Stealth (Required)

The video feed flickered back to life. The infiltrator had survived the descent.

For a while, it remained tucked against the asteroid, riding the last stretch of its trajectory like a parasite clinging to its host. Then, as planned, it detached—drifting away and beginning its controlled descent.

At several thousand meters high, its wings unfolded with precise mechanical movements, catching the air and slowing its fall into a smooth glide.

We had no control over it now. Light lag made real-time commands impossible, so the infiltrator had to choose its landing site on its own.

I watched as it adjusted course. After a few moments, it found its mark—a small clearing in a vast forest, far from anything resembling a population center.

Smart choice.

For now, everything was going according to plan.

I skimmed through the reports, watching the recorded footage as I shoveled food into my mouth.

After the infiltrator landed, I'd passed out immediately—face-first onto my bed. Now, freshly awake, I'd gone through the standard morning routine: wash face, drink warm water, stare at the ceiling for five minutes while my brain booted up. And now, I was catching up on what had happened while I was out.

Of course, I wasn't doing this on an empty stomach.

A proper breakfast was essential—a mountain of rice, thick slices of roasted pork, crispy fried chicken, hard-boiled eggs, and tender beef. The fact that all of it was 3D-printed lab meat was irrelevant.

By a certain definition, this was a vegetarian meal.

It tasted exactly the same, so I didn't care.

Turning my attention to the screen, I watched as the infiltrator bolted the moment it landed.

At first, I wasn't sure why—then the reason came into view.

A group of creatures emerged.

Humanoid. Two arms, two legs, hands with five fingers each—opposable thumbs included. Their heads featured two forward-facing eyes, a nose, and a mouth. Unmistakably familiar, yet distinctly alien.

Compared to humans, they were eerily close—but just far enough to avoid the uncanny valley.

Their eyes sat higher on their faces, pupils and irises shaped like ellipses—some wider than tall, others the reverse. They stood upright, but with shorter, thinner legs supporting broader, more muscular torsos.

They averaged around 1.7 meters in height, their backs unnervingly straight—not curved like a human's spine, but rigid, like a chopstick.

After a while, they sighed and gave up.

One by one, they turned back, retracing their steps toward wherever they'd come from. My infiltrator moved in stealthy pursuit.

They arrived at a clearing where several metal vehicles sat waiting—obviously cars of some kind. They climbed in, doors shutting with a solid clunk.

Then, a small mishap.

One of them got their fur caught in the doorframe. Or at least, I thought it was fur.

Turns out, it was just their shirt.

With an annoyed grunt, they yanked at it, tore off a chunk, and muttered something that—judging by their tone—was almost certainly a curse. Without hesitation, they pulled out a fresh shirt and swapped it on.

A species that wears clothing.

A species with vehicles, tools, and language.

A species that had, based on everything I'd seen so far, almost certainly been the one to develop nuclear weapons and begin a space program.

The wheels rolled forward, kicking up dust as the vehicles followed a worn dirt trail.

My infiltrator tracked their movements, its sensors picking up the low rumble of engines fading into the distance. Following the tire tracks and lingering noise, it maneuvered through the underbrush until it reached an asphalt road.

There. A proper road.

The vehicles had vanished into the horizon, but their direction was clear. Without hesitation, the infiltrator turned onto the asphalt and continued its pursuit.

I paused the video and pulled up the latest reports.

• Atmosphere: Breathable.

• Microbial Life: Nothing of note—basic vaccines should be enough to keep a human safe.

• Climate: Temperate, as expected. Humidity and temperature readings matched earlier assessments.

• Flora & Fauna: Nearly identical to Earth's—some variations in size, but nothing too extreme.

All of this confirmed what I'd suspected: this planet was shockingly Earth-like.

I skip ahead in the video.

Most of the last six hours had been uneventful—just the infiltrator moving quietly alongside the road, careful to stay out of sight. The road itself was well-paved but aged, a thin layer of dust settling over its surface.

