Universal Alien (6 page)

I
SLAMMED INTO A CAR SEAT,
hands on the wheel. I was able to think fast in many circumstances, and—head injury from landing on concrete steps or not—this was one of those circumstances.

There were what sounded like little kids screaming and Jack Johnson singing. God alone knew why, but that's what was on the sound system. There was also something hitting us from the rear. And into oncoming traffic.

Didn't ask what the hell was going on. Just did what I'd gotten used to for the past many years—I reacted. Spun the wheel and got us back into our proper lane. We missed a head-on collision by about a half a second. We missed sideswiping three cars by about a second. Yeah, I hadn't had to drive like a maniac away from crazed killers for a while, but I still had the skills.

We weren't out of the situation, however, so took no time to preen. A quick look into the rearview mirror showed a black Lincoln with all the windows blacked out trying to slam into us again. That it was the car that had slammed into us already was a given, based on the impressive push bar it sported on the front.

We were near the old Walter Reed hospital, which was on the same straight line from the football stadium as the new Walter Reed, which explained why Jeff had been running this way. Had no time to wonder where Jeff was. I was too busy trying to keep the car from going out of control.

Fortunately, adrenaline rush being what it was, I felt okay now, which was good because this hospital was no longer active. A-Cs had faster healing and regeneration, and I'd reverse-inherited that from Jamie, too. So, while my head still hurt, I was pretty sure I wasn't bleeding anymore. And while it might be a good idea to race off to the new Walter Reed to get help and possibly find Jeff, if these were the usual alien-haters on our tail, driving into a hospital full of the sick and injured would just give our enemies helpless targets to attack. Besides, the hospital was a lot farther away than the Lincoln.

Someone was shouting, a man's voice. Chuckie's to be exact. Had no idea how he'd gotten here. I spun us into a 180 and watched the Lincoln speed past. Then I hit the gas. Once I had it floored, I realized I was driving a gigantic Lexus SUV. This was not the A-C brand of choice. Sadly, this car didn't seem equipped with the usual A-C bells and whistles, either, meaning I couldn't spot either a laser shield or cloaking button.

Risked a quick look in the rearview mirror—not to see who was behind us but to see who was in the car with me. Two cute little blond boys who looked about seven and five were strapped into their age-appropriate car seats. Each one was holding one of Jamie's hands. All three kids looked terrified.

Well. However the hell this had happened, I'd woken up from a concussion in a car with my daughter and a couple other kids, and whoever was trying to kill me was going to kill them if I didn't prevent it.

Chuckie was shouting my name. Realized I'd also woken up in a car with a good Bluetooth system, because he wasn't here, but on the car's speakers. “Got it under control,” I shouted back. “Just have some agents meet us somewhere along the way.”

“What are you talking about? Where are you?” Chuckie asked. He didn't sound calm at all. “What's going on?”

“No freaking idea. Kind of busy.” Heard a noise that wasn't Jack Johnson. It was a familiar sound though. Checked a side view mirror—sure enough, they were shooting at us. Enough was enough. Hoped the entire audio system was voice activated. “Switch music to Aerosmith!”

Thankfully, the music stopped mid-snore and switched. “Dream On” hit the car's airwaves. Not the song I'd have chosen in this precise circumstance, but even the slowest Aerosmith song was better than the entire Jack Johnson oeuvre.

I had the opportunity so I turned us into Rock Creek Park. Maybe I could lose them in here, and worst case we wouldn't cause a gigantic pileup when they drove us off the road.

“I have no idea where you are, Kitty,” Chuckie said. “Or why you're worrying about music at a time like this. I just heard you and the kids screaming . . .”

“Use the GPS tracking or whatever. Call my mom. She needs to know what's going on, I'd guess. If she doesn't already know, I mean.”

There was a thudding silence on the other phone. “Kitty, baby, are you okay?” he asked finally, his voice extremely careful and precise.

“Um, no, and why are you calling me baby? Jeff will hurt you for that, you know.”

