The safehouse was nothing like what Dale expected. Based on the team's guerrilla tactics and limited resources, he'd anticipated something rudimentary—perhaps an abandoned cabin or foreclosed home.
Instead, Chang drove them to an industrial complex on the outskirts of Austin, navigating through a maze of warehouses until they reached a nondescript building with faded lettering that read TDCJ Cotton Warehouse.
"This is it?" Dale asked as they pulled up to a loading dock.
"Home sweet home," Amber replied, already moving to open the van's side door. "For now, anyway."
The garage door rolled up automatically as they approached, revealing a cavernous space that had been transformed into a combination of military command center and refugee camp.
Along one wall, four computer workstations were set up on folding tables, their screens displaying maps marked with colored pins, surveillance footage from local traffic cameras, and what looked like police database information. Dale recognized the telltale signs of someone who knew how to hack into systems they shouldn't have access to. A few printers and a scanner completed the intelligence corner of the operation.
The center of the warehouse housed a mismatched collection of furniture that somehow formed a functional war room. Folding tables covered with maps and blueprints. Office chairs of varying heights and conditions. A sagging couch that had clearly seen better days, currently occupied by a sleeping young woman with bandages visible on her arms.
Against the far wall, proper room dividers created private sleeping areas with real beds, simple but clean. Dale glimpsed fresh bedding, pillows, and personal items that suggested these people had been living here for some time. Adjacent to the sleeping quarters stood a modest medical station with organized supplies—bandages, antiseptics, pain relievers, and some prescription medications in labeled containers.
But what dominated the space was a massive screen mounted on the wall opposite the entrance. It displayed only a pulsing white sphere against a black background, reminiscent of a simplistic sun or perhaps a distant star.
As they entered, Emily Chen looked up from her workstation. "You're late," she said, her gaze quickly scanning the group. "Any casualties?"
"Just the bad guys," Javier replied, dropping his pack on a nearby table. "And we got the sheriff."
Emily's eyes found Dale, assessing him with clinical detachment. "Good. He's been waiting."
"He?" Dale raised an eyebrow.
As if in response, the massive screen flickered, and the white sphere pulsed more intensely.
"Sheriff Harmon," a voice emanated from speakers around the room. It was male, with a directness that bypassed small talk entirely. The voice wasn't mechanical, but it lacked the natural rhythm of normal conversation. "Good, you made it. I was getting concerned when you went off schedule by forty minutes."
"The Commander," Javier explained quietly.
Dale approached the screen cautiously. "You're the one giving the orders?"
"I help coordinate things," the voice replied. "I spot patterns, find targets, tell them where to go. It works pretty well most of the time."
Dale studied the pulsing sphere. "And you're just a... talking circle?"
"The sphere is just a placeholder," the voice answered, slightly defensive. "I'm not big on video calls. Trust me, this is better for everyone involved."
Javier stepped forward. "The situation in Red Creek is worse than we thought. They knew we were coming."
"Yeah, I saw that through the security cams," the Commander responded. "They're getting better at anticipating our moves. We'll need to adjust our approach."
"Adjust our approach?" Marcus scoffed, lighting a cigarette. "We barely made it out alive."
"Look, I didn't say it was perfect," the Commander said, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "We got the sheriff out, didn't we? That's the priority mission accomplished."
Dale watched this exchange with growing interest. There was tension here—respect, but not blind obedience.
"Sheriff Harmon," the Commander addressed him directly again. "We needed a cop with some pull. Nothing personal—we just needed someone with a badge that carries weight."
"So I'm nothing special? Just a convenient badge?" Dale asked.
"I mean, you're alive, which makes you pretty special considering most of your department's been replaced," the Commander replied bluntly. "But yeah, we needed someone who could reach out to other law enforcement agencies."
At least he was honest, Dale thought. "And what exactly do you want me to do?"
"Call your cop friends," the Commander explained. "Former partners, academy buddies, officers from neighboring counties—whoever you trust. Set up a meeting, tell them you've uncovered something big. Make it sound urgent but vague, like a drug cartel or corruption case."
Dale barked out a laugh. "And then what? Tell them little green men are invading?"
"They're more grayish actually, and the point is to get them all in one room," the Commander continued. "The aliens will catch wind of it and send their replicas to shut you up. That's when we spring our trap."
"So I'm bait," Dale said flatly.
"Think of it more as... the central piece in a tactical maneuver," the Commander offered. "Emily's working on a device that messes with the aliens' molecular structure. Makes them reveal themselves."
Dale looked over at Emily, who nodded without looking up from her work. "The prototypes show promise. I need another day, maybe two."
"Let me get this straight," Dale said, turning back to the screen. "You want me to gather as many cops as I can in one place, knowing some of them are actually aliens in disguise, and then spring a trap when they try to kill me?"
"That's... yeah, that's basically it," the Commander confirmed. "Got a better plan?"
Dale considered his options. His town had been infiltrated. His deputies weren't human anymore. The system he'd dedicated his life to had been corrupted from within.
"Why not just tell me who you really are?" Dale asked the screen. "No bullshit. If you want me to risk my neck, I deserve to know who I'm working for."
The sphere pulsed steadily for several seconds before the Commander responded.
"My name's Arthur and I'm your best chance at making a difference."
Dale looked around at the team members. "And you all just follow his orders? A voice on a screen?"
"He saved my life," Javier said quietly. "He helped me kill the thing that murdered my brother."
"He warned me before they came for me," Emily added. "I'd be in one of those tanks if not for him."
"He's awkward as hell and sometimes talks like he's playing a video game," Marcus added with a wry smile, "but he hasn't been wrong yet."
Dale considered this. These people—Javier, Marcus, Emily, Amber, Remy, Chang, Eli—they weren't fools. They'd seen the same horrors he had. If they trusted this Arthur, maybe he should too.
"Fine," Dale said finally. "I'll make the calls. Set up the meeting. But we're going to need more than just a fancy radio to convince a room full of cops that aliens are real."
"Oh, don't worry about that," Marcus interjected patting a metal container close to the clinic, "we've been busy." he opened it to reveal the corpse of multiple cephalods.
Dale stepped forward, his police instincts overriding his revulsion. The smell hit him first—a cloying sweetness undercut by something like battery acid and rotting fruit. His stomach lurched, but he forced himself to look closer.
The creatures lay contorted in death, their massive bulbous heads making up nearly half their body mass. Dale reached out with a hesitant finger and touched the nearest one's arm. The skin felt wrong—like wet leather stretched over scales, cold and slightly tacky. His finger came away with a faint blue residue that tingled against his skin.
"Jesus," Dale whispered, wiping his hand on his pants. The sensation lingered, a pins-and-needles feeling that spread up to his wrist. "What are these things?"
"We call them Cephalods," Emily explained, coming to stand beside him. "Telepathic. They can get inside your head, make you do things."
"That's what happened to Amber earlier." Remy offered.
"This would convince anyone," Dale admitted, stepping back as Marcus closed the container. The lingering smell clung to his nostrils, and he fought the urge to spit the taste from his mouth. "No one could look at these and think they're from Earth."