The Trojan Horse

Christopher Nuttall

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The Trojan Horse Blurb

The aliens say they come in peace...

When the emissaries from the Galactic Federation arrive on Earth, humanity is astonished to learn of the populated universe outside Earth’s atmosphere.  A peaceful federation of a thousand alien races, united in peace and harmony, is just waiting for the human race to abandon its warlike impulses and join the Federation.  A brave new destiny awaits the human race...

But there are odd points about the Federation, little pieces of evidence that suggest a far darker motive for visiting Earth.  As an unlikely band of heroes struggles to form a resistance against the alien threat, Earth’s fate hangs in the balance – and defeat may mean the end of everything.

Chapter One

Washington DC/Virginia

USA, Day 1

“Holy shit!”

Jason Lucas stared down at his screen.  It had seemed like a routine day at SETI, monitoring the heavens for some sign of extraterrestrial life.  Interns like Jason joined SETI, worked for a few months or years as technicians and computer geeks, and then left the foundation when it became clear that no alien message was going to be forthcoming.  He’d expected to go back to college and concentrate on something more practical, something that would look better on his resume...

He couldn’t believe his eyes.  A signal was flooding in on the hydrogen band, a frequency that all of the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence’s experts believed would be the one most likely used by another intelligent race.  It was almost perfect, almost exactly what they’d expected to find.  Jason felt a strong sense of excitement flooding through him, tempered by caution.  SETI had been mistaken – or hoaxed – before and no one would thank him if he alerted the media and then discovered that he’d picked up signals from a forgotten Russian satellite or a top secret military spy satellite high overhead.

But all the computer programs geeks like Jason had devised to verify the origins of any unknown signal all agreed.  The signal was coming from the Lagrange Point between the Earth and the Moon, precisely balanced at the point where the gravity fields created by such huge objects were perfectly balanced.  A space station could have been positioned there, if NASA had gotten off its ass and actually done something apart from sucking up tax dollars and providing employment for lobbyists and political pork for congressmen.  There was nothing up there, as far as Jason knew; even the long-rumoured Chinese lunar mission had failed to get off the ground.  He keyed in a final set of commands, verifying the findings through the network of radio telescopes that SETI monitored on a routine basis.  By now, others would be aware of the signal.  It wouldn’t be long before the news got out.

For all of his life, Jason had dreamed of travelling in space.  He’d been told that by the time he reached his teenage years, mankind would have space stations in orbit around the Earth and colonies on the Moon and Mars.  But the dreams created by Robert Heinlein, Doc Smith and other science-fiction writers had never come true; by the time Jason had left high school, NASA had shut down the space shuttle program and the economic recession was sweeping the country.  There was money for everything, it seemed, apart from space travel.  An angry visionary had drifted into SETI in the hopes of touching some of the wonder he’d dreamed of in the past, yet knowing that alien contact would change the world forever.  The Native Americans had encountered advanced beings who might as well have come from a whole new world.  They hadn’t survived the experience.

The computer results all agreed.  There was a signal source where no signal source should be.  Jason felt growing terror overriding his excitement.  SETI had always expected to discover alien civilisations light years from Earth, civilisations that could pose no serious threat to the planet.  Unless someone discovered a means of travelling faster than light, only the most hardy of space travellers would seek to cross the interstellar void and pay a call on Earth.  And yet, the signal was definitely coming from nearby.  There was an alien spacecraft near the Earth.

He reached for his phone and dialled a number.  It was early in the morning and the Director, Daniel Crenshaw, didn’t get in until late, but the protocols for any form of verified encounter were specific.  Jason – or whoever was on duty – had to report the contact to his superiors at once, who would then start alerting others – and probably calling the media, the cynical side of his mind added.  SETI had been having problems raising funds and a genuine alien contact would ensure that they received all the funding they needed to keep watching for alien life.

“Sir,” he said, when a tired voice answered, “I think you should listen to this.”

The Director didn’t believe him at first, which wasn't surprising.  SETI had been hoaxed before, after all.  But once Jason had convinced him that he was telling the truth, the Director leapt into life.  Jason left the matter in his capable hands and turned back to the computers.  Perhaps, just perhaps, he could decipher the message before the world’s scientific community came in and buried the whole issue under a series of studies about how to decipher the message.  He didn’t have high hopes.  It was hard enough to learn a human language, let alone one from another world.  SETI had all kinds of programs that should allow them to establish a common understanding with an alien race, but they’d never been tested.  It should have been impossible to decipher the message.

He succeeded on his very first try.

***

“I’m sorry, Mary,” Colonel William Sanderson (retired) said.  “I wish you were still alive.”

He stood below the rising sun, looking down at the two gravestones in a private part of his Virginia farm.  His wife and eldest son lay below the ground, his wife dead in childbirth, his son dead in the wars.  The Sanderson family had a long and proud tradition of military service; there had been a Sanderson with George Washington when he crossed the Delaware, a Sanderson with Grant and Sherman as they marched on Richmond and put an end to the slave-holding Confederate States of America, a Sanderson in the Spanish-American War, the World Wars and Vietnam.  The Colonel had served in Desert Storm when the United States had first waged war against Saddam and his evil regime; two of his children had fought in the liberation of Iraq a decade later.  And one of them had fallen there.

“I don’t know how to cope with Toby,” he told his dead wife.  “I feel as if I failed him – I failed my son.  Did I blame him for your death…?”

The memories rose in front of his eyes, memories that neither military service nor drink could keep from his mind.  Mary had been slight for her age and the doctors had warned that she might have difficulty bearing children, but she’d given birth to five healthy children without apparent difficulty.  The Colonel had been delighted when she’d told him that she was pregnant again, yet it had been the beginning of the end.  His memories took on a nightmarish hue that none of his memories of combat matched, even when he’d been on the verge of capture by enemy forces during a mission that had never been officially acknowledged.  Mary’s pale face, the blood, the crying child…and the face of the Doctor as he admitted that they hadn’t been able to save the Colonel’s wife, despite all of their knowledge.  The Colonel had tried not to blame Toby for his mother’s death, yet there had always been a rift between the Colonel and his youngest son.  And then Robert had died in action.

Toby had loved Robert, his eldest brother.  They’d all loved Robert.  The Colonel had expected him to serve his time in the military and then return home to take over the farm.  Instead, he’d been killed by an IED on the streets of Baghdad in the days before the government admitted that there was an insurgency underway, his death the result of blundering by the planners who should have prepared for chaos in the days following the fall of Saddam’s regime.  Toby had taken it badly and a series of bitter arguments between father and son had blossomed into a deep and apparently permanent rift.  He’d rebelled against his family’s traditions and disappeared into Washington.  They hadn’t spoken since.

The Colonel rubbed his eyes.  His father had told him that death was part of life, that everyone died eventually.  All that mattered was how well a person lived.  The Colonel liked to think that his family had lived well, even the Sanderson who had fought beside General Lee in the Army of Northern Virginia.  But Toby had been at just the right age to be influenced by the death of his brother and he’d rejected the family.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” the Colonel said, again.  He’d come to terms with his wife’s death, but he’d never found anyone else to fill the gaping void in his heart.  Or, perhaps, to serve as the mother-figure for his daughters, who’d been still children when their mother passed away.  How could they help being tomboys, even if they had found good matches and were raising the next generation of the family?  “I wish things were different.”

His cell phone shrilled.

The Colonel straightened up in annoyance.  His private time with his wife and son was private time.  The others on the farm – his children, his grandchildren and the summer hands who worked during summer holidays – knew not to disturb him unless it was truly urgent, yet there shouldn’t have been anything urgent.  They had had nothing planned for the morning, except the endless work that went towards keeping the farm up and running.  Countless generations of his family had lived on the farm and worked the land and the Colonel had no intention of being the last.

“Sanderson,” he said, shortly.  The caller ID identified the caller as Robin Greenhill, one of his older friends…even if he had served in the United States Navy rather than on land.  “What is it?”

“Colonel,” Greenhill said.  He sounded excited – and terrified.  “Have you seen the news?”

“I’ve been busy,” the Colonel said.  What had happened in the few hours since he’d glanced at CNN while eating his way through breakfast?  There hadn’t been anything particularly important in the news.  The President was due to give another speech on the economic depression, something that might make good comic relief; there was yet another flare-up in Palestine between Israel and the Palestinians; the Chinese were making threatening noises over Taiwan and the presence of an American carrier battle group in the region; the Russians were sounding off about the dangers of European military preparation…nothing to interest the Colonel, not now.  “What is it?”

“Go see CNN,” Greenhill said.  It was almost an order.  “It may be time to panic.”

The Colonel frowned as he started the walk back to the farmhouse, passing the small orchard of apple trees he’d harvested since he’d been able to walk.  One of the farmhands was picking apples for cooking now, preparing for the winter months to come; another was chatting urgently about something while holding the ladder.  The Colonel ignored them as he tramped into his house, removed his boots – one of the few arguments he’d had with his former wife had been over dirty boots in the house – and walked into the living room.  He disliked CNN on principle – it was too inclined to take statements from enemy countries at face value for his tastes – but he had to admit that it was often the first to sound the alert if anything changed.  The internet was quicker, yet the level of fact-checking online was often very poor.  He picked up the remote and flicked the television on.

“…Command has verified the presence of seventeen alien spacecraft in orbit around the Earth,” the newsreader said.  The Colonel stared in disbelief as the newsreader, a blonde bimbo with breasts that kept threatening to break out of her blouse, kept reading from her teleprompter.  “The aliens have so far not attempted to communicate with the government, but official sources in Washington have confirmed that the President will be remaining in the White House.  We go now live to SETI headquarters in Washington…Director Crenshaw, how does SETI feel about this momentous event?”

