Johnathan "John" P. Raleigh
john.raleigh@uw.edu
Age: 41 Hair: Brown Eyes: Green
Height: 5' 11" Weight: 160 lb

Education
MD - Johns Hopkins School of Medicine
PhD, Functional Anatomy - Johns Hopkins School of Medicine
BS, Biology - University of California, Los Angeles

Experience
Senior Trauma Surgeon, UW Medical Center
Trauma Surgeon, UW Medical Center
Surgical Intern, UW Medical Center
Field Medic, NATO Armed Forces

Vignette
John almost slipped to his knees. The ground underneath his feet shuddered violently from the force of a nearby VTOL personnel carrier firing its main engines. A blue funnel of flame erupted from the massive thrusters down into the ground, crystallizing the soil below. John felt the sound deep in his gut as the ship slowly lifted off and aimed its nose for the blue sky above. He sighed in relief as the pressure on his chest lifted.

"Damn, never get used to that," said the heavily armored trooper next to him. "You OK there Doc? You look a little rattled."

"I'm fine, thanks," he said, straightening up. "We need to get to work, where's our first triage zone?" John reached into a shoulder pouch and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Hell, this one looks bad," he said as he scanned the battlefield surrounding him. Flaming heaps of twisted wreckage scarred the landscape, and bodies in various states of injury littered the space between them.

The soldier pulled a tablet out from a backpack at his feet. "Orders say we start in the northeast and work our way down from there. Prioritize officers and technicians, elminate any enemy forces found. Standard ops."

John lifted the cigarette to his lips and flicked his lighter's sparker. "Let's get a move on then," he said, exhaling a stream of smoke.

A quick hike to the northeast revealed the extent of the damage. Of the few survivors, many would be missing limbs - or worse. John knelt down next to an unconscious officer with a four foot long shard of metal through his leg and blood pooling on the ground around him. He clicked a vial of local anesthetic into his injector a set it against the man's leg. About to depress the plunger, he felt a weak hand on his shoulder. "Who... who are you?"

"I'm a doctor. Relax, this will be over soon." John pressed down and with a quick hiss the drug entered the man's thigh muscle.

"Please... what happened? Where is... everyone else?" The man was now struggling to stand up - the anesthetic acted quickly.

"I need you to stay still. Calm down, or you'll lose blood more quickly." John reached down for a fresh lancet. The sun flashed off the blade as he brought it to the man's leg and began a series of small, precise cuts around the shaft of metal. "All I can tell is you the little I know. Rumor is Command recieved some bad intelligence and underestimated the amount of Dusters in this sector. Didn't know they'd have so much firepower either."

"How many dead?"

"No official numbers yet. I think we may be leaving more behind than we're taking back."

Tears began to well in the man's eyes. John would have liked to have thought it was from the shaft of steel through his leg, but he knew better. He had seen enough broken men on the field to know one when he saw it. He realized then just how young the officer really was.

"H-how, how could this happen? This isn't right. This isn't what I thought it would be." The man reached up to rub at his forehead, leaving a black streak of grime behind.

"What did you expect when you graduated that academy? Parades and medals? Now, hold on to something, this is going to hurt." John grasped the metal shard and began drawing it upwards and out of the officer's leg. The man screamed raggedly, tears now flowing openly onto his dirty cheeks.

"There, done." John tossed the bloody spear down and began packing gauze into the now open wound. He wrapped a clean bandage around the man's leg, then poured water into a plastic cup from his bag. "Drink this. You need to rehydrate. You should be able to make it until they evac you to a proper med center. Stay here, don't try to walk. Don't touch the wound, and try to stay calm."

"Wait, you can't just leave me here. Please... I need to see my family." The man's eyes were wide with fear and he was gasping for breath; he began to shift forward again.

John placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "I need to attend to others. You'll be safe here." John passed the man a small pill. "If the pain returns, take this." Looking up, he saw his escort motion to come over.

