February 15, 2019. The White House, Washington D.C. 14:00 Local Time.
The air over the South Lawn was thick with tension. President Elizabeth Sterling stood on the portico of the Diplomatic Room, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. To her right stood General Vance, his uniform crisp, his face a mask of barely suppressed fury. To her left, the Secret Service detail was twitchy. Their earpieces were buzzing constantly. On the roof, snipers scanned the cloudy sky, their rifles useless against what was coming, but held ready nonetheless.
Beyond the black iron fence, the scene was chaos. Pennsylvania Avenue was a sea of satellite trucks, cameras, and shouting reporters. The flashing lights of police cars painted the surrounding buildings in red and blue. Thousands of civilians pushed against the barricades, phones raised, waiting for the sky to fall.
"They are mocking us," Vance muttered, his jaw tight. "Landing here. It's a power play. They want to show the world we can't stop them."
"They are negotiating, General," the President corrected, keeping her voice low. "And frankly, they hold all the cards. If the public sees us point guns at the people who saved the ISS, my administration is over. So you will stand down. You will smile. And you will not give the order to fire unless I say so."
Vance didn't answer. He just stared at the clouds, wishing he was back in a command bunker instead of a photo op.
Press Pen
Max Anderson, senior correspondent for CNN, adjusted his earpiece and looked at the camera lens. "We are live at the White House," he said, his voice practiced but strained. "Where we are awaiting the arrival of the... entity... that made contact with the International Space Station earlier today."
He paused while the feed cut to B-roll footage. Internally, Max was reeling. He had covered wars, elections, and disasters. But this? Four hours ago, the world watched a live feed from NASA showing a massive black block shielding the ISS from a debris storm. It was heroic. Then, the feed showed the station disappearing into the block. Abduction. Panic. The "Eater of Worlds," Twitter had called it. And now? A press release from an unknown group calling itself "Nomad" claiming they were just... returning the rental?
It didn't make sense. Aliens don't return things. Terrorists don't ask for a press conference. "Who are these guys?" Max whispered to his cameraman. "And how do they have a ship that eats space stations?"
"Heads up!" someone shouted. "Visual!"
Max looked up. The chatter of the crowd died instantly. The clouds above the Washington Monument parted.
Arrival
It didn't roar like a jet. It didn't chop the air like a helicopter. It hummed. A deep, resonant vibration that was felt in the chest more than heard with the ears. The Nomad descended. Four hundred meters of Vantablack geometry. A shadow made solid. It blotted out the sun, casting the entire White House into an early twilight.
The wind picked up. Papers flew from reporters' hands. The Secret Service agents put their hands on their holsters, their eyes wide behind their sunglasses. The ship was impossibly big. It hung there, defying gravity, a monolith of alien engineering floating above the capital of the free world.
It stopped its descent about thirty meters above the ground. Dust and loose leaves were blown away from the manicured grass of the South Lawn, creating a clean circle directly in front of the President.
Then, with a hiss of hydraulics that sounded like a mechanical sigh, the massive rear cargo ramp began to lower. Steam—condensed water vapor from the cooling systems—curled around the metal as it touched the grass.
The ramp was a stage. The mist swirled. A figure emerged from the darkness of the ship's interior. Blue flight suit. American flag patch. Commander Higgins.
A roar went up from the crowd outside the fence. A wave of sound that drowned out the ship's hum. Higgins walked down the ramp, followed by Sokolov and the rest of the ISS crew. They looked exhausted, blinking in the daylight, but they were alive. Unharmed. Higgins stopped ten meters from the President. He stood tall and saluted.
"Madam President," he shouted over the wind. "Permission to come ashore."
The President stepped forward, breaking protocol, and walked onto the grass. She returned the salute, then reached out to shake his hand. "Permission granted, Commander. Welcome home."
Higgins held the handshake for the cameras, then he turned back to the ship. "Don't thank me, Ma'am," he said, gesturing to the ramp. "Thank them."
The world leaned in. Who would walk out? Greys? Green men? Robots?
Three people stepped out of the mist. On the left, a woman in a sharp blazer and glasses, clutching a tablet like a shield. Judy. She looked professional, terrifyingly competent, and slightly pale. On the right, a young man in a grey hoodie with a NASA logo, looking around with wide, nervous eyes, hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets. Mereel. And in the center, a man in a dark jacket, messy hair, and tired eyes. He didn't look like a conqueror. He looked like an engineer who had just pulled a triple shift.
They walked down the ramp. No weapons. No armor. Just three civilians. The "Faces of Nomad."
They stopped next to Higgins. The silence was absolute. The contrast between the colossal, terrifying ship and the three normal-looking humans was jarring.
Surgrim stepped forward. He looked at the President. Then he looked at General Vance, who was staring at him with a mix of hatred and disbelief. Surgrim extended a hand to the President.
"Madam President," he said, his voice surprisingly steady. "I'm Surgrim. This is the Nomad crew." He glanced at the massive ship hovering above them, then down at the grass. "Sorry about the lawn. We tried to hover high enough to save the rose bushes."
The President looked at him. She saw the exhaustion in his eyes. She saw the lack of malice. She took his hand. "The roses will recover, Mr. Surgrim," she said, flashing a smile for the cameras. "Thank you for bringing our people back."
"We keep our promises," Surgrim said. He turned to look at Vance. The General was standing rigid, his fists clenched at his sides. He was the most powerful military officer in the country, and he had been checkmated by a guy in a hoodie. Surgrim nodded to him. A polite, acknowledging nod. "General," Surgrim said. "Your astronauts are all yours. The station is patched. Orbit is stable."
Vance ground his teeth. He wanted to arrest them. He wanted to order the snipers to fire. But the cameras were rolling. The crowd was cheering. Higgins was standing right next to the kid, protecting him. Vance forced himself to nod back. A stiff, jerky motion. "Acknowledged," Vance rasped.
Surgrim turned back to the cameras. He didn't wave. He just stood there, flanked by Mereel and Judy. They weren't hiding anymore. They were Nomad.
________________
End of Volume 1
Thank you for reading