In other words, once again, I should probably strap everyone in for another bumpy ride. And cue up some music. “Ready, Steady, Go” by Meices sounds about right. Though Panic! At the Disco’s “Ready to Go (Get Me Out of My Mind)” might be more appropriate.
Because any version of “Leave Me Alone,” be it by Shaggy, Jewel, Pink, or The Veronicas, is not a song that anyone—friend, enemy, frenemy, or uninterested casual bystander—ever pays attention to in my particular patch of the multiverse.
CHAPTER 1
“IS IT A GOOD DAY for America and the world at large? In addition to the Stars and Stripes, we now have a flag from an alien nation flying at the White House. Does this mean that President Martini values an alien planet more than Earth?”
The newscaster had a total Serious Face on. Which was hilarious in one sense, because when said newscaster had been live at our scene, he’d been pretty darn thrilled.
“It’s not ‘flying,’” my husband, Jeff, aka the President of These United States fumed, as pictures from the treaty signing we’d done the day before flashed onto the screen. “It was in one room and it was standing there. And since when have I not valued Earth? I’ve risked my life to protect Earth!”
Managed not to say that I’d mentioned that the flag’s photo op might be problematic. I’d been overruled, my first career being in marketing or no. Now wasn’t the time to toss out a big Told You So to the room.
“Not only is the flag of Alpha Four flying at the White House, but it’s also been added to the United Nations,” our Serious Newscaster shared. The image changed to the outside of the UN. Sure enough, there was the black and white flag of our people flapping in the wind, right next to the American and Australian flags. I had no idea if this was a new position for the flags or if ours had just been inserted into the regular lineup, but it probably didn’t matter.
“It’s not even the flag of Alpha Four,” Christopher White, Jeff’s cousin, added, while glaring at the TV monitor. “It’s our flag, the flag of our people, and a flag we created when we went into exile here, so it’s the flag of the A-Cs of Earth.”
A-Cs loved their black and white so much that not only did they wear it practically 24/7 in what I called the Armani Fatigues—black Armani suits and ties with crisp white shirts for the men, black Armani slim skirts with crisp white oxfords for the women—but their flag was black and white, too. Sometimes wondered if they couldn’t see colors, but experience showed me that they could.
The flag was definitely an homage to the Stars and Stripes. It was set up in a similar fashion, with thirteen alternating bands of black and white and a square in the upper left-hand corner that had one large gray star on a black background, with twenty-one white stars superimposed over this big one, going from smaller to larger in a spiral pattern. The stars were to honor the original families who’d broken off from the main Alpha Four religion way back when. For a monochromatic theme, it was quite attractive.
“Who approved that?” Jeff asked the room at large. “I didn’t approve that! I haven’t even heard from the UN!”
“No one at the White House approved that,” Rajnish Singh replied. He was Jeff’s Chief of Staff and, like Jeff and Christopher, talented above the norm.
Jeff was an empath, most likely the strongest one in the galaxy, meaning that he probably had his blocks set to high so that he didn’t collapse from feeling all the tension that was currently in the Large Situation Room. Unless people in here were wearing emotional blockers or overlays—created by our enemies to keep Jeff and all the other empaths in the dark about bad guys and their plans—which I doubted.
Christopher was an imageer, meaning he could touch a picture and know everything about the person in the picture. Or he could have, before our enemies snuck in a virus that had dampened or destroyed the talents of most of our imageers.
Raj, however, was a troubadour—someone who could affect people with his voice, facial expressions, and body movements. Early on in my time with the Gang from Alpha Four I’d been told that troubadour talent was useless. I’d found out, however, that it was the best stealth talent around, and since our enemies were indoctrinated into the mindset that troubadours didn’t matter, no one had attacked their talents yet. I hoped that would last.
Since Raj was a troubadour, I normally expected him to sound soothing in stressful situations like this one. But he was clearly upset, because he wasn’t trying to exert any talent at all and sounded as pissed as Jeff and Christopher.
“Will other alien flags soon be flying all over our country?” the Serious Newscaster asked. “And are these aliens the reason the Z’porrah attacked our world again? Stay tuned for the first of our twelve-part investigative report: Aliens Among Us.”
Charles Reynolds cleared his throat as the show mercifully cut to a commercial. Chuckie was my best guy friend since 9th grade, always the smartest guy in any room, and also now the Director of the CIA. “It’s not an issue for us to say that the photos were shown out of context,” he said, sounding calmer than anyone else had so far. “And I’m sure we can get someone at the UN to share that the flag was their idea. However, this is highlighting one positive thing—the press and therefore the public at large have bought that the attacks at Camp David were caused by the Z’porrah.”
The Z’porrah were an ancient race of nasty dino-birds who had the longest-running feud ever going with the Ancients, who were an ancient race of shapeshifters. The Ancients were on the side of Earth and the Alpha Centauri solar systems—and by “on the side of” I mean “had meddled with everyone’s evolution but because they cared”—versus what the Z’porrah were doing out this way, which was still mourning the death of our dinosaurs and wishing the rest of us were long gone.
So, during our last frolicsome fun of less than six weeks ago, we’d taken the advice of the Planetary Council and blamed the created in-control superbeing and android attacks at Camp David on the Z’porrah. That our spin for the events of Operation Madhouse had started biting us in our butts far sooner than expected was just par for our particular course. We were, as always, stuck in the sand trap, and only a miraculous hole-in-one was likely to save us.
Serene Dwyer, who was the strongest imageer after Christopher, a stealth troubadour, and the Head of Imageering for Centaurion Division, nodded. “That the press is attacking is no surprise. That’s what they do these days. However, what Alexander and our other galactic advisors told us is still accurate—LaRue Demorte Gaultier was, is, and always will be a turncoat Ancient and a Z’porrah spy, and every action against us can be traced back to her, directly or indirectly.”
“Can we honestly confirm that?” Jeff asked.
Serene nodded. “We can, Jeff. Believe me.”