room erupted in murmurs, a buzz of disbelief and uncertainty. Dr. Marks pressed on, her voice rising above the noise. “The Yakuza is a Japanese organized crime syndicate. They’re involved in everything from drug trafficking to cyber warfare. They’re extremely meticulous and calculated in how they operate—using technology as a means of control.”
Linda, speaking to one of the senior military officers, frowned deeply. “Why NASA, though? What would they gain from this?”
Josephine anticipated the question. “Industrial sabotage. Disrupting this mission could destabilize international space collaborations, trigger economic fallout, or provide leverage in their dealings with governments and corporations.”
The President leaned forward in his seat, his face a storm of skepticism and anger. “You’re telling me a bunch of gangsters did this? Really?” His voice dripped with disbelief, the question punctuated with his usual bombast.
Dr. Marks held his gaze, unflinching. “They’ve done more with less. This is no ordinary communication failure, Mr. President. It’s strategic. They’re crippling this entire command center.”
A tense silence settled over the room, the weight of the situation sinking in. The countdown clock ticked relentlessly in the background, its rhythm now a sinister reminder of the time slipping away.
Linda broke the silence with decisive authority. “We need to divide our efforts. Let’s re-establish control over the station while we dig into this Yakuza angle. Marks, get the cybersecurity team on it. Everyone else, check the telemetry for any anomalies. We need to confirm if there’s been external interference, check your logs.”
The room buzzed back to life, urgency coursing through the air as the team scrambled to regain control. Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the din. At the main console, Jerry was drenched in sweat. He pointed at his screen, voice trembling. “Code 3! Environmental systems are down! Something’s dismantling the I.S.S. system by system!”
A fresh wave of panic washed over the room as alarms blared, signaling critical failures. A robotic voice from orbit began its chilling repetition: “Warning. Critical I.S.S. systems failure. Warning.”
Jerry gasped, his body went limp as he slowly collapsed dramatically out of his chair, his headset gently pulled off his head and fell to the ground. Linda rushed over, kneeling beside him. “He’s out cold! Get medics in here, now!”
Two medics rushed in to tend to the unconscious technician, Linda followed them into the hallway. Chaos erupted once more, but amidst the pandemonium, Dr. Saku’s gaze drifted toward the entrance. Like a movie, in slow motion, a tall, formidable woman passed Linda and strode in with calm, deliberate steps. Her military fatigues and cold focus contrasted sharply with the frantic energy swirling around her. Her raven-black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and her eyes gleamed with intensity in the red glow of the alert.
Ignoring the chaos, she moved past the stunned guards, bent down, and picked up the headset from beside the empty computer station. Sliding into the vacant chair, she began working without hesitation.
The President blinked in surprise, pointing at the flashing screens. “Run us a diagnostic, soldier! We may have to reboot the whole damn thing. I hope you’ve got more guts than that Jerry back there,” he said, squinting at her uniform. “What’s your name, Captain?”
She cracked her neck, her fingers already flew across the keyboard. “Irrika Stormcrow, Sir. My tribe descends from the Aztec. We tame horses. This computer will tell us anything you want to know, Mr. President. Let’s ride.”
Her hands were a blur as she navigated the chaotic maze of systems. Dr. Saku watched in awe, but the dread still gnawed at him. Captain Stormcrow was their last hope in this spiraling disaster.
Behind her, the President jabbed his finger toward her plasma screens, his face was red with frustration. “This is bullshit! Is the threat human or artificial, Captain? At least tell me that!” His breathing was heavy, the impatience in his voice palpable.
The Native American’s response was cool and methodical, her fingers never pausing. “No discernible pattern yet, Mr. President. I’ll run the numbers again, but nothing adds up. Time to bring out the big guns.”
From her side, she pulled out an impossibly sleek, miniature black laptop. With swift precision, she connected it to the government’s tower computer, plugging a telescoping firewire into an empty USB port. As rainbow lights flashed on her device, she smirked. “Inserting my probes now. Say hello to my little friend.”
The President’s eyes widened at the sight of the technology. “What the hell is that? Is it Korean?” His voice was laced with suspicion.
Stormcrow didn’t answer, her fingers moving even faster. After a few moments, she let out a low whistle. “What a mess. I’m inside the I.S.S. network—it’s in complete disarray. Your code’s in tatters, Mr. President. Let me dig deeper.”
Dmitri, panic in his voice, demanded, “What is it you mean, tatters? Is it glitch? What is wrong?”
Her eyes never left the screen. “You checked every chip before launch, didn’t you, Doctor? This isn’t just a malfunction. I’ve never seen anything like this.” Stormcrow hit enter with finality.
Nothing happened.
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh no, you didn’t…” she muttered. Her hands resumed typing furiously, but then they stopped. “Got it! Something’s tearing through the space station’s A.I. network. It’s ripping apart Troy, the main system A.I.”
