by Gini Koch
“I doubt it. And I don’t care.” My dream was getting hazy. Did my best to concentrate on Jeff and the beach and the sex.
“Help me. You’re my only hope.” The voice sounded female, maybe, and alien, most likely. Most humans couldn’t get that kind of reverberation going without the use of electronic equipment. And, just like the voice, the reverberation wasn’t familiar, so, again, not an alien race I’d already met, at least, unlikely. My dreams, they were really the best.
“Um, I wasn’t really trying to add Princess Leia or Obi-Wan Kenobi into this dream. If that’s okay and all that. Especially not Old Obi-Wan. Young Obi-Wan, yeah, maybe.”
I could, quite frankly, find it in my libido to add Ewan McGregor into many things. Then again, Jeff was the strongest empath in, most likely, the galaxy—because A-Cs also had a variety of psychic talents that showed up pretty often—and he was also easily the most jealous man in it, too, under the right circumstances. Me fantasizing about Ewan McGregor was likely to spark some jealousy, especially since I’d seen The Pillow Book. Twice. And the second time was not for the story.
Not that Jeff had anything to worry about. He was the classic—tall, with dark brown wavy hair, dreamy light brown eyes, built like a brick house, and definitely the handsomest man in the universe. And that wasn’t me being biased. Well, maybe biased, but only a little. The A-Cs were, to human eyes, the most beautiful things around. They came in all shapes, sizes, colors, and builds, just like humans did, as long as you included “hardbody” in their definition.
Humans had lucked out, though. In addition to the fact that A-Cs and humans could and did create healthy hybrid offspring—with the external favoring the human parent and the internal favoring the A-C—the A-Cs thought humans were great. Well, most of them thought that.
The female A-Cs, whom I called the Dazzlers, at least to myself, were sapiosexual, didn’t care what someone looked like, and they felt that humans had more brains and brain capacity than their own people did. I didn’t necessarily agree with this theory, though I got where it came from—I’d never met a dumb Dazzler because even those considered idiots by their peers were genius-level for humans, but I had hit a couple of not-so-bright male A-Cs, though they were few and far between.
The male A-Cs just liked people who made them feel smarter than the female A-Cs did, meaning humans were really scoring the excellent mating opportunities. And I wasn’t going to argue with the situation either, since, by now, we had a lot of really happy humans married to equally happy A-Cs, and I was all for couples’ harmony. Particularly my own.
“I need the greatest warrior in the galaxy.” Despite my focus on Jeff’s hotness, the beach was starting to fade away. Did my best to hold onto the dream and, if not the dream, at least Jeff’s naked body.
“And you’re talking to me why?”
“Because your reputation precedes you.”
Things had been relatively quiet on the Political Crap front, even quieter on the Evil Megalomaniac front, and the Marauding Aliens front had been blissfully silent. Apparently this last one was silent no longer, though.
Visions of Jeff’s naked body washed fully away. I was now officially bitter. “Super. As dreams go, this one stinks. Just sayin’.”
“My mind has traveled through the DreamScape in order to find you.”
“Whee. I think you got lost somewhere along the way.”
Really wondered if I’d eaten something that was causing this kind of bizarreness. But we hadn’t had a state dinner, I hadn’t snuck in a huge amount of junk food, and the White House chef wasn’t prone to making anything bad. Chef was far healthier in what he prepared than I’d ever been. And I’d only had two of his chocolate mousses for dessert, so it couldn’t be that.
“No, I’ve worked my way through the DreamScape to find you. I need your help.”
This dream wasn’t going away. Tried to wake up. Failed. “So you said. And I ask again—why me? And what the heck is the DreamScape, anyway? That sounds like an old Dennis Quaid movie.” I could find it in my libido to add in Dennis Quaid too. Dennis Quaid, Ewan McGregor, and Jeff would be a combination I could enjoy for a really long time. In another dream. One not being constantly interrupted by an alien I didn’t know and didn’t want to know. Had to wonder if other people had dreams like this. Probably not. I was “lucky” this way.
