Realized just what Muddy and his team really were. “You’re the Turleen version of Mossad or the CIA or MI6 or Navy SEALs, Army Rangers, or Marine Special Operations or similar, aren’t you? The strike force that goes in first to assess the situation and make a beachhead.”
“More like the Marines,” Muddy said. “And Mossad.”
“Have the rest of the races on Tur and in the Sirius system gotten this much intel on Earth?”
“No. We are the only ones with natural spaceflight ability. We don’t share information on other races unless or until it becomes necessary.”
Jeff studied Muddy. “The other races on your planet have no idea how formidable your people actually are, do they?”
“What would make you say that?” Muddy asked, with no denial in his tone.
“Might equals right a lot on our world,” I answered. “Size tends to be thought of as might, as well. And they’re not listening to you in regard to the Z’porrah.”
Muddy spread his hands. “But we are not mighty. We are small and frail and like to spend our time in enjoyments, relaxing in the beautiful lakes and rivers of Tur, not taking part in the democratic conventions the other sentient races seem to love so much.”
“None of you?” Jeff asked suspiciously. “As in, no Turleen has ever decided to get involved?”
“We have those who don’t conform, of course. And in the past we were far more focused on rule. But as other races matured, we realized that we preferred to lay low, as you Earthlings put it, and just be happy in ourselves.”
“I don’t buy it,” Jeff said flatly. “At all. Especially because of your saying you’re like Marine Special Forces and Mossad combined. Those people are never just ‘happy in themselves.’ They’re always focused, always training, always ready.”
Muddy grinned. “You are far less trusting than those we share Tur with. The majority of Turleens would prefer to do as I said—stay home and enjoy the pleasures of our own abundant world. However, in order to ensure that this happens for the majority, a minority must be willing to plan and fight.”
“What about the others who are coming here? How willing or able are they to fight?” Needed to know if we were really getting additional troops or just new people who wanted to hide behind us.
“As I said, some will be. Some will not be. Just as on Earth. Some of those fleeing literally cannot fight, particularly against the Aicirtap. Some are fleeing because they are pacifistic and wish to remain so.”
“The Q’vox? Or, as I guess we’ll think of them, the Minotaur People?”
“Yes, they are pacifistic. They dread war and will do all they can to avoid it. The few Q’vox who have chosen to become warriors have also become . . . unstable. A Q’vox who chooses to fight is a Q’vox who goes insane in some or all ways.”
“Wonderful,” Jeff muttered. “Anyone else coming merely to hide?”
“I assume most who are fleeing are coming to hide,” Muddy said. “They are coming to Earth to ask for help, protection, and asylum. Some will choose to help you fight. Some will not.”
“So people remain people wherever they are and whatever planet they happen to be from, be they Space Turtles, Naked Apes, or Cannibalistic Beetles?”
“Yes,” Muddy said. “Just so. But the Space Turtle strike force is here to help you, in whatever ways we can, so that our planet can remain safe.”
“And to move here if it can’t, right?” Jeff asked.
Muddy shot him a wide smile. “If the King of the World will allow it, yes.” He winked at me. “I believe the Queen of the World and I have already reached that agreement.”
“Muddy, this is indeed the start of a beautiful friendship.”
Was about to ask if Muddy had any guess for when the other ships would arrive, as well as if he had any suggestions for how we could convince almost two hundred countries to let us be in charge without them having any say, when my phone rang. And this time, it wasn’t Mrs. Maurer calling.
CHAPTER 30
“A NUMBER I DON’T RECOGNIZE. What perfect freaking timing.” Jeff groaned as Evalyne handed me a tracking insert. Shoved that into my phone, then answered. “Whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to at this inopportune moment?”
Buchanan had installed software on my phone that easily allowed me to record any conversation for however long it might run. Triggered that software because I was sure we’d want to record whatever opening or continuing gambit this call happened to be.
“Madame First Lady, how good it is to hear your voice.” It was a man, eliminating half the population and another version of Casey at the same time. The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place who this was.
Looked at the phone number again. Nope, it wasn’t one that was logged into my address book, so this wasn’t Ansom Somerall, the only remaining head of Gaultier Enterprises, aka the man Amy was fighting against for control of her father’s company. Somerall tended to feel that he was a ladies’ man of the highest order and persisted in flirting with me whenever he called, despite receiving absolutely no encouragement in return. Some men really didn’t know how to take no for an answer. But this caller wasn’t him unless he was calling from a new number.
Process of elimination was going to take too long. “If I knew whose voice I was hearing I might share the happiness.”
He chuckled. “I’m hurt that you don’t remember me.”
“I hate this game, in case you weren’t sure. People who were raised right say, ‘hi, this is John, may I please speak to Mary?’ They don’t expect the person they’ve called to telepathically know who they are, nor do they act butt-hurt when their dulcet tones aren’t immediately recognized. So I’m now trying to think of who I know who was raised badly. That’s a reasonably short list, but I’m just going to bet that when you finally tell me who you are your name will already be on said list.”
“It’s Amos Tobin,” he said, sounding mildly offended. “And I was most certainly raised right.” Tobin was a nice-looking, middle-aged black man, just starting to show some paunch around the middle, who went for a folksy look. Originally from Texas, he always wore cowboy boots, a bolo tie, and a Stetson. The boots, tie, and Stetson varied in color to match whatever he was wearing. Had no idea what color he was in right now, but if it was black, I expected a bad joke. “You know me—good guys always wear black.”
And there it was. “Of course it is, you don’t appear to have been, and supposedly they do.” And right on time, in that sense. After all, it was his media outlets that were trying to stir up anti-alien sentiments right now. “And in case you wanted confirmation, your name was indeed on my list of rude people.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You should be so begging. Just loved your station’s attack this morning.” Was it only a few hours ago? Checked Mr. Watch. It was a special model that altered to whatever time zone it was in, the same as cell phones. It was now High Noon in Pueblo Caliente, meaning, yep, only a couple of hours had passed since I’d been in the LSR dealing with stress about the American Centaurion flag. How long ago and unimportant that seemed right now. “And I’m busy.”
“I know, that’s why I’m calling.”