《The Fourth》


 Chapter 1: Contact.

    A few decades from now, NASA restarted the lunar program.


    The 20 foot screen lit up as the Apollo 22 re-entered the upper atmosphere, displaying the exact number of hours, minutes, and seconds until landing. The acting director of Mission Control for NASA was one Colonel Thompson, he sat at his monitor drumming a steady rhythm on his desk with his fingers, he always got nervous when the shuttles returned. He tried to wipe sweat off his palms onto his pant leg. Staring at the massive screen which sat before four rows of people. Display showed green on all systems and no loss of time. Clear skies, no missing components, stable flight path, and its 3 man crew halfway across the world, barreling through the atmosphere at 17,000 mph. It was his job to head a crew of 18 people to guide a shuttle travelling faster than any man-made object, to land on a small stretch of asphault that sits just slightly under 3 miles. Running off what little sleep he had, Thompson tried some shrink recommended breathing techniques. Inhale...hold...hold...exhale. Again. Inhale...hold...hold...exhale. A little better. His carefully iron pressed shirt clung to his back, thick framed glasses hung heavy on his aged wrinkled nose, and a bead of sweat ran down his temple. Yet, he was still. Thompson did not and could not show any sign of anxiety, if he was nervous then everyone was nervous.


    "More coffee sir?" The small voice behind him made him jump in his seat. Thompson glanced back, snapped out of his stupor.


    A balding mathematician gestured a half full coffee pot towards his boss. "Fresh pot." He said.


    "Oh. No thank you Edwards. Still have some left" He reached for his cup and took a sip of cold black brew.


    "Didn''t mean to scare you sir." said Edwards. "You okay?"


    "Oh I''m fine, thank you." replied the Colonel. "Just a little nerves is all. Nothin I can''t handle."


    Edwards put down his cup, gesturing out to the crowded room. "I think we''re all a little nervous." He said turning back to his boss. "Simulations can only do so much. Even simulated emergencies have a layer of coded perfection to them. Anything can happen."


    "Hm." A small chuckle escaped the Colonel. "If you''re nervous imagine how they feel." He pointed at the pilots onscreen. Thompson turned towards the Flight Dynamics Officer. "Edwards, how many missions have you done?"


    Edwards stood up straight. "Four orbital, two lunar sir."


    "Did any of them have any slip ups?"


    Edwards thought for a second. "The uh, the second global orbit to test flight pathing had a malfunction on the landing gear... Oh and the first Lunar mission I worked with had a loose panel and had to return to base. Why?"


    The Colonel eyed the man. "When both missions had to make emergency landings, were you nervous?"


    "I was terrified."


    "And when the successful orbit and lunar missions had to return home, were you nervous then?"


    Edwards shifted on his feet. "Yes sir." He said.


    "We all were, but we guided the ships home." Thompsons voice settled in his chest. "Mission Control working as a unit, an extension of the ship, to make sure those astronauts could see their families, so they could touch the ground again, and we''re not even the ones flying the shuttle." Thompson took a deep breath and rubbed his clammy hand over his mouth and passed his fingers down his freshly shaven chin. "Whenever I get nervous about these return missions, do you know what I''m thinking?"


    "What''s that sir?" Edwards asked.


    "What does being nervous accomplish? It doesn''t make us more efficient, it''s not like we all become Einstein cause we''re shaking. All of us here are professionals." He looked out over the collective bunch sat at their stations before returning his gaze to Edwards. "We work even if we''re scared. Don''t let your nerves get the better of you." He reassured him.


    A nervous smile crept across Edwards'' face. "Sounds like the therapy''s made an impact on you sir."


    Thompson scoffed. "Like hell it did. I''ve thought that long before I''ve ever had to see that quack." Thompson did not like therapy, and especially didn''t like therapists. He thought they were all a group of self congratulating pencil pushers that are paid to pretend to care.


    Thompson pointed at the display screen. "We have an hour and 13 minutes till that shuttle makes its landing. What do you feel?"


    Edwards straightened his back, grabbed his coffee cup off the table and drank it all in one gulp. "Lets get them home." He crushed the paper cup in his hand and gently tossed it in the trash bin next to him.


    "Good man. Head to your station, less than half an hour before they break the through line, we need all hands on deck." Said the Colonel. Thompson turned his head back towards his monitor which sat center on an old oak desk. A relic from the days of the original Apollo missions where man first set forward pilots in glorious defiance of Earths bounds. He liked the novelty, and the color.


    NASA Mission Control was a freshly pale white room with dark blue carpet reaching from door to door. Smells of stale coffee and hot coils hung in the air. The teeth of chattering keyboards and the insect-like buzzing of the lights bolted to the ceiling mixed with the droning roar of the high output A/C units, and made the heart of NASA a cacophonic technological orchestra. Decades of computational evolution that could only be put to its greatest use by the combined centuries of experience of its tie-wearing masters. Ever since the lunar programs started back up, there had always been a faint electricity of excitement in the air, the kind of pulse that fluttered through veins and nested in the roots of teeth.


    Thompson was the first director in decades to have been in command of lunar missions. Each director before him had worked with a half hearted patience for the orders from bureaucrats to go and shoot for the moon. But the days of the Red Scare and the celebrated Space Race had long since passed. The dream of sending people to the moon would grow more faint with each successive administrator until eventually, the dream died with the old pilots who were lucky enough to hold the titles of " Worlds Farthest Rock Kickers."


    When Colonel Thompson was brought on to act as the USAs next ambassador to the stars, he did not see the position as a fulfilment of childhood dreams, nor did he sit and hope for exploration of heights unknown; To him it was another desk job, just with higher pay and more red tape. It just so happened that he was in charge when the orders from the White House came through to restart lunar missions. 15 years later, he helmed his fourth lunar mission. A dashed line flashed across the screen, stretching from Earth to shuttle. Its advanced tracking algorithms displayed a carefully predicted 33 minutes and 19 seconds until ground contact.


    Eight long pinewood tables sat center in the room in four rows, with two tables per row. Each pair of desks went up two steps to ensure their seated workers had optimal vision. Assigned desks were outfitted with 7 specialists at 7 computers carefully analyzing data and decimal to make sure their information matched with that of the incoming pilots. Even the slightest error in information or communication could mean disaster.


    Working here was a vampiric job that took every drop of intellectual output and strained even the most learned graduate. Stress hung heavy on their shoulders, bringing them hunched over a cramped desk to stare at a screen until their eyes burned. Sleeping longer than 6 hours had become a precious commodity. On average, a transfer request came less than a year after working the main room. Those stalwart few who stayed dubbed their work space "The Trench," and its overlord on his solitary computer was their Colonel, whose station always sat five steps above the other desks. The observer of NASAs own panopticon. Steering home a lunar shuttle required exact coordinates, detailed sequencing, perfect weather, years of training and millions of tax payer dollars. Every facet and point of direction needed machinery, communication, and a dozen other variables to be in total harmony. It is a brutal process that has a half hour window of error-free opportunity to ensure both pilots and shuttle remain intact.


    As each logician and computer analyst sat watching their monitors, the shuttle breached the 25-mile high barrier. Computer automated flight systems swapped to manual and the responsibility of guiding the ship to its safest landing was now shared by both pilot and ground crew. Their window had opened.


    The 9am morning sun washed through the room from ceiling high windows and bleached the walls ivory. 27 minutes to landing. Mission Controls comm system clicked on, and spoke. "Mission Control, this is Apollo-22. Mission Control, this is Apollo-22 do you copy? We are asking what''s our trajectory?"


    There was a slight pop every time the speaker turned on and off.


    Thompson pushed the response button on his headset. "Apollo-22 this is Mission Control. Apollo-22 this is Mission Control. You are coming in loud and clear. You are clocked in at roughly 8,000 kilometers away from landing zone and 122 kilometers above ground. You are clear for upward pivot. I repeat you are clear for upward pivot." He replied.


    "Copy that Mission Control. Beginning upward pivot." The commander had a sturdiness present in his voice that reassured everyone present.


    Commander Wilkes was a true astronaut. Unwavering, calm, and above all, patient. To be an astronaut required a mental fortitude that would make even the foremost trained pilots crumble to dust. Years are spent training in centrifuge chambers, signing off on mountains of paperwork, weeks dedicated to perfecting flight simulations, and constant sleepless nights; all just to prepare for the first launch into the upper atmosphere. The ones who cross the threshold of history are those few who have succeeded not from luck, but by sheer willpower and durability. Even then, only a choice select few are given the responsibility of making a lunar mission.


    The falling shuttle shifted into a 40 degree angle pointed towards the sky as to ensure optimal drag. As the ever increasing air resistance dramatically slammed against the shuttle, the ship began rapidly losing speed as it plunged towards the Earth wrapped in a blanket of flame. A man-made fallen angel. 20 minutes to landing.


    The comms clicked on again.


    "Mission Control we are standing by for further instruction. How''s our speed lookin''?"


    Thompson quickly and carefully glanced over the displayed data before saying, "Apollo you have dropped to about 13,000 kilometers per hour. Speed and direction is nominal, you may now begin to bring the nose down for manual steering. How are you feeling?"


    The radio popped, "Copy that mission control, beginning to bring the nose down for descent. Smooth flying so far, all of us are ready to come home, Simmons especially."


    A continuing smooth descent followed a carefully calculated path. Thompsons heart pounded in his chest as he kept as level a head he could. Re-entry was, at the end of the day, a math problem. One big, flaming, expensive, stressful math problem. The Trench was burning with info and the rapid processing of engineers and mathematicians alike. All sat with a rapid pulse as the final stages of the descent began.13 minutes till landing.


    Apollo-22s speed dropped steadily, keeping pace with computer and man alike. Everyone working in The Trench had sat with anticipation as the shuttle continued its burning, glorified fall from the heavens. Aching pains of stress had rooted itself in their backs and shoulders. Once full heads of hair had thinned and bald. Clear eyes had grown dark and sagged with weariness. It was the nerves during the launches and returns that made many in The Trench wonder if they had enough pills.


    The trained crew of the Apollo-22 had spent nothing beyond what they wanted to for this mission. Their reasons for great exploration. The shuttles pilot, Langois, wanted to go farther than anyone in her small Georgia town ever thought possible. She spent years applying her finely crafted skills behind the cockpit into space flights and orbital missions. Each time she went above orbit, she wanted to go farther, go faster. Now that she had gone the furthest and the fastest, she faced an obstacle that had, until now, been unfamiliar. As the shuttle began to approach 2,700 mph, the ship was going too fast, and not far enough.


    Thompson radioed in. "Apollo-22 your rate of descent has a projected landing of 5 miles off course and you are exceeding necessary speed. Pitch your nose by 3 degrees and proceed with caution." His eyes locked onto the screen. 8 minutes until landing.


    "Understood Mission Control. Increasing pitch and gliding. Passing mic over to Langois." Wilkes responded.


    From the overhead speaker, a feminine voice replaced Wilkes. "Mission Control this is Pilot Langois, awaiting further instructions."


    Thompson responded, "Understood Langois. For now focus on flight stability." He motioned for papers from the Flight Director in the second row. Papers in hand, Clarke rushed over to give the Colonel the necessary calculations. As Thompson read the papers, he relayed the information back to the pilots. "You need to ensure that your speed falls within a 20 kmh margin of difference, and to keep the angle of the ship withing a 4 degree margin of desired direction. Make sure the air brake is deployed at all times."


    "Understood Mission Control, returning mic back to Commander Wilkes." she said.


    Predicted pathing showed a slight half-mile shift towards the landing strip but the shuttles speed didn''t fall enough. Thompsons breath began to shorten. He clicked his headset.


    "Apollo-22 you are still over the required speed and under nominal distance. You need to pull up and prepare for a possible emergency landing." He shouted over The Trench. "Ross, get the fire department on standby." Thompson turned to the Flight Director. "Clarke I need you and Stations 6, 11, and 13, do a quick analysis of their current and projected flight path compared to their most nominal. Afterwards, relay the information to Edwards at Station 19." Thompson looked towards Edwards. "Edwards, use what they have to give me a baseline to get them back on target."


    Clark spun around and made for his station as he addressed his small task force. "Station 6 and 11 do a quick rundown of speed and trajectory! 13, you''re with me, start looking at predicted descent paths!"


    Edwards turned back around to face his computer and began rapidly running calculations in defiance of his body''s panic. Public Affairs Officer Ross reached for her desks phoneline, as data began to shift around like chess pieces. Info being shared from computer to computer. Thompson rubbed the back of his head, his palm sliding over sweaty grey hairs.


    Wilkes broke through the chatter, "Mission Control we are experiencing heavy air resistance, our speed brake is unresponsive and we are unable to tilt the nose any further upward. I repeat we are unable pitch any further." His voice carried the slightest quiver. The faint tinge of nerves infected those in the control room and the smallest panic rapidly seeped into their mind. 3 minutes until landing.


    Thompson returned to his headset. "Understood 22, for now keep your nose high as you can. Deploy your main parachute and aim for the landing strip." Thompson turned to the far end of The Trench and shouted over the crowd. "Edwards! Any update?"


    The mousey mathematician scrambled with his papers in hand up the five steps to Thompson. He frantically placed his work next to the monitor. Panicked, he said to Thompson. "The shuttle." He pushed up his wire frame glasses and swallowed a dry throat. "Is moving at a rate exceeding safe speeds. Continuing at this speed, there is high possibility of a collision. But!" He quickly glanced over his papers and grabbed one with his scribbling. He stuttered out. "i-if-if the sh-shuttle."


    Thompson placed a firm hand on the officers shoulder. "Breathe."


    Edwards took a sharp inhale, and exhaled smoothly. He grabbed his paper, heart thumping in his burning ears. "If the shuttle can drop its speed by 38 percent, they can cut the force of impact by a wide enough margin to safely land somewhere in the vicinity of NASA. The shuttle itself would sustain moderate damage but it''s survivable."


    Thompson grabbed his headset, "Okay so what do they need to do?"


    "If they deploy their reserve parachute and bank starboard at a 7 degree angle, it should be enough of a brake."


    Thompson spoke into the mic. "Commander you need to-"


    "I heard him! Deploying parachute." Said Wilkes. "Beginning starboard turn." The wall sized screen showed the shuttle losing both altitude and speed as it banked to the right.


