by Gini Koch
Walter nodded. “Anyone else?”
“Let’s get Colonel Franklin, Drax and the other Vata, and the flyboys here, too. You know, so we can make it a real party,” I suggested. “The other Joint Chiefs might be a good idea, too, but only if we can keep them from declaring World War Three or Independence Day Three-D.”
Walter looked at Jeff. Who shook his head. “Franklin, all the Vata, and the flyboys, yes. The other Joint Chiefs, no. I haven’t worked with any of them enough to know how they’ll handle this news.”
“Yes, sir, Mister President,” Walter said, clearly completely done with No Title Time.
Jeff took my hand and led us off. “I can’t believe you’re all okay with Kitty leaving for a world tour right now,” he grumbled as we walked at human speed.
“Well, it’s not like I’m desperate to escape your clutches or anything, but Richard and Chuckie’s plan makes sense.”
“For the job we need done it would be either Kitty or Elaine,” Chuckie said. “And I think you need Elaine here with you right now.”
“I need my wife more.” Jeff heaved a sigh. “Have I mentioned how much I never wanted to get into politics in the first place?”
“Once or twice,” White said, clearly trying not to laugh and showing zero sympathy.
Jeff grunted at him. “You’re the reason all this started, Uncle Richard. I blame you for all of this.”
White grinned. “I know and I’ll take that blame happily because I’m incredibly proud of you, Jeffrey. You’re everything I knew you would be.”
Jeff stopped walking, let go of my hand, and hugged his uncle tightly. “Thanks,” he said as they pulled apart. “It’s nice to know that I’m not failing everyone’s expectations.”
Christopher, Chuckie, and I exchanged the WTH look. “Um, Jeff? Who do you think you’re failing?”
“He’s listened to the media,” Alexander replied before Jeff could. “And if you allow it to, what people who have no idea what you have to do on a day-to-day basis in order to keep things running will say about you can be hurtful.”
Gave Alexander a hug, just ’cause, since I had to figure he was speaking from experience. “Ah. Well, haters gonna hate, Jeff. You’re an awesome president.”
“Yeah?” Jeff said as we started off again. “Let’s see how everyone feels when I share that we know we have space invaders coming and they’ll be here in a week or less.”
“I’d ask how that’s your fault, but apparently it’s my fault, so I’ll brace for the haters to turn on me. Which I expect no matter what, anyway.”
“Fault is the wrong word,” Chuckie said.
“Not if they’re coming to attack,” Christopher muttered.
“Stop it,” White said calmly. Christopher looked sulkily at his father. Who was apparently having none of it. “No one is going to allow anyone to land on this planet without vetting them first. We have allies here who are more than capable of doing that vetting, including Jeffrey and every other empath on the planet. Your sulking about not getting included in Kitty’s entourage is embarrassing.”
“Is that it?” Chuckie asked, as Christopher had the grace to look embarrassed. “We need you here, with Jeff, for a variety of reasons, but the main one being that I just don’t want one of our best secret weapons far away from the President.”
Christopher perked up at this. “Secret weapon?”
Chuckie didn’t roll his eyes but I knew he wanted to. “No one moves faster than you. If there’s an attack on the President or any other official, who is the person most likely able to save them? You. If we need to evacuate, who is the person we all want everyone else linking to? You. Our enemies seem unaware of how fast you can move, and even if they know, there’s not a lot they can do to stop you.”
“Short of tossing out a bucket of glue in his path. Or flypaper.”
“Hilarious, Kitty.” Chuckie turned back to Christopher. “You’ve somehow managed to avoid the same level of scrutiny that Jeff, Kitty, Paul, and several others have, and even if the press knows about you, they can’t see you if you’re moving fast, let alone at your top speed. Why in the world would I want the fastest man on the planet far away from the most likely target we’ve got for attempted assassination? The Secret Service are fine. They’re not A-Cs. And the other A-Cs aren’t you.”
Christopher seemed mollified. “Why am I still assigned to the Embassy, then?”
