Arrival

Book 1: The Kyron Invasion

by Jasper T. Scott, Tom Edwards, Aaron Sikes

Genres: Space Exploration; Steampunk

Synopsis

FROM MILLION-COPY BESTSELLER JASPER T. SCOTT
THEY HAVE ARRIVED.
2150 AD: Chris Randall just lost his job as a bodyguard. That night, after picking up his wife, Bree, from her shift at a local casino, he breaks the bad news.

Moments later, thunder cracks the sky, but there's no lightning. Flaming debris rain across the valley, and a dark mass goes sailing out of the clouds, headed straight for LA.

It's not one of the Union's starships, because they can't defy gravity like that. But then what is it?

The answer chills both Chris and Bree to their cores: it's an invasion.

They have to pick up their kids and get away from the city. But the Randalls soon discover that nowhere is far enough away to keep them safe.

Release date: August 19, 2021

Publisher: Anthem Press

Print pages: 288

Sample

DAY ONE

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival

CHAPTER 1
2150 AD

I pull into the employee parking lot around back of the
Pearson family estate and kill the rumbling V8 of my antique
gas-powered F150. The engine takes a few seconds to actually
shut off, rumbling and wheezing even after I’ve stabbed the
ignition button.
Popping the door open, I step out and straighten my suit
and activate my Augmented Reality Contacts (ARCs). They
detect the degree of sunlight and automatically tint
themselves to my preferred setting. Colorful icons appear,
crowding the edges of my vision. An envelope for messages.
A telephone for incoming calls. The ubiquitous gear icon for
settings. A miniature map in the top right with me in the
center, three green dots up ahead, which are the Pearson
family, sans Mr. Pearson, and a few blue dots to mark their
domestic bots, shuffling about doing chores.
I feel a sigh building in my chest, but it dies before it
reaches my lips. I’m lucky to have this job. I have to
remember that.
But I hate mixed reality overlays, just like I hate self-
driving electric vehicles and smart guns, and a dozen other
trappings of the modern world. But I’m on the job now, and
Mrs. Pearson insists that I use my ARCs.
“You don’t have eyes in the back of your head, Mr. Randall!
That’s what ARCs are for. To warn you of potential threats before you
even see them coming.”

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling her that
most criminals have found a way to deactivate or block the
signals from their ID chips, so ARCs won’t see them coming.
ARCs are just fancy comms without the audio, controlled
mentally via neural implants. They’re talking constantly to the
Satnet, sharing what I see and where I am with AI-driven
supercomputers to help me identify, highlight, and interact
with bits and pieces of the world around me. Whatever
happened to using our own damned brains? Pretty soon we
won’t actually have any knowledge or ideas of our own, only
what Big Data and Big AI feed to us.
Twisting around, I ignore the mixed reality overlays and
scan the expansive grounds of the Pearson Estate with my
real eyes. Bright green grass and hedges speak to an excessive
use of water in an otherwise dry and parched landscape.
A cloud of dust is still settling in the wake of my truck.
The employee lot is gravel, not paved. Mrs. Pearson keeps
nagging Mr. Pearson about that, but he has other priorities.
Golf mostly, and sailing around the world on his yacht—or
buying more diamond-studded bags and jewelry for his wife
to apologize for spending so much time away from home.
Diamond studded problems for diamond studded people.
Must be nice.
I cross the parking lot briskly, my boots crunching on the
gravel. Within seconds I’m melting beneath my layers. It’s
mid-January, but today is shaping up to be a hot day, and San
Bernardino is never really cold. Doesn’t help that the air
conditioner in my truck was blasting tepidly on the way over.
Yet another damned thing to fix.
I reach the asphalt driveway and see it sparkling with
flecks of silica and quartz even through my sunglasses. As I
jog up the marble steps to the front door, I self-consciously
pat my hip to check that my sidearm is there. Of course, it is.
I wouldn’t forget that. Then again, I have been more scattered

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival

than usual lately.
Money troubles have split my focus in a thousand
different directions. The car needs repairs; the house has a
leaky roof; my wife’s student loan payments are going up, not
down. Some months we have to choose between feeding our
kids and paying the minimums, and damn it if food isn’t
getting more expensive by the day.
My wife, Bree, and I have been over the budget a
hundred times; on her salary as a hostess, and mine as a
bodyguard, there’s no other way to fix our downward spiral
unless one of us starts making more money—and fast.
So, I’m going to try asking my bosses for a raise. I’m
really not sure which way that’s going to go. They spend more
money on a Saturday afternoon than they pay me in a month
to be their bodyguard-slash-driver, but that doesn’t mean
much. Rich people, I’ve learned, can be both cheap and lavish
at the same time.
I reach the top of eight onyx steps leading to the
columned portico and stand patiently in front of an extra-
wide, frosted and stylized glass door with a gold inlay that
might actually be real. This is the entrance of the Pearsons’
boxy mansion. There’s no need to knock or touch the
holocomm. By now the security system has already
recognized and announced me.
Plodding footsteps approach the door, followed by the
sound of locking bolts thunking aside. Then the door pivots
open from its center, and I’m greeted by Emily, the Pearsons’
head domestic bot. She’s all gleaming white plastic and
rubberized padding, with a vaguely human face and rubbery
expressions that make her look more frightening than
friendly. And those fiercely glowing blue eyes have always
looked far too human for my taste.
“Hello, Mr. Randall,” Emily says.
“Call me, Chris.” We have this conversation every damn

