Witch Of The Federation III (Federal Histories Book 3)

by Michael Anderle

  The commander frowned. “Let’s save those favors for something we really need,” he decided. “It looks like stormy water ahead.”

  Arne eyed the slight figure who descended the steps, the four men behind her, the giant, and the large cats that waited at the foot of the stairs. “No, sir. The storm’s arrived.”

  “And it’s far too late to run.”

  “I wouldn’t know how, sir. Actually, I didn’t think you knew either.”

  “I don’t.” He stepped forward to the edge of the landing pad and came to attention as the Morgana strode toward him.

  She made a show of looking around. “You’re a small welcoming committee,” she observed.

  Her voice echoed around them and both men shivered.

  Matthias cleared his throat. “The Navy thought we’d keep this shindig small.”

  “That is most wise,” she agreed and again, they noticed the almost sepulchral tone to her voice.

  She gestured toward the door. “Shall we proceed?”

  The resonance in her tones made the Marine think this was what it would be like to hear the voice of a god…if gods were real and walked the Earth.

  The dropship lifted a half-hour later once Arne and Matthias had escorted Stephanie and her team to the landing pad. They left behind them a room of slightly stunned Naval higher-ups and absolutely no doubts as to the severity of the threat they faced—which made what the Morgana was about to do a little easier.

  “Today’s breaking news involves the elite and famous,” the female news announcer declared. She waved her hands and rolled her blue eyes, “And, of course, it’s brought to you by our very own glamor puss, Jalel Trylfir.”

  The view changed from the studio to a handsome Meligornian male with close-cropped silver hair. His lavender eyes flashed as he waved a hand at the ocean vista behind him. “Thank you, Amelia! You say the sweetest things. Take a look at the view behind me. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Jalel, we at the studio are green with envy, but tell us. What have you found out there beyond the waves?”

  “Apart from this beautiful view, you mean?” The anchor clearly enjoyed teasing his studio-bound counterpart. A small inset shot showed her arms folded while she scowled at him. His grin grew wider and he turned again to direct the camera toward a small island barely visible in the distance.

  “Out there is San Jomar’s Reef. It’s not only the name of a reef, though. It’s also the name of a beautiful piece of island real estate.” His voice lowered. “And it’s one reserved by one very rich mogul who goes by the name of San Jomar.”

  The female anchor cut in. “That is surely not his real name, Jalel.”

  He quirked an eyebrow and smirked at the camera. “Nicely done, Amelia, and you are one hundred percent correct. That is not his real name, but it’s a closely guarded secret and only his guests will ever see his face.”

  The female anchor gasped. “So, a mystery man, Jalel.” Her voice took on a sultry purr. “I don’t suppose you know if he’s single.”

  Jalel gave a throaty chuckle. “Now, now, Amelia. I like a good mystery as well as the next person—although maybe not as well as you—but even I haven’t been able to unearth the mystery man’s name.”

  “And the island?” she asked hopefully.

  He shook his head and the good humor vanished from his face. “I’m sorry, Amelia, but this is almost as close as we’ll get. The captain tells me that the shoals closer in are too treacherous for the ship.”

  “So we’ll have to admire the view from afar?” Amelia managed to inject both longing and chagrin into her tone.

  “And the guest list,” Jalel confirmed. His face took on a cunning glance. “Although, I have a little help with that.”

  With another sweep of his hand, he directed the camera to the foredeck, where half a dozen drones were preparing to take off.

  “The network has offered a thousand credits to the person who can get the most and clearest images of the guests as they approach the island.”

  “Oh, Jalel. What a great prize!”

  He smirked as though he was funding it himself.

  “But wait, there’s more, Amelia.”

  “More?” she asked. “More than a thousand credits?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Tell me,” she encouraged him breathily.

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Oh, yes, Jalel, and I’m sure the folks at home would like to know, too.” She glanced at the studio camera. “Wouldn’t you?” she asked.

  In the dropship, they all waited for the big reveal.

  “The studio is offering an additional thousand credits for any drone that can reach the island and broadcast more than a minute’s footage of the guests—with a special prize if the face of our mystery host is revealed.”

  “Well, that’s a challenge if ever I heard one,” Amelia declared and the camera panned back to where the drones lifted from the deck.

  “So, the feeding frenzy has begun,” Lars said with disgust and was about to switch the viewscreen off when Johnny swore.

  He turned back to the screen in time to see their black craft flash past in the background with the drones in tight formation around it.

  “Well,” Jalel declared. “it looks like some guests are arriving with more style than others.”

  “Was that a military vessel?” his colleague squeaked and her voice rose in surprise.

  “If it was, it wasn’t anything I’ve seen before,” he replied. “Did I see some kind of emblem on the hull?”

  “Nor for long, you didn’t,” Frog muttered and the team leader looked sharply at him.

  He grinned. “There’s a little trick in the design in case the Morgana wants to travel incognito. You can program the paint on the sigil to match the hull. We only need to go loud and proud when we need to. I switched the programming the second I saw us on the screen.”

