The Kasari Nexus (Rho Agenda Assimilation Book 1)

by Richard Phillips

  “Somewhere in the middle of the Milky Way,” Raul responded. “Beyond that, no idea.”

  He felt her probe his mind to see if he was lying. It pissed him off, but before he could respond he felt her mental connection die. Crap! She had hung up on him.

  The shock of what she’d seen in Raul’s mind hit her in the head like a sledgehammer, instantly severing her mental link. That brief glimpse of the relative positions of known stars within the galaxy had brought her mind to an inescapable conclusion, the certainty of it curling her into a fetal ball.

  She shuddered. Whispered sobs of denial escaped her lips. “No . . . no . . . no . . .”

  Travel through a wormhole was supposed to be instantaneous. But she’d thrown the gravity distortion engines out of their normal mode of operation, and that had produced a time dilation. During what had been only a couple of horrible minutes for her, several years had passed back on Earth.

  As badly as she missed Mark, Heather, and her parents, the consequences of that time dilation tore at her spirit, robbing her of one more connection to her former life.

  Jennifer and Mark Smythe were no longer twins.

  CHAPTER 2

  United States senator Freddy Hagerman leaned back in a soft leather swivel chair, his artificial left leg propped up on a footstool as he watched the crime of the century unfold on the television centered on his mahogany-paneled wall. He rolled his lucky marble in the fingers of his right hand. The marble had been in the box of Admiral Riles’s notes that Mrs. Riles had given Freddy, the notes that had nailed down his second Pulitzer. He could damn sure use some of that luck now.

  The very reason he’d quit investigative reporting and gone into politics was to try to stop the lunacy for which the president was about to officially sign up the country. Had it been only seven years since Dr. Stephenson had tried to flush the world down the toilet by welcoming an alien species through his wormhole gate? Seven years of wars had since ravaged large swaths of Central and Eastern Europe, the Middle East, Africa, and Southeast Asia, along with South and Central America. Old conflicts were fanned into flames by the Rho Project’s release of “beneficial” alien technologies that promised to improve and extend the lives of everyone. What a sad joke!

  But that wasn’t what was about to destroy all that Jack Gregory, Heather McFarland, and the Smythe twins had managed to save. No. Revisionist history would accomplish that.

  Freddy watched the revisionist-in-chief, President Ted Benton, sit his stately, patrician ass down at the circular treaty-signing table, his perfectly coiffed gray hair unusually long for a president. He was accompanied by a host of international dignitaries representing the New Soviet Union, the East Asian People’s Alliance, the European Union, and the United States. Broad smiles all around, especially for the cameras. The sight of those false smiles got under Freddy’s skin.

  The fact that this agreement was being signed in the Peace Palace, the home of the International Court of Justice, commonly called the World Court, didn’t improve Freddy’s attitude toward it.

  As impotent and corrupt as the old United Nations had been, Freddy almost missed it. A new alliance between three of the world’s four superpowers—the New Soviet Union, the East Asian People’s Alliance, and the European Union—had replaced the UN with an entity meant to usher in what had once been referred to as a new world order. Many believed that the EU had been pressured into joining the alliance after the New Soviet Union had reabsorbed the Baltic states and threatened greater European expansion.

  Headquartered in The Hague and known as the United Federation of Nation States, or UFNS, this was no assemblage of every half-ass country on the planet. The group was a true federation with authority over its member nations. Disputes were arbitrated by the International Court of Justice, whose dictates were enforced by the Federation Security Service.

  On this side of the Atlantic, more than two years after the United States Congress granted statehood to nine of the ten Canadian provinces, Freddy was still getting used to the idea of fifty-nine states. Only Quebec had refused to petition for statehood, electing instead to become its own sovereign country.

  The desire to join together for common defense and the fact that we shared a common language and border had greased the path to union. But fear had been the driving factor. That and the economic advantages associated with paying for only one military. The same common defense argument had now driven the majority of Americans to conclude that membership in the UFNS was the next desirable step.