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival

day.
“Of course, Mr. Chris Randall. Mrs. Pearson is waiting
for you in the parlor. Please follow me.”
My brow furrows as I follow the robot inside. Mrs.
Pearson is rarely up this early, and what is she doing waiting
for me? Maybe she had some business to attend to for a
change.
Emily’s pace is ambling at best, a fact which leaves me
with the urge to breeze by her to the parlor, but I hold myself
back. I’m not going to go barging around like I own the
place. Not today.
I distract myself by taking in the details of the home as
we walk through the entrance hall. White marble floors gleam
under sloping skylights. Sweeping glass and chrome stairs rise
to either side of the entrance hall to a balcony supported by
square columns paneled with brushed steel and more onyx.
We walk under that balcony and emerge in the great room.
Twenty-four-foot ceilings soar above an austerely decorated
space. Massive windows look down on the city of San
Bernardino below.
Emily leads me to one side, to the parlor. A pair of glass
and chrome doors slide open ahead of our approach, and we
pass into a large sitting room with sofas, a poker table, a pool
table, and a wet bar. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook a
pristine patch of bright green grass and a rose garden that’s
been trimmed into a maze. Mrs. Pearson is sitting on a white
sofa, sipping what might be a mimosa from a fluted glass.
She smiles tightly as I come in, and the glowing displays
vanish from her ARCs, leaving cold blue eyes in their wake.
Jessica Pearson is a gracefully aging, blonde former
model, turned socialite, with a sharply-angled face that
actually looks airbrushed. That face once adorned dozens of
holomags and earned her minor roles in at least as many
holovids. At forty-one she’s twelve years Mr. Pearson’s junior

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
and five years younger than me, but she could pass for thirty-
one in a heartbeat.
And yet, my wife makes her look like a horse’s ass. That
thought makes me smile. There’s no love lost between me
and Mrs. Pearson, but I hide my side of it well.
I stop in front of Jessica with my hands folded in front
of me. “Good morning, ma’am,” I say, inclining my head to
her in a shallow nod.
“Sit please, Mr. Randall.” She gestures offhandedly to a
matching couch opposite hers. I glance at the sofa. It’s white.
My suit is black. For some reason, I’m worried that the color
will rub off. That’s probably because Mrs. Pearson once
mentioned in passing to me that these sofas cost forty
thousand credits each.
I take my seat reluctantly, but sit perched on the edge of
it rather than leaning back as she does.
Mrs. Pearson regards me steadily over the rim of her
champagne glass, her blue eyes like ice chips. She’s frowning,
but her face doesn’t crease or wrinkle the way it should. The
skin is too thin from her diet of alcohol, fat-burner pills, and
plastic surgery. There’s nothing left to wrinkle up.
Something is wrong. I can feel it. Shit. What did I do?
Whatever it is, it’s going to make asking for a raise a lot
harder.
I clear my throat to get the ball rolling. “Ma’am, is there
something you wanted to ask me?”
“No, not ask. This is more of something you tell.” She
takes another sip of her drink. “Would you like one?”
Before I can remind her that it’s nine in the morning and
that I’m on duty, she snaps her fingers at Emily and says.
“Another mimosa, please.”
“Of course, ma’am.” The robot goes whirring off toward
the bar.
Mrs. Pearson obviously doesn’t remember that I hate

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival

fruity drinks, but I’ll take a sip just to be polite.
“I don’t know how to put this, Mr. Randall.” She cradles
her glass in her lap and peers into it, as if looking for
inspiration. “I want you to know that this hasn’t been an easy
decision.”
What hasn’t? Spit it out already, I want to say.
She takes a breath. “We will no longer be requiring your
services.”
I blink in shock and my jaw drops. I’m left shaking my
head slowly. Emily sidles up with my mimosa and passes it to
me. “Here you are, sir.”
I snatch the drink from her and gulp down half the glass
before I remember what it is. It goes down with a grimace.
“Can I ask why?”
“Of course—Jeremy, come in here please.”
I hear more whirring of motors and robotic joints,
muffled by the distance, but approaching fast. A blue dot
comes inching toward me on the map in the top right corner
of my ARCs.
I turn toward the sound just in time to see the glass
doors of the parlor swinging open, and a gleaming black
version of Emily stepping in. He walks up to us. He’s wearing
two weapons, one holstered on each hip. A stun gun on the
left, and smart-locked M91 on the right. It’s a civilian version
of the M99 that the Union Army and Space Marines currently
use. I handled weapons like those back in the days when I was
an Army grunt, and again when I transferred to Space Force,
but these days my guns are all old school, just like my truck.
“You bought a bodyguard bot.” I turn back to Mrs.
Pearson and stare hard at her. “What happened to not
trusting machines to protect your family?”
“Civil defense units have come a long way since we hired
you, Mr. Randall. Omicron Delta is revolutionizing the
business. Their programming is state-of-the-art, as are their