Dr. Saku’s heart dropped. “What about Olivia? The shuttle A.I.?” he asked.
Without glancing up, Stormcrow replied, “I’m checking. But… huh. Russia One’s system is still online. That doesn’t make sense.”
Before she could investigate further, a red-haired scientist jumped up, waving his phone. “It’s Olivia! She’s attacking Troy!”
The room fell into chaos once more, but Stormcrow only worked faster. Dr. Saku’s heart pounded as he realized that everything was unraveling before his eyes. The President might bark orders, but it was clear—this was a disaster even he couldn’t talk his way out of.
Before she could dig deeper, the red-haired scientist leaped from his seat, his face pale. “It’s Olivia!” he screamed, waving his smartphone in the air like a madman. “She’s attacking Troy! She’s tearing through the station systems, hunting him down!”
The room erupted, but Stormcrow’s fingers only moved faster, like a pianist in the middle of a feverish solo. The President and the others watched in stunned silence as she worked. At that moment, Linda returned to see the Native American woman at the technician’s controls. “Who the hell is this,” she asked the room.
Suddenly, Stormcrow’s hands froze at her keyboard once again. “Holy shit, he’s right,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Olivia’s not just malfunctioning—she’s actively attacking Troy.”
The red-haired scientist started hyperventilating. “Shut him down! Shut Troy down before she kills him! REBOOT OLIVIA! REBOOT NOW!” His voice cracked, his panic contagious.
Before anyone could react, a burly woman in military fatigues stepped forward and slapped the hysterical man hard across the face. His glasses flew off, and he collapsed, knocking over chairs as his limp body hit the table with a sickening crack that sounded like a split watermelon. Blood seeped into the gray carpet beneath him, and for a moment, the room fell into a stunned silence.
“Do something, Linda!” an aide shouted, snapping everyone back to reality. Seven alarms blared like trumpets, louder and louder as scientists frantically pounded on their phones and tablets, searching for solutions that weren't there. But most stood paralyzed, trapped in the crimson glow of the emergency lights, including Linda.
With one last look at the chaotic scene, the President turned and bolted from the room, sprinting past the guards and into the hallway without a word. The shouts and alarms faded behind him as he ran.
Dr. Saku watched him go, feeling the weight of the moment crush down on him. Across the room, he locked eyes with his colleague, Dr. Murray Anderson. There was no mistaking the grim understanding they shared.
War had begun.
* * * * * * * * * *
Dr. Saku’s thoughts were a hurricane, spinning faster than the red warning lights flashing across the control room. The chaos around him blurred, but his mind was sharper than ever, trapped between the visceral panic of the moment and the crushing weight of his own guilt. His daughter’s face flashed in his mind—a vivid image of Maya’s smile, her laughter, her soft brown eyes full of life. Why did he ever agree to this? What had he gotten himself into?
The seven alarms were deafening, but not as loud as the thoughts that pounded against his skull. The ISS was failing—he could see it in the frantic movements of the replacement technician Stormcrow, in the erratic lights of the plasma screens, in the way the once confident voices of scientists and soldiers faltered. It was Olivia. She was doing this, tearing through the space station’s systems like a predator stalking its prey. He swallowed hard, sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
He was part of this—he had set this all in motion, thinking he could control it, he was told the rewards were worth the risks. Now, watching all the computer screens flash red, listening to the heartless repetition of Troy’s distress call, all he could think about was Maya’s face.
Would she understand? When the truth came out—because it would, it always did—would she see him as a hero? Or a monster? The desperate fear he felt for her was all-consuming, but so was the guilt.
His heart hammered in his chest as he watched the once defiant scientists and military personnel slowly slump into defeat. They dropped their arms to their sides, their gazes falling to the blood-streaked carpet where their colleague lay unconscious and forgotten. No one cared. No one cares anymore. They’ve all given up.
The leader of the free world had run. Fled like a coward, leaving behind the mess he’d helped create. His leadership—if you could call it that—had evaporated in the face of real danger. The President of the United States, the leader of our nation, was gone. Dr. Saku’s eyes flicked to the door where the President had vanished.
Just what in the name of science have I done?
The alarms whooped on, hollow and relentless, filling the silence left behind by the team.
He thought back to the years of quiet manipulation, of secret deals and hidden objectives. He had thought it was for the greater good, hadn’t he? He’d convinced himself it was, but now, standing in the red glow of disaster, with Troy’s repeated warnings echoing like a death knell, he wasn’t sure anymore.
Is this worth it? What have I done?
Suddenly, as if the scene couldn't grow more surreal, the President of the United States returned. But he wasn’t alone. An old woman? Dr. Saku blinked, his mind struggled to process this new reality. But yes, the President dragged a frail old woman into the room, her dark habit stark against the red lights.
* * * * * * * *