“Why you is because you always manage to win. The DreamScape is the realm that connects us all. And I have no idea who Dennis Quaid is or what a movie is, either.”
“Uh huh, right, pull the other one. It has uninterested bells on and all that jazz.”
“The fate of my world depends upon you.”
“Doubt it. Sincerely doubt it. I officially want to tell myself that this kind of dream is not on my particular Netflix queue and I don’t want anything similar to it suggested, either.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“So few ever do. Look, good luck with whatever you’ve got going on wherever in my subconscious you happen to be. But I’m not your girl.”
“I’m not in your subconscious.”
“But that’s what my wily subconscious would say, now, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” The voice sounded desperate. “My name is Ixtha. Please help me.”
“Well, that’s different. What’s my name, then?” I mean, my subconscious certainly knew my name.
“I only know you as the Warrior Queen.”
“Right. Not as the First Lady of the United States, not as the Queen Regent of Earth for the Annocusal Royal Family of Alpha Four, and not as Earth’s Galactic Representative to the Galactic Council. But as the Warrior Queen. Gotcha. I think you were looking for Queen Renata of the Free Women of Beta Twelve, but you do you and all that.”
“I have no idea who those people are or what those titles mean.” Ixtha sounded serious. Which was odd, because my subconscious certainly knew all the various and current roles I was stuck doing whether I liked them or not.
Figured I’d try one last title. “What about Shealla? Do you know her?” That was my God Name on Beta Eight.
“Yes! Shealla is the Warrior Queen. You are Shealla?”
“If you already knew, why’d you ask?”
“I don’t . . . what? What do you mean? I don’t understand you.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know my name.” Well, my Beta Eight name, but still it was a name I answered to. Though Shealla was supposed to be the Queen of the Gods and the Giver of Names, not the Warrior Queen. “Then again, my wily subconscious also knows that name.”
“I am not in your subconscious! I am in your dream, via the DreamScape. I have searched for you for so long, Shealla. I need your help, my people need your help. You who have saved so many, why will you not hear my plea?”
“Because I think you’re a figment of my vivid and overworked imagination. Though Ixtha is a cool name I haven’t heard before, so go team in terms of my creativity.”
“I am real, Shealla. As real as you are.”
“Yeah? Figure out what my real name is, and then visit me again. Or don’t. Really, you disturbed a great dream and I’m still bitter about it.”
“The longer we speak the better my connection is to you, and I can search your mind for clues. Please give me that time, Shealla. I will do as you ask, discover your true name, and then you will help me and my people, yes?”
“Sure, I guess. Why not, right?” Was going to add a really witty and sarcastic comment, but the sounds of the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Universally Speaking” came on and thankfully dragged me into consciousness and away from the “DreamScape.”
The little joys of greeting the dawn, especially after this Dream O’ Weirdness, were without number.
CHAPTER 2
NORMALLY I HATED DRAGGING up as early as we now had to since Jeff had become the President, but never
had I been so happy to wake up. Let the music play and rolled over to see if Jeff was still in bed.
He was not and I was displeased. Chose to blame my weird dream and got up. Checked for him in the bathroom. Not there. Trotted back and checked Mr. Clock in case I’d somehow slept through hours’ worth of musical alarm. I had not.
Went to the living room. Nada. Was about to just give up and take a shower when the main door of our Presidential Suite opened and Jeff came in with a big breakfast tray. He grinned at my expression. “I didn’t mean to worry you, Kitty. I just thought it would be nice to have breakfast in bed today.”
Ran through the potential reasons. Jeff was far more romantic than I was, and there might be something important I was missing. All our family birthdays were past—mine was the last one for several months, and it had been yesterday, and we’d celebrated by going to Paris as a family. Couldn’t come up with anything else.
“Um, great!”