Crenshaw’s face appeared in front of the Colonel, a balding lobbyist with a characterless face.  “Well, Gillian, we’re all very excited,” he said.  Sweat was shining on his forehead as he spoke, suggesting that he was either unused to being interviewed or that there had been no time for makeup and other preparations.  “This is a time of great change for the human race.  We always wondered if we were alone in the universe.  Now we know that we are not – that we have cousins from beyond the stars.  The world will never be the same again.”

Gillian’s face reappeared on the screen.  “Do you feel that this…ah, First Contact poses any danger to the planet?”

“The aliens have so far shown no signs of hostility,” Crenshaw said.  For a moment, he looked hesitant.  The Colonel, used to watching Intelligence Officers from the CIA hide information they felt couldn’t be shared with the lowly soldiers who actually had to put their lives on the line, realised that he was hiding something.  “They haven’t opened fire or done anything to threaten us…”

The Colonel muted the sound and picked up his cell phone, calling Greenhill.  “I saw,” he said.  “I think it’s time to gather the clan.”

“I’ll start calling people,” Greenhill said.  “Everyone who’s seen Independence Day will want to get out of the cities.”

The Colonel nodded in agreement.  His family would be safe – except for Toby.  Whatever else could be said about the lad, he was as brave as anyone else in the family; he’d stay in Washington beside his President.  And besides, he would be as safe there as anywhere else in the nation.  If the aliens didn’t come in peace…they wouldn’t have to fly giant flying saucers into the atmosphere to wreck havoc.  A handful of asteroids pushed down towards the planet would do the job nicely…

But they’d know that in Washington, wouldn’t they?

The Colonel and his family had been survivalists long before the word had been coined.  They’d always known that they could never count on the government coming to their aid in a crisis; the government might not be evil – although some of his friends and allies believed that the government was always out to increase its power at everyone else’s expense – but it took time to respond.  There would be a time between any disaster and the government’s response, a time when those who were prepared for disaster would live and those who frittered away their time would die.  The Colonel had no intention of being among the dead.

And if the aliens were hostile, the survivalists might be the only ones to survive long enough to fight back.

***

The underground bunker under the White House was as luxurious as money could buy, outfitted in a manner designed to conceal that it was, at heart, a bomb shelter.  A terrorist or rogue state could detonate a nuclear warhead in Washington and the occupants of the bunker would be perfectly safe.  The displays scattered along the walls showed the live feed from a handful of military intelligence satellites in orbit, showing the positions of the alien spacecraft.  It hadn’t taken a brief message from NORAD to warn the President that the aliens were out of reach of any weapon from Earth.  They were positioned quite nicely above the gravity well.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Sergeant at the doors said, “the President of the United States.”

Toby Sanderson, Special Assistant to the President, rose to his feet along with the rest of the politicians and military officers in the bunker.  The Vice President was already on his way to an undisclosed location, while contingency plans to disperse Congress and the Senate around the country were being put into operation.  There was no plan, as far as Toby knew, for alien contact or invasion, but thankfully some of the contingency plans could be used to fit the unanticipated circumstance.  It allowed the government to feel that it had some control over what was going on.

President Patrick Hollinger was in his early sixties, a man who had been in politics for much of his adult life.  Oddly, he had had few scandals dogging his name as he wafted upwards in politics until he finally made a run for President.  His detractors had pointed out that he had never taken a position on anything, but he couldn’t be blamed for that.  In an era where unfortunate remarks made during childhood could come back to torpedo political careers, who could blame a politician for wanting to keep his thoughts and opinions private?  The politicians had turned mediocrity into a virtue.  The greats – Lincoln, Roosevelt, Reagan – would never be elected in the modern era.

Besides, Toby thought, as the President motioned for them to be seated, none of them would have taken my advice.

His career had been an odd one, to say the least.  He’d gone into politics to spite his father, only to discover that he was surprisingly good at understanding and shaping public opinion.  He had no desire to run for office himself, but he had helped push Hollinger into the Presidency – and Hollinger would be good for the country.  Four years of boredom would be better than endless scandals.  And while he had never served in the military, his family background had given him the ability to understand it as well as anyone from the civilian side of the tracks could understand it.

“This will be brief,” the President said.  He sounded as firm as he ever did.  “I will be addressing the nation in one hour, perhaps sooner.  General?”

Toby watched as General Elliot Thomas, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, rose to his feet.  Thomas was a beefy black man who’d served in almost every conflict in the last twenty years before finally reaching the highest uniformed post in America.  There were some who tipped him as a prospective presidential candidate for the next election, but Toby doubted that Thomas would run.  He had no sense of compromise, of the give and take that kept politics moving reasonably smoothly.  A virtue in a military officer became a liability in politics, which was – at heart – a popularity contest.

“There’s little to say,” Thomas said.  His eyes swept the room, passing over Toby in a manner that reminded him of his father’s insightful stare.  The General didn’t approve of political advisors and resented Toby’s near-constant presence next to his President.  “Orbital monitoring stations have confirmed the presence of seventeen alien starships near the Earth.  Several of them are occupying the gravitational balance points between the Earth and the Moon; others appear to be drifting in very high orbits around the Earth.  There may be others, but we have no way of detecting them past a certain range.”

There was a long pause.  “They have so far shown no signs of hostility,” he added.  “If it does come down to war, however, they would have little difficulty in stomping us flat.  They could just roll asteroids at us until we surrendered.”

“There’s no need to assume hostility,” Jeannette McGreevy, the Secretary of State, said.  She was ambitious as anyone Toby had ever met, with a coldly ruthless streak that contained more than a hint that a sociopath hid behind her smile.  “They may come in peace.”

“They may,” Thomas rumbled, “but their mere presence has caused chaos on Earth.”

Toby nodded to himself.  Barely an hour after the news had leaked into the public domain and there was already chaos.  Hundreds of thousands of people were fleeing the cities, buying guns and stockpiling ammunition, while others weren’t averse to using First Contact as an excuse to loot.  The various state governments were already calling up the National Guard and all police leave had been cancelled.  They’d heard nothing from other governments on Earth, but Toby would have been surprised to discover that the other nations weren’t suffering their own version of the chaos.

“In fact,” Thomas continued, “we are naked…”

There was an urgent knock at the door, which opened to reveal a harassed-looking officer carrying a portable laptop.  “Mr President,” he said, his face showing the strain of speaking directly to the most powerful man in the world.  Under normal circumstances, anything new would be passed up the chain of command until it finally reached the President.  “We picked up a message from the alien ships.  They say that they represent the Galactic Federation…and that they come in peace.”

Chapter Two

Washington DC

USA, Day 1

“We beat you to it!”

Jayne Rowling allowed herself a half-smile as Gareth Robertson smiled triumphantly at her.  The veteran reporter had never adapted very well to the increasingly digitalised world of media production, distribution and occasionally manipulation.  He would have been comfortable working in a newspaper office from the early 1950s – back when women knew their place and served only as secretaries – but the internet, blogs and even cell phones increasingly confused him.  What kind of world was it, he’d wondered to her once, where just anyone could post their facts and opinions online for the whole world to see?  And what kind of world was it where an embarrassing media mistake could be made on Monday, exposed by Tuesday and often forgotten on Wednesday?  Too many careers had been terminated by online experts pointing out the mistakes of veteran reporters.

Robertson wasn't even correct!  True; CNN had been the first major media distributor to discover that alien starships were orbiting the Earth, but the internet had been buzzing with rumours ever since the first alien message had started to be picked up on the planet below.  It had only avoided general distribution through the more reliable blogs and online websites because few of the reputable commenters had been willing to risk their reputations by adding their imprint to the impossible disclosure.  The downside of the new media environment was that any number of distortions, conspiracy theories and outright fabrications could be given the same weight as an official broadcast from the American Government.  And there were those who believed that nothing the government said could be treated with anything, but extreme scepticism.

Jayne herself tended to consider herself a reporter first, a commenter second.  As a young student, she had found herself at the forefront of the new age of media distribution, a position that had allowed her to parlay her considerable experience with computers and online networks into a position in one of the foremost media corporations.  It hadn't lasted; she’d discovered that seniority was the rule and only a handful of the most talented newcomers could hope to climb their way to the top, toeing the official line as they served the organisation’s owners.  Jayne had seen how both left and right-wing corporate owners had insisted on pushing forward one point of view while burying others...and then simply carrying on, trusting the public’s short attention span to ensure that any mistakes were quickly forgotten.  The uncritical support her employers had given to a single presidential candidate had sealed her urge to go independent and she’d found herself working as a freelancer for the newly-formed Blogger Association Network.  Individual bloggers were often frozen out by the big corporations; a network of bloggers, a vast distributed smart mob, was a much more formidable opponent.  And online, where facts could be checked and rechecked by millions of independent experts, the BAN had rapidly earned a reputation for honesty, fairness and integrity.  There had been mistakes, of course, but they had all been admitted by the network.  Few media corporations would be so quick to confess error.

She settled back and surveyed the White House Press Room.  It was heaving with reporters, with a handful of camera crews in the back filming everything that transpired and beaming it out live to the entire world.  The media corporations had hated the thought of streaming their product onto the internet for free, but they’d rapidly discovered that the world was moving ahead anyway, despite their protests.  Everyone would be sharing the same material, editing and reloading it for themselves.  This time, however, the entire country would be watching the unedited live feed.  The President was going to address the nation.

Covertly, she glanced down at her Iphone and scanned the latest updates from a handful of social networking sites.  The number of followers of the raw material had gone up into the millions, heading towards a billion.  More and more would be signing on to watch, or sitting down in front of the television to watch on CNN and Fox as the President addressed the entire nation.  Someone had already downloaded, transcribed and uploaded the entire text of the alien message onto the internet.  A hundred experts had already confirmed the existence of the alien ships and started to speculate on how they might have crossed the vast gulf of space to reach the Earth.  Warp drives, wormholes or even alternate dimensions seemed to be the favoured possibilities.

