Chapter 13 #3
The cabin was smaller inside than I expected, but warm and meticulously organized in a way that screamed military precision.
A woodstove radiated heat in the corner, waves of warmth washing over me as I stepped inside.
The main room served as a living space, kitchen, and command center all at once.
But it was the far wall that drew my attention.
A bank of computer monitors, at least six screens mounted side by side, displaying news feeds, data streams, and what looked like encrypted communications channels.
The blue glow reflected off Cullen's face as he moved past them to the kitchen, casting him in an eerie light.
"Jesus, Cullen," I breathed, staring at the setup, overwhelmed by the sophistication of it. "When you said you were taking leave, I didn't realize you meant you were running a private intelligence operation."
He pulled three mugs from a cabinet, his back to us, movements automatic.
"When your daughter disappears, and the FBI tells you to stop asking questions, you find other ways to get answers.
" His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, but I heard the pain beneath it, the grief that never faded.
"Plus, someone needs to keep an eye on what's actually happening in this country. "
Rickon had positioned himself near the door, still cautious, still ready, his eyes tracking every movement Cullen made.
"So, what’s been happening?" I asked, shrugging off my coat and moving closer to the monitors, drawn by the flickering images. "I've been... off the grid."
Cullen poured coffee into the mugs, the rich smell filling the cabin and making my mouth water. "You want the short version or the long version?"
"Start with whatever I need to know right now."
He handed me a mug, the ceramic warm against my frozen fingers, then one to Rickon, who accepted it with a nod. Cullen took his own and leaned against the counter, his free hand gesturing toward the screens.
"Your double—whoever the hell that is—held a press conference last night." He pulled up a video on one of the monitors with a remote. "Nineteen hundred hours. Major policy announcement."
My stomach dropped like a stone. "What kind of announcement?"
"AI integration into all military and intelligence operations.
Full spectrum. Everything from battlefield tactics to spy satellite analysis to interrogation protocols.
He's calling it the 'National Security Intelligence Enhancement Initiative.
'" Cullen's mouth twisted like he'd tasted something bitter. "Real Orwellian bullshit."
"Skynet much?" I muttered, but my heart was racing.
Cullen hit play. The screen filled with the Oval Office insignia, and there I was—or rather, there Declan was.
Sitting behind the Resolute Desk, looking every inch the confident commander-in-chief.
Her hair was perfect. Her makeup was perfect.
Her posture was perfect. Too perfect. Like a wax figure, an uncanny version of me that made my skin crawl.
"My fellow Americans," she began, and hearing my own voice coming from that thing made me want to reach through the screen and tear her apart.
"We stand at a crossroads in human history.
Our adversaries grow stronger, more sophisticated, more dangerous every day.
To protect our nation, we must evolve. We must embrace the tools that will give us the decisive advantage we need. "
I exchanged a look with Rickon. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark with understanding. We were both thinking the same thing. Alien interference. This wasn't just about power or control. This was about something bigger, something that reached beyond Earth, something that threatened everything.
"The integration of advanced artificial intelligence into our military and intelligence apparatus represents the next generation of national defense," my double continued, her voice calm, measured, and utterly convincing.
"These systems will process information faster, identify threats more accurately, and respond to dangers more efficiently than any human operator ever could.
This is not about replacing our brave men and women in uniform.
It's about giving them every possible advantage. "
"When does this go into effect?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, dreading the answer.
"Implementation begins in ninety-six hours," Cullen said, his voice grim. "Congress rubber-stamped it this morning. Emergency powers, national security threat, the usual justifications. Passed with overwhelming bipartisan support."
"Of course it did," I said bitterly, tasting bile in the back of my throat.
On screen, my double smiled—warm, reassuring, presidential.
The kind of smile I'd practiced in mirrors, perfected over years of public service.
"I know change can be frightening. But I promise you, these measures are designed solely to keep you and your families safe.
Trust in your government. Trust in the process.
Together, we will build a safer, stronger America. "
Cullen stopped the video. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, pressing down on me like a physical weight.
"That's not AI enhancement," Rickon said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence.
It was the first time he'd spoken since entering the cabin.
