Of course, humans everywhere have always been intolerant about anything they perceive as foreign. Here on Earth, they're still fighting over differences in religion, of all things.
After a pregnant pause, Isabella says into the silence. "You did what you felt you had to, and it worked. We'll just have to be extra careful for a while. Now, why don't you watch something else? I'll make us some iced tea."
Olivia starts flipping channels with her phone, not finding anything to spark her interest. After a few moments, she gives up and tells their AI house-assistant, Jarvis, to turn off the TV. Then she walks to the window, and spots a few news vans still parked outside. "Mom, the stupid reporters are still outside," she yells.
"Oh, honey, relax. I'm sure by later today or tomorrow, your brother will be old news."
❖❖❖
Claire Adams scans Minister Bannon's daily briefs while she sits in the break room of the Head Minister's mansion. When herespresso is ready, she downs the shot in one swallow. Then she takes a deep breath, gets up, and walks past the stoic Secret Service personnel to the Head Minister's briefing room. She knocks on the door and waits until it unlocks.
"Good morning, Mr. Head Minister," Claire says brightly as she steps into the room. There's not a perkiness clause in her contract, not officially, but there might as well be. HM Bannon hates it when she's not upbeat, and makes his displeasure known in spiteful little ways.
Bannon looks up. "Hello, Claire," he says as he directs her to have a seat. "I hear they're calling the incident in Port Jarvis an alien terrorist attack?"
"Yes sir! We've struck gold, Mr. Head Minister," Claire says with excitement. "Our base constituency is up in arms. Your Tweet this morning is all the news is talking about."
"Good. And the opposition?" Bannon asks as he stands and looks out the window, hands on his hips as he surveys his world. And Claire has no doubt that he does consider it his, as much as any king might see the kingdom as his, rather than his and his people's. Bannon's senses of loyalty and responsibility go no farther than his skin, but he does allow others to clutch his coattails for the ride — as long as they're useful.
"Still standing firm. Even with the incident, the polls have your approval rating at 40%, only a slight increase from last month."
Bannon starts pacing from one side of the room to the other, his dark hair already awry. It has a mind of its own and, though it adds to his boyish charm for it to be occasionally disheveled, neither of them wants him pegged as another British aristocrat. She'll have to call in the tonsorial staff after this meeting. "Why can't they see that I'm trying to get our world back? These aliens have exploited us nearly to the point of extermination. With only a fraction of the world still habitable, there's no room for them and us."
"Mr. Head Minister, your message is working," Claire says firmly. "It's just going to take some time. Even if we're outnumbered, our base is more committed, more loyal, and more organized than the opposition. Plus, with the downfall of the Euperians, the Ucte are more interested in our resources than in trying to police us as a people."
Bannon sits back down at his desk. "Well, we can't just let them take everything we have. They've already mined out half the asteroid and Kuiper belts. What's next? Halley's Comet? Dismantling Saturn?" His attention shifts in an instant. "Of course, I do have to keep giving our constituents the tools and resources to defend themselves and our movement," he says with a smirk. "It's time our people get their rights to bear arms again."
"Mr. Head Minister," Claire says, choosing her words carefully, "I think that's a brilliant idea, but I do think this is an act that the Ucte will ferociously object to."
"I don't care. We have to act now, while they're still occupied with the aftermath of their war. I want to be remembered as the man who won Earth back."
❖❖❖
Dr. Buchanan strides into the room to check on his patient. "Sorry, Jim — didn't mean to wake you up," he says to Zack's father, who's stirring in the green vinyl armchair next to the bed.
"It's fine. How's my son doing?"
"He's doing fine, Jim, better than expected," Buchanan replies heartily as he studies the monitors. "We expect him to come out of his coma soon."
"How soon?"
"That we can't tell you. Could be today, could be in a couple of days. But this is a healing coma, and he's improving rapidly. You know how hardy your kids are."
Jim looks at his boy. He has a hard time believing that Zack could ever get hurt this badly. When he was younger, he never really got injured, not even when he fell out of trees (a distressingly frequent occurrence), and he was never sick. That stymied his ability to fake illness so he could get the occasional day off from school, because his parents knew better.
"Did I ever tell you about the time we found out Zack was special?" Jim asks. "He was nine years old. We were out in the woods, and I was showing him how to make a campfire. He caught on quickly and had the fire going in minutes. He put a marshmallow on a stick and started heating it up. I went back to the tent to get Isabella and Olivia, and as we were coming back, Isabella starts screaming his name. Half of his right arm was on fire. We were expecting the worst, but there wasn't a single mark on him. His sleeve burned off, but he was completely fine."
Jim paused, trying