There were no streetlights or small power poles lining the sides, only massive metal transmission towers spaced out at long intervals. That suggested something: this road probably wasn't a major route—just a secondary road leading somewhere less important. The real highways had to be elsewhere.

I don't have to wait long to find one.

The infiltrator reached a massive highway, where its road branched off into a proper thoroughfare. Eight lanes wide, teeming with traffic, huge container trucks roared past in both directions.

Among them, one truck caught the infiltrator's attention—a livestock hauler, loaded with creatures that looked like oversized chickens.

Without hesitation, the infiltrator leaped onto the truck, grabbing onto the frame and wedging itself in a secure spot.

I skip ahead again.

The latest video feed showed the truck pulling into a rest stop. The driver had already left for lunch, and the infiltrator had started moving again.

A notification pops up.

New Report:

The infiltrator has reached the engine compartment. Initiating inspection.

I opened YouTube and scrolled through my library, picking a Factorio video at random. There weren't going to be any new uploads ever again, but with millions of videos still available, I wasn't about to run out of content anytime soon.

I ate my meal while watching, enjoying the familiar rhythm of factory layouts and efficiency optimizations.

Right as I finished eating, the infiltrator's report arrived.

Report:

The truck's engine is a 6-cylinder V-type combustion engine made of steel. The internal components—gears, hydraulic pumps, oil circulation, fuel pipes, electric generator—are all strikingly similar to human designs.

The infiltrator had partially disassembled the engine, mapping its structure and confirming its near-identical functionality. Once finished, it reassembled the engine—and, for good measure, broke it again in the exact same way before slipping back into hiding.

Just in time, too.

The trucker returned, wiping their face with a sleeve—or at least, trying to. Their skin was a darker shade of white, but there was a black stain on their cheek, something thick and greasy that they kept rubbing at in frustration.

Probably oil from when they had been fiddling with the engine earlier.

Unlike before, this alien's clothing stood out more distinctly against their skin. They wore a blue shirt, black baggy pants, and sturdy black boots. Their movements suggested mild annoyance, but nothing too serious.

The infiltrator remained motionless, observing.

As the truck rumbled back onto the highway, I took a moment to analyze the last bit of footage. The rest stop it had left behind was… surprisingly normal. A restaurant, a parking lot, and a few scattered buildings. If someone dropped it into the middle of the U.S., no one would bat an eye. It looked like something pulled straight from Earth.

For the next several days, I split my time between reading engineering books and monitoring the infiltrator's progress. After leaving the rest stop, the truck eventually arrived at what appeared to be an industrial poultry farm. Workers hauled cages of chicken-like creatures off the truck, their squawks muffled by the noise of machinery. Taking the opportunity, the infiltrator leaped from its hiding place and climbed onto another truck, this one heading toward the city—assuming Khánh Linh, the infiltrator, and I had read their maps correctly.

The truck pulled onto the road again, passing by more industrial farms, each one specializing in different animals. Poultry, cattle, even something that vaguely resembled pigs, though with longer legs and thicker fur. Yet, despite all the livestock, I noticed a glaring absence—no fields, no plantations, no greenhouses.

"Khánh Linh, do you see any sign of large-scale crop production?"

"I do not," she answered immediately. "Given the extensive livestock infrastructure, they may rely on alternative food sources."

Alternative food sources. I mulled over the possibilities. Maybe they were obligate carnivores, unable to digest plant matter efficiently. Maybe they produced food synthetically, skipping the need for traditional farming altogether. Or maybe their agriculture was simply located elsewhere—inside cities, underground, or in controlled environments.

Whatever the case, I was about to find out soon enough.

As the city emerges on the horizon, the roads grow busier. Vehicles merge in from countless smaller streets, flowing like nutrients through the roots of a vast tree. Alongside the highway, advertisement boards begin appearing, showcasing products that all seem to revolve around one thing—meat. Sharp knives, premium cooking oils, affordable cuts, high-quality selections. Either these aliens are dedicated carnivores, or their marketing departments have a one-track mind.

