Camp Alien (2 page)

“E
XCUSE ME,
President Martini, but we have a situation. It seems the Planetary Council is requesting foodstuffs that, ah, we don't actually have on hand.”

This whispered, worried statement was coming from the head of the White House's household, the Chief Usher, Antoinette Reilly.

She was an attractive black woman, a few years older than Jeff, and she'd been wearing a constantly worried expression for the past week. I'd met her before this, when the now-late President Armstrong was the man in charge, and she'd never seemed as ready to request immediate leave as she had been in the week and a half since his death.

And she wasn't the only one. We were already clearly stressing out the staff of the White House beyond their obvious expectations, and we hadn't even officially moved in yet.

“What could they possibly want that we don't have?” Jeff asked, just as quietly.

“It's, ah, considered a delicacy. Apparently. Only we would need to import it from, ah, the Alpha Centauri system, and even if we could do so easily, Chef is flat-out refusing to make it. And,” Antoinette looked over to me, “ah, I can't blame him.”

Took the leap. “Oh my God, Alexander wants to have the horrid Alpha Four boiled tapeworms dish, doesn't he?”

Antoinette nodded. “Madam First Lady, could you please help?”

“The formality of this new stage of my life is literally going to kill me. Can I order you and the rest of the staff to call me Kitty and have a hope of it sticking?”

Antoinette smiled. It was the first smile I'd seen her crack in a week, so go me. “Possibly in private. But right now, we need your help. Formally.”

Nodded, and turned to look down the long conference table. “Excuse me, Alex?”

Emperor Alexander, Ruler of the Entire Alpha Centauri System—at least as far as anyone on Earth other than those of us who actually understood the political system over there knew—nodded his head toward me in a regal manner. “Yes, Kitty?”

“Dude, you're asking for food that makes humans literally want to barf their guts out. It's a no-go. And anyone else requesting personal national or planetary specialties, up to and definitely including haggis, need to run those requests through me. So that I can say no in the nicest possible way.”

“That wasn't what we were going for,” Antoinette said quietly.

“No problem, Kitty. But they're really delicious,” Alexander said, sounding far more like what he really was—Jeff's and his cousin, Christopher White's, younger relative who we'd put onto the throne of Alpha Four—than the Ruler of the Free Alpha Centauri Worlds.

“Dude, gag me. Seriously. Never speak of those things again in my or any other human's presence and we'll continue to love you.” Turned back to Antoinette. “Learn this now—I may have been forced to be the American Centaurion Ambassador, but don't for one moment think that I enjoyed the job. I get far better results by living by the cat motto of asking for exactly what I want. And that includes being the FLOTUS. By the way, FLOTUS really makes me feel like I'm costarring in a
Finding Nemo
spin-off as the chipper strip of seaweed that helps the gang save the day.”

Antoinette was now clearly trying not to laugh. Or cry. Possibly both. Gave it even odds either way. “Duly noted, Madam First Lady.”

“The less said about what movie that title makes me think I'm starring in, the better.”

“
Best Little Whorehouse in Texas
?” Tim Crawford, the Head of Airborne for Centaurion Division, aka the guy doing what remained my favorite job on my entire resume, asked with a quiet snicker.

“Got it in one.”

Antoinette heaved a sigh. Had to figure I was going to generate that in her for the foreseeable future. She was a nice, smart, competent, capable woman, and I felt bad about stressing her out. However, we were still in Major Crisis Mode, and therefore me not being me wasn't in our best interests.

“So, now that we've had an entire week to collect ourselves, what do we do?” It was the day after the third day of State Funerals, otherwise known as the day we buried our friend and the late President of the United States, Vincent Armstrong, and this question was coming from, of all people, his widow, Elaine.

The Former First Lady wasn't normally included in matters of state, but we were possibly the most unconventional politicians the world had ever known, the former unwilling Vice President and even more unwilling President, also known as my husband, Jeff Martini, wanted her input, and the man who'd murdered her husband and so many others was still at large. As such, Elaine had joined Team Megalomaniac with gusto.

Frankly, the Current First Lady wasn't normally included in this stuff either, but—under the variety of circumstances that had, in just over six short years, moved me from a happy-go-lucky marketing manager into being a superbeing exterminator, the Head of Airborne, the Co- then Head Ambassador for American Centaurion, and now the wife of the President of the United States—my husband valued my input, and so my input would be inputted. This was a fast-track career path that college had definitely not prepared me for.

“Jeff needs to fill a variety of Cabinet posts and then some,” Charles Reynolds said. He was the Head of the CIA's Extra-Terrestrial Division. He was also my best guy friend since ninth grade. He'd been the focus of the Mastermind's insanity, and since Clifford Goodman and his Goon Squad had escaped after Operation Epidemic, that meant we needed to keep Chuckie very safe while listening carefully and acting on his input.

“Starting with Vice President,” my mother said. She wasn't saying this as my mother, of course, but as the Head of the Presidential Terrorism Control Unit. Yeah, my friends
and family were definitely representing in the higher levels of government.

“Angela's right as always, and we need to assign Embassy staff as well,” Doreen Coleman-Weisman said. She'd been raised in the American Centaurion Diplomatic Corps and was now our Ambassador, since I couldn't do the job any longer. “I realize you're going to say that you want me to choose, but under the circumstances, I want your input, Jeff, as well as Kitty's. And everyone else's, too, Chuck's and Angela's in particular.”

