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fifteen to twenty thousand life signs.”
    “Human life signs?” asked Sanchez.
    The Director frowned. “Don’t know. Life signs for sure, but we’re not clear on specifics. Looks human, but the probes stopped transmitting before they could gather definitive data. It wasn’t a malfunction—both probes were destroyed.”
    The room was silent. It was almost too much to take in. Tolbert had been working with the information for weeks and he was still astonished.
    Carr broke the quiet. “You know, according to history, over ninety-nine percent of humanity died during the thirty years of the Diaspora. Only about eighteen million people made it off the planet to the eleven original settlement worlds. We assume as fact that the remaining pockets of people on Earth died off. What if some of them survived?”
    “Even if some people on Earth survived,” voiced a skeptical Sanchez, “could they have advanced to this scientific level in only three hundred years?”
    “I admit, it doesn’t sound plausible. I’m just thinking out loud.”
    Tolbert cleared his throat. “This has all been hashed over by the experts and they’re in agreement. These aren’t post-Diaspora survivors—they’re outsiders.”
    “Director, what about this gas miner, the Theodora ?” Sanchez asked.
    “No sign of it. Missing and presumed destroyed,” said Tolbert in a solemn voice. “The cover story is a hyperspace accident.
    “You two are to proceed to Rusalka, where you will pick up a prototype stealth scout vessel called Kestrel . It’s small, but has long-range capabilities. Kestrel’s a two-person ship and Sanchez will pilot. It’s equipped with the most advanced stealth systems ever created. From Rusalka, hyperdrive to Sol, reconnoiter, and land on Earth. Learn as much as you can about who these people are and what they’re doing, and then rendezvous with Task Force Nineteen, which will follow you by about a week.”
    Tolbert dimmed the holograph. “I never thought I’d be dispatching operatives to Earth. Obviously, I don’t have to tell you how much is riding on this. Find out as much as you can, as fast as you can, then get back up into space and report to TF Nineteen. That’s it, and good luck.”
    Carr and Sanchez got up to depart and Tolbert seemed to remember something. “Frank,” the Director called out. “Frank, how’s Shannon doing?”
    Carr shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of resignation and Tolbert nodded back. Sanchez got the feeling she had witnessed a terribly private moment pass between the two men and knew to say nothing.
    As they dealt with James in the outer office, Sanchez suggested that they go over the briefing information contained on the datatabs.
    “Good idea, Ms. Sanchez,” Carr said in a distinctively patronizing tone. “Let’s go next door to the lounge where we can work comfortably.”
    As they left Tolbert’s office, Carr took Sanchez by the arm and steered her to the right and down the hall. “Where are we going?” she protested. “The lounge is back there, isn’t it?”
    “Forget the lounge. Let’s go across the street to Bismarck’s. I need a drink.”
    Sanchez made an uncomfortable face. “I don’t drink in the afternoon.”
    “Well, this would be an excellent time to start.”
    * * * *
    “Another, sir?” asked the server.
    “Sure, and another of whatever the lady’s having.”
    Across from Yancey House and down the block, Bismarck’s was an appealing watering hole set on the corner of Uhlen and Feldmark. The establishment had been ‘the’ spot several years ago, but its star had fallen in recent times. Following their meeting with Director Tolbert, Carr and Sanchez migrated there to examine the mission files in greater detail.
    It was an inviting bar, the interior accentuated by real wood trim, something becoming rarer by the year on Sarissa. Along the walls were tastefully placed paintings and some small side tables with porcelain pieces. The bar itself stretched