Brother Termite

by Patricia Anthony

Reen gave Thural a quick, searching look, but his aide was intent on the instruments. “Did you hear the conversation between my Brother and Hopkins?”

  The Washington Monument loomed out of the mist. Below stretched the fog-swaddled lights on Constitution Avenue.

  “No, Cousin. But I know they talked. I saw Mr. Hopkins and Tali go into a room together. They were there a long time. And it is true that when Tali came out, he looked at Sidam and me, saw that Sidam was tired, and told him he could go home.”

  They swept over the tanks, the south lawn, and Thural lowered the ship to its pad.

  “He thinks your leadership is unsuitable, Reen-ja,” Thural said before they disembarked. “And if he can, he will banish you from the Cousin Place. Do what you must, but guard your temper. If you do not guard it well, others may turn from you as the Sleep Master has.”

  Reen nodded. The door spread apart, and the pair wordlessly trudged through the snow-dusted grass to the building.

  When Reen entered the reception area that led to the Oval Office, Thural at his heels, a black man stood up behind Natalie’s desk. He was clasping a steno book to his chest. “Good morning, sir. I’m Bobby Pearson, your temp-orary. I just can’t tell you how delighted I am to be working in the White House.”

  Reen paused before the painted oak doors and gave the slender Pearson a once-over look. “CIA, I suppose.”

  Pearson waggled a brown finger in front of Reen’s nose, and his pursed mouth delivered a string of tsks. “Now, now. That’s supposed to be a secret. But since you guessed!–Well, not only am I proficient in Word Perfect and take dictation like a dream, but I also have a black belt in kar-at-e. And with a nine-millimeter automatic I can snuff out a candle at thirty yards. So”–he flipped open his steno pad–“I suppose we should get down to business. You have a news conference scheduled in an hour.”

  Reen’s shoulders slumped. He had forgotten the strained-pea crisis. “Where is what’s-his-name, the press secretary?”

  A frown drew down the edges of Pearson’s mouth. “What’s-his-name, the press secretary, quit.”

  “Well, call my Brother Oomal in Michigan. Tell him to get down here right away, I have enough to worry about, and I refuse to face this press conference by myself.”

  Pearson lifted a finger to his lips. “Oomal in Michigan, Yes, I do believe I have that number.” He was still flipping through the Rolodex when Reen went into his office and slammed the door.

  “Do not fret, Cousin,” Thural said in a soothing tone. “Oomal will know what to do.”

  “He’d better. If the humans learn the truth, there is no telling what will happen.”

  Pearson stuck his head through the right-hand doorway. Reen stepped back guiltily from Thural. “Your Brother’s on his way, sir. Says he’ll be here in less than thirty minutes.”

  “Mr. Pearson,” Reen said, recovering himself. “Don’t ever barge into my office again. Use the intercom.”

  As quickly as he had materialized, Pearson vanished. Thural shook his head and sat down on one of the two loveseats by the fireplace. “If the humans discover the truth, Reen-ja, there will be riots that will make the riots we have now seem small. And the Community will insist on euthanasia.”

  “It will be a great massacre, Cousin, one way or another.” Gloomily Reen sat at his desk and booted his computer. But his anxiety made the words on the screen blur. After a few minutes of pointless scrolling, he turned off the IBM and sat on the loveseat opposite Thural. Hands in his lap, he listened to the pop and sizzle of the fire.

  Secrets. The Cousins had so many of them. The secret of how vulnerable they were; the secret of past genocides. Cousins were made up of secrets. And the biggest secret of all was that they were taking humanity with them in their fall into oblivion, a little company for the end.

  Pearson, ignoring Reen’s previous order, bustled into the room unannounced, a tray of coffee and croissants in his hands. “Marian insisted I feed you. She says you always forget to eat.”

  Reen watched as Pearson buttered a croissant and handed the plate to him.

  “Eat up,” the man chirped,

  Reen sat, limp pastry in hand, until the secretary left the room again. “I fear for us, Thural,” he said, putting the croissant down.

  “I fear for us, too,” Thural said glumly, pouring himself a cup of coffee, which he then ignored.