  “Won’t they be able to backtrack and freeze the footage?” the other man asked, and another voice came over the shuttle’s speakers.

  “No. I have had technicians see to that.”

  “Burt,” the Morgana greeted him and her sepulchral tones filled the craft’s interior.

  “Stephanie,” their boss replied as if he’d completely overlooked the fact that she was not herself. “I trust you know what you need to do.”

  “I do,” she replied, and Frog cleared his throat.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” he interrupted. “I’d like a clearer picture.”

  He flinched as the Morgana turned her dark-eyed gaze to him. “I will vote on Earth’s action in the coming war,” she told him.

  “And she will vote for war,” BURT confirmed in the voice he’d adopted for his persona as their human employer. “It was originally intended that Elizabeth fulfill this function, and I believe the attack on her was not only an attack on Stephanie but had the secondary purpose to prevent her vote on the matter.”

  “I take it she was to vote for war?” Lars asked.

  “Indeed. There are those amongst Earth’s influential elite who believe surrender to the aliens will enable them to keep the position, possessions, and wealth they enjoy when these beings take over our world.”

  “It will not.” Her voice was implacable and her fury a palpable wave.

  BURT cleared his throat. “No, it will not. Our research leads me to believe that they will leave no survivors. As the Morgana is aware, the aliens’ sole purpose is to consume, and neither of us believes they leave anything in their wake.”

  “Those who believe they will hold their places will find only an exalted form of slavery and inevitable demise. They will not be spared. Instead, they will merely be the last to be consumed.” Her tone was final.

  “We believe Elizabeth’s vote was essential to secure us the ability to fight them,” he added. “Stephanie will vote in her place.”

  “And my vote will be final,” the Morgana declared.

  Her team looked at
her and the blood drained from their faces. Power crackled around her and her black eyes blazed.

  “I will show no mercy to those who dissent.”

  BURT cleared his throat and did his best to sound like a businessman embarrassed by the blatant declaration of his charge. “Stephanie, dear…” he began, and she showed her gritted teeth.

  “I thought we had an understanding, Burt—”

  “And we agreed,” he hastened to assure her, “but you must give them the chance to make the right decision.”

  She smiled and even BURT found the sight disconcerting. “They will have the chance.”

  He wondered if he was the only one not comforted by her words. Fortunately, Brenden interrupted them before he needed to say anything more.

  “We’ll touch down shortly,” he informed them, “and I’m afraid someone is short a very expensive drone. Apparently, ours do not play well with others.”

  In a finely appointed meeting hall on the second floor of the island mansion, three businessmen ignored the spectacular ocean views. Instead, they looked at each other and exchanged morose glances.

  “She isn’t coming,” the dark-haired man told his friends. “I called my source at the hospital and she’s still there. Short of teleportation, she’d never arrive in time.”

  “But I heard she was better,” the redhead opposite him exclaimed, his freckles stark against the pallor of his skin. “Damned near healed.”

  His outburst drew amused glances from others seated close by, and his two colleagues hushed him hastily.

  “How close will it be?” the third man asked and the first sighed.

  “It will be close,” he told them, then admitted, “In fact, we might not get it across the line.”

  The redhead sighed and lowered his head. “We have to try, regardless,” he told them. “We can’t simply give our world away.”

  The third man patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll do our best.”

  They fell into silence, each one lost in their own thoughts until a woman strode over to their table. “Heads-up,” she told them. “It looks like Liz has sent someone in her place.”

  “She has?” the first man asked and hope rose in his voice.

  “But who’d be crazy enough to come in her place?” the redhead asked. “We all know that attack on her outside Tarantino’s was because of this. You’d have to be nuts—”

  The third man snorted. “Says the man who’ll vote her way, anyway.”

  His companion managed a rueful grin, which was returned.

  “We’re not the only crazy ones, you know.”

  “Come on, boys.” The woman beckoned and strode to the balcony that ran the length of the conference room’s outer wall. “Don’t you want to see who it is?”

  They rose to her challenge and hurried out to see the unexpected arrival. Each of them stopped short at the sight of the big black dropship that touched down in the turning circle in front of the mansion.

  The first man gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Well, someone has pissed the wrong Witch off,” he declared.

  His companions laughed, and the woman who had alerted them to the new arrival turned her back on the view.

  “Let’s go be part of history!” she called over her shoulder, and they hastened to follow.

  The scene that greeted them when they reached the front steps was barely short of unbelievable. San Jomar’s guards had arrayed themselves at the base of the vessel’s stairs and one of them stood toe to toe with a Dreth armored in black that matched the ship’s hull.

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t bring your weapons onto the island,” he told the warrior, and Vishlog cocked his head to one side.

  “That is not negotiable,” he replied and his deep voice carried past the line of guards and into the crowd beyond.

  The man tried again and discomfort bled into his voice. “Please, sir. Those are my orders. No weapons. I have to ask…” His words trailed into silence and he took several involuntary steps back, his fellow guards alongside him.

  In the mansion itself, the guests held their breaths.

