The Trojan Horse

Chapter Twenty-Seven<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Near Mannington, Virginia
USA, Day 48

The Rawson Family hadn't been terrorists. They hadn't really been militia. They’d really been nothing more than a set of loudmouths bitching about the IRA, the EPA and every other federal organisation that made it harder for them to turn a profit from their small farm. And they’d had illegal weapons, depending on what measure was used. The definition seemed to change from time to time to whatever suited the Feds best, as far as the Colonel could tell. They never seemed to have read the Constitution. The right to bear arms could not be legally infringed.

It hadn't helped the Rawson Family. The Colonel watched from his hiding place as Betty Rawson was hauled out of her home in handcuffs and half-pushed, half-carried towards the waiting vehicles. Behind her, her youngest child was screaming in the grip of a black-suited federal officer who was clearly finding it hard to hold on to the child. On the ground, the bodies of Pat Rawson, the Patriarch of the family, and three of his sons were waiting to be taken away. They’d seen the writing on the wall the moment the Feds had arrived and put up a fight, for all the good it had done them. The Colonel doubted that any court would declare against the Feds, even though they’d killed four people. And the shootout would convince the Feds to go in hard next time.

Coming to the farm had been a risk, but it was one he had to face. He knew Blake Coleman was dead; he’d been dead long before his reanimated corpse had been used to murder dozens of innocent children, along with one of the Snakes. And yet the Colonel couldn't escape the feeling that he bore at least partial responsibility for the crime and its aftermath. All of Coleman’s heroics in war would be forgotten in the wake of the terrible crime, a crime he had never truly forgotten. The history books would forever damn him alongside all the other terrorists who’d shown their cowardly natures by striking at unarmed and defenceless sheep. There was no way to prove otherwise. That, he was sure, was why the aliens controlling him had destroyed his body. There would be no physical evidence of what they’d done.

Carefully, he peered down at the lead Federal Agent. There seemed to be something not quite right with the man, an odd inhumanity in his face. Certainly the other Feds were giving him a wide berth, as if they didn't trust him, or as if they were afraid of him. The Colonel had met his fair share of commanding officers who invoked fear rather than respect in their men, but this was different. He had the uneasy feeling that he was looking right at an alien-controlled pod person.

Having killed or captured the family, the Feds didn’t seem interested in actually searching the farm, or doing anything that might allow them to track down other leads. Instead, they were just waiting. A handful were smoking, while two others were leaning against the vehicles doing nothing. The Colonel couldn’t understand it. It was almost as if they were waiting for something, but what? A moment later, he saw the answer flying through the air towards the farm. The alien shuttle slowly came to a halt over the farm and lowered itself to the ground, forcing the Feds to scatter to give it plenty of room. A hatch opened and the first alien appeared, hopping neatly down to the ground.

The Colonel stared. It was the first alien he'd seen with his own eyes and he found himself absolutely fascinated. As a child, he’d once studied spiders and crustaceans, revelling in the feeling of staring at something utterly inhuman. He felt the same way now as the aliens advanced towards the farm. They moved with snake-like motions, bright red eyes flickering from left to right. The devices they carried in their hands had to be weapons. They were clearly designed for alien hands, rather than human usage, but the principle had to be the same. The Colonel smiled, despite himself. Some constants were truly universal.

The aliens stopped in front of the pod person and there was a brief exchange of words. It was impossible to lip-read at his distance, leaving the Colonel unaware of what was going on. A moment later, the pod person barked orders and the federal agents scrambled for their vehicles, the one with the child unceremoniously tipping him into the prisoner van along with his mother. The Feds departed at speed, leaving the aliens behind. Moments later, the aliens returned to their shuttle and departed. The boxy craft ascended to the heavens and vanished.

Puzzled, disturbed by a feeling he would have found it impossible to articulate, the Colonel slipped back and crawled away from the farm. The aliens had come for a purpose, but what? Why had they come to the farm? There was no reason to check up on their pod person, was there? Or did they fear that the other Feds might not obey his orders properly and wanted to check it for themselves? Or...? There was no way to know, so the Colonel put it out of his mind. At least Toby had confirmed that the FBI didn't know about his group, so they should avoid the initial sweeps unless they found something at Coleman’s house that led them right to the Colonel. Coleman had known the dangers. His house should have been clean.

Ten minutes later, he reached the place he’d stashed the car and climbed into the front. Starting the engine, he drove down the road and into Mannington. The small town was buzzing like a nest of angry bees, with policemen trying desperately to control the crowds. Blake Coleman had been popular; not everyone believed that he’d carried out the assassination and no one was keen on the idea of federal agents running through the town. Coleman’s house had been secured by the Feds and they were going through it slowly and remorselessly. The Colonel silently congratulated himself as he drove back out of town; at least Coleman’s family were safely hidden. They’d have to find some way to get them back into the mainstream without alerting the Feds, but it should be doable with Toby’s help.

He turned the corner and almost ran right into the roadblock. Two police cars had been parked to block the road, with a pair of policemen standing by the side watching the traffic. The Colonel almost reached for his gun before realising that they shouldn't have anything on him, at least not yet. He watched the two policemen as one of them approached the window while the other stood back and watched, one hand on his holstered gun. The Colonel lowered the window and put on his best face.

“Yes, officer?”

“I’m afraid I need to see your driving licence,” the policeman said. The Colonel nodded and produced it. Legally, they couldn't search the vehicle without his permission, unless they had a warrant or some other evidence, but he had a feeling that legality wouldn't be the top issue at the moment. “We’re looking for a number of escaped criminals.”

The Colonel didn't believe a word of it. He watched with considerable alarm as the policeman checked and rechecked the driving licence and then passed it back to him without comment. Instead, the policemen stood back and waved him onwards. The Colonel allowed himself a sigh of relief as soon the roadblock was out of sight. God damn it; it was like being in Russia, another state where ordinary people couldn't travel without being harassed by the police. He’d met enough Russians who’d fled the state to know that Communist rule hadn't been a worker’s paradise, whatever the socialists claimed. The Russian communists happily rewrote history to ensure that their version of events remained unquestioned.

He was still fuming when he reached the farm. As he’d ordered, one of his grandsons was keeping a watch from the gate. If the Feds came to visit, there would be some warning, for all the good it would do. The Colonel harboured no illusions about their ability to fight off a direct attack from anyone with the proper training and weapons. They’d planned to cope with raiders from devastated cities in the wake of a nuclear attack, not for attacks from federal agents and aliens. Most of their supplies had been carefully hidden, but if the agents decided to search the farm thoroughly, they’d be discovered. And then the **** would really hit the fan.

Inside, he ran into Bob Packman. The former CIA agent had been monitoring the internet and television channels, trying to pull the truth from the relentless barrage of propaganda on the mainstream media. CNN and Fox, opposites in so many ways, had united to condemn the terrorist attack on the school and support any government measures designed to hunt down and eradicate the terrorists who’d launched the attack. They were both screaming about casualties among federal agents who had tried to seize illegal weapons, demanding that the government impose even more draconian legislation to hunt down the terrorists and cut off their sources of supply. The internet was more balanced, with stories about deaths caused by federal agents and a number of people who’d been effectively kidnapped, taken away without due process. And the aliens, hovering high overhead, were clearly assisting in directing the operation.

“It’s getting worse,” Packman said, without preamble. “Anyone who’s ever been on a federal **** list is going to be targeted. We always feared that the government would come after us – now, they have the excuse they need to hunt down anyone who thinks that the government doesn't know best. The sheep will bow and scrape as always; the ones who will fight will be broken and killed. And the aliens will inherit the world.”

The Colonel nodded, hanging up his coat. If the police officers manning the roadblock had known about his connection to Coleman, he would have had to kill them both to avoid capture. And the policemen would have been simply following orders. The true genius of the alien plan was easy to see. They would turn human against human and pick up the pieces afterwards. By using the federal government as their weapon, they would destroy faith in the federal government – such as it was – and in the country’s ability to stand up for itself. The organisations that could be expected to resist the aliens would be weakened by what was, in effect, a civil war.

“Do we have anything on where they’re taking the prisoners?”

“Not yet,” Packman admitted. “The scuttlebutt online suggests that they’ve been setting up prisons – detention camps, really – in the desert, but there’s no real proof. They could be handing them over to the aliens for interrogation for all we know. I wonder if they’ve learned all they can from anal probes...”

The Colonel scowled at him. He’d never had any time for people who’d claimed to have been abducted by little gray aliens and taken onboard flying saucers. Some of the claims were clearly nonsense, while others probably originated in the victim’s subconscious. But now there were real aliens and they might well have a use for human prisoners. Convert them into pod people and put them to work. The chances were that they could interrogate their pod people, find out everything they knew, and then start rolling up their contacts. It didn't seem fair, somehow. No other invading force had ever had such an advantage.

He winced as a nasty thought struck him. Toby was right in the heart of Washington, close to the President and the bitch who would succeed him if something happened to the President. In such a position, wouldn't the aliens consider turning him into a pod person? And Toby knew enough to track down the Colonel’s group if the aliens ever did convert him to their side. The thought was bitterly ironic. He’d spent years cursing Toby as a traitor, only to realise that his son served in his own fashion. But now he might be turned into an involuntary traitor.

And there was nothing the Colonel could do about it.

“Or maybe they’re eating us,” Packman added. His voice was light, teasing. He didn't understand; he hadn't seen what the Colonel had seen. The death of America itself. “Perhaps Roast Human is a delicacy where they come from...”

“Then they might catch the common cold and drop dead,” the Colonel snarled. He wasn't in the mood. Besides, the aliens wouldn't have made contact if they thought there was a chance of being infected with human diseases. And they’d helped cure humans, showing off their medical science. The diseases that terrorised humanity wouldn't hold any fears for them. “And they could probably have convinced the Chinese or the Russians to see them a few hundred thousand undesirables in exchange for technology.”

He stalked into the sitting room and sat down, reaching for a can of beer and popping it open. Mary would have disapproved of him drinking so much, but Mary was dead. The question echoed through his mind, mocking him; could the aliens have saved her life? She’d died in childbirth, but their medical science might have been able to save her. Or could they resurrect her from the grave?

The thought made him shudder. There were already too many humans who worshipped the aliens. If they actually started resurrecting the dead, they’d be taken for gods – who knew, if they could do that, they might well be gods. The temptation tore at the Colonel’s heart, before he pushed it aside, angrily. Mary’s body would have decomposed by now, leaving the brain a useless mass – and besides, Mary would have cursed him for being a fool if he sold out his country to get her back. She’d always known what was important.

He shook his head, bitterly. There was no way to get her back. He would just have to have faith that she was in the arms of Jesus, waiting for him in Heaven. One way or the other, the Colonel knew that he didn't have much time left. His body was aching after his crawl, where once he would have crawled for miles with enemy bullets whipping through the branches over his head. The thought of growing old, of becoming senile, was terrifying. He couldn't face it.

Susan bellowed for dinner and the Colonel stood up. Old or not, he could still fight, and he intended to fight. And if his time finally ran out, he would die in a manner that would make Mary proud. It was all he’d ever asked for from his country.

***​

The Colonel had once heard a joke about American dinnertimes. There were three subjects that should never be discussed over dinner; politics, religion and sex. And there were three subjects that were always discussed over dinner; politics, religion and sex. The joke had gone on to claim that most fractured households came from disputes over dinner, but the Colonel hadn’t seen the joke. Most people had more important things to worry about than politics, religion and sex.

Dinner was a subdued affair. He briefly explained what he’d seen at the Rawson Farm and Packman explained what he’d seen on the internet. The official story from the Feds was that the Rawson Family had been linked to a terrorist plot against the President and vast quantities of explosives and illegal weapons had been removed from their farm. Given that he hadn't seen the Feds bother to search the house, the Colonel suspected that some scriptwriter had simply pulled it out of his ass. Or maybe they’d conveniently assembled the evidence beforehand in some federal warehouse where they’d shown it to tame journalists.

Afterwards, he got together with a handful of the others and started outlining possible courses of action. They couldn't allow the feds – and the pod people, and the aliens – to have it all their own way. And yet, the Colonel hesitated from the prospect of causing more human deaths. Many of the Feds would be honest men, unaware that they were actually working for the aliens. But then, if they’d gone to work destroying the Constitution – did they really deserve to survive? Making a moral choice was hard enough at the best of times, but when the economic climate was so low and jobs were scarce...who would want to lose one by standing up to his superiors?

“We have to find a way to put a spoke in their gears,” he said, finally. Bitter frustration coloured his voice. He hated feeling helpless, at the mercy of others. “There has to be some way of making them sit up and take notice that we won’t allow them to wreak havoc on innocent people.”

And slowly, very slowly, a plan started to come together in his mind.

 

Chapter Twenty-Eight<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Norfolk, Virginia
USA, Day 51

“Remember to slouch, dudes.”

Sergeant Mathew Bracken snorted as the SEALs instantly transformed themselves into the very picture of slobs and layabouts. Red Squadron of the Joint Special Operations Command's United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group was used to insane missions – they’d spearheaded the killing of Osama Bin Laden – but this had to be one of the weirdest. Officially, one of the Snakes wanted to experience life on a boat. Unofficially, the real objective of the mission was a great deal harder. And after the raids carried out by the federal police forces, there was a very distant possibility that an outraged patriot would take a pot-shot at the Snake.

The yacht looked civilian. They’d used it before for trawling missions along the coast of Somalia, looking for pirates who were preying on Western shipping. When the pirates boarded, they found themselves staring down the guns of Navy SEALs who knew how to handle them and were quite prepared to hand out rough justice if they didn’t surrender instantly. Mathew had little truck with the suggestion that the pirates were only trying to feed their families and communities. They could have done that without capturing innocent shipping, let alone mistreating their crews or holding them for ransom. One day, he hoped, the SEALs would be able to go in and clean the nest of pirates out from beginning to end. Until then, they would have to make do with patrols – and strange missions like the one they were about to start.

There was a popular perception that SF soldiers were stupid. It was untrue; SF soldiers had to be trained to a very high standard, pushed right to the limits of their capabilities, before they could be sent on missions that would often never come to public attention. They’d been taught to use their initiative and think about what they were doing – and never to forget that their ultimate purpose was to defend the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. And many of the SEALs had family within the so-called right-wing community. The raids on their farms and imprisonment of many people who had no connection with any terrorists had angered them. They’d agreed, if they were ever ordered to into action against innocent American civilians, they would refuse. The orders would be thoroughly illegal.

And now they were going to vanish. Mathew still remembered the grim briefing from senior authority. It was irregular, so much so that he’d almost contemplated refusing the mission. But then he’d encountered one of the pod people and realised that the situation was far worse than it seemed. The Galactics were slowly taking over and all hell was about to break loose. It seemed that every military base in the United States – and presumably over the entire world – now had its own force of Galactics. No one expected them to remain peaceful for long and with so much of the military disbanded, no one knew who would win when they came out into the open. And there were still seventeen starships orbiting the Earth. They could simply bombard the human race into submission and everyone knew it.

His radio buzzed. “Alpha is entering the base now,” it said.

He keyed the switch. “Understood,” he said. He nodded to a couple of his guys, who started lowering the gangplank. The ship had been isolated from the remainder of the Naval Base, for reasons that he hadn't been made privy to, but he suspected had something to do with the two aircraft carriers that were on their way back home. “We’re ready when they are.”

The convoy rolled into view and came to a halt on the dock. A team of security officers jumped out and looked around nervously, although Mathew couldn't imagine what sort of threat they expected to find here. None of them knew what was really going on, he reminded himself, and they probably feared that one of the Navy’s crewmen would take a shot at the alien. They looked clownish compared to the SEALs, but that was something of the point. A show of security was often enough to deter most attackers. Those it didn't deter were the ones who didn't care if they lived or died, as long as they took out their target. They were the worst.

He’d seen aliens before, but this one seemed different, somehow. The alien looked almost nervous, glancing upwards time and time again as he inched towards the boat. Mathew remembered that the aliens might well be watching – after all, their high command had authorised the excursion – from high overhead, looking down from their starships. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling to know that America no longer ruled the skies, an odd sense of empathy with those he'd fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. The thought made him smile. There had been limits to even the best satellite and drone coverage and chances were that the aliens had the same limitations. If not, the war – when it finally came into the open – was likely to be short, bloody and a total human defeat. What little Mathew did know about their surveillance technology suggested all kinds of possibilities for population control. The USSR would have sold its soul – if they’d been willing to admit that souls existed – for the technology the aliens deployed regularly. And Mathew and his team had to fool it.

“Come on,” he called, cheerfully. The security officers blinked at him, clearly wondering if they’d gotten the right boat. Mathew wasn’t wearing a uniform, merely a civilian outfit that seemed to provide little space for guns or ammunition – or any of the other equipment that SEALs carried on a routine basis. “The water’s fine.”

For a being that had crossed uncounted light years, the alien seemed remarkably nervous as he inched up the gangplank and onto the boat. Mathew found himself whispering reassurance, as if the alien was a worried child taking his first trip out onto the ocean, although he couldn't tell if the alien understood. Maybe it was the very faint rocking that was making the boat shiver, or maybe it was the thought of what he was about to do. The alien high command, however it was organised, wouldn't take too kindly to defectors. If they ever realised what was about to happen, they’d demand the defector be returned – or else Earth’s cities might pay the price. And if that happened, Mathew knew, the President would have no choice, but to surrender. The weak, he knew, must often feel ashamed.

He helped the alien down into the small lounge and invited him to sit in a chair that had been specifically designed for an alien rear. They seemed to dislike human chairs and looking at the alien, Mathew understood why. A flat-bottomed chair would be uncomfortable for their posterior. Shaking his head, he passed the alien a drink and headed back up to the deck. It was time to cast off and head out to sea. They could worry about if aliens suffered from seasickness later, if there was a later.

“Time to go,” he said. “Get us out of here.”

The boat cast off from the pier and started to head out to sea. Norfolk was one of the busiest shipping areas in the United States, with the Norfolk Naval Shipyard providing repair and modernisation services for every type of ship the USN possessed. As the boat headed out, Mathew saw amphibious vessels, submarines, guided missile cruisers, and a pair of giant aircraft carriers. Most of them were due to be decommissioned, in accordance with the terms set by the Galactic Federation, although he had a suspicion that some people in high places were deliberately dragging their feet. The new carrier under construction in Northrop Grumman Newport News, located on the other side of Hampton Roads in Newport News, would probably never be finished. One by one, they passed the signs of American naval might and shaped a course out to sea. The plan they’d filed with the authorities was to head down to Charleston, allowing the alien a chance to experience life on the water, and then perhaps head further down to Florida. It was a sign of alien arrogance, he suspected, that they hadn't even questioned the use of a top-flight SEAL team to guard one alien. He would have been suspicious if the SEALs were involved.

He glanced back down into the lounge and saw the alien climbing up the steps to the deck. It didn't look as if the alien had proper sea legs, which made him wonder how they’d designed boats on their homeworld. They would probably be happier with ramps than ladders, although he had a feeling that the alien could probably have scrambled up a ladder far quicker than a flight of steps. It looked as if the aliens had stronger arms than humans – and the SEALs could have pulled themselves up just using their arms. He grimanced at the faint smell as the alien approached him, and then stopped, both scaly hands clutching the railing. It was impossible to be sure, but the alien looked somewhat uneasy at the vast spread of water. Or maybe it was because he had placed his fate into the hands of the human race. God knew humans weren’t always very kind to their own people. What sort of alien, on the run from his own people, would expect good treatment from humanity?

The alien didn't seem interested in small talk, for which Mathew was profoundly grateful. Leaving one of the other SEALs to watch their passenger – the alien might not be able to swim if he fell overboard – he walked along the deck to the pilot cabin, which someone had laughably labelled THE BRIDGE. The SEAL at the wheel looked up at him enquiringly, but Mathew had other priorities. A quick glance at the GPS showed that they were well on their way to the rendezvous point; a longer glance at the security sensors proved that the alien had at least two transmitters on his person. One was the voder, Mathew knew; the other was embedded within the alien’s skin. They would have to be very careful when they got the alien out of the boat. A single transmission and the Galactics would come down on them like the wrath of God.

“This mission could go horrendously wrong,” his superior had warned him. “If it does, we never heard of you.”

It wasn't a pleasant thought, but Mathew had been doing deniable missions for the last four years. If his name went down as a rogue SEAL – a distant possibility - at least God and his family would know the truth. And maybe sometime in the future, after humanity had beaten the Galactics, the truth would be told openly. He might even get a good mention in the official histories of United States Navy's Sea, Air and Land Teams.

The hours ticked away until they reached the right position. This was the chancy bit, Mathew knew; far too much could go wrong. He escorted the alien back down into the lounge and warned him to remain seated; seconds later, a dull thud echoed through the craft. The alien started, clearly shocked, but Mathew motioned for him to remain still. A moment later, a hatch opened in the bottom of the boat, revealing the head of another SEAL. The minisub had arrived. Quickly, working with frantic speed, Mathew motioned for the alien to remove the voder and the small container the alien had brought with him, leaving them both in the boat. They’d discovered that the aliens had small charges implanted within their bodies to destroy them in case of death without any hope of recovery, something that – Mathew hoped – would quell any suspicions the Galactics might have about what had happened. The container, they'd been promised, contained enough of the explosion compound the Galactics used to leave traces behind afterwards.

“Come on,” he hissed. The alien seemed even more nervous, almost claustrophobic, as he approached the hatch. Mathew hesitated, and then picked up the alien and pushed him down the hatch, into the submarine. He’d known civilians be just as nervous when it came to climbing into a submarine, even though there was nothing to fear. It stood to reason that someone who had never seen a submarine, let alone travelled in one, would be nervous.

Once the alien was down, Mathew straightened up and called out to his men. The pilot cabin was connected to the lounge through a hidden hatch, allowing the pilot and his assistant to get down quickly, without alerting anyone watching from high overhead. Moments later, the two SEALs who had been walking the deck joined them. Mathew motioned for them to get into the submarine and then followed them down through the hatch. A dull red light surrounded him as he landed inside the small craft, with a pair of nervous-looking crewmen working frantically to seal the hatch. Time was running out.

He felt his ears spin lightly as the submarine disengaged from the yacht and started to dive deeper under the waves. The SEALs had plenty of experience with the small craft; they’d used them before to successfully evade detection from satellites high overhead. But no one, Mathew reminded himself, knew the full limits of alien capabilities. They might well have some kind of magic technology that would allow them to track the submarine...and if that happened, six SEALs, five crewmen and one alien were going to die. There was no way they could risk falling into enemy hands. If the aliens could reanimate a corpse and send it out to kill, God alone knew what they could do with live captives. He could imagine no worse fate than becoming a pod person, his mind overwritten with loyalty to the aliens.

One of the crewmen glanced at a display on the bulkhead. “Twenty seconds,” he said. The sound of the submarine’s engines grew louder as it struggled to put distance between itself and the yacht. “Ten seconds...”

A thunderous blast struck the submarine. The alien hissed in alarm as the boat heaved around them, just before the pilot got control and kept steering them away from the explosion. Behind them, the yacht would have been blown to smithereens, without a trace left of the alien – or the SEALs who had failed to guard him. By the time the Coast Guard arrived, the submarine would have left the area and there would be nothing to dispute the story. The alien had been killed by terrorists, just like the one who had been killed in Washington. And the aliens, who had cleared the trip themselves, would find it hard to blame the government. Not that that would surely stop them, of course.

Mathew walked forward, over to the alien. He was trembling, his long scaly legs shivering in the cold. Or was it fear? There was no way to know. Mathew had helped defectors get out of their homelands before and they all reacted badly, even the ones who knew that to return home meant certain death. Some of them cried, some raged...and some wondered if they’d made a terrible mistake. Very few of them could ever go home again.

“We’ll be docking with the Wanderer in forty minutes,” one of the crewmen said. Mathew nodded; the Wanderer was officially a light freighter, servicing East Asia and the Middle East. Unofficially, she was a prison ship, where the CIA held a number of extremely high-value prisoners, prisoners who could never be placed in front of a court. And part of her vast bulk had been outfitted to serve as a debriefing room for defectors. The alien would be safe there, at least until they managed to get him to better quarters somewhere on land. Mathew suspected that that wouldn't be for some time. The Wanderer might not be the nicest of places to hold someone, but at least it had no overt connection to the United States. “Once we’re there, they’ll ensure that you get back to Uncle Sam.”

Mathew nodded, dryly. The SEALs were all officially dead. There would be a funeral and everything, with crying families and upset friends. None of them were married; they’d remain underground until they were needed. Oddly, he felt freer than he’d been since the aliens had arrived. There was no longer any need to kowtow to them, or to pretend that he liked their plans for the United States military. He could fight back as part of the resistance, a hole card the aliens might not expect until it was far too late. And he knew were considerable supplies of weapons and equipment had been stashed.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, finally. The crewmen would remain on the Wanderer, held until they could be discharged. Or maybe they’d end up serving with the resistance too. “I’ll be glad to be back home.”

***​

Forty minutes later, they docked with the underside of the Wanderer and scrambled up into the massive ship. Mathew was pleased to see that a pair of CIA-trained anthropologists were on hand to greet the alien, as were a team of experienced interrogators. They had had plenty of experience in debriefing defectors and would be hopefully able to get a great deal out of the alien. Starting with what the hell was actually going on...