    As the ground crew sat watching the screen, the tension in the room began to lift as the shuttle began to drop. Having handled previous lunar expeditions, Thompsons anxieties festered. His tie choked him and he pulled at it with his thin finger to breathe. A cruising altitude of 345 mph needed to be reached in order for a lunar shuttle to make its safest and most optimal landing. The screen clocked the ship at 397. 2 minutes to landing.


    Clarke was first to speak up. "It''s not enough! They need lose more speed!"


    "All chutes are deployed Clarke. If they had another way they would have done it by now!" Thompson said. His temper grew shorter as the shuttle got closer.


    Almost shouting, Clarke said. "Sir, if they pitch the nose a few more degrees then they could-"


    "They don''t have any lift Clarke!"


    "It''s at least something!" Clarke spoke with a familiar frustration. A frustration which was cautiously applied to every mission he worked on since being stationed in The Trench. While his days of flying for the Navy had ended, the moment opportunities were available at NASA, he made sure his name came up first.


    Thompson called into the mic, "Apollo-22 you are still moving too fast, I repeat. You are still moving too fast. Aim the shuttle past the landing zone into the swamp. I repeat aim for the swamp!"


    Outside the room, the deafening roar of the shuttles flight began to fill the room. The sound growing louder as the flying brick of a ship approached its destination.


    Wilkes barked into the mic. "Sir, the shuttle is moving too fast for us to change trajectory! We have to land on the runway as best we can!"


    Thompsons knuckles turned white as he gripped both headset and desk, watching the ships path.


    "Commander you are still 30 kmh above speed, hold tight and brace for impact! I repeat! Brace for impact!" 5 seconds to landing.


    "Beginning touchdown!" Wilkes responded.


    Thompson held his breath. His eyes peeled open watching as the screen displayed the ships contact with the ground. A tremble ran through the room as the Apollo-22 landed, shaking everyone to their knees. It was as if some great heavenly being forced them all to kneel through its sheer presence. A deafening squeal of rubber forced its way into the room, drowning out every voice and machine. Inside mission control everyone brought their hands to their ears in a futile attempt to muffle the scream. Great beasts found in dark corners of myth would have recoiled in fear from the roar of the Apollo-22. 11 seconds it took for the ship to land, yet it would be recounted to have dragged on for minutes before fading.


    A silence choked the room, not of sound but of voice. Broken only by the smallest prayers that came from the far sides of the room. Hands held tight, breath held tighter. The workers sat at their desks staring blankly at the screen with a stillness that would fool statues.


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


    The few that had tenured in The Trench knew that sound of a shuttle landing and shuttle crashing were frighteningly similar. Seconds crawled as everyone in the room waited for someone to say something, say anything. A few tried to move to the windows and see, none made it more than a few steps. Outside waited either a miracle or a tragedy, inside, everyone was frozen in shock. Their thoughts raced of what they would have to tell to the press, their bosses, and their families.


    A pop ran through the room. "Mission Control, The Angel has landed. I repeat, The Angel has landed!" The sound of Wilkes'' voice was the answer to their prayer.


    The room erupted in applause and cheer. All around, people were jumping up and down and shouting in joy and embracing each other at what had just happened. No matter what else, this was their miracle. Some raced to the windows, some stayed seated, some prayed to thank their Gods. Among the room, all anxieties had been erased and forgotten, now there was only joy. It was these few moments of pure elation and success that were what made the job worth the stress. Thompson let out a grateful breath and collapsed in his seat. He unclenched his grip and looked down at his hands, surprised at how tightly he gripped the desk. He rubbed his eyes as a wide smile ran from cheek to cheek. His heart slowed to a steady rhythm, goosebumps buzzed up his arms, he could breath again. He picked up the headset.


    "Affirmative 22." He struggled to get the words out. "We''re all glad to hear your safe. Listen!" He held out the microphone to the crowd. They began whistling and shouting to let the astronauts know their celebration.


    Wilkes laughed and said. "We''re glad to hear it and glad to be on the ground. You should hear what the other guys are saying!" A slight rustling was heard as he passed his mic around the cockpit.


    "First rounds on me when we''re out of this thing!" Said a deeper voice.


    Langois joked. "I think I wanna put in my two weeks!" Laughter spread through Mission Control.


    A fourth voice said. "My wife''s never gonna let me live this down!"


    Thompson spoke into the mic. "Wilkes I didn''t know you were married!"


    "I''m not. What do you mean?" Said Wilkes.


    "You just told us not to tell your wife. Didn''t you?"


    "Oh that wasn''t me."


    Thompson narrowed his eyes in confusion and said to himself. "Didn''t he just-? Never mind." He called back to the shuttle. "Alright lets focus on debriefing. Remain in the cockpit until further notice. Gotta let the shuttle cool down. The outsides still running hot. Please remain in your spacesuits to prevent the spread of any possible foreign contaminants."


    This time, Langois responded. "Understood mission control. Standing by."


    "Any internal damage?"


    "Diagnostics scan shows minor compression damage to the shell extending from the front landing gear to the cockpit window. In addition, all internal cameras are disconnected except for camera 1 and camera 3 at the front and port side of the shuttle interior respectively."


    "Understood, compression damage falls within expectations of emergency landing, all things considered."


    "Copy that Mission Control. Awaiting further instruction." Said Langois. The comms clicked off.


    Leaning back in his chair, Thompson held his hand against to his mouth, drumming his finger on his lip. Around him, people were still chattering away about their success, and what comes next. The idea of raises were brought up, possible news interviews and the like. But Thompson sat silent, solitary in his confusion. He wanted to partake in celebration, to shake the hand of each and every one of the Officers present, to thank them for their work. Yet he could not ignore the persistent feeling of wrongness. An instinctual itch buried in his head. He focused himself, deciding to piece together this impromptu puzzle.


    Glancing around the room, he called over to the second row for the Communications Officer. "Hawley?"


    "Yes sir?" She perked her head up from her desk to see over the crowd.


    "Do you have the transcripts of the landing flight?"


    "Yes sir."


    "Pull them up for me please." He said, walking towards her desk with purpose.


    He held the attached headset up to one ear and listened. "Skip to the last minute for me please."


    Hawley clicked to the corresponding time stamps. Thompson stared unfocused through the world, he was fixed solely on the audio. He flicked a half-second glance up at the screen on the wall. He craned his head forward to face the screen, staring at the three faces displayed.


    "Rewind it 20 seconds for me please." Thompson asked, this time he never took his eyes off the astronauts. Without turning his head, he handed the headset over to Hawley. "Put this on and listen."


    She put the headset over her ears, "What am I listening for?"


    Thompson reached to her keyboard and rewound the conversation. "Pay attention to the voices."


    "''You should hear what the other guys are saying!''


    ''First rounds on me when we''re out of this thing!"


    ''I think I wanna put in my two weeks.''


    ''My wife''s never gonna let me live this down''


    ''Wilkes I didn''t know you were married''


    ''I''m not. What do you mean?'' "


    Thompson stopped the recording and looked at Hawley. "How many people were sent on the mission?"


    "Three." She had a slight look of confusion, wondering what her boss wanted her to notice.


    "How many voices did you hear?"


    "Just you and the crew sir. Am I missing something?"


    "No no no, not who did you hear. How many?" He clarified.


    Hawley looked towards the monitor. "Wilkes spoke first, then he passed the mic to Simmons, then Simmons gave it to Langois, and she passed it to. . ." Her eyes widened with realization, and she looked back at Thompson.


    Thompson looked at her. "How many did you say we launched?" His eyes returned to the screen.


    She followed his gaze to the display. "That . . . that can''t be possible."


    "Doesn''t matter what''s possible." Thompson looked towards the Public Affairs Officer. "Ross contact the National Guard and tell them to get here ASAP!"


    Ross hurried over to the emergency lines as Thompson returned to his desk.


    "Is something wrong sir?" Asked Ross.


    Thompson looked at her and held his gaze as he tried to think of an explanation. He could only tell the truth.


    "I don''t know."


    He grabbed his desk headset but hesitated. If there was an invader onboard the shuttle he didn''t want to risk letting on their suspicion and panic. If it''s human, they might contact their homeland. If it''s something else, something unfamiliar, who knows what it could be capable of. Especially when it''s cornered. Wiping the sweat on his palms onto his pant leg, he looked back over to Ross.


    Before Thompson could ask, she said to him. "ETA 7 minutes."


    "Thank you." Thompson said. He looked towards Hawley. She sat looking at him with bated breath, waiting to see what he would do or say to those on the shuttle. Her hands were clasped around each other in a twisted prayer held tight to the chest. Thompson gave a slight nod for her to stay seated, and to stay alert, as he called into the shuttle with half an idea, the weight of possibly unleashing hell was wrapped around his mind.


    "Apollo-22 this Mission Control, we noticed some slight damage on the landing gear and the exit ports. You''re gonna have to stay put a little longer for a damage assessment. Shouldn''t be any longer than 20 minutes."


    Wilkes answered back. "Understood Mission Control. Standing by for further instruction."


    The room grew quiet as the officers listened in to Thompsons sudden change in plans. They began milling around to and from the windows trying to see the Colonels observation. A few returned to their desks for post landing paperwork. Most stood around trying to figure out why the Colonel called the national guard. The small voice of Edwards broke through the crowd.


    "Um, sir? There''s no damage to the exit ports." He called to the Colonel up at his desk.


    "I know." He said. Thompson sat unmoving in his office chair, eyes locked to the screen displaying the shuttles status.


    "Then...why?" Edwards asked.


    The Colonel looked at the analyst. "Edwards could you come up to my desk please?"


    The Officer made his way through the crowd up to Thompson. "Yes sir?"


    Thompson spoke so only the two of them could hear. "When this mission launched, how many astronauts were on board the shuttle?"


    "Three sir." Edwards spoke low to match volume.


    "Can you name them for me please?"


    "Well. There''s the Commander, Wilkes. Then the Pilot, Langois. And the Orbital Module Pilot, Robins."


    Thompson rubbed his scalp. "Thank you Edwards, you may return." As Edwards walked back confused, Thompson called for another officer.


    They approached and the Colonel spoke in the same low tone. "Marshall, how many astronauts were sent up?"


    "Three sir." Said the officer.


    "Name them."


    The officer scratched his red beard. "Commander Wilkes and the Lunar Module pilots Langois and Simmons."


    Thompson sent Marshall back. As he did, Thompson stood up and pointed to another officer down in the Trench, asking. "How many Astronauts did we send up?"


    They nervously replied, "Three sir."


    "What are their names?"


    "Wilkes, Robins and Langois." After they answered, some of their fellow officers had looks of confusion. Thompson repeated his questions to another officer, and another, and another. They agreed that three astronauts were sent. They agreed that Wilkes and Langois were part of the crew, but the name of the last member was not unanimous. Four names were repeated. Half claimed that Robins was the third, others that it was Simmons, but it didn''t matter. This failure to recall the exact names of the crew was where Thompsons fear lay. The Colonel said nothing, he leaned back making his chair squeak under his movement. He flicked a glance at Edwards for half a second before quickly returning his gaze to the screen. He refused to remove his focus from the display. The officers scattered around the room all looked to Thompson for an answer. The air was still, machines whirred on, but the living froze, waiting for a response.


    The Colonel took a deep breath, and said, "After listening to the recorded audio of the landing. Comms Officer Hawley and I agree that there are four people on board the Apollo-22. One more than we sent up."


    As Thompson sat back deep in thought, the officers all began clamoring for answers. The men and women of NASA were drawn into a cruel cycle of arguing on who were the definitive astronauts. Anxieties struck like a bolt of lighting. They collectively began looking back and forth between Hawley, Thompson, and each other. A few people closer to Hawley asked her quietly for clarity or if it''s some dumb joke. Most everyone there trusted Hawley''s analysis, it was not her capability that was in doubt, but the Colonels state of mind. Some questioned Thompsons abilities to remain in his position. Doubts which would normally have been shuttered, were now being shared around the room as easily as breath. Hawley was the only one other than Thompson to remain seated and silent. She shared in his concern of what any of this meant, and more importantly, of what to do next.


    Thompson considered all possibilities of this intruder, never holding on a conclusion for more than a moment. He thought of how he could tell the room the specifics of what he and Hawley had discovered but he knew that the audio wouldn''t be enough. Not for them. The conviction of audible evidence was something shared by only him and the Comms Officer. Thompson replayed every bit of information in his head. There has to be something. As the seconds ticked by, and the wheels of army trucks miles away spun burning towards the landing strip, Thompson remembered the cameras.


    He hunched over his keyboard, shutting out the cluster of confused and demanding voices. He pulled up the camera feeds, flipping through them carefully. After thinking about what the invaders ulterior motive could be, he doubted anything Wilkes and Langois had claimed about internal damage. That maybe it wasn''t the impact that broke the cameras. The high strung colonel went through the available connected streams. His pale fingers tapping a paler keyboard. Cameras 1 and 3 were still intact, the others showed the same bold white "CAMERA FEED UNAVAILABLE" text set against a pitch black screen. It took only a few seconds for Thompson to get his confirmation. He placed his hands on the armrests to keep himself upright. There on his monitor, a cruel image that filled his heart and mind with a terror that would drive weaker men to madness.


    As he sat among the noise of the crowd, he called out. "May I direct your attention to the screen!" The room went silent, all of them turned to look at the fruition of the Colonel and Hawley''s findings.


    Thompson sent the camera feed from his computer to the wall. What would normally show simple footage of astronauts working idle in a diode lined room, was now a scene of impossibility. Wilkes sat closest to the camera at the cockpit of the shuttle, Langois was behind him rifling through papers opposite the ships Lunar Module Pilot, who sat waiting for confirmation to exit the shuttle. And just past them, at the far end of the ship, a fourth suit stood checking the paneling of the ship.


    The officers were still. One after another they all began to notice the truth to Thompsons claim, that there at the back of the shuttle, sat an additional astronaut. A mix of fear and curiosity sat under a layer of awe. The fear took first. Only the slightest words were spoken. A hush fell over the room. A gathering of scientists, engineers, and mathematicians, all brought to the forefront of human technology and innovation. Not one of them had an answer. Someone on the edge of the crowd collapsed under their own weight, their legs giving out beneath them. A few helped them into a chair. The rest stayed focused on the footage.