  The multi-continent religious wars had been the primary impetus for this bonding. Freddy included sectarians among the warring parties, some of whom sought conquest, while others fought to save their way of life. World War IV had been deemed too politically incorrect to be the name of this ongoing collection of conflicts, but, in Freddy’s mind, that was exactly what it had become.

  Almost a year into his second term in office, President Benton finally had what he had long desired, a two-thirds majority in the 118-member United States Senate that had pledged to ratify the treaty he was about to sign. And once the U.S. ratified it, the UFNS would have all four superpowers on board. Other nation states might petition to join the UFNS, but good luck with that. The big boys’ club didn’t need strap hangers.

  In a few minutes, at midnight Central European Time, the symbolic start of a new day, the president would sign the UFNS treaty. Then at noon tomorrow, on the seventh anniversary of the nuclear explosion that had put an end to Dr. Stephenson and his wormhole gateway, President Benton would journey to the site of the new Stephenson Center for Interspecies Reconciliation in order to participate in its ribbon-cutting ceremony.

  Freddy snorted in disgust. Benton was on a roll during this European trip: ceding U.S. federal authority to the UFNS as the new day began and honoring that crazy bastard Stephenson at midday.

  Happy Thanksgiving!

  The camera zoomed in on the man engaged in smiling conversation with President Benton, an elegantly dressed, bald Russian looking trim and fit for his sixty-one years, his shark’s eyes glittering in the flash of the cameras. Nanites did that for you. Alexandr Prokorov, ex-KGB operative, ex-head of the FSB, was now the UFNS minister of federation security, or, as Freddy thought of it, KGB 2.0. The sight of that man seated at the right hand of the president of the United States felt like a bad omen.

  Freddy continued to watch as the president signed the treaty, but he switched the television off before the dignitaries could parade before the microphone to welcome the United States as a full member of the UFNS. There was, after all, a limit to what he could stomach.

  With a glance at his watch, an old-school Swiss mechanical timepiece, he sighed and stood. It was getting late and he would just have time to get home to his two-story Watergate East apartment, eat dinner, and get ready for tonight’s fund-raising gala in his honor. Lord knew that if he wanted to be able to continue heightening public awareness of the dangerous direction the world government was taking, he would need every dime he could collect. And the event would give him a chance to see some old friends.

  The walk from his Senate office to his car took five minutes. His new artificial leg was much more comfortable and responsive than his previous leg, and if he would have allowed his doctor to inject him with the latest version of nanites rolled out from Los Alamos National Laboratory’s Rho Division, he wouldn’t be experiencing any discomfort from the old wound. But discomfort and pain were important parts of the human condition, and Freddy damn sure didn’t want to live for another five hundred years. He was scared to think about what would happen during the next five.

  When he stepped out of the elevator into the topmost level of the Hart Senate Office Building’s underground parking garage, his car and two bodyguards were waiting for him. These driverless vehicles still amazed him, and not in a positive way. No matter how much they improved public safety and traffic flow, to be denied control of one’s own driving felt like one more freedom lost.

&n
bsp; In cities like D.C., there was no reason to even own a car. Whenever you needed to go somewhere, the nearest available driverless vehicle of the type you wanted simply came to you, dropped you off at your desired destination, and then marked its network status as AVAILABLE. The U.S. Senate had its own private fleet of armored cars that would even notify you if you left something inside when you got out. These vehicles looked no different than typical luxury models from an assortment of manufacturers. It made sense from a security perspective—the government didn’t want the cars screaming U.S. SENATE VEHICLE. The armored bodies were barely heavier than stock models thanks to carbon fiber–bonded titanium and bulletproof glass.

  Freddy climbed into the backseat while his two bodyguards slid into the front. Since the car had no steering wheel or pedals, all his people had to focus on was their guarding duties. Freddy just had to tell the car his desired destination, kick back, and enjoy the ride. Weren’t robo-chauffeurs grand? He doubted all the ex-drivers thought so. Then again, they weren’t the only ones who had lost their jobs to this brave new world of super-technology.

