confronts us all.”
Glancing at the computers, Kiran said, “Why don’t you just send your own message? Or just…masquerade as me?”
“Because you — the real you — will be believed. I know you have the trust of Jack Dawson, and you must certainly be known, if only by name, to many in his circle. We have already tried sending an emissary, but he met with an untimely end long before he was able to deliver his message.” The thing grimaced. “Too few of us are left to take such risks again. We have been desperately searching for someone who would suit our needs, and we were incredibly fortunate that your plane came within range of assets that we control.”
Kiran’s mouth gaped open. “You shot us down?”
“Not directly, no, but it was…arranged, shall we say.” The thing shrugged. “It was a calculated risk, because we had no way of knowing if you or your cousin would survive. But it was easy enough to arrange with the forewarning we were given. We had nothing to lose if you did not survive.”
A tide of rage rose in Kiran’s gut as he remembered the ghosts that had plagued his dreams, all the people, including poor Vijay, who had died in the crash or had been taken by the harvesters later. He sprang across the table, trying to wrap his hands around the thing’s neck.
Without even blinking, it swatted him aside, pinning both wrists in one of its hands. The thing began to squeeze, and Kiran screamed as a bone in his hand cracked.
“Ever the fearless soldier,” the thing said as it released him, and Kiran slumped back into his chair, cradling his injured hand. “There is no dishonor in what we are asking of you. And tell me, would you rather we set you free to deliver an offer of peace that may help your species survive, or suffer the fate of the others aboard your aircraft?”
Kiran swallowed hard and looked away from the thing’s eyes. “And who am I to take your message to?”
“I would think that was obvious.” The thing’s face split into a wide smile. “Naomi Perrault, of course.”
DRAGONFIRE
President Daniel Miller and the members of his cabinet were in one of the conference rooms in the White House Situation Room complex, while the Vice President had joined them over a video teleconferencing circuit from North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD) Headquarters, deep in Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado. In the President’s hand was a brief note of explanation and apology from the Russian President that had been delivered by the Russian Ambassador five minutes after the warheads had detonated. That had been thirty minutes ago.
Miller crumpled up the note and angrily threw it to the floor. “I’m not sure what makes me angrier, that they kept us completely in the dark and nearly triggered a nuclear war between themselves, us, and the Chinese, or that they had the guts to do it and we don’t.” His face was pale in the bright fluorescent light.
“The latest estimate puts the number of immediate casualties at over ten million dead and at least half that many injured, with another five million deaths projected in the next six months from injury and radiation exposure,” the Director of National Intelligence reported in a somber voice. “But the worst will be the famine that will hit them before next winter. They’ve destroyed or irradiated twenty-five to thirty percent of their primary grain producing region, not to mention the havoc the harvesters are wreaking on everything else.”
“And what about the harvesters?” Miller asked.
“From what we can tell so far, they’ve been largely exterminated in the strike zones, but are still propagating like wildfire everywhere else.” The DNI scowled. “The bottom line, Mr. President, is that it’s a Pyrrhic victory for the Russians. The strikes took a huge bite out of the current harvester population, but did nothing to reduce the reproductive rate of the survivors. If I had to call it one way or the other, I’d