    "It''s a recording, got to be. Some cheap special effect." Said a voice in the crowd. Thompson looked around to to see who refused the footage. It was Clarke, among the crowd he stood tall, a head above most, arms crossed in defiance.


    "Look at the timestamp, it lines up with ours. It''s live." Said another.


    Clarke shrugged. "Then it''s a good fake." Clarke grew irritated with each passing second. "I''m sure whoever made this put a lot of effort into it, but we''re wasting our time. We have work to do, so lets get this over with." He left to go finish up the landing procedures. A few, swayed by his conviction, followed behind.


    Thompson stood up. "No, no, no. Stay here. No one leaves until we know what we''re dealing with."


    Clarke stopped, breathed an impatient sigh and turned around. "What we''re dealing with," he shouted, "is a joke in bad taste!" He took a few seconds to calm himself down, running his hands through his blonde hair. Letting his hands drop to the side, he gestured out to the room. "I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we''re all extremely tired and stressed out, we just want this day to be over."


    Thompson tried to mediate. Keeping a calm, low voice he said. "I understand your frustration Clarke, but if there is the slightest possibility of a foreign invader, be it human or otherwise, we have to follow procedure. Procedures which include staying inside the control room where, as far as we know, it''s safe."


    "Sir, with all due respect, this is too much, even for you. Every second we spend talking about this dumb prank, those men and women are still inside that shuttle waiting to go home, and our paperwork remains undone. That''s all it is, a dumb, childish prank." Clarke pointed towards the screen. "I don''t want to believe the footage either. But I know what''s real and what isn''t. This entire mission we have flipped through the camera feeds time and again, and not once did anyone spot anything out of the ordinary. If something did hop aboard the shuttle, someone would have seen it by now. Human or otherwise. So can we please get this over with?"


    Thompson stared at Clarke, he knew that nothing he could say would stop Clarke from leaving. And Clarke stared back, silent.


    "What do we do?" Edwards sheepishly asked.


    The room turned their eyes to Thompson. Staring back at the crowd, Thompson declared. "Protocol dictates that in the case of an unidentifiable emergency, that we are to take the safest and most effective actions. I believe that action is to stay put and attempt to get a handle on the situation. We can''t go out there until we have clarity."


    "Sir, we have our clarity. We know that the ships landed. We know that there''s people onboard waiting for us. So if there''s something dangerous onboard with them, I''m not just gonna sit back and hope for the best. At least by going out there I''m doing something, protocol be damned."


    The Colonel thought of how many times protocol was his failsafe. That no matter what, there had to have been a rule written down somewhere about what to do next. To him, if a rule exists, then that means that he wasn''t the first in a given scenario, and he could count on the written guidance of others to steer him through to the other side.


    Doubt still lingered in the air. Thompson, while effective, was being put on a trial where faith and sanity had interlinked. While the idea of extra terrestrial life existing was not entirely abandoned, it was not something anyone in group would have thought would be encountered in their lifetime. To work in NASA was to be a skeptic of the otherworldly, that to work effectively, one need to rely only on facts, and that by proxy, speculation was an unnecessary risk. Even more so, that faith had to be placed in the hands of higher-ups, that what they ordered was to be taken as fact. It was a balancing act that had to be upheld in order to make the most of space faring technology. Now that the possibility of interstellar contact had harshly intruded, the required instinct of skepticism, and the unshakeable faith in the Directors words had both both become passing glances. From this moment on, what could be seen and what could be heard, were no longer reliable, and could only further drive their paranoia.


    Clarke stood at the door. For a while, no words were shared. No one knew what to say, there was nothing to say. All they could do is act. Just then, Thompson received a message. The National Guard had arrived, over a dozen trucks and jeeps had responded, whose Captains and Corporals had more questions than they had men. The sound of screeching tires and doors slamming shut attracted some anxious souls up to the windows.


    "It''s Army trucks! It''s the Army!" Someone shouted. Immediately, heads perked up in excitement.


    Clarke pointed outside and said to Thompson. "There, see! Even if there is something in the ship, then the army will take care of it." He turned back around flinging the door open, and left, taking his temper with him. The sleep deprived team followed.


    The room began to empty as they rushed outside to meet the soldiers, looking for some semblance of safety behind their bullets. Their feet stomping in adrenaline as they crowded to the doors. Their shoes marched tandem with the boots of the soldiers. In less than a minute the room had emptied, now only Thompson, Hawley, and Edwards remained.


    Edwards stood staring at the screen, appearing almost hypnotized watching the four bodies mill around in the shuttlecraft. Hawley and Thompson remained at their desks.


    "I don''t get it." Said Edwards. He stood for a few more silent seconds. "Maybe it''s..." His voice trailed off. His mind in search of answers in a dark forest.


    Thompson killed the feed, the screen returning to the simulation of the shuttle with the three names and photos of the astronauts next to it. Their preserved smiles being the only perceivable joy around. The blink of the feed snapped Edwards from his stupor. He seemed almost lost, as if he were a blind man who dropped his cane, stumbling around in search of something to hold onto. Only it wasn''t his eyes alone that were blinded.


    Hawley stood up from her desk, organizing a few papers around in a desperate attempt at control. Grabbing her lanyard off the desk, she made for the door. As she reached the threshold she turned to look back at her superior and his blind sage. Edwards paced around the room, tucking his arms close to his chest, as if it were the only thing keeping his body from falling apart. She opened her mouth to speak, but she said nothing, she couldn''t say anything. She had found herself bereft of words. She turned back around and left the room to join the others outside. Now only Thompson and Edwards remained.


    Thompson descended the small steps from his desk, following after Hawley. Turning to Edwards, he said. "Best not to keep them waiting. Lets go." He held the door open for him.


    "Right." Edwards said. His head hung low. Staring at his feet, he let his arms drop to his side loosening his self imposed constriction, and shuffled out the door. His walk turning into a jaunt the moment he turned the corner, his quickened footsteps chirping on the tile echoed down the hallway.


    As Thompson watched Edwards head outside, he gave a quick glance back to the barren room, the hustle and bustle of clicking keyboards and scribbling pencils had all funneled out. Leaving only the whirs of machines and squeaks of overhead fans. Maybe Clarkes right, thought Thompson. As the lights buzzed with electricity, the Colonel carried his gaze to screen before finally heading out.


    His hand hadn''t even left the handle before he slammed the door back open to stare wide-eyed in horror and confusion at the wall. It changed. He didn''t know how or when. It had to have been right as Edwards was leaving. He thought. I only looked away for a few seconds. A cold fear enveloped his heart, and a shiver ran up his back as he looked at the screen. The displayed photos had changed from three to four smiling astronauts.


    "H-how?" His words choked him. Thompson clearly remembers there being three but as he stared at the four floating heads, Thompson made a second terrifying discovery. He realized he could not remember which three they were. He stumbled out of the door back into the hallway, and ran outside to confront whatever being had now made contact with the human race, and his mind.

 Chapter 2: Command

    Had any recordings of the event been kept, any interviews been conducted, or any witnesses been believed, this advent would have been the catalyst of decades long news stories, generations of conspiracy theorists, and an unending wave of existential paranoia. Instead, not a word was written down or any footage saved, all it seemed to spawn was a batch of alcoholics who never stopped looking over their shoulder and never slept the same. This day, despite its seemingly vital junction, would not even be a spark in the memory of human history. It was like nothing had happened at all.


    Gathered outside the huge NASA building were a few dozen soldiers of the National Guard, their commanders, and almost every member of Mission Control. They all stood in sweltering summer heat arguing over protocol and rankings against a backdrop of a humid Florida swamp. The day burning hotter as the minutes went by. A layer of haze continuously rose up from the black top as it baked in the sun. The heat fueled temperaments and frustration of men as it made their bodily crevices foggy with moisture. Shirts darkened on armpits, sweat dripped off ticklish noses, and at any moment it felt like their shoes would melt onto the open air oven of a landing strip. A few hundred yards away from the cluster sat a shuttle with an impossible astronaut and more questions than any one person could answer. Childish men argued as the Sword of Damocles began to hang closer and closer.


    Cutting through the tension, Thompson made his way to the outskirts of the group. He walked over to Clarke who was engaged in a vicious shouting match against three other soldiers.


    "I told you we don''t need you here! Everything''s under-" Clarke saw the Thompson approaching. "Thompson!" He walked briskly over to the Colonel, his brow grew tense at the middle. "Can you get them," He pointed furiously at the soldiers. "out of here please?! I tried telling them we don''t need them here but because they were called under an emergency, they won''t leave unless you tell them to." Clarkes face grew red as he spoke.


    Thompson held up his hand to Clarke to get him to clam down. "I''ll take care of them. While I do, go and try and corral everyone else." Thompson gestured out to the antsy crowd. "We don''t need someone to start something they can''t finish. Tensions are high enough as it is in this damn heat."


    Clarke looked suspiciously at the Colonel. "What are you gonna tell them?"


    "I''ll tell them what they need to know." Thompson pushed up his sweaty glasses and walked over to take Clarke''s place. Clarke, meanwhile, began wildly gesturing and shouting to get everyone in some semblance of order.


    Thompson approached four men, one noticeably older than the rest. A dark skinned man with thick, coiled salt and peppered hair cropped short to the scalp walked to meet the Colonel.


    "Are you in charge of this operation?" The man asked, his strong voice powered through heavy breath, sweat dripped down his temples.


    "Yes sir I am, Colonel Thompson, Mission Director at NASA." Thompson stuck out his hand towards the Commander, who shook his hand in return. The general was a whiskey barrel of a man, in that he stood a head shorter than most, but was broad chested, and had the faintest scent of liquor hanging around him.


    "General Tippen. We got an emergency alert. What seems to be the problem?" He loosened his tight grip on the Colonels hand.


    "Well General. After a brief but thorough investigation, we have a reasonable suspicion that there is a possible invader on board the Apollo-22 shuttle." Thompson looked past the General and focused on the lone aircraft just a few hundred yards away.


    Tippen followed Thompsons gaze over his shoulder and looked at the off center shuttle before looking back to Thompson. "A reasonable suspicion?" The General asked. "What led you to this?"


    "During the landing procedures, I was on comms with the shuttles commander. An emergency landing had to be performed but we managed to get it safely on the ground. During the post landing debriefing, I noticed something. While everyone was celebrating the landing, I and my Comms officer went over the audio recordings and noticed that there were four voices present on the aircraft. This was a three person mission." The Colonel said.


    "Are you sure?" Replied the General.


    "Very, camera footage confirms a fourth astronaut present on the 22. Someone or something is on there that we didn''t send up."


    The General paced back and forth slightly, with his hands on his hips. He turned back to Thompson. "Do you still have this footage?"


    "Yes General."


    "And the audio?"


    "Yes General."


    "Good, we''ll need it." Tippen called over to a few soldiers. "You two, with me." He looked to Thompson. "Colonel I''m gonna need your help on this. Follow me." Quickly, the General began to make his way over to one of the vehicles they arrived in.


    Thompson began walking pace with Tippen. "Where are we going?"


    "We''re heading to the shuttle. Get in." The General hopped into the back of a large doorless jeep. The two soldiers Tippen brought along took the driver and passenger side. Thompson climbed into the seat next to the General as the engine turned over.


    Clarke raced over to follow, his tie flailing in the wind. "Wait! Thompson where you going?" He shouted over the engines roar.


    Fastening his seatbelt, Thompson shouted back. "We''re going to the shuttle."


    "Why?!"


    "I don''t know. You''re in charge until we get back. Keep things under control you understand?" His voice trailed off as the jeep sped away down the blacktop. Thompson watched as Clarke threw his hands up in disbelief as he turned around towards the crowd. All their eyes watching as they drove further away. Thompson faced forward to see the great white shuttle grow closer and closer. A sense of dread fell over the Colonel. He felt as if he were being dragged into the maw of a hungry beast. There the Apollo-22 sat under the hot Florida sun, a spotlight shining down on a pale speck set against black tarmac. An image, when viewed from above, resembled the very stars humanity watched in hopes of discovery. Now they only needed to look at the blacktop to see the results of the stars looking back.


    In a few moments they had arrived at the Apollo-22, faint wisps of smoke still drifted off the edges of the wings. Staring forward, Tippen said to Thompson. "I''m gonna need you to talk to the astronauts. Keep them calm, talk as if it''s just a series of set backs, no matter what keep them in the shuttle, do not under any circumstances let them out. Got that?"


    Thompson looked back and forth between the General and the shuttle. "Yes but... what for? If you don''t mind me asking; Why did we come here General?"


    Tippen rubbed his freshly shaven chin, his fingers lingering on a patch of long stubble he missed, and thought of an explanation. "You know these men well Colonel. Figured if there was someone that didn''t belong, you''d notice." This was a lie.


    Thompson only half believed the General. He went along with it anyway, for he had too strong a curiosity of what strange visitor was behind the door.


    The Colonel slid off his seat out of the car and approached the shuttle. His tie felt constricting around his throat, his collar chafed his skin a bright red. Beads of sweat trickled down his bald head, from the heat or from fear, he couldn''t tell. A small flight of boarding stairs led up to the portside hatch of the Apollo-22, and just behind it inside the space craft, awaited four astronauts patiently waiting for the orders to leave. The Colonel reached the stairs and began a slow but steady ascension. He looked over his shoulder to the jeep and saw Tippen leaning over past the front seats watching, waiting. The General sat hunched over gripping the seats in front of him, jaw clenched tight and eyes unblinking, it was as if a vulture took human flesh.


    As Thompson reached the top of the stairs, he cautiously stretched his arm towards the door, and knocked. He cleared his throat and called to who was inside. "This is Colonel Thompson, I need to speak with you immediately!"


    Heavy footsteps made their way from the front of the craft to the door. A red haired man with dark brass eyes looked through from the other side. "Colonel? What are you doing here? Shouldn''t you be in the Control room?"


    Thompson immediately recognized the man as Commander Wilkes. "Yes but this is important. Are the others nearby?"


    "Yes sir but, I don''t understand what''s going on. Is everything okay?"