  The Morgana surveyed the scene from the top of the dropship’s steps for a brief moment before she descended, her steps swift and sure as she walked over to the guard. “What seems to be the problem here?”

  He swallowed and the sweat sheened his skin, glistening visibly under the tropical sun, but he stuck to his guns.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t allow weapons on the island—”

  “I am a weapon,” the woman told him, and power crackled from her skin and arced to the men who had followed her off the vessel and who now stood around her. “Don’t make me upset.”

  “I…” He swallowed and closed his mouth.

  She scrutinized him haughtily as though she didn’t like what she saw.

  “We don’t go anywhere unarmed, as the Federation Navy is aware. We go by their mandate of always being prepared, so you need to tell your boss he can shove his no-weapons policy up his ass or I’ll do it for him—and I won’t use any lubrication. Get me?”

  She didn’t wait for a reply but turned and led her people toward the stairs to the mansion’s entrance. The hapless guard gaped in her wake. The two great cats that had accompanied her down the stairs raised their noses as they passed him, their expressions showing clear distaste.

  The black-and-white one paused in front of him long enough to lift one forepaw. It fixed him with its fierce lavender gaze, licked its foot, and extended its claws as it did so. Once it had given the claws a perfunctory inspection, it lowered its paw and followed its mistress.

  Each of the men in her entourage drew their blasters and held them upright before them, presenting arms as a file of soldiers might, and kept them at the low rest after they’d passed. The lead guard stared after them and touched a shaky hand to his ear to activate his comm link.

  “Sir?” he began and his voice trembled noticeably. “Ms E sent a representative… No. I couldn’t stop her. I… I think you’re needed out front.”

  If the Morgana heard him, she gave no sign and her gaze swept the stairs where San Jomar’s guests had gathered.

  “I see everyone’s here,” she stated once she’d counted enough heads to be sure and her voice echoed over them. “You all know why we have gathered.”

  “We have gathered to vote for peace,” a silver-haired man called in reply.

  Several murmurs rose in agreement and more voices rose in protest.

  “I will not agree to slavery for many. Not even to keep myself free.”

  “And what of your family?” one of the peace-voters challenged. “Would you vote for freedom for them?”

  “You know that’s not guaranteed,” one of the voices countered. “If we fight, we have a chance to keep all mankind free.”

  “If we fight, we guarantee the death of every human being in existence,” came the counter-argument.

  “So, you’re saying it’s better to save a few than to fight for all?”

  “No, I’m saying it’s better to guarantee the safety of our species than to condemn it to extinction.”

  “Survival as slaves is no survival at all.”

  “But at least some of us get to live.”

  “And who gets to choose?”

  “Enough!” The Morgana’s voice resounded over the gathering.

  They stilled and all eyes turned toward her. “Are all those in favor of protecting our freedom here?”

  A murmur of assent greeted her.

  “Raise your hands if you wish to fight for our freedom. For Earth’s freedom. For the freedom of our future’s children. Raise them now.”

  Hands went up across the crowd but some did not and others rested on folded arms. Again, her gaze swept over the gathering as she tallied the vote.

  “I make those willing to fight for freedom in the majority,” she declared. She let her gaze travel over the remainder. “Do any of you who are too spineless to fight for the rest want to change your vote?
”

  She paused. “Anyone? Because history won’t look too kindly on you, and I’m sure your descendants won’t want to live in shame.”

  Several more hands were raised, some in defiance of their neighbors and others in unity.

  “Too darn right,” she snapped and surveyed those gathered before her. “To prepare for war has been voted and agreed on by the largest corporations in the world and the business community that supports them.”

  The Morgana gave them a moment to absorb the news and let them come to terms with the decision they had made before she continued.

  “Now that we have that little issue out of the way…” Her gaze traveled over the men and women before her and paused on several individuals whose hands had remained stubbornly down. “Why don’t we move to the part where some of you try to stab us in the back anyway?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  As the Morgana threw the gauntlet down before the more rebellious members of Earth’s business community, Commander Matthias Van Leeuwen stood in the center of Conference Room Ninety-One.

  “She needs it if she is to carry out her duty to protect the Federation,” he told the three speakers before him. Their images hung on the viewscreen and stared implacably in response.

  “And we say she does not,” Admiral Harrison countered. “The heavens know she’s done enough damage to our reputation with her little escapade out on Sanmar’s Reach.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Rescuing the colony from pirates and preventing it from becoming an alien outpost, sir?” he asked, and the admiral reddened.

  “No! Destroying its only communications dish, murdering its defenders, and turning its main seat of governance into a smoking hole in the ground.”

  “She did what was best for the Federation,” he argued, aware of Master Sergeant Borgesson at his back. The man was as silent as a grave but his presence was all the louder for it—and right now, that presence radiated disapproval like a cat radiated disdain.

  The man was furious at the attitudes Van Leeuwen now encountered. He wondered how much longer the master sergeant would keep his silence and caught himself almost wishing his Marine wasn’t quite so well house-trained.