The soldier waved with his data pad. "Time's up. HQ says there's another group of Dusters inbound, and we don't want to be here when they arrive."

John frowned. "And what about all these injured?"

The soldier was quiet for a moment behind his helmet. "Evac is on its way. That's not your concern." He motioned towards a hill around 100 meters away where a much smaller VTOL was now landing, still hot from atmospheric re-entry. "There's our ticket out, come on, let's go."

John glanced back towards the man he had treated. "Fuck this," he said under his breath, then turned and walked towards the ship.

15 Years Later

The steady pulse of a heart rate monitor provided a fitting backdrop for the tension in the operating room as surgeon Johnathan Raleigh completed his 64th heart transplant. "All right, let's close her up." The nurses and technicians around him spun into action as he stepped back and released a breath that felt like it had been held for hours. Even after five years as a field medic, then fifteen as a trauma surgeon at UW Medical Center, he still got an adrenaline rush from the pressure of another person's life in his hands.

He stepped into the adjoining prep room and peeled off his bloody gloves, tossing them into a biohazard receptacle built into the wall. Turning on the faucet, the feeling of warm water over his tired hands was exquisite. He couldn't avoid a glance in the mirror above the sink as he scrubbed. At 41 years old, he had more than just a dash of gray in his otherwise dark brown, almost black, hair. In his opinion, he had never been particularly handsome. Why try to match up to the sculpted perfection of those fortunate enough to have been engineered beautiful? He did, however, prize the deep sea green eyes he had inherited from his mother. They were a reminder of her, and a source of motivation to aspire to the same high ideals she set for herself when she was alive.

He finished up changing into his standard jeans and black button-down and stepped out of the prep room into one of the many hallways of the medical center. He looked at his watch. 22:46. His shift had ended sixteen minutes ago, and he was on-call for the upcoming weekend. Maybe he would have a chance to relax a bit after all.

"Congratulations on another successful surgery, Doctor Raleigh. Or should I refer to you by your full title? What's it these days, again? Senior Trauma Surgeon? Well, they got the senior part right at least."

John turned to see a man about his age with a shock of blonde hair and a mischevious smile that he knew all too well. His broke into a smile of his own. "Hello Will. Good to see you looking so clean, I would have thought you'd be covered in puke from the neonatal unit."

Will grimaced. "My god, if I have to spend another day pulling those little bastards out I swear I'm going to resign and go into law like my father always told me to."

John laughed, "I'm sure you'll make it through - we all have to pay our dues every once in a while."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. So, you off as well? Want to hit up that new bar in downtown tonight? I hear one of the lab techs got a second job there and really knows her way around a pipette, if you catch my drift." Will smirked and began walking towards the exit, gesturing for John to follow.

John walked after him. "Really? A pipette? That's pretty awful, even for you. Anyway, even if I wanted to, I couldn't. I'm on call for the weekend, so no joy."

Will frowned. "On call? Again? You work too much man, time to take a freaking break."

John laughed again. "That's just how it is."

They stepped out into the brisk night air, the lights of Seattle shining like jewels. John stopped and turned to Will.

"Well, hope you have fun tonight. Remember, I'm not bailing you out if you end up in the drunk tank."

"C'mon John, that's what friends are for. Well, whatever. Enjoy a weekend spent sitting in your apartment. I know whatever you're working on is apparently more important than a girlfriend, or really any social life whatsoever. But, if you decide you want to get some fresh air, give me a call." Will turned to leave, waving lazily as he headed out into the parking lot towards his low-altitude shuttle.

John shook his head and hailed a taxi. He let his mind wander as they flew through the massive superstructure that was the city. Out among the stars and planets. Out beyond Pluto. What was there? He had gotten to see such a small amount of it during his stint as a field medic, in the dust and despair of Mars, and everything he saw was the worst of what the galaxy had to offer. He knew there must be more, some greater meaning, and he wondered if he could find it out there among all those sparkling jewels.