“What part of ‘secret weapon’ didn’t you catch? If you’re assigned to the Embassy, the assumption is that you will be there. Meaning no one’s prepared for you to be wherever we actually need you to be. And,” Chuckie added, “you’re still needed at the Embassy. That we feel you can manage to do both jobs is a compliment, not an insult.”
“Yeah, okay. And I’m sorry. I’m just worried and not feeling at all trusting about anyone in any of those ships, let alone those in the Z’porrah ship.”
“Caution is wise,” Wruck said. “But caution and hatred are not the same things. If we’re correct and those in the Z’porrah ship are coming to Earth as refugees, then they aren’t our enemies.”
“In fact, there’s a good chance they’re our friends.” We were outside of the LSR now. “And, Christopher, trust me—I’m not going to let anyone get Becky any more than I’ll let them get Jamie or Charlie. Or any of the other kids, talented or not.”
Christopher didn’t look convinced. “I remember how many times they’ve tried to get Jamie. And the other hybrid kids. And Lizzie. They want our children, Kitty.”
“I know. But what they want and what they’ll get are two very different things. Despite our track record, I realize the temptation is to lock everyone in a Centaurion base and just hide. But that doesn’t work anymore.”
“And hasn’t worked for quite a while,” Chuckie said quietly.
Took his hand and squeezed it. No one said anything else, though. Two of the Gower siblings, Michael and Naomi, had both been killed because it had turned out that we hadn’t been safe in our bases. Gladys Gower had died because of that, too. And Chuckie and Naomi had only been married six months when she’d died.
Or, rather, when everyone other than me thought she’d died. Naomi had ingested so much Surcenthumain—what I called the Superpowers Drug, which had been created by our enemies to use against us and everyone else—that she’d literally become a superconsciousness. But the other older and more powerful superconsciousnesses out there—some of which we’d had the “pleasure” of meeting—had decreed that she couldn’t come back to Earth and couldn’t let on that she was still alive in a very different way than she’d been before.
However, Naomi was watching over us, in every universe where we existed. I’d learned this during Operation Bizarro World. Jamie knew Naomi was out there, too, I was pretty darned sure. The Jamie in Bizarro World had certainly known, and she’d said they all knew to call on Auntie Mimi for help.
But Chuckie and the remaining Gowers couldn’t know Naomi was still out there somewhere. Because the Gowers might and Chuckie would spend all their time trying to find her. And that way led to nothing but heartbreak and the wasting of lives. And we’d had enough of that already to last several lifetimes.
“I’m sorry,” Wruck said quietly. He’d been undercover with the Mastermind and his cronies when Operation Infiltration went down. He hadn’t been with LaRue when she’d murdered Michael, nor had he been around when Naomi had taken the Surcenthumain. But that didn’t mean that he, like the rest of us, didn’t wonder what he could have done differently.
Chuckie nodded. “I know. We all are. But that doesn’t change anything.”
“No,” White said gently, “it doesn’t. The dead are at peace. It’s the living we need to protect.”
“And watch,” Christopher added.
“Vigilance will be our watchword, Christopher, I promise.” My phone rang before I could say a
nything else. And my phone tended to ring at inopportune moments when it was one of our many enemies calling to share the wonder that was their insanity.
CHAPTER 11
PULLED MY PHONE OUT of the back pocket of my jeans—sure, I was the FLOTUS now, and also sure we’d been in a high-powered meeting and all that jazz, but I’d chosen comfort over conformity today.
Took a look to see if I was going to be staring once again at unfamiliar digits. Thankfully, and surprisingly, the call wasn’t from an anonymous number. “Hey, Squeaky, what’s up?”
Squeaky was the nickname I’d given to Nancy Maurer during Operation Defection Election. She had a very squeaky voice I’d thought was faked when we’d first interacted. It wasn’t fake, and circumstances being what they were, we’d ended up saving her life and, ultimately, her son’s life, too, though he was now an in-control android. We’d also rescued her grandchildren from their mother, who had apparently willingly become an android herself. Due to all of this, Mrs. Maurer had ended up as my First Lady’s White House Social Secretary. Conventionality was not our watchword.