“Who the hell is Jeff?” Now he didn't sound careful or even freaked out. He sounded like Jeff normally did if I mentioned another man's name—jealous.

Before I could share that this was a really lousy time for him to crack weak jokes, the Lincoln took some more shots at us. This was a two-lane road, meaning I was weaving in and out of the thankfully light traffic, both on our side and oncoming, which added a certain thrill that had been so lacking to this experience. But I had no guess for how long it would be before they shot some tires out, whether ours or someone else's.

I didn't know this area all that well. We'd done a couple of picnics here, but, nice though this area was, it wasn't our part of town. Though it was a lot better to be chased here than around Embassy Row. Of course, if I'd been there, I could have just gotten to the American Centaurion Embassy and this would all be over. Still was a workable plan.

“I'm going to try to get to the Embassy,” I told Chuckie.

“What embassy? Why? Kitty, we're in America, remember?”

“Yeah, I do. I—” But what I was going to say was cut short by screaming, mine and the kids'. Their screams were of terror—mine was of rage. The bad guys had managed to shoot out one of our tires.

Naturally this happened at a point on the road where we could, and, of course, did, go over an embankment. There were a lot of highway railings along this road, but not right here, and we headed toward the water.

Rock Creek really was a creek. Even so, this could have been a big deal, but the car handled fantastically and, modestly speaking, so did I. Sure, we bounced a lot and I was happy my seat belt was on. Had no idea
how
it was on, but chose to not complain when the cosmos decided to do me a solid. It happened so infrequently.

Managed to keep the car from hitting any trees, rolling, or going into the water, but it was a near thing. We did spin out rather impressively, especially since we were on some rocks, and ended up with the back of the car at the water's edge and the front facing the road. So I had a great view of the people who were getting out of the Lincoln with machine guns. No one I recognized.

Survival instinct took over. I grabbed my purse that was somehow on the seat next to me, ripped out the iPod and phone that were connected to this car's systems and threw them in, got my seat belt off, and leaped out of the car, flinging my purse over my neck. At the fastest hyperspeed I had which, after a lot of practice with Christopher and in danger situations such as this, was really fast.

Ripped the passenger door behind me off its hinges. I'd worry about apologizing for that to whoever actually owned this vehicle later—I had three kids to get. The younger boy was nearest to me, and I was able to unbuckle his toddler car seat quickly. The older boy was in a simple booster seat and he'd gotten himself unbuckled.

Jamie's car seat was more problematic, in part because it wasn't her car seat and, amazingly enough, it was more complex than the one we had for her. Decided I'd already hurt the car and ripped the car seat out, Jamie and all. Held her and the seat in my left arm.

Flung the younger boy onto my back. “Hold on, legs around my waist, arms around my neck but not too hard.” Reached through and pulled the older boy to me and held onto him with my right hand. “Hang on, all of you!”

Then I ran us across the river at my fastest hyperspeed. And kept going. I didn't look behind us. Firstly because I couldn't with all I was carrying, and secondly because I was a sprinter and I'd learned in high school that sprinters who looked behind them lost their races. The only times in my adult life I'd ignored that adage had only proven why it was a wise one.

Heard the sounds of gunfire starting and congratulated myself on getting the kids out of the car and out of range in about five seconds. Potentially a personal best. Perhaps I'd brag about it somewhere in the far future.

Heard what was absolutely an explosion and found the ability to speed up. If my fuzzy memory served, there was a golf course somewhere around here and I decided heading for it was probably my best choice.

It was like a forest in here, which made sense for the kind of park Rock Creek was, but it was hard going in a pantsuit and boots, not to mention lugging all the kids and stuff along. Absolutely none of the foliage was helping us in any way, though I managed not to ram any of the kids into branches and such. Could not say the same for myself. However, I'd gotten some increased strength along with the hyperspeed, so I managed to get us through and keep on going.

Sure enough, after I stumbled and bumbled us around for a while, I managed to find the edge of the golf course. Ran onto the nice grass that had no trees trying to stab me and the kids and made it about a hundred yards in. Then I stopped and put everyone down.