    Thompson remembered the Generals words. "Yes, just following standard procedures. Can you bring the others in view please?"


    Wilkes sat with a look of confusion, but trusting in the Colonel, he obliged. Turning to an obstructed audience he said. "Guys can you come here real quick? Colonel wants to see us."


    From inside, someone shouted. "The Colonel''s here? What for?"


    "I don''t know." Wilkes shot a quick look back at Thompson. "Standard procedures." He shrugged.


    A small march traveled closer to join Wilkes. Thompson saw the faces of the remaining astronauts, and began tracing through his memory of each one. Danielle Langois, a woman with light brown skin and braided hair kept high and tight, a quarter-sized blemish sat on the left side of her face in between where her jaw meets her ear, Captain of the Apollo-22. Curtis Wilkes, a pale man with a slightly crooked nose that offset a handsome idyllic face, Commander of the Apollo-22. Renard Simmons, a lanky black man with large dark eyes that one couldn''t help but gaze into as if the cosmos themselves were nestled in his sharp face, Lunar Module Pilot of the Apollo-22. Thompson looked to the last one. Avery Robins, a shorter man with black hair and an inherited permanent smirk that rested naturally on his face no matter his mood, Orbital Module Pilot of the Apollo-22.


    All stood in view of the port window still wearing their secondary space suits. Thompson darted his eyes back and forth between each crew member. He knew, that one among them did not belong, one among them was hitherto unrecognizable in its shroud of human flesh. But Thompson could not discern who it was. He felt a cold shudder crawl up his spine as his mind was flooded with vivid memories of time spent with all four, but factual in his mind was that this was a shuttle meant for a crew of three. An anomaly in his strict world of logic. He was making direct eye contact with a non-planetary being, something no one before him had ever done. The thought alone enticed him. But as the antelope cannot see the eyes of the lion among the grass, Thompson could not discern the traitor amongst the loyal. His old heart pounded deep in his chest, warm blood coursing through fear chilled veins. He felt a small desire to look away, to just give an all clear signal, and that if he did then it wouldn''t be his problem anymore. Thompson wanted to give into this feeling, but biting down onto the inside of his lip, he kept his head forward. Only a few inches of metal with a hole of glass kept them apart. The astronauts were grouped together in their flame-orange suits, their very existence an effigy erected in defiance of mankind''s self-diagnosed isolation. Here under the sun, they stood together in blasphemy.


    "Thompson? Are you okay?" The words pulled the Colonel from his fugue state. His eyes met with Simmons.


    "Yes. Sorry about that Simmons. Just this damn heat. Ha ha." Thompson gave a half hearted laugh. "But yes, there''s some damage on portside engines 2 and 3, were gonna have to run through a few procedures to make sure the craft is safe. We''re gonna try to get you out as soon as possible, but for now, we need you to stay put."


    "If there''s an issue with the engines, then wouldn''t it be safer to leave the shuttle?" Asked Langois. The astronauts all turned to Thompson for his answer.


    "Normally yes, but in the case of a malfunction of both mechanical and electrical means, we need to make sure that doing one thing doesn''t activate another. For safety reasons, we need all of you to stay near the cockpit."


    "Are you sure? I don''t think opening a door is gonna blow up the engine." Wilkes said.


    "Do you wanna find out Commander?" Thompson said with slight frustration.


    "No sir, I''m just suggesting that that if the shuttle is dangerous then maybe we should try to evacuate the area as soon as possible. It doesn''t make sense to keep us in this hot box!" Replied Wilkes. The other astronauts slightly backed away.


    "I understand your frustration, but in case of an emergency, we have to treat every variable as a major risk." Thompson wiped sweat off his head.


    This time Robins stepped forward. "Sir, with all due respect, if there''s anyone that knows the ship it''s us. Besides, the wiring for the door and the engine are on completely different operating systems."


    Wilkes immediately responded. "There see? They''re on different operating systems. It''s fine." He reached to open the hatch.


    Thompson shouted at the Commander. "Back away from the door Commander!" Thompsons voice carried with it the authority only acquired from years of military service and command.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Doing as ordered, Wilkes pulled away from the lever and raised his hands in view of the window. "I''m not doin'' anything. All clear Colonel."


    Thompson took a breath and shuddered on the exhale. He spoke with a clarity on each word. "I know it''s on different systems. But after a landing with that strong of an impact, we don''t know what wires have been crossed or damaged. By ignoring my orders you are also ignoring any and all possible risk."


    "Because there is no risk!" Said Wilkes. "for every bit of circuitry and machinery there''s a very sensitive alarm attached. If something was seriously wrong with the ship, we''d have known Colonel. Don''t you think you''re being a little paranoid?"


    "No commander. I do not." Thompsons brow pulled together into a deep scowl. "I am doing my job as your superior officer, and I will not stand for this insubordination! Stay in the shuttle commander, that''s an order!"


    "Yes sir." Said Wilkes, he clenched his jaw as he looked away from Thompsons steel gaze.


    Langois spoke up to try and mediate. "Maybe we could help with the diagnostics." Wilkes and Thompson looked at her. "We''ve been working this shuttle for months in space, and we''ve all trained for years." She gestured to the other three. "If there''s something wrong I''m sure we can figure it out."


    "That''s not necessary Langois. I promise you were doing our best to get you out of there. For now, try to stay near the front of the shuttle, we''re gonna try and conduct some minor post-mission interviews. We''ll do them through the camera feed, see how far we can get." Thompson checked his watch. "I have to go. I''ll be back as soon as possible, if anything comes up we''ll contact you." Carefully looking over the astronauts, Thompson gave one final note. "If any of you notice anything strange, report in immediately, understood?" He gauged their faces for a reaction, for any hint of a dropped mask.


    The crew looked among each other. Simmons spoke over them. "What do you mean strange?"


    Thompson quickly thought of an excuse. "Just be on the lookout for anything that changes. If so much as a lightbulb flickers without your input, notify us immediately."


    Wilkes let out an exasperated breath, tired of the Colonels persistent self obsessed worry. "Yes sir. We''ll be on the lookout." He walked towards the cockpit. The others followed soon behind him. Simmons gave a thumbs up to the Colonel before following suit, Thompson returned the gesture as they vanished from sight. He saw nothing. No slight knee-jerk reaction, no liars tells, nothing. Normal across the board. This scared him more than anything.


    Thompson turned around and began to descend the stairs. Mid stride he stopped and looked down at the steps, he peered over the railing, and continued his descent. While there was nothing out of the ordinary, he couldn''t help but remember that he never gave an order or the go-ahead to place the staircase. He wondered if this was all part of it. That whatever is inside the shuttle also had some form of physical capabilities as well as mental. He hurried down while trying his best to seem calm. "Couldn''t be off sooner." He thought as he hopped off the final step and returned to the car, glad to be both at a distance and in the shade.


    Thompson got in the back seat next to Tippen. He let out a trapped breath and rubbed his eyes with both hands. Tippen never took his eyes off the Colonel.


    The General wasted no time in asking, "Is everything under control Colonel?"


    Thompson adjusted his glasses. "Yes, they got the message. Had to pull rank, but they gave me no choice."


    "Are you sure? I could step in for you if proves too much. No shame in letting someone take the wheel." Tippen spoke with eagerness.


    Thompson saw through this. "That won''t be necessary General, I can handle this well enough. This is my operation." Thompson looked up the stairs to the door. "That being said, we have a problem."


    Tippen leaned forward with expectation, the leather of his seat creaking under his shifting weight. "What kind of problem Colonel?" .


    Thompson remained focused on the Apollo-22. "I was hoping that I''d be able to know immediately who it was that didn''t belong. That all I''d have to do was look at them and I''d spot the fake but..." His voice trailed off.


    Tippen put his hand on Thompsons shoulder. "But what Colonel?"


    Thompson looked back to the General. "I have faint memories of all of them. Each one on board, but I distinctly remember this being a three person mission. No more, no less."


    The General glanced up to the shuttle. "Your officer, Clarke, he told us that this is all just one big mistake that you don''t want to admit." He looked back to Thompson. "Are you sure that it''s supposed to be three?"


    "Yes. I will tell you with absolute certainty, that there is someone on that ship that isn''t supposed to be. But I do not know who."


    Tippen turned to the driver. "Take us back." He looked back to Thompson. "Well then, how do you wanna continue Colonel?"


    Thompson looked one last time at the shuttle before answering. "I told them to keep to the front of the shuttle and that we''re carrying out the debriefing over the comms. My hope is that we can use these as interrogations to see if any of their stories don''t match up with what we have on file."


    "If we have personal files on all of them then why can''t we just see which ones we have and match it with who''s on board? "


    Thompson thought back to the screen, when the display changed from three astronauts to four. "I''m not certain that''ll help. It can make its own information. I saw it change the display in the control room before I came out to the blacktop."


    This information made angered Tippen "If it can do that then what''s the point of the questioning through the electric cameras?"


    "Because we have physical files too. And so far this seems like the only thing we can do to get information out of the astronauts without alerting both crew and invader that we know somethings wrong. And as far as we know it''s still a living thing in unfamiliar territory. Stranger in a strange land, it''s bound to slip up at somepoint. And there''s our opportunity."


    "Your plan is to wait for it to make a mistake? How very reassuring." Tippen had a crude smirk on his face.


    Thompson, trying desperately to stay calm, cut through the Generals sarcasm. "Do you have any better ideas?"


    A vein bulged on Tippens forehead as he faced forward, not many people are allowed to speak to him like this and get away with it. But this was a sensitive situation. One that called for him to keep his temper in check.


    Keeping in time, they continued their drive back to the crowd and away from the shuttle. As they did, Thompson couldn''t help his curiosity. "General, why head to the shuttle? Wouldn''t it make more sense to do things remotely?"


    Tippen spoke without looking at Thompson, his eyes fixed on something just past the passenger seat. "Yes. But protocol says that when something like this happens we need to gather as much in-person information as possible."


    Thompson narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Where is that stated? I don''t know that one."


    "There''s a lot you don''t know. Normally this whole thing would be above your pay grade, but this is your operation." He said condescendingly. "Anything going forward is a strictly need to know basis."


    "I don''t understand." Thompson looked over to see what the General was staring at. He saw that Tippen was looking in the passenger side mirror, keeping a strict eye on the shuttle as they moved farther and farther away.


    The vehicle stopped a few yards away from the crowd. Tippen, finally turning towards Thompson, ended their talk with one last order. "Word of advice Colonel. You might wanna start thinking less about what you understand, and more about what to do next." Realizing that there were other matters at hand. Thompson left to go bring the crowd up to speed. As Tippen got out the vehicle, he gave one last look at the shuttle. He noticed, just barely, the unmistakable bright orange of an astronaut suit standing at the shuttle door window. Even though he had no proof or reason, Tippen knew that it was staring at him. The figure moved away from view and the General went to join Thompson at the crowd.


    The men and women of NASA stayed together during Thompson and Tippens visit to the shuttle. A few tried to go back inside to the refreshing A/C, but Clarke, following orders, kept everyone present and alert. Unlike the Colonel, Clarke was not afraid to use his voice. While he was not often in a position to give orders, when he did, he made sure everyone heard it. A method that was the subject of many personal meetings with Thompson. When Clarke saw the two men return from the ship, he pushed his way through the crowd to stand with them.


    "Thompson!" Clarke shouted, he nodded to Tippen. "General. Any update on the shuttle and the crew?"


    The Colonel pushed up his glasses as he spoke to the officer. "They''re gonna remain in the shuttle for now. Inside we''ll conduct the debriefings over the remaining camera. Or what''s left of it. In the meantime, have the stairs removed. I didn''t authorize their use."


    "I did that sir." Said Clarke.


    "You called for them to be placed shipside? I did not ask you to do that." The Colonel kept himself calm despite the insubordination.


    He stiffened his back. "It was an emergency situation, and you were still inside the control room. It seemed like it was necessary."


    "What''s necessary is making sure that I am aware of any and all variables. This is an emergency situation and you deliberately went over my head. The next time you need to make a call, clear it with me first. Understood?" The Colonel stared at Clarke with silent fury.


    "Understood... sir." Clarke clenched his jaw in embarrassment as Thompson walked by him to talk to the rest of the group.


    The usual chatter was present on the blacktop.


    "If this isn''t included in our holiday bonus, I''m filing a complaint. This is the third time we''ve been held up because of Thompsons paranoia." Someone said.


    "Think we''ll be out of here before 8? I promised my wife we''d have dinner with her parents." Asked the one next to him.


    He replied. "At the rate things are going, we''d be lucky to leave at 10."


    "Thank God."


    One group of three sat near the edge talking about the latest episode of a show they all watch. Another bunch were discussing the details of their upcoming DnD session, and if they should kick a player out or not. Others were talking about trying different stretches to help back pain stemming from years of being hunched over in a chair. Meanwhile, the grunts in green were talking of getting transferred, or being promoted to a desk job. Almost everyone present were all lost in their own little worlds, ignorant of the present danger. Despite this, they all had some form of minor complaint. They complained about their jobs, complained about their cars, complained about their bosses, but mostly they complained about the heat. It was in this that their whining began to harmonize, shared disgusts often bred shared values. This congregation sat in the sun, and forged a newfound bond in their mutual dislike. Clothes were sweaty, cheeks were flushed red, and still they had to wait. They prayed for rain or a wind or a stray puff of cloud to cover the sun, even if just for a second. As they sat in silent prayer, Thompson approached and stood on a small box. He held his hands up as he spoke to the group.


    "I understand you''re all probably wondering what''s happening. While I can''t tell you any details, what I can tell you is that so far everything seems to be under control." He darted his eyes around the crowd. Most of them were anticipating bad news or orders to move from this piece of hot tarmac to another piece of hot tarmac. "For now, I want everyone to please move inside the building in an orderly fashion and to please await further instruction."


    A wave of relief hit the group as they finally could escape the heat. The ones sitting down stood up and stretched their legs. Slowly they all shuffled towards the A/C controlled building.


