For a species as long-lived as his was, the passing of a few Terran years shouldn't have mattered much. He scrolled through his memories to when he'd first arrived at the planet and done field work amongst the humans. His initial stint lasted almost eight years, at the height of the intercontinental conflict eventually named World War One. Sinclair had actually served time in several armies on both sides of the conflict. To the Perdendosi, it was all just the same. Their goal was to fashion an understanding of Terran societies and interactions. All perspectives were vital.

Sinclair clearly recalled long nights spent in vermin-infested trenches in Eastern Europe. He sat side-by-side with soldiers whom he didn't hold in much higher regard than the rats that scurried at their feet. They were in many instances no more than a few hundred yards from their mortal enemies, and they had no idea he was there essentially doing research. Many times he received what would have been mortal wounds for a human, only to pretend they never happened to preserve his cover. Other times he would use enemy fire to mask his disappearance, and he'd be listed as a casualty of war, only to resurface fighting for the opposition.

Their fear was understandable to him and his kind, but the Perdendosi were far too advanced to feel it. This wasn't their conflict and they were in no danger. There was really nothing the humans could do that would present a physical danger to any of them. But they understood the fear of mortality all too well.

The Perdendosi were able to perceive auras around most other species which shifted in hue according to their physical and mental state. Human auras were especially easy to see, even among the most emotionally reserved of the species. The colors weren't quite like what was visible in their own spectrum, existing on an entirely different wavelength, but they had certain similarities; sadness shifted one way toward a purple-ish blue, anger toward red, and fear toward yellow. There were variations, but they generally held to form, and curiously enough the humans seemed to instinctively sense these color pitches in their artwork and vernacular.

Sitting in the trenches, Sinclair could clearly see the yellow glow of fear radiating from the soldiers. But at times it mellowed to a bluish-green, as if they had somehow made some peace with their surroundings. Faced with death, they came to accept it with an odd calm. They joked. They smoked. They even sang. As much as he detested the species, he still had to acknowledge their adaptability.

These memories came rushing back at him as he made his way to the shuttle hanger where a ship was being prepped to return him to Earth for the first time in over a decade. Sinclair still didn't hold the Terrans in much higher regard than the trench-rats, and now spent as much time away from them as possible. His requested presence at the Universe City installation was a sign that they were inching notably closer toward Phase Three of the final goal, which was good -- and yet he was still cautious.

Had their plans not gone awry, Phase Three would have been implemented two-and-a-half years ago. It was Sinclair himself who had given the command to fire the Placation Ray at the planet Earth over three years ago, and he still felt the sting of its failure rather personally. But no one, scholar or precognitive, could have foreseen what came to pass, or the counter-measures the Perdendosi would have to implement because of it. No one blamed Sinclair, and even now there was only speculation as to what happened. At some point, the intellectual in him wanted to follow-up on the theories and see what of it was true. He had not entirely forgotten what it was like to work with the rats in the trenches.

Still and all, he was eager to get to the heart of the mission. For the time being, this meant being patient. And he reminded himself that they did have time.

Sinclair silently acknowledged the salutes of the Perdendosi guards and foot-soldiers as he continued to walk through the halls of the starship. The guards were of his own race, while the foot-soldiers had been created specifically for their mission here on Earth. To date, they had performed remarkably well, shoring up their ranks exactly as designed. They had been cross-bred from several native species and one from their own homeworld, resulting in a thoroughly loyal breed. Disciplinary measures were never an issue, which was essential; their entire operation was streamlined to the point of working as sharply as a surgical scalpel.

A lieutenant approached carrying a communicator window. "Prefect Sinclair, there's a communique' from the Universe City Harnessing Way-Station. Second Chancellor Allamandor wishes to speak-"

"Put him through. I was expecting this." Sinclair never broke stride, and continued his march toward the shuttle hanger. The lieutenant walked backwards, holding the comm window facing Sinclair, and expertly punched up the connection that brought the grinning image of Allamandor onscreen.

"Prefect," said the Second Chancellor, "I trust everything's going to schedule?"

"Everything's running fine up here, sir. I should be arriving in about two hours."

"It's been a while since we've had you down here *****," and here he addressed Sinclair by his first name. By custom, Perdendosi first names were pronounced at a frequency beyond the range of human ears, which bespoke a certain level of intimacy, trust or candor. By doing so, Allamandor had immediately indicated this conversation was of a personal nature. "We were beginning to think you didn't like us anymore."

"It's not you. It's the rats."

