Date: July 22–25, 2005

  Location: Seattle

  On July 22, 2005, Seattle glowed under a warm 79°F, a light breeze rustling the trees along Elliott Bay, their reflections shimmering on the water like scattered glass. In Capitol Hill, historic homes stood alongside trendy bars and galleries, the neighborhood alive with a relaxed summer vibe. In 2005, Capitol Hill was a bastion of Seattle’s alternative culture—venues like Neumos drew music fans with local bands, and the Elliott Bay Book Company buzzed with readers. But beneath the calm, trouble simmered—the Seattle Police Department reported 130 petty thefts in the district that year, a reminder to stay vigilant.

  James Crowe sat in his Broadway office, the 38-year-old private detective surrounded by a clutter of documents he’d brought back from London. His scratched wooden desk was a battlefield: a corkboard pinned with photos and timelines, a cold cup of coffee, and his Moleskine notebook open to a page detailing the Family’s history. After weeks of investigation—uncovering the Order of the Star Path’s origins in 1753, its evolution into the Brotherhood of Starlight, and its modern operations through “temporary families”—one question gnawed at him: how had the Family kept its secrets for centuries, despite involving countless members across generations, from infants to the elderly, who were constantly in the public eye?

  Crowe began by analyzing his findings with his “360 Method,” pinning a timeline to the corkboard: from the Order of the Star Path in 1753 London to the Starlight Network in the 2000s U.S. He laid out photos from Portland and Chicago: Richard Mason with his “new family,” “Mary Evans” as a daycare worker, and the 70-year-old “grandfather” coordinating operations. An organization with so many participants should have had leaks, but there were none.

  He reached out to Jeffrey Lindsey, a 50-year-old anthropology professor at the University of Washington who specialized in secret societies. Jeffrey’s office was a cozy space filled with books, a man with gray hair and a sweater sitting behind a desk cluttered with papers.

  “James, you look like you haven’t slept in weeks,” Jeffrey said, a faint smile on his lips as Crowe walked in.

  “Sleep’s overrated when you’re chasing a centuries-old conspiracy,” Crowe replied with a wry grin, adding a touch of humor. “I’ve uncovered an organization—the Family—that’s been operating since the 1700s. I need to know how they keep their secrets with so many people involved.”

  Jeffrey leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “Secret societies often use a few key mechanisms to prevent leaks,” he explained. “First, a strict hierarchy: lower levels don’t know the upper levels’ plans. Second, fear—punishment for betrayal can be severe, even deadly. Third, they foster loyalty through ideology, often religious or utopian, making members feel part of a greater cause.”

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  Crowe returned to his office, applying Jeffrey’s framework to the Family. Documents from London in the 1750s mentioned the Order of the Star Path forcing children to take “oaths of silence” during rituals, swearing allegiance to the “path to the stars.” In the 1820s, the Brotherhood of Starlight in Paris punished traitors by leaving their bodies in the Seine as a warning. By the 1920s, the Starlight Society in New York promoted an ideology of “a future among the stars,” promising members “eternal salvation” for their silence—a sci-fi-tinged belief that echoed the Brotherhood’s later ambitions on Mars.

  But hierarchy, fear, and ideology weren’t enough to explain the Family’s airtight secrecy. Crowe turned to illicit methods, contacting David “Shadow” Clarke, the hacker he’d worked with in London. Using Skype—a popular tool for international calls in 2005—Crowe reached David in his Shoreditch apartment.

  “I need you to hack into European law enforcement databases,” Crowe said, his tone firm. “Interpol, specifically. I’m looking for more on the Family’s operations.”

  David, a 45-year-old with a spider tattoo on his neck, grinned through the grainy video feed. “You’re gonna owe me big for this, Crowe,” he said, but agreed for a fee. Within two days, he accessed Interpol archives, sending Crowe reports from the 1980s about the “Starlight Network” using “temporary families” for espionage in Europe.

  The reports revealed a key detail: lower-level members—the “temporary families”—didn’t know the organization’s true purpose. They were told they were fulfilling a “mission for humanity’s future,” believing their work was part of a grand plan to reach the stars. The Family also used technology to maintain control: by the 2000s, they’d adopted encrypted communication channels, early precursors to the darknet, ensuring orders were untraceable. They recruited children from a young age, raising them in “families” where loyalty was ingrained—children who grew up knowing no other reality, passing that loyalty to their own “temporary” children.

  Crowe leaned back in his chair, staring at the corkboard. The Family’s secrecy relied on a combination of hierarchy, fear, ideology, and isolation. Lower-level members were tools, unaware of the true goals, while the leadership erased any trace of those who tried to break free. The sci-fi ideology of reaching the stars wasn’t just a motivator—it was a precursor to the Brotherhood’s 2025 Mars plans, a thread Crowe was beginning to unravel.

  “Well, looks like I’ve cracked a mystery that’s lasted centuries,” Crowe muttered, a self-deprecating smirk on his lips. “But if I’m not careful, they’ll do to me what they did to those poor souls in the Seine—and I’m not keen on a swim.”

  In 2005, Seattle buzzed with culture: the Bumbershoot Festival was gearing up for another season, and Microsoft was deep into new projects. But for Crowe, those details were background noise—the Family’s mechanisms of secrecy made them the most dangerous adversary he’d ever faced.