The truck enters the city, passing through uniform rows of houses on the outskirts. Streetlights and power poles become more frequent, marking the transition from rural to urban infrastructure. Closer to the center, the buildings grow taller—though "tall" is relative. Most structures cap out at around ten stories, save for a few skyscrapers that stand out against the skyline.

Despite the density, the streets aren't packed with cars. Traffic moves sluggishly, not from congestion but from the vehicles themselves. Their engines just don't seem built for speed. It matches up with expectations—early space-age technology, reminiscent of mid-to-late 20th century Earth. That puts them in an era where they might just be taking their first real steps into space.

The truck pulls into a supermarket's loading bay, and the infiltrator seizes its chance. As the alien workers haul frozen slabs of meat from the truck's freezer, it slips away, weaving through the chaos of moving boxes and shifting pallets. Inside, it stays low, ducking behind forklifts, crates, and—when necessary—particularly large aliens.

Navigating deeper into the store, the infiltrator reaches the shopping floor. Shelves stretch in neat rows, their contents carefully labeled. It quickly compiles a report on the product distribution:

• 20% fresh/frozen meat

• 20% processed meat

• 10% clothing

• 10% cleaning products

• 20% drinks

• 10% books

• 10% miscellaneous goods

• 0% vegetables

That last part isn't exactly shocking at this point. Either these aliens are obligate carnivores, or they just really, really hate salad.

The infiltrator maneuvers toward the book section, scanning the covers. Most of them seem to be novels or entertainment magazines, but tucked between them, it spots something far more valuable—textbooks for young children, likely designed to teach them their written language.

Jackpot.

Without hesitation, the infiltrator grabs one, retreats into the restroom, and begins copying its contents. Within moments, the first batch of text is transmitted back to me.

Khánh Linh immediately gets to work analyzing the data, parsing through the alien text to identify patterns. Meanwhile, the infiltrator keeps up the cycle—grabbing another textbook, retreating to the restroom to copy its contents, and then slipping back out for more.

This process repeats until 17:00, both by my clock and the aliens'. It turns out we calculate time similarly, or at least, their daily routines match up with a standard 24-hour work schedule. I only realize this because, right on cue, the number of customers explodes. One moment, the aisles are manageable. The next, it's an absolute zoo.

That's not a bad thing. If anything, the infiltrator blends in even better. The crowd is so chaotic that no one bats an eye at an independently moving shopping cart gliding across the floor.

Well, gliding might be a strong word. The infiltrator isn't pushing the cart—it's outright lifting it. The wheels don't even touch the ground. Considering its height, the cart is practically floating at eye level, yet not a single alien seems to notice.

At this point, I have to wonder: is there some massive sale going on? Because these aliens are way too focused on their shopping to question a cart casually hovering through the store.

As the infiltrator makes its way out, it keeps observing the aliens, taking notes on their habits. Most of them are dressed in long coats, hats, pants, and shoes—practical attire, though whether it's for fashion or function is unclear. Despite the chaos of the store, none of them drop their phones.

Until one does.

The device slips from an alien's grasp, plummeting to the floor with a boom—not a soft clatter, not a dull thud, but a full-on boom. The surrounding crowd immediately parts, like pedestrians making way for an oncoming truck.

The infiltrator zooms in. The floor where the phone landed is cracked.

I blink. That thing has to weigh several kilograms, at least.

A well-dressed alien—someone who looks like a businessman, judging by the textbook descriptions—steps forward and picks it up. With both hands. Not casually, not one-handed like a lightweight smartphone, but with deliberate effort.

So, their communication technology is still in the early personal mobile phone era.

Excellent. Even if someone does spot the infiltrator, they won't be able to snap a picture and immediately spread it around. Hell, even calling for help would probably take them a minute or two.

That means I still have the advantage.

The infiltrator slips out of the supermarket, smoothly returning the cart to the collection area before heading toward a jewelry store nearby. The place is almost as packed as the supermarket—aliens crowd the counters, voices raised, hands waving. But they aren't buying.

They're selling.

Gold changes hands aggressively, bar after bar, coin after coin. If this were Earth, I'd assume some kind of economic panic or deflation. Maybe the same applies here.

