Oblivion (18 page)

“You’re kidding,” O’Grady said.

Mickelson shook his head. “The best part of this junket was that I learned that any functional transport that can get a payload into low Earth orbit is being used. A lot of countries have commandeered their private industries’ transports as well. As we’re sitting here, atomic warheads are being launched into space from all the countries that have them. This is the biggest mass deployment of nuclear weaponry in human history.” O’Grady shuddered. “At least it’s not being deployed against human beings,” he said softly.

Franklin tapped his fingertips against his lips. It was almost as if that comment displeased him—not for its sentiment, Mickelson knew Franklin agreed with that, but for the interruption it caused in the flow of the session.

Franklin let his hands drop. “All right, General. We know what our allies are doing—”

Mickelson winced at the word “allies.” Many of the countries he visited weren’t really allies at all. He had a sense this was like World War II: incompatible governments uniting against a common cause. If that cause went away, all hell would break loose.

“—so now I want to know what we’re doing. How’re those attack rockets coming?”

“Better than can be expected,” Maddox said. “We’ll have enough boost power to get every warhead we have in orbit to its target.”

“Excellent.” Franklin truly sounded pleased. “And the work on the International Space Station?”

“General Banks is there and—”

“Banks?” O’Grady said. “The one who testified before Congress?”

Maddox leaned forward, her face inches from O’Grady’s. “She got busted, mister, because she was too competent. And frankly, I would rather have someone who is too competent, who demands too much of our people, on that space station than one who believes in coddling everyone. Wouldn’t you?” Mickelson moved out of the way. He’d never seen Maddox in her professional soldier mode. She was tough and hard. He was impressed.

“Well,” O’Grady said. “When you put it that way...” “There’s no other way to put it,” Maddox snapped. “There’s government and then there’s the military. We’re at least efficient.”

“Ouch,” Franklin said.

Maddox sat up. “Sorry, sir.”

Franklin shook his head. “It’s a point well taken. We need competent efficient people, folks who can get the job done. You’re exactly right, General. If we have any chance of success against those aliens, we have to be operating at peak efficiency, not just in this country, but all over the world.”

That was Mickelson’s cue. “I think it can be done,” he said. “And most every country will be looking to us to coordinate things.”

“To lead,” O’Grady said.

Mickelson smiled. “In effect, yes. But don’t tell them that.” “They’re not dumb, Doug.”

“I know,” Mickelson said. “But in diplomacy, a polite lie gets a lot more accomplished than the bold truth.”

Franklin nodded. “We’re close, then. All the details are in place. I don’t want to hear about leaks from anyone’s office. And I want no statements made to the press. They’re going to notice all the activity, and there will be questions, but a good old-fashioned ‘no comment’ will work. I want to be the one to make the announcement.”

“All right,” Maddox said.

“The less I talk to the press, the happier I am,” O’Grady said.

“I already told the heads of state I met with that you’d make the announcement when the time was right.”

“I take it they had no problem with that,” Franklin said.

“If they did,” Mickelson said, “I would have told you.”

“Good.” Franklin sighed. He looked at every one of them, holding each gaze for several seconds. It was an old political trick, designed to make the person feel as if he were friends with the person in charge. Mickelson knew that and was usually immune when other people did it to him. But when Franklin’s gaze caught his, he felt absurdly flattered and mentally shook his head at himself.

This was why he was sitting here, now, handling a crisis he wouldn’t even have been able to imagine two years before. This was why he accepted Franklin’s offer to become secretary of state, why he put himself on the line. He trusted Franklin, as much as someone could trust a man who desired to become president. He knew Franklin was one of the smartest, most committed policy men to ever hold office.

But Mickelson wasn’t sure policy was what was needed now. He wasn’t sure Franklin would prove himself to be a good wartime commander in chief.

Yet Mickelson had gone all over the world, making certain that Franklin would metaphorically lead the troops into battle. He hoped that this was the right choice. Other world leaders had more charisma. Several others were smarter. But none of them led the most powerful nation in the world.

Mickelson wondered if Franklin knew how much of the fate of the world rested on his shoulders. He seemed more focused than he had ever been, and that was saying something.

But being focused and being the right man in the right spot at the right time were two different things.

A lot rested on Franklin’s speech. Mickelson hoped that when the time came, Franklin could pull it off.

May 24, 2018
12:57 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time

143 Days Until Second Harvest

Britt Archer’s cat Muffin hated Leo Cross. From the first time he had come to Archer’s apartment, Cross had had to contend with the small, gray tabby with the face of an angel and the temper of a lion. Any time he got close to Britt, the cat tried to bat him away. He didn’t have this problem with Britt’s other cat, Clyde. Clyde seemed to know that they were both guys, and as such, had to bond. But sometimes, Cross was afraid that Muffin would slice him up in his sleep.

Britt’s large two-bedroom apartment was close to her job at STScI. Even though she’d been at the job for nearly ten years, she’d never bought a house, because she’d always believed she’d have to move for her work. So far, that hadn’t happened, but, Britt said, the moment she bought something, it would.

Cross loved the apartment. It had bay windows with a view of the tree-lined street, lots of light, and a functional design. Its only flaw was the kitchen, and since Britt didn’t cook, that meant that she only had to squeeze herself into its dark and cramped quarters twice a day—once to pour cereal in the morning, and the other time to feed the cats at night.

However, Muffin thought the kitchen was her domain, and whenever Cross padded in there, as he had now, she attacked his ankles. He was careful to wear shoes and socks any time he headed in this direction. He’d once said to Britt it was like the cat believed he’d die if she cut him off at the feet.

