Chris steps through the front door, sighing loudly at the sight of the General waiting for him. The last thing he needs after a two-hour drive through the middle of nowhere is this guy standing there. Emotionless and with an ego problem.

  “I thought I’d do the honors of showing you around myself,” the man says, all smug professionalism.

  Chris does a mental rundown of all the possible crimes—both actual and karmic—that could have landed him here. He comes up blank.

  “What more could anyone possibly ask for on their first day?” he mutters, voice thick with sarcasm. He might not be as physically imposing as the military gorilla in front of him, but he at least had his tongue. And he was not afraid to use it.

  The General gives him a thin, too-wide smile and turns sharply, leading him through a long, sterile hallway. The walls are blindingly white, the kind of décor you’d expect in an organ-harvesting facility.

  “I’m sure you have questions,” the General says, without looking back, his march unwavering even when Chris stumbles over an uneven tile and scowls. Prick.

  “Lots,” he replies, pausing to inspect the sole of his shoe. “Mainly, why the inside of a Plastic Manufacturing Plant looks like the kind of place where you’d score a cocaine fix.”

  “Former plastic manufacturing plant,” the General corrects, not breaking stride. “It’s been repurposed for military use. Biochemical enhancements, endurance training, a gym—”

  Chris holds up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. “Please tell me you did not drag me all the way out here just to watch a bunch of hot twenty-somethings bench-press their self-worth.”

  For the briefest moment, the General’s lips twitch—maybe the ghost of a smile—but he quickly smothers it. “No,” he says simply. “We brought you in for this.”

  With a casual movement, he presses his palm against what looks like a plain section of the wall. A door clicks open seamlessly, revealing a chamber bathed in an eerie blue light.

  Chris squints. The brightness is so intense that it stings his eyes. A lab tech immediately steps forward and hands him a pair of dark glasses.

  He slides them on, and suddenly, the world sharpens into focus. He sees the massive glass enclosure on the other side of the room. And inside it… Jesus H. Christ.

  A glowing watermelon.

  Well, a giant, translucent, pulsating watermelon-like object, hovering inches above the ground. A team of technicians in full-body suits circle it, poking and prodding. One particularly ambitious idiot is even attempting to cut into it with a laser.

  Chris turns his head, very slowly, toward the General.

  “We’ve tried everything,” the man says, voice steady and businesslike. “High-powered lasers, industrial saws—hell, we even tried a chainsaw. Nothing makes a dent.”

  Chris studies the General for a long, excruciating moment. The man is tall, broad-shouldered, starched uniform so crisp it probably had it’s own award. Physically intimidating? Sure. Intelligent? Debatable.

  “You’re all fucking idiots,” he declares. God he was starting to sound like Alex. However warranted in this situation

  The General actually sputters. “I—Excuse me?”

  Chris exhales heavily, like a parent disappointed in their child’s life choices. “You dragged me out here to look at a glowing, unknown artifact. A thing that, for all you know, could be the alien equivalent of a nuclear warhead. And your first instinct? Let’s poke it with sharp objects and see what happens!”

  The General scowls. “I—”

  Chris holds up a finger. “No, no, let me finish. If you survive the next twenty-four hours, I want you to take a long, hard look in the mirror and ask yourself, ‘Am I, in fact, an idiot?’”

  The General’s jaw tightens. “Are you done?”

  “Not quite. Get your people out of there. Preferably before they find something carnivorous inside the thing.”