"That's a takeover. Once those systems are in place, once AI controls your military infrastructure.
..." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. We all understood the implications.
I set my mug down before I dropped it. My hands were shaking, trembling so hard that the coffee sloshed dangerously. "We have to stop this."
"How?" Cullen asked bluntly, his eyes boring into mine. "You're a fugitive, Ellie. The rest of the world thinks you're safe in the White House. The moment you show your face anywhere near Washington, you'll be arrested. Or worse."
"Then we find another way."
"There is no other way." He moved to one of the monitors and pulled up a different screen. "You need to see this."
My face appeared again, but this time it was different. Security camera footage, grainy and dark, time-stamped from days ago. Rickon and me running from the docks, our forms blurred but recognizable.
"Fuck," Rickon muttered, moving closer to see better.
Then came the official photos. Mine was the same one I'd seen before, where I held a gun. And beside it, an artist's rendering of Rickon based on security footage. Surprisingly accurate despite the limited source material, capturing the intensity in his eyes, the set of his jaw.
"These went out a few days ago," Cullen said, his voice heavy. "Every law enforcement agency in the country. Every intelligence service. Every military installation." He pulled up the bulletin, and I felt my blood turn to ice as I read, the words blurring together as my vision tunneled.
FEDERAL FUGITIVE WARRANT
TASHA URBESKI - ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS
RICKON PETROV- ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS
SHOOT ON SIGHT AUTHORIZATION IN EFFECT
"Shoot on sight?" My voice came out strangled, barely recognizable. "They're authorized to execute us without trial... and they made us Russian?"
"Not just authorized. Encouraged, and they made you Uzbekistan, not Russian," Cullen scrolled down, revealing more text, each line worse than the last. "Presidential order.
Signed by your double. You're designated as a clear and present danger to national security.
Anyone who aids or shelters you faces federal charges. Treason."
He turned from the monitor, his expression grim, lines deepening in his weathered face. "Whoever is behind this, they're not taking chances, Ellie. They want you dead."
I sank into the nearest chair, the weight of it crushing down on me, pressing the air from my lungs. "What are you saying? That there's nothing we can do? That we just... give up?"
"I'm saying you're not going to stop this by storming the White House." Cullen's voice softened slightly. "I'm saying we need to be smart. Strategic. You can't fight this head-on, Ellie. Not when they control the narrative, the military, and apparently your own face."
He pulled up another image. The press conference again, my double smiling that perfect smile that made me want to scream.
"We need to figure out who or what that thing is," he continued, pacing now. "And we need proof. Real, undeniable proof that you've been replaced. Something so damning that even a complicit Congress can't ignore it."
"I know who it is," I groused, frowning, feeling anger rising to replace despair. I glanced at Rickon, and his faint nod told me he agreed wholeheartedly. "And I know who can help us."
"Who?" Cullen demanded, his tone skeptical but not dismissive, leaning forward with sudden interest.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself. "You're going to want to sit down for this, and you have to promise not to freak out and start shooting."
Cullen's eyes darted to where his rifle leaned against the doorframe, but he nodded curtly in agreement.
I glanced at Rickon. He met my gaze, and I saw the question there—are you sure?
I nodded, my heart pounding so hard I felt it in my throat.
Rickon reached up and touched the device at his belt. The air around him shimmered, like heat rising off asphalt in summer, distorting the space around him. And then the illusion fell away like a curtain dropping.
His body expanded, muscles and bones revealing themselves as something wholly other, wholly alien.
Wings unfurled with a sound like canvas snapping in wind, membranes stretched, translucent and veined.
His copper skin caught the light from the monitors, reflecting it back in shades of bronze and gold.
The temperature in the room seemed to rise as if Rickon's true form generated its own heat, waves of warmth rolling off him.
The entire transformation took maybe five seconds.
To his credit, Cullen didn't reach for his weapon. Didn't scramble backward. Didn't even shout. He just stood there, coffee mug frozen halfway to his mouth, eyes wide, jaw slack, face cycling through shock, disbelief, and then—incredibly—wonder.
Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
"I knew it." He set the mug down carefully, never taking his eyes off Rickon, drinking in every detail of his form. "I goddamn knew you fuckers existed."