Alien Diplomacy Read online

  “IF I WERE PLANTING A BOMB THAT WASN’T SET TO GO off when the car started,” Oliver said quickly, as Kyle moved to open the door, “I’d absolutely figure the new mother would want her baby’s car seat.”

  Kyle’s hand froze. “That makes sense to me. You think Kitty’s the target? Or the baby?” He growled this last question. I liked overprotectiveness toward my child from our new bodyguard.

  “As I already told your superior, I don’t know who the target is. However, Missus Martini is on the guest list for the President’s Ball, ergo, she’s a potential target.”

  We quickly moved our little group across the street and back down the block. “How long for the bomb squad?” Oliver asked.

  “Not too much longer,” Kyle, who’d made the call, said. He and Len were busy looking all around. We weren’t exactly being subtle, but no one really seemed to be around to notice.

  I dug my phone out of my purse. Jeff answered immediately. “What’s going on? Reynolds has been making urgent calls for the past few minutes and his stress is off the charts.”

  “Len found a too-convenient parking place and we’re all waiting for some folks to come and let us know if our limo’s been rigged or not.”

  “Reynolds says his people will be there in another minute. How far from the limo are you all?”

  “We can still see it.”

  “Get farther away.”

  “Jeff, really—”

  I was going to tell him he was overreacting. Only the limo exploded before I could finish my sentence.…

  “If you like your futuristic adventure with heapings of over-the-top fun and absurdity, Koch has the series for you.… A rip-roaring and outlandish romp!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  DAW Books Presents GINI KOCH’s

  Alien Novels:

  TOUCHED BY AN ALIEN

  ALIEN TANGO

  ALIEN IN THE FAMILY

  ALIEN PROLIFERATION

  ALIEN DIPLOMACY

  ALIEN VS. ALIEN

  (coming in December 2012)

  ALIEN

  DIPLOMACY

  GINI KOCH

  Copyright © 2012 by Jeanne Cook.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-57991-6

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Daniel Dos Santos and Dave Palumbo.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1583.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

  First Printing, April 2012

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  To Dixie, for begging me to “write funny” for years, in every

  diplomatic way possible, until I finally broke down and listened—

  I wouldn’t be here without you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I realize why authors stop thanking their agent and editor after a few books—not because the agent and editor, in my case, Cherry Weiner and Sheila Gilbert, are any less amazing and awesome now than they were for the prior books. No, it’s because you start running out of adjectives and end up repeating yourself when you say, “You two are the best in the world!”

  That goes as well for my crit partner and main beta reader, Lisa Dovichi and Mary Fiore. It’s hard to keep coming up with synonyms for “fabulous” and “best ever.”

  But I persevere.

  I don’t think it can get old, though, saying thank you with all my love to Team Gini, all those on Hook Me Up!, and all the Alien Collective Members in Very Good Standing around the world—y’all make all the work, the deadlines, the late nights, the pre-release stress, and the general insanity that is my writing life worthwhile. I have the best fans in the world, and you all constantly rock my world.

  Many thanks again and always to the legion of book review bloggers who continue to support books in general and my books in particular. *Smootchies* to all my Twitter peeps and Facebook folks, just ’cause. And, as always, thanks to all I’ve thanked before, anyone I’ve missed somehow (DAW’s copy editor assures me this seems impossible, given the length of my acknowledgments for every book), and anyone on or added on to my own Alpha Team between the time I wrote this and the time the book comes out—love and appreciate you all.

  Special shout outs to: Marnie Walski, for making me almost stop breathing when you asked if you could start an official fan site for me (The Alien Collective Virtual HQ) and then making such an awesome one; all the mods and members at said fan site (did I mention the name? The Alien Collective Virtual HQ, in case you missed it.); Paul Sparks and Kenton Schassberger for putting a lot of time and creative energy into scientifically proving that my science ain’t all that soft after all; the Queen Creek Writer’s Group for being an awesome writer’s group and having me out to run the yap live so often; my sis-in-law, Akiko, for letting me use her company, Akiko Clothing, as Kitty’s Washington, D.C. designer (even though Akiko Clothing is located in Los Angeles—hey, it’s fiction, right?), and my little bro, Danny, for being understanding about why Blackhearts Brigade didn’t make this particular cut; Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore, for being awesome and supporting me and my books constantly; and everyone who came to see us before, during, and after Comic-Con, effectively creating little areas of fun and calm around that awesome but always overwhelming event.