He punched in the code to his apartment door and immediately flopped down on the couch. Reaching for a roll of paper towel, he tore one off and quickly brought it to his mouth as he coughed deeply. Pulling it away, he saw the usual flecks of blood. "Damn." He tossed it into a waste basket and lit a cigarette, staring up towards the ceiling. It was time for a change.

Gideon Rathbone Ellis
g.r.ellis@nsa.gov (Former)
Age: 41 Hair: Blond Eyes: Brown
Height: 5' 10" Weight: 170 lb

Education
PhD - Xenolinguistics and the Outside Context Problem, University of Nevada
MA, Cryptanalysis - University of Baltimore
BA, Linguistics - University of Virginia

Experience
Cryptographic Analyst, NSA
Analyst, DISA (Defense Information Systems Agency)
Specialist (Intelligence), U.S. Army

Vignette

"You're a hard man to find, Dr. Ellis." The soldier is Texan by his drawl, but his vowels are tighter than most. Ellis blinks and blots the morning sun away from his eyes with a palm. The soldier is a silhouette, a black tower between the oaks. Ellis finds himself thinking of the Moonlight Killer.

"That was kind of the idea," he mumbles, pushing his way past the taller man. The soldier (Ellis catches the name Fouke on his chest as he goes by) has maybe six inches and twenty pounds on him, and the sub-machine gun that hangs loosely in his grip weighs heavy with silent promise. Ellis had seen enough to know what those could do to people and Fouke's masters would know that. Even unloaded, the mere presence of the weapon was a message, a signal, a gesture. A hand on the shoulder.

Ellis's feet crunched through dead autumn leaves as he takes the gentle slope down towards the road. He knew the path well, it was his main contact with the sleepy little town of Gray, Maine. On a clear day from his cabin, he could just about see the grave of The Stranger but it was early in the day and mist still hung on the ground. He heard crunching behind him and knew he was being followed.

A smoke-filled conference room in November. The middle of the night. Another all-nighter that becomes more than that. Coffee and rolled-up sleeves. The veins on Jessop's forehead as he bellows.

Of course Fouke wouldn't have come alone. Another man is sitting against the hood of Ellis's 2005 Range Rover. Younger, maybe early 30's. Dark jacket and tan chinos, bulge under the left shoulder. Feathered hair, smooth chin. Ellis scratches his own chin subconciously. No name badge on this one, but he has 'spook' written all over him. "Mountain man's not a good look for you, Doc." His vowels say Harvard; his shoes say Langley. Mr. Spook holds out a hand. "Porter."

Ellis doesn't take it. He unlocks the driver's seat and gets in. Porter gets in the passenger seat like they're old buddies, without word or permission. Fouke materialises in the back seat at some point. Ellis starts the engine. They roll down towards Gray a ways. "I thought government policy was there was no such thing as aliens." Ellis keeps his voice flat and casual, as if he was commenting on the colour of the clouds boiling in from the east, pregnant with rain.

"It is, and there aren't. Left here." Porter narrates further instructions that Ellis wordlessly follows. The route takes him off the road to Gray and towards the Route 114. From there it was south towards Scarborough. About an hour into the drive and the rain hits, pelting hard and fast. As if taking that as a sign, Porter speaks again. "I read your thesis, by the way. Foukes here hasn't."

Three sleepless nights at a SETI terminal poring over line graphs. A heartbeat in background cosmic noise. Too much coffee.

"He cleared for it?"

"Sure, why not? Aliens don't exist, right?" Porter smirks. Ellis at Fouke through the rearview mirror. The larger man is staring eyes forward, like he had been for the last hour. Ellis couldn't see the gun but he could imagine it low, pointed at his back. He struck Ellis as the kind of guy who didn't need context for orders, just orders. The kind of useful sociopath the military had spent decades and millions of dollars to properly identify so their awfulness could be deployed appropriately against state enemies. So long as Porter gave no order, Foukes would be fine. But Porters gives the order and the Book of Revelations gets a few new lines referring to bloodbaths across Maine highways.