  And with that, Chris spins on his heel and walks out.

  ~~~

  The hallway is packed. Military personnel and lab techs stand in stiff rows, waiting for orders. Chris scans the group with slow, deliberate scrutiny, pacing in front of them like a warden inspecting a prison lineup.

  He lets the silence stretch.

  Then, finally—

  “Whose absolute brilliant idea was it to dissect an unknown piece of extraterrestrial technology?”

  The murmuring starts immediately. A few unlucky souls attempt to shuffle away, as if that will somehow make them less guilty.

  Chris smirks. “Oh, you didn’t know it was alien? Personally, I thought the glowing, pulsating energy, and general aura of ‘this will kill you’ were enough of a red flag.”

  The General watches, expression unreadable.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “What’s even worse is that none of you knew what the hell it was, and yet the smartest person here—whoever the hell that is—still thought it a marvelous idea to crack it open.’”

  He turns to the General, smirking. “Glenn, my man, I’m learning so much about military hiring standards.”

  The General’s eyebrow twitches. “Who the hell is Glenn?”

  Chris ignores him, rolling on. “These guys wouldn’t even make desk clerks at my company, yet here they are, handling a super secret, confidential, doesn't exist, hush-hush military project. Amazing.”

  He claps his hands together. “Now! Who has test results? Someone at least scanned the thing before playing mad scientist, right?”

  A nervous scientist scurries forward with a clipboard.

  “Good,” Chris mutters, taking it from him. “The rest of you? Take five. Crack open a physics textbook while you’re at it. Who knows? Your lives may depend on it.”

  The General clears his throat, visibly fighting back a headache. “Those were some of the best professors and physicists in the state you just mouthed off to.”

  Chris rolls his eyes. “Then you definitely didn’t look hard enough.” He flips through the reports as they walk. Then pauses.

  “The crystal,” he says. “You obviously knew it was alien. Where did it come from?”

  The General exhales. “At first, we suspected Alex.”

  Chris shakes his head. “Alex has been around longer than this thing.”

  “Agreed. The project’s been passed down for generations.” The General’s voice drops. “The original discovery was made in 1914—a backyard excavation in Albania. A man was digging a well when he found it. A spaceship.”

  Chris stops walking. “I’m sorry. A what?”

  The General leads him through a narrow hall, into a storage room packed with old military vehicles, discarded aircraft parts, and—center stage—a futuristic, double-seater pod.

  Chris approaches it slowly, eyes locked on the sleek, alien design. It’s barely big enough for two grown men. Which means whoever had landed in it…

  “They would’ve been kids,” he mutters.

  The General nods grimly. “We brought it here. Tried to utilize it. As you can see…” he gestures to the wreckage, “...not much success.”

  Chris steps forward slowly, eyes locked on the design. “Holy fucking shit.”

  The General claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I believe in your ability to fix this.” His voice lowers. “Everything you need, you’ll get. Consider it a sign of goodwill. I hope you, in turn, have the proper motivation to deliver results.”

  Chris laughs.

  The General scowls.

  “Are you threatening me, Glenn?” Chris wipes an imaginary tear. “Because I’m not making promises. I’ll try—but with the people I have to work with?” He lets the sentence dangle.

  The General clenches his jaw. “Who is Glenn?”

  Chris ignores him, wandering down the hall. He opens a random door, grins.

  “Ooh! I like this room.”

  His voice echoes.

  The General sighs. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

  Sometime in Macedonia, 332 BC ...

  The night sky splits open.

  A burning streak of fire tears across the heavens—like a god has hurled a piece of the sun down to earth. The air trembles with its descent, a rising howl that ends in an impact so violent the ground itself groans in protest. A shockwave ripples outward, knocking dust and debris into the air. The horses rear, their terrified cries piercing the night as the mounted soldiers struggle to keep them steady.

  Then, silence.

  A crater smolders before them, the earth scorched. At its center sits something smooth and metallic, glowing faintly in the darkness. Not rock. Not chariot. Not anything they have ever seen.

  The Leader is the first to move. He grips his horse reins tighter, eyes locked on the strange vessel. He rears back as a seam appears along the structure's curved surface, light spilling from within. The air around it shudders, steam billowing out as the door slides open and a figure emerges.

  Small.

  A child.

  She steps out on unsteady feet, her back to the soldiers, arms hanging loosely at her sides. Her clothes—if they are clothes—gleam in the dim light, smooth and seamless, the fabric clinging in ways no woven cloth should.

  She turns.

  The leader hears a sharp intake of breath from one of his men. Even he tenses, though he masks it well. The girl is unlike anything they have ever laid eyes on.

  A small diamond is embedded above her right eyebrow, catching the firelight as she moves. Blood trickles from her left temple, from a wound where a second jewel should be. Her skin is dark and smooth, her features delicate but sharp, her dark eyes empty of fear. She stares at them.

  They stare back.

  The Leader sees the way their grips tighten on their weapons, the way their knuckles go white. They fear what they do not understand. He had to act quickly.

  "Bring her to me." He forces his voice to be calm and unshaken.

  Nobody moves at first.

  Then, reluctantly, two men dismount, their boots hitting the ground in unison.

  The girl flinches. Without warning, every blade in the camp—every sword, every spear, every piece of metal—wrenches free from its owner's grasp.

  Steel cuts through the air, whistling toward the two soldiers. They don't even have time to scream before the blades impale them, tearing through flesh and bone with merciless precision. They drop.

  The other soldiers recoil in horror. Some turn their horses, muttering prayers, hands trembling as they back away.

  The Leader remains still. His heart is pounding against his ribs, but he keeps his expression neutral and his breathing steady. This was power, raw and untamed. More than any of his so-called sorcerers had ever displayed.

  If this was a god, she is young. If this was a weapon, she is untrained. Either way, she is useful.

  Slowly, he lifts a hand—his soldiers freeze at the gesture—and then he dismounts. Carefully. Deliberately. His boots press into the dirt as he steps closer, his movements slow and unthreatening. The child watches him, wary but still.

  The leader stops just a few feet away, eyes flickering to the magnificent gem on her brow.

  "How... interesting," he murmurs. He reaches out, not touching, just—curious.

  The swords lodged in his fallen men tremble. Then, they rise, hovering midair, their tips angled toward his chest. A silent threat. He does not flinch.

  "I'm not going to hurt you, child." His voice is steady. Low. He raises his hands in surrender. "See? No weapons."

  The swords hold for a moment longer—then, finally, they drop.

  The girl tilts her head slightly, studying him, then gives a single, almost imperceptible nod. The man steps closer, lowering himself to a crouch, bringing himself to her level.

  "My name is Alexander," he says, his gaze never leaving hers. "Alexander the Third of Macedonia." A pause. "And you... what are you?"