The infiltrator moves to the counter and places a gold coin down—one of many I'd given it before deployment. The cashier, swamped with customers, barely glances up. They grab the coin, toss it onto a scale, check the weight, and shove a stack of paper bills and metal coins toward the infiltrator before moving on to the next customer. Not a second glance.

Perfect.

With money in hand, the infiltrator steps back into the street.

A child stands nearby, waving newspapers at passing aliens, calling out headlines in an incomprehensible language. Without breaking stride, the infiltrator reaches out, plucks a paper from the stack, and flicks the indicated amount of coins toward the kid.

The child snatches them out of the air without looking, already turning to the next customer. The infiltrator's movements are casual, precise—no hesitation, no wasted motion. In this busy commercial district, where everyone is too preoccupied to notice a four-legged machine weaving through the crowd, it remains unseen.

For now.

The infiltrator ducks behind a pile of trash, pulling out the newspaper and scanning through the pages. Within seconds, Khánh Linh begins translating.

"The major headlines are about the economy," she reports. "Inflation this year has decreased by two percent, reaching a low of zero. Experts are warning about the dangers of deflation."

I frown. "Deflation?"

"The cause is the recent discovery of high quantities of surface metals on an asteroid. The article claims that scientists and technology enthusiasts are optimistic about using satellites to mine it, potentially bringing in an incredible amount of resources in the near future."

That makes sense. If everyone expects a flood of cheap materials, they're hoarding money instead of spending it, driving prices down. But as I listen, a creeping unease settles in my chest.

An asteroid.

Rich in metal.

Currently untouched.

My stomach twists. No way.

"Khánh Linh," I say slowly, the pieces clicking into place, "cross-reference their asteroid coordinates with ours."

She's silent for a moment. Then, when she speaks, there's a rare hint of fear in her voice.

"I already did—seconds before you asked." A pause. "Yes. Unfortunately, we both guessed correctly."

I exhale sharply, already knowing the answer before she even says it.

"That asteroid," Khánh Linh confirms, "is the location of our very first colony."

Calm down, Danh. Calm down.

No, there's still time. They've only detected the metal—nothing else. If they'd spotted the buildings or robots, the headlines wouldn't be about "future mining opportunities." They'd be panicking. That means, for now, they still think it's just an interesting asteroid.

But that won't last forever.

Even if they don't know it yet, there's a high chance they'll send a probe. And once they do, they'll see everything. My colony. My machines. Me.

I should try to learn more about them. For now, back to the newspaper.

One of the major discussions is asteroid mining, and not everyone's convinced. A handful of critics are raising concerns, pointing out how suspicious it is for an asteroid so rich in resources to exist among more typical, barren ones. They're not wrong—any competent geologist should be questioning it. But multiple independent checks by engineers have confirmed the readings, and that's been enough to silence most doubters.

So, stopping them from going to the asteroid? Impossible. Great.

I sigh and keep reading.

The next major section covers politics. Apparently, a peace treaty was signed today in favor of the Vareshi Empire, and the Imperial Army is already moving in to "maintain order." The newspaper is practically glowing with praise, calling the Empire merciful, civilized, kind, and the ultimate bringer of order. No surprise—it reads like state propaganda.

At least now I know for sure: the infiltrator is in the Vareshi Empire.

I return my attention to the newspaper, flipping through its pages with mild curiosity. The next section covers sports, and from what I can gather, these aliens are built for speed and endurance rather than agility or precision. There are numerous mentions of races—sprints, marathons, even multi-day endurance events. Strength competitions are also a thing, with records of champions lifting absurd amounts of weight. However, there's not a single mention of a sport that requires arm dexterity. No ball games, no racket sports—nothing where fine motor control of the upper limbs is needed.

The closest they have to a precision-based sport is their version of football, which seems to be purely about footwork and control rather than aiming for a goal with pinpoint accuracy. No basketball, no archery, no shooting sports. Combined with their preference for long-distance running and raw strength, this suggests that they were persistence predators—hunters that chased down prey until exhaustion rather than persistence hunter and tool users like humans.