A career spent in SIGINT. A psychiatric diagnosis arriving in the mail. A paper trail of evidence for doctor's visits and anti-psychotic prescriptions that never existed. A letter of termination in the same post package as confirmation of his doctorate. A small green triangle sticker on the top left corner of a manilla dossier.

In his head, Ellis does the math. A highly qualified and experienced intelligence analyst, with a deniable backstory built into his medical records. Someone previously vetted but with enough distance from the intelligence community to appear independent. It didn't take a genius to figure out where this was going. "I assume I already have a ticket?"

The folder hits the dashboard with a dry clap. Ellis glances off the road briefly and catches the same green triangle sticker on the top right corner. Porter smiles. "I thought after so long in the woods, your bank account would be looking a little low. Not like you were teaching anywhere with that paranoid schizophrenia on your record. So, I got you a job..."




Margaret “Woods” Collingwood
[REDACTED]
Age: 27 Hair: Red Eyes: Green
Height 5’ 10 Weight 150 lb

Education
Bachelor of Electronic Engineering – CalTech
Bachelor of Defence and Strategic Studies – West Point

Experience
US Marine Corps – Counter Intelligence
SOCOM – Recon and COIN
NATO SOG


Vignette
The rifles cracked mournfully in the early morning air. Maggie watched the proceedings from a safe distance, reluctant to admit she was present. In the green field of the cemetery a flag draped coffin stood beside a recently excavated grave. The aged and grieving parents of Master Seargent Thomas Glenn received the folded flag with appropriate solemnity. Beside them stood the sister he could never stand and a trio of children who had hardly known him. They too were trying to look solemn, though the youngest girl seemed more scared by the gunfire.

The bugler began the familiar tones of the last post and Mrs Glenn buried her head in her husbands shoulder. With dignified slowness the coffin began to sink into the earth. The plastic box was actually empty. The grieving family had been told that Seargent Glenn had died in a training accident. Maggie knew that Glenn had actually died in a Russian communication facility in Dagestan. He had been cornered by the facilities security before he could extract. Faced with death or capture Glenn had opted to trigger the eraser charge he carried. The potent thermite/phosphorus charge had killed him instantly; eliminating all evidence that Thomas Glenn had ever existed. Ashes to Ashes Dust to Dust.

The mission psychologists hadn’t been certain that a soldier would be willing to trigger the eraser charge when the situation called for it. Thomas would have appreciated that his last act in the world was to fuck with the pshycs. Maggie bought the flask to her lips, taking a long draft of whiskey and letting it burn her throat. The car door beside her opened. She ignored it, watching for the last glimpse of the coffin as it sunk into the earth.

“Woods, you could be out there you know,” the calm voice of Major Brookings told her. Brookings was an intelligence wonk but he was alright. He had run the series of black ops which had culminated in Glenn’s death. The brass certainly though the program was worth the cost but soldiers, like Thomas Glenn and Maggie Collingwood and even, yes – Major Brookings, didn’t ask that question. Ours is not to wonder why and all that.

“Could be,” she agreed, “but I don’t want to lie to the poor bastards parents.”

Brookings nodded, a place holder rather than any comment on the situation. Lying was part of the job, just as much as anything else.

“I’m sorry he didn’t make it Woods, he was a good man,” Brookings continued. Maggie turned to face him at last. He was a thin man, his face ascetic and hollow like a monk of old. It was impossible to tell how truthful the sentiment was. Possibly it was heartfelt but the professional veneer of the long term spook didn’t peel easily.

“He was my friend,” she said simply. How good or bad Thomas Glenn had been didn’t really matter. There was a long awkward pause. Maggie filled it with another mouthful of whiskey. Brookings cleared his throat.

“Did Glenn tell you where he was being posted after the Dagestan operation?” Ah the point at last.

