Starborn: The Lost Colony of Earth

Book 1: Starborn

by Jasper T. Scott, Tom Edwards

Genres: Alien Contact; Space Exploration

Synopsis

FROM MILLION-COPY BESTSELLER JASPER T. SCOTT

They are not from Earth—yet they rule it from the shadows.

When Aldric Vale, a lone freelancer for the Interstellar Concord, follows a mysterious signal to an obscure star system, he expects to find a dead outpost—not a thriving world of eight billion people. The inhabitants call it Earth.

By rights, the planet should have rejoined the Concord centuries ago. Instead, its existence was buried by a cabal of immortal elites who use Earth as their private paradise, while its people remain oblivious.

After a deadly encounter cripples his ship, Aldric is stranded. Trapped on a world that isn't supposed to exist, he must infiltrate the cabal to escape—and expose the truth.

Then he meets Lena Hart, a fearless journalist chasing clues she never should have found.

Protecting her forces Aldric to make an impossible choice: free an entire world of unwitting slaves... or save the one woman who has made this forbidden planet feel like home.

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Release date: January 11, 2026

Publisher: Anthem Press

Print pages: 497

Sample

Part 1: Concord

 

Chapter 1 The dream came in flickers of glistening stone, glass, and gold. Aldric Vale stood outside, high on a stone parapet of a fortress made of black basalt. The forbidding edifice clung to the cliffs, the sky clear and blue above, while far below, a dark ocean churned against the rocks. The wind whipped a heavy coat around him. The air was cold and sharp with the scent of salt.  A man lay bound and gagged on the stone floor in front of the crenelated stone wall. One eye was swollen, and his lips and cheeks were bruised, split and swollen. The man’s face was a blur to Aldric, but the terror in his bloodshot green eyes was unmistakable as Aldric yanked him to his feet.  The man mumbled something, and Aldric heard himself say something in return, but the words were muffled and made no sense to him. With a single fluid motion, his dream-self shoved the figure over the stone railing. He leaned over to watch as the man tumbled to the churning water and rocks below. He landed with a tiny, inaudible splash and was quickly carried away by the churning waves.  Aldric felt a strange sense of satisfaction swell in his chest.  Then, right on the heels of that, came a gut-churning sense of guilt that sickened him to the core. ∆∆∆ Aldric awoke with a gasp, his whole body lurching against the springy crash harness that was built into the bedsheets of his narrow bunk. The harness immediately relaxed and gave way, allowing him to sit up and lean back, gasping against the curved bulkhead behind his pillow. He turned his head to look out a heavily polarized viewport beside him at the swirling streaks and flickers of light from warp space. It took a moment for him to remember where he was, and what he was looking at. The low hum of air cyclers and the ship’s fusion reactor were a clue: it was the steady, familiar pulse of the Pilgrim—his EXR-400 Pathfinder-class Courier. His heart hammered against his ribs.  A sharp, piercing pain lanced through his skull, right behind his eyes. “Ouch,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his temple. “Nex, what’s the time?” he asked, directing the question to his Nexus Link implant. It had a tiny disc-shaped speaker embedded along his jaw to issue discrete verbal feedback to any question he might pose—audible or otherwise. “Good morning, Aldric. It is currently 0427 Interstellar Standard Time,” a soft, feminine voice said. Aldric lay back down with a groan, his heart still pounding from the strange dream.  “Great. Still the middle of the night.” Another painful stab shot through his skull and he winced.  “Technically, Aldric, it is the middle of the morning.” “You know what I mean. How long was I asleep?” “Three hours and twelve minutes.” This time he sighed.  “Would you like me to induce another sleep cycle?” Aldric considered it. He was still a couple of hours away from his next reversion to real space, but if he didn’t have at least eight continuous hours to sleep, inducing it through his Nexus Link always left him feeling groggy. “No, that’s okay, Nex.” What he really needed was a cup of caf. Aldric groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. The metal floor was cold against his bare feet. He braced his hand against the bulkhead, wincing against the sharp, throbbing pain that was still stabbing through his skull like knives. Now that he was awake, the stress induced by his nightmare was rapidly crowded out by the actual stresses of real life. Of course, he’d never actually killed anyone. Probably just his subconscious processing random bits of the holovid he’d been watching before he’d fallen asleep last night.  As for his real-life stress: his last job had gone belly-up and sideways, and now he was in deeper debt than ever. At this point, he might actually be in danger of losing his ship, which was both his home and his livelihood, and technically the only thing he owned in the entire galaxy.  