As I got Jamie out of her car seat, the boys threw up. Okay, they were human. As I put Jamie onto the ground, though, she threw up, too. So, maybe it was just fear. “It's okay,” I said as I held her and stroked the younger boy's back. “It'll pass.”

The oldest boy recovered first. “Mommy, what's going on? Why did those people try to hurt us?”

Looked around. There was no adult here but me. “Um, who are you talking to, honey?” I asked him.

He'd already looked scared, but his expression changed, to a different kind of fear. “I'm talking to
you
, Mommy.”

T
HE YOUNGER BOY STOPPED BARFING
and got to his feet. He looked at me closely. Then he took Jamie's hand and pulled her away from me. “That's not Mommy,” he said in a low voice.

I ignored him, since he was right, and took her back. “Jamie-Kat, are you okay? Tell Mommy if you got hurt.”

She cocked her head at me. Then she smiled. “You did great. Mommy.” There was something extremely off in how she'd said this, and as she leaned against me, I tried to figure out what it was. Realized that she'd said my name as if she'd made a decision to call me Mommy, not that she actually thought I was her mother.

Watched the boys out of the corner of my eye. The older one looked shocked and freaked out. The younger one looked suspicious and worried.

“Mommy, why don't you know us?” the older one asked, almost pleadingly. “It's me, Charlie. And Max,” he pointed to the younger boy. Charlie looked familiar, but not because I'd seen him before. But I knew I'd seen someone who looked like him before. Possibly because my head still hurt, I just couldn't place who.

Before I could reply a couple of older men rolled up in a golf cart. “You and your kids okay, ma'am?” the driver asked.

“Not really. We were attacked and shot at and our car exploded and I need to call my husband. And the Secret Service.”

The two men looked at each other and chuckled. “I'm sure the regular police will be fine, honey,” the passenger said.

“I doubt it. We were attacked by men who drove us off the road and shot out our tires. And then they shot up our car so that it blew up. I think.” I hadn't looked behind me to be sure, after all.

“Uh
huh
,” the driver said. “I'm Hershel, this is Hymie.” He looked at me expectantly.

“I'm Kitty. This is Jamie. And Charlie and Max.”

“Okay,” Hershel said. “Well, Kitty, Jamie, Charlie and Max, we have no guns, but I don't see anyone pursuing you, so I think you're in the clear. Let's get you and your kids back to the clubhouse, honey. I think we can fit you all in if your little girl can sit on your lap.”

They both got out and Hymie put Jamie's car seat in the back of the cart with their clubs. As they helped me and the kids into the back seat, my brain nudged—something was off with this. Not with the kids—something was clearly off with them—but with the reactions from the two men.

I was the wife of the Vice President. I was now one of the most recognized people in the D.C. area. Sure, if we were in Des Moines, maybe no one would know who I was. But since the campaign, or what I thought of as Operation Defection Election, I couldn't walk outside without paparazzi following me, and they weren't the friendly, helpful kind like Mister Joel Oliver. Sure, maybe Hershel and Hymie didn't pay attention to the news, but considering they both looked older than my dad, it seemed unlikely.

The boys sat quietly on either side of me and Jamie perched on my lap. She didn't say anything, which was also odd. Jamie was a chatterbox.

“Can you call my daddy?” Charlie asked the men as we “sped” along the golf course.

“Sure, son,” Hymie said. “Doesn't your mother have a phone?” He looked at me over his shoulder.

“Oh. Yeah. I do.” Dug through the purse and pulled out a phone. It wasn't my phone, though, but it definitely was the one I'd pulled out of the car—the charging cord was still attached. Pulled the cord out and tried to unlock it. My code didn't work. Charlie took the phone out of my hand and put in the right code.

“It's okay, Mommy,” he said quietly. “You hit your head and it was really scary. Daddy says that sometimes trauma can create an incredible adrenaline rush, but then after you're safe, you sort of collapse. It's just like that.” He handed the phone to Hymie.