“Do you want me to say yes or no? I don’t suppose anyone is going to bust him for loose lips now.” Brookings ignored that with commendable restraint. He appreciated she was under stress.

“You were our second pick for that posting and now your number one. We don’t have another operator with your skill mix, I know it’s a long haul and space service is rough, if you need time…”

“Sign me up,” she said instantly. Meeting the older man’s eyes for the first time, she slipped the flask of whiskey back into her uniform pocket. In the background a second volley rang out as the coffin settle into the earth. Bid the soldiers shoot.

Adeline H. Carbier
Adeline.Carbier@SandiaLaboratories.org
Age: 36 Hair: Auburn Eyes: Turquoise
Height: 5' 4" Weight: 145 lb


Education
> PhD, 'Piercing the Fabric: An Analysis of Artificial Space-Time Distortion and the Feasibility of FTL Travel', École Normale Supérieure
> Masters, Recognising and Harnessing Variations in Quantam States: The Effects of Physical Objects on the Fabric of Space-Time, Massachusetts Institute of Technology
> Bachelor of Science (Physics) - École Polytechnique

Experience
> Former Senior Researcher, CERN Laboratories
> Associate Professor of Physics, MIT
>Senior Physicist in Applied Research, Sandia Corporation

Vignette
It was impossible to contain her joy. 'Yes!' she replied with excitement, like a child with a new puppy. 'Yes yes yes! A thousand times yes!'

Adeline had worked extensively with the Engineering team to design the drive, slogging through countless nights without rest and running on a mixture of cheap coffee and anxiety. Prototype after prototype was designed, built, tested, dismantled and redesigned in a seemingly inescapable cycle that took its toll on all the R&D staff, until one day their hard work and dedication payed off: The first workable flight drive capable of FTL travel.

She assumed that would be the end of it. That humanity would soar amongst the stars and that she would fade back into relative obscurity. But never in her wildest dreams did she think she would be invited to witness its maiden voyage.

'I had been saving this for a special occasion...' The bottle of wine she pulled from a cupboard looked old - very old. Her more cultured associates at CERN had bought it for the Frenchwoman as a going away present, and had assured her that the vintage was superb. '... I suppose this is as good a time as any. Would you care for a glass, Major?'

'Sorry ma'am, my orders are very clear.' Major Thames remained impassive. She supposed the man had an image to maintain, and a reputation to uphold. Her slender shoulders shrugged underneath her immaculate lab coat. 'Suit yourself; all the more for me.' She filled a glass with the deep burgundy liquid and took a sip. Her colleagues hadn't been wrong - it was a good vintage. 'So what's next moving forward from now?'

The Major stood to attention, clearly more in his element giving orders than receiving libations. 'A staff car will be around on the 27th to collect you and your personal effects at 0800 hours, sharp. You will then be escorted to an undisclosed location for a full physical and psychological evaluation by NATO-sanctioned staff. Once you are deemed in suitable physical and mental health, you will be issued a security clearance and the Lieutenant General will brief you on the details of the mission.'

'Sounds absolutely wonderful.' Adeline took another sip of the wine. 'Tell the Lieutenant General that he can count on my wholehearted support. Are you sure you don't want any of this? It's not every day that you come across a-' She looked carefully at the label through her glasses. '1987 Château Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux.'

Major Thames shook his head. 'No ma'am.' Adeline sighed. 'Your loss, Major. Wines like this don't come around very often. I suppose much like opportunities like this don't come around very often.' The Major nodded and gave a quick salute before exiting the office, leaving her and the wine alone.

---

Adeline's E-Assistant continued to ping the number. Her neural enhancement interface showed a HUD-like overlay across her vision as she scrambled to pack the last of her bags. The legality of her augmentation existed in a grey area - while not technically illegal, they were certainly frowned upon by a notable amount policy-makers within NATO. Unlike them, Adeline embraced the augmentation as soon as she was able: the enhancements gave her an edge up on the competition in her field. How on earth did anyone expect her to have written an award-winning thesis without a few tricks up her sleeve?

