We’ve spent decades imagining alien civilizations as conquerors or saviors—but what if true advancement means something else entirely? In this thought-provoking essay, J.A. Raithe explores a new vision of first contact—one built not on domination or deliverance, but on stewardship, compassion, and the quiet burden of carrying billions of sleeping souls across the stars. Inspired by The Shepherd Descends, it asks the hardest question of all:
Would we be worthy of their trust?

There's a question I can't stop asking.

It shows up in every book I write, wearing different masks, speaking different languages, but always circling the same fundamental mystery: What do you lose when you become something more?

Not "if." When. Because in every story I tell, transcendence isn't optional. It's coming for you whether you're ready or not. The spores will fall. The Oracle will awaken. The Shepherd will arrive. Station 13 will change you. The only choice is whether you'll meet that transformation with eyes open or closed.

Power, enjoyed, is power perfected. Iverra Yvrix doesn’t break rules—she makes them sing, turning etiquette into leverage and hospitality into hard power. She’s no theme park princess; she’s the apex strategist in a glass palace.

When we talk about alien intelligence in science fiction, we usually mean one of a few well-worn paths: the hive mind, the silicon-based logic engine, the telepathic collective, the ancient transcendent species. We've built a comfortable taxonomy of the Other.

The Shepherd Descends doesn't care about your taxonomy.

The Shepherd Descends goes first. The Veiled Core Chronicles follows. Why I’m betting on flexibility over gatekeeping.

In an empire of hundreds of worlds, Marro Veldran must ration grace like coin. Favor grants sanction, not shielding—and every blessing widens the distance she’s trying to cross.

What if humanity wasn’t the chosen species, but the cosmic mistake? Our rapid rise to power may not look like brilliance to higher beings—it might look like a blunder. In my upcoming novel The Entropy Seed (late 2026), I explore this unsettling question. Read more in my latest blog post.

The true terror of Station 13 isn’t the failing systems or flickering lights—it’s the erosion of trust. Commander Anna must lead, but her crew begins to question her every action. Is she protecting them, or is she the threat? When paranoia replaces camaraderie, even the simplest choices become charged with dread. Horror thrives not just when monsters attack—but when you realize you might already be sleeping beside one.

We’re living through the first era of confirmed interstellar visitors. 3I/ATLAS is passing quietly through—no answers, only debate. My new novel, The Shepherd Descends, imagines the moment ambiguity ends: an object decelerates, signals with an 89-minute pulse, and asks humanity to cooperate—or fail.

“Last night I checked my doorbell cam. Someone was standing there, staring into the lens. By the time I opened the door, the porch was empty. When I replayed the recording, there was nothing. No visitor. No face. Just silence.”

What if the cameras you trust most start showing you things that shouldn’t exist?

Sometimes a story tells you what it wants to be called.

I've been working on a science fiction project for months under the working title "Seed Ship"—a straightforward, descriptive name that captured the basic concept: an alien vessel arriving at Earth, ostensibly carrying the seeds of first contact. It was functional, clear, and completely wrong.

It’s a strange and powerful feeling—returning to the world I built twenty years ago and watching it grow sharper with every word. When I began The World Below, I had no idea what it would become. I only knew the shape of a world I couldn’t forget: a fractured planet named Caldereth, eight Houses locked in ritual war, and an ancient, unfathomable presence that remembers the future.

Read it now. Remember what remembering costs.