“Hello,” Hymie said cheerfully. “No, I'm not Kitty, but I think we have her and your kids.” I could hear a man shouting. “Whoa, whoa! Calm down, mister. We're not trying to hurt them. We found your family on the golf course. Your wife's pretty shaken up, said her car exploded.” Heard more shouting.

“And that someone shot at her,” Hershel added.

“Yeah, and she was shot at. Not by us, so stop yelling.” Hymie eyed us. “Nope, they seem okay. Shook up, but okay.” He dropped his voice. “You wife hit her head for sure. You need to get to Rock Creek Golf Course right away. Yeah, sure, we'll stay with them. Lost our spot on the course already anyway.”

He hung up and handed the phone back to Charlie. “Hang onto that, son. Your dad said he'd be right to you but he may have to call again.”

Decided now was as good a time as any to ask a pertinent question. “Excuse me, but is the Vice President an alien?”

We reached the golf cart parking area as I voiced my question. Hershel sighed. “Now's not the time to discuss politics, is it?” He helped Max out, then took Jamie from me, while Hymie went and got our car seat.

“No, and neither is the President,” Hymie said. “Regardless of your political party, you really shouldn't believe everything you hear on Fox News, honey. Try thinking for yourself.”

“Huh?”

Neither Hershel nor Hymie seemed interested in explaining what they meant. Hershel handed Jamie back to me and took both boys' hands, Hymie kept the car seat and put his hand on my back to keep me moving, and we headed into the clubhouse.

There weren't a lot of people here, but we made quite a stir with the few who were as we went to the front. I checked outside, but there were no suspicious looking cars in the parking lot and no one packing heat I could spot.

Risked a look in a mirror as I rejoined the kids, Hershel, and Hymie—I looked like the poster girl for dishevelment. My clothes were pretty much wrecked. Sure, we had the Operations Team, what I called the A-C Elves, and sure, they were actually one really superpowered being with a serious hard-on for free will. But even so, I doubted the bloodstains were going to come out, A-C Elves or no A-C Elves.

There was a lounge area with couches and a television and Hershel ushered us over there. I dumped my purse into Jamie's car seat and sat down with the kids. The adrenaline rush was starting to wear off. Hymie had someone change the channel to local news. There were no news reports of a high-speed chase through Rock Creek Park that ended with a car exploding. There was one mention that traffic was being rerouted from Beach Drive due to an accident, but that was it.

Hymie shrugged. “Guess the reporters aren't interested or aware of your mishap.”

This, more than anything else that had happened, told me that something was very, very wrong. There was no way that the news media wouldn't be having a field day with this. Sadly, it had been a really long time since no one in the media had cared about what I did or didn't do.

A couple of years ago, I'd have just assumed that Imageering out of Centaurion Division had altered the footage. But events, and what appeared to be an outer-space virus, had conspired to cause pretty much every imageer to lose their natural talents. Meaning there was no one around to manipulate the images and hide my mistakes. I'd really missed this, especially since Jeff had become the Vice President.

But today it didn't seem to matter.

Before I could ask Hershel and Hymie some more questions they were probably going to ignore or give me inscrutable responses to, all three kids' heads swiveled toward the door.

I turned to see Chuckie running in. He looked stressed out of his mind. As he looked at us his face drained of color—I'd only seen him look like this a few times in our lives. Figured I looked a lot worse than I thought I did.

Speaking of looks, Chuckie looked slightly different than he had earlier today. His hair, for example, was shorter. Not a lot, but as if he'd had a haircut between my hitting my head at the stadium and now, which seemed unlikely.

He was also dressed differently. The A-Cs were love slaves to black and white, formality, and Armani, and Chuckie, as the Head of the C.I.A.'s Extra-Terrestrial Division, had adapted and wore the same “uniform” as all the other men who were aliens or worked for Centaurion Division.

However, I knew my designers, and Chuckie was not only not in a suit, but he wasn't in Armani, either. He was in a Tommy Hilfiger ensemble that made me think we'd dragged him off of someone's yacht. He was dressed more colorfully than I'd seen him, or anyone else I spent a lot of time with these days, in years.

