Chapter 4: Signals and Shadows

In 1997, as pagers beeped and mobile phones rang across India, something invisible slipped through the sky—the first sophon, launched by Trisolaris. Thanks to the Leader’s data, the sophon arrived a decade ahead of schedule, slipping into the world’s digital veins.

Scientists in labs watched computers flicker, data twisting into anomalies. Yet outside, IPL matches blared, chai stalls buzzed, and marriage processions blocked traffic.

That same year, Kabir died. His followers ran to the police, claiming murder in a meticulously planned plot. Servants whispered of black magic and unfinished karma. The police, more harried by the press than evidence, grumbled over cutting chai: “Accidents are always happening. This is Mumbai, not Switzerland!”

Inspector Sharma, examining Kabir’s removed organs, was struck by memories from another timeline. The fluorescent tube flickered as time seemed to fold in on itself. “No need to search the river,” he waved. “Check the kitchen waste his wife threw out—watch for fish bones. Bring her in for questioning. I’ll handle it.”

After resolving the frozen rohu case, Sharma packed for a vacation with the precision of a soldier. He quietly contacted university students Ishaan and Meera—neither knew anything of Trisolaris. Meera didn’t even know a classmate named Ananya. The campus buzzed with semester worries and college fest plans, oblivious to the real danger.

Through old comrades, Sharma chased every lead on Blue Ridge Base, finally tracking down Colonel Prakash. “Ritu? Never heard of her,” Prakash said, voice unguarded. “Chief Engineer Amit left early for the construction corps—good fellow, lost touch after marriage.”

“Did you ever send electromagnetic signals to the sun?” Sharma pressed. Prakash laughed. “Who could have made such a mistake? Could a star really amplify it?” The idea was absurd—fit only for madmen or foreigners.

With Blue Ridge a dead end, Sharma dug into other ETO members, only to stumble upon news of Kabir’s death. He circled the article, mind racing. “Strange. There must be something supernatural.”

He tracked Judgment Day’s members, some once ETO’s core. The files told stories—some respectable, some vanished, all shadows from the past. Sharma would rather believe in ghosts than in Kabir’s death being accidental. He muttered a prayer for protection and tried to contact his old chief, Brigadier Singh—but the world seemed to conspire against him, phone calls unanswered.

He checked the calendar. The Crisis Era loomed. “Ritu, where are you hiding?” he whispered to the ceiling fan’s hum.