Britt found all of this cute and funny, but Cross looked on it as a war in miniature. He was trying to get along with this alien being that Britt had brought into her house. So far, things weren’t going well. At least he had Clyde.

Britt was in her bedroom, getting dressed. She rarely wore makeup and never fussed with her hair, but for her, getting dressed took much longer than it should have. Cross finally figured out why. She dithered over what to wear, so much so that she often tried on three or four separate outfits before picking the outfit of the day. When Cross finally asked what the reason for the dithering was—expecting some sort of clichéd female thing, like she had to make certain she looked perfect—he was surprised by the answer.

It seemed that the brilliant and competent Britt Archer was confounded by the weather.

She listened to the weather reports as if they were gospel, then tried to dress accordingly. She worried that she would be too hot or too cold, wearing too many layers or not enough.

Cross had learned, in the few months of their relationship, to offer no opinions about this morning ritual. It didn’t piss Britt off, but it did make her try on at least two more outfits before she decided what to wear.

Since they had yet another Tenth Planet Project meeting this morning, he had to get Britt going on time.

He’d actually bought donuts the night before, knowing that getting out of the apartment would be a problem. He’d tried to talk her into staying at his house, which was closer, but Britt had had a mountain of work to finish, and she hadn’t wanted to make the drive that late at night. Cross understood. He could be flexible, and often was, and decided that staying here was the better part of valor.

Even if he had to fight with Muffin.

She was crouched in the corner of the kitchen, her tail switching back and forth, her eyes slits. Of course, she was right beneath the part of the counter where the coffeemaker lived.

If Britt didn’t have her caffeine in the morning, she was no good to anyone. Cross was about to make the dangerous trek to the coffeemaker, when the doorbell rang.

Britt cursed from the bedroom.

“I got it,” Cross said, and gladly left the wilds of the kitchen. He had to step over Clyde, who was sprawled on the fake Oriental carpet that was the living room’s centerpiece, before opening the door.

Portia Groopman stood in front of it, her dark hair mussed, its oblong cut growing out unevenly. She had a monkey on her back—a stuffed white monkey with long arms and equally long legs. They had Velcro on the palms so that the hands looked like they were clasped together.

“Oh, good, Dr. Cross. I caught you.”

He blushed. For a brief moment, he felt like he was still in high school and had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “How’d you know I’d be here?” he asked. Most folks knew about him and Britt, but they had never made a big deal about it.

“Edwin,” she said.

Bradshaw. The eternal matchmaker and gossip. Cross nodded. “Is something wrong?”

“I got a wild hair,” Portia said.

Cross frowned.

“An
idea,”
Portia said as if he were dumber than a post. “Can I come in?”

“Oh, sure.” He stepped away from the door.

She entered the apartment, looked at the books and the computers and the ivy crawling its way across the ceiling, and said, “Nifterino—Dr. Archer knows how to live.”

“I’ll tell her that she has your seal of approval,” Cross said dryly, but Portia didn’t seem to hear. She had already crouched on the rug, and was petting Clyde’s stomach. Clyde’s front paws were kneading the air and he was purring so loudly, Cross thought the cat might make himself sick.

Muffin was watching the entire display from the entrance to the kitchen. She looked as disgusted as a cat possibly could. It was probably his only chance to get to the coffeemaker. “I was about to make some coffee. Want some?”

“Sure,” Portia said.

Cross slipped past Muffin, who was focused on this new intruder, and made coffee as dark and rich as Britt liked it. Then he grabbed the giant box of donuts and placed them on the oak table that stood in front of the bay windows.

“There’s some breakfast, too, such as it is,” he said. “Great,” Portia said, but didn’t move from her spot beside Clyde. She looked like a little girl, her stuffed monkey hugging her, and the happy cat beneath her. At moments like this, Cross could see the impact her lonely childhood had on her. She had been homeless until she was ten. As good as she was at her work, she still didn’t have a real place to call her own, not with family and cats and plants. And she needed it.

That was only one reason to make sure those damn alien harvesters didn’t destroy the planet.

“What was your idea, Portia?” he asked as he sat down beside the open box of donuts.

She looked up, seemed to remember herself, and then tucked some loose hair behind her ear. “Oh, you’ll probably think it’s crazy.”

“Crazy enough for you to track me down.”

“Yukio and Jeremy said I shouldn’t, but Edwin said I should. He said you like wild-hair ideas and that those are the only kind that make any real sense. He also said that if you didn’t believe in wild hairs, no one would have known about the aliens until it was too late.”

It almost was too late when they found out, but Cross didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “Edwin’s right.”

She nodded. “We’ve been trying to find out more about those nanoharvesters, and we’ve made some progress, but we’re still a long way from being able to shut them down like you want.”

The coffeemaker gurgled and shut off. Muffin raced for the kitchen. It was Cross’s sign that the coffee was done.

“It’s still early yet,” he said, even though that wasn’t true.

“I worry about the reality of learning everything there is to know about an alien technology in time to do some good,” Portia said. She sat down across from him, pulled the monkey’s hands apart, and took a long moment settling him in the third chair. She made certain he sat upright, that his paws rested on the table, and that his face was turned toward her.

“How do you drink your coffee?” Cross asked. While she was settling the stuffed animal, he might as well deal with the live one.

“Lots of sugar,” she said.

He should have known. He got up and headed into the kitchen. There was a yowl, and Muffin wrapped herself around his right leg. He ignored her, even though she was biting so hard he could feel the scrape of teeth through his socks.

He poured three cups of coffee, got out the sugar, and poured some whole milk into Britt’s so it would be the right temperature by the time she got dressed. Then he brought his and Portia’s to the table.