Mathew and his team were finally dismissed and allowed to go into the lounge on the massive ship and relax. The television was already broadcasting the official version of the story, confirming that Middle Eastern terrorists had managed to kill one of the aliens. There was no mention of the Navy SEALs, for which he was grateful. The terrorists would probably take heart from knowing that they’d killed a group of SEALs, or even thinking that they’d succeeded. Not that it mattered, in the end. The Mainstream Media would probably blame it all on the right-wing gun nuts or the militias or anyone else who didn't agree with them completely.

Shaking his head, he allowed himself to relax. They’d succeeded. Whatever else happened, they might just get some real intelligence out of the alien. And then they might know what was actually going on.

 

Chapter Twenty-Nine<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Tehran
Iran, Day 53

It wasn't the first time that Albert Cunningham had been to Iran, although he’d never been to Tehran. The Iranians had been running weapons and supplies to insurgents and political groups within Iraq and Special Forces teams had been deployed to stop them, often engaging their Iranian counterparts in sharp small-team engagements that had never been officially reported. Over the years, Albert had mastered both Farsi and Arabic, as well as developing a capability to operate while undercover, posing as an Iranian. It was a set of training and experience that stood him in good stead, now that he’d been sent out on a near-suicide mission. If nothing else, the Iranians would never expect it from the United States.

The trip from the Gulf to Tehran had been surprisingly easy. They’d bribed a smuggler to carry them from Basra to the Iranian coastline and then made their way inland, posing as Iranian Revolutionary Guards on detached duty. One distant advantage when it came to operating inside a tightly-controlled country like Iran was that no one dared question government messengers on official missions. After all, anyone who dared show any initiative might be targeted for government attention as a possible dissident. Iran’s dissidents had been ruthlessly squashed time and time again, along with anyone else who even looked suspect. Like most people, all Iran’s population wanted was to live in peace and security. Their government couldn't give them either.

According to the newspapers they’d picked up just after they’d found lodgings within Tehran – all undercover, to prevent the government or religious police from taxing the owners – the aliens were due to send a representative to Tehran to discuss economic support from the Galactic Federation to help save Iran from bankruptcy. The arrival of fusion power – and advanced car batteries – had undermined Iran’s oil industry, leaving the government with a massive cash-flow crisis. It didn't help that the Chinese and Japanese had started mass-production of advanced car batteries, or that Russia had lost interest in assisting Iran now that the United States was pulling out of the Middle East. Iran’s economy was on a slow fall to nowhere – and when it came crashing down, the **** would really hit the fan. The protesting crowds in the streets would multiply until the entire city seemed enraged, intent on tearing apart the religious leaders who’d turned the most prosperous nation in the Middle East into a nightmarish place to live. Already, there were signs of unrest in many parts of Iran. Given enough of a push, Iran might fragment into chaos.

He scowled inwardly as he caught sight of a number of men in army uniforms, marching through the streets in a show of force. The Iranian Army was, in theory, behind the Mullahs; in practice, no one knew what would happen if the Mullahs ordered the soldiers to fire into the crowds. Behind them, fanatical revolutionary guardsmen followed, watching the soldiers for any sign of disloyalty. If the soldiers balked, the guardsmen would fire on them, starting a civil war. Rumour – which flew through Tehran faster than the hot desert wind – suggested that much of the Army had been recalled to barracks, keeping them locked down in case the public turned on their masters. Albert hadn't seen any reason to doubt it, although rumours could never be trusted. Another one claimed that the aliens were nothing more than a CIA trick. The CIA seemed to be blamed for everything in the Middle East.

“Bastards,” Sergeant Philip Bainbridge muttered, beside him. He nodded towards a woman wearing a headscarf. She was being berated by two burly religious policemen, who seemed offended that she hadn't been wearing a full veil. Albert ground his teeth in silent rage as one of the policemen slapped the woman to the ground, before kicking her in the ribs. It was evil like that that needed to be stopped, yet if he killed them both he would blow the mission. “Filthy ****ing bastards.”

The woman crawled away, blood dripping from her mouth. Her tormentors laughed and headed off, seemingly unaware of the cold anger being directed at them from the crowd. One day, perhaps soon, they would find themselves on the receiving end as the population turned on them, but until then no one would hold them to account. Albert shook his head in disgust and led the way through the streets to their vantage point. It had cost nearly two hundred American Dollars to hire the room and he didn't want to lose it. Without it, completing their mission would be much more dangerous.

They slipped through the crowd, ignoring the press from men and women alike, until they reached their building. The owner appeared to be in negotiations with another man, but he broke off long enough to wave the two Americans through the door and up the stairs. Albert suspected that he thought that the two men were homosexual – which was punished by death in Iran – but he didn't care. As long as he thought that, he wouldn't wonder why they wanted a room with an excellent view of the alien landing site. Shaking his head, Albert opened the bag and produced the Dragunov sniper rifle. Designed in Russia, it had become the weapon of choice for terrorists, not least because there were so many of them washing around the world that it was impossible to trace them back to a single source. Iraq had produced thousands of them and an unknown number had fallen into the hands of terrorists. Albert had lost buddies to snipers using similar weapons.

There’d been some debate on just what kind of bullet to use. One theory had been that the aliens would use personal force fields, ensuring that they couldn’t be harmed at all by anything humanity could throw at them. Albert personally doubted that possibility, not when there was no evidence to suggest that the aliens were that advanced. A second problem was that no one knew anything about alien biology. They might have looked humanoid, but their brains might not be in their heads. A shot through the head would be lethal to a human, yet there was no way of knowing if it would kill an alien, or if it would merely be a cosmetic wound. Eventually, they’d settled on explosive bullets, even though soldiers tended to distrust them. They would inflict maximum damage on the alien body.

Albert quickly field-stripped the rifle and reassembled it, testing it carefully to be sure that it worked. Many of the terrorists he’d faced in the early years of operating in Iraq hadn't bothered to keep their weapons in working order, something that had probably accounted for how few Americans had died under their fire. Others – the smarter, deadlier terrorists – had learned, often surviving long enough to pass on the lesson to newer terrorists. And some of the insurgents they’d faced in Afghanistan were deadly. Behind him, Bainbridge pulled out both AK-47s and pistols, checking and rechecking them both to ensure that they were usable. If they had to fight their way out, they were ready, although Albert knew that the odds were vastly against them. They’d done the best they could to ensure that Iranian security forces would be diverted, but there was no way of knowing how well it would work until they actually tried it. And then it would be too late to make adjustments.

“Here they come,” Bainbridge commented. “Beats a chopper any day.”

Albert could only agree. The boxy alien landing craft had appeared over the city, escorted by a flight of Iranian fighter jets. They had never been particularly good at maintaining the fighters they’d inherited from Saddam Hussein or the Shah, but they’d definitely worked hard to ensure that they had a working force to escort the aliens. Albert doubted that the aliens were impressed. Whatever the Iranians did, they couldn't match the feat of travelling across the galaxy; to the aliens, the Iranian fighters probably appeared primitive, almost laughable. But then, the United States had had to learn that primitive weapons could be deadly, in the right circumstances. The aliens would have to learn the same lesson too.

Down below, the Iranian Revolutionary Guard was going to work, pushing back the crowds from the landing site. Much of the demonstration had been organised as a show of public opinion, Albert suspected, although there was no way of knowing if the aliens would be impressed. Why should they care about a bunch of humans shouting abuse at them? It wasn't as if Iran could actually strike at the alien starships, high overhead, let alone reach the alien homeworlds. They could exterminate the entire Iranian population without exerting much effort at all.

The alien craft started to lower itself to the ground as soon as there was a space big enough to hold it. Down below, the Iranian President had come into view, protected by his own squad of heavies. The Mullahs who actually ran Iran were still inside the government buildings, forcing the alien to come to them. In some ways, they reminded Albert of Imperial China, where the Emperors had expected the Westerners to prostrate themselves in front of China’s glory. They had no real conception of the power of Western weapons, nor of the fact that the only thing preventing them from Western wrath was Western unwillingness to use their weapons. Destroying Iran would be easy, but immoral. One day, the Mullahs would go too far and discover that the first rule of morality was survival.

He picked up the rifle as the alien craft touched down. The racket of the crowd grew louder as the hatch opened, revealing the alien representative. Some of the crowd seemed to want to back away, others seemed intent on pushing forward. Albert saw fights breaking out below between various groups, with policemen and soldiers trying to separate them without using their weapons. The whole scene was rapidly becoming a nightmare. If the aliens noticed, they gave no sign. Their representative walked down the ramp, showing commendable nerve, and stepped up to the President. The Iranian President stared at the alien, as if he couldn't quite believe his eyes, and then held out a hand. The alien took the hand and shook it with icy dignity.

Albert took the rifle and pointed it down at the alien. He’d earned his badge in sniper school, but he hadn't had as long to learn to use the Russian-designed rifle than he would have liked. The alien’s face appeared in the scope, a green scaly mass with eerie red eyes. Albert took aim, tightened his finger on the trigger and fired a single shot. The alien staggered as the shot embedded itself in his neck, and then exploded as the bullet detonated. A moment later, there was a second, much larger explosion. Albert found himself blown across the room by the blast.

“**** me,” Bainbridge said. “What the hell was that?”

“I’ve no idea,” Albert said. “Come on!”

Leaving the rifle behind, he caught up the AK-47 and started to run down the stairs and out of the back entrance. The building’s owner was nowhere to be seen. Albert pulled a radio transmitter out of his pocket and jammed his finger down on the single button. The devices they’d scattered over Tehran exploded, adding to the chaos. It would take the Iranians some time to realise that no one had been hurt in the explosions, suggesting they’d been nothing more than decoys. By then, Albert wanted to be well away from Tehran.

He glanced towards the square as they ran out onto the streets. The crowd was fleeing, those who could flee. Many hundreds, perhaps thousands, had been injured or killed by the second explosion, the one that had destroyed the alien’s body. They had to be nervous about losing a body where it could be examined, Albert told himself. There had been no way to know that the aliens had wired their own bodies to blow in case of death. It didn't stop the guilt from gnawing at him as they joined the crowd in flight. No one took any notice of their weapons. The policemen and soldiers seemed to be fleeing too.

Behind them, chaos spread as a riot broke out. Albert could hear gunshots, although there was no way of knowing who was being targeted, or why. It sounded as if the religious policemen or the revolutionary guard had turned on the crowd, firing on it to try to maintain order. In return, the crowd was fleeing or turning on the policemen, forcing the soldiers to choose sides. Albert hoped that they would move to protect the people. Perhaps the explosion would mark the end of the Mullah’s rule in Tehran. He allowed himself a quick prayer for the innocents slain in the blast as they reached their safe house and changed clothes. The uniforms they’d stolen should get them out of the city before they could be caught by the authorities. And then they could make their way to the coast and get out on a smuggler’s boat.

***​

An hour later, they were in a stolen knock-off copy of a jeep, driving west from Tehran towards the Gulf. There had been no serious attempt to stop them, or any of the thousands of others fleeing the city as the chaos spilled out of control. Iran’s people had any number of grudges to pay off against the Mullahs and their lackeys – and now they had their chance. They had passed a military convoy heading into the city, but there was no way of knowing what side the soldiers were on, or even if there was a side. Albert had been on the ground during the Arab Spring. He knew that revolutions always had one thing in common. They tended to go round and round.

Bainbridge was fiddling with the radio in the jeep. The Iranian Mullahs had tried to keep their people from hearing news broadcasts from the West – or the rest of the Middle East, for that matter – but there were ways around even the tightest security. Albert knew that the United States had been quietly slipping communications equipment into Iran for years, aiding those with the determination to fight for freedom to coordinate and work together against the state. It was easy to reset the radio to pick up broadcasts from Qatar, even Al Jazeera. The Arab satellite TV channel might have been effectively an enemy broadcast station, but it did have a good track record of picking up reports from the Arab world. It even had a good reputation in Iran.

“...Coming in of a massive explosion in Iran,” the speaker was saying. It was a female voice, something that would have shocked the traditionalists. The fundamentalist terrorists and the United States might not have agreed on much, but disapproving of Al Jazeera was definitely one of them. “Early reports suggest that the alien representative was somehow gunned down in Iran, followed by terrorist bombings...”

The broadcast vanished in a hail of static. “They’ve got a few things right,” Bainbridge commented. “I wonder what else they got right...”

There was a massive flare of light, behind them. Albert acted without thought, braking the jeep to a stop and driving out to hit the deck. Bainbridge followed him, a second before the shockwave passed overhead. The noise hit them next, a thunderous racket that was almost deafening in its intensity. There was only one possible cause, Albert told himself. The aliens had nuked Tehran. They’d killed an entire city for daring to lose one of their people.

He rolled over and stared towards where Tehran had been. A massive cloud was climbing up towards the heavens, already taking on an unmistakable shape and form. It was an ominous grey mushroom, mocking the puny humans below as it loomed above them. Once, Albert had read a story where the watchers had seen a devil’s face in the mushroom cloud. It was suddenly easy to believe the story. He couldn’t escape the thought. The aliens had killed an entire city to avenge the death of one of their people. They’d killed millions of humans to avenge the deaths of one of their people. They’d killed...

Bainbridge put it into words. “My God,” he said. “What have we done?”

It was tempting to think of Iranians as a monolithic entity, to assume that all Iranians were like the terrorists he’d killed, but Albert knew that that was a lie. Innocents, thousands of innocents, had died in the blast. The aliens had finally shown their true nature, all right, and Tehran had paid the price. He wanted to go back and help, but he knew that it would be futile. There was nothing that two Marines, or even the remaining American forces in the Gulf, could do to help.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's go.”

They passed the remainder of the trip in silence, circling around any large habitation to avoid any possible complications. The radio was nothing, but static; Bainbridge couldn't tell if the aliens were jamming the signals to make matters worse, or if it was merely a side-effect of the nuke. If it had been a nuke...Albert had his suspicions about that too. The aliens wanted Earth, but presumably they didn't want to inherit a radioactive ruin. They could simply have dropped a very large rock on Tehran and watched the fireworks from a safe distance.

Once down by the shore, they abandoned the plan to find a smuggler’s boat and settled for stealing a fishing boat from a small village. Heading out into the waters, they hailed an American warship and were picked up by a team of grim-faced SEALs. Albert had met a couple of them while on detached duty, which made identification easier. None of the SEALs looked happy, or even relived to be away from Tehran. Something was badly wrong.

“Haven’t you heard?” One of them said, when Albert finally asked. “The President has collapsed. The Vice President is already being sworn in.”

 

Great chapter Chris,I think the SHTF now.

 

starting to ramp up now,
and squiddley that is the coolest smiley ever

 

Chapter Thirty<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Washington DC
USA, Day 53

“What the hell happened?”

“It looks like a massive heart attack,” the Doctor said. She looked tired and harassed. The White House medical team were among the best-trained in the world, but they knew that losing their main patient would mean the end of their careers. “We managed to stabilise him here, but we’re going to have to move him to the Naval Hospital as soon as we can. He needs more medical attention than we can provide for him here.”

Toby winced. “Doctor, I hate to sound insensitive, but how long until he can resume his duties?”

The Doctor glared at him. “Mr Sanderson, your political life and position are secondary here,” she snapped. “The President may not recover for some time, if ever. He was not in the best of health when he became President and the stresses on his life only made pre-existing conditions worse. I cannot give you any certain dates on when he will recover and return to his position, but you would be well-advised to assume the worst. The President will not return to the Oval Office.”

Toby watched her stalk off, angrily. She’d misjudged him, although she would have had a point with many of the political aides that clustered like vultures around politicians. Their power and position depended upon their patrons and losing them could mean the end of their careers. In one sense, Toby knew that he would never rise any higher than he had, but in another he knew that it could mean the end of the resistance’s mole inside the White House. And if the aliens had caused the heart attack, they’d ensured that their agent was in position to become President. The country had effectively fallen to them without a shot being fired.

The President had heard the news from Iran when he’d collapsed. SPACECOM might not have any weapons worthy of the name, but they did have effective tracking systems and they’d tracked the weapon launched from one of the alien ships. Analysis suggested that it had been a kinetic weapon – effectively a lump of rock – rather than a nuke, but that was no consolation to Iran. Tehran had been wreaked, millions were dead; the shock was already spreading over the world. Toby wondered just how decent and kind the Galactic Federation would look in the wake of the strike. They’d avenged the death of their comrade a million times over.

Toby shivered as he walked down the hall, heading back to the Oval Office. Jeannette McGreevy would have already been sworn in as President, even though the situation wasn't entirely clarified yet. Toby knew better than to expect that she would tamely give up her power if – when – the President recovered. She’d spent most of her political life scheming to become President, to wield the power of the Presidency; she wouldn’t give it up in a hurry. With the world in chaos, who knew how far she could go? And in her shoes, the first thing Toby would have done would have been to dismiss Toby. There was no point in keeping the President’s – former President, in her view – personnel aide so close to her. On the other hand, she had already made a play for Toby’s loyalty. Maybe, just maybe, if he licked her ass enough, she’d allow him to stay. She would assume that he was kissing up to her merely to keep his career alive. She wouldn’t understand his true motives. The resistance needed someone in the White House.

Or am I merely trying to justify it to myself, he asked himself, as he stepped through the door. His father had often lectured him on the kind of moral courage demanded from soldiers. The courage, not to charge into the teeth of enemy fire or lay down one’s life for one’s country, but to refuse illegal orders from superior officers. Far too many soldiers hadn’t displayed that kind of courage, his father had warned – and Toby, no soldier, wondered if he was doing the same. But the resistance needed him.

The Oval Office was heavily guarded. Four Secret Service agents stood outside, with more – Toby knew – in reserve. Even inside the White House, they protected their President – and the Vice President who had become President, at least for the moment. The Secret Service was neutral, providing protection to Republicans and Democrats alike, but even that was being called into question. A handful might even be pod people. Jeannette McGreevy had no idea how closely the aliens monitored her, even within the White House. They would know at once if their puppet displayed any independence of mind. Toby wondered, not for the first time, just what they’d offered her in exchange for betraying her country. They might have offered a life of wealth and luxury, or power as Earth’s foremost collaborator to the Galactic Federation? Or…what? Who knew the limits of alien power?

He waited patiently for the agents to search him and then check his ID, even though they knew him by sight. The Secret Service was trained to be paranoid, even if some of the scenarios they ran through seemed uncomfortably like something out of a thriller novel. Toby privately doubted that anyone could disguise themselves to look like a politician and walk into the White House unopposed, but who knew what the aliens could do? And besides, they could turn people into traitors. They might try to slip one of their pod people into the White House.

The agents waved him through and he stepped into the Oval Office. As he had expected, Jeannette McGreevy sat behind the President’s desk, listening with a cocked head to the report from the FBI Director. Toby was mildly surprised that he hadn’t been replaced by one of the pod people – there were several in the FBI – but maybe McGreevy had thought better of allowing someone touched by the aliens into such a high position. Or perhaps she hadn’t got around to mass dismissals and putting her own people into power. She had a wide network of contacts and clients she could promote as she pleased now she was President. They would all be expecting some reward for their loyalty.

“Ah, Mr Sanderson,” McGreevy said. She sounded surprisingly affable for someone who’d only reached her position through chance – or had the aliens triggered the heart attack themselves? “Take a seat, please. I’ll deal with you after I deal with this.”

The FBI Director looked uncomfortable. He had been involved in the resistance after it had started to take on shape, but now his position was in doubt. The Deputy Director was one of McGreevy’s clients. And besides, the FBI was heavily involved in tracking down militia groups and arresting them. It wasn't making them popular outside the big cities. A number of federal agents had been shot dead under mysterious circumstances, while others had been killed storming houses belonging to suspected militia members. There were too many people out there who thought that they had nothing left to lose. None of them expected a fair trial from the government.

“I’m afraid the news isn’t good,” he admitted, finally. “We were already seeing the beginnings of a vast protest movement against the unwarranted searches, seizures and arrests when the aliens hit Tehran. No matter how we try to swing it, the aliens committed mass murder…”

“Against Iran,” McGreevy snarled. “The one country we hate above all others.”

“The fact remains that the aliens launched a disproportionate response,” the FBI Director said. His expression, if it were possible, grew even more uncomfortable. “That isn’t the main problem. We’re not going after a few isolated nuts. The people on the targeting list aren’t cultists hiding away in barns, but often popular and well-liked people in their communities, people no one believes had anything to do with the incident at the school. Local police and sheriffs have started to refuse to get involved with the raids and I think that a number of them have quietly tipped off our targets that we’re coming for them. A number of BATF agents walked into a trap and were slaughtered.”

He looked down at the table, trying to avoid the woman behind it. “And the photographs and videos from the raids don’t help,” he added. “Everyone has a cell phone with a camera these days and they’re putting the images online. Americans are seeing jack-booted stormtroopers kicking down the door and dragging Americans off without trial. We might be able to justify such force against a handful of criminals, or terrorists, but so far we have targeted and rounded up thousands of people. The country won’t stand for it.”

McGreevy leaned forward. “The country will have to stand for it,” she said, shortly. “Don’t they understand how important this is?”

“I think that Congress might disagree,” the FBI Director said. “I have already had a number of very icy inquiries from certain congressmen. Their constituents are not happy.” He hesitated and plunged on. “We arrested a number of people on very shaky legal ground. Worse, a number of people have died, often for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This isn’t Soviet Russia, Madam President; there will be a reaction against us if this carries on.”

“I don’t care about legalities,” McGreevy said. “I care about ensuring that we are fit to join the Galactic Federation.”

The FBI Director smiled. “This would be the same Galactic Federation that just wiped Tehran off the map?” He asked. “How many people died in that strike?”

“They retaliated against the Iranians for failing to protect their people,” McGreevy said. Toby, who had half-expected her to dismiss the death toll as merely Iranians, was almost impressed with her switch, or her ability to turn a tragedy into an advantage. “I will not take the risk of this country going the same way, no matter how many legal niceties get broken in the process.”

“Then I am afraid that you will have to do it without me,” the FBI Director said. “My spies in Congress tell me that there are already measures afoot to impeach you. You may end up being the President with the shortest term of office ever.”

McGreevy opened her mouth, and then caught herself. “Be very certain about this,” she said. “Are you offering your resignation and refusing to do your job properly?”

“The duty of the FBI is to stop crime, terrorism and enemy spying within America’s borders,” the FBI Director said. “It is no part of our duties to shoot down innocent civilians, even civilians who may have a slight connection to Blake Coleman. We have an agreement with our population, Madam President; we agree to work within the law and using due process to catch criminals and they allow us to work without interference. If we break that unspoken agreement, we can expect them to start pushing back. This is not Russia. Right now, there are places where I wouldn’t send federal agents unless they were very heavily armed…”

“With illegal weapons,” McGreevy snapped. “I’ve been telling people for years that these nuts are dangerous.”

“I think you will discover that you and your followers did a great deal to make them dangerous,” the FBI Director said. “You’ll have my resignation on your desk within the hour. I’d wish you luck, but quite frankly the best thing you could do right now is resign and allow someone a little less close to the Galactics into the Presidency. I don’t know why they’re here either, yet I’d be astonished if they have our own good in mind.”

With that, he stalked out of the door, leaving McGreevy and Toby behind. Toby kept his face expressionless, even though he was deeply shocked – and worried. If the FBI Director quit – no, he had quit – the remainder of the FBI would fall under the control of one of McGreevy’s clients. And then she would have a formidable weapon at her disposal. True, many other agents would resign rather than turn into jackbooted thugs, but far too many would remain inside. Toby had long suspected that some of them were silently aroused by the chance to play at being a far harsher service than the FBI had ever been, intruding into the lives of the nation’s citizens and intervening at will. They’d get their chance now.

“Sanderson,” McGreevy said. She sounded as if she was holding herself under very tight control. “You no longer have a place with the former President. You can come and work with me, now, or you can get out.”

Toby didn’t hesitate. He’d expected the offer, although he hadn’t expected it to be so blunt. “Yes, Madam President,” he said. “I would be happy to work under you.”

“And keep your job,” McGreevy said, dryly. If she was aware of the double meaning, she didn’t bother to show any sign of it. “Are you going to give me as much service as you gave your previous master?”

The odd stress on master was mocking, Toby knew. “If that is what you command, I will be happy to serve,” Toby said. The resistance needed him, he reminded himself. He would have loved to quit, but he had the feeling that he wouldn’t have been allowed out of the building without permission. “What can I do for you, Madam President?”

“You will sit in on a number of meetings,” McGreevy said. “Once you have heard them all, you will give me your advice. Great things are going to happen in this country and I intend to ensure that they happen sooner, rather than later.”

***​

Toby still felt filthy an hour later, when the Cabinet filed into the room to discuss the situation with the new President. McGreevy’s old post as Secretary of State had been filled by one of her creatures, as had two other posts, both resigned in disgust after the attack on Iran. Toby was sure that McGreevy would be able to portray both men as betraying her, or being reluctant to serve under a female President, or whatever other charges could be used to blacken their names. They wouldn’t be allowed to rock the boat too much…he remembered the dead reporters and shivered. The chances were that the deserters were already being targeted for elimination.

