committee code-named Majestic-12 and headquartered it at Area 51. It dealt with things, well, things that go bump, slither, explode, infect, etc., in the night. Sometimes in the daytime too. And the committee also dealt with the screwups, intentional or not, of scientists, which were growing exponentially. That was much more common, especially now that the atom had been split. With scientists pushing the edge of our knowledge, often venturing past that edge, the world was a more dangerous place than it had ever been.
So units had been founded, such as the Nightstalkers, which Ms. Jones had commanded.
All these secret if-I-tell-you-about-them-I-have-to-kill-you-and-cut-your-head-off-and-stick-it-in-a-safe organizations fell under the domain of the Cellar as far as discipline was concerned. Which meant Hannah held the life of every single person in the covert world in her hands. Well, her head actually, which was much better than any safe.
Once a housewife in St. Louis, she’d been chosen, recruited, and tested by her predecessor, Nero, through a crucible of near death, with Neeley at her side.
Like Nero, she could order a Sanction on anyone, which meant the field operative whom she dispatched, much like Neeley was doing in the Pacific Northwest with Roland, was judge, jury, and executioner. There was to be no formal trial, no lawyers, no mercy.
The Cellar had been founded by Presidential Decree in order to legally do the illegal.
“So.” Hannah said it as a statement and an inducement for input. “Moms is out. Who do we replace Ms. Jones with to command the Nightstalkers?”
“Why is Moms out?” Frasier asked.
Golden answered, “She’s too close to the members of the team.”
Frasier smiled, without managing to convey any warmth. “She’s not as close to the team as you might think she is. Or she thinks she is.” And then Frasier pulled his patented move, removing his sunglasses and revealing his one solid black artificial eye, surrounded by scar tissue.
Golden was ready for it. “Reading me, Mister Frasier?” She was referring to the eye’s ability to pick up changes in her body temperature and other data and feed it into his brain. A crude, but effective lie detector.
“No, Ms. Golden.”
“It’s Doctor Golden.”
“Is there a need for me to read you?” Frasier asked, and it was unclear whether the question was directed to her or Hannah.
“We’re all on the same side here,” Hannah said.
“Right,” Frasier said. “By the way, Doctor Golden, I have a doctorate too, but I’ll go with Mister Frasier. On the team they just called me Frasier. But you’re not on the team,” he added, “so Mister will do just fine.”
“And why did you get that name?” Golden asked. “The Nightstalkers christen each new member with a single moniker based on first impressions, don’t they?”
Frasier smiled. “Guess they thought I was a bit like the character from that old TV show.”
“Fussy, stuck-up, narcissistic?”
“Maybe,” Frasier said. “Then again, maybe it was for my wonderful sense of humor and keen observation of the traits of others.” He shrugged. “The Nightstalkers make snap suggestions during the naming ceremony, working off first impressions, and we both know how misleading those can be.” He shifted his attention to Hannah. “And then Ms. Jones makes the final determination of each team member’s new name, and you’re stuck with it whether apropos or not.”
“Sort of how we were burned by Burns?” Golden asked, referring to a not-too-long-ago mission.
“Nice play on words,” Frasier allowed.
“Did you handle his psychological vetting?” Golden asked.
“I did,” Frasier said. “As they say in the artillery, looked good when he left me.”
Hannah interrupted, getting them back on track. “We have been without Ms. Jones’s services for a bit too long now.”
“Pitr has been doing an adequate job,” Frasier said. “Why not leave him in place? He knows
So units had been founded, such as the Nightstalkers, which Ms. Jones had commanded.
All these secret if-I-tell-you-about-them-I-have-to-kill-you-and-cut-your-head-off-and-stick-it-in-a-safe organizations fell under the domain of the Cellar as far as discipline was concerned. Which meant Hannah held the life of every single person in the covert world in her hands. Well, her head actually, which was much better than any safe.
Once a housewife in St. Louis, she’d been chosen, recruited, and tested by her predecessor, Nero, through a crucible of near death, with Neeley at her side.
Like Nero, she could order a Sanction on anyone, which meant the field operative whom she dispatched, much like Neeley was doing in the Pacific Northwest with Roland, was judge, jury, and executioner. There was to be no formal trial, no lawyers, no mercy.
The Cellar had been founded by Presidential Decree in order to legally do the illegal.
“So.” Hannah said it as a statement and an inducement for input. “Moms is out. Who do we replace Ms. Jones with to command the Nightstalkers?”
“Why is Moms out?” Frasier asked.
Golden answered, “She’s too close to the members of the team.”
Frasier smiled, without managing to convey any warmth. “She’s not as close to the team as you might think she is. Or she thinks she is.” And then Frasier pulled his patented move, removing his sunglasses and revealing his one solid black artificial eye, surrounded by scar tissue.
Golden was ready for it. “Reading me, Mister Frasier?” She was referring to the eye’s ability to pick up changes in her body temperature and other data and feed it into his brain. A crude, but effective lie detector.
“No, Ms. Golden.”
“It’s Doctor Golden.”
“Is there a need for me to read you?” Frasier asked, and it was unclear whether the question was directed to her or Hannah.
“We’re all on the same side here,” Hannah said.
“Right,” Frasier said. “By the way, Doctor Golden, I have a doctorate too, but I’ll go with Mister Frasier. On the team they just called me Frasier. But you’re not on the team,” he added, “so Mister will do just fine.”
“And why did you get that name?” Golden asked. “The Nightstalkers christen each new member with a single moniker based on first impressions, don’t they?”
Frasier smiled. “Guess they thought I was a bit like the character from that old TV show.”
“Fussy, stuck-up, narcissistic?”
“Maybe,” Frasier said. “Then again, maybe it was for my wonderful sense of humor and keen observation of the traits of others.” He shrugged. “The Nightstalkers make snap suggestions during the naming ceremony, working off first impressions, and we both know how misleading those can be.” He shifted his attention to Hannah. “And then Ms. Jones makes the final determination of each team member’s new name, and you’re stuck with it whether apropos or not.”
“Sort of how we were burned by Burns?” Golden asked, referring to a not-too-long-ago mission.
“Nice play on words,” Frasier allowed.
“Did you handle his psychological vetting?” Golden asked.
“I did,” Frasier said. “As they say in the artillery, looked good when he left me.”
Hannah interrupted, getting them back on track. “We have been without Ms. Jones’s services for a bit too long now.”
“Pitr has been doing an adequate job,” Frasier said. “Why not leave him in place? He knows
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