by Gini Koch
Serene Dwyer, who was the strongest imageer after Christopher White, a stealth troubadour, and the Head of Imageering for Centaurion Division, nodded. “That the press is attacking is no surprise. That’s what they do these days. However, what Alexander and our other galactic advisors told us is still accurate—LaRue Demorte Gaultier was, is, and always will be a turncoat Ancient and a Z’porrah spy, and every action against us can be traced back to her, directly or indirectly.”
“Can we honestly confirm that?” Jeff asked.
Serene nodded. “We can, Jeff. Believe me.”
I believed her, since I knew that Serene was the head of the very clandestine Centaurion CIA, made up of troubadours around the world. I was the only person not involved in their operations who knew they existed. Therefore, if Serene said she had proof, we had proof.
“However, some of that proof can never be shared with the general population,” James Reader said. Reader was the Head of Field, a former top international male model, and the handsomest human I’d ever met. In a room full of A-Cs he looked normal, because the A-Cs were truly the hottest people on Earth. So far as I’d seen, they were the hottest people in the galaxy, but I was prepared to find other alien races just as good looking out there. That was me, always willing to take one for the team.
“Leave the spin to us,” Doreen Coleman-Weisman said. She was now our Head Diplomat for American Centaurion since I was the First Lady and could no longer get away with doing that job. She’d grown up in the Embassy, and though her parents had been traitors, Doreen was loyal to Earth and the rest of us. However, she was the best qualified to be doing the Ambassador’s duties. Well, other than one other person.
Richard White was the former Supreme Pontifex for the A-Cs of Earth, meaning their Pope With Benefits. He’d retired to the active lifestyle when my daughter, Jamie, had been born, and he’d been my partner in butt-kicking ever since then. However, due to the events of Operation Epidemic, where one of our most virulent enemies had launched a bioterrorist attack that had killed half of our country’s leadership, White was now the Public Relations Minister for American Centaurion.
White nodded. “Yes, Jeffrey, this falls to us. Doreen and I have been preparing a statement to counter most of this. With the help of the Planetary Council, of course.” He nodded towards the other aliens in the room, of which we had a lot, since the Alpha Centauri Planetary Council had come to visit at the start of Operation Epidemic and literally hadn’t had time to finish their business and leave yet. We liked to keep our guests busy, go team.
The news came back on. “Welcome back. In a related story to the one about alien flags flying over the White House, our next story deals with the religious summit taking place in Rome right now.” We switched from the bald-faced lying Serious Newscaster to a shot of Vatican City. “We’ve learned that the Pope and religious leaders from all parts of the world are indeed in agreement that they will be encouraging their flocks to join together in order to face the ‘brave new world’ we find ourselves in.”
The Pope was outside along with a variety of other religious leaders, including ours—Paul Gower. Gower had been groomed by White for this position and he was reasonably comfortable with it these days. He was also Reader’s husband. The camera zoomed in on him. Sadly, it probably wasn’t because Gower was big, black, bald, and gorgeous, but because he was the A-Cs’ Supreme Pontifex and, therefore, the person getting all the “blame” in this situation.
Sure enough and right on cue, the Serious Newscaster shared his so-called thoughts. “Is the Pope being negatively influenced by the head of the aliens’ religion?”
“Where is this coming from?” Jeff asked. Though this time he wasn’t asking the room at large. He was asking the two members of the fourth estate who had unlimited access to us—Mister Joel Oliver and Bruce Jenkins.
Oliver had been the laughingstock of the media for decades, because he’d insisted that aliens were on the planet. He was and remained the best investigative journalist going, and these days, he actually had the respect of his peers.
Jenkins was known as the Tastemaker, and he had tremendous influence therefore. He’d been after us in a bad way during Operation Defection Election, when Jeff had been running as Vice President to the late Vincent Armstrong. But events of that particular frolic had made Jenkins switch sides in a very fast and permanent way. Discovering that one of the candidates you’re supporting is an android did that to some people.
“I believe that the answer is simple,” Oliver said.
Jenkins nodded. “Follow the money.”
“Excuse me?” Jeff asked.
The answer dawned on me. “Oh. This station is owned by YatesCorp, isn’t it?”
Oliver nodded. “Yes. Recently added into that media conglomerate.”