He took a seat in the corner and listened carefully, without saying anything. McGreevy didn’t seem inclined to replace the Directors of either the CIA or the NSA, which was lucky as both men were involved in the resistance. Without them, it would be much harder to coordinate action against the aliens and a federal government that was being increasingly subverted by the aliens. The situation appeared to be the same in the rest of the First World states, while chaos was sweeping across the Middle East after Tehran had been struck. There was fighting in Palestine, civil war in Iraq and unrest in Saudi Arabia. Toby was tempted to believe that the aliens had planned everything; the sudden oil shortages forced the United States and the rest of the First World into becoming more dependent on fusion, hence strengthening the Galactic Federation’s position. But they hadn’t known that an American assassin was going into Iran, had they? They were powerful, yet he was sure they were not gods.

“Madam President,” Barney Koch said. He was the replacement FBI Director, although Congress hadn’t confirmed him yet – and might never confirm him, depending on what happened in the impeachment proceedings. “I regret to report that we have encountered considerable difficulties in implementing the anti-militia program.”

Toby smiled, inwardly. Militias generally didn’t keep membership lists, which left the FBI dependent upon inserted agents and following up family trees. Anyone who had ever got into trouble with the government on illegal weapons charges was regarded as a potential militia member – and therefore their families were targeted for arrest. Sometimes it worked, but many of the people who’d been rounded up were innocents – and some of them chose to go down fighting rather than surrender to the government thugs. And if that wasn't bad enough, local police were reluctant to get involved, often pointing out that the targets were actually decent people. The State Governments were feeling the heat from the media, but they were also feeling the heat from their own people – careers were at stake.

“Then call in the army and declare martial law,” McGreevy snapped. “I want this problem uprooted before it’s too late.”

General Williamson, the new Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, scowled. “I regret to say that we have been having considerable difficulties of our own,” he said. “The pullout of the Middle East has been delayed as our units are coming under fire from rioting citizens in the region. Back home, thousands of soldiers have been discharged – including thousands of soldiers who happen to have family and friends targeted by your purge. I’m afraid that what remains of the military is not suitable for deployment as a police force.”

McGreevy purpled, alarmingly. “Are you refusing an order from your Commander-in-Chief?”

“I am pointing out that we do not have the tools to carry out your demands,” General Williamson said. “The military is not in a good state right now. I’m telling you that if you issue orders to join what is effectively a thoroughly illegal purge of American citizens, you will have a mutiny on your hands. The soldiers have friends and family who have been targeted by your purge. They are not happy. I have already had reports that a number of units have simply deserted. I suspect that the remainder of the military will soon follow.”

“Then we will call on the Galactic Federation for help,” McGreevy said.

“That will simply cause the mutiny to happen faster,” General Williamson said. “Look, Madam President, the general perception right now is that Washington is doing the bidding of the aliens and hunting down innocent American citizens. If you put alien soldiers into the mix, there will be an explosion.”

“We cannot afford to allow the aliens to suspect the worst of us,” McGreevy said. “They have offered to help us. I think we shall accept.”

On that note, the meeting ended.

 

Chapter Thirty-One<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Wanderer, Near <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comffice:smarttags" /><st1:City w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Norfolk</st1lace></st1:City>
<st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">USA</st1lace></st1:country-region>, Day 56

“You’re clean,” the NSA officer said. “You can go inside.”

Toby nodded as the sealed door opened, allowing him access to the interior of the prison ship. Coming out here had been a risk, but McGreevy had ordered him to inspect the various CIA and NSA facilities after she’d invited the Galactic Federation to send ‘peacekeepers’ down to Earth. The reports Toby had received suggested that the aliens had landed at most military bases, taking over with or without human permission. As General Williamson had predicted, there had been a number of clashes between human and alien military units, resulting in an alarming number of soldiers defecting from the federal government. The entire country was coming apart at the seams.

Silence descended as the sealed door banged closed behind him. The interior of Wanderer was cool, almost antiseptic, although Toby knew what happened within the ship’s cavernous holds. Terrorists, the ones who organised and plotted the missions that sent foolish young men out to die, were brought to the ship and systematically interrogated until they had spilled all they knew. Once they were drained of everything they knew, they were executed and their bodies were cremated, before being dumped overboard. There would be no burial ground to serve as a shine for fundamentalist groups. The terrorist leaders would simply vanish.

”Right this way, sir,” a voice said. Toby looked up to see a man dressed in a plain seaman’s outfit. Wanderer was no USN vessel. Ideally, she would pass muster as a tramp freighter, one of hundreds that piled the world’s oceans. The crew were all CIA officers, committed to blowing up the ship, along with her prisoners, if she were to be boarded by an unfriendly power. “They’re ready for you.”

The upper levels of Wanderer were designed for defectors, people who didn’t need rigorous interrogation before they spilled everything they knew. Toby was escorted into a metal room, decorated in a style that might be described as American office. It was easy to forget that he was on a ship, even though he could feel a faint motion underneath his feet. The alien sitting at one end of the room, half-reclining on an alien-designed chair, dominated everything. There was no mistaking his inhuman origin. Toby felt his skin crawl as he met the alien’s bright red eyes. He’d seen nothing to alter his first impression. The Snakes were predators.

“Coffee, sir?”

Toby glanced back at the young steward. “Yes, please,” he said. The two interrogators looked up at him from where they were sitting. They’d reported, not without some reluctance, that the alien had insisted on talking to one of humanity’s leaders. Toby would have taken the risk of removing the alien bugs from the President’s body and asking him to listen to the alien defector, but McGreevy couldn’t be trusted. She might be willing to listen, yet he doubted she would risk her new power base by turning against the aliens. “I understand that you wanted to talk to someone in authority?”

The alien leaned forward, drawing in a raspy breath. “Do they believe I am dead?”

Toby almost flinched at the alien’s voice. It couldn’t be easy speaking English through an alien mouth, one designed more for hissing than shaping human words. The aliens used technology to translate their words, but it had become apparent that the devices were also a way to monitor their activities on Earth. Toby was starting to suspect that the alien society was totalitarian in nature, rather than the democratic Galactic Federation they’d been promised. The aliens acted more like Russian KGB agents overseeing the <st1lace w:st="on">Soviet Union</st1lace>’s sports teams rather than friendly visitors. There was a good chance that they’d monitored the defector until the explosion.

“They have not pressed the matter,” Toby said. The aliens had sent a shuttle to the scene of the explosion, thankfully after the submarine had escaped. As the Coast Guard had watched, they’d flown over the area several times and then withdrawn back to orbit. Toby suspected that they believed that their explosive implant – like the one that had detonated in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Iran</st1lace></st1:country-region> – had obliterated the body beyond any hope of recovery. They certainly hadn’t seemed inclined to drop a rock on <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">New York</st1lace></st1:State> to remind the human race of their power.

But maybe that wasn't too surprising. <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iran</st1:country-region> produced nothing, but oil, terrorists and trouble; the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">United States</st1lace></st1:country-region> was a powerful industrial nation. If the aliens were after humanity’s technological base, as they seemed to be, they wouldn’t want to smash the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">United States</st1lace></st1:country-region> flat. But <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Iran</st1lace></st1:country-region> was worthless to them, or perhaps it was worth more as an object lesson rather than anything else. And it had even helped their cause by pushing humanity to become more dependent on fusion power.

“That is good,” the alien rasped. “The High Lord would not wish me to speak with you.”

Toby nodded, taking his coffee from the steward and placing it on the table. The alien had eaten and drunk a very little, but most human foods seemed to be unpleasant to the alien’s palate. They did buy some processed foodstuffs from Earth, yet few of their choices made any sense. A number of American farmers, it seemed, had been hired to plant an alien food crop. There were even reports that suggested that farmers in <st1lace w:st="on">Africa</st1lace> were being paid to grow food for the aliens.

“My name is Trahs-pah,” the alien continued. Toby leaned forward with suppressed excitement. The aliens rarely gave their names to any human, even if they appeared to be friendly. Only the Ambassador had shared his name with the world. “Your world is in terrible danger.”

“That’s what you told Jason,” Toby agreed. He wished that they’d been able to bring the young Welcome Foundation official to the meeting, but it would have been too risky. “What sort of danger are we in?”

“The worst,” Trahs-pah said. “The High Lordship has come to your world.”

Toby felt his eyes narrow. “They told us that they came from the Galactic Federation,” he said. “How much of that was a lie.”

“Everything,” the alien said. “There is no Galactic Federation. There never was.”

For a moment, Toby felt a sense of overwhelming loss. He’d known, right from the start, that the aliens were too good to be true. The whole idea – the ideal – of the Galactic Federation had been lifted from the most utopian science-fiction novels and television shows. They could hardly have picked a better cause to appeal to large sections of the human race. And yet…there had been something in the dream that had appealed to Toby. Losing it wrenched at him, even though he knew that it had been an illusion. How would the rest of the human race, the ones who had welcomed the aliens and believed their lies, react if they knew the truth?

And McGreevy, he asked himself. Did she know the truth?

“I see,” he said, finally. “I think you’d better start from the beginning. Why did your people come here?”

“We didn’t mean to come here,” Trahs-pah said. “We discovered your world by accident.”

Toby must have looked blank, for the alien continued without delay. “You must understand that our species has been torn between two poles – freedom and tyranny – for almost as long as we have been intelligent,” he continued. The raspy voice added a note of unreality to the entire discussion. “Our version of your Cold War was won by the Emperor, who took the technological base both societies had built and used it to start expanding across the stars. It was not long before we managed to devise a way to create wormholes that would allow us to cross from star to star without having to travel in normal space.

“What the Emperor knew, but dismissed, was that elements of the other side remained active. The Pacifists – as he calls them – still hoped to overthrow the Emperor and restore liberty. It was those Pacifists who attempted to sabotage a wormhole generator and send the High Lord’s fleet into nothingness. I volunteered for the mission fully aware that it would mean my own death, or torture and ritual execution if I were to be discovered. Unfortunately, our maths were not as perfect as I had been told.”

Toby frowned. “You made a mistake?”

“There is a slight shortage of volunteers to test certain theories,” the alien said. There was no change in his tone, but Toby suspected that he’d just heard alien sarcasm. “We believes that the wormhole would desynchronise and destroy the fleet, reducing it down to hard radiation. The loss of a conquest fleet would certainly make the Emperor look weak and give encouragement to his foes. We calculated that there would be a good chance to overthrow him in the wake of a disaster. I inserted the modified commands into the flagship’s computer core and prepared myself for death.

“What happened instead was unexpected. The fleet was hurled across thousands of light years. Many ships were destroyed in the unexpected malfunction. Others were badly damaged, leaving only seventeen starships reasonably intact. The High Lord ordered the others ships to be cannibalised in order to repair the seventeen ships, but there was no hope of rebuilding the wormhole generator. In his wisdom and paranoia, the Emperor had not provided us with a tech base capable of producing a generator without a great deal of work.”

Toby smiled. “So you were stranded,” he said. It sounded reasonably believable, although he had to remind himself to be careful. American Intelligence services had been taken in before by false defectors. The aliens could be lying...through Toby was hard-pressed to understand why they might be lying. Their other actions made a certain kind of sense, particularly when one realised that they’d been lying about their reasons for visiting Earth. “What happened then?”

“We picked up your radio transmissions,” the alien said. “The High Lord was paranoid; your transmissions appeared to indicate that you were more advanced than ourselves. We probed in very carefully, eventually establishing a listening post on your moon. Eventually, we realised that many of your television programs were fictional, even though some of your people appeared to believe in them. Your tech base was primitive compared to the Empire’s, but you could rebuild and repair what you had. The industrial ship that survived the wormhole implosion couldn't possibly keep pace with expenditures if we invaded openly. It was the High Lord who devised the plan to take control by offering the tech your race desperately needed – tech that would come with some unseen surprises. Once your race had been tamed, we could hammer out a tech base that would allow us to start expanding back towards the Empire, or into unexplored space.”

“I see,” Toby said. “Why hasn’t he just invaded? Your race just destroyed an entire city. Millions of humans are dead. Many more will die in the coming weeks.”

“Controlling humanity would be difficult for a small force,” the alien said. “There are only a few hundred thousand warriors left in the fleet. The High Lord chose to use a subtle plan, rather than risk an open conflict that would destroy what we needed to build a technological civilisation. Your race seems far too capable of believing honeyed promises from people you know nothing about.”

Toby nodded, impatiently. The alien was right; indeed, he was starting to suspect that the alien had been one of the ones who had studied humanity closely. Adolf Hitler had once remarked that people were more inclined to believe a big lie, because they didn't want to believe that anyone would lie about it. The High Lord had drawn up a brilliant plan and applied it with consummate skill. Right now, Toby suspected that there wasn’t a First World military capable of fighting if the aliens took over – and the pod people would ensure that the aliens would have all the manpower they needed to hold the planet. It wasn't even as if they needed to hold all of Earth. The Middle East, most of Africa and even East Asia could be left to fester on its own. They might even systematically exterminate the human population, just to ensure that there was no trouble from the region. And in the meantime, the aliens would build their own tech base and return to the stars.

But how long could it hold? Maybe the aliens would open themselves and humanity would strike them down, but how could they do that when the aliens held the high ground? What rebellion could succeed if the aliens could smash it from orbit?

“It’s a constant problem,” he admitted. “Why did you come to us?”

The alien looked up at him. “I am not the only...Pacifist in the fleet,” he admitted. “I believed that your race represented the best chance for freedom for our own. Your technology is primitive, your mindset is beyond our understanding, and yet you have a spark that we have lost. The Emperor does not seek to develop independence of thought, not when someone might question the need for the Emperor. No, we are bred to obey. There hasn't been a major development in the last three hundred of your years. You may be behind us, but the gap is smaller than you think.

“You were lied to by the High Lord, lies told so smoothly that you accepted them as truth. I hoped that if I told you the truth before it was too late, you would be able to help us to escape the High Lord and take control of the fleet. Without that, your world is doomed. The High Lord will not accept defeat lightly. If you beat the fleet, he will turn your world into ash and ensure that you do not become a threat to the Empire. He has the power to obliterate your world.”

Toby had never doubted that. Everything that had never quite made sense suddenly slid into focus. The aliens had never invaded openly because they lacked the force needed to take and hold humanity’s cities, even the First World alone. And they’d refrained from mass bombardment because they wanted the industrial base intact. And...a plan was slowly coming together in his mind. If there was only one way to defeat the aliens, it would have to be risked. The entire world was at stake.

For a moment, he considered collaboration. Perhaps the High Lord or his descendents would grow lazy, accustomed to humanity’s servitude, unaware that the human race was plotting their overthrow. But it wouldn't work out that way. Any human selected for use by the aliens would probably be turned into a pod person, particularly if they were in sensitive positions. Lose once...and the human race would be lost for all time. Perhaps later generations would accept their servitude as natural and right.

“I have a question,” he said. “Your High Lord has been brainwashing humans to serve his cause. How did he learn how to do it?”

“A number of humans were taken from Earth before we made formal contact,” the alien said. There was an odd moment of hesitation, even embarrassment, before the alien continued. “They were examined; experiments were carried out on their brains. The Emperor and his lackeys have always preferred to brain-burn their servants to ensure that they could not plan rebellion. Once a reasonably safe method was developed, it was used to create loyal humans in high places. You have no comprehension of just how many there are now.”

Toby scowled. “Can they be freed from their servitude?”

The alien hesitated, just long enough for Toby to know the answer. “No,” he admitted. “The damage to their brains is too great for any recovery. They will eventually collapse and die with massive brain trauma, by which time they will be replaced with other loyal servants.”

Toby felt sick. How many others would lose their minds to the aliens, turned into unwilling traitors? And could it be stopped? Could human scientists discover a way of preventing the alien technique from brainwashing someone? There was no way to know, without experimentation...and if the aliens discovered that someone had defected, they would demand his immediate return. They’d have to think very carefully about how to handle it. He would have to talk to his father.

“I have a different question,” he said, suddenly. “How do you tell the difference between males and females among your race.”

The alien produced a hissing noise, rather like a boiling kettle. It took Toby a moment to realise that the alien was laughing. “Your race seems to spend most of your time studying reproduction,” he said. “We puzzled endlessly over the vast collection of mating videos on your computer network. It took us a long time to realise that your young did not need instructions on how to mate. But it would have always been hard for us to understand. We are very different biologically.”

There was a long pause. “I am not a male or a female,” the alien added. “I am a functional hermaphrodite, to use the human term. When I mate with another, the exchanges goes both ways. He will fertilise me and I will fertilise him. Of course, depending on the timing, one or both of us will not get pregnant.”

Toby almost found himself giggling. “So you’re both male and female,” he said. “Our doctors will be fascinated to study you.”

“You may study me once the war is over,” the alien said. “The High Lord is moving into his endgame now, while you have yet to comprehend the rules of the game. If you lose, our race will be lost along with yours. You must not lose.”

“We won't,” Toby said. He knew it was a promise they might not be able to keep. “We’ll keep asking you questions while working on a plan. We won’t let him win.”

 

The tale keeps getting better,and better!
Matt

 

Chapter Thirty-Two<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Near Mannington, Virginia
USA, Day 61

“So they lied to us right from the start,” the Colonel said. “I suppose I really shouldn't be surprised.”

He smiled, thinly, at Toby. His youngest son was perched on the end of a comfortable sofa, just close enough to Gillian that it was clear that he admired her. The Colonel allowed himself a bigger smile, even though it risked betraying his awareness of what was going on – they deserved some happiness together. And maybe he’d been wrong about his son for a long time.

“Unless the defector was lying,” Toby said. He shook his head. “No; everything he’s told us fits what facts we have. They’re not friendly at all.”

“I suppose it would be too much to expect an alien race to be monolithic,” the Colonel mused. “They would have their own factions and nations, ideals and religions – I wonder what kind of religion they have. Maybe they worship their Emperors rather than a single omnipresent God.”

He pushed the thought aside. “How many others know about this?”

“Hardly anyone,” Toby admitted. “Given the dangers of them deciding to…convert me, I’ve ordered the alien defector to be moved to another location. I won’t see him in person again until this is all over, and trusted men are watching to ensure that I haven’t become a pod person. If they do…”

The Colonel shivered. He’d called his son a betrayer and a traitor when Toby had gone to Washington, hot words spoken in anger. But now…the aliens could turn Toby into their slave, their devoted servant…and everything Toby knew would become theirs. And what would happen to the resistance then? Toby knew too much to be allowed to fall into enemy hands, but he was also their only window inside the White House. Without Toby, they would have to rely on lower levels…and many of them had become pod people. What remained of the federal law enforcement system was in chaos.

Toby looked up. “If they discover that I have been converted, they have orders to shoot me,” he said. He sounded reluctant to admit it. If the aliens managed to improve their process, Toby might become a pod person without any outwards signs – or one of his men might believe that he had become a pod person and shoot him down, quite by accident. “I suggest that you start making plans to evacuate the farm.”

“Already done,” the Colonel assured him. He wasn't going to give Toby any more details, not when he was going to walk back into the lion’s jaws. “How long do you think it will be before McGreevy wakes up and smells the ****?”

Toby hesitated. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Everything is in chaos at the moment. I think she probably knows that she’s nothing more than a figurehead for the aliens right now, but she’s reluctant to admit it. She controls so little now; between the pod people and the desertions, we’re seeing the collapse of Washington’s authority. The aliens may choose to end the farce at a moment’s notice.”

The Colonel scowled. He’d longed for the day when Washington, overburdened by massive economic problems and politicians who needed maps to tell the difference between their asses and elbows, collapsed, leaving him and his survivalists to pick up the pieces. And yet without Washington, there was little else holding the country together. The aliens might very well win by default as the country fragmented, leaving them as the sole remaining authority. It might be what they had in mind.

“I got the impression that the aliens are very much a hierarchical society,” Toby added. “They may have expected us to follow McGreevy after she became President, even though she was working for the aliens. I think they will have been surprised by all the resistance. They may start feeling that they no longer need to keep her, or that flattering her pretensions is no longer worth the effort. I’m sure she’d be less trouble as a pod person.”

The Colonel leaned forward. “Does she have any influence at all?”

“It’s hard to say,” Toby admitted. “I’m not privy to her discussions with the aliens, so I don’t know just what she is saying to them. I do know that the aliens have taken over most of our military bases and have been running highly aggressive patrols around them. The bastards don’t hesitate to call down strikes on anything that even looks dangerous. I think they’re making themselves as unpopular as we did in Iraq.”

“Right,” the Colonel said. “But we still won in Iraq.”

He looked down at his hands for a long moment. “That leaves us with one simple issue,” he added. “How do we get up to the ships?”

“One ship,” Toby said. It had been the most startling piece of information from the alien defector, the piece of information that had caused him to wonder if they were being hoaxed. The aliens had left their homeworld with a formidable fleet, but only one warship had survived the wormhole’s implosion to escape back into normal space. No wonder the aliens had been reluctant to allow humans to board and investigate their ships. They had seventeen ships, yet only one of them was armed. The remainder were freighters and troop transports. “If we could get onboard that ship…”

“But they don’t let anyone – anyone human – board their ships,” the Colonel said. If there was a single point failure source in the entire alien fleet, it was their warship. But there was nothing human that could reach high orbit, let alone shoot down an alien starship. He considered, just for a moment, a scheme to build an Orion spacecraft before dismissing it as worthless. There was no way it could be built without alerting the aliens. “Do you think we could find other…Pacifists?”

“Perhaps,” Toby said. He didn’t hold out much hope. Very few aliens talked to humans and he suspected that those who did were trained and authorised to do so. The other Pacifists might be able to make contact, or they might be terrified of being detected and remain in hiding. He doubted that the High Lord would be very kind to any Pacifist discovered onboard his fleet, not after what they’d done. An entire fleet wreaked and stranded thousands of light years from home. No human resistance force had ever pulled off a comparable feat. “We’d have to take an alien shuttle…”

“We’d have to force them to get their people down on the surface first,” the Colonel said. He looked over at Gillian. “Didn’t you manage to get into the alien system?”

“We’re still analysing it,” Gillian admitted. “The Snakes hacked into our internet through the secure military satellites in orbit. Quite clever of them, in a way; once they were inside, they could go anywhere and their computers could crack any secure database. Of course, it opened a path for us to hack them back, but we’re still working on making sense of how their computers work. On one hand, they’re actually more intuitive than anything we’ve designed for ourselves; on the other hand, whoever programmed them was programming for really stupid people. The interface appears to be simplistic to the point of absurdity. It might just be worse than Microsoft…”

“Or maybe they want it to be secure,” the Colonel said. “I bet you that they don’t teach their children anything about computers, unless they have a pressing need to know. Just like a woman driver knowing nothing about how a car actually works – most of the time, she doesn’t need to know how a car works to drive. But when she has a breakdown, she’s in deep trouble.”

Gillian smiled. “It has been my observation that many male soldiers don’t know the first thing about computers either,” she said, sweetly. “Do you know how often I’ve been able to break into secure databases because someone set their password as PASSWORD?”

Toby chuckled and tried to hide it. “We’ll find a way in,” the Colonel said. He couldn’t share any more with Toby, not when there was a chance he could wind up serving the aliens. “Why don’t you two youngsters go for a walk? The days are drawing in and it will soon be dark.”

If Toby resented being excluded, he didn’t show it. But then, he’d been the one to raise concerns about the possibility of being turned into a pod person, someone enslaved to the aliens. He stood up and Gillian followed him, slipping her hand into his as they left the room. The Colonel allowed himself a smile as the door closed behind them, and then he stood up. Bob Packman was waiting in the next room.

“You heard all of that,” the Colonel said, without bothering with any preamble. “What do you think?”

The former CIA analyst frowned. “It’s either true, in which case we will get a single shot at beating the bastards, or it’s the neatest lie any defector has ever told us,” he said. “Personally, I’m inclined to believe that it’s the truth. I cannot imagine anything that the aliens stand to gain by telling us such a lie.”

“Are you sure?” The Colonel pressed. “What if they’re lying to us?”

“I don’t see what they gain from it,” Packman said. “They lied to us about the Galactic Federation to get us to let down our guard. That makes perfect sense. Everything they did was concentrated on weakening us until they could land on Earth and take over without much resistance. They took control of the military – what was left of it – and started taking guns from the local population. And they took control of the media and bombarded us with propaganda about how they came in peace. But what do they stand to gain by convincing us that they’re weaker than we believed?”

“They’d bring us out into the open,” the Colonel said, slowly.

“They don’t gain from that,” Packman said. “They don’t need to provoke us into doing anything else, do they?”

The Colonel couldn’t disagree. “Our first priority has to be to get onto one of their shuttles and get it up into space,” he said. “I think we need to talk to the General.”

“I already have one idea,” Packman said. “I may just require Toby to risk his position a little. Actually, maybe a great deal. He’s the only one in place.”

“I know,” the Colonel said.

There was nothing else to say.

***​

Once, as a child, Toby had stood in the small orchard of apple trees and picked the fruit from the branches before they were ripe. His father hadn’t been pleased with him and had made many sardonic comments when the young Toby had complained of a stomach ache. Now, standing with Gillian under the stars, he felt the same sensation of unease. The night sky was no longer safe for humanity. High above, a winking light signified the presence of one of the alien ships, gazing down with lofty dispassion on the darkened continent. They could come down and strike at any moment and they knew it. They ruled the night.