The Washington Press Corps was known for being rowdy – years of media manipulation and spin had turned most reporters into hardened cynics – but this time there was a sense that they were staring at historic, even world-changing events.  Jayne had been a child when the planes had hit the Twin Towers, yet she still remembered the shock that had consumed her parents, teachers and other adult acquaintances.  No one had known what was going to come next; no one had known that the terrorists couldn't launch a second strike within days.  This was the same; whatever else happened, the Earth would never be the same.  The internet talked of hundreds of thousands of people suffering from shock – or disbelief – as they digested the news.  And the experts kept bringing up examples from the past; the Native Americans, the Aztecs, Imperial China, Imperial Japan...

They own the stars, Jayne admitted to herself.  We’re nothing to them.

In her youth, Jayne had been a Star Trek fan, but she’d never understood the Prime Directive’s logic.  The UFP had surrounded countless worlds less advanced than the Federation, worlds with civilisations that would find themselves constrained by the Federation’s dominance of the surrounding star systems, civilisations that would never be able to build interstellar empires of their own.  And now, however she looked at it, humanity was in the same position.  The stars seemed to hem the human race in, confining her race to a single star system...

The room hushed rapidly as the President’s Media Aide appeared from the side of the room.  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice picked up by the tiny microphone at his neck and broadcast across the room, “the President of the United States of America.”

Jayne had never been quite certain what to make of President Patrick Hollinger.  On one hand, he was a quiet, almost studious man, a candidate no one had seriously expected to reach the final stages of election, let alone win.  On the other hand, she could see how such bland, almost characterless traits would recommend him to the general public, a public that had become increasingly sick of political scandals, extremism and the sheer poison boiling through the political.  Hollinger was no great man, but then...the public had chosen to reject those who claimed to be great men.  Time would tell if it had been a wise decision, or if it had been one of many mistakes that had placed an unsuitable candidate in the Oval Office.

“My Fellow Americans,” the President said.  His voice was firm, at least, the voice of a friendly headmaster or family attorney.  He could convince people that he was there to help, even if he couldn't be inspirational; he could help them to lead without seeming to lead himself.  But Jayne wasn't too impressed.  The measure of a President lay in how he responded to crisis...and Hollinger had found himself confronted by the single most shocking event in human history.  “This is a momentous day for our world.”

He looked directly into the cameras, a skill practiced by every modern politician.  The reporters might write favourable reviews of his speech or they might pour scorn on his words, but their opinions weren't the important ones.  Research had long shown that a President’s position in the opinion polls often depended more upon how he approached the average voter, rather than the reporters.  Quite a number of promising political careers had been terminated by playing to the reporters, rather than the watching population.  And the politician who accidentally allowed his contempt for the voters to show would find his career coming to a messy end.

“We have asked ourselves for years if we are the sole form of intelligent life in the universe,” he continued.  “We have looked up at the stars, realised that they are suns just like the one that gives light and heat to our world, and wondered if they harbour their own worlds with their own intelligent races.  The question we have wondered about for centuries has been answered.  We are not alone in the universe.”

A low mummer ran through the reporters.  Many of them, Jayne knew, had wondered if it was a hoax, or the first step in a cunning plan to reshape the world.  The internet had a vast number of people who – already, in the first few hours after First Contact – had produced a vast range of conspiracy theories, ranging from the US having built and launched the starships in secret, to a mad plan from the scientific community to convince the world to declare a truce, destroy all of mankind’s weapons, unite the world and accept peace forever more.  Hearing the President, a man globally respected if not always loved, telling the world that the aliens were real put an end to any real doubts among the audience.  The world had changed forever.

“Seventeen alien starships have come to Earth,” the President said.  “I have been assured by my military chiefs that they have posed no threat to our world.  They have made no signs of hostile intent.  Indeed, they have broadcast messages of greeting to the human race and invited us to join the Galactic Federation.  A new world has been born today and we are the lucky ones who will bear witness to humanity’s entry into a wider galactic community.

“There are those who have greeted the arrival of our visitors with fear and terror.  There are those who believe that the aliens do not come in peace, that they come to conquer the human race.  And yet I must say to the world that there is no sign that the visitors have hostile intentions.  A new day has dawned and I ask only that we greet the new world with the confidence and maturity that it deserves.  There is no need to fear the changes the aliens will bring to our world.  The human race will survive and prosper.

“The aliens have requested a meeting with the United Nations,” he concluded.  “I will be present in New York, as will many of the world’s leaders, even those who would normally be considered pariahs in the global community.  Together, the human race can meet any challenge; we can walk into the future with our heads held high.”

He bowed his head, slightly.  “Thank you for your time,” he said.  “Goodbye – and God bless America!”

Jayne watched as the reporters scrambled forwards, shouting questions.  The President’s Press Secretary had warned them before they were invited to the speech that there would be no time for questions, but that hadn’t stopped any of the more obnoxious reporters.  There were no answers from the President; instead, the next speakers waited for the hubbub to die down before they started to reassure the country – and indeed the world – that there was no danger.  Shaking her head, Jayne settled back in her chair and produced her palmtop from her handbag.  She’d have a preliminary blog message up within the next thirty minutes, with her comments and insights on the President’s speech for her followers.  One thing stuck in her mind.  The President had seemed pretty certain that the aliens came in peace.

She smiled, recalling the thrill of the chase.  Was there a reason for his certainty?

***

Back in the offices that made up the heart of the federal government, the President looked a great deal less certain and reassured.  Toby presented him with a cup of hot coffee and watched while he sipped it gratefully.  The President worked far harder than anyone outside the Cabinet and his aides understood and anything Toby could do to lessen the stress, he would.  He really needed sleep, but that wasn't likely to come.  It wasn’t a coincidence that almost every modern President saw their hair turn grey while in office.

“We had almost total media saturation,” Toby said, once the President had taken his seat and placed his elbows on the desk.  The vast array of military and civilian advisors and subordinates had their orders.  In a way, there was nothing for the President to do, but worry about the future.  “Ninety percent of the public will have watched your speech.”

“Good,” the President said.  It was very rare to interrupt the non-news channels on television, let alone try to stream a single message onto all of the entertainment channels on the internet.  That, if nothing else, would ensure that the President’s speech was watched, if not always believed.  Toby’s father, he thought, wouldn't be reassured at all.  He and his friends had been preparing for the collapse of government and society for years.  “How are we standing on the economic front?”

Toby made a show of consulting his secure palmtop, although he’d already memorised the last update from the Treasury Department.  “The New York Stock Exchange is looking shaky, but the experts believe that it will remain fairly stable for the next few days, barring a sudden change in the global situation,” he said.  “There’s been increased demand for stock in corporations that manufacture weapons, bomb shelters and camping gear – public demand has gone off the scale.  I think that we will see increased absenteeism at work for the next week, but as long as there is no sudden change it’s quite likely that everything will return to normal fairly soon.  And the holiday trade has seen a massive spike in activity.  Everyone who can rent a place to live outside the cities is doing precisely that, Mr. President.”

“A great many people are nervous,” the President said.  “Do you think that I reassured them today?”

“I believe so,” Toby said.  There was no way to know for sure.  The world was still reeling from the concept of aliens visiting the Earth.  Everyone had seen movies, TV serials and even novels detailing a thousand different alien plans to conquer the Earth.  Independence Day had seen massive flying saucers floating over cities and burning them to the ground; others, like Invasion of the Body-Snatchers, had shown a more subtle form of invasion.  There were far fewer movies centred around peaceful alien contact – and many of them, like The Day the Earth Stood Still, had implied that evil forces within the government or military would seek to harm the alien visitors.  “I think the sense of distance is lending some enchantment.  It would be a different story if the aliens were hovering over our cities.”

The President nodded, thoughtfully.  “And the meeting in New York?”

Toby smiled.  Once the alien message had been picked up, the government-operated transmitters that normally served the nation’s network of spy satellites and military communications systems had been used to contact and establish a link with the alien ships.  Reluctantly, the NSA had allowed representatives from a handful of other governments to monitor the transmissions, but little had been forthcoming from the aliens.  They’d simply stated that they came in peace, that they were emissaries from the Galactic Federation and requested a meeting with world leaders.  Surprisingly, they hadn't attempted to suggest a location or even a time and place.  They appeared content to allow the human race to handle matters without further pressure.  Toby wasn't sure if it showed a willingness to show respect for the human race, or if it was a very slight insult.  Or maybe it was simple ignorance.  The aliens presumably knew little of how the human governments operated.

Or maybe not.  We come in peace.  Take us to your leaders.  How long had they studied humanity to know those terms?  They could have been watching and monitoring the Earth for hundreds of years...

“The military will be establishing a no-fly zone over the city,” he said.  The USAF had actually wanted to keep substantial forces in the region – backed up by carriers from the Navy – but the politicians had insisted on keeping a low profile.  “We’ll use unarmed aircraft to escort the alien landing craft to the city, while the NYPD and National Guard will ensure that there is a secure perimeter around the landing site.  There’s still some confusion over security within the UN itself, but we think we’ll have it sorted out by the time the aliens actually land.”

The President snorted.  Nearly every world leader of consequence – or considered himself to be of consequence – would be coming to the landing.  The Secret Service – responsible for the protection of the President and his family – would be coordinating their efforts with British, French, German, Russian, Chinese and even Iranian security personnel.  Only strict orders from their political masters had ensured some degree of cooperation, although as the deadline drew closer, Toby fully expected the various security teams to start picking fights with one another.  The whole situation would have been unthinkable only a day ago.

