Free Brother Termite by Patricia Anthony

Womack said.
    Reen concentrated on the whirls of the wood paneling, how they nested into one another, shape into shape, like waves seen from a height. He lost himself briefly in the comfort of its pattern.
    The elevator stopped. The doors rumbled open. A worried voice: “Sir? Is everything all right?”
    “Elevator goes up,” Womack chirped in his official-idiot voice. “Elevator goes down.”
    “Yes, Mr. President.”
    The doors rumbled closed. The car lifted.
    “Are you still talking to me?” Womack asked.
    “No.”
    “You trust people too much, termite.”
    “You and my Brother should get together, since you both enjoy lecturing me.”
    The door opened. Reen walked out of the vestibule and headed to the stairs.
    “Your Brother’s in the middle of it,” Womack said, grabbing his arm.
    In the study Lizard was sitting calmly in his chair, drinking his coffee. Their gazes met. Lizard’s eyes had the tranquil self-assuredness of a man twice his size.
    The President marched Reen back to the elevator, pulled a key from his pocket, inserted it into a brass plate, and turned. The car stayed put; the doors stayed shut.
    “Did you hear me?” Womack asked.
    “Yes. But I don’t believe you.”
    The President leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “I’m scared to death, termite.”
    Reen was frightened, too. Frightened by the voices the medium had heard in the night; by Womack’s lunacy.
    “Get rid of Cole and Hopkins. They’re spiders. You can’t walk around Washington without getting a faceful of web.”
    “But only you can fire them.”
    “Forge my signature like you usually do.”
    “If you’re so worried about them, why don’t you abandon your strike and fire them yourself?”
    “You took my office.”
    “I will give it back.”
    “No thanks.”
    Ordinarily Reen liked tight places, but the small elevator car was beginning to suffocate him. Womack was close enough for Reen to feel the heat of his body.
    “You fire Krupner yet?” the President asked.
    “Do you think he’s in on it, too?”
    “Not Krupner. But you’d better fire him all the same. It’ll give you some practice. Never fired anyone before, right? Okay. First, you go in and sit on his desk. He sits in his chair. That gives you the advantage of height. Then you say something like, ‘You know we’re all fond of you, Hans.’ That way he won’t be able to bitch about it being personal. You tell him, ‘But lately you haven’t been pulling your own weight.’ You with me so far?”
    “You haven’t been pulling your own weight,” Reen repeated dubiously.
    “That’s the way. Then you say, ‘We need a good halfback, someone who can carry the ball. You just haven’t been advancing the offense upfield.’ Understand?”
    “No.”
    “Doesn’t matter. You tell him. He’ll get the idea. Then you call the Germans and tell them you fired Krupner. Don’t tell them before. Work from a position of strength, otherwise the bastards will think they can yank your dick every time you turn around.”
    “Are you sure it’s wise to make the Germans angry right now? An army is mobilizing on the border of China, and the CIA says the Germans are behind it.”
    Womack clapped his palms together with glee. “That’s perfect! If the Germans are planning to invade China, they won’t dare give you any grief over Krupner.” The President took the key from its plate and pocketed it. Before he left, he leaned toward Reen, his eyes abnormally wide, mouth pursed, forefinger to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone what we talked about. It’s dangerous.”
    Reen wondered which was more dangerous, Womack’s paranoia or discussing Womack’s paranoia with a third party.
    In the hall he paused, undecided. In the fifty years since the landing, Jeff Womack’s guidance had been invaluable, consistently astute. But Reen was beginning to see it was now necessary to separate the President’s kernels of reason from their demented chaff. Firing