Hearing it was someone we knew who made sense to be calling me—versus the Standard Opening Gambit Call from one of our many crazed enemies—Jeff gave me a quick kiss on my cheek, indicated to Siler, Buchanan, and Wruck that he wanted them with him, then he and the other men headed back inside to presumably start sharing the wonder that was heading our way. I stepped away from the door just to be polite.
“Madam First Lady, I need you to come to your office as soon as possible.” I had my own staff and, unlike Walter, they accepted that I hated titles and only wanted them used when necessary, when giving clues to each other, or when tossing our weight around. Meaning something was up. Or I’d screwed up. Either option was likely.
“Why? Crap, have I forgotten a meeting or something?”
“No, not a scheduled meeting. You have . . . a package here. I believe you’ll want to open it as soon as possible.” And with that, she hung up.
Stared at my phone for a few long moments. “Huh.” Said to no one in particular. Shoved my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and contemplated what might be going on.
Formality indicated something was up. Sure, maybe someone had sent a present and Mrs. Maurer just felt I’d want to open it immediately. But if so, why be formal? Could be a bomb, but in which case, why be so calm? The phrase “not a scheduled meeting” sort of indicated that someone else might possibly be there with her, meaning the only answer I could come up with was that the “package” was a person and she was being formal to give me a warning of some kind.
Meaning whoever had dropped by, snuck in, gated over, or beamed in was most likely sitting with Mrs. Maurer right now, over at the East Wing of the White House Complex, aka where I was expected to hang out more of the time than I actually did.
The White House wasn’t inaccessible, but it was pretty darned secure. Though, as Walter had tactfully pointed out, when we’d first gotten here, Jeff and I—and most of our extended team of friends and family—had circumvented the security measures with ease and frequency.
However, White House tours were still suspended due to the various terrorist attacks we’d had during Operations Epidemic and Madhouse, and due to us thoughtfully pointing out all the weaknesses and such, security was running on Extra Crispy. Meaning no one should have been able to waltz onto the White House lawns, let alone into the East Wing entrance, up the stairs, and into my offices at the end of the long hallway without going through a variety of security personnel, starting with Walter and his Eye in the Sky technology.
Of course, Walter had been focused on our potential Outer Space Trespassers, versus the mundane Earthbound ones. But even so, the Secret Service was supposedly on the case, and we had other security measures in place as well, including the standard Snipers on the Roof Plan that quite a number of presidents before Jeff had been using with supposed excellent success.
Additionally, pretty much anyone who was able to just drop in without an appointment was already in the LSR or their various rooms or offices within the complex. Meaning that no one should be with Mrs. Maurer unless we’d been expecting and willing to receive them. And she’d just confirmed that the expectation had not been in place.
Contemplated my options. She’d sounded calm, but had gotten off the phone quickly. Wasn’t sure if this indicated she wanted me and the cavalry or didn’t want to give anything away in case someone was listening in on our phone call.
So, did I bother those in the LSR with this? Especially since this had the potential to really just be a package from some head of state somewhere trying to curry favor? Mrs. Maurer hadn’t sounded panicked. Didn’t mean there wasn’t an enemy in there with her somehow, but under the circumstances, decided not to disturb anyone in the meeting at this precise time.
Thanks to becoming enhanced due to the Surcenthumain Boost I’d gotten by carrying the mutated hybrid baby of a mutated A-C, I had all the A-C bells and whistles, which included hyperspeed and faster regeneration. Christopher had been working with me on my Super Skills since Jamie had been born, and I was finally good enough to avoid unintentionally slamming into walls at hyperspeed.
So, I kicked up the speed and zipped over to “my” side of the White House complex. Hyperspeed being what it was, I was out of the Residence section, through the East Wing, upstairs, and outside of my office in just a few shakes of an ocellar’s tail. I did a fast check to see who of my staff was in their offices.
