Read [The Fear Saga 01] - Fear the Sky (2014) for Free Online Page A

decrypted e-mail from the European Space Agency to the minister and decided that Mr. Marchelier would probably want an immediate update on its contents.
    Standing up, she nodded at the two dangerous-looking members of the French Secret Service who made up her security detail while she carried the case, and walked through the main door, heading toward the club’s concierge desk. They were behind her in an instant, maintaining a respectful distance and an ever-watchful eye on her as she asked to use the club’s printer, transferring the now decrypted report she has just received to an SD card and plugging it into the printer’s side.
    * * *
    The minister was engrossed in a lengthy article about Pascal Mercier’s Night Train to Lisbon when Jeanette walked up and stood just out of earshot, awaiting permission to approach. Though he did not look up, he noticed her waiting. As was his way, he finished the paragraph he was reading, smiled a moment at a particularly erudite simile, and then looked up at his expectant assistant. At a wave of François-Xavier’s hand, she stepped forward and whispered in his ear, handing him a report as she did so. He nodded, took a minute to flip through the multi-page report as she stood patiently at his shoulder, and then asked: “Has the navy confirmed this?”
    “Yes, sir, their comments are at the bottom. It appears to be benign enough, but I thought I’d let you know there will be a bit of a show tonight when they enter the atmosphere.”
    “Oui, Jeanette, merci beaucoup pour votre diligence.” he said, and she nodded to him with a polite smile and turned to walk away. The Frenchman read the report again. Apparently they were going to have quite the fireworks display tonight. He checked the probabilities of landfall and their relevance to France and her protectorates and nodded. Nothing to be afraid about, but still, something of interest.
    “Bonsoir, Monsieur Le Minister.” said a voice and François-Xavier looked up, smiling as he took in the visage of Sir Stephen Packsley, a colleague of his from across la Manche and without hesitation rose to his feet to greet his sometime acquaintance.
    “How are you, Sir Stephen?” said François-Xavier, his English impeccable if heavily accented, “I didn’t know you were staying in Paris or I would have suggested we had dinner together.”
    “I’m well, Minister, trés bien, merci. Et vous?” replied Sir Stephen, waving aside the Frenchman’s apology but noting his colleague’s ever-so-slight cringe at the English stiffness Stephen applied to his French. Why, thought Stephen, are we so forgiving of the wildly incorrect ways the French pronounce English when they so stringently criticize us for the slightest mispronunciation of an ‘r’ or ‘ou?’ Nonetheless, he smiled patiently as he shook François-Xavier’s hand and accepted the man’s invitation to sit.
    They had spent the day in lengthy meetings along with many others, discussing a host of not-very-fascinating issues from immigration bylaws to farming subsidy reform, and neither of them had much of an appetite for discussing political matters. The meetings had been, as they often were, in English, the most uniformly spoken language amongst the group. Though François-Xavier was fluent in his sister language, it was still an added strain to have to speak at length in it, especially in a meeting that already strained his patience quite enough, thank you very much.
    He sighed discreetly as he mastered his frustration over the subjugation of his mother tongue to its gruff Germanic neighbor. In more forgiving moments he had often been amazed at the vast array of words that English had at its disposal, and in fairness it was an extremely nuanced and versatile language. A word for the thousand variations of any given emotion. If he hadn’t been essentially forced to speak it by its pan-global usage François-Xavier might have had some small respect for Shakespeare’s mother