Jeff laughed. “I’m giving the State of the Union address today while we christen the Distant Voyager, and I just want to be alone with my wife before I have to do that.”
“Oh! Right you are.” Felt bad. Jeff was in the middle of his accidental term as President and he took the job seriously. He’d been working with his team for weeks on his speech, meaning I should have remembered. Then again, turning thirty-five had felt very milestone-ish for me and Paris was awesome, and generally forgetting stuff like this was very par for my course.
“Not a problem, baby, and don’t feel bad. Just eat with me and be my wife.”
“That I can do!”
We snuggled back into bed and had a lovely breakfast of eggs scrambled with lox, croissants, excellent coffee with cream, and fresh fruit. We talked about Paris and how great it had been to be there. We weren’t jet-lagged because we’d used gates—A-C technology that looked like airport metal detectors but were capable of moving you across the street or across the world in one step. They could move you to other planets, too, but we didn’t use them for that a lot and, now, we might not have to use them for that ever again.
“I’m glad we were able to celebrate your birthday before the address,” Jeff said as we finished up.
“Me too. And I’m sorry I forgot. Earth’s first manned long-distance spaceship with true warp capability is a huge deal. I’m so glad it’s happened during your Presidency.”
Jeff smiled. “Me, too, baby. It’s one of the few truly good things that’s happened that didn’t have something horrible attached to it.”
“Well, I think that most of the aliens now living in our solar system would disagree with you, but I know what you mean.”
Considered telling Jeff about my weird dream, but didn’t want to spoil his mood or slip up and mention my fantasizing about Ewan and Dennis. Besides, he’d just tell me that two chocolate mousses were too many and since I knew he was wrong and I was going to eat two, minimum, any time Chef made his mousse, what was the point of fighting?
We showered together, which was one of my favorite things to do, ever, because we had great sexytimes in the shower and today was no exception. Once climaxed to the max, we got dried off, clothed, and ready.
Well, Jeff got clothed. In, literally, what he wore every day. A-Cs were, at all their cores, conformists, particularly when it came to their attire. Which was basically black and white with as few other colors as possible, “none” being considered best. The men wore black suits, white shirts, black ties, and black dress shoes, while the women wore black slim skirts, white oxfords, and black pumps, day in and day out. All Armani. The A-Cs loved Armani as much as they loved black and white. Possibly more. It was hard to be sure.
As President, Jeff could have worn other colors and designers. But—other than the concession of a colorful tie worn as infrequently as possible and only under extreme duress—he did not. No matter what, no matter where, and no matter how much I begged, he did not. None of them did, other than a handful of Attire Rebels whose idea of going out on a fashion limb was to wear jeans and tennis shoes only if facing death. Most of the A-Cs preferred to face death in Armani, presumably so they’d head to the afterlife well-dressed.
And no one complained about this, other than me.
I, however, was the Leader of the Attire Rebels. Or I had been. Before I’d become the First Lady. Jeff’s side of the Presidential Closet was filled with the Armani Fatigues—mine had color. And jeans. And band t-shirts. And Converse. Sure, I had my own Armani Fatigues, but I didn’t wear them all the time.
Well, honestly, these days, I pretty much didn’t get to wear them at all. Because I was the FLOTUS and that meant that I had to have a “color” assigned as mine because D.C. was a freak town of the highest order. My color had been decreed iced blue. And, therefore, a huge portion of my closet was now iced blue. It was a pretty color but, as with black and white, the repetition of it got me down. In fact, I was at the point where getting to wear black and white was thrilling, a real “mix it up and keep the town guessing” kind of change. That my sartorial life had been reduced to this definitely made me bitter.
Despite this or, rather, because of it, I didn’t get to get clothed. However, I was definitely the one stuck getting ready. Jeff needed zero assistance to look amazing. I was not so fortunate. And, sadly, these days, if it was a big event—and this was—my getting ready took a really long time.
