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it is awakened.
    The golden starship moves into a geosynchronous orbit directly above its enemy. A solar-powered automated hyperwave radio signal is engaged, jamming all outgoing or incoming transmissions. Then the vessel shuts down, its power cells diverted to its life-support pods.
     
    For the starship’s inhabitants, time now stands still.
    For the planet Earth, the clock has begun ticking …
     

 
     
    Chapter 1

     
    SEPTEMBER 8, 2012
MIAMI, FLORIDA
    T he South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center is a seven-story white-concrete building with evergreen trim, located in a run-down ethnic neighborhood just west of the city of Miami. Like most businesses in the area, the rooftops are rimmed in coils of barbed-wire fencing. Unlike other establishments, the barbed wire is not meant to keep the public out, but its residents in.
    Thirty-one-year-old Dominique Vazquez weaves through rush-hour traffic, cursing aloud as she races south on Route 441. The first day of her internship, and she is already late. Swerving around a teenager riding the wrong way on motorized skates, she pulls into the visitors parking lot, parks, then hastily twists her waist-length, jet-black hair into a tight bun as she jogs toward the entrance.
    Magnetic doors part, allowing her access into an air-conditioned lobby.
    A Hispanic woman in her late forties sits behind the information desk, reading the morning news from a clipboard-sized, wafer-thin computer monitor. Without looking up, she asks, “Can I help you?”
    “Yes. I have an appointment with Margaret Reinike.”
    “Not today you don’t. Dr. Reinike no longer works here.” The woman fingers the page-down button, advancing the news monitor to another article.
    “I don’t understand. I spoke with Dr. Reinike two weeks ago.”
    The receptionist finally looks up. “And you are?”
    “Vazquez, Dominique Vazquez. I’m here on a one-year postgraduate internship from FSU. Dr. Reinike’s supposed to be my sponsor.” She watches the woman pick up the phone and press an extension.
    “Dr. Foletta, a young woman by the name of Domino Vass—”
    “Vazquez. Dominique Vazquez.”
    “Sorry. Dominique Vazquez. No, sir, she’s down here in the lobby, claiming to be Dr. Reinike’s intern. Yes, sir.” The receptionist hangs up. “You can have a seat over there. Dr. Foletta will be down to speak with you in a few minutes.” The woman swivels her back to Dominique, returning to her news monitor.
    Ten minutes pass before a large man in his late fifties makes his way down a corridor.
    Anthony Foletta looks like he belongs on a football field coaching defensive linemen, not walking the halls of a state facility housing the criminally insane. A mane of thick gray hair rolls back over an enormous head, which appears to be attached directly to the shoulders. Blue eyes twinkle between sleepy lids and puffy cheeks. Though overweight, the upper body is firm, the stomach protruding slightly from the open white lab coat.
    A forced smile, and a thick hand is extended.
    “Anthony Foletta, new Chief of Psychiatry.” The voice is deep and grainy, like an old lawn mower.
    “What happened to Dr. Reinike?”
    “Personal situation. Rumor has it her husband was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Guess she decided to take an early retirement. Reinike told me to expect you. Unless you have any objections, I’ll be supervising your internship.”
    “No objections.”
    “Good.” He turns and heads back down the hall, Dominique hustling to keep pace.
    “Dr. Foletta, how long have you been with the facility?”
    “Ten days. I transferred down here from the state facility in Massachusetts.”
    They approach a guard at the first security checkpoint. “Give the guard your driver’s license.”
    Dominique searches her purse, then hands the man the laminated card, swapping it for the visitor’s pass. “Use this for now,” Foletta says. “Turn it in when you leave at the end of the day. We’ll get you an