It's a fascinating contrast. Humans, with our ability to throw rocks and spears with deadly precision, evolved to hunt through endurance and ranged attacks. These aliens, meanwhile, seem to have relied purely on the chase, overpowering their prey with sheer speed and stamina.

I lean back, tapping my fingers against my console. If their biology affects their combat tactics, this could be useful. They might favor overwhelming charges or prolonged battles rather than precision strikes and maneuver warfare. Something to keep in mind.

The next section of the newspaper is dedicated to fiction—stories about love, luck, the past, and the future. At first glance, they don't seem all that different from human stories. But as I read further, I notice a pattern. Everything is a competition. Even romance, even fate—everything is framed as a struggle to be won. Then again, now that I think about it, human stories aren't much different. Maybe the difference is just in how bluntly they state it.

One particular story catches my attention. It's set in the distant future, where the people of this world—called the Avarin—finally make contact with an alien civilization. The story doesn't dwell on the technological details but focuses on two main characters, one Avarin and one alien, who meet in the middle of escalating tensions. Their civilizations bicker over territorial claims, trade rights, and political ideologies. Meanwhile, the two protagonists form a hesitant but growing friendship, despite the odds stacked against them.

In the end, the narrator offers a conclusion that sounds almost like a moral lesson: Civilizations may differ, but in the end, everyone is the same.

The comments listed below the story show a clear divide. Some readers doubt the possibility of such a friendship, arguing that species with different biological needs and social structures would struggle to truly connect. Others find the idea of interspecies conflict itself unrealistic, claiming that a first-contact scenario would be more cooperative.

Either way, one thing is clear—these people have spent time thinking about what it would mean to meet an alien race. And that's something I'll need to keep in mind.

The infiltrator flips to the advertisement section. A full page is dedicated to promoting the Imperial Aeronautics and Space Control (IASC), the Vareshi Empire's space program. The bold, attention-grabbing text urges talented individuals to join, promising high salaries, generous bonuses, and a fast-track to high-ranking positions. Below, enthusiastic testimonials from current employees describe the organization as an exciting and rewarding career choice, while expert opinions commend the IASC for its rapid expansion and increasing influence.

This is interesting. Not only does it confirm that space development is a priority for the Vareshi, but it also hints at their ambitions. If they're offering such generous incentives, they must be facing a talent shortage—either due to competition with other industries or because spaceflight is still seen as risky. Regardless, a fast-growing space program means they'll be launching more missions soon, likely including asteroid surveys. My colony's discovery is only a matter of time.

I shift my attention to the rest of the advertisements. Consumer goods, household appliances, luxury items—nothing noteworthy. I scan each listing just in case, but they all fall into predictable categories: new cooking gadgets, high-performance vehicles, and premium-quality food brands. Nothing that reveals any deeper insight into their civilization.

I command the infiltrator to find a library. If I want a proper understanding of Vareshi history, I'll need more than newspapers and advertisements—I need records, books, archives. It sets off immediately, heading toward the nearest one.

Then it stops.

I blink. Oh. Right. The infiltrator still needs to hide.

Without hesitation, it turns back, retrieves the discarded newspaper from the trash bin, and drapes it over itself. It's not a perfect disguise, but a newspaper on the ground is far less suspicious than a four-legged machine marching through the streets. As long as it moves slowly and naturally, it should be able to blend in.

By now, the sun has fully set. The Vareshi streetlights cast a dim, flickering glow over the streets, but the city is quiet. Most Avarin—as Khánh Linh informs me their species is called—have already returned home, leaving the roads mostly empty.

The infiltrator moves carefully down the sidewalk, its steps silent against the pavement. In the cover of darkness, with no one around to notice, it blends effortlessly into the shadows.

After a few minutes, it reaches its destination—a large, imposing building with intricate carvings on its stone facade. The library.

Just in time, too. A lone Avarin—female, according to the children's textbook Khánh Linh deciphered earlier—is locking up for the night. The infiltrator freezes, watching from a safe distance.

