Alien Research

CHAPTER 9

LET THAT ONE SIT on the air for a bit. Clearly I’d picked up some dream and memory reading talent, maybe from hanging out with Gower for so long. Because I could see where this plan of Horn’s would lead.

“Vander, you realize that if we start congressional hearings over Gaultier, then the disappearance of Herbert Gaultier, and the disappearance and reappearance of LaRue Demorte Gaultier, and her subsequently bringing an alien invasion back with her, will be top of mind for one and all, right?”

“I don’t see it as an issue,” Horn said.

“Twenty bucks says you’re the only one in the room who doesn’t.”

“I agree with the Ambassador,” Armstrong said. “While I’d love to figure out all that Gaultier is involved in, and stop them, a very public display doesn’t sound like it’s in anyone’s best interests.”

Mine in particular. I’d been dreaming about how I’d handle a congressional hearing. “Not well” was my final verdict.

Horn shook his head. “We have Herbert Gaultier’s only child sitting right here. She’s fighting to take control of the corporation. This could help her.”

“I’d love to agree with you,” Amy said. “However, the Board of Directors has other plans, and has blocked every attempt to have my father listed as presumed dead. They’re winning on that one in part because he’s only been missing for eighteen months. LaRue’s death was public and therefore public knowledge. My father’s disappearance, however, was not public.”

Gaultier wasn’t gone, he was dead and gone. But we’d disposed of the body and that meant we had no proof. Which was good, because Christopher had killed him, and I doubted the courts were going to be excited about the fact that Amy’s husband had done that particular deed. Somerall, Gardiner, and Cross, however, would be ecstatic to make that discovery.

The others chimed in with why they thought this idea of Horn’s was a bad idea. But I still had a question. “Excuse me, Vander, but what you’re suggesting is an idea, not an issue. Supposedly there is also an issue at hand. I’d like to know what that is.”

Horn looked pleased, and it dawned on me that he was testing me. It so figured. Pulled my phone out of my back pocket and sent a text to our Concierge Majordomo, aka Pierre, and asked him to get the lunch party started, so to speak. Considering how the day was going, gave him specific requests—it’d been a stressful day so far and I wanted comfort food. He confirmed that food was coming from my favorite deli.

“The issue is that we’ve picked up intel that a new narcotic is about to hit the streets,” Horn said.

“Not to sound callous, but why is that our concern? Unless, of course, and I’m just spitballing here, this drug is a lot like Surcenthumain or what they hit Malcolm with.” During Operation Sherlock, the bad guys had given Buchanan a shot of a suspended animation drug. It had worked really well, but we’d thankfully found the antidote. Surcenthumain was why Jeff, Christopher, Christopher’s “lost aunt” Serene, her son Patrick, Jamie, and I were now officially Extra Special with a Side of Mutated.

“We don’t know what the drug is,” McMillan said. “However, the information at hand does indicate it’s likely to be a drug we wouldn’t want on the streets. And by that I mean it’s a drug likely to permanently alter the persons taking it.”

“I can’t buy why they’d release Surcenthumain just randomly,” I said, as Pierre came in, followed by some A-C Field agents, who started to set the table and get food onto it. Refrained from telling them they were all my heroes, but it took effort. “It’s too powerful a drug. That’s something you sell to the highest bidder, not hand out to the local pushers.”

“That’s why I want to launch the investigation into Gaultier,” Horn countered. “They’re the most likely source of the drug.”

The others started talking again. I got a nice, frosty Coke, snagged a toasted bagel and—while I loaded on the cream cheese, capers, lox, and onions—observed.

Everyone was fired up about the drugs and the suggested investigation. Everyone was also coming up with alternative ideas for what to do. And if I’d spent a relaxing morning having fun with my friends and daughter before I’d been thrust into this meeting, I might have been, too.

However, I was still revved up and more than a little paranoid from being attacked at literally every turn, and I hadn’t been prepped for this particular situation. Therefore, I was willing to sit back and occupy my mouth with chewing and swallowing my food, while my eyes and ears paid attention.

Horn was observing, as well. He was active in the conversation, but he let the others do most of the talking now, though he made sure to keep on coming back to the idea that the only option was a full congressional investigation. I wasn’t up on all the ways to take down Big Pharma, but going before Congress usually was a last resort, not your opening gambit.

Horn hadn’t been moved into the position he was in because he was a moron. Since Operation Destruction had outed us to the world, the President and other world leaders had made some temporary changes. No new elections until the next cycle, which meant anyone in office when the Dino-Birds From Space attacked was sticking around for, as of now, at least another eighteen months. Appointees and special elections to fill seats opened by death or disablement only, which was why Jeff and Nathalie were both new congresspersons.

This was one reason there were so many anti-alien groups out and active right now—Club 51 was just the one we knew the best, so to speak. But many of these groups were protesting the suspension of our constitution, and for others, it was just a nice moral outrage issue they could hide their bigotry and xenophobia behind.

However, the F.B.I. had been given the direction to add on an official division just focused on aliens. Okay, no surprise—all the other agencies had the same. The question was, though, why had the F.B.I. waited so long? The first wave of A-Cs, which had included White, had come in the 1960s. That was a hell of a long time to wait to put someone in charge of paying attention to what the nice aliens were up to.

Meaning they hadn’t waited.

So, what the F.B.I. was doing was now “creating” a division they’d probably already had working clandestinely. And if they’d put Horn in charge, it was likely that he’d either been in charge of the clandestine section or he was incredibly in-the-know and experienced.

My phone was out, and no one was actually paying attention to me. I did a search on Evander Horn. He popped right up. Scrolled through to find the pertinent information.

Amy was passionately arguing that we had to come up with a better plan than the congressional hearing when I found what I was looking for—Horn’s undergraduate degree wasn’t in Political Science, Communications, or even Business. His degree was in Psychology.

“If we give any of the Board any indication that we know for certain they’re up to no good, they’ll destroy evidence faster than you can blink,” Amy said with conviction.

“There are ways to avoid that,” Chuckie said. “Search warrants being served by a plethora of law enforcement, for example.”

“Maybe.” Amy didn’t sound convinced. “Ansom Somerall may have become the Chairman of the Board, but Janelle Gardiner and Quinton Cross are still both trying to take control. However, they’re all happily working together to oppose me and anyone else who might want to have a say in the day-to-day or overall goals of the company and if—”

“Ames, everyone, let’s relax and take five for a minute.” Hoped the others would catch on that my interrupting Amy mid-sentence was intentional. “Have some sodas, juice, or Pierre’s special iced tea, eat some food, it’s all fresh from the deli.” Turned to Horn. “I’d like to ask our new bestest friend here one important question no one else yet has.”

Horn smiled at me. “What’s that?”

“Well, first off, I’d like to say something. Impressive use of reverse psychology, Vander. You have us all hysterically trying to come up with anything other than what you keep on suggesting. But we’re busy people, and I, personally, have already had a hell of a busy morning, so let’s cut to the chase. My question is simple: What the hell do you actually want us to do that we will somehow think is our own idea, not yours?”

Horn stared at me. “That isn’t my intention at all.”

“Bullpookey, pardon my French. You want us solving your little problem, and you want us to think it’s our idea, too. I want to know why.” Looked at Chuckie. “I also want to know, immediately, if Mister Horn here is really a human being or if he’s got that special something inside him that makes him keep going and going and going.”

“I’m not an android,” Horn said.

“Glad you can read my mind and all, but we have a saying in Pueblo Caliente—prove it.”