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival

bots. I’m told they’re impossible to hack.”
“Impossible is a big word, ma’am. Even if it’s true, they
still can’t respond to threats with lethal force if the need
arises, whereas I’m fully licensed to do so.”
“They can use lethal force after a remote pilot takes
control, and Omicron has pilots standing by 24/7 for just
that purpose. One call, or even just uttering our code word,
and they’ll connect immediately.”
“What about driving? You may as well leave your cars on
autopilot if you’re going to let a bot take the wheel. It’s the
same damn thing.”
“Again, autopilot is much better than it used to be, but a
remote pilot can also take manual control of any of our
vehicles if the need arises, just the same as you could.”
“Mr. Pearson can’t be okay with this,” I insist.
“He was the one who suggested it.”
I knock back the remainder of my mimosa and set it
down on the priceless designer coffee table between us. Emily
swoops in to remove the fluted glass before it can make a
ring. Not that it would. It’s a champagne glass. Stupid bot...
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask. “I realize I’ve been
distracted lately, but I promise I’ve got my head in the game
now. Would you consider keeping me on? Double the
protection wouldn’t hurt. This city is only getting more
dangerous, and it would be good to have someone to go with
you or your husband when you travel. The bot could stay and
look after the kids when you’re out.”
Mrs. Pearson chews briefly on her bottom lip, revealing
blindingly white teeth. She looks sheepish, like there’s
something else she wants to say. And then she says it: “Paul,
would you come in here, please?”
Another whirring sound starts up, approaching fast from
the distant recesses of the mansion. I’m on my feet before it
comes gliding in. I’ve worked for the Pearson family for

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
almost a decade, and this is how they repay me? So much for
a raise.
A second gleaming black machine appears and stops
beside the first. Both look identical. I wonder how the
Pearsons can tell them apart. Jeremy and Paul. May as well
just call them CDU One and CDU Two.
“You’ll be paid a generous severance, of course,” Mrs.
Pearson says.
“Yeah, of course,” I say, and nod stiffly to her. In this
economy, it won’t last long. “Well, I guess this is goodbye,” I
say. “Tell the kids I said adios, would you?”
Mrs. Pearson rises to her feet now, setting her glass aside.
“I am truly sorry about this, Chris. You’re welcome to come
by and visit anytime.”
Ten years of Mr. Randall, and now she calls me Chris.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, too,” I say, already turning to go.
“Maybe you should apply to be a remote operator with
Omicron,” Mrs. Pearson says. “We would give you a glowing
reference.”
I smirk at that. “Maybe, yeah.” It’s an old joke. I got out
of the military when they started replacing us with remote-
piloted units. My simulator scores were too low. Those damn
VR helmets make me dizzy as hell. SpaceComm was going to
ground me and make me a trainer at the academy, but I
checked out instead. Something tells me my VR scores will be
too low for Omicron, too.
“Let me show you out,” Mrs. Pearson says, wringing her
hands awkwardly. At least she feels bad.
I wave my hand dismissively at her and send her half of a
smile. “Don’t bother. I know the way.” And then I’m turning
and striding past my mechanical replacements with my pulse
singing in my ears. My boots strike the marble floor like
hammers.
Plenty of people have been replaced by cheap robotic

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
labor over the years, but somehow, I’d lulled myself into
thinking that I couldn’t be replaced, that after all of these
years the Pearsons felt some kind of loyalty toward me. Hell,
their kids knew me from the cradle up. I was like family.
Or so I’d thought, but I should have known better. You
don’t call family by their last name.

 

CHAPTER 2

Streetlights strobe through the windows of my truck like
golden lasers as I drive down the Foothill Freeway on the
outskirts of San Bernardino. Glowing lines of air car traffic
trace grid patterns in the sky. I take Exit 79 and hook a right
past the Taco Cabana. I’m on my way to pick up my wife
from The Pines, the fancy steakhouse where she works.
Since Mrs. Pearson fired me this morning, I’ve spent the
whole day visiting security companies and sending out
resumes. I even squeezed into a few interviews and visited the
local branch of Omicron Delta to take a run at their simulator
room. My scores were crap, but I already knew they would be.
I’m a dinosaur in the modern era—obsolete just like my
antique gas-powered truck.
As if to rub it in, I pass a supercharger station full of
Teslas, but nary a gas station in sight. I have to lug gas around
in jerry cans and order it special-delivered to my house. Old,
refurbished gas and diesel vehicles from the 21st-Century are
a niche market, mostly old-schoolers like me who don’t trust
a car that will pull itself over for the authorities and drive at
59 miles an hour when sixty is the limit.
I breathe out a sigh and smack the steering wheel with
the heel of my hand. What am I going to tell Bree? My mind
turns to that severance Mrs. Pearson mentioned. Maybe it will
be enough to tide us over until I can land a new gig. There
has to be something I can do besides security. Some job
market that the machines haven’t already taken over.
And that’s the other reason these old gas and diesel cars