  Finally, thanks to my husband, Steve, for always supporting me, even when I probably sound insane or incoherent, and patiently listening to me ramble on about characters and plot points; and to my daughter, Veronica, for being my utility player in all of this and always being there when I need your help to handle whatever the crisis—beta reading, contest naming, promotional ideas, plot nightmares—with efficiency and understanding, as well as snarky wit (I have no idea where you get that from). You’re both the best and I love you even more than I love writing or the pets. Put together. Honest.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40


  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Alien Vs.­ Alien

  About the Author

  THEY CALL BOXING THE SWEET SCIENCE. I have no idea why. It’s not like two guys beating each other up can be called sweet in any culture, and it’s hard to buy the science part when there’s not that much scientific theory involved in “hit harder, longer, until the other guy goes down.”

  Now diplomacy, there’s your sweet science. You have to be sweet even when you don’t want to be. Or your husband has the little “representing an entire race” chat with you. And figuring out the many layers, links, connections, and conspiracies attached to just one diplomat is hard enough. Try doing that with every diplomat on Earth. Then expand past Earth. Then wonder why your husband can keep it all straight when you can’t and await the “if you’d only read the briefing file” chat.

  Diplomacy has opened up a whole new world of chatting for Jeff and me. So far, I haven’t enjoyed any of them, but hope springs eternal.

  Being one of the head diplomats for Centaurion Division’s Diplomatic Corps is quite the honor. Kind of wish I’d had a little more time to transition from marketing manager to superbeing exterminator to newlywed to new mother to retired superbeing exterminator to full-time diplomat. More than two years start to finish would have been nice. But, hey, I’m good with change and a challenge, right?

  Of course, nothing could really have prepared me for the superpowers that were my parting gifts for labor and delivery of our daughter. Like the Alpha Centaurions from Alpha Four, I now have hyperspeed, faster healing and regeneration, improved vision, and superstrength. Other abilities show up when I least expect them. I don’t have two hearts like a real A-C or any special talents, such as dream and memory reading or empathic skills. But being a super’s pretty much all it’s cracked up to be.

  Sadly, when it comes to diplomacy, superpowers don’t really help. At all. But that’s where my winning ways and charming influence over others come in.

  Hey, when it comes to diplomacy, I do practice the sweet science. Yeah, okay, the kind with boxing gloves. What can I say? Washington’s a tough town.

  CHAPTER 1

  “MISSUS MARTINI, CAN YOU PLEASE EXPLAIN the proper way to greet a visiting dignitary from China when you are also in the company of dignitaries from Japan, Russia, Thailand, and Bangladesh?”

  “This is a trick question, right?”

  My Washington Wife course instructor glared. “Hardly.” Mrs. Darcy Lockwood, a proud Daughter of the American Revolution, wife of the influential senator from Maine, and all around know-it-all, wasn’t fond of me. I’d only been in her class a few weeks, but the feeling was incredibly mutual.

  “I suppose a cheerful howdy-do isn’t it, right?” There were titters throughout the class. Sadly, I knew they were absolutely not laughing with me.

  Another glare. I wasn’t sure which one of us hated the other more, me or the instructor, but there was less than no love lost between us. To date, this summed up my entire experience with Washington, D.C.: I didn’t like it, and it didn’t like me.

  “Missus Martini, your husband’s career is affected by you—what you say, how you present yourself, how you act. As the wife of an ambassador, I’d think you would have more interest in representing yourself and your principality well.”

  “I’m also an ambassador.” I chose not to argue about the principality thing. I was representing the Alpha Centaurion, or A-C, population, and it was never clear to me what our exact status really was. It wasn’t as if we could tell the general population that most of those who called themselves A-Cs were aliens from Alpha Four in the Alpha Centauri solar system, with a goodly group of human agents and a few intermarried humans thrown into the mix.

  I’d been told we were like the American Indians, with reservations a little more spread out all over the United States and the world in general. I’d heard we were like Puerto Rico, only our islands were all landlocked. I’d also gotten the younger A-Cs listed as political refugees, and every A-C born on Earth was considered a legal U.S. citizen with all the rights thereof. I had no clear idea how this worked or who knew, or thought they knew, what, so I tended to just nod and forge ahead. This worked everywhere but in certain situations, the Washington Wife class being Exhibit A.