“I think we're avoiding a key issue,” Evander Horn said. He was a handsome black man in his late fifties and the Director of the FBI's Alien Affairs Division. “And not just because Doreen doesn't want my input specifically.” He grinned at her and she laughed.

“What's that, Vander?” Jeff asked.

Horn pointed to the end of the table where Alexander and the rest of the Planetary Council were sitting. “The people who accidentally triggered the Mastermind's doomsday attempt. They came here for a reason, and we're not even sure what that reason is.”

A
LEXANDER NODDED.
“Yes, I suppose everything has been rather . . . jumbled. Rohini, if you would?”

This was directed to one of the two Shantanu, meaning one of the two giant, colorful penguin people in attendance. I'd liked Rohini from the moment we'd met him during Operation Civil War, and it wasn't a surprise that he was functioning as Planetary Team Spokesbird. He reminded me very much of Alpha Four's version of Winston Churchill, Councilor Leyton Leonidas, and our own Stealth Diplomat, Top Field Agent, and All-Around Ladies' Man, the Former Supreme Pontifex of our Earth A-Cs, Richard White.

White was sitting next to Rohini, meaning he was far down the table from me, but of those in the room, he had the closest ties to the Alpha Centauri system, since he'd been born on Alpha Four.

Rohini put his flippers onto the table. “Our earlier stated intent, to ask Earth to join the greater galactic community, is the main reason we are here. However, we want Earth to join with us because we fear two things—repeated Z'porrah attacks and contact with other alien life from systems far from both of ours.”

The Z'porrah were an ancient race of dinobirds who had a deep-seated hatred of the Ancients, who were an ancient humanoid race of shape-shifters. Both races had meddled around with Earth and the inhabited Alpha Centauri planets, with the Ancients winning the overall war. However, we'd found Ancient turncoats working for the Z'porrah on several planets, including Earth. So the concern about the Z'porrah wasn't surprising.

“What indication do you have that other sentient races might be contacting you or us?” Chuckie asked, covering the surprising portion.

“Since our solar system repelled the Z'porrah so forcefully, we have received numerous transmissions from planets around the galaxy. Apparently the Z'porrah are very unpopular.”

“Shocker.” Could tell by the expressions of several White House staffers in the room that I wasn't the one who was supposed to be speaking right now. Oh well, they might as well learn how we rolled, also right now. “So, while we can appreciate the need to show a united front, honestly, we have bigger issues at home that we need to fix first.”

“I agree with Kitty,” Jeff said. “Not that we want to insinuate that the concerns of the Planetary Council aren't important to us. They are. But if there is no immediate threat, we need to get our own house in order. There's going to be tremendous fallout from the situation Cliff Goodman's insanity put us in.”

Alexander nodded. “We agree and understand. And, with your permission, we will stay as long as we are able to assist you in any way, up to and including proving that we weren't responsible in any way for the so-called Alien Virus our mutual enemy released on your unsuspecting populace.”

Alexander had gotten really good at the political speak. Nice to know he'd been spending his time learning, not being a jerk, not that this was a big surprise.

“So, since I'm reassured that we aren't offending the Planetary Council or not paying attention to an imminent threat, who are you thinking of for Vice President, Jeff?” Vander asked.

Jeff looked down the table at Senator McMillan. He was the senior senator from Arizona, a good friend, and one of the few honest politicians we knew. “Don?” Jeff asked hopefully.

McMillan shook his head. “I'm tempted, Jeff, don't get me wrong. But honestly, if I'd wanted to be Vice President, I'd have been Vince's running mate instead of you. And as the President Pro Tempore of the Senate, I can do a lot more good for your presidency by staying put.”

This wasn't a new sentiment. Jeff had been trying to harangue McMillan into taking the Vice Presidential position for the past several days. McMillan standing firm was in keeping with his personality and beliefs, so couldn't really argue. Even though his wife, Kelly, was an alumna from the same sorority as me and I really liked her, meaning I'd have a pal in the White House.

“You need to ensure that whoever you put into the position is either an existing politician or high enough up in a government agency to be a name the public would know,” Nathalie Gagnon-Brewer said. She would know—she'd been the wife of a Representative who'd become our good friend, Edmund Brewer. He'd been murdered by Cliff's people during Operation Sherlock. And the fact that two out of the three men who'd been mentoring Jeff in how to be a good politician were dead at our enemy's hands wasn't lost on me. I'd assigned extra guards to McMillan during Operation Epidemic and had insisted they remain indefinitely.

“What about you, Nathalie?” Jeff asked, clearly not joking.

She shook her head. “I'm a naturalized American, Jeff. I cannot become President and, sadly, as we have just seen, the Vice President is truly a heartbeat away from the Presidency.”

Jeff looked at Vander, who shook his head with a grin. “I know that look, Jeff, so let me say no on behalf of myself and Chuck, too. Neither of us is high enough up in our respective agencies to take the job.”

“Oh, I wasn't thinking of Chuck for Vice President,” Jeff said.

Everyone at the table stared at him, some with their mouths open. James Reader, the Head of Field for Centaurion Division, the Head of Alpha Team, and my other best guy friend since I'd joined up with the gang from Alpha Four, found his voice first. “Why the hell not?”

Jeff grinned at Chuckie's hurt look. “Because I already have a job that Chuck's by far the best qualified to cover. Due to Goodman's virus, we have an opening—I want Chuck to take over the CIA.”

“I'm already the Head of the E-T Division, Jeff,”
Chuckie said, sounding confused, which was a rarity along the lines of a blue moon.

Jeff shook his head. “I want you in charge of it all, Chuck. As of right now, you're the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”