“And everyone wants to know our position in the talks,” Toby concluded.  “The Cabinet would like to schedule a formal meeting to discuss the issue tomorrow.”

“That won’t be an easy task,” the President said.  “They’ve told us almost nothing.”

He didn't mean the Cabinet, Toby knew.  The Galactics – the term had started on the internet and spread around the world within hours – had told their human hosts almost nothing about the Galactic Federation, or what membership in it actually meant.  How could anyone bargain with the aliens when no one even knew the rules of the game?

“Yes, Mr President,” Toby agreed.  “The analysts have already prepared a list of possibilities...”

The President smiled.  “Possibilities,” he repeated.  “And what are the odds of even one of them being right?”

Chapter Three

Near Mannington, Virginia

USA, Day 3

The alien ships hung against the inky darkness of space.  They were illuminated only by reflected earthlight, hinting at rather than revealing their alien contours.  The Colonel studied the latest images from orbital satellites with interest, noting that technology had clearly improved since he'd left the military, but also that the aliens had positioned themselves just far enough from Earth to limit the amount of detail that could be picked up by human cameras.  Every telescope on Earth was tracking the alien ships, yet little detail could be put together.  The alien ships were massive – the smallest was easily two kilometres long – but there was something oddly unimpressive about them.  They were blocky misshapen forms, rather than the more elegant ships humans had designed long before they had the ability and will to build them.

And there was something about them that worried the Colonel.  It wasn't something he could have put into words, yet it nagged at the back of his mind.  On one hand, the mere presence of any alien starships in orbit around Earth was worrying; they portended vast change in the near future, even if the aliens didn't come with bad intentions.  On the other hand, he wasn't sure he wanted to encounter any culture that considered the blocky starships to be the highest expression of their artistic skills.  But then, he reminded himself, Imperial Japan or the Ottoman Empire had produced quite remarkable buildings...and he wouldn't have freely chosen to live in either country.  The aliens might have a reason for the strict utility of their ships...

It clicked, suddenly.  A car might be designed to look elegant – the Colonel still fondly recalled the Dodge Viper he’d bought years ago – but a military tank was designed for function over form.  Anything built for the military had to do the job first and look spectacular second – a very poor second.  The A-10 Warthog might be an ugly airplane when compared to the F-22, another military aircraft, but the Colonel knew which one he would have preferred to be flying over him when he was on the ground, with enemy troops closing in from all directions.  The aliens had built their ships along military lines.  It was possible – he reminded himself firmly – that they might just have nothing reassembling a human sense of aesthetics, but yet he couldn't escape the thought that he was staring at alien warships.

He clicked the remote and the channel shifted to another program.  A presenter – a dark-skinned woman with a brilliant smile – was interviewing a set of religious types, all wearing their chosen faith’s clothing.  The Colonel counted several Christians, a Jew, a Muslim and a Hindu, the latter three seemingly less comfortable than the former.  Or perhaps he was just imagining it.  No one with any sense liked being interviewed, even by a friendly interviewer.

“And what,” the woman was asking, “does the Church make of our new visitors?”

“Well, we’re very excited,” the priest said, in a strong Irish accent.  He had short white hair and an affable smile, although it was clear that he spent most of his time behind a desk, rather than in the open air.  “We have always known that there are other entities out there – angels and devils, for example.  Wouldn't it be wonderful if the aliens shared the same belief in the Lord Jesus Christ, or in the death and resurrection of the Son of God?  Would that not prove that the Church was granted access to a fundamental truth that transcended religion and politics?”

The interviewer frowned, and then smiled brilliantly.  “I assume, then, that you don’t agree with the Witnesses?”

“I cannot claim to be an expert on the claims of Erich von Däniken,” the priest said, with some irritation, “but I find it hard to believe that the Galactics meddled with our genes to create the modern human race.  The only father our world has is God.”

“Precisely,” the Mullah injected.  “The Prophet Jesus was a real historical person.  His existence is not disproved by the claims that he was the Son of God.  God was the only one to create life – we must accept that he created the aliens as well as ourselves.”

The Colonel rolled his eyes as the discussion turned acrimonious.  Years ago, when he'd been very bored, he’d read one of Erich von Däniken’s books claiming that ancient alien astronauts had created the human race.  The claim had never been proven – extraordinary claims required extraordinary evidence – and indeed it was fairly easy to refute most of them without resource to specialist knowledge.  He would have sooner snoozed his way through Atlas Shrugged than pick up another book about ancient space gods from the stars.

But some people did believe his claims, as if the absence of any real proof only illuminated the truth hiding behind the falsehoods.  They’d taken the arrival of the Galactics as proof that there were benevolent space gods watching over the human race, taking it for granted that the Galactics had arrived at Earth to introduce a whole new post-scarcity society.  The Colonel hadn't watched many science-fiction serials on television in his life, but even he had heard of the utopian United Federation of Planets, or the ultra-advanced Culture.  There was just no proof that the alien Galactic Federation intended to bring anything to Earth, or that their gifts – if indeed they brought gifts – would be helpful.  Introducing any new technology risked upsetting the previous applecart, an excuse that had often been used to retard development.

The television picture changed to a live feed from New York.  There were still two days to go before the aliens landed at the UN, but the city was already buzzing with life.  A massive crowd of teenagers – hippies, the Colonel thought in disgust – had gathered at the edges of the security cordon, screaming out a welcome to the alien diplomats.  The cynical side of the Colonel’s mind wondered if the NYPD had allowed the protesters so close because they might have shouted themselves out by the time the aliens finally arrived.

He scowled as the camera focused on a group of youngsters – and middle-aged men wearing long hair and handmade clothes – bearing signs proclaiming the aliens to be gods.  It seemed absurd, to him, to claim that the aliens were anything other than another tribe, although one a little different from most.  The Witnesses – many of whom claimed to have been granted visions of aliens long before the starships had arrived – were inviting others to believe as they did.  New York being New York, other groups had arrived to protest their blasphemous claims.  The camera focused in on a punch-up between a group of Witnesses and a handful of locals, with NYPD cops moving in to separate the two groups and impose order.

Irritated, he clicked the channel again.  “...Arrival of the aliens has caused some unrest within the Middle East,” a different announcer said.  “The belief that the aliens were a Western hoax has faded, with mass marches on the streets of Cairo, Riyadh and Baghdad demanding that the Middle East be fully-represented in talks with the aliens.  Official statements from Middle Eastern Governments have failed to quell the protests, but it is notable that terrorism and violent unrest has actually fallen sharply...”

“Colonel,” a voice said, “they’re ready for you.”

The Colonel nodded, smiling up at his youngest daughter.  Susan was in her late thirties, but still a beauty, so much so that he’d worried every time a neighbouring boy had come around to ask her for a date.  He’d made a point of polishing an assault rifle on the kitchen table, reminding the young hopeful that he wouldn't wait for the cops if he believed that his daughter had been hurt.  And then he’d had to resist the temptation to kick young Albert in the shins as he escorted Susan down the aisle to give her away.  Albert might have been a Marine, but he was a good man.  And their children were lovely.

“Thank you,” he said, with the unfailing courtesy he always showed to the fairer sex.  “Have you heard from Albert?”

Susan was from a military family.  She’d known what it was like to wait at home while her father and brothers went off to war before she married Albert.  Even so, she couldn't conceal her concern – her fear for his safety – from her father.  Albert’s unit had been stationed near Helmand in Afghanistan and he’d been due to rotate home for leave, but no one knew what was happening now that the aliens had arrived.  All military personnel had been called to duty and there were even stories that the reserves would be called up, although so far nothing had been made official.  The politicians were still too worried about making the wrong impression to the aliens.  They wouldn't want to convince the Galactic Federation that humans were too violent to be trusted in space.

“Nothing since his last email,” she said.  “They were saying that they might be redeployed stateside, but nothing concrete...”

The Colonel nodded.  Rumours spread through the military faster than anything else, but very few of them were reliable.  But then, if the balloon did go up, Albert and his unit would be isolated and unable to return home.  The aliens would bombard their positions from orbit, if they bothered themselves with a handful of American troops on the other side of the planet.  Afghanistan had been unimportant to the United States for decades, before the Russians had invaded; how much less important would it be to aliens who had crossed uncounted light years to reach Earth?

“I’m coming,” he said.  “Tell Jennie to send in the food in an hour or so.”

“Of course, Father,” Susan said, sardonically.  “I hear and obey.”

“You’re not so old that I can't wallop you,” the Colonel said.  He started to walk out of the room, and then paused.  “Tell Albert that we are thinking of him and praying for his safe return.”

Shaking his head, he walked down into the common room.  He had no idea what the farm’s original designers had intended for the room, but it served as a convenient place for the group to meet.  They’d never given themselves a name or a purpose.  It had suited them better to remain an amorphous group with no official standing of any kind.  Official positions meant that they would be noticed and notice meant trouble.  It hadn't been that long since another survivalist group had run into trouble by possessing weapons that were – technically – illegal.  The fact that the difference between legal and illegal weapons was minor hadn't impressed the judge.  Colonel Sanderson loved his country, but if there was ever a long period of civil unrest he would take unholy delight in shooting down some of the agents of the federal government.  Didn't anyone ever read the Constitution anymore?

There were seventeen men and five women in the room.  Each of them was the head of a family, either elected by his family or simply the oldest and most experienced man in the group.  Like the Colonel, they mostly were ex-military, with only two exceptions; a former cop from Chicago and a former officer in the CIA.  The Colonel was not generally inclined to trust the intelligence services – there had been too many incidents of imprecise or outright inaccurate information served up to allow him to feel any respect for the CIA – but he made an exception for Bob Packman.  Packman had quit the CIA when the Agency had become infected with the disease known as political correctness, where restrictions handed down from Congress and an untested President had crippled the Agency’s ability to react to foreign threats.  The entire country had paid a price for their foolishness on 9/11.