However, I'd spotted who Charlie looked like. He was the spitting image of Chuckie. I just hadn't known Chuckie until we were thirteen, so I'd never seen him as a little kid, other than in some pictures. It was clear that how Charlie looked was exactly how Chuckie had looked. How Chuckie had a son who was this old that I didn't know about, however, was a mystery I had no answer for.

Before I could ponder all these mysteries anymore, Chuckie reached us and pulled me into his arms. “Kitty, baby, are you okay?” His voice shook and he hugged me tightly and kissed my head, very lovingly and possessively. I managed not to react one way or the other, mostly because my head really hurt and I had no idea what was going on.

He let go with one arm and pulled the kids in. Not that he had to work to do this—all three of them, even Jamie, had clearly been waiting for this and flung themselves at him. Jamie seemed reasonably calm, but both of the boys were trying not to cry.

“Chuckie, you need to stop calling me baby,” I said quietly. “Jeff is going to pop a vessel as it is.”

He reared back and stared at me, eyes narrowed. “I ask again, who the hell is Jeff? And why, if you're trying to tell me that you're leaving me for whoever the hell he is, are you calling me Chuckie?” His voice was cold and he sounded hurt and angry.

I blinked. “Um, I've called you Chuckie since ninth grade.”

“Only in bed for the past seven years,” Chuckie replied. He still looked and sounded upset.

“Mommy hit her head,” Charlie said urgently. “She doesn't know me and Max, Daddy. No matter how she's acting, I think she's really hurt.”

Chuckie's expression softened. “Ah. Hang on, ba—, ah, Kitty.” He let go of me and hugged the kids tightly, doing the parental body check for broken bones and other injuries. “How badly are you three hurt?”

“Not at all,” Charlie said. “Mommy got us all out.” He looked at me nervously. “She did it really fast, Daddy. And she pulled the car door off. And carried all of us, running so fast we couldn't see.”

“You know what we talked about,” Chuckie said.

“I know, the adrenaline rush, like the Hulk,” Charlie said. “I think it was like that, but Mommy isn't feeling . . . right.”

“She's not Mommy,” Max said emphatically. “I keep on saying it, and no one listens.”

Realized that Max was speaking like I did. My head was starting to throb from all of this, and I rubbed my forehead.

“It's Mommy,” Jamie said calmly. “Charlie is right—she's hurt her head.”

Chuckie's jaw dropped. “You're sure, Jamie-Kat?” She nodded. “Okay. Kids, you three sit here and let me check on Mommy.” He turned fully back to me. “Let's see your head,” he said gently, as he stroked my forehead.

“It's not my forehead; it's the back of my head.” I turned, and Chuckie hissed.

“Why didn't anyone call a doctor or an ambulance?” he asked, of Hershel and Hymie more than me.

The two other men shrugged. “She didn't appear to need one,” Hershel replied. “She's not bleeding anymore and I don't know what they would do for her concussion.”

“I don't have a concussion.” Hopefully.

Hymie snorted. “She asked us if the Vice President was an alien. A concussion your wife has. However, we thought getting her and your kids off the golf course and to safety was more important than calling nine-one-one.”

“I'm not his wife.”

At this everyone stared at me. Other than Jamie, who was rummaging through my purse. Or what was passing for my purse. My purse was big, black, and made of cheap yet extremely durable leather. The purse Jamie was digging into was a large pink and purple Coach bag. I didn't own a Coach bag. I didn't own a Coach anything.

“Yes, you are,” Chuckie said, voice strained. “We've been married for eight years. We have three children . . . the three children here. You know, the ones that look like us? The ones calling you Mommy?”

I was about to protest when Jamie handed me a wallet. Wasn't a wallet I recognized, but it kept to the purse's theme—it was multi-colored pastels and by Coach. “Here, Mommy. See?”

Took the wallet and opened it up. There was my driver's license. Two of them, actually. One was for the District of Columbia, and one had a yellow stripe on the top and some red flower in the middle, and shared that it was for the state of New South Wales, Australia. Both of them listed addresses I didn't recognize.