The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(5)
Only you are brilliant, Nevaeh. It’s why we chose you. You are going to bring peace to those who wish it, and death to those who resist. You will rule with us at your side. Now set off the bomb, destroy all the incessant noise in the heavens, and we will come for you.
The familiar melodious voices of many and yet only one in her head made her square her shoulders. Any time she felt a moment of weakness, of self-doubt, her astral friends would remind her of her purpose, remind her of what was important.
Of course, she never told her boss, Jean-Pierre Broussard, founder and owner of Galactus, about how she spoke with the Numen. He knew all about her claims nearly a decade ago of communicating with astral beings on the ISS, and it had made him more excited to hire her, not less. She had wondered many times what would happen if she announced to the world that a glorious new day was coming. But she knew. She’d be laughed at, declared insane, space crazy. She thought of that bitch, Rebecca Holloway, the vaunted shrink at NASA, who’d managed to have her grounded for good with her lies about Nevaeh’s mental status. She’d overruled Franklin Norgate, the flight director, Nevaeh’s friend. But then again, maybe she was wrong about Franklin, maybe he did believe Holloway’s judgment. At least Holloway couldn’t have openly declared her insane, no, that had remained internal, but what she’d done was just as bad. She’d made sure Nevaeh was denied what she’d desired more than anything else—to be in space. Where she belonged.
But who cared about Dr. Rebecca Holloway now? She’d gotten what she deserved and that made Nevaeh smile.
Did Jean-Pierre believe her experience in space? It didn’t matter. Happily, he wasn’t ever in her face. He stayed out of the way of the people who knew how to run the business. Unlike some of the stories she’d heard about other private space companies, Jean-Pierre was not a hands-on owner. His was a light touch, and he gave her free rein. He’d built the Galactus company from scratch, raised the money to get the first rockets off the ground, then found her. Together they’d assembled the best and the brightest to run Galactus. He was only involved when there were PR problems, or when he felt the need to touch base with the angels—venture capitalists who invested in the company from time to time when they were needed. He had an almost inexhaustible bank account himself and was smart enough to know what to spend it on. With her at the helm, Galactus stayed flush.
Broussard’s dedication was always to the bottom line. He wanted Galactus to be the most respected, the best. Galactus wasn’t the only private aerospace company in Europe, but they’d taken the lead because Nevaeh had found ways to launch satellites quickly, with reusable rockets. Had she stolen ideas from SpaceX, one of the most successful private space companies in the world? “Certainly,” Jean-Pierre loved to say, winking at the cameras. “When the best exists, you might as well learn from them. Galactus will be to Europe what SpaceX is to America. There’s room for all of us in space. It’s infinite, after all.”
After Jean-Pierre had hired her to run his company in 2013, knowing she was more than capable, he’d sailed off on his megayacht, The Griffon, to search for treasure buried in the sea. The arrangement worked wonderfully for them both—Nevaeh hated oversight, and Jean-Pierre hated day-to-day business management.
It was The Griffon Nevaeh now contacted to report in to Jean-Pierre, as always, about the successful launch.
She dialed, the satellite uplinked to the yacht, and Jean-Pierre’s handsome face appeared on her computer screen—tanned, dark eyes, white teeth flashing, salt-and-pepper hair mussed from the salt spray, his Roman nose slightly pink from too much sun. His beard was beginning to gray a bit, but it only added to his charisma. He was so very French. When she’d first met him, he’d looked exactly like what she would expect from a billionaire playboy who’d parlayed his life into treasure hunting on the high seas. But he wasn’t a playboy. He was whip-smart, and proved it because he’d instantly seen her potential. Whenever a competitor made a snide comment about her, one even going so far as to call her crazy, Jean-Pierre had dealt with them immediately.
Of course she wasn’t crazy, she wasn’t. What would he say if he knew who and what she really was? What she really wanted? From him? No matter what happened, she would always admire him, no, worship him, for what he’d taught her, what he’d enabled her to understand and believe in—the Holy Grail. Ah, she’d doubted and argued, but he’d shown her document after document, until she finally believed the Grail existed. “It will make one who is worthy immortal,” he’d said over and over, and she knew he believed it. Was he so anxious to live forever? He never said. But then she realized what it would mean—the Numen were immortal and she could be as well. She would be with them forever.
“Nevaeh, ma chérie, you’re smiling from ear to ear. I can assume then the launch, as usual, was perfect?”
“Perfection personified, Jean-Pierre. To think, this is almost becoming routine. We’re on schedule for ninety-six launches this fiscal year, as you expected.”
“Wonderful. Congratulations to us.”
“Yes, absolutely. The engineers are maneuvering the satellite into position and they will report in when they’ve finished, but I anticipate no problems.” She paused an instant, then asked what she really wanted to know about, what the Numen were always asking now. “How is the search going?”