“Thank you for coming,” the Colonel said, as they rose to greet him.  It struck him as slightly absurd, but as the one who had shaped their little group, they tended to give him considerable respect.  “Please – be seated.”

It struck him, sometimes, that he had shaped something not unlike the insurgent cells that proved such a bane to American and European military and police forces.  The group didn't share the same farm; that would have been absurd.  Those who didn’t farm were positioned in Mannington and a handful of other towns, with little apparent connection between them.  The outer edge of their families barely knew anything of the group.  Toby hadn't been the only youngster to abandon the farming life for the bright lights of the city.

“I got a dozen or so friends staying with me,” he said, once he had opened a can of beer and took a swig.  There would be more serious drinking later, but any discussions would be had without more than a can or two of beer.  This was no time to drink himself senseless.  “How many did you all get?”

He smiled at their responses.  They all had relatives who lived in the cities – and had fled, following the arrival of the alien ships.  Some of their relatives provided money for the farms without ever understanding the true purpose of the survivalist group and had a fair claim to stay, provided they worked on the farm.  Others had no real claim, but couldn't easily be turned away.  Family was family.  They all knew that.

“I think we won’t bring them into the group,” he continued.  “Does anyone see a problem with that?”

There were none.  Those relatives who had had military training and experience had already been recruited, apart from a couple with suspect political views.  The Colonel respected a man’s right to make his mind up about anything he liked, but if someone had a political view that the Colonel found suspect – communism or transnational progressivism – he wouldn't allow them to know anything about the group.  He knew what he would do if he discovered someone planning an attack on America – being a patriotic American was part of what he was – and someone who truly believed in communism, or that the federal government was always right, would follow their own conscience.  They might not be bad people, but they couldn't be trusted.

“Vanessa may be a problem,” Lucas Dawlish admitted.  He was the oldest in the room, a Ranger who had served in Vietnam as a young man, before returning home to raise children and farm his parent’s farm.  “I think she truly believes that the aliens are here to help.”

The Colonel winced.  Vanessa Dawlish had been a charming child and a beautiful young woman, with enough intelligence to enter any university in the United States.  She’d plumbed for Berkley, in California, right on the other side of the country.  And there the trouble had started.  Like so many other young girls, she’d fallen under the spell of a radical professor who had taught her that communism – however disguised – was the only path to a fairer new world order.  Her parents hadn't known what to do and – given her willingness to lecture her family and friends on her new beliefs – they’d been devastated when she’d decided to move in with her former teacher.  Professor Cavendish had, in just three days, earned himself a place in the spotlight as one of the foremost supporters of the Galactic Federation.  The fact that no one knew much about the Galactic Federation – beyond the fact that it existed – had largely passed unnoticed.

“I think that we would be wise to deny her entry, if she returns to Virginia,” the Colonel said.  Even as he spoke, he knew it wouldn't be easy.  Dawlish wouldn't be keen on abandoning his grandchild and her parents might be willing to take her back in, as long as she wasn't escorted by her lover.  There was no way that anyone as impractical as Professor Cavendish could be trusted.  Besides, with at least two wives in the past – one of whom was still, legally, his wife – his morals were highly suspect.  “If she does...”

He looked around the room and briefly outlined his conclusions about the alien ships.  “I may be overreacting,” he concluded, “but I think we have to prepare for trouble.  They may simply intend to demand our surrender in New York...or they may be overtly friendly.”

Some of the group looked puzzled, so he hastened to explain.  “They may not mean us harm, but what happens if they give us...oh, I don’t know – perhaps a way of producing synthetic oil?  It sounds great – we’d finally be free of the ragheads – until we realised that most of the oil companies would go out of business.  The economic effects would put millions of Americans out of work.  Businesses would go bust, banks would crash, ordinary people couldn't put food on the table...it would be nice to believe that the Galactics would wave a magic wand and all our problems would be solved, but can we rely on it?

“We founded this group because we all believed that a crash was coming,” he added.  “We disagreed about why the crash was coming, or what form it would take, but we all knew that something would shake the foundations of the entire world.  And now we have been confronted by the existence of alien life.  The Galactics may be hostile, they may be friendly, yet their mere presence is going to shake us worse than anything else in recent history.

“And we’re the ones who prepared.  We may end up fighting an insurgency against the aliens, or merely struggling to survive while the world is reshaped into something adapted to the post-Contact world.  I need to ask; will you all stay with the group, bearing in mind that we didn't prepare for this?”

“I reckon we didn't prepare for anything specific,” Packman said.  “I’m in.”

The Colonel didn't relax afterwards, not during the dinner prepared by his daughters or during the brief drinking and swapping lies session that followed.  At base, survivalists worked to survive; they would emerge from their hiding places and remake the world after the crash had been and gone.  Not very brave, perhaps, and maybe not very patriotic...

But against the Galactics, against a race that could build starships over five kilometres long, it was all they had.  And no one really knew anything about Earth’s visitors.  What did they really want?

Chapter Four

New York

USA, Day 5

“What is that they’re playing?”

Jason Lucas had to shout over the racket.  The police and National Guard had kept the throng of spectators and protesters back from the landing site near the UN Building, but the roar of the crowd had merged with New York’s most popular orchestra to produce a deafening racket.  Everyone in the city and for miles around wanted to see the aliens land.  The NYPD had reported that thousands of people were flooding into the city, not all of them with friendly motives.  New York had been seeing something of a crime wave as criminals took advantage of the confusion to raid empty houses and steal whatever they could find.

“It’s the theme from Close Encounters,” one of the SETI scientists shouted back.  As the official Discoverer of the aliens, Jason had been guaranteed a place on the reception committee; SETI’s other members had had to depend on the luck of the draw.  Local politics, Jason had heard, had influenced the selection process, despite its seemingly random nature.  SETI drew researchers in from all over the world and the scientists included in the reception party included men from Europe, Japan and even China.  “They picked it because of its positive implications of alien contact!”

Jason had to smile.  New Yorkers had turned out to welcome the aliens, with their famously independent Mayor Hundred leading the parade.  There were hundreds of people wearing facemasks and posing as science-fiction characters from Mr Spock to Chewbacca.  The fact that most of the aliens portrayed in human culture tended to be unfriendly had seemingly escaped most of the greeting party, including the dozens who wore grey face masks.  Jason had even heard a rumour that victims of alien abduction had been gathering together to file a class action lawsuit against the Galactic Federation, although as far as he knew there was no proof that alien abductions even existed, let alone that the Galactic Federation was somehow involved.  It beggared belief that there were two such disparate societies within reach of Earth, but the human race knew nothing about FTL travel.  The Galactic Federation might span the galaxy, or even beyond.

Silence fell as the official loudspeakers hummed into life.  “We have just received word from the military,” Mayor Hundred said, his famous voice booming out over the crowd and even silencing the musicians.  “The alien craft has just entered the atmosphere and is heading towards New York.  Their ETA is twenty-seven minutes.”

Jason felt a new rising tide of anticipation.  The average American wouldn’t understand just how remarkable – and advanced – alien technology had to be.  Even the Space Shuttle – before it had been withdrawn from service – had needed a long runway to land; the aliens, it seemed, had developed technology to land in the midst of the city as casually as one of the helicopters flying high overhead.  It was awesome – and terrifying.  The human race would have nothing to offer the aliens, no technology, no scientific knowledge…perhaps they were doomed to be a perpetual Third World state in space.  Or maybe not; the Japanese had mastered Western technology before they could be crushed and colonised by the West.

Sure, the darker side of his mind reminded him, and then they were crushed after picking a fight they could not win.

SETI had long puzzled over the strange silence from the heavens.  If aliens existed, they had reasoned, and if they had possessed technology similar to humanity’s, the human race should have detected some sign of their existence.  And yet nothing – apart from a single signal that might have been nothing more than an unexplained natural phenomenon – had ever been detected.  Quasars, once thought to be alien navigational beacons, had proved to be entirely natural in origin.  The aliens, if they existed, appeared to be too far away for their radio signals to reach Earth without being lost in the background noise.

There were other theories, of course.  Some said that no aliens existed, that the human race – created in the image of God – was the sole form of intelligent life in the cosmos.  Others said that the aliens had simply failed to break through the technological barrier to developing high technology and eventually heading out to the stars.  Still others said that there was no means of travelling faster-than-light, sharply limiting a race’s ability to colonise other stars, or that races evolved beyond the need for colonisation sooner rather than later.  And some speculated that the first alien race to develop was stamping out other alien races before they could become a threat.  It was the theory that kept a handful of SETI experts awake at night.  The human race could not survive if any alien race arrived intending to exterminate the human race.

And then there was the final theory.  The aliens intended to allow Earth to develop at its own pace, preventing any of their people from visiting Earth and contaminating the native culture – and ensuring that no signs of their presence reached Earth before the human race was ready to welcome the aliens.  He looked over towards a small crowd at one end of the massive space, the Witnesses.  They believed that the aliens weren’t just friendly; they believed that the aliens had actively interfered to help shape human development and were – effectively – gods, the creators of the human race.  It said something about the degree of credulity in humanity’s nature that – for an internet meme that had existed slightly less than five days – they already had hundreds of thousands of followers.  They were ready to welcome humanity’s patrons – to borrow a term from David Brin – but Jason was much less sure of their grounds.  There was a reason ‘patron’ was the root of ‘patronise.’  The world-famous science-fiction writer had understood that perfectly.  It was unlikely that the Witnesses shared his understanding.

“Ten minutes,” the loudspeaker boomed.  “They’re coming!”

