Date: June 1, 2440 – 1:00 PM CST
The boardroom gleamed under soft lighting—glass, steel, and quiet wealth polished to a high sheen. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed a rebuilt Chicago skyline, all sharp spires and vertical gardens fed by rooftop cisterns. Along the far wall, a bank of holographic feeds rotated between orbital tracking data, commodity prices in both Earth and alien currencies, and the company’s market share in 3D relief. A pair of hovering security drones drifted in the corners, their faint hum joining the low susurrus of filtered air.
At the head of the table, CEO Adrian Kallos tapped a fingertip against his mug—polished obsidian with the old Amazon “smile” etched in gold—and finally broke the silence.
“What more have we learned?” he asked without looking up, eyes scanning the floating telemetry feeds as orbital pings and ship movement data refreshed in real time.
General Leonard Octavius Wood, tall and lean, looked more at ease than anyone had a right to be in a room full of corporate apex predators. Then again, he wasn’t actually in the room—he was projected in from a Boston holotank, the faint shimmer at his outline the only tell. He leaned forward, forearms resting with military precision on the polished table.
“Marmaduke received a full situational briefing from the V’ren ship captain. According to him, there’s a galactic interchange about eight light-hours outside our system. Not heavily patrolled, but it gets steady traffic—traders, independents, people avoiding the major lanes and their tolls. Think of it as a rough truck stop just off a hyperlane. No amenities worth bragging about, but everyone passes through sooner or later.”
“That’s a lovely visual,” muttered Director Vasquez, arms folded, nails tapping against the armrest. “And we didn’t notice this why?”
“Because there’s a prohibition—possibly codified galactic law—against interfering with pre-FTL civilizations,” Wood replied. “We were invisible until sixty-five years ago, when beacon tech went live for the first time. That lit us up. Before that, our old analog signals—TV, radio, satellite comms—were just background noise. But the beacons leaked into galactic comm bands. We didn’t ping as a threat, but we pinged enough to get noticed. Enough for someone to mark the map.”
“So they’ve been binge-watching Earth like it’s retro anime?” Vasquez said, one brow arched.
“Maybe,” Wood allowed. “But only a few thousand on the grounded ship speak English or any human language—more are learning. A lot more will by the time the other ships arrive. They’ve got synaptic infodump devices. Direct-to-brain language acquisition. My contacts at MIT say the theory’s not only plausible—it’s something we’ve trialed on brain-injury patients. The problem’s pain. Extreme pain.”
He paused just long enough for the word to settle. “Marmaduke volunteered for the procedure this morning. Said it was like cramming two years of language classes into a few hours. Compared the base structure to Dutch if you already speak English.”
“I studied Dutch once,” Vasquez murmured. “He’s not wrong.”
“He also said he’d rather eat gravel than do it again,” Wood added. “But he did it anyway—in full view of their command staff. It wasn’t just about communication. It was a gesture. A signal of allegiance. And they noticed.”
Kallos’s gaze sharpened. “So, survivable but unpleasant. What about translation tech?”
“Their personal translators are exceptional—already preloaded with English, thanks to the V’ren comms officer staying with Marmaduke. He’s sent a few back with our flight teams. I have one at MIT now, another en route to this lab. His first proposal as their representative was to license them for sale through Amazon. He’s confident dozens, maybe hundreds, of Earth languages could be loaded into each module.”
“That would sell,” Evans observed. “Even if all it did was Earth languages, it’s a market disruptor.”
“It would,” Wood agreed. “We’ve already run tests—French in, Korean out, fed back to English with no loss of nuance. The most accurate translation tech we’ve ever touched. If it could translate feline, we’d be billionaires twice over.” His mouth twitched in something close to a smile. “I’d like to embed one of our own comms specialists with his team.”
“You have someone in mind?”
“Noor Aziz. Columbia. Linguistic AI expert. IC-adjacent. Under quiet contract for years. Also—she was in the same sorority as my wife. I have her number.”
“Is she subtle?” Vasquez asked.
“She’s terrifying,” Wood said simply. “That’s why I like her.”
Kallos nodded. “How do you want to approach?”
“I’ll contact her directly. My wife will smooth the handoff. Noor’s expensive, but she won’t say no. No one in her field would.”
Director Eberhardt of Legal cleared his throat. “Before you finalize her, I want to slide my niece onto the comms team. Columbia undergrad in communications. We’ll call it an internship. If she hits the right social circle, we gain a soft line into their domestic structure.”
“Noted,” Kallos said. “Who else is making the trip?”
“I’ll be at Marmaduke’s Saline County Security Summit. Three days from now.”
“That’s fast,” Vasquez said. “How?”
Wood’s shoulders rose and fell. “Slow country charm wrapped around fast strategic thinking. This morning, while we were still gaming out first contact optics, he was already walking the sisters through the top floor of his house. Put L’tani in his old bedroom. You know what that says about placement in V’ren terms? She does. And her expression told me she got it.”
“I thought he represented our interests,” Kallos said, voice dropping half a degree colder.
“He represents his own,” Wood replied. “Always has. I warned you.”
Across the table, Matheson tapped the polished surface, pulling up a live feed. “He told me this morning—quote—stay in the big chair and play the welcoming statesman, let him hand things out his way—unless we want the other megacorps thinking we’re cutting them out.”
Vasquez blinked. “He said that to your face?”
“Yes. And he was right.”
Matheson didn’t smile. “Google, Samsung, Tata—they’re already pinging his assistant for access. He asked for an expanded comms staff. I approved it.”
“You’re managing him personally?”
“I always manage new division-level assets directly. It’s policy.”
“Do you trust him?” Vasquez asked.
“No,” Matheson said. “But I respect him. He’s smart, deliberate, and honest in ways that make him dangerous. His goals are not our goals. He’s not building for profit. He’s building for his people. And when he’s done, he won’t need us.”
The room went still, save for the faint hiss of the climate control.
Kallos finally leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Then we give him what he needs—and keep one eye on what he wants. I want updates. Regular. From Noor. From the girl. From Marmaduke himself. Make it happen.”
The meeting ended without another word.