"Well I trust that won't take away from your enjoyment of tonight's test. You realize you're our guest of honor?"

"You're far too kind. Believe me ***** -" here Sinclair returned the favor by trilling his comrade's name back, "- no one wants things to go smooth at the Battery tonight more than me."

"The technicians here say all systems are fully functional, but I think they're just being cautious. Between you and me, we're probably much, much closer to getting the whole operation going than they're willing to let on."

"Really?" asked Sinclair, eyebrows upraised. "How many target hosts do they plan to use tonight?"

Allamandor shrugged. "Five or six, from the briefings I've received."

Sinclair stopped walking, abruptly. "Five or six? That's all?" Hs tone became more stiff. "Tell me that's a joke. All of this commotion over an energy test with not even a half-dozen subjects, and they expect me to race down there and applaud because the power doesn't go out?

"Sinclair..." began Allamandor in protest.

"Honestly, the other sites have gotten their subject weeding times down to record levels. We opened up the gateways and integrated off-world traffic to boost the native economy over a year and a half ago."

"Sinclair, you're being short-sighted."

"No, I'm being realistic. The only thing keeping us from going forward is the technicians at the Universe City station. What's the delay?"

"From what they've told me, after tonight you'll see that we're almost there. Honestly old man, you're the one they know they need to impress, even more than me."

Sinclair relaxed slightly at this information, his ego stroked sufficiently. "I know, I know. Any progress at this point will be welcome." He affected a bemused, diplomatic grin and added, "Tell them I can't wait to be there."

"Overguards Brittlesmith and Farewayth will be meeting you upon arrival, Prefect. I'll see you at the site."

"Until then, sir. Goodbye."

Both parties ended communication, and Sinclair dismissed the lieutenant with "I'm sure you understand everything you just heard was beyond confidential." He'd stood attentive but not too attentive throughout the conversation, and now he nodded once quickly, saluted and strode away. He appeared to be a bright young man, no more than twenty-three hundred years old by the looks of him, and only on his first host - he was probably among the last to receive one. If all went well that night, he'd see many more in the millennia ahead.

Sinclair walked over to the nearest bay window facing the planet and spoke. "Ship directive," he said.

"Yes, Prefect Sinclair," cooed the ship's computer.

He put his hand to the glass. "Isolate Universe City."

At once, the planet appeared to accelerate toward the ship, faster and faster until they'd broken through the clouds to hover above the skyscrapers and tower-pods of the world's largest metropolis. It was just after nightfall now, and the city lights were an amazing sight even bereft of the Battery installation. Sinclair's last stint planet-side had been as a city-planner (well before the city's name had been changed), working directly in tandem with other undercover Perdendosi to secure specific locations to follow the invasion. He had worked in that capacity for over ten years, his longest individual field effort. It was easier than those prior however, because he'd been allowed much more frequent contact with his people, sometimes even journeying back to the motherships to pass along information directly.

It was this extensive field knowledge of the Terrans that earned him the respect of so many Perdendosians, both of higher and lower rank than himself. And it was at his recommendation that the Placation beam had first been fired at the Earth, and he'd even been allowed to give the command. But a miscalculation had rendered all of their earlier efforts...premature.

Now he stared at the planet he'd spent these recent years studying and trying to harbor its resources. This city was crucial, and his investment in it was personal. The first failure was tolerated, even dismissed as a test run, but a second would be unforgivable. He refused to allow that to happen.

He followed the lights of automobiles from the West Side across bridges on commutes that would begin anew the next day. He took note of the Seventy-Fifth Street Commons, where the first wave of resisters had been felled three years ago. He noted with pride how the restructuring of the city's power grid - a move he had spearheaded in his civilian identity - almost twenty years ago served their purposes now. He saw a memorial had been erected at the site of the East Side Amphitheatre, the most telling remnant of the night of the initial strike. (Like the diffusion of the Placation Ray, the disappearance of the humans at that site was considered a fluke occurrence, never fully explained.) He saw that the clock at Perseverance Way, amid the squalor of the red light district, still kept near-perfect time.

He knew the city well, its wealth of resources both tapped and untapped and he felt he knew the planet well. In many, many ways it now prospered as it never had in its history. But soon it would be time to utilize those resources, and experience taught Sinclair that nothing ever went as planned.

He withdrew his hand from the window and Universe City shrank to its normal, telescopic proportions. Sinclair prepared to meet his colleagues at the landing station. Despite himself, he was confident his trip would yield fruitful results and their time here would soon be over.