None of my staff were where I expected them to be. I had Mrs. Maurer functioning as both my Social Secretary and the head of the Graphics and Calligraphy Office—the existence of and need for which I was still having trouble accepting as necessary in the modern age of the internet and social media—but she’d indicated she was in my office, so her not being in either her office or in the G&C, as I called it, wasn’t a surprise.
Because I wasn’t trying to win the Overstaffing Award, I also had Abner Schnekedy doing double duty—as both Chief Floral Designer and Chief Decorator. He had one office, but he wasn’t in it. While it was always possible that his wife, Lillian Culver—who’d wisely kept her maiden name for business, and who was the top lobbyist for the defense industry and, somehow, now a loyal ally—had requested Abner’s presence in the LSR, the likelihood was slim. Barring someone wanting input on the design of our War Division recruitment posters, Abner would have no necessary input into affairs of state.
Because I had a Chief of Staff, too, and because that job required diligent attention 24/7, Vance Beaumont’s office was right next to mine. Him not being in his office wasn’t a shocker, though—because of his position he was actually in the LSR, sitting in between Culver and his husband, Guy Gadoire, who was the head lobbyist for Big Tobacco and also, somehow, a droolingly loyal ally, emphasis on “drool” when he was kissing anyone’s hand, mine in particular.
I had no doubt that Vance was representing the FLOTUS Input in a far classier and on-point manner than I would have. Vance could enjoy the pomp and circumstance while I dealt with the weird, which was a wise division of labor as far as I was concerned.
My last main team member, however, was also nowhere on the floor. Colette Alexis was my Press Secretary and an A-C troubadour. Because we’d originally thought that I wouldn’t be making any kind of statement about the A-C flag situation, Colette had stayed in her office, working on the many things I was supposed to be making statements regarding.
So, either Abner, Colette, and all the sweet young things who’d scored interning duties in the East Wing were in my office with Mrs. Maurer, or she’d had them evacuate the area. Had no idea which option I should hope for, so instead decided to go for a move that might make Chuckie proud and listened at my door.
Heard absolutely nothing. No talking, no movement, no typing, nada. So, either no one was in here or everyone was doing their best to be silent. Or someone was causing th
em to be silent.
Because of how our luck rolled, I chose to bet on my surprise visitor insisting on or creating the overwhelming quiet. Also chose to not wait any longer. Presumably I was expected, and hyperspeed should mean that I could get out of the way fast.
So I opened the door to my office. And was instantly knocked down.
CHAPTER 12
MY ASSAILANT SLAMMED AGAINST ME, hitting me right in my chest. Fortunately for me, I’d spent years in kung fu and tucked my head automatically. Which was good because I didn’t hit my head. It was not so good because it put my face far closer to my assailant’s.
I was instantly covered in dog slobber.
“Prince, buddy, chill out,” I managed to get out between happy German Shepherd love licks. I tried giving him the rough petting a manly dog such as Prince felt was the right kind of greeting in order to sort of flip him so I could get to my knees.
Did not achieve this goal because my speaking alerted Prince’s pals, Riley and Duke, that I was fine and, therefore, needed to be licked as well while they, too, received their enthusiastic petting from me. So, I was at the bottom of a dog pile. Prayed there were no reporters lurking about, because this would be, for me, the typical kind of press that I got.
Three men barked three sharp commands and three German Shepherds reluctantly stopped assaulting their perp with love and backed off. Officer Herman Melville trotted over and helped me up.
“Kitty, I’m so sorry. They were waiting for you and were being really well behaved. They were acting like someone was skulking around, though, so we had them on alert.”
“Yeah, thanks, it’s okay, Officer Moe. I was said skulker. Nancy’s short, spy-speak call seemed skulk-worthy.”
Melville winced. Due to how we’d met during Operation Assassination, I’d nicknamed him and his closest pals in the D.C. K-9 unit after the Three Stooges. Larry, who handled Duke, and Curly, who handled Riley, didn’t seem to mind their nicknames. Or else those were their real names and they just hadn’t ever felt the need to tell me I was a good guesser. Melville, however, really hated being called Moe. Under the circumstances, though, I felt he could take the hit for the team and find the will to go on.