He hadn’t let go of Gillian’s hand, although he wasn’t quite sure how he’d come to hold it. She’d been living with his father, giving her ample opportunity to learn about Toby’s childhood – if she were interested. Other men seemed to be able to pick out and seduce girls with an ease Toby could only envy, a feeling only partly migrated by the awareness that everyone else had the same problem. The grass was always greener on the other side of the hill. But then, Gillian had the same problem as he did. Neither of them knew what to say.

“I’m sorry,” Toby said, finally. “I didn’t mean to have to send you out here.”

“Better than having me turned into one of the pod people,” Gillian said. Fort Meade had been overrun by pod people a day after Tehran had been hit. Luckily, most of the staff and records had been moved to concealed locations, but it was still a nightmarish blow against the federal government – and humanity’s freedom. Inch by inch, the noose was tightening around humanity’s collective neck. “I wish there was something we could do for them.”

Toby nodded. The alien defector had said that the pod people couldn’t be freed, but he intended to try anyway. If they found a way to liberate the pod people from their shackles, they could run riot in the alien rear – or make the aliens distrustful of all pod people. The aliens had limits to their manpower; forcing them to rely more on their own people would drain their strength. Knowing that the aliens couldn’t risk destroying Earth’s technology base – if they ever wanted to see home again – made it easier for the resistance to plot, but if the aliens realised that it was hopeless they were likely to blow up the planet and call it a draw. Or go into suspended animation and wait for their Empire’s slow expansion to reach Earth. The defector had warned that even if humanity beat the High Lord, they would still have to worry about the Emperor and his Empire. Toby wasn’t so concerned. If his figures were correct, there would be hundreds of years until the Empire stumbled over Earth, long enough to develop a technological base that would dwarf anything the Snakes possessed. And then there would be revenge for the dead, and those brainwashed by the aliens.

He pushed the thought aside and looked up at her. “I wish things were different,” he admitted. They had somehow never gotten close to consummating their relationship – if it was a relationship. It galled Toby that he could ride the political winds, even predict them to some extent, and yet not understand the feminine mind. Why couldn’t they all be guys with tits? “Washington doesn’t feel like itself any longer.”

The thought was chilling. There was a heavy police and military presence on the streets, putting down riots with heavy brutality. The Witnesses – who had welcomed the aliens – were being lynched in the streets. After Tehran, only the most determined – and deluded - of true believers still believed in the promises from the aliens. There was no way of hiding what they’d done, and what was being done in their name. And someone had been taking shots at the White House. Toby was only surprised that the uncoordinated resistance hadn’t succeeded in killing more aliens, or collaborators. Perhaps he ought to be relieved. It would be quite easy for someone to take him for a collaborator.

“They’re taking control of the cities,” Gillian agreed. “They’ve been studying us for years. They knew exactly how to seduce us, how to take control…they’re going to rape the entire planet. Why couldn’t we have met them when we had the whip hand?”

Toby shrugged, awkwardly. “I have to go back to Washington tomorrow,” he said. It had been hard enough to get permission to sneak away for a night – and if anyone checked on where he was supposed to be going, the game would be thoroughly blown. His father would have to leave the farm just after Toby had departed, leaving only an unreliable human chain of messengers between them. If only they could trust the internet for anything more than a handful of coded phases. Gillian had done her best, but the alien computers were simply too powerful, capable of cracking any human code within hours at most. “I won’t see you again for a long time, if ever.”

“I know,” Gillian said. Suddenly, they were very close together. “I wish…I think…”

Their lips met. Toby had kissed before – he might not have been Don Juan, but he’d had other girls – but it felt different this time, almost electric. Perhaps it was love, part of his mind wondered, or perhaps it was just the awareness that there might not ever be another time. His lips pressed against hers with increasing desperation, feeling the sudden pressure of her body against his. He felt her hands reaching around to hold him, while he stroked her back as the kiss grew deeper. It was suddenly extremely difficult to undress without tearing something, or everything. She felt warm, perfect in his arms.

And then there was nothing left, but her.

***​

The Colonel noticed the change in them the following morning, as Susan served them all bacon and eggs before Toby left. They didn’t know it, but the change in their relationship was obvious to someone with enough understanding of human body language. A blind man could have realised that they were now together. They couldn’t seem to let go of one another, or avoid blushing every time their eyes met. The Colonel pretended he hadn’t seen, even though part of him was trying to disapprove. He told that part of him to shut up. It wasn’t as if he’d been celibate before meeting Toby’s mother. Mary would have smacked him one for daring to even think of breaking up their happiness.

After breakfast, he found a quiet moment to exchange a few words with Toby in private. “You’ve done well,” he said, as soon as they were alone. “I wish I’d had a chance to get to know you better.”

“I understand,” Toby said. Perhaps, if the aliens hadn’t come, they would have remained at loggerheads. As it was, they had had a chance to rebuild their relationship. What more could any father ask for, at the end? They might never have another chance to try. “And thank you for everything.”

The Colonel smiled. “Just make sure that that bitch who sold us out doesn’t get to live and we’ll be even,” he said. They’d discussed the plan over breakfast. It would be chancy – and it all depended upon weak links. Maybe that was a strength, the Colonel told himself. No one would expect it. “And then we can build a new country after the aliens have been defeated.”

 

Chapter Thirty-Three<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comffice:smarttags" /><st1lace w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on">Washington</st1:City> <st1:State w:st="on">DC</st1:State></st1lace>
<st1lace w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">USA</st1:country-region></st1lace>, Day 63

“Mother****er,” Jayne whispered, to herself.

She’d moved motels twice since uploading her latest piece news – actual investigative reporting – onto the internet. The precautions she’d taken hadn’t been good enough. A team of men wearing black suits and carrying guns were raking through the motel, while the manager, his staff and everyone unlucky enough to be in the building when it had been raided sat on the ground in handcuffs. Jayne knew who they were looking for, all right, and it was only sheer luck that had saved her from being caught in their net. If she hadn’t gone out for a meeting with one of her contacts, she would have been caught and her grand crusade would have come to a screeching halt.

Thankfully, she’d managed to disguise herself as an old woman. Muttering to herself, she shuffled past the federal agents, shivering as she felt their gazes running over her. None of them seemed normal; none of them were even glancing at one of the guests, who had been pulled out of the shower and left in handcuffs while naked. They were all pod people, she realised, the coldness in their eyes revealing the dead souls inside. If they weren’t fooled by her grey hair, shawl and hunched motion…she got past them without any interruption and made it around the corner. As soon as she was out of sight, she picked up her skirt and ran, back towards the heart of <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Washington</st1lace></st1:State>. How long would it be before they realised what she’d done and started to go back after her?

Finding a bench, she sat down and lowered her eyes, refusing to pay attention to anyone on the streets. For their part, the citizens of <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Washington</st1lace></st1:State> looked nervous, as if they expected the aliens to descend on them at any moment. <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Washington</st1lace></st1:State> was an occupied city, no matter what President McGreevy said in her daily press conferences. The aliens and their pod people ruled the city. They’d set up roadblocks to prevent anyone leaving the city, carted away anyone who caused trouble and generally brought <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Washington</st1lace></st1:State> to a halt. There was no food rationing, but Jayne suspected that that was only because the Snakes had set up feeding centres. The only thing a human had to do to access processed food produced by the machines was register with the aliens, something that would then be checked against government databases. Jayne knew enough to guess that the aliens would catch her the moment she allowed them to take her fingerprints and then…

She didn’t know. No one knew what had happened to the prisoners the aliens had taken out of the city. Some rumours on the internet – and flying from person to person – suggested that they’d simply been made to dig their own graves and then gunned down, their bodies left to rot once dirt had been shovelled over their mortal remains. Another theory suggested that they’d been turned into pod people, or simply been worked to death as slaves; Jayne suspected that she knew what would happen to her. The aliens would take her as their prisoner, turn her into a pod person, and then force her to recant what she’d said online. And maybe someone would believe their lies and stop planning to resist the slow conquest of the human race.

A moment later, she almost swore aloud. She’d taken out most of her life savings in cash when she’d realised that she would have to go on the run, but most of the money had been left in the motel room. She had only seventy dollars to her name, enough to buy…what? Prices of everything that wasn’t produced by the aliens was going up, despite strict attempts at price and wage control by President McGreevy. Everyone knew that the truckers weren’t so keen on bringing food into <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Washington</st1lace></st1:State> now, with half of them on strike and the other half having deserted rather than run the risk of being turned into pod people. If the aliens hadn’t cracked down so hard on civil unrest, there would have been rioting in the streets.

She thought hard, desperately. Where could she go? The BAN didn’t have any offices in Washington, at least none that wouldn’t be watched by the aliens. If they were determined to find her and armed with the most capable data-mining tools, they would have a list of her friends, acquaintances and everyone she had more than a nodding familiarity with, allowing them to watch and wait for Jayne to show herself. It seemed a great deal of effort for them to track down one person, but they’d spent a great deal of effort to wipe out others who’d spoken out against them. She didn’t dare run the risk of leading the aliens to one of her friends. There had to be another option.

One option suggested itself at once. She could pick up someone in a bar, allow him to take her home and then spend the night with him. A moment later, she pushed the thought aside angrily. How could she consider becoming a prostitute? How far could she fall before she went eagerly to bed with a stranger, just for a roof over her head? Sickened at herself, she stumbled to her feet and started walking. There had to be something better than prostitution, or sleeping under a bridge or in an alleyway. Maybe she could find a room for the night, but then what would she do for food?

She froze as a military convoy rumbled past her, heading towards the White House. Grim-faced soldiers occupied half of the vehicles, their guns in their hands as if they expected trouble. The other half of the convoy was occupied by aliens, carrying long silver sticks that had to be weapons. Jayne stared at them in horror, wondering what was going on. The soldiers had to be collaborators, or maybe they were merely pod people…no, they looked too grim for that. A thought slowly surfaced in her mind. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to gain a bed for the night and some small measure of revenge against the aliens.

It took her an hour of shuffling before she finally reached the bar. By then, night was falling over <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Washington</st1lace></st1:State>, a deeper night than the city had known for a long time. The aliens, for whatever reason of their own, were rationing power. Jayne suspected it was merely a way to remind the citizens that they no longer controlled their own lives. The Talking Shop generally catered for <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Washington</st1lace></st1:State>’s upper elite of political aides, bureaucrats and civil servants, men and women who made the country run. Unsurprisingly, many of them had chosen to remain in their jobs, serving the aliens. It was a job, after all, and their families needed to be fed. Jayne hated them even as she understood them – and hated herself for understanding.

She’d had her hair cut just after changing motels and it looked short, almost elfin. Once she’d gone into the toilet and pulled off most of the disguise, she managed to look remarkably attractive – and cheap. She inspected herself in the mirror, pulled down her shirt to show the tops of her breasts, and then practiced smiles until she was confident that she looked seductive. The trick would be picking up the right person…she sauntered out of the toilet, sat down near the bar, and ordered a drink. It wasn’t long until men started to cluster around her, but she did her best to ignore them. She wanted to land a bigger fish, someone actively involved with the aliens…

A hand fell on her shoulder. “Buy you a drink, lady?”

Jayne would have slapped him in her old life. The man thought he had the power to compel her to take his drink, and maybe a mouthful of his cock for good measure. She’d met the type before, men who were so powerful that they thought they could get away with anything. Even if Jayne had been with someone else, he would have tried to make a pass. And if his target had known how important he was, he would have succeeded. Or he would have had his revenge.

“Yes, please,” she said, trying to look flirtatious. It was wasted effort. Her mark had already started to order the drinks, including a surprisingly large amount of cocktails. Jayne hesitated, wondering if he intended to get her drunk, but it rapidly became obvious that he intended to drink most of them himself. He threw back his alcohol and seemed unfazed. A heavy drinker then, Jayne noted. She was careful to only take a few sips of her wine. His hands were already roaming over her back.

“Come on,” he grunted, finally. He’d had enough drinks to put Jayne in a stupor, yet somehow he managed to stay on his feet. “I think we should go something else, don’t you?”

The cold night air seemed to shock her awake as they stepped out into the darkness. What was she doing? She could run; perhaps she should run. This could go very badly wrong. She eyed her companion, saw his beefy hands and roaming eyes, and winced inwardly. It could definitely go badly wrong. The mark hailed a taxi and gave directions to a fashionable building near the Senate. Definitely someone important, then, she concluded. She pushed her doubts aside and waited for her chance. It would come soon enough.

In the taxi, his half-drunken hands were all over here. Jayne cursed herself and her bright ideas as she endured his pawing, even though each touch left a trail of slime over her body. Luckily, he was too drunk to undo her bra, or slip his hand into her panties. His kisses lacked all passion, or anything but lust. If she were really lucky, she told herself, he’d collapse before they could get inside. She cursed herself once again as the taxi pulled up to a stop outside a fancy apartment block. The armed guards outside checked her companion’s face, rolled their eyes and waved him through. Jayne had the distant feeling that his picking up of a random girl and taking her home for sex was a regular event. The guards certainly hadn't seemed concerned when they’d seen her.

The interior of the apartment was nice, rather like a swanky hotel. Jayne watched in some amusement as her companion managed to stagger towards the elevator, push the button, and then stagger back to her and take her in his arms. She did her best to avoid a kiss as the elevator dinged for attention, her companion pulling her inside and pawing at her as soon as the door closed behind them. It was a relief when the elevator stopped at the fifth floor and they stumbled out. The oaf took nearly four tries to get the key into the lock before he finally managed to open the door. He was tugging Jayne inside before the door was even completely open.

Jayne took a moment to study the apartment as he pushed her towards the sofa, letting go of her as he headed over to the drinks cabinet. Working for the aliens clearly paid well, although the asshole presumably hadn’t been working for them until they’d revealed their true nature. The apartment was decorated with various gaudy knickknacks and lucid paintings, including a version of the Mona Lisa where the woman was showing a naked breast to the artist. Jayne had never been to France and she’d certainly never seen the original, but she was sure it wasn't meant to be like that. Her date waved goofily at her, poured himself a large glass of wine, and swallowed it as if it were cheap water. And then, without any foreplay at all, he started to pull down his pants. Jayne had to hold herself in place to keep from physically recoiling. She’d seen how much he’d drunk, yet he could still get an erection. Had the aliens given him something to improve his sex life? It might explain why he’d become so willing to serve them.

She waited until he was almost on top of her and then rammed her knee into his groin. He bent over, screaming in pain, almost falling on top of her. Jayne, discovering a brutality she hadn't really known she’d possessed, slammed a palm into his throat. He gagged and hit the floor. A moment later, she clonked him on the head with a vase and he slipped into unconsciousness. Jayne hesitated, looking down at him. He’d intended to have his way with her, even if she’d changed her mind – and yet, could she kill him? There was no question that she should kill him; she’d certainly planned to kill him, but...could she really end another person’s life? Could she really kill someone in cold blood?

Shaking her head, she searched the apartment until she found some duct tape. The other items with the tape suggested just what he’d used it for, almost the exact mirror of what she intended to do to him. Gagging him first, she wrapped the duct tape around his arms and legs, binding him in place. Making sure he could breathe, she checked him as carefully as she could. He clearly had a thick skull. Jayne knew little about medicine, but it looked as if he would probably survive. And then he’d be missed.

She checked the bonds one final time and then started to walk around the apartment, looking for information that might come in handy for broadcasting on the internet. Inside a hidden fridge, she found a whole series of luxuries, food and drinks that were no longer available to anyone on the streets of Washington, unless one had connections with the aliens or the puppet government. Jayne swallowed some food and felt a great deal better, even as she took expensive ham and turkey from the fridge and started turning it into sandwiches. She’d have to leave the apartment before her would-be molester was missed; who knew what time he was supposed to leave for work. Coming to think of it, what did he know that might come in handy?

Sitting down in front of the computer, she allowed herself a tight smile at discovering that the oaf hadn't bothered to set up a password. He’d clearly expected the guards to stop anyone a long time before they reached the apartment. Opening some files, she started to put together a picture of what he did for a living. Before the Galactics had arrived, he’d worked as a charity organiser and lobbyist. His apartment had come from his commission; clearly, he received a kickback for every dollar he convinced people to donate to charity. It wasn't hard to start tracing the funds...and uncover a network that had been used, deliberately or otherwise, to support the aliens when they’d first arrived on Earth. Jayne had dismissed many of the wilder theories – including the theory that suggested that the Galactics had been infiltrating human society for years before they’d shown themselves – but maybe there was a hint of truth to them after all. Or maybe the Galactics had just taken advantage of a tool when they’d arrived.

The network unfolded in front of her as she followed one principle of investigative journalism. Follow the money. He’d paid out vast sums to agitators who had helped work up the crowds that had demonstrated in front of the White House or the UN or everywhere else that could hold a protest march. He’d funded and designed much of the propaganda the Welcome Foundation used to greet the aliens – propaganda that was now dismissed by anyone with eyes to see what the aliens were doing to the world. And he’d donated vast sums to McGreevy’s election campaign. Jayne stared, unable to believe her eyes. How could anyone have been so stupid?

She looked over at him and knew the answer. Arrogance. The arrogance that had told him that he could get away with anything, as long as he delivered the goods. His friends in high places would cover for him, perhaps, or maybe he didn’t even bother to think that far ahead. She’d seen enough lawyers and bankers who’d extruded the same sense of arrogance as they wreaked havoc on the stock market and the legal floor, certain that someone else would clean up the mess. The economic crisis that had been so big a deal before the aliens arrived owed much of its origin to arrogance.

Working quickly, she started to copy all the files on the computer into a USB stick. She’d have to be careful how she distributed them, but there were enough people on the internet intent on liberating it from the aliens to distribute most of the files before they could be wiped. And if necessary repost them if – when – the aliens started removing them from the internet. While she was waiting, she wrapped up her sandwiches, several bottles of mineral water and the stash of cash she’d found in a vase. It wasn't a very good hiding place. She had half a mind to point that out to him before she left.

Grinning, she walked back into the lounge and realised that her captive hadn’t recovered from the blow on his head. Jayne checked him quickly, and then hesitated, cursing her indecision. If she left him alive, he would be able to describe her to the aliens and they’d know who to blame for the public relations disaster. But if she killed him...she couldn't kill him. How could she cross that line?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She wasn't sure who she was talking to; the captive, or herself. “I can't kill you.”

Picking up her bag, she pulled her clothes back into place and walked out of the apartment. It was tempting to stay and have a shower – and loot it further – but there was no time. Who knew if the aliens were watching their collaborator. Jayne wouldn't have trusted him further than she could have thrown him.

She was still smiling when she left the building, passed the guards, and vanished into the night.

 

How about some lovely comments?

Chapter Thirty-Four<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Washington DC
USA, Day 65

Jason poured the bottle of alcohol – he’d long since stopped caring about what he ordered – into the glass and cursed as it ran dry. He’d never drunk before – well, not outside of college parties – and the wine was going to his head. But what else could he do? There was no hope for him now, or the Welcome Foundation, or anything else he might have cared about. SETI had had a dream, but the dream had become a nightmare and his life was at risk. The insurgents – or terrorists, as the official line from the government called them – would just as soon blow off his head as look at him. He was the Discoverer. They blamed him for their woes. And it wasn't even fair.

And the Snakes were another worry. Every day, Jason feared that they’d learned how he’d helped a defector to escape their continuous surveillance. If they had, or if they decided to turn him into a pod person, they would kill him, or turn him into a weapon to use against his countrymen. Or perhaps they didn’t need to bother. He was already a weapon against his countrymen. The Welcome Foundation had become the spearhead for an alien plan to enslave large parts of the human race and probably exterminate the rest. There was nothing left for him at all. The human race, assuming it survived, would remember him as a traitor. What else could they do?

He swallowed the wine in one gulp and winced as he felt it hit his chest. The sensation was alarmingly familiar; the dull taste in his mouth was not. Even the Welcome Foundation couldn’t get good wine these days, even with the aliens backing them. There were shortages everywhere and those who were trying to keep the country going had better things to worry about than supplies of wine to those who weren't helping. He could have called and invoked what remained of the Foundation’s authority, but it would only add to his woes. And anyone who felt like being a patriot might just poison the wine before they sent it to him. One of the more blatant collaborators had been murdered in just that fashion. Another would have died were it not for alien medical technology.

Jason reached for the bottle with an unsteady hand and cursed as he only managed to knock it over. It fell to the floor and shattered, scattering glass and drops of wine everywhere, a terrible mess for someone to clear up. Jason started to pull himself to his feet before remembering that he wasn't wearing any shoes and in his half-drunk state he was just as likely to step on a piece of glass than avoid it. He was perhaps more likely to hurt himself by accident, in fact. The depression that threatened to overwhelm him seemed stronger, somehow, with the aid of the drink. There really was nothing left for him now.

Somehow, he pulled himself to his feet and shuffled away from the broken glass. One of the maids would clear it up tomorrow, he told himself firmly. It was what they were paid for – and besides, they seemed to like Jason more than the other collaborators. The others seemed to think that the maids were there to service something other than the rooms. It reminded him of a documentary he’d once seen of the last days of Hitler’s Germany. The Nazis had joked about enjoying the war, because the peace would be terrible. And they’d wined and dined and ****ed while their soldiers had fought to hold back the Russian tide just long enough for their masters to see another sunrise. Once, Jason had been disgusted, but now he understood. They had known that the end was coming soon, so why not get what pleasure they could out of life before the Russians stood them against a wall and shot them?

“That’s going to make a terrible mess,” a voice said.

Jason started. He hadn’t heard anyone coming in – coming to think of it, he was almost sure that he’d locked the door before he’d started his nightly binge. An assassin from the resistance could simply have picked the lock…Jason started to sober up rapidly out of sheer terror, even though he knew it was futile. If someone had come to kill him, he might as well stay drunk, just for a little anaesthetic. And then he managed to look up and was surprised to realise that he recognised his visitor. Mr Sanderson looked older and greyer, somehow, but at least he knew that Jason had tried to help the resistance. He probably wasn't here to kill Jason, unless he thought that Jason might betray the secret. If the aliens knew that a defector had escaped their ranks, their reaction would not be kind.

“I…”

His stomach heaved and he swallowed hard, trying to keep back the tidal wave of vomit that threatened to burst out of his mouth. Mr Sanderson picked up a bucket and held it, without comment, under Jason’s mouth. Jason could barely mutter a thank you before he lost all control and threw up, expelling all of the alcohol and food he’d swallowed since he’d locked the door, enjoying what life while he could. His mouth tasted awful afterwards, but somehow he felt a little better. He hadn’t thrown up so badly since a marathon drinking session back as a freshman. Since then, he’d known better than to drink to excess.

“I think you need a shower and a change,” Mr Sanderson said. Jason almost wanted to snap at him for acting like Jason’s father, but he was right. Besides, Mr Sanderson was his contact with the resistance. Coming here risked exposure – and the Snakes didn’t need to torture someone to make him talk. “I’ll wait here. You go get ready and come back as soon as you can.”

Jason staggered over to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, and washed his mouth out. At least it tasted better than the bitter taste of vomit. Nodding, he staggered over to the bathroom and somehow managed to get undressed without tearing anything. He ordered a hot shower, but the water was only lukewarm. It said something about the nature of alien promises that even their most trusted collaborators couldn’t get hot water. They wouldn’t have found it hard to heat up a few buckets of water. And they’d promised Earth unlimited supplies of fusion-based energy.

The water ran cold a few seconds later. Jason yelped, before realising that the cold was helping him to sober up. Cursing, he staggered out of the shower and reached for the dressing gown he’d left hanging on one of the walls. It felt scratchy against his skin, but it was better than staggering around in the nude. When he managed to get outside, he was surprised and gratified to discover that Mr Sanderson had produced two cups of steaming coffee, one of which was pointed at Jason before he could say a word. It was stronger than his normal tastes, but it helped sober him up completely.

“I don’t have much time,” Mr Sanderson said. He sounded…annoyed. Jason understood. He’d risked losing his freedom of thought – or his life – to visit Jason, yet Jason had been thoroughly drunk and forced him to waste time making him sober up. “We know what the aliens are doing now, and how they’re organised. We need to get a team onto one of their starships, the warship. How can we do that?”

Jason blinked at him. The coffee cup felt hot against his hands, helping him to focus. But it hardly mattered. No one – despite pleas from almost every scientist and astronaut on Earth – had been invited onto any of the alien ships. And Jason would have bet good money that they would never allow any human, let alone an armed military team, to get onto one of their ships. The starships were their ace in the hole. No rebellion could take and hold ground with the bastards holding the high ground. They would know better than to allow any chance that they could be subverted, or destroyed.

And no weapon built on Earth could even reach the ships.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, finally. “They don’t let humans onto their ships.”

“We need to find a way to get onto their ships or we may as well run up the white flag and surrender,” Sanderson said quietly, but forcefully. “How can we do that?”

Jason thought, desperately. The entire human race depended upon their managing to take a ship; one ship, if what Sanderson was saying was true. But the ship was the one they would never even consider allowing humans to board, not as long as it was their ace in the hole…

He stopped. A thought had just struck him. “The aliens have taken over Andrews AFB,” he said. The Welcome Foundation maintained an office on the base, now that the surviving human military personnel had deserted or been converted. “They use it when they send people down to talk to the President.”

“True, although it’s more a case of talking at the President,” Sanderson said. “McGreevy is not in the best of mental states.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jason admitted. There had been a time when he’d thought highly of McGreevy – although she’d been a scheming politician, she had seemed devoted to the Welcome Foundation and the dream of Federation. Now…now she was just another collaborator, more highly-placed than most. “What are they doing to her?”

