anything that might be related to the Loric at all. But this planet is solarge, with so many places to hide, in so many different languages. Progress is slow. I feel at home, at least, back in the world of ones and zeros and code.
But the days wear on Zophie. Each hour that goes by without an idea of where her brother might be puts another crack in her shell. It’s unsettling to see. In the ship, we were frustrated because we were trapped, unable to do anything. But now on Earth, where we can actually do something, our inability to find any leads weighs heavy on her. It doesn’t help that—although she is the specialist in otherworldly cultures and affairs—I am the one who is plugged in. The one she has to rely on. She might be able to type something into a search engine, but I can really navigate the internet on this planet. I know its back doors and recognize the things that are hidden in plain sight. She feels helpless. With each day, the bags under her eyes grow larger.
It’s a few weeks into our indefinite residency at the hotel that I finally find a solid lead to Janus and the others. I run across a forum of people posting “evidence” of close encounters with alien species. Most of the photos are grainy and blurry, and I can see the wires hanging from a few of the flying saucers users are trying to pass off as legitimate extraterrestrial spacecrafts—what a strange thing it must be to live on a planet without any knowledge of what cultures and species exist in the universe. But I find a picture froma few weeks ago that’s got an unmistakable silhouette in it. A Loric ship.
Spotted in the United States.
Zophie and Crayton are out buying grocery supplies. Ella sleeps behind me in a crib rolled in from Crayton’s room. I’m alone and can focus on the task ahead of me. My fingers fly across the keyboard.
Through a little digging, I track the IP address of the user who posted the photo. This points me to a small county in the northern part of a state called New York. A population map tells me the place is secluded, sparsely inhabited—the perfect place to hide a ship. I continue investigating, trying to find more information on the user who uploaded the picture. He hasn’t responded to any of the comments on his post—most of which are banal or useless. In fact, his online presence on the forums seems to completely disappear a few days after the picture goes up, which is strange, since I can tell he’s normally a heavily active user. When I email him through the address connected to his username, I get an automated response saying the message was “undeliverable.”
I pick out clues about the man’s identity based on the large amount of personal data he leaves behind in his comments on the forums and track his username across several other websites. It doesn’t take long before I discover his true identity: Eric Bird. After a little research,I dig up property records in the New York area with his name on them.
And a home address.
It’s not much, but it’s something to go off of.
There’s a phone number attached to the address, but when I call it, I get a busy signal. I keep trying, every ten minutes, for the next hour. Eventually, Zophie and Crayton come back. When I tell them what I’ve learned, Zophie drops her groceries and rushes over to me. She’s hugging me before I can even get out of my chair.
“I knew you’d do it,” she whispers. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”
I can’t help but smile. Zophie has needed news so desperately. It feels good to be able to deliver it to her.
“We’d need certification of some type to go to another country, right?” Crayton asks. “Identification?”
“Passports,” I say. “We need passports. I can handle that.”
“How?”
“Earth isn’t so different from Lorien. There are people willing to do anything for the right price. I’ve been investigating a portion of the internet most humans probably don’t even realize exists. It’s
But the days wear on Zophie. Each hour that goes by without an idea of where her brother might be puts another crack in her shell. It’s unsettling to see. In the ship, we were frustrated because we were trapped, unable to do anything. But now on Earth, where we can actually do something, our inability to find any leads weighs heavy on her. It doesn’t help that—although she is the specialist in otherworldly cultures and affairs—I am the one who is plugged in. The one she has to rely on. She might be able to type something into a search engine, but I can really navigate the internet on this planet. I know its back doors and recognize the things that are hidden in plain sight. She feels helpless. With each day, the bags under her eyes grow larger.
It’s a few weeks into our indefinite residency at the hotel that I finally find a solid lead to Janus and the others. I run across a forum of people posting “evidence” of close encounters with alien species. Most of the photos are grainy and blurry, and I can see the wires hanging from a few of the flying saucers users are trying to pass off as legitimate extraterrestrial spacecrafts—what a strange thing it must be to live on a planet without any knowledge of what cultures and species exist in the universe. But I find a picture froma few weeks ago that’s got an unmistakable silhouette in it. A Loric ship.
Spotted in the United States.
Zophie and Crayton are out buying grocery supplies. Ella sleeps behind me in a crib rolled in from Crayton’s room. I’m alone and can focus on the task ahead of me. My fingers fly across the keyboard.
Through a little digging, I track the IP address of the user who posted the photo. This points me to a small county in the northern part of a state called New York. A population map tells me the place is secluded, sparsely inhabited—the perfect place to hide a ship. I continue investigating, trying to find more information on the user who uploaded the picture. He hasn’t responded to any of the comments on his post—most of which are banal or useless. In fact, his online presence on the forums seems to completely disappear a few days after the picture goes up, which is strange, since I can tell he’s normally a heavily active user. When I email him through the address connected to his username, I get an automated response saying the message was “undeliverable.”
I pick out clues about the man’s identity based on the large amount of personal data he leaves behind in his comments on the forums and track his username across several other websites. It doesn’t take long before I discover his true identity: Eric Bird. After a little research,I dig up property records in the New York area with his name on them.
And a home address.
It’s not much, but it’s something to go off of.
There’s a phone number attached to the address, but when I call it, I get a busy signal. I keep trying, every ten minutes, for the next hour. Eventually, Zophie and Crayton come back. When I tell them what I’ve learned, Zophie drops her groceries and rushes over to me. She’s hugging me before I can even get out of my chair.
“I knew you’d do it,” she whispers. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”
I can’t help but smile. Zophie has needed news so desperately. It feels good to be able to deliver it to her.
“We’d need certification of some type to go to another country, right?” Crayton asks. “Identification?”
“Passports,” I say. “We need passports. I can handle that.”
“How?”
“Earth isn’t so different from Lorien. There are people willing to do anything for the right price. I’ve been investigating a portion of the internet most humans probably don’t even realize exists. It’s
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