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
are still around—backlash against the rise of the machines.
They’re not smarter than us, thank God, but that hardly
matters. As it turns out, most of our jobs were repetitive half-
witted affairs to begin with. All that’s left is the complicated
shit. Like programming the machines. It’s one big damn
vicious circle. My wife’s lucky. She got her job as a hostess
because it turns out that pretty women are still a valuable
commodity. A groundswell of hot robots will probably
replace her one day, but for now they’re too dumb to bat their
eyes at assholes’ innuendos while their wives are in the ladies’
room. I guess having to flirt with a robot takes all the fun out
of it.
I smirk dryly at that. What I wouldn’t give to sit through
one of Bree’s shifts with my Glock and cap them all below
the waist. I’d be doing the world a favor, taking out the next
generation of assholes before they can be born.
Before I know it, I’m pulling into the lot outside the old
San Manuel Casino. The Pines has always catered to the
money crowd, another reason the place is still in business and
able to employ real people. An air car hovers down a few
spaces over from me. I watch as a young couple emerges
from the vehicle, all smiles in their expensive, designer
clothes. They’re probably out for a night of gambling at the
casino. Living it up, while I’m barely getting by. It’s hard not
to feel resentful of that. At their ages, what are the odds that
they actually worked for any of their money? Probably spoiled
brats with trust funds. Their air car alone is worth as much as
my house.
Opening my door, I jump down and slam it behind me
with a bang that makes the young woman flinch. Her
boyfriend turns a disdainful look my way.
“Sorry,” I say through a smile.
He looks away and I hear them muttering about me
under their breath as they lead the way to the casino.

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
The night air is warm and dry. I take a deep breath to
calm myself.
Soon I’m walking past the colorful lights and electronic
beeps and bleeps of slot machines, watching scantily clad
human waitresses cruising around with trays full of
complimentary drinks. Funny how the seedy underbelly of
society is still more human than not.
I reach the end of the casino and walk down a marble-
lined corridor to the restaurant. The flashing lights and
sounds of the casino fade away as the door of The Pines
swings open for me. A male hostess is on the other side of
the door, holding it open, while his female counterpart, Julie,
is standing ready with a smile at the welcome stand behind
the doors. She’s the girl who takes over for my wife when her
shift ends. Her eyes light with recognition upon seeing me,
and she says, “I’ll let Bree know you’re here.”
“Thanks,” I say.
I glance around the waiting area, consider sitting on one
of those sticky wooden benches, but then think better of it.
Julie hasn’t moved from her position; that’s what comms
and ARCs are for, but I didn’t hear her speaking into her ear
piece, either. Maybe she used her neural implant for a text
message.
Probably.
The door swings open behind me and I turn to see a
handsome couple walking in—a man of at least seventy who’s
all wrinkles and beer belly, and a girl of eighteen or twenty
who could be a model or a hooker, hard to say which. The
man’s arm is wrapped around her bare shoulders like a scarf,
but that does nothing to cover up her substantial cleavage.
His lilting gait suggests that his arm might be there because
he’s using her instead of his cane tonight.
I step out of the way and watch with a frown as they
walk by. My ARCs would give me their names and ages if I

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
cared to activate them, but I don’t. My eyes are good enough,
and I don’t care to know the names of people I’m never
going to talk to.
The man is obviously drunk, and smiling insouciantly.
That’s the word. Damn it if my law degree didn’t turn out to
be a pile of horse shit. The system is mostly automated these
days, so only the best get to practice. Smiling. Not a lot of
guys come out of a casino with a smile. He must be a lucky
winner. That, or he’s so damned rich that he doesn’t care if he
wins or loses. Maybe the girl is his prize tonight.
I snort at that, and cross my arms over my chest, turning
away from the spectacle to peer out the glass doors at the
gleaming marble corridor I came from. Colorful reflections
from the flashing neon lights of the casino are the only sign
that it’s there. On this side of the doors, all I can hear is the
crystal melodies of classical piano music mingling with the
hushed conversations of late-night diners and knives and
forks sawing on expensive china.
Bree and I are barely paying for rent and groceries and
there are guys out there buying dinners that cost half of my
monthly paycheck—or the paycheck I used to get, I remind
myself. It doesn’t seem to matter how bad things get, there’s
always going to be someone standing on top of the garbage
heap.
“Chris!”
I spin around and my wife is all but running to reach me.
My mood immediately brightens with the sight of her. She’s
smiling and smelling of the cheap perfume I bought her for
our anniversary. She crashes into me and wraps her arms
around my neck. Guava-scented shampoo fills my nostrils as
I bury my face in her dark brown hair. She pulls away and
kisses me quickly on the lips, leaving me with the taste of
strawberry lip gloss. Her hand slides into mine, and I catch
Julie looking on with a wistful smile as Bree peels away from

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival

me.
“Get a room,” Julie mutters wryly.
“That’s the plan!” Bree answers with a grin. She grabs
onto my arm as we leave the restaurant.
The sounds of slots and roulette wheels and of dealers’
repetitive announcements come fading back into range of
hearing as we stride down the marble corridor. If I had my
ARCs on, those glowing displays would all be leaping out at
me in a desperate attempt to suck me dry.
“I’m so tired,” Bree whispers beside my ear; then she
adds, “These heels are killing me!” I notice her batting her
eyes at me. “My feet need your hands.”
“Just your feet, huh?” I ask with one eyebrow raised.
Bree punches my arm and withdraws sharply, pretending
to be annoyed. I reel her back in. “I was just kidding.”
She smiles, gleaming like the jewel she is, and then we’re
gliding through the casino like we own the place. Poor as dirt,
but rich in all the ways that count.
Back outside, a cool night breeze makes Bree shiver and
tosses hair in front of her face. She reaches up to tuck dark
strands behind her ears. Scattered couples are leaving the
casino with us. Most of them are drunk and stumbling. That’s
one good thing auto-piloted electric cars did for us: no more
drunk drivers. I steer Bree around them to our truck and
open the door for her.
“Always such a gentleman,” she says as I help her up.
I slam the door behind her with a boom, because that’s the
only way to shut the door of an antique like mine.
Then I’m climbing in on the driver’s side and stabbing
the glowing blue ignition button to start the truck. The
engine turns over a few too many times, then clicks sullenly,
waiting for me to try again.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’s wrong?” Bree asks, rubbing her bare arms to