    Thompson gave a few more words. "Be sure to have your I.Ds ready, and to present them to the guard at the door! We need to make sure everyone is accounted for!" His voice was partially drowned out by the sound of marching feet and continued conversations. The soldiers brought along with General Tippen formed a perimeter around the group of analysts and engineers, keeping a close eye on everybody. One by one they approached the building door and presented their lanyards and name tags. Each person that walked up was restless going through the tedium of presenting identification and waiting for the guard to check their name off his clipboard. Throughout this arduous process, the cold wind would occasionally reach far enough to fall gently on their faces, it was a small but welcome respite. Making sure that no one was left behind, Thompson, Tippen, and Clarke stood by the double doors and helped the standing guard with the head count. While moisture clouded in their armpits and ran in warm rivers down their backs, they watched as the workers returned to The Trench to bask in the relief of cool air and cooler water.


    As the last few went in, Thompson looked over the guards check list, small beads of sweat dripped off his nose and onto the paper. Wanting to have no unknown variables, Thompson looked over it again, quietly repeating each name to himself. To make sure there were no stragglers, he checked again. To make sure he recognized every name, he checked again. To make sure he remembered each person attached to their name, he checked again. Finally satisfied, he said to the man "I think we''re good. Go ahead and join the others." The guard looked at Tippen who gave him a single nod, with that, he left them to join the relief inside. The doors closing behind him with a loud thud.


    Tippen stepped towards the soldiers and gave his order. "You heard the Colonel, everyone inside!" At this, they all quickly walked past the three men and into the building. Thompson had a look of worry on his face. Gathering his thoughts together he turned to Clarke. "Go on ahead. We''ll meet you inside."


    Clarke stood looking out across the black top, he took a deep breath before turning to Colonel Thompson. "Sir. Was this necessary?"


    Thompson prepared himself for another argument. "Protocol states-"


    "I''m not asking the protocol, I''m asking you. If you think this is necessary." Clarke sounded defeated, as if the years of sleepless nights finally caught up to him all at once. It was this that surprised Thompson the most. Tippen eagerly awaited his response.


    The Colonel thought for a moment, he tried thinking of a readied response, but his mind was blank. He answered as truthfully as he could. "I think... I think that this is a very sensitive situation. And whatever we do we need to make sure it''s the best possible option. I don''t know what happens next," Thompsons voiced lowered, "but I''m not gonna let this get out of our control. No matter what." His voice had a sense of conviction that was unrecognizable to Clarke.


    Clarke, unsatisfied by this answer, looked at Tippen for a moment before looking back to the Colonel. "Yes sir." As he reached for the door he hesitated, and looked back to Thompson. "Do you really think there''s something dangerous on board?"


    Thompson let the words hang for a bit before answering. "I think that we need to do what''s necessary. And if there is, then we will do what''s necessary."


    Clarke scratched the side of his head and gave a simple "Hm." before heading inside. He found himself wondering what Thompson would do in a true crisis. A question that would be answered sooner than he thought.


    Now only Thompson and Tippen remained.


    Thompson turned to face the blacktop. He held his hands on his hips and craned his head up to the sky. He closed his eyes and basked in the sunlight. He felt the warm blanket of light cover his body, and a gentle curtain of wind danced on his cheeks. An angelic relief. Thompson enjoyed the sunny days, today was no exception. He needed this one now more than ever. It was an oasis. His skin lost sensation, all sound vanished except for the droning of absent though, he was completely disconnected from the world. In this moment, he felt like he was floating above everything.


    The General tried to get his attention. "Colonel?"


    Thompson couldn''t hear him.


    "Colonel!" The words broke through Thompsons barrier. He snapped his eyes open and in a second took in his surroundings to refamiliarize himself. He was pulled back to Earth.


    Thompson made eye contact with Tippen. "Sorry General."


    "Lets go." Tippen said. He reached for the door.


    Thompson stopped him. "General, one last thing." Tippen kept his hold on the door.


    "What is it?" He said.


    "I thought back to what you said about protocols and what I do and don''t know. When I got back from the shuttle?"


    "What about it?" Tippen grew suspicious of what Thompson was getting close to.


    "You said that ''when something like this happens that we need to as much in-person information as possible.'' "


    "So what?" Tippen scratched his chin.


    "You specified ''in person'' and now I''m wondering-"


    "Wondering what?" Tippen impatiently cut him off.


    Thompson looked the General dead in the eyes. "General. Has this happened before?"


    Tippen drew a deep breath, he looked at the shuttle out on the asphalt before looking back to Thompson. "Would anything I say be what you want to hear?"


    Thompson said nothing.


    "Colonel. I find that in this line of work, yours especially, it''s best not to ask questions you don''t want answers to. It keeps you sane." The General gave one last lingering look to the shuttle, he momentarily held still before heading inside. Disappearing into the dark shade.


    Thompson was left alone. Before going in, he turned to see what gave Tippen slight pause. He saw, out on the NASA blacktop, the Apollo-22. While it was faint, it was noticeable. Thompson saw a figure standing at the portside window, in it''s bright orange suit. Watching. As if it was listening the entire time. A familiar fear crept up Thompsons back. He felt himself breathing faster and faster but each breath was shallower than the last. Quickly turning away, Thompson shook his head to focus. He took as deep a breath his old lungs could allow and entered the building. No matter how sturdy the walls, or how much distance he put between himself and the shuttle, Thompsons long held idea of safety within the walls of Mission Control had been revealed to be a terribly naive illusion. An illusion that was now shattered beyond any repair.

 Chapter 3: Communication

    After spending over an hour in the hot sun, the team began to amass back inside the control room, although this time they had company, as they were joined by the soldiers brought by Tippen. While they would yet again be made to sit and wait, they were more than happy to have a/c and water. Their paradise was short lived as they soon realized they had traded the heat and humidity, for an increasingly claustrophobic room filling with the stench of body odor. As the extra man power began to file in, any idea of personal space would have to be sacrificed. Those who returned to their assigned desks had to either move to accommodate the increased bodies, or sit and suffer as elbows and gear belts pushed against them. Bits of metal jabbed violently into their backs, paper and pencils were swiped to the floor, officers were shoved into their desk to the point of having to suck in their gut just to let someone by. Some people shuffled from one corner to the another or tried to find a secluded spot where they could have some leg room. Most gave up trying to keep their desks and migrated to the wall, hoping that they wouldn''t be forced out into the hallway. As the movement slowly died down, conversations held outside were picked back up.


    As the room was abuzz with varied talking, slowly their talking shifted from work and life to the mystery surrounding Thompson and the shuttle. As they had watched Thompson leave to the shuttle and return with cryptic orders, there was a renewed interest in the subject of the fourth astronaut. At first, it was easy for the team to try to ignore what was going on by shifting their focus from the Apollo-22 to their personal lives. But eventually, the shuttle and its crew became too big an issue to push out of mind. Even more so, the Colonels attempt at controlling the situation while having a General present who refused to explain any important information made it obvious that something was very, very wrong. From their perspective, the Colonel had gone from proclaiming the presence of someone new onboard the ship, to keeping nearly every detail to himself and Tippen. Such a drastic shift of an equally un-drastic man brought to the surface questions of what he saw at the shuttle, and what exactly he plans to do.


    "I think it''s the Russians. I mean, it''s gotta be, right?" Said one of the wallflowers. His statement was made to three others standing with him by the emergency exit.


    Comms Officer Hawley was the first to say something. "What makes you say that?" She stood closest and was curious of what wonderful new revelation he''d uncovered.


    The man turned to her. "Think about it. They''re upset they lost the space race the first time, so they send one of theirs disguised as one of ours to freak us out. And while we''re all panicking, they''ve given themselves more time to work on their rockets to beat ours." He spoke with a foolish amount of confidence.


    Hawley looked down at the floor to stifle her frustration. "I don''t know about that Ben. I think this is more important than a hundred year old grudge."


    He continued. "You say that. But I have a friend who works comm systems for the Air Force, you know following aircraft, eavesdropping up on transmissions. High level work. He told me that they get signals from all over the place. And that sometimes, they get a Russian signal. And wouldn''t you know it, they picked one up not long after we launched the Angel." At this, like flies to sugar, he had the attention of those around him. "He studied some Russian so that when something like this happened, he''d be able to know what they''re saying. He couldn''t quite get all of it, he told me that what could understand was that they''re watching us."


    "So what?" Said Hawley with slight disgust. "They have their own space program, and it''s normal for all sides to keep tabs on launches and orbits. That doesn''t mean anything." As Hawley spoke, Ben picked at the skin of his fingers until they started to bleed, small flecks of blood clung to his black mustache as he chewed away the nail down to the bed, peeling it back opening up the raw red skin. He was afraid, more than he''d ever let on, but it was the only thing he felt swirling in his head.


    "I know that, but this was more than just ''keeping tabs.'' " He said, nervously sticking his hands in his pockets. "They were following along what we were doing in exact detail, and they were watching us. They might as well have been part of the program. Now why would they wanna do that, unless they wanted to keep one of their own cosmonauts safe. Who''s to say the Cold War ever really ended?" Hawley and the others all had looks of disbelief mixed with intrigue. While Ben''s explanation was nothing short of ridiculous, it was still an explanation. For some, that was enough. That no matter how conspiratorial, there was comfort in certainty of the uncertain. Those who had gathered around Ben hid their fear behind their curiosity. They all so desperately wanted this to be a human issue, with a human resolution. But desperation rarely settles perfectly.


    Meanwhile, out in the hallway, Clarke waited as Tippen and Thompson made their way to the control room. The hall was one of many areas that had been neglected in the recent years. Chipped tile lined the floor to meet plaster walls stained a faint yellow with the decades old cigarette smoke from a more careless time. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered. As the two men approached, Clarke walked up to Thompson. "Sir, can I tell you something?" He seemed distressed.


    "What is it?" Thompson said piteously.


    "Sir..." His heart raced as he carefully considered what he was about to say, and if he should say it at all. "I think this is all complete bullshit."


    Thompson raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"


    "Look. You keep saying there''s an extra person in the shuttle but the more I think about it, the more I remember working with four astronauts."


    "Clarke." Thompson said, he wanted him to stop before he said anything they would both regret.


    He interrupted Thompson. "Colonel, if an invader were to make their way onto the Angel, then why wasn''t there any alerts? The ship is made to read any and all life signatures in the slim chance that we encounter extra-terrestrial organisms, but there was nothing. More than that, how come I think about all four of them and remember the day we chose them?"


    Thompson bit his lip to ground himself. "I don''t know." He said.


    "And that''s what I''m getting at." Clarke pointed at the Colonel. "You''ve given 20 long years of your life to this station! Longer than anybody who came before you, and in all that time you''ve never once made this big a mistake. We have astronauts inside a broken ship and mountains of paperwork to finish! And instead of letting everyone do their job, you have us all running around like chickens with their heads cut off, worried about some imposter! I don''t think there is an extra. I think you''re just being paranoid. I mean, those years were bound to catch up at some point. Sir, I think you should take a step back." Tippen watched both men carefully. To him, these two barked like dogs, he waited to see who would bite first.


    "And, what, let you take over? My mental state is none of your concern officer. Neither are my years, as you so helpfully put it. But even if it were, this if far beyond me or my diagnosis. I am allowed this position because by being hyperaware, I''m always on guard and I''m always prepared for the worst case scenario. This is that worst case scenario. Because of my paranoia, I''ve prevented who knows how many failures and made sure we''re still allowed to keep sending people up."


    "You''ve also caused dozens of people to quit their dream job. In the hundred plus years the Center''s been up, no other director has had a higher turn around rate than you." Clarke said, years of frustration bubbling out. "You''ve costed millions of dollars in delays, and you have us working hours that go so far into the night, some of us barely see our families! Do you know how many people have gotten therapy because of your endless need to double, triple, and quadruple check everything?"


    Thompson scoffed. "So some people have to talk about their feelings, big deal! This is rocket science! We''re send people to the moon in multi billion dollar machines, it''s not supposed to be an easy job!" Thompsons voice grew louder. "Now more than ever, checking everything over and over is what we need. This is something no one before us has experienced! And we have to act with extreme caution. I can''t explain why you think you remember them, but I know that when this mission started, it was with three astronauts. And now that it''s landed, there''s four! It''s a total impossibility that is far and above anything mankind has encountered, and I will not allow you or anyone else to jeopardize my team based on what you think!" Thompsons voice echoed through the hallway.


    Clarke pleaded with his superior. "Maybe that''s the problem sir! Maybe you should start listening to people instead of acting like you''re the smartest person in the world!"


    "I''ll start listening when you start telling me things worth listening to, and when you finally stop acting like a child when things don''t go your way." Thompson pushed past Clarke and continued down the hall.


    As they walked on, Clarke decided to bite. "Is that the same thing you told your wife?" Clarke said this without thinking. The moment the words left his mouth, he was instantly swallowed up with regret.


    Thompson stopped and turned around. "What did you just say?" He said in disbelief. He started walking towards Clarke.


    The officer looked at the floor. "Wait. That''s not what I--"


    Thompson held up a finger at the officer to shut him up. "Fuck you Clarke." Thompson spoke with hellfire. The Colonel turned around and walked away with clenched fists. He didn''t want to be in this hallway any longer. The lights above were giving him a headache, at least that''s what he told himself.


    "Yes... sir." Clarke grit his teeth. This was one of many times Clarke acted without thinking of consequences. He hated being forced to back down so quickly, but accepted it in shame. As Thompson walked on, Clarke suddenly remembered the display kept on screen.


    "The monitor." He said. Thompson and Tippen turned around to face him.


    "What?" Thompson said, turning around.


    "At all times, the monitor on the wall shows a live feed of the vitals and status of everyone on board the Angel. If there were only supposed to be three like you said, then it wouldn''t show the extra person right?"


    Thompson felt a pit in his stomach. He had thought back to the screen and when it had changed. "It wouldn''t be much help."


    Clarke ignored his commander and began walking faster, he quickly brushed past Thompson and the General to the control room. The sound of his footsteps carried down the hall.


    Clarke approached the door and yanked it open. The sound of dozens of voices talking over each other had overwhelmed the sounds of machinery. The droning of computers was drowned out as the soldiers and technicians ran through a litany of ways to solve the "shuttle problem" as they called it. It was here when Thompson and Tippen had joined the officer inside. At the moment of their entry, all talk had stopped as if the air was sucked out of the room, and everyone turned to face the trio. The putrescent smell of sour sweat mixing with runny deodorant stung Thompsons nostrils. Clarke looked over to the wall to see the great screen and its display. It was still tuned to the shuttles pathing. Thompson pushed past Clarke to reach his desk. Clarke hurriedly joined him with Tippen being only a few steps behind. No one said a word as the three men walked over to Thompsons monitor. The only sound to be heard was the chittering of inhuman machines.