“Recently as in the last two weeks,” Jenkins added. “You know, right after the attacks on Camp David that we managed to spin well, and the inauguration gala and Club Fifty-One Gratitude Ceremony, which also went far better than could have been expected.”
“Mergers happen all the time,” Elaine Armstrong said. She was Armstrong’s widow and now Jeff’s Secretary of State. As such, she was fully on Team Alien. “Not that I am for one moment suggesting that this isn’t a concerted effort against us.”
“YatesCorp is trying to gather as many affiliates as possible,” Oliver said. “And as Bruce pointed out, that’s only started since the last actions against the A-Cs were salvaged.”
“So, Kingsley Teague is making his move.” Looked down the table to Thomas Kendrick, the head of Titan Security and one of the newer additions to Team Alien. “Thomas, your thoughts?”
He shook his head. “I realize I was sort of ‘in’ with Kingsley and the others, but I don’t think they ever trusted me fully, since I came over from the Department of Defense. None of this is something I know anything about.”
Based on what had gone on during Operation Madhouse, I believed him. That the others did, too, was confirmed by heads nodding around the room, including Jeff’s. Barring Kendrick and others in the room wearing emotional overlays or blockers, if Jeff felt that Kendrick was telling the truth, then Kendrick was telling the truth.
“However,” Kendrick went on, “I can guarantee that they want to harm your ward. That they never tried to hide from me.”
My ward was Elizabeth Jackson, now Elizabeth Vrabel. Lizzie had been adopted by Benjamin Siler, who was the first human-alien hybrid, being the son of Ronald Yates and Madeleine Siler Cartwright.
Yates was the exiled former Supreme Pontifex who happened to be White’s father and Jeff and Christopher’s grandfather. Yates had built a media empire and then some, which was now being run by Teague.
He’d also been an in-control superbeing named Mephistopheles. Mephistopheles had allowed Yates to die, with the idea that he’d then move to me. But I’d killed Mephistopheles before that could happen. Operation Fugly might have been six years ago, but there wasn’t a day it didn’t find a way to rear its head and add into whatever else was going on.
Cartwright had been one of the many female Brains Behind The Throne we’d encountered over the years. She was dead now, too, thanks to the fact that we had talented allies. But Yates, Cartwright, and her sister and brother-in-law, Cybele Siler Marling and Antony Marling, had done experiments on Cartwright’s son.
As such, Siler aged far slower than everyone else and, in addition to the standard A-C abilities like hyperspeed, super strength, and faster regeneration, he could “blend,” meaning he kind of went chameleon. That blend could extend to those he touched, and while he couldn’t hold the blend for all that long, experience had shown that he could hold it long enough.
His uncle had rescued him from the torture his parents were perpetrating upon him and had raised Siler in his trade—assassination.
Due to a variety of things that had happened during Operation Epide
mic, Siler had moved himself and Lizzie into the Embassy and they used the name Vrabel for anything public. But events of Operation Madhouse had put Lizzie into the White House with the rest of us and made her my ward, just because things hadn’t been complicated enough already.
Despite all that had happened to her—including her parents being traitors who’d been willing to kill her when she wasn’t willing to go along with a plan to murder millions of people—Lizzie was a great kid. She was also a protector. Teague and the others were after her because she’d schooled their kids on why picking on people weaker than yourself was a bad thing to do.
“I get that they don’t like that Lizzie kicked their kids’ and their friends’ kids’ butts. But the only reason I can see for them continuing the vendetta is because they want to hurt Amy and blame it on Lizzie.”
Amy was one of my two best girlfriends from high school, Amy Gaultier-White. She was a tall redhead, a lawyer, and still fighting to get control of her late father’s company, Gaultier Enterprises. She was also in the room, because we were nothing if not the most unconventional and chummy administration the White House had seen in a long time if not ever.
“Well, the Fem-Bot Initiative certainly indicates that.” Amy was going to say something more, but Tim Crawford ran into the room.
Tim was doing the job that was still the favorite one I’d ever held—Head of Airborne. “Where have you been?” Jeff asked, before Tim could speak. “I asked you to be here thirty minutes ago.”
“Sorry I’m late, but you’ll be glad I am. Or at least interested in why.” Tim didn’t sit. “I was at Andrews with the rest of my team, getting briefed on more of what Drax’s helicarrier can do.”