“I don’t think the aliens are actually doing anything to her,” Sanderson said. “I think she’s realised that she’s made a mistake and is too stubborn to admit it.”

Jason shrugged. It wasn't his problem. “They fly a shuttle down from their flagship to the base, every week,” he said. “They seem to do it regularly, no matter what trouble or strife seems to be affecting the area. If you could get a team onto the shuttle, you might be able to get up to orbit…”

“This isn’t Independence Day,” Sanderson pointed out, dryly. “I don’t think that we could fly one of their shuttles. They’re not exactly built for human bodies…”

“We have at least one alien ally,” Jason said. “Couldn’t he fly the shuttle?”

“Possibly,” Sanderson said. He stroked his chin. “But there are a lot of things we don’t know about their security, or what codes the shuttle has to exchange with the flagship before it’s allowed to dock, or…”

He shook his head. “And we’d still have to get a team through the base’s defences and take the shuttle,” he added. “They’d have plenty of time to alert the flagship that the shuttle has been hijacked. One blast from the laser cannon or whatever they have to defend their ships and the shuttle will be nothing more than flaming ash.”

Jason stared down at his empty cup. Sanderson was right. Too much could go wrong, even considering the inside knowledge they had – and the alien leadership didn’t know they had. It was a secret weapon, but what good was it if it couldn’t be used? How could they hope to pull off a victory if they couldn’t get into orbit…he thought, carefully, about everything he knew about the aliens or thought he knew about them. What did they value? They probably cared about their own lives or at least the lives of their senior officers. They seemed much less concerned about their juniors and soldiers, preferring to vaporise their bodies rather than run the risk of allowing them to fall into enemy hands.

What did they value…?

He looked up, suddenly. “I know what we can use,” he said, grimly. “The one thing we have that they won’t want to throw away in a hurry. They won’t want to lose their collaborator of a President so quickly, will they?”

Sanderson nodded, slowly. “They have already been nudging at her to accept their protection,” he said. He smiled, sardonically. “For some reason, they believe that her life may be in danger – or they want to remove the rest of her independence of thought. Or maybe they think she’s worth more as an independent entity rather than a pod person.”

He considered. “If she happened to be at Andrews when the base was attacked,” he added, “what would they do?”

“Try to keep her safe,” Jason said. “And where could she be safer than their flagship?”

Sanderson smiled. “I’ll take this to some others and try to put an operation together,” he said. “I suggest that you don’t worry about this for a while. What you don’t know you can’t tell.”

Jason nodded, although part of him felt excluded. “I should come with you,” he said. “I already know too much.”

“I know,” Sanderson admitted. “And if we had someone else in your position, I’d pull you out and take you somewhere underground. But we don’t; we have to balance the risks here and the benefits we gain from having you where you are.”

“Someone who can see what the Welcome Foundation is doing,” Jason said, dryly. “Right now, I cannot think of anything we’re doing that is actually what we were promised before Tehran. We’re not even installing new fusion plants or medical centres or even food kitchens…”

“You’re doing good work,” Sanderson assured him. “The country won’t forget you afterwards, whatever happens.”

Jason snorted. “Winners write the history books, remember? The aliens will remember me as a collaborator if they win and so would most of humanity if the human race comes out of it with even limited independence…”

“The record will be set straight eventually,” Sanderson said. “Besides, you’re assured of a good mention whoever writes the history books.”

He nodded to Jason and left the room. Behind him, Jason took one last look at the mess he’d made on the floor and then turned to go to bed. He’d clean the mess up tomorrow, before the **** hit the fan – again. And then he would find what Sanderson needed to know, betray the aliens, and maybe – just maybe – escape with his own life.

***​

Washington was burning.

Jeannette McGreevy, President of the United States of America, stood at the window in the White House and watched it burn. The Secret Service – whose agents regarded her with contempt when they thought she wasn't looking – had warned her that there might be snipers in the area, who might just take a shot at the President. She’d been told that the windows were supposed to be bullet-proof, but why take the risk when it wasn't necessary? And yet…if one of the snipers did end her life, perhaps it would be a good thing. All her dreams had turned to dust and ash.

She’d wanted power – but now all the power she had was enforced by the aliens. If they wanted to dispose of her and put someone else in her place, they could do it. She’d believed that she could ride the Galactic Federation’s coattails to power and a place in human history; now, all Americans would remember about her was that she had been a worse traitor than Benedict Arnold. He’d only plotted to surrender West Point to the British, a long time before anyone had even dreamed of alien life forms. Jeannette McGreevy had handed over her country to an alien power. The future would curse her name.

The portraits on the wall seemed to mock her. Every President was depicted, from the moment of America’s birth as an independent country to Patrick Hollinger’s predecessor, whose dark face seemed to scowl down upon her. George Washington, the father of his country; Abraham Lincoln, who’d unified it even as he’d purged the nation of slavery – and died for his beliefs. Even Richard Nixon, who had disgraced the office of the President, seemed to be glowering at her. Tricky Dick had wanted power too, but he’d never sold out the country. There were those who even believed that the United States would have benefited from a further Nixon term. And Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, George Bush…they would have loathed her.

She swallowed two pills without glancing down at the small container in her pocket. The drugs kept her stable, for whatever it was worth now. She told herself that she should fight back, that she should find a way to turn the Presidency into a weapon, but there was nothing she could do. The aliens had explained – without quite gloating – that she was under constant surveillance. If she did anything they didn’t like, they’d warned, the heart attack that had struck down her predecessor would be nothing compared to what they would do to her.

Turning, she strode back along the plush corridors to her bedroom. The Secret Service agents kept a discreet distance. McGreevy was unmarried – there had been no room for a First Husband in her life, or the White House – and had never regretted it, until now. Having someone to hold her while she cried would have been nice. She’d wanted power. Now she was nothing more than a figurehead, a helpless watcher as Washington burned and the country fell apart. The country she had done so much to destroy.

She should have killed herself, she knew. But she didn’t have the nerve.

Lying down, she closed her eyes and felt the drugs take effect. Sleep crept up over her, just before she could start to toss and turn. Her eyes closed and she fell back into nightmares. And in the morning, she thought just before she fell asleep, she would have to do it all over again. Be their figurehead. Sell out her country. The despair rose up over her and she almost cried as she fell into the darkness. She had betrayed the entire world. And now she was their puppet, their helpless slave.

What else was she good for, now?

 

Chapter Thirty-Five<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comffice:smarttags" /><st1lace w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on">Washington</st1:City> <st1:State w:st="on">DC</st1:State></st1lace>
<st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">USA</st1lace></st1:country-region>, Day 66

The sunlight was creeping up over <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Washington</st1lace></st1:State> as Jayne finished typing on the cheap laptop she’d picked up for bargain price. It had once been a top-of-the-range machine, but now it was nothing more than obsolete, even before the aliens had arrived with the promise of newer and better computers. The computer revolution had just kept moving forwards and the primitive junk left in its wake was simply thrown out to rot. Jayne had only had to pay twenty dollars for a machine that had once cost in excess of five hundred dollars.

She’d taken the precaution of ripping out the wireless section to ensure that it couldn’t accidentally log onto the internet. The aliens had actually improved the internet by establishing newer and better servers in <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Washington</st1lace></st1:State>, boosting signals to an order of magnitude above humanity’s best equipment, but she knew better than to believe that it was a gift. They’d be able to monitor the internet through the equipment, reading every email and webpage that passed through one of their servers. And they might be able to track someone down by following their cell phones or anything else they might have on their person that logged onto the internet.

The story was the best thing she’d ever written, or so she told herself. All the evidence she’d stolen from her would-be Casanova had checked out, at least as far as she could tell. The files linked the aliens to a hundred different lobbyist organisations and a number of prominent politicians. And the most prominent of them was serving as the President of the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">United States</st1lace></st1:country-region>. Jayne rubbed tired eyes and asked herself if she was really certain she wanted to upload the story. It would mark her out for death if the aliens caught up with her…

She shook her head. The aliens had already tried to kill her – and they would not relent just because she’d withheld a certain story. They’d probably expect that she’d flee from <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Washington</st1lace></st1:State>, but that wouldn’t stop them hunting her down. Killing her before she had a chance to break the story would keep it buried forever, or at least long enough to ensure that it no longer mattered. If they’d been prepared to destroy an entire city to avenge the death of one of their people, they would certainly be willing to kill her to prevent her from blackening their name still further.

“No,” she told herself firmly. “The die has to be cast.”

Opening her suitcase, she produced her second computer. It had taken nearly an hour to set the program up the way she wanted it, but with the aliens in control of much of the internet there was no other choice. Humans tended to believe that the internet was nothing more than a vast mass of computers – and in one sense that was perfectly accurate – yet most messages and postings went through a series of servers. The alien-built servers would almost certainly hold her message while waiting for the aliens to check it for themselves, or simply wipe it from the system. They used a similar capability to eradicate junk mail, something that would have made them folk heroes if they hadn’t been trying to enslave the entire world.

Smiling at the thought, she pulled a USB stick from the first computer and jammed it into the second. The program she’d created went online at once, starting the long process of distributing the message to every underground forum and news hub she knew existed. It would be picked up and redistributed by other computer experts, who would alter the message slightly to prevent the aliens from tracking all copies down and eradicating it from the internet. And if the aliens did, by some dark miracle, succeed in wiping all copies off the known net, the copies she’d sent to hidden forums would survive and start being distributed again in a week. They’d have no way to block the message permanently.

Standing up, she picked up her bag and headed for the door. The money she’d taken from the oaf had bought her a reasonably good room, in a building that didn’t ask too many questions. She had actually booked in for three days, something that might keep them from recognising that she was gone until it was too late. They’d been paid in advance for the room, anyway, she reminded herself; a price that would have been outrageous in gentler times. There was no need to feel guilty over leaving them to explain themselves to the police or the aliens when they turned up – and they would. Jayne had no doubt of it.

She walked out of the elevator, nodded to the doorman, and strode out onto <st1:State w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Washington</st1lace></st1:State>’s streets. She didn’t look back.

***​

Julius Davenant pursed his lips in annoyance when the call came through from his superiors. He’d been busy enjoying a nice period of R&R when they’d called him, but he knew better than to defy the aliens. Now he knew who he’d been working for, he knew that any failure to follow orders – or to fail in his task – would have serious consequences. And besides, the target was a young woman. He always enjoyed chasing and killing young women. It was just a shame that only a handful of assignments included that particular chore.

The message had told him her exact location – a motel called the Abbot Belfry, whatever the hell that was – but he knew better than to expect her to stay there. This wasn't the days when bloggers hadn’t known that someone was tracking them down and killing anyone who was too outspokenly anti-alien; these days, they knew to run and hide as soon as they posted to the internet. It had, according to some of the forums he’d visited from time to time, improved the general tone of internet debates no end. Davenant just couldn’t see why anyone would bother getting worked up about what someone else said on the internet. It wasn't that important or significant.

Standing just outside the motel, he mentally put himself into his target’s shoes. Where would she go? According to the briefing, she had had the sense not to go anywhere near her friends, family or people she might have known from the BAN. It was wise of her, as they were all being watched by remote bugs. He was still considering possible options when his cell phone rang again. The target had been spotted by a CCTV camera in a nearby eatery, the owner blissfully unaware that his security system had been hijacked by the aliens. She probably thought that she was safe.

Checking the gun and ID badge in his pocket, Davenant started to walk slowly towards the eatery. There’d be time to check it out carefully before he went into the place and finished off his target. And then he might even stop off for some lunch.

***​

Jayne had been lucky to find the eatery. It seemed that one of the owner’s sons worked for the aliens – directly or indirectly, no one seemed to know – and he had the pull to organise delivery of fresh food and drink. Jayne polished off a plate of bacon, eggs and sausages, feeling slightly guilty as she finished eating and smacked her lips together. There were people in Washington who had never known a day’s hunger in their lives, but were starving now. A few more weeks of this and any will to resist the aliens would be broken.

Someone – she couldn’t remember who – had died because he’d had his back to the entrance and his enemy had shot him before he’d even realised that he was there. She hadn't made that mistake. She’d taken a seat that allowed her to see whoever was coming into the building, long before they could hope to see her. Jayne was just on the verge of leaving when she saw someone approaching the door. Somehow – she wasn’t sure how – she knew that he was dangerous. Standing up, she headed for the toilets, silently praying that he wouldn't recognise her from her back. She felt a tingle at the back of her neck as she heard the door opening behind her, but the blow she was half-expecting failed to materialise. Instead of going into the toilets – where she knew she could be trapped easily – she headed to the third door, which opened into the kitchen. A young man – barely old enough to shave – looked up at her in surprise. Customers were not supposed to enter the kitchen.

Jayne looked down at him, ensuring that she revealed enough cleavage to fluster anyone male. “Is there a second way out of here?”

The man – the boy – frowned. “I’m not supposed to...”

Jayne held out a ten dollar note, although there was no way of knowing precisely what it was worth at the moment. “My ex is behind me,” she lied smoothly. “I can’t let him see my face, or he’ll kick up a right fuss...”

Either the money or the sob story clinched it. “Just walk right out of there,” the boy said, pointing to a half-opened door in the far wall. “Turn left and you’ll come back to the street.”

“Thanks,” Jayne said. She passed him the note and hurried towards the door. It opened onto an alleyway, allowing her to slip past a pile of containers and rubbish bins. A small mob of cats were clawing at the bins, uncovering food that had been thrown out and been left to rot. Jayne shuddered as she passed the cats and kept moving. How long would it be before the citizens of Washington were scavenging in the waste bins for something to eat?

Pushing the thought aside, she started to run.

***​

Davenant saw a woman leaving through the backdoor, but it took him a moment to realise that she was his target. The briefing hadn’t suggested any combat training skills – either military or civilian – yet she had been a reporter. Situational awareness would have been hammered into her head while she was being taught how to sniff out news – and, more importantly, who to avoid. And she’d grown up in an inner city, according to the briefing. She would know when to listen to her instincts.

Ignoring the waitress, he pushed forward and into the kitchen, glancing around quickly. A door was half-open on the far wall. There was no other place to hide. Starting forward, he was surprised when a pimply-faced kid got in the way, glaring up at him with mute defiance. Davenant didn't have time to deal with him, or talk his way past. Instead, he slapped the kid’s face with the back of his hand and didn't stop to watch the boy fall to the ground. The sound of someone screaming in pain – and someone else calling for the cops – came from behind him as he ran through the doorway and into an alley. His target was right at the far end. She glanced behind her, just once, but it was enough to realise that he was on her tail. Davenant’s powerful feet propelled him forward, one hand clawing at his pistol. The ID he’d been given would answer any questions anyone dared to ask.

Turning the corner, he saw the girl running as fast as she could. It was impressively fast, but Davenant had yet to see the person who could outrun a bullet. Targeting her legs, he fired two quick shots in succession. The woman crumpled to the ground.

***​

Jayne didn't register the shots. There was only a hammer blow that slammed into her legs, sending her flying forward, carried by her own momentum. She hit the ground, feeling something cracking under the impact. Pain surged through her body; it was a moment before she realised that she’d been shot, twice. Her body was a useless jangled mass, almost impossible to move. Blood was pooling all around her.

A strong arm rolled her over and she found herself looking up into the face of her killer. He was looking down at her, a cold dispassion on his face that she found infinitively more terrifying than anger or hatred. He’d killed her and yet he almost didn't care. She was nothing to him. Something bubbled up in her mouth and she realised, with horror, that it was blood. Had one of the shots hit her somewhere else and she’d simply missed it in all the pain?

He stood over her, his gun pointed directly at her head. Jayne almost laughed, despite knowing that it was almost certainly the end. Did he really think she could still hurt him? Maybe a Special Forces soldier, like one of the ones she’d interviewed, could have kept going despite being so badly hurt. Jayne knew better than to think that she could even move. There was nothing she could do to escape. And no one, even on Washington’s streets, would be able to help her.

Oddly, she found that certain death boosted her determination. “You’re too late,” she said, half-choking on her own blood. Even shaping the words was difficult. “The world already knows what you did. It’s too late.”

Her killer looked down at her, and then his gun barked once. There was a brief moment of sound and lightning, and then nothing.

***​

“Armed police! Drop the gun!”

Davenant swore under his breath. He hadn't expected anyone to dare intervening, even if the policeman had been too late to save the bitch’s life. Maybe the Washington PD wasn't as cowed as the aliens had promised, or maybe this one hadn't realised that he was working directly for the aliens. And he had Davenant bang to rights. Sighing, Davenant let his pistol drop to the ground and raised his hands. There would be time to explain himself once he was no longer in danger.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said, calmly. “If you will allow me...”

“Lie down on the ground, spread your legs and arms,” the policeman snapped. Davenant complied, reluctantly. The policeman was on edge. That was clear from his voice alone. A single mistake could set him off. “Don’t even think about moving without permission.”

He stepped closer, looking down at Davenant. “Put your hands behind your back and cross your ankles,” he ordered. A moment later, Davenant was securely handcuffed and the policeman was searching him roughly, removing a set of weapons and tools that would have alarmed anyone. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a federal agent and that woman was a wanted fugitive,” Davenant said. “If you’ll check my ID...”

He felt a boot on the back of his neck. “Damn collaborators,” the policeman said. The pressure increased to the point where Davenant felt his neck beginning to break. “You’re all scrum.”

There was a terrifying crunching sound, somehow shatteringly loud inside his skull, and then Davenant fell into darkness. The last thing he felt was the policeman removing the cuffs and preparing to move his body. No one would realise what had happened until it was far too late.

***​

The Colonel hadn't told his son – or any of his other children – that he was moving to Washington. None of them needed to know. The information Toby had slipped down to the farm had been relayed through a team of human agents, all of whom knew no more than they actually needed to know. If the aliens had the patience – and a lucky break – they might be able to track the messages to their destination, but the Colonel knew that fear and suspicion could not be allowed to paralyse him. The aliens would win if he gave up the fight believing that they could track him whatever he did. Besides, there was Gillian’s bug detector to ensure that they were not followed or detected.

General Thomas had been moved up to a location near Washington two weeks ago, where he’d been making contact with military deserters and a number of former military personnel who had realised that it was in their best interests to go underground. The aliens and their pod people – and their collaborators – had been expanding the round-ups, tracking down and arresting everyone who had any military experience at all. It made perfect sense, the Colonel knew; people with military experience presumably knew how to be dangerous. The aliens, given what they now knew about alien society, might not realise just how many guns were in civilian hands. And, now that they’d wreaked most of the federal government, they had no way of knowing how much unregistered weaponry was in the hands of the resistance.

“We begin the operation in three days,” General Thomas said. Once, he would have been forced to use PowerPoint slides, creating a dog and pony show for bored officers and civilians who wanted to feel that they were at the heart of military operations. Now, nothing was written down and no records were kept. The aliens had busted one underground cell because they’d made the mistake of keeping records. No one else would make that mistake. “We hit the collaborators – not the aliens – as hard as possible.”

There were nods from the grim-faced men gathered around the table. They all knew what happened when aliens were killed; their bodies disintegrated in a massive explosion. Worse, the aliens didn’t seem to care how many of their collaborators were killed, but they launched massive reprisals against any civilian settlements anywhere near where one of the aliens were killed. The Colonel wasn't particularly surprised. There were only a limited number of Snakes, after all, and they weren't expendable. Humans were expendable. They could always make more pod people.

It wasn't just in the United States, either. The Snakes were trying to hold down the entire first world. Communications channels to the rest of the world were flighty, but they’d managed to get general agreement to join the attack on the aliens. The Snakes would start thinking that the entire world had turned on them. And if they realised that no Snakes were being killed...

“Keep the pressure on, but don’t let them have a chance to smash you,” the General added. “We cannot afford a stand-up fight; not now, perhaps not ever. We hit, we hurt...and then we get out. Any questions?”

There were none. “Very well, gentlemen,” the General said. “Let’s go.”

 

Chapter Thirty-Six<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Washington DC
USA, Day 69

Jeffery Spender was having a bad day.

It was bad enough that the FBI had been turned into a cheap knock-off of the Gestapo. He’d never signed up to abuse American citizens, back when his wife had become pregnant and he’d been forced to choose between staying with her or staying in the Marines – without her. He’d applied to join the elite FBI Hostage Rescue Team and discovered, much to his surprise, that he actually enjoyed the work. He saw more combat action and saved more American citizens than his brothers in the Marine Corps. And besides, many Marines had been discharged back when the government had started cutting the military in line with the Galactic Federation’s demands. Spencer had known that his position was secure.

And then the government had been forced to order a lockdown and Spencer had found himself serving as their tool. He’d had to raid houses, arrest citizens without any regard for little niceties like law and constitutional rights; the look on the faces of scared citizens would haunt him until the end of his days. If he’d been a bachelor, he would have deserted and joined the resistance, but that hadn’t been a possibility. His wife and his six-year-old daughter had been taken into protective custody, officially because the wives and children of federal agents were being targeted by the resistance. Unofficially, they were hostages for his good behaviour. If he failed to satisfy the government – and its alien masters – that he was doing the job they ordered, he had no doubt that his wife would be killed and his daughter fostered out – or killed herself. He dared not do anything that might alarm their captors.

He scowled. A motley group of federal agents had been placed under his command, with orders to intercept anyone attempting to leave the city. The darkness and the drizzling rain had deterred anyone from driving out, not when they might be shot by the federal agents or arrested and taken to one of the detention centres. Spencer didn’t know quite what happened there, but some of the arrestees became pod people and others simply vanished. Or were vanished, as they’d joked down in Latin America. The fools who had welcomed the Galactic Federation with open arms hadn’t seen how they’d been manipulated until it was far too late. They’d been nothing more than useful fools, just like the American-born Communists and Islamists who had served an agenda that had treated them as nothing better than tools. And really, what had they deserved? They had betrayed their country – and Spencer, by following orders, was no better than them. How could he ever look himself in the face again?

Washington was encircled by a ring of federal agents, backed up by a handful of military units and equipment. No one was allowed to enter or leave without good reason – and there were very few reasons that they were allowed to accept. A number of federal agents had gone completely to the bad, abusing their powers in ways that would have shocked any pre-Contact American – and been completely familiar and accepted in a Third World country. Most of the good ones had deserted, been turned into pod people or – like Spencer – found that their families were being held hostage. At least Spencer’s team wasn't abusing the refugees. He had that much honour and dignity left.

But there were the stories…federal agents, like everyone else, loved to share stories about what was going on and what was going to happen. Some of the stories were shocking, suggesting mass rape and kidnapping; others were merely worrying. It wouldn’t be long, he’d been assured, before every federal agent was a pod person. And then there would be no hope of resistance. If the Galactic Federation turned everyone on Earth into a pod person…but they couldn’t do that, could they? The logistics would be formidable, even for super-powerful aliens. He checked his M16 automatically as he glanced down the long deserted road. Everything had been much simpler in Iraq. The enemy might have been cowardly enough to hide behind the civilian population, but at least they hadn’t had pod people on their side. And they hadn’t had access to America families.

He heard the truck before he saw it, a lumbering gas tanker heading along the road towards Washington. Gas deliveries had been reduced sharply ever since Tehran, when chaos had spread over the Middle East. Rumour had it that the Saudi Royal Family had been strung up by their own population, while the Iranians were taking their revenge upon the Mullahs who had driven their country into the dirt and Iraqis were slaughtering each other in vast numbers. Not that it really mattered any longer; oil deliveries out of the Middle East were all that mattered, and they’d been reduced. Rumour had it that the aliens were talking about producing synthetic oil, but Spencer no longer believed them. They’d lied to get the human race to let down its guard – and they’d succeeded brilliantly. They’d stolen an entire world.

The tanker started to slow as it approached the roadblock. Traffic in and out of Washington had slowed dramatically since Tehran, leaving the capital perched on the verge of starvation. What little food there was had to be brought in by soldiers and men pressed into service, ever since many of the truckers had gone on strike after Tehran. Seeing a tanker gave him hope, even though he knew that there would only be a small amount of gas – and none of it would be put into civilian hands. They’d be more likely to take it directly to the collaborators.

Shaking his head, Spencer walked forward as the tanker lumbered to a halt. He couldn’t see the driver’s face behind the windscreen, but that was hardly surprising. The rain was pelting down now, as if even the weather disapproved of the aliens. Or maybe the aliens were manipulating the weather from orbit. God knew they’d shown enough remarkable tricks before they’d shown their true faces. Maybe they’d promised their collaborators sunshine and rainbows while drenching the rest of the world with cold rainfall.

The driver’s door didn’t open. Puzzled, and a little alarmed, Spencer stepped up and pulled at the handle. The door opened, revealing a makeshift doll – life-sized, wearing male clothes – grinning at him. There was no one else in the cab. He stared at it, his tired brain refusing to quite process what he was seeing, and then he threw himself backwards. It was far too late.

***​

Mathew Bracken, who was officially dead, loved C4. It was a common feeling among the SF community, who firmly believed that there was no such thing as enough C4. Rigging up the gas tanker with enough explosive to destroy the roadblock utterly had been easy; it had been more complicated to rig the tanker so it could be driven by remote control. In the end, they’d had to cannibalise a set of remote-control cars to construct the control system – and even then it had been flighty. But it had sure paid off on the night. The explosion smashed the roadblock as if it had been made of paper, throwing a pair of police cars dozens of meters away from the blast. They caught fire and burned merrily, adding an eerie light to the scene.

