Alien Tango

CHAPTER 1
    “ARE YOU SURE SHE CAN DO THIS, Captain Tucker?”
    “Absolutely, Commander Martini.” Jerry chuckled. “Like lickin’ butter off a knife.”
    “Jeff, I’ve done it already.”
    “Yeah, don’t remind me.” I could hear him talking to someone in the background. “Christopher says you shouldn’t brag about your first landing.”
    “He should talk. It was like five months ago. I’ve landed plenty of times since then.”
    “With Jerry’s help.” He was worried. It was cute. Annoying, but cute.
    “Jerry’s helping me again.”
    “Jerry’s not in the plane.” Martini sounded really stressed.
    “I’m right next to her, Commander. She’ll be fine.” I looked to my right to see Jerry passing me the “he’s really bugging me” sign. I passed the same right back.
    “Jeff? I love you. Now, shut up. I do need to concentrate.” This was true. I was landing a supersonic jet for the second time by myself. The first time had been a lot more exciting, and I define exciting to mean survival was nowhere close to a given.
    “Kitty, I’ll be right here, but I’m not talking you through anything. You ready?” Jerry didn’t sound worried. But then, that was part of his charm.
    “Yep.” I relaxed and did what Jerry had spent the better part of the last four months teaching me—how to fly and, most importantly, how to land. We were part of the new Airborne Division, created pretty much because of me. Not that I was some sort of great flier—certainly not five months ago—but because I’d managed air support so well during Operation Fugly.
    Well, that’s what I called it. Most everyone else referred to it as The Big Engagement or something equally impressive. I suppose when you take down Public Superbeing Enemy Number One and all his cronies, it does deserve an impressive title. They were just big, fugly monsters to me, but then again, I’m not from Alpha Centauri.
    It had been a shock to discover the Roswell UFO rumors had been based in a lot of truth. But now I was living in the Dulce Science Center, routinely trained out of Home Base, aka Area 51, and most of my friends and co-workers were aliens, or A-Cs, as they called themselves. You could spot them easily—they were the drop-dead gorgeous ones in black and white Armani.
    I was allowed the Armani outfit, too, but I spent most of my time in jeans and whichever concert T-shirt struck my fancy. Today, in honor of the big solo event, I was in my newest Aerosmith shirt. Steven, Joe, and the rest of my boys had never let me down, after all.
    Jerry was a great teacher, and one of the things he’d stressed was making this all seem second nature, like driving a car or killing a newly formed parasitic superbeing. So, while I was nervous, I tried to put myself into a relaxed state.
    Didn’t work.
    “Wow, that was an impressive ‘made you look’ moment,” Martini said as I pulled up to avoid slamming into the dirt. “I think my heartbeats should go back to normal in a few minutes.”
    “I went down too fast.”
    “Baby, I’ve never thought that was a problem of yours.”
    “Jeff!” Of course, he was right. And one to talk.
    “Commander Martini? Could you keep the chatter and romantic innuendos down? I really want Kitty to concentrate.” I was back up next to Jerry, and he shook his head at me. “Too slow at the start, too fast at the end.”
    “Okay, you all said it was stupid, but I want what I asked for.”
    “It’ll wreck your concentration,” Jerry said flatly.
    “It’ll help it.”
    “Oh, give her what she wants. Girlfriend, gimme the song cue.” Thank God. James Reader—human, former top international male supermodel, coolest guy in the room, and, somehow, the person in my “new life” I was closest to—was finally on the radio. I’d have been in trouble if he weren’t gay, since Martini wasn’t a man open to the idea of sharing.
    “James, we’re going with something a little off the standard path.”
    “Not Tears for Fears. Please.” I heard a lot of groaning.
    “How many of you are on the intercom?”
    “Your entire team, Alpha Team, and HQ. But no pressure,” Reader chuckled. “Now, what song?”
    “Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man.’ ” Lots of groans. “Or we could go for John Mayer’s ‘Bigger Than My Body.’ ”
    “Elton John!” Ah, the chorus of male voices choosing their lesser of two evils.
    “Why not Aerosmith?” Reader asked.
    “Because I need to slow down, not break the sound