by Gini Koch
“Cannot argue with that logic. Other than to mention that I wasn’t informed of any training sessions or temporary personnel switches.”
William cleared his throat. “Ah, you don’t need to be informed, Ambassador. Gladys handles all of that, and if she says it’s time for training, it’s time for training, and if she says I’m covering during Walter’s training session, then I’m covering.”
“Gotcha.” Couldn’t argue. Gladys was the Head of Security for all A-C operations worldwide. She was considered scary formidable and I concurred on the scary. Three-plus years in and I’d never seen her in person, or seen a picture of her. I was okay with this, mostly because Gladys was one of the few people around who could intimidate me, and she had sarcasm down to an art form.
“Ambassador, do you need assistance in some way?”
“Why aren’t you calling me Kitty?” The music changed to Tom Petty’s “Yer So Bad.” Yep, we were on Jeff’s 2nd Anniversary Mix, ergo, I was hopefully really awake.
William laughed. “Because Walter left me very specific instructions, and it’s vital to the running of this Embassy that whoever’s on the com call you Ambassador or Chief. Per his very detailed page about titles and why they matter here.”
“I love Walter. And you, too.”
“Always good to know. Representative Martini is downstairs, having a breakfast meeting with several politicians who are, per your husband, all friends. He said that if you were up in time you should join them.”
“How much time do I have?”
“They all just got here a few minutes ago, and I think this meeting will run long, so you should be good.”
“Awesome, thanks.” I took a shower and got dressed while ZZ Top’s “Gimme All Your Lovin’,” Wall Of Voodoo’s “Hands Of Love,” Pat Benatar’s “Never Wanna Leave You,” and Tina Turner’s “Best” played.
In the good old days before my daughter was born, I’d have taken longer to get ready, and not because I was skimping on the lather, rinse, repeat portions or anything now. During Operation Drug Addict some of our enemies had slipped some seriously strong, power altering drugs into Jeff’s system, which he’d then passed along to our child when I’d gotten pregnant, and she’d in turn passed along to me. We were all about the sharing around here.
So I was now kind of half A-C, though differently from how Jamie was truly half A-C. I had the super-strength, which wasn’t quite as good as the regular A-Cs under most circumstances, but was still pretty darned good for any human who wasn’t nicknamed The Rock. I also had faster healing and regeneration, which was excellent.
I also had hyperspeed. Jamie was eighteen months old, and I was just now sort of getting to a place where I could use hyperspeed for normal, mundane things and not crash through a wall or knock myself out.
Jeff’s cousin, Christopher White, had also become enhanced—though he’d done it intentionally—and he and I worked on my skills all the time. This month, the focus was on completing my personal routine using hyperspeed. So far, showering and drying off had gone well, but I used regular human for hair care because I didn’t want to look like I had mange and it was really easy to yank your hair out when you were super strong.
As “Looking Hot” from No Doubt hit my personal airwaves, I trotted to our huge walk-in closet to choose today’s ensemble. A-Cs were in love with the colors black and white, and Armani, in a way that made casual obsessions—like mine for all things Aerosmith or Golum’s for the Ring—seem to be merely pale imitations of fidelity.
Therefore, my closet had a lot of black slim skirts, white oxfords, and a variety of black or black and white high heels in it. Happily, because I was both human, well, mostly human, and the ambassador, I got to wear colors and other styles, at least occasionally. And because I was me, I also had a lot of jeans, several pairs of Converse, and an extremely large and eclectic set of concert T-shirts and hoodies.
Political breakfast or no, it was the start of July and I was going for casual. Got into jeans, my Converse, and my newest Aerosmith T-shirt, because having Steven, Joe, and the rest of my boys on my chest ensured I would prevail over all obstacles. In honor of “Looking Hot,” I selected a cute No Doubt hoodie, because summer back East was still nothing like summer in Pueblo Caliente, Arizona, and I could easily get chilled. Plus it looked hella cute with this particular Aerosmith shirt.
Thusly dressed, I grabbed my purse. Yes, I lived on half of the top floor of the Embassy, and I was going down only six floors to get to the kitchen area. However, I’d learned a lot during my tenure with Centaurion Division, and one of the main lessons was that I always needed my purse and its contents handy.
I had a lot of different purses and handbags available to me, but Old Trusty, my big, black, cheap leather purse was still my go-to option. It took a licking and kept on holding everything and not falling apart. Ensured my Glock, my iPod, speakers, and earbuds, Jeff’s adrenaline harpoon, my wallet, a bottle of extra hold hairspray, my brush and a scrunchie, and anything else I could think of were in it. Shoved my phone into the back pocket of my jeans.
Turned off the alarm clock as “Honey, Honey” from ABBA came on. Took the stairs down in part because using hyperspeed meant it was faster than taking one of the elevators, and in other part because it was likely Christopher was with Jeff, and I didn’t feel like getting the “you need to practice all the time” lecture.
Reached the first floor in record time and without issue. Congratulated myself as I slowed to a human-speed walk. So far it’d been a cheerful hyperspeed morning.
The American Centaurion Embassy went up seven floors, down two which were basement and parking garage levels, and then went down a lot more due to the hidden elevator that connected us to the Tunnels of Doom. It was a city block long and wide, and since Operation Destruction, was connected via a steel and bulletproof glass walkway on the second floors to the neighboring building we now owned, operated, and had personnel living in, which was nicknamed The Zoo.
The first floor, being the main entryway and therefore the place the most people who weren’t part of American Centaurion in some way would come in, had the most normal stuff in it. Offices, dining room, kitchen, and some small parlors and salons. No one was in any of the rooms as I went by, meaning they were likely all in the kitchen. This meeting seemed a lot more important all of a sudden.
As I neared the kitchen I heard voices. “. . . been quiet for the past few months.” A voice I didn’t recognize. Supposedly the politicians here were all friends, but I knew our friends’ voices.
“That doesn’t mean plans aren’t forming, it just means we haven’t spotted what they are.” That was a voice I recognized without trying—Chuckie was here. Know a guy since the first day of 9th grade, know his voice at any time. “Sir, I don’t want to sound negative, but you need to consider the ramifications of what you’re suggesting.”
Sir? Chuckie almost never called anyone “sir.” Wondered if I had time to go up and change into the Female Armani Standard Issue.
Someone’s head popped around the door. Jeff’s head, to be exact. He smiled. “You look great as always, baby. Come on, you’re just in time.”
“Just in time for what?”
“Just in time to meet the head of the F.B.I.’s newly created Alien Activities Division.”
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 L
ifehouse to Pitbull and everything in between, particularly Aerosmith) 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). Because she wasn’t busy enough, she’s added on featured guest columnist and reviewer for Slice of SciFi and It’s Comic Book Day.
You can reach Gini via her website (www.ginikoch.com), email ([email protected]), Twitter (@GiniKoch), Facebook (facebook.com/Gini.Koch), Facebook Fan Page (Hairspray and Rock ‘n’ Roll), or her Official Fan Site, the Alien Collective Virtual HQ (http://aliencollectivehq.com/).