43 Days to Oblivion (The Jolo Vargas Space Opera Series Book 2)

her work without a glance in Filcher’s direction. She scanned every corner, his books, the old leather chair, then she got close to him and had the nerve to wave the black wand across his chest. He grabbed her arm and it was like he’d grabbed the arm of a statue. He couldn’t move the twig-armed girl’s hand down away from his body. But that was only for a split-second, and then she squealed like he’d poked her with a stick and her arm came down, like a girl. But she was no girl. She wasn’t human. If you weren’t looking for it you’d never see it. She moved gracefully. But there was something off, something very subtle. She moved too gracefully.

“You brought one of those onto my ship!” Filcher yelled at the President, who was sitting in his leather chair.

“One of those?” the President mocked him. “My assistant Alyce? I’m sorry, Commander, she’s new.” Once the girl was through she nodded and stood by the door, hands behind her back. And then the President got down to business.

“Why am I here?” he said.

“To make sure I’m on board.”

“See, that’s why I chose you. You know the score. You understand the game we are playing. Most of it, at least. So, are you on board?”

Filcher shifted in his seat, his hand instinctively reaching for the flask. The girl took two lightening quick steps towards him. He couldn’t pull his hand out empty so he pulled out the flask and took a drink, offered it to the President who waved it off.

“Yeah,” he said, sliding the whiskey back into his pocket. His fingers gliding over the pistol. He thought about it for a split second. And right on cue, as if she could read his frakking mind, the girl took another step forward. He wondered if he could get the gun out in time. Probably not. And even if he could, they’d kill him and everyone on his boat. It’d be an accident way the frak out in deep space, and the Fed would send out 2000 of those little blue boxes families get when one of the military dies.

The President rehashed his sales speech. “Silas, you supported me when we made the alliance. That saved lives: civilian and military. The war stopped. And you zoomed up the ranks. Look at us now, two leaders. Leaders make difficult decisions. Now we have to do it again.”

“They ask too much.”

“Here’s the deal, Commander, oh, I’m sorry. You’re an Admiral now. Thanks to me. Now I’ll lay it out simple so even a military man can get it. You got two options: 1. Fight and Die. 2. Stand down and Live. Humanity must survive.”

“Leave,” Filcher said to the synth girl. She did not move. He turned to the President, “Tell your little robot pet to leave or we’ll see if her circuits can withstand an energy blast.”

“She’s mostly biological,” said the President to Filcher, then turned to the woman: “Can you wait in the common area down the hall?”

“He will not be pleased,” she said.

“He?” said Filcher.

“Yes, He!” yelled the President. “Who do you think holds the cards in this little game? Not me!”

Filcher couldn’t help but stare at the blond abomination standing there smug and satisfied. He will not be pleased. Filcher loosened his tie and spun his chair to the side, slid his hand into his pocket and brought his hand gun out. But before he could level it on the skinny synth girl she had leapt over the table. One hand a vice around his neck, then other hand the gun. It was like he’d been chained down, immovable.

He stared into her synthetic eyes, unreadable. A human would show emotion: anger, hate, fear. She showed him nothing. She looked at the President. Filcher knew what that meant: Should I kill him?

The President shook his head, no. And he put his face close to Filcher’s, the girl’s hand still on his neck, still choking him, his head pressed back against his chair. “Do you see your options a little more clearly now? Die, or not die. It’s so simple. Silas Filcher, controlling half the fleet, a war hero, can’t even defeat this little girl they have created. How could you possibly think to defeat all of their ships? We have exactly ten Defenders. Ten Galaxy class warships. They have fifty. Fifty!” he yelled. “Do the math, Admiral. It’s a bigger number! You don’t need to see the computer models to know the outcome of a war with these worms. Their boats are bigger and have better guns and stronger defenses. They’ve got double the amount of gunships. Double the transports. And they’ve got thousands of these little creatures,” he said, putting his hand on the synth girl’s shoulder. She gave him a cold, blank look and he pulled it back.

“Imagine about 5000 of these unleashed on Sol. Can you imagine them running through the streets of Valaris, streaming into the core Fed buildings killing everyone that matters? Leaving only the strong to work in some Alacyte factory. These synthetic creatures were a gift from the Vellos, God rest their souls. See, the Vellosians didn’t even have a chance to survive. We do.” He nodded at the girl and she wrenched the gun out of Filcher’s hand and released her grip on his neck.

She glided back to her spot, still clutching the gun. For a moment he thought she might try and crush it in her hand, but she just dropped it and it landed under the