The White Death Read Online Free
years, long after all of us are gone. You are to mention this to no one. Failure in this regard could jeopardize the entire operation and our standing with the Council.”
Thomas felt deflated. “So the less I hear about Section 51, the better?”
“Yes,” said Richards. “Good night, Mr. President.”
Thomas watched the two elderly men gather their things. He felt strange, almost like being drunk, with such news. It was a big pill to swallow. They headed for the door.
“Gentlemen,” said the president deeply, turning around to look at both of them. “Good night.”
“Goodnight, Mr. President,” they said in unison before leaving.
Thomas watched them go, his mind spinning. It wasn’t their first meeting with a president about aliens, and it would not be their last, either.
Gail called two chauffeured cars for them as they left the Oval Office.
Chapter 3
Freda moved her little gold handheld mirror left and right, a gift from General Richards. After all these years—more than a century, she reminded herself—she was used to seeing a slightly tanned reflection staring back at her. While she had the purest of white skin, she used a skin toner to bring her appearance into the “human realm,” as she liked to put it. Apart from skin color, there was no need to disguise anything else. Intelligent life in the known galaxy, so sparse and rare, seemed to follow predefined physical characteristics—two arms, two legs, etc. It was a topic of intense research and debate throughout the alliance, with many wondering whether a super race had seeded the galaxy with life in their image. Even the Council members all looked similar, despite representing four very different civilizations. They were only distinguishable in race by their eye colors, which tended to be solid and striking compared to the human iris. Once makeup was applied, Freda looked like a short sixty-year-old pensioner with an affection for brightly colored skirt suits.
“Good morning, Christopher,” she said.
Her long-time elderly assistant came in with some fresh apple juice for the two of them. Section 51, the deep underground bunker that housed their operation, was quiet at this early hour. A drawer opened from her desk, and she placed the mirror carefully inside. The daily meeting with Christopher—drinking smooth apple juice while discussing the day’s diary—had been a ritual for the past forty years. The right type of juice was imperative; the first time she tasted unsmoothed apple juice, she nearly choked.
“Freda,” said Christopher Quincy with a smile, lowering himself into the chair before her desk. Freda remembered a time when he had much more energy in their morning briefings, but that was, for a human, a long time ago. She watched as he plopped two cubes of ice into each glass, relaxed, and unzipped his folder. Time for another day to begin.
“Let’s have it,” she finally said. Her office wasn’t overly extravagant or large—she had no interest in such trappings. The last renovation had seen a brighter color scheme used throughout the facility, with modern furniture and computers installed. Christopher always remarked how he felt like he was now working in a dentist’s office, such was the clinical cleanliness and look of the place.
“Hmm … quite a busy day ahead of us,” he remarked, scanning down the list of events, refreshing his memory from the night before. Nothing had changed.
“It’s such a pity. I was hoping for a slight alteration in the schedule to allow me to attend the Council hearing early. Council members are often more willing to engage in unofficial chatter before the meeting convenes.” She watched as her confidant perked up with the cold apple juice—a personal favorite of his as well.
“Well, except Loretta,” said Christopher.
“That’s true,” said Freda, bemused. The head of the Council, Loretta, had been the Council lead for the past 500 years and ruled it with an iron fist. She
Thomas felt deflated. “So the less I hear about Section 51, the better?”
“Yes,” said Richards. “Good night, Mr. President.”
Thomas watched the two elderly men gather their things. He felt strange, almost like being drunk, with such news. It was a big pill to swallow. They headed for the door.
“Gentlemen,” said the president deeply, turning around to look at both of them. “Good night.”
“Goodnight, Mr. President,” they said in unison before leaving.
Thomas watched them go, his mind spinning. It wasn’t their first meeting with a president about aliens, and it would not be their last, either.
Gail called two chauffeured cars for them as they left the Oval Office.
Chapter 3
Freda moved her little gold handheld mirror left and right, a gift from General Richards. After all these years—more than a century, she reminded herself—she was used to seeing a slightly tanned reflection staring back at her. While she had the purest of white skin, she used a skin toner to bring her appearance into the “human realm,” as she liked to put it. Apart from skin color, there was no need to disguise anything else. Intelligent life in the known galaxy, so sparse and rare, seemed to follow predefined physical characteristics—two arms, two legs, etc. It was a topic of intense research and debate throughout the alliance, with many wondering whether a super race had seeded the galaxy with life in their image. Even the Council members all looked similar, despite representing four very different civilizations. They were only distinguishable in race by their eye colors, which tended to be solid and striking compared to the human iris. Once makeup was applied, Freda looked like a short sixty-year-old pensioner with an affection for brightly colored skirt suits.
“Good morning, Christopher,” she said.
Her long-time elderly assistant came in with some fresh apple juice for the two of them. Section 51, the deep underground bunker that housed their operation, was quiet at this early hour. A drawer opened from her desk, and she placed the mirror carefully inside. The daily meeting with Christopher—drinking smooth apple juice while discussing the day’s diary—had been a ritual for the past forty years. The right type of juice was imperative; the first time she tasted unsmoothed apple juice, she nearly choked.
“Freda,” said Christopher Quincy with a smile, lowering himself into the chair before her desk. Freda remembered a time when he had much more energy in their morning briefings, but that was, for a human, a long time ago. She watched as he plopped two cubes of ice into each glass, relaxed, and unzipped his folder. Time for another day to begin.
“Let’s have it,” she finally said. Her office wasn’t overly extravagant or large—she had no interest in such trappings. The last renovation had seen a brighter color scheme used throughout the facility, with modern furniture and computers installed. Christopher always remarked how he felt like he was now working in a dentist’s office, such was the clinical cleanliness and look of the place.
“Hmm … quite a busy day ahead of us,” he remarked, scanning down the list of events, refreshing his memory from the night before. Nothing had changed.
“It’s such a pity. I was hoping for a slight alteration in the schedule to allow me to attend the Council hearing early. Council members are often more willing to engage in unofficial chatter before the meeting convenes.” She watched as her confidant perked up with the cold apple juice—a personal favorite of his as well.
“Well, except Loretta,” said Christopher.
“That’s true,” said Freda, bemused. The head of the Council, Loretta, had been the Council lead for the past 500 years and ruled it with an iron fist. She
Readers choose
Scott Nicholson
John Dahlgren
Nancy Warren
Iain Rowan
Morgan Wolfe
Conn Iggulden
Victoria Klahr
Andrew Cracknell
Will Shetterly