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
keep warm. I guess I didn’t notice when the desert went from
warm to cold. That’s the beauty of deserts; after the sun goes
down, it just takes a stiff wind to blast the heat away.
I scan the dash, hoping for my relic of a truck to give me
a clue. The engine light is on, but it’s always on, so that
doesn’t mean much. I try the ignition again. More impotent
crackling from the spark plugs as the engine sputters.
My breath comes out in a sigh. “Damn it! Not today old
girl. Come on.” I whisper a prayer and try to start the vehicle
one last time.
This time something wheezes like an old man on oxygen,
followed by a boom that could have come from a shotgun.
Bree jumps a few inches out of her seat with the noise.
I spare a grin for her as I shift down into reverse. “Just
some bad gas,” I say.
Bree glares at me. “We need a new car.”
With what money? I think, but I nod agreeably as I twist
around to look where I’m going as I back out.
There’s a gleaming black machine standing right behind
the truck with both hands raised.
“Halt!” I hear the booming robotic voice and stomp on
the brakes to avoid running the thing over.
The machine glows crimson in the brake lights as it
lowers its hands and comes clanking up to my window. It
wraps gently on the glass with a metal fist. Clink clink clink.
I lower the window. “Something wrong, bolts?”
“My designation is CDU-TR4479, but the proper
colloquial term is simply bot. And yes, there is a problem. A
high decibel noise erupted from your location a moment ago.
Pattern-matching suggests a 99.9% likelihood that the sound
resulted from the illegal discharge of a firearm. The
authorities have been notified. I’m here to inform you that
you are strictly prohibited from leaving the premises until this
matter has been resolved.”

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
I’m too shocked to reply. My jaw is hanging open.
Bree leans over me with a smile to say, “It was just the
car. It’s not electric. It backfired.”
The bot glances back at the rear of my truck, as if to
check for evidence of what she’s saying. “I am afraid I cannot
verify those claims. You will still have to explain yourself to
the police before you can leave. Please turn off the vehicle.”
I grit my teeth. If I turn it off now, I probably won’t get
it to start again. The old gal needs a few hours of quality time
with me under the hood. If that sounds dirty, it’s because it is;
she’s turned half a dozen of my t-shirts to grease-stained rags.
“Am I talking to a human operator?” I ask.
“No, sir.”
“Then get me one.”
“All operators are currently engaged. Please hold.”
“Holy shit... you’ve got to be kidding me. This is what
we get for replacing ourselves.”
Bree pulls me back from the open window before I can
add vandalism to the specious charge of firing a weapon that
I don’t even have in my truck. To be fair, I do have my Glock
in the glove box, but it doesn’t sound like a shotgun when it
goes off.
“How long before the authorities arrive?” I ask. “You’re
wasting my gas.”
“Typical response time is five to ten minutes, sir.”
“And how long before I can speak to a human
operator?”
“Ten to fifteen minutes, sir.”
This must be a joke. Or maybe a nightmare. That’s it. I’m
face down at the bar I went to after passing out all my
resumes, and Bree is pissed as hell that I forgot to pick her
up.
“Just let it go,” she whispers to me. “Tell me about your
day. How did it go with the Pearsons?”

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
I stare blankly at her for a second. Her clear, amber
brown eyes are aglow in the bluish light of her ARCs. I find
myself staring at the reversed images of tiny icons clustered
around the edges of her irises. Such pretty eyes to hide with
all that clutter.
“The raise...?” Bree prompts me.
Somehow, in the time between arriving and Bree
pouncing on me with a hug, I forgot that I’m the bearer of
bad news.
Her eyebrows are hopefully raised, lips ever so slightly
parted, as if she’s getting ready to scream for joy and kiss me.
Bree’s always been the optimist.
“I didn’t get it,” I say.
Her face falls. “What? But did you explain, did you tell
the Pearsons that we’re—”
I cut her off with a shake of my head. “I didn’t even get
that far. Mrs. Pearson fired me before I could ask.”
The color drains from Bree’s face, and something inside
of me withers and dies.
“But... why? Did you do something to upset them?”
“That’s what I asked. No, they decided to upgrade with
two matching boltheads like slick over here.” I jerk a thumb at
it.
Bree is speechless. Her eyes are wide and unblinking. She
and I both know what could be next. We’ve driven past the
lines at the UBI offices and ration counters more times than
we can count. You lose your job these days and it’s not like
you can just go out and get yourself another one.
Unemployment is a one-way street, and it usually leads to
another one: union housing projects. Ghettos by any other
name.
“Hey, it’ll be okay. I’m getting a nice severance.”
Bree just nods.
We have two kids and my mother at home. That makes