She fumbles briefly with the keys, secures the door, then pulls her coat tighter against the night air before walking away.

Now, how to get in?

Before I even finish the thought, the infiltrator's onboard AI has already reached a conclusion.

It backs up, creating some distance from the building. Then, with a powerful burst of speed, it dashes forward and leaps—aiming for one of the high windows.

I brace myself for the inevitable crash—

But instead of shattering glass, it slips cleanly through.

…Huh?

Khánh Linh speaks before I can even ask.

"No, that wasn't a window. The others next to it are, but this one lacks glass panes. Maybe they're replacing it or something."

I blink. She's right. Now that I look closely, the other windows reflect the dim glow of the streetlights—but this one doesn't. That explains why the infiltrator passed through without resistance.

Lucky.

Had there been glass, the noise would have easily alerted someone. Not that I doubt the infiltrator's ability to handle an alarmed librarian, but I'd rather not cause unnecessary trouble.

With that unexpected bit of good fortune, the infiltrator is now inside the library. Time to start looking for information.

As the infiltrator lands, it hits the floor with a solid thump.

Not loud enough to be heard outside the building—but inside?

A voice immediately cuts through the stillness.

"Zzhjdvhdrjbb sogevd kssjgd Hdskks!"

Khánh Linh translates instantly. "Who goes there? Show yourself!"

I feel a slight pang of frustration. Of course, we accounted for external detection, but completely forgot about anyone inside.

Too late to change that now.

The infiltrator reacts instantly. Instead of freezing up or retreating, it does the opposite—it advances.

Rushing toward the source of the voice, it stops just before the final turn and presses itself against a bookshelf. Silent. Motionless.

A few seconds later, an Avarin steps out from the hallway beyond.

A male, judging by his build and uniform. A night guard.

A flashlight flickers across the room, its beam sweeping over the bookshelves, across the reading tables—searching. His gaze is sharp, focused. He knows he heard something.

I hold my breath as the infiltrator shifts carefully behind him, moving in perfect sync.

The guard takes a step forward—so does the infiltrator.

He pauses—the infiltrator freezes.

He turns his head slightly—so does the infiltrator, mirroring his movements like a shadow.

From my perspective, it's almost funny.

But good things never last.

The night guard stiffens, his expression shifting into suspicion. Something feels off to him.

Then—he spins around, flashlight in hand.

The infiltrator reacts instantly.

A sharp click.

Two small darts fire from its wrist-mounted taser, embedding themselves into his skin.

A choked sound escapes him as electricity surges through his body. His muscles lock up, and he collapses, the flashlight clattering to the ground, its beam rolling wildly across the ceiling before flickering out.

Silence.

I exhale. Crisis averted—for now.

The infiltrator keeps its taser active, sending another surge of electricity into the night guard.

And then another.

And another.

I frown. Uh… "Khánh Linh?"

Her voice is as calm as ever. "Don't worry, it's just collecting data on Avarin neural responses to electricity."

I blink. "That sounds a lot like an excuse."

"It has morality and ethicality coded into it. It's going to stop soon… I think?"

I narrow my eyes at the monitor. You think?

A few more seconds pass—then, mercifully, the infiltrator finally shuts off the taser. The night guard slumps further, his limbs twitching slightly before going still.

Khánh Linh clears her throat. "See? All under control."

I decide not to comment.

The infiltrator moves swiftly now, leaping onto the nearest bookshelf without so much as a creak. It crouches low, scanning the darkened library below, its glowing optical sensors flicking through signs and labels.

After a moment, it locks onto one.

Politics.

Perfect.

With careful, deliberate steps, the infiltrator maneuvers across the tops of the shelves, avoiding gaps where it might cast a moving shadow. When it reaches its destination, it hops down in front of the neatly arranged books, its mechanical fingers gliding across their spines.

It selects a recently published geopolitical summary—exactly what I need.

I sit back and watch as the infiltrator begins scanning the pages, absorbing knowledge at inhuman speed.