  “Missus Martini, as we’ve discussed, you are not the ambassador. You are part of the diplomatic mission, true, but you are not the ambassador, nor are you his Chargé d’Affaires. You are an ambassadress, the wife of the ambassador.”

  “No, as I keep on explaining to you, I am one of our ambassadors. My husband, the other head ambassador, says so.”

  She snorted. It was delicate and ladylike, but it was a snort, nonetheless. “Please. As I keep explaining to you, there can only be one Chief of Mission. Charming as it is of him to make you feel as if you’re his equal, the Chief would be your husband, not you. Now, let’s try to get back to decorum, shall we?”

  I opened my mouth to share that, as I kept explaining, we did things differently at our Embassy, but Eugene nudged me and I snapped it shut. Eugene was the only person in this horrid class who didn’t hate me or laugh at me, because he was as lame as I was with this stuff.

  “Besides,” Lockwood went on, “if you were the actual ambassador, this greeting would carry even more impact. Therefore, who can tell me what the proper procedure is?”

  One of the gay guys politely raised his hand and shared the proper greeting procedure. He did it perfectly. Everyone in class did everything perfectly other than me and Eugene. We were both washing out, and neither one of us could afford to.

  What made this worse was that Amy hadn’t even had to take the class. Oh, sure, she’d come from money and I’d come from covert ops masquerading as dull middle class, but it still wasn’t fair. I’d saved the world in the double digits, easy, and yet, here I was, the Class Dunce.

  Amy had breezed in, spent about an hour with Lockwood, and bam, there she was, already approved and back in the Alpha Centaurion Embassy, all snug and secure and not being picked on. She’d tried to help me, but I wasn’t really excited about studying this stuff when I was released from the prison that was this class, and all it had done was make us snap at each other, so she’d given up, and I’d resigned myself to spending time in Hell every week for the rest of the foreseeable future.

  Class droned on, and I reminisced about the days when I was happy and carefree, killing parasitic superbeings for a living. Or when I was averting intergalactic war. Running away from scary creatures, both human and extremely not, that were trying to kill me. Saving the day. Those days were only three months ago, really, but they seemed like a lifetime away, especially when I was in the Washington Wi
fe class.

  It didn’t help that my husband and my two best male friends had both insisted that I take the stupid class in the first place. With Jeff, Chuckie, and Reader aligned against me, I had nowhere to turn. That my husband was the head of the A-C Diplomatic Corps, Chuckie was the head of the C.I.A.’s ET Division, and Reader was now Head of the Field for Centaurion Division made the directive to attend sort of unavoidable.

  Oh, sure, they’d insisted after I’d inadvertently insulted the Prime Minster of England, but how could I have known he wasn’t willing to admit that the Rolling Stones weren’t half the band Aerosmith was and never would be?

  Lockwood droned on, and I surreptitiously checked my watch. Fifteen more minutes and I could escape. If only A-Cs weren’t deathly allergic to alcohol, I’d get drunk both before and after this class, but, sadly, I was restricted to nothing harder than Coca-Cola or iced tea. I never wanted to risk Jeff not being able to kiss me. Him kissing me was still on my Top Three Things To Do At Least A Dozen Times Every Day list. Kissing tended to lead to my other top two things to do. My mind wandered happily to our sex life and stayed there.

  “The President’s Ball is in two days,” Lockwood reminded us, yanking my mind away from Pleasure Island. She had a happy smile for all, until her eyes hit the back corner where Eugene and I sat. We got a pitying glare. I was kind of impressed. I didn’t know how you learned that look, but Lockwood had it down.

  I’d spent much more time learning how to imitate my mother’s intimidating smile. I was getting really good at it. Pity that, so far, it hadn’t worked on the diplomats, lobbyists, or politicians I’d run across these last few months.

  My mother being the head of the Presidential Terrorism Control Unit had come as a shock two years ago. Sure, she’d been lying to me my whole life, but it was pretty cool to find out that my mom was basically the Annie Oakley of antiterrorism. In my new career as a diplomat, however, my mother being the head of the P.T.C.U. wasn’t a threat; it was a liability, because many of the people I had to deal with knew her, and, therefore, were more than happy to tell her how I screwed up.