Chapter EightMartin Simon had a gut feeling.
Seated in the command chair on the Exogenesis bridge, he rubbed his chin and stared at the viewer. The planet Vox turned there, white clouds drifting over red oceans and the pale pink and yellow landmasses.
"Try again," he said to the communications officer, Ensign Neruda.
The answer from Communications was the same as before. "Nothing."
Technically, he knew he shouldn't worry yet. It had only been a few hours since their last contact with the landing party, and he knew that their task could have been time consuming. It might not have been so easy convincing the local authorities that a massive alien fleet was headed their way, armed to the teeth. It would not have been welcome news, or even believable, depending on how much contact the
