Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #22 January 2016 | Page 17

going through the goon. There was a nice sized
picture window in the foyer he could jump through, if
necessary. Assuming it was glass and not transparent
aluminium or some other advanced and not jumpthrough-able material.
“General Hargrove,” Senator Richards said
as he entered the foyer. He extended his hand. The
general took it.
“Senator, thank you for seeing me.”
“Not at all. I have a few other guests here for
dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”

Hargrove recognised some of them. Congressman
Lincoln Paisley from Wisconsin—an up-andcomer who Hargrove knew was infested with astral
parasites—was chatting with a senior executive
from General Dynamics. Sitting on the couch was
the Russian ambassador and his wife, an FSB ninja.
Hargrove had had his boys do a brain suck on the
ambassador. The report was, at least, simple. “Boobs,
farm animals.”
“General Hargrove.” Hargrove recognised the
man approaching him, a lobbyist with HPL Partners.
“Good to see you again.”
“Yeah…um…”

Hargrove expected an aid or two. And goons,
of course. Always goons. But not guests.
“Some of what I have to say might be
classified.”
them.”

“Oh, my guests all have clearances. Lots of

Hargrove knew he had to persevere. Besides,
the point really wasn’t what he had to say; it was
getting close enough to link minds with the Senator.
“We’re in the lounge. How are things with you
and your people?”
“Good, Senator.”
“I saw the report on that thing in Antarctica.
Good job.”
“You know how Nazis are.”
The Senator looked at Hargrove and frowned.
“Um, I mean, wanting to conquer the world
and needing to be stopped.”
“Uh huh.”
The two men entered the lounge. A dozen
people were already there, drinking and talking.

“Leslie Clay.”
“Leslie, right. Sorry, I’m bad with faces.”
That wasn’t really true; he just saw lobbyists as
interchangeable meat puppets.
“No problem.”
Hargrove looked past Clay at the woman
approaching. She was stunning with sharp features,
long red hair and deep blue eyes.
“Les, who’s this?” she purred, looping her arm
through Leslie’s.
“This is General Hargrove, dear. General, my
wife, Drusilla.”
“Ma’am.”
“I love men in uniform.” She reached out and
touched Hargrove’s arm. He felt an odd sensation, like
he had struck his elbow on the co