  There were still a few military pilots left, but only until the older military equipment could be phased out or converted. Pilotless planes, trains, ships, and automobiles. Every day it seemed that new categories of jobs were wiped out. One day pilots were gone, the next, cabbies.

  And that wasn’t even counting the economic devastation from the reverse-engineered alien technologies that continued to be derived from Dr. Stephenson’s work on the Rho Project. Why would you need a doctor when you could inject nano-machines that read your DNA and kept you fixed up?

  Between that and the advances in robotics and automation, the number of unemployed had skyrocketed, but so had productivity. In order to avoid revolt, all of the first-world countries, including the United States, had been forced to adopt new laws guaranteeing a “fair” distribution of the proceeds of that productivity to the population. It had worked, after a fashion, if you called countries filled with idle and bored people success.

  The third world was a complete goddamn mess.

  Freddy shook his head to clear it of the depressing thoughts. He’d known for a long time now that he was on the wrong side of a losing fight. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t go down swinging.

  When he stepped out of the car, flanked by his security detail, the chill of the November night’s breeze made him wish he’d worn a heavier jacket. But the sky was clear and, despite the bright glow of the city lights, he could see Jupiter and a few stars. Nice night for a party.

  Yes. It was about time to get all tuxed up.

  Heather’s slender fingers slid along the back of Mark’s neck, her delicate touch sending shivers of pleasure down his spine. His own hand responded, fingertips barely touching the naked hollow of her back, lingering there, nerves so alert that it seemed each contact produced tiny sparks from her skin to his. He felt her ear touch his, the scent of her bare throat filling his nostrils.

  She moved against his six-foot-three-inch body in perfect rhythm, the feel of her breasts against his chest robbing him of any lingering self-control. Heather’s skin shone with sweat in the dim light and her breath came in small pants of exertion, barely audible above Mark’s heart. Her right leg encircled him and her body swayed. As Mark’s body writhed within her limbs, Heather’s back arched until only his right arm kept her from falling. Then, in a thunderous, climactic crescendo, the tango ended.

  As Mark lifted Heather back to her feet, the applause from the crowd that filled the Marriott Marquis Ballroom was accompanied by exclamations that, in a less-cultured crowd, would have qualified as catcalls. With his arm still encircling Heather’s waist, they both smiled and gave a slight bow of acknowledgment before Mark signaled the orchestra to continue with the music.

  Ignoring the people who moved out onto the dance floor, Mark straightened his tuxedo and then took an extra moment to appreciate his wife, stunning in her black evening gown, split down the right leg from hip to ankle. He took Heather’s outstretched hand and walked with her to the spot where Senator Freddy Hagerman waited, the crowd parting before them as if they were royalty. And, in a way, they were.

  When the senator smiled and stepped forward, Heather hugged him warmly, planting a kiss on his cheek before stepping back to let the two men shake hands. Despite his artificial leg, Freddy looked good in his black tux, his dark-rimmed glasses and trimmed beard adding a certain gravitas to his appearance. Quite a change from his old investigative reporting days.

  Mark gripped Freddy’s hand and smiled. “Good to see you, my friend.”

  “Speaking of looking good, I thought you two were going to set the ballroom on fire. Half the crowd left to get a room. Steamed up my glasses, that’s for damn sure.”

  Heather laughed and Mark found his eyes drawn to her again. At twenty-six, she looked sexy as hell, projecting an aura of confidence and power. Then again, she was the CEO and cofounder of the world’s fastest-growing technology company.

  “Thank you for hosting this fund-raiser,” Freddy continued. “If the president was in town, he’d be green with envy.”

  The mention of President Benton darkened Mark’s mood. “I don’t think any of us are on his Facebook friends list.”

  “Did you watch his little ceremony in the Netherlands?”