  Outside the French doors, snow gathered in the Rose Garden, drifted on the walk. Thural’s nervous fingers tore a croissant into greasy golden crumbs. Reen checked his watch, then checked it again.

  Twenty minutes later the intercom buzzed. In his eternally cheerful voice, Pearson announced, “Mr. Reen? Your Brother’s here, sir.”

  Oomal burst through the door, a gray Mighty Mouse with an attaché case in his hand. “Press conference? Let me handle the whole thing. I can do a press conference, Cousin Brother.”

  He took a seat next to Reen. “I’ve been giving this some thought during the trip back to Washington, Brother Firstborn,” he said, grabbing Reen’s forgotten croissant from the plate. “And I think I’ve come up with an angle.”

  The fire snapped. A spark sailed like a meteor toward the blackened bricks.

  “Trouble is, we have to come off that eighteen percent decline to make it work.” Oomal spoke through a mouthful of pastry. “Here’s the deal. The eighteen percent was a noncrisis figure. It’s zero-worry level in human terms.” He gestured with the croissant. “Twenty percent, that’s the discomfort zone, because to a human twenty percent is close to twenty-five percent, and that means an entire quarter drop-off. We’ve done research.”

  Reen watched his Brother stuff the rest of the croissant into his mouth and wash it down with Thural’s coffee. “Cold,” Oomal said with a shudder, giving Thural an accusatory glance. “Okay. So here’s the angle.” He wiped his hands on the linen napkin that had been placed beside a crystal rose vase. Then, thoughtlessly, he tossed the napkin down, destroying the harmony of the tray. “We come off the eighteen percent and bring it up to twenty-seven percent. Get some anxiety going. There’s no way to hide it, Cousin Brother. The shit’s going to hit the fan. The thing to do is micromanage, micromanage, micromanage.”

  Reen stared bleakly at the crumpled napkin, wondering how far the situation would deteriorate and how close lay the brink of no return. The huge room was silent as Oomal poured himself more coffee.

  From the intercom a shrill “Five minutes, sir.”

  Oomal stood up, adjusted his tunic. “I look okay, Cousin Brother?”

  Wearily Reen stood up with him. “Can you handle it?” he asked, studying his Brother’s face.

  “If I can handle stockholders, Cousin Brother, I can handle reporters.”

  Leaving Thural behind, Reen and Oomal hurried from the West Wing and through the colonnade. At the main building Reen considered taking the elevator, decided against it, and walked to the stairs.

  On the steps Oomal fell behind. He was clutching the ornate brass railing and wheezing a little. Reen looked back in alarm.

  “You’re walking too fast, Cousin Brother,” Oomal said wanly. “If I’m going to field questions, at least let me catch my breath.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Head down, Oomal told him, “Just a little stage fright, Reen-ja. Not to worry. I always get it, and then I’m always fine.”

  How could his Brother handle reporters if he was stricken by stage fright? To escape the oncoming disaster, Reen bolted down the steps. Oomal snagged him with a claw.

  “Get back up there, Reen-ja, and introduce me. I’m fine. I’m just fine.”

  Reen hesitated. Oomal looked deathly ill, but he whispered, “It’s not as easy as I make out, dealing with what I have to do, Cousin Brother. But my shame is no concern of yours. Go introduce me.”

  Reen, before any second thoughts could stop him, s
trode quickly around the door and into the blinding glare of television lights. He groped his way to the lectern, hearing the crowd noise subside into a low expectant grumble.

  When his eyes adjusted, he saw that the reporters had dressed themselves, for Cousin notice, in shades of brown and gray. Looking past the television cameras to the anemic light that seeped through the tall windows, he cleared his throat. “I know you are here today about the situation at Gerber–”

  A shout from the crowd: “Sir! Sir!”

  Shielding his eyes with one hand, Reen peered out into the seated throng and saw a woman on her feet. He glanced nervously behind him and saw Oomal, his expression still numb and heartsick, waiting on the red carpet just past the door.

  “Sir!” the woman called.

  “Yes?” Reen would have to answer the strained-pea question himself or call the stricken Oomal from the wings.