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    "Switch to the vitals. Then we can finally put this to rest." Clarke said as Thompson sat down in front of his monitor. As if he had any authority.


    "Fine. But you better watch your tone. I''m still your superior officer." Thompson couldn''t stall any longer. He hesitantly pushed a sequence of keys, hanging his finger over the final button push, and changed the screen. The Colonel cast a frustrated look at Clarke, who was focused on the display and wanting to be proven right. Up to now, Thompson had withheld what he saw as he left the room, he knew he couldn''t keep it a secret for long, but he had hoped it would have lasted longer than this.


    The bright display showed what Thompson had feared, the total impossibility. There on the wall, bright and clear, were the vital signs and status of four astronauts. It displayed heart rate, body temperature, and a multitude of other descriptive bodily functions. Next to each of these highly specific monitors were pictures of their respective owners. All four were smiling, happy, and perfectly normal.


    Clarke let go of his trapped breath. A faint smile crept across his lips, but he held it down. "There see? Four astronauts. Wilkes, Simmons, Langois, and Robins!" He pointed to each one to further emphasize his point. Clarke turned to face the Colonel, and was finally met with the burning gaze Thompson stared into him. Clarke took a small step back, he was as unfamiliar with this expression as a tiger was to a tank.


    As the faces hung onscreen, the room opened into questioning as the line between mystery and understanding became hazier. The sound of confusion carried over to Thompson and he had to meet it accordingly. People all around were asking what happened, what this means, and why they can''t quite figure out who doesn''t belong. Near the third desk, someone asked why Thompson didn''t tell anyone. This only furthered the rabble. Some started to think that this was an exercise that had gone too far or that maybe someone higher up is doing this to test in case of an emergency, and somewhere they missed the memo. All these questions were posed to either Thompson or each other. The effects of this hung over The Colonel. Tippen, satisfied with this revelation, stayed back. He couldn''t intervene, not yet at least. He found it better, and certainly more damning, to let Thompson struggle to keep this under control and explain this phenomenon. The General thought that if he tried now to to take over, he would be met with too strong a resistance by those still fervently loyal to Thompson. Tippen decided to himself that in this, he should work with subtleties.


    Thompson shouted to break through the crowds volume. "ATTENTION! Can I have your attention PLEASE!" The noise fell to a manageable level as they all stared at Thompson.


    Someone from the crowd shouted out. "Colonel, with all due respect. What the fuck?" Nods of approval and shouts of reinforcement went around the room.


    Someone else joined them. "Why didn''t you tell us this?"


    Thompson continued, keeping a loud but calm voice. "I know this is confusing, I know that, even more so, you''re afraid of what''s going to happen. I''m sorry I kept this from you, but at the time, it seemed appropriate. I didn''t want to cause any panic."


    Next to Thompson, Clarke threw his hands up in disbelief and walked away from the desk. Giving him no attention, Thompson spoke further, and gave them the truth. "Right as I left the room to join you all, I saw the screen change from a crew of three to four. And even more frightening, I felt what a lot of you all are also feeling." Thompson cleared his throat. "For reasons I cannot explain, I do not remember entirely who was part of the original crew." Looks of recognition and realization spread among the mob. Thompson grabbed their attention again. "That being said! We are smarter than this. We will not devolve into fear and hysterics. I promise you all, we are going to figure this out. Me, Clarke, and the General are going to conduct debriefing interviews with each crew member, and while we do, we are going to comb over ehat we have on file and see who doesnt belong." The analysts seemed to be satisfied with this. For the moment it seemed. Their trust in the colonel had be shaken down to the foundation, to the point that from this point onward, Thompsons words would be placed under careful scrutiny.


    A voice from the far end of The Trench asked, "What happens when we find out who it is?" Thompson looked to see who asked this. He saw, sitting at a table, Edwards had nothing but concern in his eyes.


    The Colonel pushed up his glasses. "That is something we''ll have to discuss later. For now, I want you all to remain calm, and let us handle this. Okay?" He reassured.


    Edwards perked up. "Being nervous doesn''t make us more efficient!" He said loudly.


    A small smile twitched at the corner of Thompsons mouth. "Exactly Mr. Edwards. Very well put."


    Edwards felt his heart rate go down. He turned around and tried to distract himself with a few games of Solitaire.


    As Thompson looked over everyone, he twisted his neck to massage out a small pinch that had been flaring up. He couldn''t get it out, and resigned himself to the pain. Checking his watch, the hands read 12:35, it had been almost 2 hours since the shuttle landed, yet the idea of finishing the day seemed a cloudy dream. Outside, the sun reached its orbital apex, and the light it so harshly cast through the windows had traveled parallel with it. The iridescent glow of the sun had been cut off, and bold shadows were only to be combated by garish fluorescent light.


    Clarke pulled up a seat next to Thompson. "So what? Does your invader have access to our computers now? Or did it sneak in here and add itself without anyone noticing?" He asked sarcastically.


    Thompson sighed. "I tried telling you in the hallway what happened, but you wouldn''t listen. And now look," The Colonel nodded to the restless crowd, "because you wouldn''t stop and think for a moment you almost caused a panic."


    "They were gonna panic no matter what! At least now they know everything."


    Thompson looked at Clarke. "That wasn''t your call to make Clarke! Of course they were going to panic, I was trying to keep it to a minimum and within my circumstances. My mother used to say ''better a century in purgatory than a second in Hell''. And after what youve done, youve dammed them all." Thompson fought to keep his voice from rising. "They''re all going to be on their toes, which makes this all that much harder to keep under control, because from now on, everything we say is going to be questioned." Thompson looked back to the screen. To say he was tired would be an understatement.


    Clarke disagreed with the Colonel, but kept it to himself, and tried to shift focus. "All this just to prove your invaders existence? How can you be so sure that''s what it is? You saw it yourself! Four astronauts onboard, and yet you stick to three."


    Thompson reclined in his chair, the soft cushion supporting his neck to ease the pain. "Like I was trying to tell you. Before I joined you all outside, I saw the monitor change. I looked away only for a second. In that small window the display went from reading three people to four. As if it was there the entire time."


    "How convenient." Clarke said. Thompsons answers burned in his mind. He felt they were too perfectly apt and that Thompson only wanted a yes man. Clarke had a need to prove all this was the work of someone who had grown too long in the tooth. Together they stood on the top level of the room. Like Plato and Diogenes, they were an unstoppable force and an immovable object. Before the end of the day, the distinction between fool and scholar was to be similarly blurred. Only this one would have much more drastic effects.


    The Colonel sat down ready to engage with the shuttle and its crew. Thompson grabbed his headset and reached to switch on the comms but stopped halfway. He pulled his hand back from the keyboard. "Clarke." He turned to the Officer, "I need you to go down to records and pull all the files we have on the crew. If there''s truly three or for, then we''d only have the corresponding files right? What we have physically might be the only thing we can rely on." He muttered the last bit to himself. Mostly as a hope rather than a statement.


    "Yes sir." Clarke got up from his seat and pushed through the crowd to leave the room, much to the surrounding people''s questioning. When he was clear of the room, Thompson opened a small drawer under his desk and pulled out a small orange bottle of pills. He carefully shook out 2 white tablets and took them with water. The little discs scraped his dry throat as they were washed down. Thompson coughed slightly.


    Tippen watched the Colonel. "What are those for?" He asked.


    "Something my shrink wants me to take." Thompson stared intently at the four faces. Not wanting to look away, he held up his wristwatch in front of his face to check the time, he flicked his eyes back and forth in micromovements between the clock and the screen.


    Tippen pressed him. "You''re in therapy? Is that allowed, someone of your position?"


    Thompson lowered his arm and took another swig of water. "It''s mandatory." He dismissively waved his hand. "Higher ups want to make sure I''m all there. More inconvenient than anything."


    "Don''t like therapy?" Said the General stepping closer. He was eager to find any cracks in Thompson.


    The Colonel looked up at Tippen from the corner of his eye for a moment. "I don''t like wasting my time." He replied as he began tapping a steady rhythm with his pen.


    At the far end of the room, the Retrofire Officer stood by the end of the desk closest to the wall screen. "This is a bunch a bullshit." He said. "We''re not paid to stand around and do nothing." He crossed his arms to hide his pit stains.


    Next to him, one of the Comms Officers said, "What does it matter? Procedure is procedure and we get paid, it''s not like we have a union rep or anything. As far as I''m concerned I''m just glad to be out the chair for a bit." He tried unsuccessfully to pop his back.


    "Yeah I guess." Said the Officer, he scratched the side of his red beard. "Hey Marshall, What do you think they''re talking about over there?" He gestured his head to Thompson and the General.


    Marshall looked over his shoulder at the two old men. "Don''t know" He turned back around and cracked his fingers individually. "But if it isn''t about sending us home or getting this over with, I don''t care." He said impassively. Marshall was part of the group that agreed with Clarke. That this whole situation was the result of an old man who overthinks. "Maybe the Colonels finally stepping up and getting rid of the grunts." He looked back towards Tippen. "I tell ya, that General bothers me."


    "Bothers you how?" The RF Officer leaned a little closer, antsy to hear what he had to say.


    "C''mon Franco, you''ve seen how he talks. Guy thinks that his rank makes him everyone''s boss. Damn good thing Thompson isn''t so easily pushed around. Clarke on the other hand..." Marshall stole a chair and leaned backwards over it.


    Franco stuck his hands in his pockets and fiddled with his key fob. "Maybe he''s jealous. I mean... who hasn''t wanted to be an astronaut at least once in their life."


    Marshall gave up on his impromptu yoga pose. "Maybe." He looked back at Franco, the light of the screen cascading through his remaining tufts of hair. "Or maybe the General knows more than he lets on."


    Franco stifled a laugh. "You''re starting to sound like Thompson." He couldn''t hold back a sly grin.


    "Shut up." Marshall said annoyed. He left to refill his water leaving Franco alone to continue watching Thompson and Tippen.


    Thompson impatiently checked his watch again. "Clarke should''ve been back by now. The hell''s taking him so long?"


    Tippen loomed over the Colonel like a hawk in an attempt to make him uncomfortable. "I notice there''s a lot you let Officer Clarke get away with. Can''t say it''s something I''d do."


    "Your men have guns, mine have pens. Clarke''s good at his job, that''s all I need. Anymore questions General?" He said with an acidic tone.


    Tippen backed up slightly from the desk. "Didn''t mean to offend Colonel. I''m just saying that if you let someone off the hook too many times, they''re not going to give you the respect of your rank and position."


    "Hmm." Thompson paid no attention to his critique. Right as he went to check his watch for a third time, Clarke came through the doors with a fervent haste. He made his way to Thompsons desk, nearly tripping on the stairs as he came up. He carried with him Hell.


    "Where are they?" He nearly shouted. Clarke had a look between accusation and worry.


    "Calm down, where are what?" Thompson tried his best to keep looking at the screen, but Clarkes demeanor demanded his attention.


    "The files Colonel. I looked through every available box we had and I couldn''t find anything, so I checked the nearby offices and still, nothing."


    Thompson stood up. "That''s not possible we just put them in records yesterday."


    Clarke shrugged. "Well they''re not in records." He looked the Colonel up and down. "Did you have someone else take them?"


    "What for Clarke?" Thompson rubbed his face, and passed his hands over his head, resting them on the back of his neck. "If we don''t have any of their files, were gonna have to do this differently." The Colonel thought for a moment. He turned back towards the crowd and looked around. He called out, "Edwards and Hawley can you both come up here please?" He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a notebook and some pencils. As they approached, he tore out a few sheets of paper and handed them to the two along with pencils. "Pull up a chair next to me." He ordered.


    Edwards grabbed a nearby chair and wheeled it up to the desk on the right side of Thompson. As Hawley went to do the same she asked to the Colonel, "What are we doing?"


    Thompson placed the notebook on the desk and searched for another pencil, pushing aside a picture taken the day of the launch, but he couldn''t find anything. Frustrated he closed the drawer and grabbed a pen from his shirt pocket. "We are going to do the mission debriefings from here." He looked at both of them, faint light from the monitors reflected off their glasses, hiding their eyes. "While I ask them questions, you, me, and Edwards will write down every detail they say. After each ''interview'' we''re going to go over what they say and see if they match the others." Thompson looked back at the screen, at the faces. "And whoever''s off, that''s the one. That''s our invader."


    Thompson put on his headset and looked at Tippen, giving him a nod before reaching for the comms. Holding his hand over the switch, he glanced at Clarke, but he didn''t look long enough to gauge a reaction. He clicked it on, and a pop was heard as the speakers connected in tandem with the microphone, beginning a chain of events that would permanently alter NASA, and call into question everything Thompson knew and held dear.

 Chapter 4: Conduct

    Thompson had always been interested in history. While he never expressed any interest in becoming any sort of expert or scholar of humanities past, he was still intrigued by the evolution from huts to towns to kingdoms. He always felt that history was like a road at nighttime, that the future always had a path, even if you couldn''t see it in the deep dark. Each significant landmark or development of humanity was a streetlamp, illuminating the path just enough to see ahead, and making the past a breadcrumb trail of lights, leading all the way back to beginning. Thompson often wondered what landmarks he would see in his lifetime. Like most people, he wanted to see how far forward the road goes, how far humanity will travel. But his lifestyle wasn''t one of involvement, he very much preferred to be a passenger. Yet, by sitting at his monitor and speaking to the Apollo-22, Thompson had become involved, and he was staring deep into the night.


    Thompson looked at his watch; fifteen minutes had passed since he had re-entered the building in what felt like a bubble outside of time. His watch was the only thing that gave him assurance of the outside world. Time was a tool like any other; patience made cracks in the dam, canyons from streams, and the mightiest trees from saplings. Even the greatest deceivers had their lies unwoven by time; all it took was patience. "Apollo-22, do you read? This is Colonel Thompson. I repeat, Apollo-22. This is Colonel Thompson." Thompson sat with anticipation that was matched only by the silence that smothered the room. The speakers popped on with response.