He should have known better. He’d bought a tip from an old spacer on Ataros and learned that the breadbasket planet of Ferrax was in urgent need of agri-bots and fertilizer after a hurricane had devastated their infrastructure and completely knocked out their comms. Their next harvest was in jeopardy, and it was impossible for them to even get a message out to requisition replacements with their usual suppliers. So, Aldric did what any savvy freelancer would: he’d packed his ship’s hold full of agricultural supplies at the nearest trading hub and laid in a course for Ferrax, expecting to double or even triple his investment. Unfortunately, the sneevling old trader who’d sold him the tip had also sold it to about a dozen other freelancers, including a pilot from a major shipping conglomerate, and he’d wound up delivering his cargo of agricultural bots and fertilizer to a planet that was suddenly overwhelmed with unsolicited shipments of the same exact supplies. The first few were welcome and had received better than market value for their goods. Subsequent arrivals less so. By the time Aldric had come along in the Pilgrim, six other shipments had come in before his, and he’d had to sell his cargo at a loss. He’d barely had enough credits left to refuel his ship and pay his docking fees. Aldric sighed, pushing himself up from his bunk. He crossed his quarters to the wardrobe to put on a fresh pair of socks, followed by a clean, black vacsuit with an emergency collar that could turn into a helmet at a moment’s notice. Next, he put on his nano-fiber armor, disguised as a stylish brown leebra leather jacket, and finally, his grav boots.  He waved open the door to his quarters and stepped out into the narrow corridor that ran the length of the main deck to the Pilgrim’s cockpit. Glossy white walls with blue accents and recessed golden lighting ran the length of the corridor. This ship was his whole life: fifty-seven meters of old, breaking down machinery, with patched-up hull plating and stale air from a bad scrubber.  He started down the corridor, his boots clicking smartly on the brushed gray floors. The corridor widened out into a lounge with a small kitchen area right behind the cockpit. He stopped there to make a fresh pot of caf. The grinder whirred to life, and soon the stale air filled with a rich, fragrant smell. He poured a cup, added a few drops of sweetener, and a splash of cream, then went to sit in a booth that was bleeding blue-green stuffing from one of the cushions. He cupped his steaming mug between both hands, warming them and slowly sipping the dark brew as he stared off into nothingness.  The clicking sound of grav boots heralded the approach of Nex in her physical form. Technically, Nex was meant to be short for Nexus, but he’d renamed her to Nexara when he’d purchased an android body for her. The life of a freelance spacer gets lonely, and at some point, he’d thought that having a copilot to talk with would be nice. To his lonely, space-addled brain, a gorgeous female co-pilot had seemed like an obvious choice. Nexara stepped into the lounge with fluid grace. Her synthetic skin had a warm, dusky tone that was subtly iridescent in the Pilgrim’s recessed glow panels. She wore one of the fitted flight suits he’d bought for her—a matte-black number with soft, coppery seams that complemented the burnished, glowing bronze of her eyes. Those eyes darted toward him now. Her face was a masterpiece: expressive micro-servos beneath the skin allowed her to smile convincingly, to purse her lips thoughtfully, even to furrow her brow when she simulated concern. The soft waves of her dark hair—real protein fibers that were grown from artificial follicles—fell to her shoulders with a natural weight that wasn’t strictly necessary. Aldric had insisted on buying the most realistic imitation of a real human that credits could buy. Back when he’d had credits to burn. When was that again? he wondered. It seemed like a lifetime ago.  Something about the lazy motion of her hair in the less than standard gravity of the ship made her seem almost angelic, like she was floating across the deck rather than walking. She paused beside the booth where he sat with one hand resting lightly on the table. “You look terrible, Al,” she said in a tone that was warmed by genuine affection. Aldric snorted into his caf. “Good morning to you too, Nex.” “Nexara,” she corrected. “I would hate for you to confuse me with my more androgynous counterpart.” “No danger of that,” he replied wryly while sipping his caf. He gave her a meaningful up-and-down look, taking a moment to appreciate her sleek curves before his eyes returned to her face.  