  “Bambi Feinstein, Havana Libre. I have a question and a follow-up, sir. Why did the commuter ship crash yesterday?”

  Reen stared helplessly at the woman. What should he tell her but the truth? The crash was obvious sabotage. Every Cousin knew that. Yet if he admitted it was sabotage, who should he say was responsible?

  The FBI? Because Hopkins had known enough to keep Tali from boarding. His Cousin Brother? Because even though Tali had denied having anything to do with it and even though Brother had a difficult time lying to Brother, Reen still distrusted him.

  A murmur spread through the crowd. They were waiting for an answer. But, then, so was Reen.

  “We’re looking into it,” came a whisper to his back.

  On the other side of the doorway Oomal was motioning to him. “We’re looking into it,” he repeated.

  Reen lowered his mouth to the microphones. “We’re looking into it.”

  “Second part of my question, if you don’t mind, sir,” the woman from Havana Libre went on, leaving Reen stunned by her acceptance of his nonanswer. “The Watergate is of immense historical value. Are you planning to commit funds for rebuilding?”

  “Yes,” Oomal hissed.

  “Yes,” Reen said, glancing at Oomal, who seemed to have recovered and was anxious to get to the microphone. Ignoring the raised hands, Reen blurted, “The CEO of Gerber Foods is here and will answer your questions.”

  He stepped off the wooden box that had been positioned at the lectern for Cousin convenience and took his first deep breath since facing the television lights. Oomal bounded to the vacated box and gave the press as wide a smile as a Cousin could manage.

  “Good morning. I have bad news and some not-so-bad news.”

  Chuckles splattered around the crowd like sporadic rifle fire.

  “Okay, the bad news,” Oomal went on. “According to our studies at Gerber, human births are down a full twenty-seven percent.”

  Hands shot up. Oomal disregarded them. “The decline is highest in developed countries. At Gerber we believe there are two reasons for this. Number one, a decline in native births seems to follow a first contact. Why, we don’t know. It may have something to do with stress in the native population. Second. Second,” he said more loudly over the clamor, “we believe that Earth may have reached its optimum population level. Now, species don’t simply get to that level and stop, you see.” He marked an arbitrary boundary with his hand, “They surpass it”–his hand went up a notch–“and then experience a sharp decline in births.” The hand lowered two notches. “A nonsapient population is naturally culled by lack of available food, but sapient species seem to work on a deep psychological level, a level we don’t completely understand. After some study we have come to believe that Earth may be slightly overpopulated at the moment, and a decline in births is simply your way of dealing with it. Now I’ll answer questions.”

  Reen stared up at Oomal, suddenly realizing how brave his Brother was and how schizophrenic the job he managed. It was clear now why the little death had brushed Oomal the moment before he took the podium.

  “David Ching, CBS News,” a tall Asian said, standing. “When you first took over Gerber fifty years ago, were you aware that such a drop might occur?”

  “The possible drop in births was of some consideration in the buy-out, and it has given us the chance to monitor it closely.”

  “Do you have any plans to correct it?” Ching asked quickly, before any of the other reporters could break in.

  “Correct it?” Oomal cocked his head. “You know, only mistakes need correcting, David. This may be a natural process. We’ll continue to monitor the situation, however, and if it appears that humanity is reaching the danger level, we will certainly do all we can to promote fertility. Yes?” he asked, pointing.

  A familiar woman jumped up from her chair. “Harriet Standifer, Washington–” The Post reporter’s question died in her throat. She was staring wide-eyed at a spot behind Oomal, as though God and a retinue of His archangels had materialized there.

  Wheeling, Reen came face-to-face with Jeff Womack. The President winked at his chief of staff and tucked his tie into the jacket of his pin-striped suit. “Excuse me.” Womack nudged Oomal from the stand.

  “No, no, Jeff,” Reen whispered, waving his hands.

  But Womack kicked the box away and leaned down into the microphones. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The crowd came out of its trance with a thunderstorm of applause. Womack beamed into the cameras. Hands were shooting up all over the East Room.