He exchanged a grin with two of his men and settled down to wait. It wasn't long before they saw the vehicles driving towards the burning roadblock. The collaborators had been smart enough to keep a quick-reaction force on permanent standby, knowing that they would have to seal any hole in their ring of steel before insurgents started getting in or out of Washington. Mathew waited until they’d stopped near the burning cars, and then carefully targeted their positions. The pod people had made one elementary mistake. Their leader was obvious to the sniper waiting with Mathew’s team.

“Fire,” Mathew ordered, quietly.

The SEAL team opened fire as one. Carl, his sniper, took out the enemy leader, while the others contented themselves with random bursts that forced the enemy team to dive for cover. An RPG, fired at one of the enemy vehicles, caused it to explode into a fireball, illuminating the eerie scene. The enemy team hadn’t trained together very well; instead of firing back, or retreating in good order, they either hid and cowered or ran for their lives. Mathew had once had reservations about shooting men in the back. Now, with his country under enemy occupation and governed by puppets and traitors, he had no objection to killing them all by whatever method seemed quickest. Besides, the runners would probably scream for help when they reached somewhere out of the line of fire. Better that the enemy believed that their response force had run into a phantom army than to have any idea just how few resistance fighters there were on the front lines.

A brilliant flash of light lit up the horizon, followed rapidly by a pearl of thunder. For one moment, Mathew thought that someone had popped off a nuke or that the aliens had decided to intervene directly, before realising that it was neither. One of the other squads of insurgents had been planning a nasty surprise for the enemy; if the resistance was lucky, they’d spend long enough wondering just what the **** had happened to allow the resistance to withdraw safely. But once they figured out that there was no radiation – or forced their men forward anyway – the cat would be out of the bag.

“Cover me,” he muttered. Tom and Markus provided cover, shooting at any enemy heads that showed themselves, while Mathew slipped down towards the ambush scene. The human eye was naturally lazy, attracted to light. He should be invisible in the shadows, at least until he started shooting. An enemy body appeared in front of him and he almost squeezed off a round before he realised that the enemy’s head had been blown off. He must have caught a series of rounds from the light machine gun the SEAL team had placed close to the ambush site.

A trio of enemy fighters were hiding behind the remains of a car, trying to fire uncoordinated bursts back towards their ambushers. It wouldn’t have been a bad tactic if they’d known what they were doing, but as it was they were doing little more than forcing the SEAL team to duck from time to time. Spray and pray hadn’t worked in the Middle East and it wouldn’t work in America. They had no idea Mathew was behind them until he shot them all neatly in the back of the head. A badly-wounded enemy fighter, lying on the ground, waved desperately to Mathew; one look and Mathew knew that no medical centre would be able to save his life. He hesitated, remembering that he was looking down at a collaborator, and then remembered simple humanity. A single shot ran out and the wounded soldier went onwards into the next world.

Four more SEALs materialised out of the darkness and advanced forward, their weapons and combat goggles sweeping for enemy fighters. One fighter, a young man barely out of his teens, was found trembling behind one of the smashed containers they’d used to build their roadblock. The SEALs dragged him out, tied his hands, and placed him up against one of the wreaked cars. He wasn't a hardcore enemy fighter, Mathew noted, nor did it appear that he had any real training at all. He’d already shat himself and the stench was noticeable, even against the stench of burning gasoline.

Mathew pointed his gun right into the young man’s face and he started to whimper. Mathew felt nothing, but disgust. It was possible to feel sorry for the men and women who had been forced into serving the Snakes – either through having their family as hostages or by being brainwashed into becoming pod people – yet it was impossible to feel anything for a young man who had abandoned his country to serve the aliens of his own free will. He clearly wasn't a pod person, or he would have gone for Mathew’s throat by now. Pod people had no sense of self-preservation. They could have given the Iraqi insurgents lessons in suicide tactics. The aliens had wiped them of everything, but a desire to serve, whatever the cost.

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” Mathew said, pressing the gun against the young man’s mouth. “You answer my questions and I’ll leave you here to be found by your friends. If you lie to me, or I think you lie to me, I’ll cut you up badly and leave you here to bleed out and die. Do you understand me?”

The young man nodded frantically. Mathew wasn't too surprised. The real hard cases, the men who wouldn’t talk even if they were put through the water treatment or beaten to within an inch of their lives, were normally recognisable to a trained interrogator, who would put them aside for careful interrogation. It would hardly be the first time Mathew had extracted information from an enemy fighter who had gotten in way over his head, but it had always left him feeling dirty. Torture, however disguised, was not honourable. It was unworthy of anyone who wanted to call himself a trained soldier.

“Good,” Mathew said. “Now…let’s see, shall we?”

He bounced questions off the young man’s head for seven minutes, while the remainder of the SEALs searched the dead bodies and removed any number of ID and useful tools. They’d have to be dropped off at one of the safe houses for careful inspection before they were taken anywhere near one of their hiding places; Mathew wouldn’t have put it past the aliens to slip a tracking implant on the ID or one of their tools, just so they could track it back to the resistance headquarters. The young man knew very little, unsurprisingly. He’d been seduced into joining the aliens because his family was starving and his father had been thrown in one of the detention camps. A not unfamiliar story to Mathew, but one that had been largely unknown in the United States, at least before the aliens had arrived. They were building a real police state, with death camps and a constant heavy surveillance of everyone who lived within their boundaries. How long would it be before they broke the human race down to nothing more than slaves?

Shaking his head, he gagged the young man and then left his hand cuffed to one of the cars. His friends would find him, although Mathew had no idea what they would do with him. They’d probably demand to know why he was still alive when all the rest were dead, but it had really been nothing more than the luck of the draw. Or maybe they would kill him to encourage the others. The human race hadn’t needed any lessons in savagery from the Snakes. Hell, there were people on the internet who believed that most of the bad reports came from humans exceeding orders from their masters, rather than atrocities carried out by the Snakes, or at their direct command. Mathew knew that that was a lie. Snake infantry forces had been carrying out reprisals almost from the exact moment they’d landed on Earth.

“Dude,” Carl whispered, as the SEALs started to make their way back out of Washington. They’d head due west, and then cut down in hopes of avoiding pursuit. “We’ve got choppers inbound.”

Not ours, of course, Mathew thought, with a grim smile. There had been a time when all aircraft were automatically friendly, even if they weren't American. Now the only ones who were flying were the aliens and their collaborators. The airlines had gone bust and most of their pilots had been sucked into flying for the aliens, or had managed to desert before they’d been rounded up.

“Get the Stingers ready,” he ordered. “But remember our orders. Only shoot if you’re sure that there are no Snakes in the craft.”

It wasn't an order that made any sense, but he wasn't going to disobey it unless there was a really good reason. Breaking the chain of command – such as it was, as his team were technically either deserters or dead – would have meant that they were nothing more than bandits, doomed to a slow collapse into barbarity. How long would it be before the locals made peace with the aliens and worked with them to hunt down the resistance if the resistance preyed on them? And they would, eventually. The stockpiled supplies wouldn’t last forever.

The three helicopters swept into view, brilliant spotlights shining down at the ground. Mathew allowed himself a tight smile, even as he prepped the Stinger and took aim at the lead helicopter. The collaborators clearly hadn’t spent any time in actual combat, outside the riots and protests that turned the cities into war zones for a few days or hours. It didn’t seem to have occurred to them that showing themselves to the enemy so blatantly was a bad idea. They could have hunted the SEALs using infrared sensors while drifting high overhead, or sent in one of the latest model of Predator drones to track them down and drop a Hellfire on their heads. Chances were that the CIA had taken them all out before the aliens landed, but who knew for sure? What remained of the US military was in absolute chaos.

He clicked the seeker on and the Stinger locked onto its target. A second later, he pulled the trigger, dumped the stock on the ground and started to run. If the enemy reacted fast enough…but they didn’t. Their reactions were too slow. The Stinger punched its way into the cockpit and detonated inside the helicopter. Moments later, the other two missiles hit and the helicopters exploded. Mathew whistled and the SEALs started to run. They’d meet up with higher authority, reload and then get back to the war.

As one, the SEALs ghosted into the night.

 

Chapter Thirty-Seven<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comffice:smarttags" /><st1lace w:st="on"><st1:City w:st="on">Washington</st1:City> <st1:State w:st="on">DC</st1:State></st1lace>
<st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">USA</st1lace></st1:country-region>, Day 70

No one would have mistaken Mary Archer for a SF soldier, but that was something of the point. As a young woman, she had served in the army as a cultural expert, working with SF teams in the jungles of Latin America on a number of missions that had never been mentioned to the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">US</st1lace></st1:country-region> public. She was fiercely proud of her service and of the number of tough violent men who’d respected her and treated her as one of their own. And there was no way she was going to allow an alien invasion to take her country without at least trying to strike back at the enemy.

Her first inclination had been to pose as a prostitute, but it hadn’t taken more than one look in the mirror to remind her that her youthful days were over. Besides, she had never been a beauty, even as a teenager. Instead, she donned a suit and sat in a wheelchair pushed by a limping man with a cane slung over his back. No one would have realised, just by watching, that the limp was feigned and the cane was heavy enough to serve as an offensive weapon. All they’d see would be a young grandson taking his grandma out for a walk. And they would see what they expected to see and walk onwards.

The collaborators had taken over a bar two blocks away from her house. Many of them had been young and foolish; they’d joined the Witnesses before anyone realised that the Galactic Federation wasn't going to bring them a new world of peace, prosperity and total fairness. Some of the useful idiots – Mary had no truck with Marxism, if only because she’d seen its effects at first hand – had deserted when they’d realised what was truly being asked of them. Others had stayed, either because they still believed, they didn’t care or they were too scared to desert. Mary had no truck with them either. Being young wasn’t a sin, but stupidity – as her former CO had once pointed out – was inevitably punished by the universe. The collaborators had known what they were doing, once the Snakes had obliterated <st1:City w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Tehran</st1lace></st1:City>. Any that remained and worked for the aliens were fair game.

Her wheelchair squeaked as she was pushed up the steps and into the bar. The sound of loud music came from within, one of the deafening rackets that passed for music these days, rather than something that was actually catchy. Mary pursed her lips in disapproval before remembering that she was supposed to be a sweet old granny and managed to smile at one of the ladies sitting on the doorstep having a smoke. One of them – young Kathy Patron – almost made her heart break. Kathy had had excellent prospects before the economy had collapsed and her father had been taken away by the aliens for the dread crime of serving his country in the Gulf. Now, she was nothing more than a common prostitute. Mary almost whispered something to her before thinking better of it. It would only draw attention to her.

The interior of the bar was dim, with dozens of men and women dancing together, moving as best as they could to the irregular beat. None of them looked at Mary; none of them even considered why someone would bring his grandma to a bar intended for the young. Mary reached under the blanket and grasped the assault rifle she’d brought back from her military service. It had been totally unregistered, an ace in the hole in the event of any burglar deciding to burgle her house. As far as she was concerned, gun control laws – human or alien – didn’t apply to her.

She glanced up. Saul, the young would-be Marine who was playing her grandson, nodded back at her. Mary produced the weapon from under the blanket in one smooth motion and stood up. She didn’t need the wheelchair at all, even at seventy-five years old. But no one looked past a wheelchair. They thought a crippled person was helpless. Few considered just how much could be hidden under a wheelchair.

A handful of the dancers noticed her and opened their mouths, but Mary opened fire before they could say anything – or run for their lives. The assault rifle kicked more than she had expected, but the bullets tore into the crowd and sent them screaming to the floor, their bodies hitting the ground with chilling thuds. Blood flooded the slippery wooden pine they’d been using as a dance platform as they started to bleed to death. None of the bartenders appeared to be armed; Mary almost gunned them down before changing her mind. They’d only done what they had to do to survive – and besides, rumour had it that some of the serving staff had been poisoning the collaborators.

Behind her, Saul had produced a heavy pistol and had picked off the girls smoking outside the building. Mary felt bad about that, but she wasn't going to bother complaining too loudly. Saul was a good lad and besides, the dead whores would convince others not to sleep with the collaborators. It was much better than tarring and feathering the sluts. Smiling grimly to herself, she turned, reloaded the assault rifle, and allowed Saul to precede her back out into the open. There was no sign of any police response, but Mary knew that the aliens would react. She had to be away before they arrived, or she’d be killed. And she had so many more collaborators to kill.

“This way,” Saul said. Mary was nowhere near as spray as she’d been while on active duty, but she could still move at a fairly respectable clip. They were well on their way, hiding the weapons in the bags Saul had carried in his coat, when two police cars roared past them in the other direction. “I think they’ve noticed us.”

Behind them, the C4 they’d left in the wheelchair exploded. Mary felt bad about the cops – unless it was one of the collaborators who had survived the hail of bullets – but they were serving the aliens, if only by trying to save the collaborators. Maybe they’d track her down, maybe not; unlike Saul, she was too old to go underground. Her heath wouldn’t survive roughing it any longer.

“A good day’s work,” she said. Two other collaborators lived nearby. They wouldn’t expect an old woman to be a threat, at least not until it was too late. “Let’s go see Mr Patel, shall we?”

***​

The line of military trucks would have fascinated Timmy, once upon a time. At seven, he had told his daddy that he wanted to be a soldier, just like his father, uncle and several of his father’s friends. His father had laughed and promised him that he would allow Timmy to join as soon as he was old enough, but until then he’d better keep up with his studies, just in case. Timmy had learned more from books and instruction manuals than he’d learned from school, including how to take apart and rebuild remote-control cars, planes and other gadgets.

And then the aliens had arrived. Half-formed dreams of joining a real space force had died when the aliens had shown their true faces. The fifteen-year-old teenager had watched in horror as his father was dragged off by a team of collaborators and sworn revenge. Timmy hadn’t been supposed to know what was in his father’s lockable truck, nor was he supposed to know how to get in – and he did know that his father would have given him a sound thrashing if he’d been caught trying to get inside it. He wouldn’t have minded, now, if it would bring his father back to him. Instead, all there was left for him was revenge. There was no hope of honourable service as long as the aliens ruled the Earth.

Making an IED wasn't actually difficult. Badly-educated insurgents in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iraq</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1lace w:st="on">Afghanistan</st1lace></st1:country-region> had been doing it for years, although a large number had been killed or maimed by their own devices. Timmy had been on every military-related course and adventure holiday he could find since he’d been ten years old. He knew enough to set up a primitive IED, one that packed enough punch to seriously upset his target. The tricky part had been fitting it into one of his remote-controlled trucks.

No one was on the streets now, apart from the aliens and their collaborators. Timmy braced himself and turned on the truck, sending it forward and onto the road. His hiding place wasn't perfect, but they probably wouldn’t see him unless they got very lucky. The truck, about the size of a small dog, would certainly be noticed, yet the only way they could stop it was by shooting it. Timmy intended to flick the switch and detonate the IED if they started firing, if only to buy some time to escape.

He heard someone shout from the lead truck just before his improvised IED rolled under the wheels. In Russia, he’d read, they’d trained dogs to carry explosives under tanks. The principle was the same here. He flicked the switch and the IED exploded under the lead truck. The blast was far larger than he’d been expecting, knocking him backwards and shattering every window in the street. He pulled himself back to his feet and gaped at the results. The lead truck was simply gone, while two more were wreaked and burning. Flames licked around them as their surviving crew jumped out, weapons in hand. The soldiers in the remaining trucks were leaping out as well, firing at imaginary enemies. Timmy had no idea what they thought they were shooting at, but none of the bullets came anywhere near his hiding place. Their shots went through broken windows and shattered doors, probably injuring or killing anyone unlucky enough to be nearby. Timmy felt a pang of guilt as he started to creep away. It sounded as if the enemy soldiers were getting organised and once they started searching thoroughly, they might find him.

Luckily, he’d taken the advice in his father’s tactical manuals and prepared his escape route first. The rear of the house he’d chosen as a staging post – it belonged to one of his teachers, who had fled the city when the aliens arrived and never returned – possessed a neat garden, one that opened into a drainage chain. It was simple enough to crawl through the pipe and out into the other side, under the houses on the other side of his teacher’s house. He’d done it often enough as a kid when he and his friends had dared each other to risk the pipe.

The shouts behind him were growing louder. Timmy took off his rucksack as he dived into the pipe and started to half-crawl along it. It stank worse than he remembered, but then he’d been a kid back then. Now, he almost got stuck twice in the pipe. Sheer fear kept him going, somehow; he slipped and slid his way to the far end of the pipe. No one had tried to block the far end. He was suddenly very aware that he was filthy and stank of **** and worse. It smelt as if the entire city used the pipe for their personnel waste disposal.

And if they saw him looking like that, they’d know exactly what he’d done.

Behind him, the shouts seemed to be growing fainter. The enemy troops had either decided it wasn't worth the effort of hunting him down, or they believed that they’d killed him already. Or perhaps they’d decided not to let a single insurgent slow them down any more. More out of curiosity than wisdom, he shimmied up a drainpipe he remembered as a child, climbing onto the house’s roof. His father had thrown a colossal fit when he’d caught Timmy and his friends playing on the roofs, but no one had ever been hurt. Now...he was heavier, yet his body remembered how to climb. Compared to some of the climbing frames at action camp, the drainpipe was easy.

He kept his head down as he reached the roof, knowing that armed men were nearby. One of them might see him and open fire – and if he was blown off the roof, he was dead. Behind him, where he’d triggered his IED, the fire seemed to be mostly out, with a couple of enemy traitors using fire extinguishers to put out the remaining flames. It wasn't the fire that caught his attention. It was the small crowd of people who had been yanked out of their houses by the traitors. They sat in the middle of the street, hands on their heads, watched by armed soldiers. A number of bodies lay on the ground, torn apart by bullets; they’d been gunned down in cold blood. Timmy fought down the urge to vomit; instead, he stared, heedless of his own safety. One of the enemy soldiers was shouting at the prisoners, demanding attention. Timmy could barely hear him, but he got the gist of it. They wanted the prisoners to point them in Timmy’s direction, or else. But the prisoners couldn't help them...

There was a long machine gun rattle from where they were kneeling. They died as the machine gun was played over their position, leaving a pile of bleeding bodies in the street. Timmy couldn't take his eyes off the scene, even though he wanted to run, or to fight back. They’d killed everyone just because they’d lost a few trucks and a couple of soldiers? He’d killed the prisoners just as surely as if he’d killed them himself. None of the war movies he’d seen, or the tales his father told, had suggested anything like a cold-blooded massacre. It was a nightmare.

A shot pinged off the roof. Timmy realised he’d been spotted and threw himself to the ground instinctively, crawling back towards the drainpipe as if his life depended on it. It was a harder task to get down than he remembered, and he scraped his arms quite badly on the brickwork, but he was eventually down on the ground. Turning, he ran as hard as he could, cursing his own curiosity. If they gave chase, they’d catch him – and if they caught him, he knew it would be bad. There were shouts after him, but nothing...

...And then he felt something strike him between the shoulder blades. The ground came up to slam into him with staggering speed, just as a red-hot needle seemed to dig into his back. He hit the ground, feeling his nose break as he slammed down face-first, trying not to scream out in pain. He’d been shot; they’d seen him and shot him and killed him...

He was dimly aware of running feet, and then silence.

***​

“Please remain calm,” the loudspeaker said. “Terrorists are attacking this building. Please remain...”

A thud echoed through the building and the loudspeaker fell silent. The Welcome Foundation had been targeted by the insurgents, Jason knew; it was hard to blame their thinking as the Welcome Foundation had been the spearhead for alien seduction and then conquest of Earth. The attack had started only twenty minutes ago and he’d spent them cowering in his office, knowing that any of the insurgents who saw him would gun him down without realising that Jason was working for the good guys.

He winced as something struck the building. An alarm started to sound, only to cut off several seconds later, leaving him completely isolated. A glance at his cell phone revealed that the phone networks had gone down, something that puzzled him until he realised that the insurgents were probably using cell phones to coordinate their actions. They’d have to be careful. The networks had loved the alien devices they’d been given, but they did have the disadvantage that every cell phone call was routed through one of the alien servers. They could listen in to everyone. Jason had his doubts about how well such a system could work in practice – there were literally billions of cell phone calls every day, requiring the aliens to scan them all – but given the right software the aliens could probably listen in to anything important.

There was another sound – the high-pitched whine made by some of the alien craft – and then a series of smaller explosions that seemed not to affect the building itself. Moments later, the gunfire died away as the insurgents retreated. Jason suspected that the Snakes themselves had taken a hand and the insurgents had fallen back, rather than risk facing the Snakes directly. Washington DC would suffer if any of the Snakes were killed. He thought, briefly, about the defector he’d helped, and then pushed the thought aside. It was a secret that could not be spoken aloud.

Forty minutes later, the all-clear was sounded and Jason had a chance to get out of his office and check up on the damage. The insurgents had inflicted considerable damage, he realised, although they hadn't managed to bring the building down. They’d wasted a number of optimistic paintings and killed a number of guards before the Snakes had arrived, but unless he was much mistaken – and he was no military expert – the attack had been designed to annoy them rather than kill. The insurgents had pinned the guards down, yet they’d failed to move in for the kill.

“Jason,” a voice called. Jason looked up in surprise to see the formidable Mrs Kraus. She was an iron-headed harridan, a secretary who ruled her department with a rod of iron. Jason wasn't surprised that she’d survived. Someone like her could never be killed by anyone, or at least it seemed that way. “The other Directors are dead. You’re in charge.”

Jason stared at her, finally understanding. “Me?”

“You,” Mrs Kraus said. “I suggest you stay in your office. You don’t want to die just yet. They’ll come back when they realised that they missed you.”

Jason didn't disagree, not openly. But he strongly suspected that she was wrong. Sanderson had given him an opening. Now all he had to do was make use of it.

 

Chapter Thirty-Eight<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Washington DC
USA, Day 72

“Not bad,” General Thomas mused. “Not bad at all.”

The Colonel didn't disagree. Every pinprick on the map represented a strike against the alien-backed puppet government, or its troops. Not every pinprick had been directly ordered by the resistance, but anyone looking at the map from the other side wouldn't know that. They would have an impression of a vast resistance force, armed to the teeth and striking at the enemy wherever and whenever it could. And large parts of the country had already slipped out of federal control. The feds just weren’t safe anywhere unless they were surrounded by armed guards at all times.

His lips twitched. Once, back when all the survivalists had had to worry about was the federal government, the Colonel had studied a concept called Leaderless Resistance. It had suggested that individual insurgents – or small cells of insurgents – could, by operating independently of each other, keep the enemy off-balance and eventually bring it down. There would be no links between the resistance cells, ensuring that the destruction of one cell didn't spell disaster for the other cells. It hadn't worked out in practice for the Islamist scrum who had tried to use it against America and Europe, but then they’d strongly overestimated their level of public support. Their war had been doomed long before the Galactics arrived to turn the world upside down.

But now...most of America was up in arms against the aliens. The resistance couldn’t hope to coordinate them all, but it didn't have to, not when they were all attacking the right targets. Most of the resistance would have gotten the message by now; leave the Snakes themselves alone and concentrate on their collaborators. Willing or blackmailed – or brainwashed into becoming pod people – they would be targeted everywhere. The aliens would be forced to either write off large numbers of collaborators or place their own forces on the ground to defend them from their outraged fellow countrymen. And the resistance had been careful to give the impression that alien military units would be left strictly alone.

The Colonel looked back down at the map and shivered. It didn't matter if he wanted to admit it or not, but the aliens had a number of advantages, particularly the pod people. They tipped the balance in their favour, leaving him wondering why the aliens didn't simply convert every human in the detention camps and put them on the streets. The pod people were expendable, weren't they? Or maybe not; there were definite signs that the process wasn't perfect, and pod people often acted inhuman. If they ever perfected the process, to the point where they could create pod people who were utterly indistinguishable from normal humans, the resistance was doomed. And the handful of collaborators who were passing information to the resistance would be turned into double agents, without any of their handlers having the slightest idea that something had gone wrong.

“We’ve hit most of the easy targets,” the General mused. Actually, they’d expended their supplies recklessly, striking at every collaborator outpost they could find. They’d taken out roadblocks, police stations and even struck at a handful of detention centres. It was a pity that they didn't dare trust anyone who had been in alien hands, even for little more than a few hours, but the newly-freed prisoners would be able to raise havoc without any connection to the resistance. They certainly couldn't go home again. “They’re going to lose control quite badly unless they start using their own units.”

“Or units from the other side of the world,” the Colonel said. Once, before the **** had really hit the fan, he’d wondered why the aliens had intervened in Africa. Sure, everyone had believed that the Galactic Federation would lead them to a land of milk and honey, but their intervention had seemed pointless. It didn't look that way now. The aliens had started to deploy human military units they’d armed and trained from Africa, after they’d smashed the dictators, religious fanatics and tribal leaders who had been soaking the continent in blood. It was a neat solution to their problem – and it made it difficult for the resistance to make contact with the newcomers. They simply didn’t speak the same language. “But we can go after them anyway.”

The General nodded. “We should be able to find contacts among them,” he agreed. “Unless they’ve all been brainwashed, or turned into unwitting spies.”

“True,” the Colonel said. “Thank God for Gillian.”