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
five mouths to feed. One job as a hostess and a dwindling
severance check aren’t going to cut it for long.
“I could pick up some extra shifts on the weekends,” she
says slowly, her voice as dull as a rusty knife as she stares
sightlessly out the windshield at the flashing lights of the
casino.
“Hello, sir, I am Operator 917 of the Ophram Security
Group. I see here that you’ve been detained on negligent
discharge of a firearm, pending investigation by the police. Is
that correct?”
My head turns and lands on the gleaming black bot
standing beside my truck. He’s wearing a human face now,
projected a few millimeters under his vaguely human features.
The man tries on a tight smile.
I glare back at him. “As I told your bot, it was my truck
backfiring.”
“Yes, I have record of that conversation here. The
trouble is, we don’t know for sure that is the case, and I can’t
legally search your vehicle for weapons, so we still need to
wait for the authorities to arrive.”
A distant boom thunders through the night, and I’m
expecting a flash of lightning to follow, but I should know
better. Lightning doesn’t follow thunder.
Half a dozen more claps of thunder rumble through the
air in quick succession, and then I’m staring up at the grid
patterns of traffic in the sky. Glowing orange contrails slice
between the flowing lines of traffic. A squadron of scimitar
starfighters is streaking down from space at a forty-five-
degree angle between the air cars. Sonic booms. That’s what
the sound was. Those glowing tails of fire vanish into thick
clouds soaked black with the night, and then emerald
lightning illuminates the clouds from within, and I hear more
thunder—followed by flaming chunks of debris raining out
over the valley.

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival

CHAPTER 3

The operator controlling that security bot is gawking at
the sky as I roar out of the parking space. As soon as we’re
clear, I ram the gas pedal to the floor.
“Look out!” Bree says as I almost slam into a Tesla that’s
busy reversing out of another space in front of us. The
autopilot sees us coming and stops immediately.
We roar past it, leave the lot, and fishtail onto the street.
I’m going flat out, weaving between auto-driving cars to get
home faster. They’re all driving the limit and keeping to their
lanes, but their human passengers are hanging out the
windows and staring up at the sky. A flash of light dazzles my
eyes and then another boom rattles through the windows of
the truck. More fiery debris blossoms in the sky.
“Chris, what’s happening?” Bree screams as she yanks
out her seatbelt. It locks up at the speed we’re going, and she
has to try again.
“The hell if I know,” I say. A wall of red taillights appears
up ahead, and I see the traffic light where all those cars have
stopped. Cursing under my breath, I stomp on the brakes and
sit leaning over the steering wheel, my eyes darting among the
clouds and the air traffic above us. Air cars are streaming
away to all sides, some coming down for emergency landings,
others fleeing for the mountains.
A distant, roaring chorus of ion thrusters screams,
followed by the rattling cry of fifty cal. cannons, and the
booming of missiles striking their targets. Flashes of light
precede those concussive blasts, but I can’t see what they’re
hitting. Tracer fire slashes out in crisscrossing golden lines to

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
targets unseen. The chemical rockets of missiles flare bright
orange then shriek away on thin gray lines of vapor.
Finally, as if someone was asleep at the switch, the
whooping cry of the civil defense sirens starts up.
“Is it a war?” Bree asks. The traffic light flicks green and
I’m gritting my teeth in frustration as the mob of electric cars
ahead of me rolls leisurely through the intersection.
“With who?” I ask, shaking my head. “The UNE is it.
There’s just one government for the whole damn solar
system.”
“Then it’s terrorists,” Bree suggests.
A stuttering flash of emerald fire turns the sky into a
laser light show and more explosions pepper the night. A chill
courses down my spine. “Who the hell fires lasers in
atmosphere?” I ask, forgetting that Bree doesn’t know about
these things.
“Why not?” she asks slowly, her voice a shaky whisper as
she stares up at the sky.
“Because water vapor splits the beams, making them less
effective. You don’t use lasers in a dogfight any more than
you’d use a knife in a gunfight. They’re space-to-space
ordnance not air-to-air. We use them to punch holes in enemy
hulls from extreme range. As far as I know, we don’t even
have lasers on our fighters, which means those have to be
coming from orbital ships. Except...” I’m watching the next
volley as it lights up the night.
The beams are all horizontal, which puts the source
somewhere in atmosphere, not orbital. This time I see what I
missed before. It looks like a cloud, but it’s not. It’s a giant
wall of shadows cruising along the horizon at about 5,000
feet—an aircraft carrier in the sky. But we don’t have anything
like that, certainly nothing that big that can fly in atmosphere.
It’s like the thing is just floating there, which of course, is
impossible. A light bulb blinks on in my brain.