    "Mission Control this is Apollo-22 ''The Angel'', we hear you loud and clear. Any update on our situation Colonel?" The disembodied voice belonged to Wilkes; he spoke with a cadence unburdened with the stresses or anxieties that plagued the pencil pushers.


    Thompson answered back. "No major developments Commander. As of now we are to continue on with the post mission debriefings, held over comm systems while we discuss safety measures." Thompson stayed hunched over his desk, hand clutched tight onto his headset. Next to him, Edwards and Hawley scribbled away at their transcripts of the communications.


    "Understood Colonel. How long can we expect to stay in here?" Wilkes asked.


    Thompson wasted no time in saying, "Lets focus on the questions for now, Commander."


    There was brief pause, then a pop. "Understood. How do we wanna start?"


    Thompson sat for a moment. "We''ll do them one at a time. We''ll start with you first, followed by Langois, then Simmons and Robins last. The cockpit camera still works, we''ll use that for now." In the middle of writing a sentence, Edwards'' forceful penmanship crumbled his pencil tip. He quickly grabbed a new one. His hands slightly quivered as he continued to write.


    "Yes sir. This one survived the landing then?" Said Wilkes. Clarke, meanwhile, stood idle by Thompson, arms crossed and clicking a pen in one hand. Tippen only watched.


    Thompson said back, "Yes. While the others were damaged, camera 1 and camera 4 are both still operational. When we start, we''ll turn them back on." Thompson turned to Hawley and Edwards. "Are you ready?" They both nodded. He hit a sequence on his keyboard. His spiderlike fingers hitting every key without moving his hand. "Connecting Camera 1 feed with Mission Control." He gave a thumbs up to the two seated next to him, they did the same. Thompson looked to Clarke; part of him wanted to include the officer, he knew his uses, but Clarkes actions today held priority. Clarke refused to meet his gaze.


    The screen on the wall went pupil dark as it connected to the opened eyes of the camera feed. An image of a man filled the screen, he was in an orange space suit sitting in the cockpit of the Apollo-22 command module. Thompson and the others immediately recognized Wilkes, his red hair had fluffed up from rubbing against the edges of the helmet. Beside him, another astronaut sat by one of the many control panels, looking with great interest at the diodes, switches, and flickering lights. With the flashing lights and shifting numbers, the ship was speaking in its own language. A dialect that few could understand and even fewer could speak. Those who spent entire lifetimes learning the dead tongues of the ancient world would be at a total impasse to speak the language of modernity that was the Apollo-22; it was a language only meant for those who travel the stars.


    Thompson carefully watched the two astronauts. He hadn''t yet told them they connected the cameras. He waited to see if, through body language, they would do something alien. Maybe they would move in an inhuman way, or breathe differently. As much as Thompson would have watched for hours to see if this could prove anything, he could not waste anymore time. He radioed in. "Camera 1 is up and running Commander Wilkes, could you be so kind as to give us a wave?" Wilkes raised his hand and waved it back and forth in front of the lens. "Can you see me Colonel?" He asked. Thompson replied, "Yes we do Commander. We have also decided it should be best if these interviews are done individually. Could you please have Langois leave the cockpit?"


    "Yes sir." Said Wilkes. He turned to his co-pilot and asked them to leave. Langois got up from her seat, and as she walked away from the console, she shot an almost knowing glance at the camera. Thompson caught the slight frame of suspicion but after they left, Wilkes turned back to the camera, cutting off Thompson before he could question any further. "Ok, ready when you are Colonel."


    Thompson adjusted himself, in his mind, what was most important was to be casual and to not raise any suspicion of the crew. "Beginning. Please state your name, rank, and occupation."


    "Aaron T. Wilkes, Lieutenant junior grade, Commander pilot of the Apollo-22, codename ''Angel.'' "


    "What was the purpose of your mission?"


    Wilkes sat with his hands interlocked in his lap. "To pilot the NASA shuttle, Apollo-22, to Earth''s moon for the purpose of research and habitability for potential future military bases."


    "Good." Thompson muttered to himself. "Describe the flight from launch to lunar landing."


    Wilkes spoke clearly and carefully. "The Apollo-22 launched May 15th at approximately 9:45 am, it was a Saturday. The initial launch went very smoothly. After lift off, the ships auto-pilot took control and enacted a roll program to reduce stress on the wings. Roughly two minutes post lift off, the two external boosters detached, and the shuttles primary boosters took over propulsion. Once reaching nominal height, the external fuel tank was subsequently detached to launch us further up. Once in orbit, me and Pilot Langois took manual control and we used the Earth''s rotation and gravity to slingshot our vessel on an estimated six day journey to the moon."


    Thompson let a few more seconds pass to let Hawley and Edwards to catch up. He continued. "Were there any malfunctions on or in the craft that could have possibly jeopardized the integrity of the ship or endangered the crew?"


    Wilkes twisted his thumbs around each other. "No sir, it was smooth sailing. Although I would like to start a petition for some better in-flight entertainment." Wilkes let out a small chuckle to try and lighten the dour mood.


    Thompson spoke into the mic. "Please try to keep your answers professional Commander."


    "Yes sir. Sorry sir." Wilkes sheepishly said.


    Thompson shifted in his seat. "Describe the mission undertaken by you and your crew upon reaching the Moon."


    Wilkes sat up to match Thompson''s posture. "We made good time. Upon reaching the Moon after 5 days and 14 hours of travel. I and Pilot Langois proceeded to deploy maneuvering techniques to establish our orbit above the lunar surface. After we had achieved nominal orbital speed, Me, Langois, and Simmons then took the lunar pod down to the moons surface alongside a rover vehicle. While Robins, as the Orbital Module pilot, stayed on the primary shuttle to keep communication with both us and the Center."


    While he spoke, Hawley was able to match pace with the Commander while Edwards trailed a few seconds behind.


    Wilkes continued. "Once we had landed on the lunar surface. The three of us began our expedition."


    Thompson, in his curiosity, did what he could to think of anything he said that was incorrect. He found nothing. Maybe Wilkes was clean, maybe he wasn''t. It was too early to say. Thompson wasn''t willing to let Wilkes sit with much. His strategy partially involved asking the questions at a rapid fire pace to keep the astronauts on edge, that it''d be harder for them to keep up any disguises. "Commander, could you proceed in telling the results of the expedition found by you and your team?"


    Wilkes tried to scratch his nose but absentmindedly bumped the glass, he adjusted the neck of the suit. "During our time on the moon, we were able to procure multiple samples of lunar rock which we hope will be suitable for further study." Wilkes paused to clear his throat. "In addition we continued to the zones marked for possible foundation for a lunar base but two of the zones were found undesirable."


    "Why were they undesirable?" Asked Thompson, already knowing the answer.


    "The ground was too soft and there were many variables that, to us, would prove to be detrimental should a base be constructed and we do not recommend construction. The last zone, however, had provided a decent enough ground that would be able to support our desired base. The ground is level, and the depth of lunar sand is shallow enough to be cleared."


    "Do you believe these results to be accurate?"


    "Yes Colonel. The area was promising and I believe that it is as effective a location we can find."


    The Colonel adjusted his line of questioning. "While you and the crew were surveying the land, did you happen to encounter or notice anything out of the ordinary?" Thompson hoped it wasn''t too obvious.


    Wilkes'' expression remained unchanged as he recollected his thoughts. "No sir, I do not believe so. Although, as we reported to you, we did at one point receive a foreign signal."


    The crews encounter with a signal had been documented as any other detail of the mission had been. Seemingly unassuming. And while Thompson was already aware of the signal and its source, he needed to make a baseline story to match with the others come their turn. Thompson pressed for details. "Describe the signal for us please Commander."


    Wilkes drew a short breath, eye glancing slightly up and to the left. "It was the second day of our expedition, Me and Simmons were out scouting the second marked zone." He focused his eyes back to the camera. "As we were testing the grounds stability, we picked up some static on the comms. At first we thought it was interference from residual energy off a stray solar flare or maybe some other cosmic source. But as we traveled closer to the eastern hemisphere of the moons surface, the static changed from a hiss to more of a droning sound." Wilkes shifted in his seat. "Simmons and I decided to investigate further, we got back into the rover and drove east roughly twelve miles until the signal became clearer."


    "Describe what you found." Thompson said.


    "We managed to narrow down the source and found an old Soviet lander. From the looks of it, it had been there a few years. The panels were sun bleached and one of the legs was torn off, likely from space debris or a meteorite. There were scattered boot prints all around, A few trails led to and from the lander in very strange patterns." Wilkes paused, as if trying to remember what he saw was a herculean task. After a few seconds, he shrugged and continued. "It was old so I figured it was from some Russian sample expedition. Either way, Simmons wanted to radio it in but I decided to see if there was anything of value inside."


    Yet another act of insubordination that called for Thompson to handle. The Colonel replied, "Don''t forget Commander, you''re still due for reprimand for contaminating a foreign site without clearance."


    Wilkes tried to soften the act, evoking the image of a child trying to explain a broken vase to an angry parent. "It was stupid I know, but I figured if we called it in, then we''d waste too much time trying to sort out details, and that on the off chance there was something worthwhile in there, then we couldn''t risk losing it. The blame is entirely on me."


    "An issue for later. Proceed with your findings." Thompson wanted to remain on topic.


    "As we got closer to the ship, Simmons was able to decipher the signal. It seemed to be a warning transmission, sent to be picked up by any passing module or astronaut. But what for, we couldn''t find out. As for the ship itself, the door seal was broken, and the port window was shattered. Stranger still was that there was no glass inside the pod and what remained of the silica glass was bent outward from the frame, almost like it was shattered from the inside." Wilkes said. He kept up his bravado, but the Colonel and the others saw through this guise. He was worried.


    "What do you think this implies?" Asked Thompson, further pressuring the commander.


    Wilkes let his eyes wander around the cockpit, he was thinking of an explanation that would satisfy him and NASA alike. "I think... I think that maybe the cosmonauts inside had some malfunction of their lander, and they were so desperate to escape that they brute forced their way out. Maybe, as Occam''s Razor would assume, they just left the lander behind and some stray piece of rock hit a bullseye on the window. We didn''t find anything other than the lander. No suits, no tech, nothing. As for the lander itself, it was still intact but there wasn''t anything useful for us in there, so we returned to our base, sent a report, and continued with our mission."


    Edwards and Hawley wrote on. Hawley, in her hawk-eye focus, was practically forcing herself to blink. Edwards on the other hand had to keep wiping sweat from his palms, a patch of moisture had built up on his pant leg, it wouldn''t be long until he ran out of dry space. Thompson almost stopped the interrogation to give them a break, but that would cost precious seconds.


    The Colonel looked back at the monitor. "We received your initial report from the day of the finding. We sent a message over to our friends in Russia. Asked which lander of theirs was left behind and if they could forward any details on the mission and its crew but..." Thompson stopped. His words cut off just at the end as if someone pulled his voice from his throat. He looked to Clarke, who had a look of concern painted on his face. Hammer to glass, Wilkes'' voice broke through the silence.


    "Colonel?" He said. "What did they say?"


    Thompson cleared his throat, swallowing all hesitation. "The Russian Space Program relayed to us just yesterday that they had no landers present on the moon, and that they have no record of a mission taking place in the area you described."


    Wilke''s had a look of disbelief, which quickly turned to one of confusion. "That''s not possible. I was there, I saw it!" The commanders words were cutoff by the ring of a feedback loop, its wine glass resonance lasted less than half a second but it was enough to cause the entire room to recoil. Thompson dug in his ear with a wrinkled pinky, trying to scrape out any remnants of the noise. He proceeded with his questions.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    "Commander please keep calm. I do not doubt what you saw, but I am, however, wondering if there''s something they''re not telling us. If I had to guess, I''d say that maybe it was an older model from the first Space Race."


    "What about the signal? You said you had sent a file over for them to translate. Did they say anything?"


    "It''s the same as the lander. They claim it isn''t theirs."


    Wilkes spoke into the mic with a half-baked idea. "You think maybe some of their records were lost in the transfer from physical to digital?"


    "No, I don''t think so. Even if the files couldn''t be scanned, they''d still have multiple copies of the mission statements and they''d have recordings at least. Could be possible they''re withholding information, but for what reason, I don''t know." Thompson thought to himself about the Russian program. The unwritten universal rule shared between space programs is that of neutrality, that findings should be shared and the exploration of space goes beyond borders. They are loyal not to themselves, but to development for all mankind. He questioned what could be so important to the Russians that they would break this mutual understanding, knowing the hinderance it causes. These thoughts entangled themselves in Thompsons mind, but he had other matter to discuss. "For now, lets focus on the debriefing please Commander."


    "Yes sir." Said Wilkes, resigning himself to a response only personality.


    Thompson looked to the officers, at them scribbling away on the clipboards. Seeing how Hawley sat ready for the next question and answer, Edwards was still writing. He spoke to the mic. "Could you give me a few moments Commander?" and removed the headset. Thompson reminded himself that he need to use all tools at his disposal. He became aware that Clarke, in all his frustrations, was one who knew efficiency. Seeing how Edwards struggled to keep up with Hawley and the Colonel, he decided the seconds lost were worth it. "Edwards." He said.


    The officer peeked his head around Hawley to look at the Colonel. "Yes sir?"


    "I notice you seem to be struggling a bit with the transcription. I have a new task in mind for you."


    The officer tried to explain himself the Colonel. "Sorry sir. I guess typing is more what I''m used to."


    Thompson waived this off. "It''s nothing to worry about, you don''t need to explain anything. If you would please, I need you to go down to records and search for the files on the Angel and her crew."


    Clarke interjected. "I already looked for them. I told you I didn''t find anything."


    Thompson turned to Clarke. "Yes, but a new pair of eyes is always helpful. He might find something you missed. Didn''t your mom ever magically find something for you? Same rule applies."


    Hawley spoke up. "Whose gonna take over for Edwards? You made it fairly clear you wanted two people for this, sir."


    "Yes I did, which is why I want Clarke to take over where Edwards left off." Thompson looked to the officer. "Do you think you could handle that officer?"