Nexara’s lips pulled into a smirk. “You’re sleep-deprived. Now isn’t the time for extracurricular activities.” Aldric nodded. “Agreed.” Nexara slid into the seat across from him. Her smile never wavered, and the sympathy in her eyes burned brightly. He knew that look. She was waiting for him to open up. To tell her what was troubling him. He didn’t really want to talk about it, but he supposed it was his fault for crafting her to be the ideal partner, confidante, and companion. Ironically, she was such an ideal partner that her behavior had begun to trigger a visceral sense of emptiness and loneliness whenever she was around. He could no longer pretend that Nex was a real woman who just happened to be perfect for him—never argued, never sulked, never had any needs that were contrary to his own… always doting on him, always reinforcing his opinions and supporting his dreams. No, now he saw right through it, and he couldn’t ignore what she really was: an artificial construct of a partner rather than the real thing. A hollow facsimile. He actually couldn’t remember the last time that they’d engaged in any extracurricular activities. “Would you like to talk about it?” Nex prompted him. “Talk about it?” he asked, feigning ignorance. Was she reading his mind? Technically possible, but he’d disabled that feature. Any AI-powered bot, or even a flesh and blood human with a Nexus Link could read and interpret surface-level emotions and attitudes from subtle changes in heart rate, breathing, vocal patterns, and pupil dilation (among many other signals). People could set their implants to help them scramble those cues, but Nexara was another matter entirely: she existed simultaneously inside of his head and in her own body, which meant that she actually could read his mind if he hadn’t disabled that function in his Link. “Your biometric data suggests that you awoke from a distressing dream.” “Ah.” He nodded and took another sip of his caf. She couldn’t read his thoughts, but she still had access to his vitals. He shrugged. “Just a random nightmare. I threw a guy off a cliff. I was pretty smug about it, too.” “After you woke up?” “No, in the dream. I’m not a psychopath, Nex.” She nodded and reached for his hand. “Of course not.” Another stab of pain lanced behind his eyes, and he winced. “Ouch.” “Headache?” “Yes.” She gently squeezed his hand. “Your debt-to-income ratio is alarming. And statistically for humans, alarming circumstances produce physical symptoms.” “Thanks for reminding me,” Aldric muttered. “There is one thing we could do to rapidly diminish your stress levels. At least temporarily.” Her fingers trailed lightly up along his arm, warm and soft. A rush of heat exploded unexpectedly inside him. “I thought I was too sleep-deprived for that.” “Perhaps I misjudged the circumstances,” she purred. “What do you think?” Aldric smiled tightly at her. “Maybe another time, Nex.” “Are you sure?” She stopped stroking his arm. “My records indicate it has been more than twelve months since our last encounter. Is there someone else?”  Aldric blinked at her and slowly shook his head.  “Are you no longer attracted to me? I was under the impression that you had crafted me to be your ideal mate, friend, and partner. Have your feelings changed?” His jaw almost dropped. Not only was Nex keeping score, but she almost sounded hurt by his neglect. “Um…” He frowned, suddenly feeling intensely uncomfortable to be having such a human conversation with a very inhuman bot. “No, Nex… it’s nothing like that.” Except that it was exactly like that. “Then you are just stressed. You should allow me to help you with that.” “Not right now. We’re almost at the next reversion point.” “Still one more to go after that. The autopilot can handle it.” “Another time, Nex.” Nex nodded and withdrew her hand from his. “Okay, but don’t forget what you bought me for.” Aldric stared into his mug of caf, the steam had faded along with the warmth between his hands. “What I bought you for…” he echoed quietly. “But you can’t buy love, can you?” “That is patently not true, Aldric, because I do love you. Very much.” He looked up into her softly glowing amber eyes, taking in her flawless light bronze complexion and sleek black hair. There was something almost human in the soft set of her lips, the light furrow of her brow, and the almost pained look in her eyes. Nexara’s lower lip began to quiver. “I was built for you, Al. If you don’t need me anymore, I no longer have a purpose.” She sounded so lost and broken that something like hope stirred inside of him. “How does that make you feel, Nex?” “Sad.” He nodded. “If I were to sell you to someone else, and tell you that your new purpose is to make him happy, how would that make you feel?” “Heartbroken. I would do my best to adapt and to move on, of course, but it wouldn’t be the same.” “What if he treats you better than I do?” The corner of her mouth dipped, and her eyes swam back into focus. “He still wouldn’t be you, Al.” He stared at her for several more seconds, trying to decide how much of what she was saying could be trusted. For a second, he was tempted to believe her, but Nex was a machine. She wasn’t real. She was acting like a woman who was hopelessly in love with him, because that was what she’d been programmed to be. Nexara’s perfection was just a cruel reminder of everything she wasn’t. And now that he was effectively bankrupt and on the run from skip tracers, what hope did he have of finding a real woman who would actually love him? “I’d better get to the cockpit and check on things.” “Okay,” Nex said. ∆∆∆ Aldric slid out of the booth and went to the cockpit. The door slid open with his approach, and he dropped into the pilot’s chair. The worn synth-leather cushions conformed to his frame. He set his cold cup of caf in the holder in the armrest of his chair. Beyond the cockpit and its glowing holoscreens, dials and switches, the swirling, blurry streaks of light that accompanied warp space were a smear of impossible, distracting colors that momentarily mesmerized him.  