I sent a text to my Prep Team, put on my underwear—which I was shockingly allowed to do all by myself—covered up with my nice Presidential Robe, and went across the hallway with Jeff to check in on our children—Jamie, who had just turned six, Charlie, who was just over two, and our ward, Lizzie, who was now sixteen. They were all up and breakfasting in the family dining room on this floor of the White House Residence and, like me, they were all in their own White House robes.
When Jamie was born, everyone had said she looked just like me, in part because when A-Cs and humans mated the A-C genetics dominated the internal but the human genes were dominant for external. And the older she got, the more Jamie looked like me. As many put it, she was kind of my little clone.
Technically, Charlie should have looked just like me, too. Only he didn’t, at least not in the way Jamie did. By now he was looking more and more like Jeff. Not that this was a bad thing, but it did make me wonder. No one else seemed concerned about it, but my kids were already different, and being even more different could be good or could be dangerous.
Hybrid children were special, and mine were no exception. In fact, mine were exceptionally exceptional. Charlie was telekinetic, which was a real parenting challenge we rarely felt up to. Jamie was empathic, like her father, but there was more going on with her. She’d moved herself thousands of miles to get to me and Jeff and then stopped a spaceship from falling on us during Operation Destruction, and she’d done it with, as far as we could tell, her mind, which sort of indicated telekinetic abilities.
But, unlike Charlie, she didn’t spend her time lifting heavier and heavier things, and we weren’t sure that she could be classified as telekinetic. No, as near as we could tell, Jamie spent her time communing with the other hybrid children, and some who weren’t hybrids, via telepathy.
And, of course, there was also ACE. ACE was a superconsciousness I’d originally channeled into Paul Gower, who was a dream reader—which was a rare A-C talent—and who was also, at that time, the A-Cs Head of Recruitment. Gower was Jeff’s cousin, though not as close a cousin as Christopher White. But these days, Gower was something else—the A-C’s Supreme Pontifex, aka their top man religiously.
In the good old days, ACE being inside Gower had been great. We could chat with ACE pretty much any time we needed to and, while he couldn’t or wouldn’t always come right out and tell us specifically what was going on, he was great with giving the helpful hints.
Due to things that went on during Operations Sherlock and Infiltration, ACE had been taken a
way from us. And while Operation Infiltration had been filled with a lot of losses and heartbreak for us, ACE had been returned to us due to sacrifices made by Naomi Gower-Reynolds. But in order to stay, ACE had had to make a deal, and that deal was that he was no longer inside Gower’s head. Instead, the head he’d gone into was Jamie’s, at the time the person with the least power on the planet, at least in terms of influence in the world.
It meant my little girl was the safest person in the solar system, if not the entire galaxy, in many ways, but it also meant that we couldn’t talk to ACE easily—because none of us were going to discuss scary, grownup things with a little child. So these days I only got to talk to ACE if Jamie was napping—a rarity at six—or if she and I were both asleep. My dreams were super funky when I was able to dream-chat with ACE, but then again, as this morning’s dream had proven in full-on Technicolor, my dreams were weird regardless.
All this might make someone think that Lizzie was just ordinary, since her parents had been humans. But that someone would be totally wrong. Lizzie was exceptional not because of her innate abilities but because of what she’d done already in her young life.
Lizzie’s parents had been Russian spies who were also working with the leaders of Club Fifty-One to create something that could eradicate aliens—and a lot of humans, too. She’d stood up to them, had faced the very real possibility that they’d kill her, because she knew what they wanted to do was wrong on a massive scale. She’d been saved by the man who was now her adoptive father, Benjamin Siler.
Siler wasn’t here, but the kids weren’t alone. They were with our live-in nanny, Nadine Alexis, her middle sister, Francine, who had the job of being my far-hotter FLOTUS double, and their youngest sister, Colette, who was my press secretary. All three sisters were A-Cs and lived in the White House with us, and they liked to breakfast together with the kids whenever they could.