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival

“It’s not terrorists,” I say.
“Then what is it?” Bree asks, not having seen the wall of
shadows.
“It’s an invasion.”
“An invasion? From where?”
“Call home. Tell Mom to start packing. Clothes, food,
jackets, gloves—make sure she has the kids ready to go. We
need to bug out as soon as we get there.”
Bree nods woodenly and pulls out a comm piece from
her bag. She slots it into her left ear and says, “Call home.”
I’m still weaving through traffic. At least these auto-
piloted cars are good for something: they’re all leaving a
perfect following distance. They may as well be orange cones
in a parking lot, or trees in a slalom race.
“Well?” I ask.
“It’s ringing...” Before I can say anything else, Bree says,
“Mom! Start packing. We’re on our way... yes, I know we’ve
seen it... The news is saying what?” Bree’s hand flies up to her
mouth and she looks to me with terrified eyes. “That’s not...
who... what are they?”
I spare a hand from the wheel and make a cutting
gesture. “It doesn’t matter. She needs to get packing, now!” I
veer into oncoming traffic to avoid hitting a car that stopped
to let someone out of their driveway. The oncoming vehicle
blinds me briefly with its lights, and then I duck back into my
lane. We’re almost home now. Houses are flashing by on
either side. Cars are backing out of their driveways
everywhere I look. People are making a run for it, just like
I’m planning to. More explosions echo in my ears, farther
away now. The battle is drifting toward LA. I almost breathe a
sigh of relief with that, but it catches in my throat. There are
millions more people in LA than San Bernardino.
I turn onto our street and roar down to the end. We’re in
the cul-de-sac, right next to the mansion at the end. I barrel

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
up the driveway to my parents’ old house, stop in front of the
two-car garage, and leave the engine running. I turn to look at
Bree as I unbuckle and crack my door. She’s looking at me
with glazed eyes. Shock is settling in.
“Snap out of it!” I bark at her.
She flinches at the sudden volume of my voice, but her
eyes swim back into focus. “We don’t have long before things
get really bad. If we want to live through this, we need to get
ahead of it.”
“Get ahead of it?” Bree is shaking her head. “Get ahead
of it where? They’re invading Earth, Chris, not California. It
doesn’t matter where we go!”
“Wrong. We go somewhere far from other people, as
remote as we can get. If the goal is to wipe us out, we need to
be as far from population centers as possible. And if the goal
is something else... same thing. Now let’s go!”
I jump out of the truck and run up the walkway to the
front entrance. Then I’m leaping straight up the short flight
of stairs to the front porch. Old wooden beams creak and sag
with my weight. My wife’s footsteps come racing up behind
me as I fumble with my keys to find the one for the house.
Bree starts repeatedly stabbing the old vidcomm buzzer
before I can find the key. The front door swings open, and
we’re greeted by my mother and our two kids, Zach and
Gaby. My mom’s face is pale and drawn, more wrinkled than
I remember it. She waves us through, wincing as another
series of explosions shatters the sky with tongues of fire.
“I packed clothes for everyone,” my mom says
breathlessly as we rush inside. She shuts and locks the door
behind us, as if that will keep what’s out there from getting in.
Our son and daughter crowd in before we can make it
two steps from the door. Both look terrified, their eyes wide
and glowing with displays from their ARCs. Gaby wraps her
arms around my waist and says, “What’s going on, Daddy?”

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
She’s six years old with her mother’s dark hair and pink lips,
but my blue eyes.
Zachary is twelve with a thick mop of blond hair like me,
but light, amber brown eyes like his mom. He’s trying to look
brave, but the act crumbles as another explosion rattles the
windows of sitting room where we’re all standing. Zachary’s
forehead wrinkles and pinches together as he cringes away
from the door. His eyes dart up to the ceiling as if he’s
expecting it to cave in.
“Where are we going?” he asks, swallowing a lump of
fear. Bree pulls him into a hug, but his arms stay flat at his
sides. He’s at that awkward age where he doesn’t want to act
like a kid, but doesn’t know how to be a man.
“Away from the city,” I say. My gaze lands on the top of
Gaby’s head. “Honey, I need to get something, okay?”
She shakes her head.
“It’s important,” I insist, and gently peel Gaby’s arms
away from me. On my way down the hall to the basement, I
see the pile of backpacks and luggage lying on couches and
chairs in the sitting room. I hesitate briefly before glancing
back at Bree. She has both Gaby and Zach wrapped up in her
arms now. My mother is standing beside them, wringing her
hands.
“Bree, make sure they have enough clothes packed.
Winter ones especially. And food. The more rations we take
with us, the longer we’ll last out there.”
Bree’s eyes flare wide and slide down to Gaby, who I can
hear sobbing against her mother’s sweater. I grimace at that
and turn away, shaking my head. There’s no time to sugarcoat
this, and frankly, we shouldn’t. I’m scared that if my kids don’t
grow up fast, they’re not going to make it through what’s to
come.

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival

CHAPTER 4

Civil defense sirens are whooping as I load up the back
of the truck with the suitcases and backpacks. Zach comes
running out with a bag that I missed.
“Thanks. Get back inside with your mother,” I say.
Zachary nods and runs back inside.
My eyes flick up to the sky as I bend down to pick up the
duffel bag that I packed with guns from the basement. In
there are two shotguns, a hunting rifle with a scope, a pair of
compact Glock 26 Gen 15’s, tac-lights, flashlights, flares, a
flare gun, spare batteries, and loads of ammo for all.
I use bungee cords to secure everything, along with a
five-gallon tank of fresh water from the dispenser. Bree
convinced me to buy it after one of the neighbor’s kids got
stomach cancer. She was convinced there had to be
contamination in the water. Maybe she was right. The hell if it
matters now. I pack it all under a blue tarp, leaving plenty of
space behind the tailgate for my final addition. Fuel. I look up
from my work to scan the sky warily. If you don’t count the
distant whooping of the civil defense sirens, it’s as quiet as a
church on a Monday.
I peer due west, down my driveway and over the
sycamore trees that line our street. We’re slightly up the hills
from the city, giving me a peeking view over the scraggly tree-
lined suburbs to the blazing streetlights of downtown and
empty hills beyond that. Flickers and flashes of light pepper
the horizon in the direction of LA, but the booming roar of
battle has faded to inaudible whispers with the distance, and I
can no longer pick out the jagged mystery bulk of something-