Part of Jason’s mind braced for disappointment.  He’d read stories where the world had been hoaxed into believing that the aliens were about to land, for all kinds of motives.  SETI had wanted to check and recheck the data before making any kind of public statement, if only to avoid being turned into a laughing stock by being hoaxed again.  But now…the crowds around him seemed to share his anticipation as the alien craft slowly came into view, followed by a trio of F-22 Raptors.  Rumours on the internet suggested that the fighter jets were unarmed, merely providing a deterrent to any media aircraft that might fly alarmingly close to the alien craft.  The aliens, as far as SETI was aware, hadn’t offered any objection to the military escort.  Indeed, they seemed to be bending over backwards to avoid panicking the inhabitants of planet Earth.  That, the general consensus of SETI agreed, was a very good sign.  The aliens didn’t have to be kind to the primitive humans, who were staring at their craft as the Aztecs or Incas must have stared at the sailing ships that had brought the Europeans to the New World.  It had been a sight beyond their comprehension.

The media had speculated loudly on what an alien landing craft might look like.  They’d pulled up hundreds of fanciful designs from science-fiction, ranging from flying saucers to the Starship Voyager.  The alien craft was almost a disappointment; it was little larger than a large truck, an ugly craft shaped almost like a brick.  Two glowing lights appeared at the stern as the craft tilted over New York and started to slow to a hover, flying without the aid of wings or rotor blades.  The human race had built far larger aircraft, even heavy-lift helicopters used by the military, but none of them could hope to reach orbit.  For all of its ungainly bulk, the alien craft seemed to float through the air with the greatest of ease.  The aliens had certainly not specified that they needed a runway long enough to take the Space Shuttle.

A dull whine, just high-pitched enough to be irritating, echoed over New York as the alien craft sank gracefully towards the ground.  Dogs started howling and scrambling away as the sound tore into their far more sensitive ears.  The band played louder as the alien craft touched down, the whine fading away to a duller note before it finally vanished.  There was a dull clunk as the alien craft reached the ground, suggesting that their shuttle, for all its tiny size, was actually quite heavy.  Jason felt excitement spinning through his mind.  The complete lack of wings on the shuttle suggested that the aliens could control gravity itself; they might even be able to produce an antigravity generator.  It would revolutionise spaceflight if the human race mastered the same technology.  The bottleneck had always been lifting a cargo out of the Earth’s gravity well, a task requiring extremely powerful boosters which had to be capable of boosting the mass of their fuel into space along with the cargo in the nose cone.  If the aliens taught humanity how to develop antigravity...nothing, absolutely nothing in the entire world was too high a price.

The crowds surged against the lines of policemen holding them back from the alien craft.  On the surface, there was something oddly mundane about the alien ship, despite its origins.  A second whine echoed through the air briefly as a hatch began to open, rising up like an aircraft hatch and revealing an illuminated interior.  The aliens seemed to like similar lighting to the human race.  And then a figure began to step out into the bright sunlight…

Jason stared, forgetting everything, but the alien.  Even the band had stopped attempting to play a suitable tune for the first meeting of humans and aliens.  And as soon as he saw the alien, he knew that it was no hoax.  The alien was very alien.  The similarities between his – or her; there was no way to tell – physical form and the human form only added to the sense of unreality.  It was almost surreal.  The silence grew longer, as if no one – human or alien – dared to break it.

***

Jayne Rowling watched from the press pool as the alien stepped out into the light.  She’d been trained to observe and report on what was actually happening – as opposed to what people thought was actually happening – and even as part of her mind gibbered in shock, the rest of her focused on the monumental event in front of her.  The alien was humanoid, yet utterly inhuman.  Her mind couldn’t quite process the surreal scene in front of her.

Television producers had faced inevitable logistical problems when creating aliens for the hundreds of science-fiction shows produced for the domestic and international markets.  An utterly inhuman alien was hard – and expensive – to produce.  Mr Spock had been little more than pointed ears and tinted skin, a tribute to the skill of the actor who’d played him.  No matter how optimistic or pessimistic the TV serial, the vast majority of the aliens had been almost human.  Even Babylon 5 had been forced to use humanoid actors for most of its vast array of alien life.  The number of non-humanoid aliens could be counted on the fingers of two hands.

The alien was humanoid, but there the resemblance ended.  He – she decided to think of the alien as a male until proven wrong – was tall, standing almost two meters in height.  His skin was a mass of green scales, almost like a snake’s skin, which seemed to move and flex over his weirdly-angular legs.  No human could have worn such a costume; there simply wasn't room for human legs.  The alien’s legs appeared weak, almost spidery, flexing oddly as he moved forward, down the ramp and onto the soil of Earth.  His eyes reminded her of the pet hamster she’d owned as a kid, but the alien’s eyes were a dark red, almost seeming to glow.  He moved with a gait that almost suggested a bird, hopping forward on the ground and preparing to peck seeds up in its beak.

He wore a white tunic that covered his chest and upper arms, leaving his legs bare for human inspection.  There were no decorations, apart from a single glowing device just below his inhumanly thin neck.  His mouth opened into what might have been intended as a smile, but it was immediately clear that his mouth was nowhere near as flexible as any human mouth.  Behind the half-smile, sharp white teeth glittered in the sunlight, suggesting that the alien was used to eating meat – perhaps even suggesting that they were as omnivorous as the human race.  That made sense, according to the science-fiction writers who had been writing blogs about their creations and how aliens might exist in real life.  The human race was the most adaptive species on Earth – with the possible exception of the cockroach – and it was only logical that any other intelligent race would be equally adaptable.  She doubted that the aliens would possess superpowers – unlike Superman and other comic-book aliens – and it was quite possible that they were, on average, just as intelligent as the average human.

A second alien appeared at the hatch, followed by a third.  Jayne almost winced as they inched their way down the ramp and onto the soil of Earth, watching their legs bend and flex in a manner that would have resulted in broken bones if any human attempted to copy their mannerisms.  She found herself glancing at their chests, wondering if the slight bulges she could see under their tunics were breasts, suggesting that the aliens were actually female, before abandoning that train of thought.  There was no way to know for sure.  Human societies tended to be male-dominated – men were, on average, stronger than women – but the aliens might be female-dominated, or they might have more than just two sexes.  There were just so many possibilities.

The first alien stopped in front of the small welcoming committee.  Jayne had heard reports that the United Nations had practically turned into a war zone over who should greet the aliens first.  There had even been a suggestion that the Pope should join the greeting party, a suggestion that had been howled down by representatives from almost every other religion on Earth.  Some of the Witnesses – she could see them at the far edge of the field – had suggested that the aliens would inform the human race that their religions were nothing more than nonsense, dreamed up by men who had wanted power over their fellow men.  She could just imagine the social upheaval that would be caused by the aliens discrediting the world’s major religions.

In the end, seven people had been chosen to greet the aliens first.  The Secretary-General of the United Nations had taken the lead as the only person with even a tenuous claim to represent the entire human race.  Beside him, Mayor Hundred had bullied his way onto the greeting committee by fair means and foul, having waged a skilful media campaign that had won the support of New York’s population and the backing of the Federal Government.  A representative from the European Union, the Russian-dominated Commonwealth of Independent States, the African Union, the Organization of American States and the South Asian Association for Regional Cooperation completed the welcoming committee.  The Arab League had wanted to put forward their own representative, but infighting over which country should have the honour of sending the representative and vigorous opposition from Israel had defeated the proposal.

The Secretary-General of the United Nations, Kareem Choudhury of India, stepped forward.  He was an elderly man with a neat goatee, wearing a simple black suit; an experienced diplomat holding down a job that required nothing, but diplomacy.  Jayne was familiar with the fears that the UN was somehow a supranational organisation that was bent on subverting freedom and democracy, yet common sense proved that the UN was nothing more than a talking shop, a forum to air grievances and issue largely-unheeded resolutions that were rarely enforced by concentrated military action.  And without force backing up the resolutions – and the absence of will to use military force – the UN was useless.  It was something that galled those who believed in international development even as they sought to raise more and more money for development plans that went nowhere.

“In the name of the United Nations of Earth,” Choudhury said, very calmly, “I welcome you to our world.”

The glowing device on the alien’s chest sparkled as the alien spoke, his mouth moving in odd twitches that suggested that the alien couldn’t quite form human words.  Jayne had seen portable translators before, but she’d never been very impressed with even the best of them, not when local dialects and even basic structure could produce widely disparate translations that made little sense.  But it stood to reason that the aliens would have better translation technology and their messages had proven that they could speak English.  Conspiracy theorists had had fun coming up with all kinds of theories – the one about the government having known about the aliens since Roswell was very popular – but Jayne suspected that the real explanation was simpler.  The human race had been beaming transmissions into space for over a century and most of those transmissions would have been in English.  And some of them had even been intended to teach English.

“I am Ambassador Haffash of the Galactic Federation,” the alien said.  His voice was flat, almost – but not quite – atonal.  There were few hints of emotion, something that puzzled Jayne until she realised that the alien computers were almost certainly checking, rechecking and updating their language databanks.  The alien sounded…pleased?  It was impossible to tell for sure.  “In the name of the association of intelligent beings that have formed our unity, I welcome the human race into the galactic community.  May you find friends and cousins among the stars, as so many have done before you.”

The crowd burst into cheers.  Jayne watched as the alien turned and waved at the crowd, one oddly-jointed hand passing through the air.  Just how closely had they studied humanity, Jayne wondered, to know what that gesture meant?

Once the remaining members of the welcome committee had greeted the alien – the other two aliens were not introduced, something that puzzled Jayne – the Secretary-General of the United Nations invited the aliens to follow him into the UN Building.  The aliens, who were still looking at the crowd, turned and followed, their necks twisting oddly in a way that would have proven fatal to any human neck.  As they passed the press pool – the reporters, for once, were silent, staring at the aliens in front of them – Jayne caught a whiff of scent from one of the aliens.  He smelled hot and spicy, yet something about the scent made her hair stand on end.  She told herself that she was imagining it.  Who expected an alien to smell pleasant?