The aliens hadn't been sitting on their inhuman asses, he knew. They’d been deploying their surveillance technology – and a great deal of stolen human technology – to hunt down and destroy the resistance. Even with the detectors that the NSA had developed before the aliens had revealed their true nature, they’d succeeded in tracking a number of resistance cells back to their safe houses – and then attacking in hopes of taking the fighters alive. The Colonel had had to order several bases abandoned because the aliens had taken people who might have been forced to betray them – leaving a set of IEDs behind in the hopes of nailing a handful of collaborators. And several teams had vanished without a trace. The Colonel could only conclude that they had been wiped out or captured to the last man.

Given time, the aliens would almost certainly win. The plan – the one they'd developed – would give them their only shot at victory, but if the aliens realised in time...they were doomed. And humanity’s freedom would become a thing of the past.

“All we can do is maintain the pressure and wait,” the General said. He looked down at the map, considering possible targets. “The aliens have been bivouacking the newcomers here, here and here. I think we should remind them that it’s against the Constitution to quarter troops on civilians.”

They shared a long grin. The alien collaborators would be in for a nasty shock.

***​

President Patrick Hollinger – the real President, as far as Toby was concerned – was no better than he had been just after Tehran. He had been hooked up to a number of life support machines – all human technology – which were keeping him in a medical coma while he fought for life. The sound of harsh breathing echoed through the room, sending a chill down Toby’s spine. He’d hoped that the President would recover, although he suspected that it would merely sign his death warrant once McGreevy realised that her position was under threat. Toby wasn't even sure why she’d ordered the President to be kept in the White House, unless it was to ensure that the aliens wouldn't have a chance to brainwash him. If they did – and succeeded – McGreevy’s use as a puppet would come to an abrupt end.

Toby stepped away from the President and studied the medical monitor positioned by the side of the bed. It was almost impossible for him to read it; as far as he could tell, the President was stable, but showing no signs of recovery. The new team of doctors might well have been maintaining the coma just to keep the President out of play, yet there was nothing Toby could do about it. His only contribution to the President’s safety had been assigning four of the most trusted Secret Service agents to guard the President, night and day. Two of them had medical training. They’d be able to detect – he hoped – any attempt to murder the President in his bed.

He shook his head as he walked out of the door. They still didn't know what had happened to cause the President to collapse. It was easy to blame it on the stress of his office, but Toby wondered if the aliens hadn't done something to him. He’d read all the reports from the CIA agents interrogating the defector and they’d all agreed that the aliens didn't seem to be really aware of the capabilities of their own technology. Or, perhaps, the High Lord did know and was keeping a few things to himself. It would be easy to infect the President with some nanotechnology that would make him collapse at the right time, allowing McGreevy to slip into the Presidency. Given time, they could create the ultimate national security state, with everyone carrying nanotech implants that would monitor their every move – and perhaps even read their thoughts. Some of the possibilities the analysts had raised were terrifying. The aliens might even be able to create a swarm of nanites that would rage over the Earth and turn everyone into a pod person. And that would truly be the end.

But they seemed not to be aware of the possibilities, or perhaps they were scared – too – by the possible outcomes. Maybe they’d wind up creating a hive mind that would take over even the aristocracy and eventually build massive cube-shaped starships that would assimilate the rest of the galaxy. The thought made him smile, even though the prospect was horrifying. Resistance really would be futile. But then, the Borg had been defeated by a Frenchman and a woman who talked out of her nostrils.

He glanced up as one of the President’s personal guard stuck his head into the room. “Mr. Sanderson, the President requests your immediate presence,” he said. If he was aware of the glowering Secret Service agents – and the disparity between their training and his – he showed no sign of it. Perhaps he was too stupid to know. “She’s waiting for you.”

Toby nodded. McGreevy’s paranoia had been rising ever since the first attacks. She’d had the Secret Service replaced with her own people, fired or arrested half of the Cabinet and insisted on everyone who entered her presence being thoroughly searched before they were allowed into the Oval Office. She hadn't started screaming for beheadings and mass reprisals yet, but Toby was sure that it was just a matter of time. McGreevy controlled only a tiny fraction of the country now, whatever title she held. The aliens, their pod people and the resistance controlled the rest. And McGreevy was almost certainly coming to the end of her usefulness to the aliens.

“I’m on my way,” he said. He exchanged a long look with the lead Secret Service agent, and then headed out of the room. “Did she give a reason?”

“No, sir,” the guard said. “She just demanded your presence.”

Toby kept his face expressionless as they walked up the stairs. Every corner seemed to have an armed guard who checked their ID cards before waving them on to the next guard. Toby had been in the White House when Marines had been used to secure the building, but that hadn't been anything like as scary as having several different groups of armed men in the building, each one watching the others for signs of disloyalty. All it needed was for someone to cough out of turn and there would be a bloodbath. The guards at the entrance to the Oval Office inspected their ID cards before starting a strip search. Toby had once joked that someone had better buy him dinner and flowers afterwards, but they hadn't seen the funny side. They all knew that their lives depended upon keeping McGreevy alive and in power.

The White House staff had rapidly grown to resent the newcomers, but what could they do about it? They knew that any attempt to leave would be counted as a sign of disloyalty, while their families were being held as hostages in the detention camps. So they continued to serve the President, while enduring the gropes of her unprofessional guards and the constant feeling of living near a wild animal, one that might lash out at any moment. The White House, the very symbol of American government, was becoming a nightmare. Toby would almost have preferred to see a giant flying saucer blasting the White House to smithereens with a massive ray gun. At least then it would have been destroyed quickly, instead of a slow decay into disgrace. How long would it be before the White House took on the same air as the Kremlin?

His skin was crawling by the time he was pushed into the Oval Office. McGreevy was sitting at the President’s desk, looking down at one of the reports she’d ordered from what remained of the government bureaucracy. She looked terrible, as if she hadn't been eating or sleeping in several days. Toby wondered just how badly her paranoia was tearing her apart. She hadn't exactly ordered a food taster to start tasting her meals before she ate, but he had a feeling that it was only a matter of time. A smell from a side table announced the presence of a small buffet, brought up by the staff and left untouched by the President. Toby felt a cold flicker of anger. Out on the streets, ordinary Americans who had never known hunger were starving now, while the President refused food that could have saved their lives. He would have bet good money that the staff hadn't been allowed to pass the food to their own families, or even people from the streets.

“I am surrounded by traitors,” McGreevy mumbled. Toby wasn't sure if she was speaking to him, or merely mumbling to herself. “They have lost control over the country.”

She looked up, with disconcerting speed. “The Governor of Kansas has been assassinated,” she said, sharply. “His successor has declared his intention to terminate all links with the federal government and arrest all federal agents within the state. I will not stand for it.”

Toby winced, inwardly. These days, federal agents were even less popular than radical fundamentalists from what was left of the Middle East. Local police forces were refusing to cooperate, while the population took pot-shots at them at every opportunity. The previous Governor of Kansas had been under massive pressure even before someone had popped a cap in his ass; his successor would know better than to cooperate with McGreevy – and the aliens – openly. It probably wouldn't last – the aliens could take him and his government out with ease – but it would send shockwaves running through the entire country. The ties that bound America together were fraying.

“I have ordered the military to advance into Kansas and place the state under martial law,” McGreevy added. “They will punish anyone who dares resist...”

Toby wondered if she believed that it would actually happen. He doubted that what remained of the military would be willing or capable of invading Kansas, or any other state for that matter. McGreevy simply didn't control enough to even threaten the state, at least not without the aliens backing her up. He studied her carefully, wondering if she’d finally tipped over into madness. How long would it be before she ordered him killed, merely for having served the previous President?

“They tried to kill me,” McGreevy said. “They tried to assassinate their President. Can you imagine that? How fallen must a man be before he tries to assassinate the President?”

Toby shrugged. McGreevy’s White House was surrounded by armed guards and the surrounding areas of Washington had been evacuated, the population moved to detention camps just to ensure that McGreevy was safe. He allowed himself a slight smirk at the thought of all those lobbyists serving time in a camp, before shivering at her tone. She was definitely heading into madness, and then...the President could do less to make things better than most people believed, but it was easy to make things worse.

“Your safety must be our first priority,” Toby said. He spoke in a smooth voice, one he privately considered his ass-kissing voice. The real President wouldn't have been fooled, but McGreevy accepted it as her due. Besides, without her, Toby had no position in Washington. She would believe that he would be loyal, if only because he had nowhere else to go. “The White House is no longer safe.”

McGreevy looked up, but she didn't bother to dispute his claim. “The attacks launched over the past week by the terrorists have all had one thing in common,” Toby continued. “They have all been mounted against humans, not the aliens. The troops deployed by the Galactic Federation” – he had no idea if McGreevy still believed in the Federation – “have not been attacked. Anywhere guarded by their men has been left utterly untouched. You would be safest on one of the bases they guard, at least until the situation is back under control.”

“True,” McGreevy agreed. “But I don’t want to give the impression that I am running away from the terrorists.”

Toby was mildly surprised. He’d expected her to leap at the offer. “We don’t want them to think that they have you buttoned into the White House,” he pointed out. “How about a state visit to Andrews Air Force Base? Once there, you could board Air Force One and remain aloft until the country was secure...”

Air Force One – or at least one of the several aircraft decked out as Air Force One – had been brought down by the aliens, but McGreevy knew that she was worth more to them alive. Or so she hoped, Toby suspected. How far had she gone into madness? There was no way to know.

“An excellent idea,” McGreevy agreed, finally. “I shall depart once I have seen the Cabinet.”

“It will take several hours to set up the security needed for your safety,” Toby pointed out. “I suggest that you go tomorrow, once everything is in place.”

“See to it,” McGreevy ordered.

Toby left the Oval Office, endured the search and headed down to his own office. If everything went according to plan, the resistance would have their shot at the aliens – and McGreevy as well. And if the aliens had managed to crack the codes the resistance was using, or if they’d managed to get a bug into one of the resistance bases, they were doomed.

He shivered. They were staking everything on one throw of the dice.

 

Chapter Thirty-Nine<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Washington DC
USA, Day 73

Washington was dark.

Mathew Bracken shivered as the SEALs made their way towards the collaborator base. Not out of the cold, but out of the sense that his country’s capital city – the shining city on a hill – had become a nightmarish parody of itself. Soldiers – not real soldiers, but collaborators – stood on every corner, watching for any signs of trouble. Most of the population had fled during the attacks on the city, or had found themselves herded into detention camps. The SEALs had already stumbled over evidence that the foreign soldiers had been enjoying the chance to rape a handful of American women, leaving them more determined than ever to win the war and extract revenge.

The enemy soldiers, no matter how brutal and unpleasant they were, hadn’t been trained very well. Mathew and his men slipped past them easily enough, using US-designed night vision goggles to navigate without lights. Some of the enemy soldiers had even set up giant spotlights, ruining their own night vision for no real benefit. All they’d done was ensure that the SEALs knew where to avoid. Getting into the city had been easy enough, but then that had definitely been the easy part. The next task would be much harder.

He held up a hand and stopped, watching for signs of enemy guards. Their base was directly ahead of him, a warehouse complex that had been emptied of food and turned into makeshift barracks for the pod people. Mathew was surprised they hadn't taken over the Marine Barracks that normally provided additional security for the White House, but the Marines had probably taken the opportunity to thoroughly wreak the place before deserting, perhaps leaving a handful of IEDs in the building to make life interesting for the enemy. Mathew hoped that none of them had been turned into pod people, or reluctant collaborators. They were going to kill enough good men in the next few hours, even without counting the collaborators. Pod people didn't have any choice. Part of him felt guilty, but he knew what was at stake.

The SEALs spent thirty minutes examining the complex before preparing their assault. It was ringed by a fence that wouldn't deter anyone with SF training, but the presence of armed guards willing to shoot meant that they couldn't simply cut their way through the fence. Instead, Mathew removed his mask and led the SEALs directly towards the gate, where two armed guards swung around to point their weapons in his direction. He kept walking forward anyway, hoping that the reports had been right and pod people really didn’t deal well with surprise. If they opened fire, he might well be cut down before he knew what had hit him.

“My men and I have orders to bed down here for the night,” he said. “Here are our papers.”

It was a believable story, at least. A number of SF soldiers had been captured by the Snakes and turned into pod people, but they hadn't been a great success. The qualities that made a great SF soldier were ruined by the brainwashing process, leaving the former soldiers stumbling around like puppets whose strings had been cut. Some of them regained some of their former skills in time, but they were never quite up to fieldwork. They’d been killed fairly easily, if with some regret, by the resistance.

He glanced around at the gatehouse while the guard fumbled with his papers. There were two guards out front and a third in the gatehouse. That one would pose a problem, Mathew knew, making silent gestures with his hand that ordered one of his men to get into position. They didn't dare risk allowing anyone to raise the alarm. The aliens had taken over patrol duties in part of Washington and a firefight with the Snakes would scupper the whole plan. At least there weren’t enough of the scaly bastards to guard everywhere...

“Your papers appear to be in order,” the guard said. His voice sounded emotional, so he probably wasn't a pod person. Mathew smiled inwardly. He would enjoy killing the collaborator. “However, we don’t have room...”

Mathew sprang forward, drawing the knife from his sleeve in one smooth motion. The guard had no time to react before Mathew had clamped one hand over his mouth and slashed his throat neatly with the combat knife. His victim stumbled to the ground, falling onto his knees as the life ebbed from his body. It was almost eerily soundless, but Mathew knew that they were committed now. The other two guards had been taken with the same mixture of stealth and speed. Now all they had to do was take out the remainder of the pod people.

The intelligence report they’d received had stated that two companies of enemy fighters – collaborators and pod people – were based in the warehouse complex. That gave the enemy roughly two hundred men, not counting supporting staff. Mathew allowed himself a breath and then led his SEALs around to the warehouses. They hadn't been designed to serve as barracks; a quick glance inside confirmed that the pod people had done nothing more than spread out blankets on the cold floor and lie down to sleep. Mathew had slept in worse places, but he was mildly surprised that the pod people didn't rate better accommodation. Their masters considered them expendable, after all. They wouldn't complain – and they could be easily replaced.

He reached into his belt and produced the four grenades. They’d been designed by the CIA and developed under a black project fund that had never been made public. Each grenade carried a compressed mix of nerve gas that would rapidly kill anyone who hadn't been injected with the antidote before being gassed. They’d been used against terrorist complexes in the past, slaughtering the enemy with brutal efficiency, but the public would have objected if they’d known American forces were using nerve gas. Gas still had the power to scare people, just like nukes and enhanced radiation devices. He pulled the pin on the grenades and threw them into the warehouse, knowing that the gas would spread rapidly. A moment later, he saw the sleeping bodies start to convulse as the invisible gas struck their bare skin and killed them. None of the pod people managed to do more than stumble to their feet before the gas overwhelmed them. It would be gone a long time before anyone wondered what had happened to the barracks.

Refusing to take it for granted, Mathew led his SEALs in a quick circuit of the complex. They found a pair of soldiers who had clearly been trying to sneak out for something, both caught by the gas before they could get out or back to their blankets. Mathew winced at the expressions on their faces and dragged them both back into the warehouse. Two SEALs had already started stripping down the bodies, removing weapons, armour and clothing. Everything was in order, thankfully. The first phase of the plan had been completed. The second phase was about to begin.

***​

Jason shivered, and not just from the cold. He’d helped arrange for the defector to escape from the Snakes, but that was different. This time, he was putting his own neck on the line – and if the aliens suspected him, he was dead. Only his position as a senior collaborator entitled him to a ration of gas and a car, yet that hadn’t stopped two roadblocks from stopping him and demanding explanations. Luckily, they’d both been composed of pod people, who accepted alien-cleared authorisations without question. He’d parked the car outside what remained of the ring of steel that had once surrounded Washington, before the resistance had started to smash it. It hadn't occurred to him until it had been too late that someone who didn't know that he was working for the resistance might see the car, assume he was a collaborator, and open fire. The car wouldn't stand up to bullets...

“Evening, son.”

Jason almost wet himself. Someone was standing right beside the car, yet he hadn't seen or heard him coming. Panic bubbled up in his mind, before he remembered that Sanderson had promised that someone would be there to meet him. The older man reminded him of Sanderson, somehow; they had the same chin and eyes. His father, perhaps, or an elder brother. There was no way to know for sure.

“Evening,” Jason said. His voice stuttered. “I...who are you?”

The newcomer smiled. “The black eagle is sitting on the red flowerpot,” he said, cheerfully. Jason relaxed. That was the code phase he’d been told his contact would use. “Do you have the documents?”

Jason nodded. “Most of them,” he said. “I got everything Sanderson asked for...”

“No names,” the newcomer snapped. “Not now and not ever.”

Jason flushed. “I got everything he wanted,” he said, “but I couldn't get weapons permits for others without blowing my cover. I looked around to see what else I could find...”

“Don’t worry about it,” the newcomer assured him. Jason passed him a folder of documents, which he scanned quickly. “Everything looks to be in order, wouldn't you say?”

“The documents were issued yesterday,” Jason said. “They should be good for another few days at least. I inserted them into the computer databases as your friend ordered, so they should pass muster...”

“Let’s hope so,” the newcomer said. “Question; do you wish to accompany us or go to a safe house until everything is over?”

Jason hesitated. “I can't go back, can I?”

“Probably not,” the newcomer confirmed. “If it all goes to hell, they’ll use the documents to track you down and then turn you into a brainwashed slave.”

“I’ll go to a safe house,” Jason said. It wasn't particularly heroic, but he’d never set out to be a hero. Besides, what use would he be to the resistance fighters? “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” the newcomer said. “And well done.”

***​

The Colonel watched as one of the resistance fighters led the young man off on a long hike. It was three miles to the safe house – not really a problem for a trained soldier, but one that might be harrowing for someone who hadn't had anything like enough exercise. But it would do the young man good and besides, they didn't dare risk driving without permits. He turned and looked towards the four lorries that had been stashed away since the aliens had come into the open, waiting for the day of reckoning.

“All right,” he ordered. “Mount up.”

He climbed into the cab of the first lorry and muttered a command. The lorry burst into life and started heading down the road, back into Washington. Ahead of them, assuming that the aliens hadn't changed their deployments again, was a roadblock manned by pod people. The aliens themselves seemed content to use their troops as a mobile reserve, rather than pin them down to guard roadblocks and mount random patrols. The Colonel could understand their feelings. Their manpower was far from unlimited, while they had vast numbers of pod people to throw at the resistance. The pod people were expendable. On the other hand, NATO had learned in Afghanistan that too few troops meant that counter-insurgency was impossible. The aliens might well lose control altogether, even if his plan failed. And then what would they do?

The Colonel shivered, thinking about the two crates that had been loaded into the back of the second vehicle. One contained the alien defector, who had volunteered to assist the human race in breaking its new shackles. The Colonel hated the thought of being dependent upon one of the Snakes, but there was no other choice. A shuttlecraft built for the Snakes would be very difficult for a human to pilot, even if it was a simple as driving a car. And besides, no human had any experience flying Snake shuttles. They’d been careful to limit the number of humans who had even been allowed to fly in their craft. The vast numbers of African troops who were being brought to America were flying in jumbo jets and smaller human-built aircraft.

They don’t have much of a logistics chain, the Colonel thought, coldly. We should have seen it from the start.

But hindsight was remarkably clear. Any fool could stand up and say that they would have done a better job than the poor sap on the ground at the time. Hindsight always illustrated mistakes that would have been far from obvious to the people on the ground, at the time. The Colonel, who was something of a student of history, knew that many decisions that seemed utterly absurd – the decision to drive on Stalingrad, the decision to attack Midway, the decision not to march on Richmond – had made perfect sense to the people on the ground, at the time. It was only hindsight that illustrated the decisions for the mistakes they were.

The Colonel nodded to himself, remembering the second crate. If it all went completely to hell, there was one last resort. But it could only be used once. The Colonel had no illusions. Whatever the outcome, it was almost certainly a suicide mission. It was why he had insisted on commanding it personally. Win or lose, they would go down fighting.

“Roadblock,” the driver commented, as brilliant spotlights lit up and glared down at the lorries. The Colonel had to put up a hand to protect his eyes. “Got your papers ready?”

The Colonel nodded, despite the thumping of his heart. If the papers had been ****ed up, if they’d been betrayed deliberately or through simple human error, they were all about to die. The younger men might be able to cut their way out of the ambush and then flee, but there was no way the Colonel could leave. They had to hide the evidence that they’d had a defector, even if it meant killing the alien and everyone who knew about him personally. And he would have to kill himself, just to be sure...

“Open the window,” he ordered.

The window slid open, allowing the soldier on guard to stare up at him. “Papers,” he demanded. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“Routine reinforcement,” the Colonel said, passing him the folder of documents. The aliens had done well to create documents that would be very difficult to forge, but they hadn’t anticipated a traitor in their ranks. They’d created a new aristocracy of pull, yet it hadn't occurred to them that their servants included a few men who wanted to see them overthrown. “Here are our papers.”

He tensed as the soldier studied them, and then passed them back up into the cab. “Proceed, sir,” he said. “Welcome to Washington.”

The Colonel kept his expression under tight control as they drove away from the roadblock and through deserted streets. If there were any lights on in the buildings, he saw no sign of them, leaving him wondering if the population was all dead. A lot of citizens had been killed in the fighting, or in reprisals launched by the aliens and their pod people. The reports had suggested that much of the population was starving, while the collaborators lived high and ate well. The Colonel ground his teeth together and swore revenge. Even if the plan failed, a great many collaborators were going to be killed.

He jumped out of the truck as soon as it pulled up outside the barracks. Sergeant Bracken met him outside, as agreed. The Colonel had had his inoculation against nerve gas, but the thought still worried him. It should have broken down into its components by now, he told himself sternly. It wasn't something he needed to worry about, not compared to what they were doing and the potential consequences of failure.

“They’re all dead,” Bracken said. He was already wearing one of the enemy uniforms. The Colonel had wondered why the aliens had insisted on designing their own uniforms, before realising that the Snakes had as much trouble telling humans apart as humans had with telling Snakes apart. “And we have enough uniforms for you and your men.”

The Colonel nodded. “Good,” he said. He waved to the drivers and they took the trucks through the gate and into the warehouse complex. The soldiers would be dressed in enemy uniforms and ready to leave when the time came. There was a risk that they’d be attacked by the resistance – friendly fire was nothing of the sort, the Colonel knew – but it would just have to be accepted. Besides, they couldn't take the risk of ordering the attacks to halt, or some bright spark on the enemy side would start wondering why the resistance had called off its attacks.

He pulled on the enemy commander’s uniform with only a little difficulty. The Colonel was in good shape for his age, but he knew that he wasn't the man he had been any longer. It was easy enough to play the collaborator, yet wearing the alien uniform irritated him. Why had so many chosen to forsake their country and serve the aliens? Had patriotism really become such a dirty word? Some had had little choice, some had been brainwashed, but the remainder? They’d chosen to serve the aliens of their own free will. They would all die in the aftermath of the war.

“Only a few hours to go,” Bracken said. “Have you got all the papers?”

“Yes,” the Colonel said, grimly. The SEAL looked calm, but they both knew that they were risking everything on the plan. They’d win – or lose the Earth. Failure would mean the end of any hope of resistance, maybe even the end of the human race itself. With stakes like that, who could blame the collaborators for collaborating? He pushed the thought aside, angrily. It was better to die a free man than live as a slave. “All we have to do now is wait.”

 

Just to remind people about my blog:

The Chrishanger

Chris

 

With a Rebel Yell,He cried more,more,more!!

I'll be ordering the book when I get home from the road.My POS phome doesnt do downloads.
Matt

 

Chapter Forty<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Washington DC
USA, Day 73

Toby hadn't slept all night. He’d known he should and he’d even considered ordering something to help him sleep, but in the end he’d just lain on his bed and stared at the ceiling. His father would have slept; his dead brother would have slept...but in the end, Toby knew himself to be a lesser man than either of them. He’d told himself that he was serving the country, by serving the President, and yet...he thought less of himself for not having served in the military. It was ironic, in a way; he could never have predicted the path that had led him to the centre of the resistance, yet he was the point failure source for everything. A single mistake and the aliens would have him, and use him as their tool to uncover the resistance and destroy it.

He’d known people in Washington who did not fear death, but feared losing their access to politics. They’d known that a single failure, a single mistake that could not be smoothed over or buried under a mountain of ********, would wreak their careers once and for all. And they had thought they were playing for high stakes. A seat in Congress, a place on the Supreme Court, even the Presidency itself...they’d thought that failure would mean the end of everything that made their lives worth living. Toby knew of scandals – of dead girls and live boys – that had never been seen by the public eye, with criminals and worse surviving to live another day in Washington. The city had once been built on a swamp, but in many ways it was still a swamp, a place where good intentions and bright sparks slid beneath the water, never to re-emerge. He’d told himself that he’d done well by supporting the President – and he’d been a better person than many of the other possible candidates – and yet he had proved unable to cope with the crisis. How would Lincoln or Washington have reacted to the Snakes?

His alarm clock rang and he pulled himself out of bed. Sleeping in the White House had once seemed a reward for good service, sharing a building that was the official residence of the President himself. Now it seemed like a punishment, a prison sentence to a building ruled by the Red Queen. The hundreds of armed guards, glaring at each other along with anyone who dared visit the White House, would do her bidding. Every time Toby slept, he half-expected to be awoken in the middle of the night by armed men intent on executing him, or dragging him out to face McGreevy. It was not a pleasant thought.