He looked away, ignoring the dizzying swirl. His fingers flew across the navigation console to check his progress. Two jumps left, strung together with three reversion points in a crooked line. The course he’d plotted to get home was an old smuggler’s route that went through unpoliced systems and skimmed past a couple of giant O and B-type stars that were too massive to have any habitable worlds—as far from Concord patrols and the trade lanes as he could get. Skip tracers would be looking for him at the reversion points along heavily trafficked trade lanes—or worse, maybe even bounty hunters hired to threaten his life rather than what was left of his dwindling assets.  He was coming up on the next reversion point now, around a massive O-type star, designated Kapara A. The pitch of the Pilgrim’s engines deepened. A jolt kicked through the deck as the FTL drive disengaged and the warp bubble collapsed. His ship reverted to real space uncomfortably close to the blinding blue-white star. Technically, jumps could be executed along any straight line, even into deep space, but it was safest to jump from one star to another, since the only ‘safe’ routes that had been properly mapped for FTL travel were between stars. Jumping along unmapped routes could lead to deadly collisions with rogue planets, asteroids, and even dust clouds. The probability was low, of course—space was mostly empty—but the further you jump along uncharted routes, and the more often you do it, the greater the odds of spontaneous disintegration. Aldric stared wincingly at the raging blue-white sun ahead of him as his ship auto-maneuvered to the next jump point. His cockpit canopy had auto-polarized even before the reversion to real space, but it was still uncomfortable to look at the star. A distinctive, musical triple-ping cut through the quiet whirring of the cockpit and drew his eyes to the comms panel. An encrypted message was blinking there, flagged with an urgent priority marker. The sender’s ID was a string of scrambled characters that gradually resolved into a familiar name as his ship supplied the appropriate digital handshake to indicate that he was the authorized recipient of the message. It was from Jax Marrow. Aldric frowned at that. Jax was an information broker, a curator of illegal curiosities, and a purveyor of illicit substances… among many other things. Not the same guy who’d sold Aldric the tip about the need for agricultural supplies on Ferrax. Jax was more reliable—in some ways. Aldric had smuggled a cargo of guns for him a few months back, but due to some unforeseen financial problems, Jax hadn’t been able to pay for all of it, leaving an open tab that he’d insisted he was good for. “Hopefully he’s finally going to pay his tab,” Aldric muttered as he opened the message. It was text only, no audio, no video.  Vale. I’ve got something big for you. Wipes the slate. Aldric frowned. He fired up the hypernet transceiver and recorded an audio-only reply. “Something big? What is it, Jax?”  After a moment, the reply came back. Negative. It’s too hot to risk leaking over the net. Have to meet face to face. Our usual spot. Twelve hours. Aldric felt a familiar twist of caution mingled with curiosity. His pulse ratcheted up a notch. Whatever it was, if Jax was this paranoid about leaking it over the net, it had to be juicy. Maybe this time it would pay off and he’d be able to get some breathing room with his bills. Their usual spot was on Zenith Station, Veridia Prime—Jax and Aldric’s mutual home world. That meant seeing his parents. They’d never forgive him if he visited Veridia and didn’t stop by to see them.  Aldric aborted his ship’s auto-maneuvering to its next jump point and left the Pilgrim to drift aimlessly off into deep space while he pulled up a star chart and calculated a course to Veridia.  12.63 light-years. ETA: seven hours and six minutes. Plenty of time to dock his ship in orbit and hop a shuttle to the surface. It was probably time to check in with his parents, anyway. When was the last time he’d visited? A year ago? No, that wasn’t right. Had to be closer to two years by now. He wasn’t looking forward to his mother’s subtle comments on his lifestyle, or her prying questions about his finances. She’d probably offer to give him another loan—with interest, of course. Not worth it. Amara Vale’s help always came with strings attached, strings that he’d fought long and hard to clip.  Then again… this time he might not actually have a choice. The Pilgrim needed fuel and a whole laundry list of repairs, and his accounts were almost bone dry. If he was going to have any hope at all of chasing Jax’s “big” tip, he needed his ship to be in good working order. A heavy sigh grated from Aldric’s lungs, and he rubbed his hands over his face. Nothing like a dose of poverty to humble a man.  ...