  Womack bent forward, and the audience went breathless with quiet. “I am pleased to announce that, at seven-thirty this morning, Eastern Standard Time, I signed the Tariff Deregulation Bill into law.”

  “What is this?” Oomal hissed, turning to Reen. “What’s he doing?”

  Reen was too stunned, too terrified to answer. The President was a loose cannon, and the Cousins were trapped with it on a small boat. One roll the wrong way, and they would be crushed.

  Womack waited for the excited whispers to die down. “And I have another announcement, one of great historical importance.”

  Reen wondered frantically how he could remove Womack from the lectern. Did the President know about the sterilization plan? And if so, had he picked this moment to tell Cousin secrets? Reen and Oomal would be murdered where they stood. Not even the Secret Service would intervene to save them.

  “I’ve served without a vice president for two years, and the time has come to correct that. Right now,” Womack went on, checking his watch, “the Senate is voting to approve my choice for a new vice president, and I would like to take this opportunity to introduce him.”

  Reen gasped. Someone was standing in the shadow beyond the door.

  “He is a man with a great deal of political experience,” Womack continued, “and someone I’m sure you will all recognize.” He swept his arm to the side. “The spirit of John Fitzgerald Kennedy.”

  Bursting into the East Room, Jeremy Holt, the medium, held his hand high in greeting. Womack patted him on the back. The medium, needing no encouragement, bellied up to the microphones.

  With a boyish, disarming smile Holt said, “Ah, thank you,” even though no applause, not even a murmur, had been offered. “It’s nice to be back.”

  Reen took in the broad Bostonian accent and the twinkle in the eyes, and even though it lay a century away, Camelot came rushing back. Of all the presidents he had known, he hated Kennedy the most. Dangerous Kennedy with his smiling eyes.

  Those mannerisms: the tip of the head, the casual grace that only long-standing wealth could buy, Kennedy stood in Jeremy Holt’s body. Kennedy, the once and future king.

  “I’ve, ah, been privy to some interesting information on the other side.”

  Dizzily Reen felt Oomal grab his sleeve. There was a humming in his ears, a prickly dryness in his throat. He felt his mouth open and wondered if he was about to say something or simply scream,


  “Ah, first of all, there was a gunman on the grassy knoll,” Kennedy said with a pleasant smile. “The FBI marksman beyond the fence was put there by J. Edgar Hoover, while Lee Harvey Oswald, like Sirhan Sirhan later, was under total alien control. My brother’s death was a payoff, ah, to the FBI for helping the aliens get rid of me. Now, I thank President Womack for his appointment, and I promise to bring myself up to date on some of the history I’ve missed. I’m sure you, ah, have a great many questions, so I will take them now.”

  Except for an annoying buzz from one of the kliegs, the East Room was silent.

  In the back of the room a hesitant hand rose.

  “Yes?”

  The reporter stood. The crowd craned their necks. “Uh, Gordon Appleton, London Times.”

  “Yes?”

  Appleton took a deep breath and brought his question out in a stammer: “S-sir? Is it true about you and M-Marilyn Monroe?”

  AS KENNEDY answered questions, Womack turned and quickly left the East Room, Reen at his heels.

  “How could you do this to me?” Reen cried.

  On the steps Womack paused, his hand on the banister. “Everything’s coming to a head, termite. There’s blood on the floor in the basement. Watch your back.”

  Womack continued his climb, Reen followed. “You tell me to watch my back and then you nominate Kennedy as your vice president? You know when he was president I had him killed. How could you do this?”

  “No time, termite. No time.” Womack topped the stairs and scurried for his suite.

  Pewter light from the high windows flooded the huge room. On the desk a McDonald’s Happy Meal sat half eaten.

  “You know I’m in danger,” Reen protested as he watched Womack rummage through the dry bar’s cabinet. “I was kidnapped yesterday. Don’t you even care? A bomb went off at Dulles right where I was supposed to be. The commuter ship was sabotaged. You were the one who told me to fire Krupner. I cannot help but wonder what the Germans would have told me had they lived, I have been called to appear before a Senate subcommittee. The subpoena is lying in a blackberry bush somewhere in Virginia, and you appoint Kennedy!”