An amber alert popped up in her virtual vision. The diagnostics program which measured her vital signs had detected a greatly accelerated heart rate, and suggested deep breathing exercises to reduce it. With irritation she swiped it closed - she didn't need to be told by a computer that her heart was almost hammering out of her chest.

The number rang out for the second time. Adeline swore quietly in French. Why won't he pick up? Virtual fingers flashed in her vision as she gave the number a redial. Please, just answer...

The microphone implanted in her ear came to life as a man's voice spoke on the other end, and the HUD showed a red chain link icon next to the <unknown> ID tag: an indicator of a heavily encrypted channel. 'Mon Fleur? I never thought I'd see that name again...'

Adeline sighed with resignation. Perhaps this had been a bad idea. 'I told you not to call me that anymore.'

'Then what do I call you?' The tone was surprisingly calm, the speech slow and deliberate. He'd always been less fluent in English than she had been. 'I always thought Adeline was a stupid name. I liked it better when you called yourself-'

'Stop.' Adeline held up her hand as if to prevent the man from speaking, but quickly put it down in embarrassment at herself. This wasn't a visual link; her gestures would go unnoticed. 'I've called to say goodbye, Bastien. For good this time.'

The line went silent. An eternity seemed to pass in the space of a few seconds. Adeline was faintly aware that she had been holding her breath. 'I see,' came the reply, with more than a hint of sorrow. 'Why are you disappearing this time?'

Adeline spent a few moments trying to concoct a story without success. She sighed; Bastien knew her better than anyone else, and it had taken her the better part of 10 years to perfect the lie she'd been living since she'd left him - and the movement - behind. There was no way she could come up with something convincing on the spot. 'NATO has offered me a position on board one of their experimental ships.'

'You're working with the Enemy now?' Bastien's voice quickly turned from sadness into anger. 'Of all the stupid things you've done, this is at the top of the list. Have you forgotten what they did to our people?'

'Have you forgotten what we did to theirs?' She shouted back. Tears began to well in her eyes as she remembered the day the Armada arrived in Earth's orbit. 'You promised me that we were making the galaxy a better place! You promised me there would be no uneccessary bloodshed - and you lied! Maybe you were sitting comfortable in that bunker of yours, but I was on the ground. I saw the cities burned to dust, the bodies of Men, Women and Children - Jesus, Bastien, we helped them kill children!'

'Bien. Je suis désolé. I... I shouldn't have said that. I know that what we... What I did... It was despicable. But what's done is done. Our people are free.'

'Our people...' Adeline said the words slowly. A tear rolled down her cheek. 'Our people, or yours?'

'Maybe yours. Maybe mine. I don't know anymore. But the attack... I want you to know it wasn't your fault. I know you blame yourself, but you shouldn't. You've made the most of your fresh start, but me? I'll be running from them, carrying the weight of what I did to you until the day I die - and not a day goes by when I don't regret it.'

Adeline wiped her tears away. For all her conflicting feelings, Bastien always did have a way with words. 'So, I guess this is Adieu, then.'

'Adieu. Just... Be careful, okay? They'll kill you if they find out who you really are. Did you ever burn those old identity papers?'

'I know. The papers are long gone.' She said quietly. 'I'm just going to... Stick with the story - just like you taught me.'

'Oui, tenir au plan.' Bastien paused briefly. 'Hey... We had something good, didn't we?'

'We did.' Adeline smiled briefly, thoughts of a simpler time flooding back. 'Farewell, Bastien.' She closed the link. The blinking time in her overlay told her that the staff car was 15 minutes away - perhaps it was time to wait outside.

For the last time in a long time, Adeline took in the sight of her apartment, memorising every nook and cranny, every picture, every door, every window, every wall, truly taking in and appreciating every facet. Finally, she grabbed her bags and walked out the door - leaving her double life and her mistakes behind her for good.