“Where is he?” Jeff asked. “He was supposed to be here as well.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Jeff, if you’d let me finish, I’d be happy to tell you. Unless you desperately need someone to berate for some reason.”
“He does, we just watched the news and they were, as so frequently happens, mean to us and Jeff’s tender feelings are hurt. However, I’m here. Tell me whatever it is, Megalomaniac Lad. I care and currently feel no need to berate anyone.”
Tim grinned at me. “Thanks, Kitty. Anyway, a request came through to Colonel Franklin and he felt that we needed to discuss it, so I could brief all of you.”
“And that was?” Jeff asked, sounding annoyed. “I’m not trying to berate you, Tim. I just want to know why you’re late.”
“Jeff,” my mother said sharply, “relax. And that’s an order.”
That my mother was both in the room and telling the President what to do wasn’t so much that she was a meddling busybody as much as it was her job. As I’d discovered six years ago, my mother wasn’t a business consultant. She was the consultant for anti-terrorism and the Head of the Presidential Terrorism Control Unit, a division almost as clandestine as the one Serene was running, but with a lot more power. The P.T.C.U. reported directly to the Office of the President and most of the other Alphabet Agencies reported dotted line into the P.T.C.U. somewhere.
“Ah, Angela has experience with this, Jeff,” Fritz Hochberg, our newly instated Vice President, mentioned. “More than you or I do, frankly.”
Jeff ran his hand through his hair. He had dark, wavy brown hair and I liked when he did this, because it managed to make him even more handsome than normal, which, considering he was the hottest thing on two legs, should have been impossible. But it wasn’t.
Jeff must have picked up my lust spike, because he glanced over at me and gave me a very personal smile. He also relaxed. That was me, keeping the top man relaxed by wanting to constantly keep him in the sack. This was, sadly, probably the only FLOTUS duty I was actually going to be good at, but at least I had this one firmly in the win column.
“You’re right,” Jeff said. “Tim, I’m sorry, please go on.”
Tim shook his head. “Too much caffeine? Anyway, while I realize that the media attacks are making everyone tense—and yes, I know about them because they have TVs over at Andrews—this may make it a little better.”
Resisted the urge to tell him to hurry up. We all liked to own our dramatic moments now and then.
Reader felt no such compunction. “Tim, seriously, stop dragging it out. What’s going on?”
“We have a whole lot of people asking to enlist.” Said as if this was the coolest news in the world.
That sat on the air for a moment. “Um, in the Armed Forces?” I asked politely. “Don’t we usually have that? I mean, I’m sure it ebbs and flows and all that jazz, but people wanting to enlist isn’t all that unusual.”
Tim grinned. “For Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, the National Guard, and the Coast Guard? Sure. But that’s not what I mean. I mean that we have people, many, many people, who want to enlist to serve in Centaurion Division. And they’re all humans.”
Gini Koch lives in Hell’s Orientation Area (aka Phoenix, Arizona), works her butt off (sadly, not literally) by day, and writes by night with the rest of the beautiful people. She lives with her awesome husband, three dogs (aka The Canine Death Squad), and two cats (aka The Killer Kitties). She has one very wonderful and spoiled daughter, who will still tell you she’s not as spoiled as the pets (and she’d be right).
When she’s not writing, Gini spends her time cracking wise, staring at pictures of good looking leading men for “inspiration,” teaching her pets to “bring it,” and driving her husband insane asking, “Have I told you about this story idea yet?” She listens to every kind of music 24/7 (from Lifehouse to Pitbull and everything in between, particularly Aerosmith and Smash Mouth) and is a proud comics geek-girl willing to discuss at any time why Wolverine is the best superhero ever (even if Deadpool does get all the best lines).
You can reach Gini via her website (www.ginikoch.com), email ([email protected]), Facebook (www.facebook.com/Gini.Koch), Facebook Fan Page: Hairspray and Rock ‘n’ Roll (www.facebook.com/GiniKochAuthor), Pinterest page (www.pinterest.com/ginikoch), Twitter (@GiniKoch), or her Official Fan Site, the Alien Collective Virtual HQ (thealiencollectivevirtualhq.blogspot.com).
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