The maid came in while Toby was still dressing, wheeling in a trolley. Toby glanced down at the tray and saw bacon and eggs, toast and jam. The ordinary citizens of Washington were on the verge of starvation – and it would get worse as winter rolled in – but the White House could still get fresh food and drink. He almost sent it back – his nerves made it difficult to eat – yet he knew that he had to eat what he could. The food tasted excellent, but it felt like ashes in his mouth. Afterwards, he went to the toilet, shaved and prepared himself for the day. He’d left a copy of his will with his father, although somehow he suspected that his merger possessions would be confiscated by McGreevy’s government if he was caught in the act. Gillian would be safe, at least. His father would see to that.

Bracing himself, he strode out of his bedroom and down the long corridor to the connecting stairs. The guards halted him and checked his ID; unless he was very much mistaken, there were even more guards in the building than there had been a day ago. McGreevy’s paranoia was clearly reaching new and even more dangerous heights. If she insisted on being surrounded by a private security team at all times, the mission would become far more dangerous. Or perhaps it would just give the aliens more to engage when the **** hit the fan. Who knew what side mercenaries would take?

He endured a series of checks as he approached the Oval Office, until he was finally allowed into the presence. The room was dark and smelled funny; the sun had yet to rise into the sky. McGreevy could be seen on the other side of the room, sitting on the sofa. It looked as if she hadn't left the President’s office since Toby had left visited her. The light came on as she touched a switch and Toby almost started. She looked terrible, as if she too hadn’t slept all night. Toby would have felt sorry for her, if he hadn't known her crimes. If she was sleepy, or drugged, it would be easy to get her to Andrews without something going badly wrong.

“Madam President,” he said. McGreevy looked up at him, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on his face. She mumbled something, but Toby didn't hear. “The convoy is nearly ready to depart for Andrews.”

McGreevy started to stagger to her feet. Toby reached out a hand to help her, but she waved him away impatiently. She seemed to have grown twenty years older in the space of a day, staggering helplessly as she put her weight on her feet. As he waited, she stumbled into the little washroom and he heard the sound of running water. She’d know that she couldn't look like that on the outside, where the public might see her. Whatever faith remained in the McGreevy Administration would be destroyed the moment anyone set eyes on her. She’d clearly lost her grip on events.

But was it really her fault? Toby was fairly sure that McGreevy wasn't a pod person, but the aliens had done something to the President; why couldn't they do anything to his replacement? Had they set out to use her to destroy faith in the American Government, so it could be replaced by the bogus dream of a Galactic Federation, or had they merely decided that she'd come to the end of her usefulness? There was no way to know. It provided yet another thing to worry about. If they’d decided she was no longer necessary, would they still allow her into Andrews?

He looked up as McGreevy came out of the washroom. She looked much better, having splashed water on her face and tided her clothes. Toby wondered if he should advise her to change her outfit before deciding that it wouldn't matter. The aliens wouldn't care and no one else would be interested. As long as he could get her to Andrews...his cell phone bleeped and he glanced down at it. The convoy was ready to go.

“Madam President,” he said. “It's time to go.”

McGreevy seemed to be walking with more confidence as they headed down the stairs towards the main doors, opening out onto the White House lawn. Most of the guards had dispersed at her command, leaving only a handful to guard her and watch Toby with suspicious eyes. The White House staff were no longer in evidence, having scurried back to their quarters to escape McGreevy’s dark stare. Toby knew that their families were held as hostages, otherwise they would have deserted long ago. The cold air seemed to revive McGreevy as they stepped through the doors and started to walk towards the gates. In the distance, Toby could see the first light of dawn.

The convoy was waiting at the gates. Four trucks, carrying armed soldiers, and a single heavily-armoured vehicle. Toby had studied the specs of the Presidential Armoured Transport and knew that it compared favourably to an Abrams tank. The President’s tank – as some called it – was only intended for use if the White House had been attacked by chemical, biological or nuclear weapons, a situation where air transport would be difficult or impossible. No one had seriously considered the possibility of Washington being invaded by a hostile force, although terrorism had been a valid concern. Now, Toby would have sold his soul to return to the days when terrorism had been the only major threat.

McGreevy hesitated as she came up to the massive vehicle. Few civilians really appreciated how large tanks were until they saw one, while McGreevy’s transport was actually larger than a standard tank. One of the soldiers cracked the hatch, revealing a surprisingly luxurious interior. Unlike the cramped confines of a Abrams or a Stryker, the President’s transport had room to stretch his legs, comfortable seats and even a drinks cupboard. Toby took one look at it and poured McGreevy a whiskey and soda. It didn't surprise him when she took the glass and proceeded to drink it quickly. She was on the verge of total collapse. Why should she not turn to drink?

The vehicle shook as it started to move. Toby knew that the tank was really surprisingly quiet, but he was still astonished by how he hadn't even heard the engine until it powered up completely. McGreevy looked equally surprised and motioned for another drink. Toby shrugged and poured her a second glass, and then a third. By the time they reached Andrews, she might be drunk. It might even be an improvement.

There was a buzz from the intercom. “Madam President,” the driver said, “we are now en route to Andrews AFB. We will be there as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” McGreevy said, in a surprisingly steady voice. “Inform me as soon as we are within the base.”

Toby understood. There were no windows in the vehicle, no way of looking out at the darkened city. McGreevy and Toby might as well be completely isolated from everyone and everything. For him, it was a nightmare; whatever happened now, they were completely dependent on the plan working out perfectly. McGreevy, on the other hand, might find it something of a relief.

“Try to sleep,” he suggested, finally. “We’ll be there soon enough.”

***​

The Colonel was mildly surprised that they’d gotten so far without being detected, but with the aliens placing absolute faith in their pod people, perhaps it wasn't so surprising after all. He sat beside the driver as the armoured truck rumbled through the darkened streets of Washington, keeping a careful eye out for any signs of insurgent activity. It would be the ultimate irony if they were to be stopped by an insurgent attack, but it wasn't one that he dared entertain. If they were attacked, they would return fire and try to break contact as quickly as possible. There was no other choice.

It wasn't a long drive from the White House to Andrews, but they had to take a somewhat roundabout route. Insurgents had damaged some roads and others had been blocked to prevent civilians from heading into the heart of Washington, towards the White House. The protesters who had been screaming and shouting outside the White House – first in favour of the aliens, and then against them – had been ruthlessly dispersed when McGreevy had taken up the power of the Presidency. He had no sympathy for anyone who preferred to live in a world of slogans and simple, if impractical answers – as opposed to the real world – but even he was angered by what had been done to the protesters. They’d been beaten, crushed and then sent to a detention camp. Who knew? By the time they were released, they might even have a new appreciation for America. There were countries where protesters were machine gunned on the streets.

He glanced down at his watch, checking and rechecking the time. If all went according to plan, they should be inside the base by the time the insurgents began their attack. The Colonel had been a soldier too long to expect that the plan would go perfectly. They’d covered their asses as best as they could, but when a plan depended on too many uncertain factors, the **** would probably hit the fan sooner rather than later. He took a deep breath, reminding himself of his oaths, both the oath he’d sworn the day he’d enlisted in the army and the oath he’d sworn once he realised that his country was under enemy occupation. Whatever it took, whatever level of personal sacrifice it demanded, he would see his country free.

The thought made him smile. They’d planned to hide from any crisis that threatened the entire country, hide until the collapse had come to an end and only a handful of survivors remained alive. And then they would have come out of hiding and started the long task of rebuilding the country, step by step. It would have been a stronger country, the Colonel was sure, one where politicians knew their place and citizens accepted both the rights and responsibilities of citizenship. Before the aliens, everyone had known the former, but far too few had known the latter. Now...the entire world had received a harsh lesson in what it meant to be free. Freedom was never free. It had to be bought, often in blood.

They turned the corner and headed down Pennsylvania Ave. The buildings were dark and deserted, hardly a light glimmered in what had once been the brightest city in the world. Perhaps there were people hiding there, the Colonel mused, or perhaps the aliens and their puppets had been successful in cleaning out the heart of Washington. They’d wanted a safe zone for their people, hadn't they? And they’d succeeded, now they had alien troops on the street. The resistance knew better than to engage the aliens directly. They always launched brutal indiscriminate reprisals.

A shot glanced off the window and he started, reaching for his rifle. The soldiers in the truck returned fire with enthusiasm, hosing down the nearby building that had housed the sniper. No other shot came at them, suggesting that they’d either killed the bastard or he’d ducked for cover. The Colonel hoped it was the latter, knowing that the sniper had probably seen a convoy of collaborators and hoped to assassinate one or two. He wouldn't have known that he was firing on his own people, not that it would have made any difference. The Colonel knew that death came to everyone, no matter who fired the shot or what they had had in mind. And death was always the end.

They rumbled over the bridge, which had been secured at both ends by pod people and a handful of alien troops. The Colonel shivered as he saw their inhuman form, their red eyes glinting in the darkness. There hadn’t been much time to examine the alien defector – and alien bodies always exploded, vaporising the remains – but the doctors had noted that the Snakes probably had better night vision than humans. On the other side, the defector wasn't actually as strong as a well-trained human soldier, suggesting that if they came down to hand-to-hand fighting, humanity would have the advantage. The defector had noted that if they did fight, the aliens wouldn't hesitate to use teeth as well as their limbs. He’d even admitted that the Snakes had a form of ritual combat that could be adapted to fight humans.

The Colonel wasn't particularly surprised. He’d never believed that the Snakes were peaceful, or even that they had never been a violent race. Evolution was a harsh process; Mother Nature was red in tooth and claw. The Snakes would have had to come out fighting, just as humanity had tamed and beaten the lions and tigers and other creatures that had hunted man in the darkness, away from the campfires. They’d done so well that many threats had been rendered extinct. The Colonel sometimes wondered if humans drove so many creatures to the brink of the abyss because, deep inside, they feared them. And if humans felt that way, why should the Snakes be any different?

He straightened up as they approached the gates of Andrews AFB. The soldiers who had once guarded the gates had been replaced by pod people, according to the reports. If the reports were wrong...the Colonel winced as he realised that there were alien troops as well, watching the humans from a safe distance. He hoped that the destruct devices they planted in their own bodies were deactivated; surely, they wouldn't want to lose one Snake and see the others killed in a chain reaction. Or maybe they wouldn’t care. They weren't human, after all; maybe they considered themselves expendable. And he knew that humans had sometimes considered their own people less than human, expendable...

The pod people didn't look particularly alert. Andrews was heavily guarded, after all; the insurgents had generally left the base alone. The Colonel held up the papers and passed them to the soldier, knowing that he might have to kill the man in order to save the rest of America. The pod people had sworn the same oath the Colonel had sworn, but their ability to think for themselves had been stolen by the Snakes. He would have preferred to fight out and out collaborators. Or even the Snakes themselves.

“You may proceed,” the soldier said, finally.

The gates rumbled open, revealing the lane into the base...towards Air Force One and the Snake shuttle, sitting on the runway. For a moment, the Colonel was awed, and then he remembered himself. They were right at the heart of enemy territory, awaiting their moment to strike. He reached for his cell phone, tapped a number into it from memory, and then sent a blank text message. The strike force would be prepared, now. And then they’d come up shooting.

He jumped out of the cab as the truck ground to a halt and waved to his men. They leapt out, forming a protective cordon around McGreevy’s vehicle. The bitch who thought she was President would be safe for a few moments longer. The Colonel glanced over at the aliens, who seemed disinterested in the humans. Perhaps they no longer cared about McGreevy.

A second later, the **** hit the fan.

 

Chapter Forty-One<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" />

Washington DC
USA, Day 73

“Fire,” Mathew ordered.

It had taken hours to slip the assault force close to Andrews. The aliens had been on the watch for insurgents and even the SEALs had felt their skills tested to the limit. A handful of collaborator uniforms and access papers had allowed others to get close to the base, but they’d been very limited in what they could carry with them. The aliens had refused their collaborators anything heavier than their M16s, which was helpful for the resistance, but less useful for attacking Andrews ABF. They’d had to break down the mortars and carry them in to the right position.

The seven mortars fired as one, launching shells towards the base. They came down on top of the guardpost, one of them landing right on top of an alien position. Thankfully, as Mathew had prayed, there was no massive explosion vaporising the alien bodies. The aliens clearly had no interest in seeing their troops destroyed by their own weapons. They’d punish the attack on their soldiers if they had time...Mathew pushed the thought aside and barked orders. The snipers opened fire, targeting every enemy – human or alien – they could see. Meanwhile, the Mortar teams fired a second salvo and then scrambled to shift position. The enemy might have been surprised, but they’d recover...and then they’d track the shells back to their point of origin and target it for destruction. If the US could – and did – take out enemy positions with counter-battery fire, why couldn't the aliens?

He advanced forward, trusting his men to know what they were doing. The alien collaborators were clearly trying to get armoured vehicles out to drive away the insurgents. It wasn't such a bad idea, except Mathew and his men had brought Javelin antitank weapons to the party. The moment they came out into the open, they’d die. Mathew regretted the deaths of the pod people – they had no choice, but to serve the aliens – but he would have no hesitation about terminating as many collaborators as possible. They all deserved to die.

And they had no idea that Mathew’s attack, as violent and unexpected as it was, was really nothing more than the diversion. All he had to do was keep them focused on him for as long as possible...

“Incoming helicopters,” one of his men bellowed. In the lightening sky, two helicopters could be seen, swooping down towards the insurgent positions. Mathew had called in fire from Apache helicopters before, back when he’d been in Afghanistan. Being on the receiving end was not fun. On the other hand, he did have better antiaircraft weapons than the Taliban had ever dreamed of having. “Sir...”

“Break out the Stingers,” Mathew ordered. “Take them both down.”

The helicopters had barely opened fire when the Stingers were launched. One helicopter didn't recognise the threat until the missile had slammed into its underbelly and blown it into a colossal fireball. The second danced upwards, launching flares, but they’d left it far too late and the missile struck home. For a long moment, Mathew thought that the pilot would manage to put the bird on the ground safely, before he lost control and the helicopter crashed into the base. The fireball illuminated the surroundings as the craft exploded. No one made it out alive.

A light in the sky revealed itself to be one of the alien craft. It skimmed low over the ground, launching pulse after pulse of green light into the insurgent positions. Mathew was lucky; one of the blasts barely missed him by several meters. The explosion threw dust and grit through the air. One of the antiaircraft team launched a Stinger after the aircraft craft, but it spun on its tail and neatly picked off the missile with a burst of green light. Mathew would have been impressed if he hadn't known that the craft’s presence meant that his attack had nearly come to a halt. The Colonel wouldn't have the time he needed to take the alien craft...

***​

“Now,” the Colonel ordered.

His assault force opened fire. The aliens and their collaborators hadn't been expecting an attack from the rear. They fell below his fire, allowing his men to run towards the alien shuttle, two of them dragging a heavy crate behind them. The aliens in the shuttle had no time to react as the commandos burst in through the hatch, followed rapidly by the Colonel himself. He’d feared that the aliens would destroy their craft rather than risk it falling into enemy hands, but instead they raised their hands in surrender. The Colonel and his men searched them roughly, and then pushed them outside to the trucks. If they could take the prisoners out of the base, they might be worth their weight in gold.

The Colonel took a moment to look around the shuttle’s interior as his men manhandled the crate up to the hatch. It was cruder than he’d expected, something not unlike a military-designed landing craft. A handful of alien seats, a set of controls that looked simple, but needed an alien to operate...for a moment, he felt an odd kinship with the alien soldiers. Some truths transcended race, creed or religion. If they’d met in honest battle, he could even have respected the aliens. Who knew what would happen in the future if the humans won the war and expanded into space?

“Colonel!”

The crate opened, revealing the alien defector. He looked alive and well; the Colonel, who would have hated to be confined for so long, had worried that he would be tired or unwell. The Snakes didn't seem to mind confined spaces, luckily. He waved the alien forward and the defector took the seat at the front of the craft. One light was blinking alarmingly on the control panel and he flicked a switch. The light stopped blinking and vanished.

“Can you fly this thing?” The Colonel demanded. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” the alien rasped. He was flicking other switches; the Colonel felt, rather than heard, a growing hum of power within the craft. “Get your men onboard. They’re demanding that we take off at once to get away from the battle.”

The ground shook as the alien craft high overhead made another pass. “Come on,” the Colonel bellowed. “Let’s go!”

***​

Toby stumbled as he climbed out of the President’s personal armoured transport. Andrews AFB had become a nightmare. Air Force One was burning, while enemy soldiers were shooting at two different groups of insurgents and alien troops were running towards them to provide support. No...they were shooting at the collaborators and pod people! For a moment, Toby didn't understand what he was seeing, and then it struck him. The aliens couldn't tell the difference between their brainwashed slaves, their collaborators and the insurgents, so they were firing on all humans! He almost laughed, just before a bullet pinged off the vehicle just above him.

McGreevy’s head appeared in the hatch. “What is going on?” She demanded. Toby was mildly surprised that she hadn’t shut the hatch and cowered inside the vehicle. The driver and his assistant were already dead, even though they were well-protected. Toby wasn't sure what had happened to them. “What’s happening?”

Toby almost laughed, despite the bullets and green flashes of light passing through the air. “The base is under attack,” he said. There was a roar from the direction of the alien shuttle, just before it leapt into the air. Toby knew that his father had intended to lead the mission in person. He’d see Earth from orbit, something Toby had once known that he would never see, and then he would board the alien warship. “I think you ought to run to the aliens.”

McGreevy, moving with surprising speed, jumped out of the hatch and started to run. Toby watched as she fled towards the aliens, half-expecting to see a bullet crack into her back. Instead, one of the aliens lifted his weapon and snapped off a shot at her. Her body glowed green for a second, and then she collapsed on the ground, dead. The alien ran over her body and kept moving. They hadn't known who was running towards them – and probably wouldn't have cared if they had. She’d definitely outlived her usefulness.

“Hey, kid,” a voice said. Toby started, and then saw Harry Garland, one of his father’s younger friends. “Not too bad, eh?”

He passed Toby a pistol and motioned for him to prepare to fight. “Time to start falling back, kid,” he added. “One way or another, we've done all we can here.”

***​

The Colonel cursed as he felt the gravity shifting around him. He dropped to the deck as the pressure grew stronger, just before it ebbed to almost nothing. Instead, he felt vaguely dizzy, as if something was badly wrong with his inner ear. The defector seemed to be unaffected, but it was clear that the rest of his troops were feeling the same effect. It had to be an effect of the craft’s drive, he told himself. Any human spacecraft travelling at such speed would have left them feeling squashed as long as the rocket was firing.

He pulled himself to his feet, feeling oddly as if his body was drunk, and settled down next to the defector. Outside, the sky was dimming to black and all the stars were coming out. He looked out of the viewport and down towards Earth. It spun in the inky blackness of space, seemingly unaffected by the billions of humans – and Snakes – who dwelled on its surface. The Colonel had almost walked away from religion after Mary had died, but looking down on Earth, he knew there was a God. Someone had created the Earth, and the human race, and the Snakes. There was an entire universe just waiting for humanity to explore. But then, God helped those who helped themselves. If the human race didn't prove itself worthy of survival...

“That’s it,” the alien defector said. “That’s the warship.”

It came into view slowly, illuminated only by the reflected light from Earth. Unlike some of the science-fiction ships he’d seen on television, it was a blocky shape, clearly military in design. It’s hull was studded with blisters he suspected were weapons, moving around in seemingly random patterns. It was larger than a battleship, larger than an aircraft carrier...far larger than anything humanity had ever put in space. The Colonel found himself speechless as it grew and grew. How could they hope to defeat the beings who had created such ships while humanity struggled to put a single rocket into space? Maybe they were doomed after all.

“Take us in towards it,” the Colonel ordered. “We need to dock with them.”

He shared a long glance with his men. No words were needed. They all knew what had to be done. The Colonel pulled off his rucksack and opened it, revealing the device hidden inside. It had taken days of careful work to remove the PAL and prepare the nuke to detonate on command, but it had worked – he hoped. A great deal of ingenuity had gone into creating devices that would prevent nukes falling into the wrong hands and bypassing them was tricky. It certainly wasn't intended to be easy.

A hissing sound filled the cabin. “They’re demanding explanations,” the defector said. “One moment...”

He produced a second set of hissing sounds. The Colonel shivered, remembering – once again – why humans had termed the aliens Snakes. There was something utterly inhuman about their speech, something that sent a chill down their spine. Mr. Spock and Chewbacca had been barely distinguishable from humans, at least when compared to the Snakes. And it worried him that he had no way of knowing what they were saying to each other. The defector might have had a change of heart. Not for the first time, he cursed the lack of any independent verification.

“They’re ordering us to dock, but not to enter the ship,” the defector said. “Apparently there was some kind of contamination down below and they’re worried about it spreading into the warship.”

The Colonel exchanged glances with his men. Contamination? “Can they pick up human life signs in this craft?”

“I don’t think so,” the defector said. His raspy voice was difficult to understand – or pick out emotion – but the Colonel suspected that he was worried. “They don’t seem to be suspicious of us personally...”

The Colonel nodded. “Take us in to dock,” he ordered. Inside his bag, the nuke was ready to detonate. “Hurry.”

He watched as the alien warship became a wall stretching across the sky, until its immensity swallowed up everything else. It was huge; every time he thought he comprehended the vast scale of the craft, he saw something to throw his mind back into a spin. The weapons blisters were larger than the space shuttle, prepared for a war against aliens with comparable technology. It still struck him as odd that the aliens hadn't armed their freighters and transports, but perhaps it made a certain kind of sense. They wouldn't want to run the risk of rebellion in their ranks. And they did have enemies within. The Pacifists seemed more than willing to fight, despite their name. They just needed a chance to actually take on the Emperor and win.

The dull thud caught him by surprise. “We have docked,” the defector announced. There was a pause as more hissing filled the cabin. “They’re sending an inspection party...”

Behind him, the hatch started to hiss open. The Colonel rammed his finger down onto the nuke and pressed the button, holding it down. A moment later, the hatch opened, revealing a team of alien soldiers. They stared at the humans, shocked beyond words. The Colonel understood how they felt. He wouldn't have expected to encounter humans on an alien shuttle either. And he’d always known that it would be a one-way trip.

The Colonel smiled and let go of the button.

***​

Toby saw the flash of white light from high above as the remains of the assault group retreated from Andrews AFB. The nuke had detonated, he knew; the Colonel, his father, had taken it along as a last resort. If they failed to take the alien warship, they’d blow it up. God alone knew what had happened in those last few moments, but the aliens had just lost their commander and their biggest stick.

He pulled himself away from his escort and stared towards the Snakes. They looked...stunned, exchanging glances and hisses with one another. It was easy, for once, to read their faces. All of a sudden, the threat of massive reprisals wouldn't be enough to save their scaly butts...and their collaborators had turned on them. Or so they thought. Toby realised that there would never be a better opportunity to take them alive.

“Hold fire,” he bellowed. He had no authority to command his father’s troops, but they obeyed, a handful of NCOs passing on the command. “Surrender!”

He walked towards the aliens, feeling his heart trying to climb into his mouth. If they opened fire, even a blind man couldn't have missed him at such a range. The aliens looked up at him, but did nothing. Toby said a silent prayer under his breath and stopped, bare metres from the aliens.

“Your warship is gone,” he said, flatly. What if their voders had failed? They wouldn't be able to understand him, let alone answer. “Surrender now and we’ll treat you well.”

There was a long pause, and then the lead alien threw his gun to the ground. The others followed suit, seconds later. Toby let out a long breath he hadn't realised he’d been holding and waved the soldiers forward. The alien prisoners were surrounded, their weapons were taken and they were marched off to a makeshift detention facility. No pod people were left alive, but a handful of collaborators were captured and added to the haul. Toby allowed himself a sigh of relief and headed off towards the vehicles. Someone had to return to the White House and liberate it from the aliens and their collaborators.

“I’m detailing an escort,” Garland said. “The General will want to see you, kid. You did good.”

***​

General Thomas had set up his command post on the outskirts of Washington. The news was coming in from all over the world. Most of the aliens had surrendered, along with their pod people, to the local resistance. Some countries had gone all the way down into chaos, but those that had survived would have their own tame aliens. The alien prisoners, at first report, seemed to have no qualms about sharing what they knew with their captors. They were probably afraid to face the human race after all they’d done.

The remaining alien starships had surrendered after their warship had been destroyed, leaving the human race with the problem of getting troops onboard before it occurred to one of the aliens to ram the planet and ensure that the human race didn't survive long enough to threaten their empire. One of their other bases had included a handful of shuttles, which had been used to move SF forces up to the starships and take command. A handful of other Pacifists had come out of the woodwork, helping the humans to take control of the ships. The defector’s final gift to humanity. Codes that could be used to make contact with the others in his group.

General Thomas shook his head. The alien government was falling apart, now that McGreevy was dead and her collaborators being hounded out of office or lynched on the streets. A new government would have to be established quickly, or large parts of the country wouldn't survive the winter. And then they would have to bury the dead and start rebuilding the country.

But they’d won, he told himself. The human race had won. And the Snake Empire was in for a nasty shock when they encountered the human race for a second time.

So why did it feel so much like defeat?