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival

that-isn’t-a-cloud.
It’s almost enough to fool me into believing that those
flashes of light are just lightning. I shake my head and suck in
a breath of the cool desert air. Snapping out of it, I run
around to the driver’s side of the truck. She’s still idling,
snoring in her sleep.
Yanking the door open, I pull the sun visor down and
touch the remote for the garage door. I hear the chain rattle
to life and the door start clattering up. Before it’s even
halfway, I’m ducking under and hurrying over to the gasoline
drums that line the other side of the two-car garage. We only
have one car these days, so I use the second half of the garage
for spare fuel. I don’t walk straight to the drums, though.
They weigh 60 pounds when they’re empty, let alone full.
In one dusty corner of the garage, I find what looks
vaguely like a metal skeleton standing on a pedestal that’s
plugged into the wall. A skeleton is exactly what this is. Well,
almost.
In one of my more idiotic attempts to keep up with the
wave of cheap robotic labor sweeping the globe, I spent a
fortune on an exoskeleton. Lining myself up, I step into the
boots and clamp them around my own, and adjust the straps
for a tight fit. Next, I cinch padded ratchet-clamps around my
thighs, then slip into bulky metal gloves and adjust more
clamps for my arms. Finally, I close the rib-like metal cage
around my chest and shoulders. I test my range of movement
by taking a few swings at an invisible punching bag. The exo-
skeleton whirs to life with my movements.
A deep female voice says: “Power levels optimal.
Warning: joint degradation detected. Please report to the
nearest service—”
“Be quiet, Mara,” I say, and she shuts up. That’s my name
for this beasty—the Hindu Goddess of death. She was
supposed to make me into superman, or at least Batman.

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
Then a year later, a group of enterprising criminals used suits
just like it to pull off a bank heist, and they became illegal for
civilian use.
Silence rings loud in the dusty garage, and then a muffled
pop reaches my ears. That could have been a thunderous
explosion over LA. The noise jolts me into action. I hurry off
the charging pedestal, metal legs whirring and buoying my
steps to make them unnaturally fast. I feel like I’ve just
stepped off a treadmill at the gym after running for five miles.
Waltzing over to the fuel drums, I bend with the suit’s
legs, tip the drum up, and work my metal fingers underneath.
I let the drum fall back on those fingers, don’t even feel the
squeeze, and then grab it on the other side and lift.
The drum glides up as I straighten. I feel some measure
of the weight, but it’s not breaking my back or dislocating my
shoulders the way it should. Walking out and around to the
back of the truck, I ease the drum in past the lowered tailgate.
The F150 sags to one side with the weight. I slide it in right
behind the wheel well, gouging fresh furrows out of the
hardened plastic bottom of the truck bed. I go back for a
second drum and then ease it in on the other side and slide it
down. That done, I flip the tailgate up and secure both drums
with ratchet clamps before hurrying back for the siphon tube
and hand pump. The tube connects directly to the spout of
the pump so I can gas up without even using the jerry can as
a go-between. Stepping back from the truck, I check the sky
again. Nothing up there, but a Tesla goes whirring by the
driveway. That’s the neighbors at the end of the cul-de-sac.
We need to hurry.
I run back inside, almost breaking the door as I hammer
on it with my hardened fist and the suit’s enhanced strength.
A ruffled curtain flies away from one of the slat windows
beside the door, and my wife’s angry face appears. She opens
the door a second later. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

Jasper T. Scott / Arrival
she hisses at me. “I thought—” she breaks off, shaking her
head.
“We need to leave. Now.”
I hear Gaby crying and my mother trying to soothe her.
Bree turns from the door and yells, “Kids! Mom! Let’s
go!”
Commotion sounds from the living room, followed by
booted feet clodding on the old, creaky pine wood floors.
Bree already has her winter coat on, but not zipped—a shiny
red jacket that anything with eyes could see for a mile in all
directions. Gaby and Zach come into view, wearing piss-
yellow and puke-green jackets respectively. My mom is
wearing Barbie pink. I grimace at that and shake my head.
We’re going to stand out like road signs against the snow. My
coat is camo-patterned white. Old habits. Speaking of... I’m
looking around. My eyes land on Bree just as she’s bending to
grab something behind the door.
“Here,” she says to me, hoisting a heavy duffel bag up
and handing it to me. “Clothes and food. Jacket, gloves, and
tuque.”
I nod at that and step aside to usher everyone out ahead
of me. It’s been at least twenty minutes since we arrived. We
need to hurry. My eyes are drawn back to the flickering
flashes of light coming from LA. The battle is still raging
there, but nothing catastrophic yet. How long before they
break out the heavy artillery?
I take a breath and shut the door, not even bothering to
lock it before tearing off after my family. ...