Puzzled, uneasy despite herself, she followed the aliens into the UN Building.

Chapter Five

New York

USA, Day 5

The wallflowers – the collection of aides, secretaries and mistresses that followed their masters everywhere – stood pressed against the walls of the General Assembly Hall, watching their political masters from a distance.  They were joined by the Ambassadors to the United Nations, who had been displaced by their respective Heads of State, and hundreds of unarmed security staff, who universally shared a horror at the possible danger to their charges and their outrage at being ordered to come unarmed.  Toby understood their fears, but there was little choice.  The last thing anyone needed was an incident when the Ambassador from the Galactic Federation was shot dead on Earth.  It was the kind of event that tended to start wars.

He looked around the room, and then fixed his gaze on the alien Ambassador.  The General Assembly Hall had a seating capacity of 1800 and it was full to bursting, creating a fire risk that had – inevitably – added to the fears of the security officers.  Above the podium, the UN emblem glittered in the light, a reminder of the hopes of those who had founded the UN – hopes that had been brutally dashed by reality, just like the League of Nations before the Second World War.  The alien didn't seem impressed, but it was impossible to read the alien face.  For all they knew, an alien ‘smile’ could really be a frown.  There was no reason why an alien race had to share the same visual cues as an American-born human.

The Secretary-General returned to his place in the Assembly as the alien slowly mounted the podium.  It was clear that they’d studied the UN; the alien escorts – or maybe they were aides, or security personnel – didn't show any sign of surprise or confusion.  Toby risked a quick glance at his palmtop and wasn't too surprised to see that the latest electronic detection gear developed by the NSA couldn't tell if the aliens were exchanging secret messages or not.  The chances were that the Galactics would possess technology centuries beyond human science, although perhaps not beyond imagination.  One resource the human race most definitely possessed was years of science-fiction writing to study for ideas and inspirations.

Just for a moment, Toby caught the bright red eyes of the alien Ambassador.  They were almost hypnotic, seeming to draw him towards the alien and yet refuse to reveal anything about the alien’s motives, or purpose in visiting Earth.  The alien briefly revealed his sharp teeth and Toby shivered.  There was no way to avoid the conclusion that the alien was a predator.  They would have been on top of the food chain on their planet, just as humanity sat at the top of Earth’s food chain.  And anyone capable of getting into space would be intelligent, powerful – and willing to use that power in their own interests.  Who knew what the Galactics really had in mind for humanity?

It wasn't uncommon for speeches at the UN to be interrupted with shouts and walk-outs.  Only a few years ago, a lengthy speech by an Iranian delegate claiming that the Holocaust had never taken place had resulted in a mass walk-out by Western delegates.  Toby had a feeling that no one would walk out of this speech, no matter what the aliens said.  The CIA’s analysts had wondered if the alien desire to meet with humanity’s leaders represented a determination to talk to whoever really made the decisions on Earth, or was a subtle slap at Earth’s population.  Ambassadors were expendable; they could be ordered home, their careers destroyed, without starting a war.  It was much harder to avoid a diplomatic incident if a Head of State had started it.  And the alien, as exotic as he was, was only a mere Ambassador.  But God only knew how the Galactic Federation would respond to any mistreatment of their representatives.  They might not be as willing as President Carter to allow an insult to go unpunished...and they had seventeen starships orbiting the Earth, a silent reminder of their power.

Silence fell as the alien opened his mouth.  The voder – it couldn't be anything, but a translator and speaker – started to blink as the alien spoke.  There had been no way to slip a microphone near the podium without alerting the UN’s security force, but some of the cameras at the rear of the chamber were actually designed and operated by NSA technicians.  If they were lucky, they might pick up samples of the alien language and start humanity on the long road towards deciphering their words.  Being dependent upon alien translators was a dangerously insecure position.

“In the name of the Galactic Federation, thank you for welcoming us to your world,” he said.  The voice seemed to becoming more natural as the voder – there had to be a hell of a translation program buried within the small device – adapted to Earth’s conditions.  “It is always a delight to encounter another intelligent race.  There are many hundreds of races within the Federation, yet they all add something unique to the melange of cultures shared by the sentient races of the galaxy.  You have wondered if you are truly alone in the universe.  Know now that you are far from alone.  The stars wait for you.”

There was a long pause.  “The translation program we have developed is adaptive, but it can make mistakes,” the Ambassador added.  “We apologise for any confusion caused by the translation.  We will not take offense if you wish clarification of any matters raised during this meeting and we hope that you will extend us the same courtesy.  The Federation has extensive experience in contacting new races and welcoming them into the fold, but each race poses its own problems which require individual solutions.  We look forward to the day when your race joins us in the endless quest to seek out new worlds and civilisations, boldly going into the endless unknown.”

Toby thought fast.  The aliens had admitted a weakness, which was odd.  There were human cultures that saw admitting weakness as somehow intolerable, as if it hurt their pride to be thought less than perfect.  And yet part of him admired the aliens for being willing to admit that they were far from all-powerful.  Or...had they warned of translation errors to allow them to claim a mistranslation if humanity took offense at their words?  He looked up at the unreadable red eyes and shivered.  It was easy to believe in friendly aliens in the abstract, but in person...there was something about the Galactics that alerted every ancient sense in his mind.  The aliens were dangerous.

And their words sounded suspiciously like Star Trek’s central credo...

“There are two ways in which we can encounter a new world of friends,” the Ambassador said.  He had the attention of the entire chamber.  Everyone was paying attention to his words, calculating how they offered advantages and threats to their particular nation.  No matter how anyone looked at it, the aliens would change the entire world.  Nothing before – not Korea, not Iraq – had ever matched the sheer significance of First Contact.  The world would never be the same again.  “We can encounter them in space, when they have developed starships to cross the gulfs of space and reach worlds that belong to the Galactic Federation.  They have no difficulty in being integrated into the Federation, if that is their choice.  The Federation has never had to force a member to join.  All join willingly, convinced of the benefits of membership.  Access to our vast database of knowledge about the galaxy, about the hundreds of races that flower out into space, is the least of it.

“Or we can discover them before they make the climb into space.”

There was a second pause, more chilling than the first.  “In normal cases, a world is left to develop on its own until its natives start building starships for themselves.  We have discovered that contact between an advanced civilisation and a primitive race, one unaware of atoms, or that their planets orbit stars, is utterly devastating for the primitive race.  Everything they might have brought to the Galactic Federation – knowledge they might have developed, understandings they might have shaped, contributions to art and crafts...everything is lost forever.  They become, at best, shadows of what they might have become.

“Your race has seen a similar process, although on a much smaller scale.  Contact between the Native Americans, or Australian Aborigines, and the Europeans proved devastating for the weaker side.  They were crippled by disease, by technology and – above all – by a worldview they could not match.  The Galactic Federation has long determined that all contact between the advanced civilisations that make up the Federation and the primitive races that have not yet discovered the building blocks of science and technology is to be forbidden.  This is the most powerful edict of our culture.  We do not contact races below a certain level of technology.

“In rare cases, we discover a race that has developed a level of technology without advancing into space, or is on the verge of destroying itself with technology that it has not yet developed the maturity to handle safely.  In such cases, it is the responsibility of the discoverers to attempt to guide the discovered through the bottlenecks that can destroy an entire race, removing its potential from the galaxy forever.  Your race is unusual in that it has both failed to move into space in any meaningful way and has failed, as a society, to develop the maturity that would allow you to avoid being destroyed by your own technology.  We have observed you long enough to know that the only thing that prevented you from destroying yourselves before we made contact was sheer luck.

“There is much we do not understand about your race.  You are lucky enough to live in one of the most blessed solar systems in the galaxy, yet you have been almost childishly lax about moving into space.  You could have started mining asteroids and the gas giants and placing your heavy industries in space, but instead you choose to continue polluting your planet and poisoning your environment.  We will show you models that will illustrate the true danger of the situation you are facing.  Total environmental collapse may well be possible within decades.  You have even failed to produce defences in case of a natural disaster from space; there are asteroids orbiting near your world that may eventually intersect with your planet, slamming into it with a force that would shake your world.

“Put bluntly, your race is isolated on a single vulnerable world.  You have been risking extinction for centuries...and not just through natural disasters or your polluting of your own environment.  You pose a very real threat to yourselves.

“By the time most races reach your level of technology, they have developed governing systems that span most of their homeworld’s surface.  They develop political systems that allow them to concentrate their efforts on reaching into space and ensuring their own survival.  You have chosen to fragment your world into many disparate countries, each one scrabbling with its neighbours; the rich choosing to exploit the poor, the strong choosing to oppress the weak.  You fight wars over religion, over skin colour; in over half of your countries, you allow your females to be brutalised by an oppressive male patriarchy that weakens their ability to contribute to the whole.  Your governments have shown a sickening hypocrisy in allowing short-term national gains at the expense of long-term planetary development.  Your global system has been trending towards disaster – an event that would shatter the foundations of your world – for the last four decades.  Our models predict disaster within the next ten years, an upheaval of such power that it would dramatically reduce your population and destroy your governments.”

The Ambassador seemed to pause for a long moment.  He was lecturing the Assembly, not debating with them, yet no one seemed inclined to object.  Toby suspected that he understood; the alien, isolated from global politics, might be seen as a neutral observer rather than someone pushing a view for their own purposes.  Or perhaps they were reluctant to risk the alien’s ire.  If half of the speculated benefits from joining the Federation happened to materialise, angering the aliens could result in the benefits to their countries being lost – permanently.