  Heather’s eyes narrowed slightly. “As much as we could stomach. But let’s not talk about him. Tonight’s all about helping you and your Safe Earth movement.”

  She took Freddy’s arm and led him toward a nearby group of people. “Let me introduce you to some deep-pocket donors.”

  As Mark turned to follow Heather and Freddy, he saw an elegantly dressed Jack Gregory moving leisurely through the crowd, Janet Price on his arm. Damn, they were good. Any casual observer would be hard pressed to recognize that they headed up Mark and Heather’s security detail. While others scanned the crowd, Jack and Janet’s effortless mingling allowed them to make an individual, up-close assessment of hundreds of guests.

  It had been three years since Mark and Heather had lured Jack out of South America and talked him into taking over as the head of security for their Austin-based Combinatorics Technology Corporation, also known as CTC. Yet the seven-figure annual salary hadn’t closed the deal. The clincher had been their offer to help Jack and Janet with their young son, Robby, and his unusual developmental needs, something for which Mark and Heather were uniquely qualified.

  Thinking about security, Mark amplified his senses to the point where he could listen in on conversations anywhere in the room. His perception of the room itself had changed. The thick, wavy, gold and black lines that threaded their way through the maroon and tan carpeting took on a garish quality, whereas only moments before the decor seemed elegant. The fourteen-foot-high ceiling, with its grid of dark brown rectangles framing hundreds of can lights, was so expansive that Mark felt like he was inside a monstrous ice-cream sandwich, waiting for a giant to take a bite out.

  He shook off the worried thought, painted on his pleasant party face, and walked to the spot where Heather stood in animated conversation with Freddy and two titans of industry. Mark was confident that if any danger arose, Jack would detect it. In the meantime the tech giant would focus on radiating positive energy.

  After all, if they were going to help Freddy build a movement that had any hope of stopping President Benton’s agenda, they had money to raise . . . and lots of it.

  What the Netherlanders called a late November chill would have felt like a warm spring morning in Moscow. Alexandr Prokorov strolled through Het Plein, the peaceful square in The Hague’s city center, pausing to enjoy the statue of William the Silent bathed in the peach-colored glow of sunrise. It was just after 8:00 A.M. and the encrypted call he’d just received had left the minister of federation security with a warm feeling to match the view. The last of the pieces in this grand game were finally falling into place.

  Alexandr’s meeting with the four top UFNS military
officials, one from each member nation, wasn’t scheduled until 9:30 A.M., so he had leisure time before heading to the towering new Federation Security Service headquarters, three blocks to the east. That was good. Despite his ever-present security detail, this square held a small measure of the tranquility of his family dacha on the outskirts of Volgograd. It was an excellent spot to clear his head for strategic thought.

  But today’s strategic thinking had nothing to do with welcoming the United States secretary of defense to the UFNS military chain of command structure. The true objective was to follow up on the United States treaty signing and ensure that nothing unfortunate happened to derail its expected U.S. Senate ratification. In that regard he would soon be taking the first steps to marginalize the growing Safe Earth movement that Senator Freddy Hagerman had spawned in the U.S. and that had now spread its tentacles to a number of countries around the world.

  If A Safe Earth’s major backers, the young tech billionaires, Heather and Mark Smythe, were left to their own devices, the nascent movement would take root and spread until it became an incurable cancer. Alexandr would not allow that to happen.

  But any attack on the Smythes or their financial empire wouldn’t be easy. Not with Jack “The Ripper” Gregory heading up their extensive security operation. Alexandr had spent a considerable amount of time going through The Ripper’s dossier, and even though he discounted some of the more outlandish acts attributed to the ex-CIA assassin, he had to admit that the man was remarkable. Even someone such as Daniil Alkaev would be hard pressed to take him out.

  Nevertheless, there were other ways to strip the Smythes of their protection. Careful planning and deft manipulation, two of Alexandr Prokorov’s specialties, were in order. His lips curled into a tight smile as he turned back toward his headquarters. He would soon make the opening gambit in an epic match.