    Clarke hid his surprise. Not being one to pass on an opportunity to prove himself, he accepted. "Yes sir."


    Edwards got up from his chair and passed the seat to Clarke. As Clarke approached, he patted Edwards on the shoulder to reassure him. "It''s okay, you did good, don''t stress yourself. Good luck with the files." He said this with all sincerity.


    Edwards passed Hawley who gave him a thumbs up. As he walked by Tippen, the General stared crudely into the officer, his eyes burned with disdain for the incompetent. Edwards instinctively recoiled, and walked on.


    Thompson opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small key ring. He handed them to Edwards. "These are for the filing cabinets in the back. Don''t take too long." Edwards took them and stuffed them into his pocket, the dangling keys catching on the outer edge of his pants as they were jammed inside.


    "I''ll be back soon. Hopefully we can all get home today." With that, he descended the stairs and walked out the door.


    Thompson turned to Clarke and Hawley. "Ready?" He said, putting his headset back on.


    "Sorry about that Commander, needed to reassign some people. Are you ready to proceed?"


    "Yes sir."


    "Continuing. These next few are basic mental checks. Did you at any point feel incapable of completing the mission?"


    "No sir." Wilkes sat still in his chair.


    "Did you ever have any thoughts of violence towards yourself or the crew?"


    "No sir."


    "Did you at any point feel targeted or threatened by your crewmates?"


    "No sir."


    "Did you at any point feel as if you were being watched, not including interior cameras?"


    "No sir"


    "Do you believe that you are capable of undertaking another mission?"


    "Yes sir."


    Did you ever encounter anything you felt was out of the ordinary while on the moon or in transit to and from the moon?" Thompson paid very close attention to what answer he would give.


    "No sir."


    Tippen lightly placed his fingers on the Colonels shoulder, just enough to get his attention. Speaking for the first time since Clarke''s return, he said "Ask if he ever heard any knocking."


    Thompson was confused. "What? Why?"


    Tippen said nothing and resumed his silence, watching carefully.


    Not fully understanding what the General was getting, Thompson nonetheless asked, "Did you at any point ever hear knocking?"


    At hearing this, Wilkes shifted slightly in his seat, adjusting himself. "No sir. I don''t believe I did."


    Thompson was quick to notice his body language, but moved on.


    "Final question commander, then we''ll move onto Langois. Would you be willing to participate in any future missions for NASA as either a crew member onboard a shuttle or as a mission adviser should you be asked?" Thompson slowly tapped four fingers in succession. A simple interrogation with simple answers. Since he first asked a question, Thompsons heart rate never dropped. It consistently stayed beating a rapid rhythm that felt like it was a few more erratic pumps away from going into cardiac arrest. And Thompson kept himself statue still through it all.


    Wilkes responded. "Yes sir I would. I believe I am fit and capable of undergoing future missions."


    Thompson lifted his hand off the desk and noticed a slight tremor. He clenched his fist to control it. "Thank you for your time Commander Wilkes. When we are ready, and once we get the shuttle figured out, we''ll have you out of there in no time. We thank you for your service completed for NASA. If you would please send Pilot Langois up." Wilkes signed off with another, "Yes sir," and left the cockpit, stretching for a few seconds before vanishing from view. Soon after, he was replaced with the stockier frame of Langois.


    She said. "Mission Control, this is Pilot Danielle Langois reporting for post-mission debriefing. Ready when you are."


    "Thank you Langois, we''ll be with you in just a second." Thompson clicked off the speakers and muted his mic. He looked to Hawley and Clarke. "You get all that?" He asked.


    "Yes sir." They said in unison. They passed their papers to him like students waiting for a grade. Both had kept up a strong pace, and their transcripts were written fully. Thompson looked carefully over their notes, keeping track of details that, while small, he felt were important. He noticed the change in handwriting on the second paper from Edwards'' bold hand to Clarkes small wording. Satisfied, he returned the paper and and handed them additional sheets for the next interrogation.


    Hawley was first to speak to the Colonel. "You saw that right?"


    "I did." Said Thompson.


    "Are we gonna do something about it?"


    "No. Not yet."


    "Can I ask why? He was obviously uncomfortable when you asked about knocking. Why not press him? He''s either lying or hiding something." Hawley accused confidently.


    Thompson looked to her and Clarke. "We can''t jump to conclusions. He moved in his seat, we can''t persecute someone for adjusting themself."


    Clarke backed Hawley up. "But if we keep the pressure up then we might get him to crack."


    "We also need to form our baseline, something to compare the others with. And we can''t be too aggressive, that''ll tip them off. Maybe they''ll be more casual, maybe they''ll be just as offput by us asking about knocking. Or better yet, one of them will tell us what Wilkes wouldn''t, and if they do have a shared experience of encountering something odd, then we''ve found our impostor."


    Clarke added to this. "If there''s an impostor. That''s also banking off the idea that there''s anything to tell."


    Thompson felt himself fighting urge to engage Clarke. "Either way, there''s not enough to make a solid case yet. It''s too early to make any calls. We''re just gonna have to wait." Hawley and Clarke turned to face forward, they began comparing notes. Thompson, however, began to wonder how Tippen knew to ask such a specific question, and if he knew what the commanders reaction would be. He felt trapped. That he was a fish surrounded on all sides by a net that hadn''t yet closed all the way. All he could think to wonder, was who the dreaded fisherman was. He looked to Tippen before looking back to the two officers. "Could you excuse me one moment?" He said.


    Standing up, he turned to Tippen. "General can I talk to you in private?" Together they walked towards the door leading to the hallway, away from where they could be heard. The few eyes around had watched curiously, wondering what were Thompson''s plans for the General as the two exited the room.


    Keeping his voice low, Thompson attempted to wring information from the stone that was Tippen. "Why did you have me ask about knocking?"


    Tippen shrugged. "You''re asking them about strange encounters, maybe there was something they didn''t report. Anything could''ve happened up there."


    "Okay, but how did you know he''d react to it?"


    "Don''t know why you think I did. It''s just a question Colonel. I don''t know anymore than you do." He said.


    "I don''t believe you." The Colonel eyed the man with caution. "What aren''t telling us General?"


    "There''s a lot I''m not telling you. But nothing you need to know. It is my duty to make sure you do this succinctly and without panic, while operating on a strictly need to know basis. Anything more is above your paygrade."


    Thompson cut him off. "Oh bullshit. I am the head of NASA under the United States Government, and it is my duty to make sure this station operates on all cylinders. Countless levels of information and crunched numbers are constantly flowing from here, pinging back and forth across dozens of satellites, all so we can talk to people on the other side of the world. Miles and miles of code is written out in painful detail day after day just to make sure that the ISS doesn''t crash into the ocean and not a single digit can be out of place or the whole damn thing falls apart! And when we strap someone to a rocket, they are counting on us to make sure they can make it to the moon and back. Thousands of years of never ending human innovation and technological advancements have led us here, and all of it comes down to me and how I lead these people. Not you! So cut the shit, and tell me what your hiding!" Thompson was almost screaming. He had been around too long to just let someone talk in circles for the sake ''safety''. Years of military work and bureaucracy had conditioned him to cut through witty remarks, and hardened him to any legalese. When someone like Tippen came along, someone who spoke in vague sentences like a fortune teller, he didn''t want to waste anymore time than he had.


    Tippen sat stone faced, not a single twitch of a facial muscle to hint at any form of expression. He considered, for a moment, the times he had met men like Thompson, walking bundles of anxieties and nerves hidden behind walls of false confidence. How he often found it best to keep these men made of loose wiring snug in their corners of the world. To do otherwise is to poke a wasp nest. He then thought of how Thompson was already on the cusp of coming undone, one final push and the tree falls, taking the nest with it.


    Tippen had grown tired of this man. "Fine. December, ''79. The Apollo-18 returns to Earth, and the US government decides to terminate any and all further plans to go to the Moon. Do you know why they never continued?" He asked.


    "The cost. It was too expensive, wasn''t anything worth the trouble." Thompson said.


    Tippen snickered. "Yes, that''s what they told the public. But we''re the richest country in the world, we had could have funded ten more missions easily and the good taxpayers wouldn''t have even noticed. No, the real reason was much worse. When the crew of the Apollo-15 returned to Earth, the ground crew did a routine footage scan. Watching back the launches and mission tapes, basic stuff. Trying to see if there was anything they missed. And on one of the tapes from the rover cameras, someone noticed something. They saw, just slightly in the background, that something was moving. At first they thought it was space debris, maybe a stray rock had popped up from the wheels. But then it showed up again, a small glint of white trailing after the rover, And if you weren''t paying attention, you''d have lost it in the sea of dust. But we noticed, and whatever it was, it was moving fast. Even worse, it was following them."


    At this point Thompson was drawn in wide eyed by this revelation, his expression matched that of a child being told the truth about Santa.


    The General, noticing the Colonel''s locked attention, went on. "What ever it was seemed to have lost them after a few miles. But on future launches, part of the mission statement, shared between only the director and the crew, was to keep an eye out for any possible organic non-terrestrial life. The astronauts thought it was just some weird precaution, so they never looked too hard. But the possibility still hung in the air."


    "Wait, you said the footage was from the Apollo-15, but the last mission was the Apollo-18."


    "It was, and what the astronauts saw up there is what stopped any future landings. The mission went smoothly all things considered, they didn''t see anything unusual and they weren''t followed. But right as they were tying things up and getting ready to depart, the shuttles commander, Vargas, heard a knock at the door. At first he though it was the pilot Bauer, but when he went to look, Bauer was also inside, staring at whatever it was outside the module. When Vargas looked, he saw a man in a US astronaut suit banging on the door. It was a three man mission and their third was in lunar orbit. Vargas said that whoever it was in the suit was begging to be let in. Going on and on about how he was their friend, and he started bringing up old memories from training. It almost worked, but the thing outside the door slipped up. Their suit had Bauer''s name on it. The two kept the door sealed. Vargas and Bauer had to do their entire relaunch routine with that thing screaming outside on the door. It never stopped hitting the walls of the module, and it never stopped yelling to be let in. But when they launched to be picked up, Vargas looked out the window to see if they were still down there, and you know what he saw? Nothing. No suit, no man, not even footprints. Like it had never existed."


    Thompson was in shock, he stared at the floor with eyes unfocused. His words weakly fell out of his mouth. "You''re lying." he tried his best to deny it. "You''re lying." He repeated.


    "To what end?" Asked the General.


    Thompson looked back up. "I don''t know. To make me lose it? To try and wrestle this from my hands so you can do whatever it is you do. I don''t know but you''re lying."


    Tippen tried to come down to Thompsons level. "I wish I was, I really do. But that''s what we''re dealing with. And now you know. You happy?"


    Thompsons shock soured into anger. "Why wasn''t I told about this? In the years I''ve been here why was this never even mentioned?"


    "After the 18 returned, the crew gave their accounts of the mission and the encounter. Bauer denied ever seeing anything, and Vargas damn near went insane. He mentioned once about how he felt like something was pulling him to open the door, like he was under a spell, and he had to fight his basic instincts. He also mentioned that when the fake Bauer started talking about things they''ve done, he said he could remember doing them. But the feeling went away when they left the Moon''s surface. The whole thing was about to be spilled to journalists and the public but a bunch of suits higher up had the records classified to the highest level and all recordings of their interviews wiped. More than anything they wanted this to be buried. So much so that they canned lunar missions and made sure only a select few people were allowed to know." Tippen spoke with such little compassion for the astronauts, it was hard to think that the man had any empathy at all. He could have just as easily been talking about the weather in all its banality.


    "So this was kept from the directors? The public I understand, but us?" Thompson wondered if any of the trust he held for his superiors was worth any effort. "Why on Earth would they do that?"


    "They figured they wouldn''t be able to keep a secret. That someone might be too altruistic and spill the beans so to speak."


    "It''s a director''s job to do what''s best they could have handled it."


    "For someone like you, that''s incredibly naive to think. You of all people should know the consequences if something that ever got out."


    Thompson looked to the sky as if to ask for answers from a higher power or some ultimate revelation. But he was met with cold silence and a sore neck. There was no answer, no grand scheme, just him, the general, and what''s next. He rubbed the top of his shoulder, trying to work out knots to no avail. His thoughts weighed heavy on his mind. Until now it was easy to assume that no matter what, he could do what''s best because his superiors had his back, that they trusted him. But now, faced with something beyond anything else, something that those same superiors would rather bury and hide in a dark corner rather than try to understand it. He didn''t know what to do next. This was a feeling Thompson had hoped he had left behind the day he was assigned to the directorship of NASA. Now that the sense of loss of command had arrived suddenly and without warning. His pride became a crumbling castle. And he was afraid.


    Thompson looked back to Tippen, who had patiently let the Colonel suffer. "Lets go back inside. Before they start to assume."


    "After you Colonel." Said Tippen.


    The two men entered the room. Clarke was first to greet them. "All clear Colonel?" He said, not even looking at Tippen.


    "Yes. Thank you Clarke." Together they returned to Thompsons desk. Ascending the stairs one after the other, their shoes stepping in tandem like soldiers marching to war.


    Thompson sat down, adjusted his seat, and put his headset back on. The foam earpads squished with cold sweat as they form fitted to his ears. Next to Thompson, Hawley put away a calculator and rolled her pencil in anticipation. Next to her, Clarke took his seat and tapped his pencil on the desk three times, a personal routine for good luck. He thumbed the corner of his paper, giving a nod to Thompson in readiness.


    Thompson looked to Tippen, who had returned to his stance behind the desk. The Colonel was still unsure what to make of the man. He felt a sense of hidden motive but for what exactly, he doesn''t know. Putting suspicion aside, he looked back to the screen watching as Langois sat patiently in the cockpit of the Angel. He thought of how much this mission meant to her specifically. He hoped that if anyone was a mimicry, that she of all would be true human.


    He closed his eyes tight to clear his head and wash away the guilt of connections. He opened his eyes slowly, looking to Hawley and Clarke. "Should we wait for Edwards before we begin?"


    They looked at Thompson in confusion.


    Thompson thought they didn''t hear him. "Edwards. Should we wait for him to get back?"


    Their expressions only deepened. Hawley spoke first. "Who''s Edwards?"