“There are those among us who wonder if your race is...sick,” the Ambassador said.  “Not seventy of your years ago, one of your nation-states attempted to exterminate millions of humans because of their religion, or ethnic origin, or merely because they wanted living space.  The survivals of that terrible period have gone on to oppress others, who in turn have chosen to oppress themselves rather than learning to live with their fellow humans.  Your race has produced some of the most evil regimes in the galaxy and yet many of your worst acts come from absent-mindedness rather than outright evil.  There are even some amongst us who have considered establishing a permanent blockade of your world, fearful that you carry a mental disease that would spread into the galaxy.  You are xenophobic to a degree we find alarming and almost unbelievable.  How will you act if unleashed upon the universe?

“And if left to your own devices, you will cripple yourselves – perhaps even destroy yourselves – within decades.

“The Galactic Federation has made the decision to try to help you.  We will provide you with technologies that you lack – technologies you could have developed for yourselves, had you chosen to spend the effort you spent on developing weapons on developing ways to improve your lives instead.  We will assist you in escaping the bottleneck that threatens your race; we will guide you towards a point where you will be mature enough to enter the Galactic Federation without posing a threat to your cousins among the stars.  Over the next few weeks and months, we will enter into talks with your political and economical leaders that will attempt to ensure that the level of disruption caused by our technology – our mere presence – is kept to a minimum.  But we must also issue one word of warning.

“Every race must decide – for itself – if it wishes to grow into a mature race, or fall backwards into barbarism.  We cannot make that choice for you.  The contact between the Galactic Federation and Earth may well result in political and social disaster for your race.  And if that happens, we will watch without interfering.  You must choose for yourselves if you wish to develop the ability to survive and reach into space – foresight, understanding and tolerance – or if you want to wallow in barbarism.  It will be your choice.

“We do not come to bring advantage to one nation-state, or an alliance of nation-states, over the other nation-states on your world.  We regard your political fragmentation as one of the prime causes of your headlong rush towards disaster and we will endeavour to avoid worsening the situation.  Our gifts will be distributed carefully, with the focus on preventing disaster.  Do not seek to misuse our gifts, or exploit us for your national ends.  We will not tolerate such abuse of our presence.”

The Ambassador gave the Assembly one of his strange near-smiles and then stepped down from the podium.  Toby watched as the Secretary-General struggled to find something to say, even as the aliens swept out towards the exit and the crowds outside.  The political leaders were starting to chatter nervously, as if they didn't quite believe what they’d heard – or as if they feared the effect on their populations.  Toby knew that almost everyone in the USA would be watching as the aliens departed, glued to their televisions or computers.  The other modern states would have the same problem; even China or Russia, which had powerful tools to censor international media broadcasts, would still have to confront the fact that much of their population would know exactly what the aliens had said.

Toby found himself reeling as the last alien exited the chamber – and the other wallflowers were clearly just as stunned.  The alien Ambassador had lectured the Heads of State of almost every nation in the world as if they were nothing more than children...and their political masters had just accepted it.  Shock would turn to anger soon enough, Toby expected, except everyone would fear losing access to the technology the Galactics had promised.  And much of what the aliens had said was true.  The human race could have spent the past fifty years developing the solar system.  It might have earned humanity a little more respect.

He glanced down at his palmtop.  Over the last two decades, political advisors and spin doctors had developed powerful tools to monitor public opinion, knowing that the winner of any election would be the politician who trimmed his sails to ride the winds of public feeling.  Already, mere minutes after the aliens had returned to their craft, the internet was buzzing with anger and an almost feverish excitement.  The aliens hadn't pulled any punches – and neither were the commenters on the internet.  They were making their opinions known...and governments were getting the brunt of their anger.  The politicians who had turned NASA into yet another pork barrel for the distribution of political largess were taking the worst of it, but almost every political leader was being hammered.  Toby knew that people were braver in cyberspace, where opinions and sentiment didn't always blur over into the real world, yet it was hard to escape the feeling that the alien speech was about to set off a political earthquake.  Entire governments could fall within the next few days.

The President was already being escorted out of the chamber by his security team, his face pale and drawn.  He wasn't the only Head of State to look shocked.  The Chinese Premier, famous for his stereotypical inscrutability, looked as if he had been drinking.  How would China’s population – increasingly angry at the old men who ran the country according to their version of communism – react to the alien speech?

And there were countries that had no tradition of peaceful changes in government...

Toby shook his head, remembering the brief moment when he’d glanced into the bright red eyes.  The Galactics had crafted their speech very neatly, aiming it at the wider human population.  And no one would want to be left out of the bounty they offered to the human race.  After today, the Galactics would be embraced by most of the world.  Toby wondered, as he rose to his feet to meet up with the President in a secure location, if he was the only one to be worried by their words.

He couldn't escape the impression he’d felt when he’d met the alien eyes.  The Galactics were predators.  And what did that mean for Earth?

Chapter Six

Near Mannington, Virginia/New York

USA, Day 6

The Colonel disapproved of TV dinners.  In his opinion, one of the many reasons for the decline in American communities was the ability to park the entire family in front of the television while stuffing their faces with some mass-produced foodstuff that – just maybe – bore a passing resemblance to food.  He’d eaten MREs in the Gulf that had tasted better than some of the slop served up in brightly-packaged containers; it stunned him that people could actually buy and like the quasi-food.  But then they knew no better.  The decline in home cooking had convinced an entire generation that fast food was actually edible.

But no one was going to miss the alien landing.  Sure, there was never any end to the tasks on the farm, yet he knew better than to insist that everyone worked during the single most significant event in all of human history.  One military rule that applied to civilian life was simple; never – ever – give an order you know won’t be obeyed.  It weakens respect for commanders among their subordinates.  And besides, the Colonel wasn't going to miss the landing himself.

As always, the media had surrounded the incident site with thousands of cameras.  The raw footage was, in many ways, more affecting than the edited footage that would probably be streaming onto the internet by the end of the day.  He studied the alien craft with considerable interest, feeling an odd kinship with the ship’s designers.  It was impossible to escape the feeling that the boxy design of the craft – and a total absence of frills – indicated that it had been designed by or for the military.  The aliens seemed to have a military mindset in both their starships and their smaller craft.  And then there was the aliens themselves.  There was something about them that made it impossible to believe that they were faked.  Their movements were utterly inhuman, their bodily proportions chillingly different.  They were real.

He listened to the alien speech in numb disbelief.  The Colonel had never had any time for the UN, even though he’d never embraced some of the wilder conspiracy theories about the UN’s role in the world.  And yet watching the alien lecture the world leaders – including the President – made his blood boil.  Who were they to come and tell humanity how they should take care of themselves?  The Colonel had grown up in a tradition of self-reliance, of knowing that the government couldn’t be relied upon to take care of oneself; the aliens seemed almost to be suggesting that they were here to take over – for humanity’s own good – and expected the human race to accept without demur.  They were almost intergalactic social workers.

The thought made him scowl.  His children had been deployed overseas, working near non-governmental organisations that tried to improve the lives of the poor and hungry in countries that owed much of their misfortunes to their own governments.  Very few of the NGOs had succeeded in having a lasting effect; they didn’t understand the locals, they didn’t realise that their interventions could have negative effects as well as positive – and they often made their plans without any awareness of local realities.  The thought that Earth might be a Third World state by Galactic standards shocked him, although some of the alien comments were alarmingly valid.  One of the many scenarios they’d discussed for disaster had been an asteroid impact.  No one had any faith in NASA’s ability to deflect an asteroid from Earth.

He watched as the aliens turned and left the chamber, allowing CNN to switch to yet another of its endless stable of talking heads.  They’d been interviewing experts ever since the alien starships had been detected, experts who often knew little more than the interviewers.  The Colonel suspected that they would have no trouble finding experts to confirm or deny the alien claims, depending upon their ideological backgrounds.  It was easy to see how vested interests might manipulate the data to ensure that it supported their conclusions, suggesting a universal trait of the human race.  What was the truth when vast amounts of money were at stake?

“Well,” he said, finally.  “That’s us told.”

The sitting room was packed, loaded with his friends, family and workers.  They’d all watched the show, not daring to speak for fear that they might miss something.  On the screen, a talking head was discussing the dangers of global warming, something the Colonel knew to have been disproved scientifically – a fact that escaped the governments meddlers who thought that a degree and a lofty title allowed them to dictate to America’s farmers.  In fact, the Earth was actually getting slightly cooler, a point that portended other global changes.  The aliens had been right to point out, in effect, that the human race had all of its eggs in one basket.  A single worldwide disaster could exterminate the human race.

He stood up.  There would be time to return to the television – or the computer – later.  For the moment, he needed time to digest what he’d seen and try to think of what it meant for him personally.  At least the aliens hadn’t launched an immediate attack on Earth; he’d once watched Mars Attacks with Mary and the seemingly-psychotic aliens had declared war by slaughtering the Senate.  The cynic in him told the Colonel that they’d probably aided the human war effort.  It seemed that there would be no immediate disaster from space.

“Time to get back to work,” he said.  The small collection of food could be cleared up later, once they’d dealt with the endless series of chores that had to be done on the farm.  “We can talk about it at teatime.”

With that, he walked out of the door and onto the farm.  There was much work to be done.

***

Jeannette McGreevy, ever since she had grown old enough to understand what politics actually was, had been consumed with a single thought.  She would be President one day.  It had been an ambition actually encouraged by her father and her grandfather, who had served in politics for so long that the clan could no longer consider a life outside Washington.  They might not be as famous as the Kennedy Family, or the Bush Family, or even the Clinton Family, but that worked in her favour.  The family had far fewer skeletons in its closet than any of the more famous clans, something that had helped ensure that only the Bush Family could boast two Presidents in their line.   Jeannette intended to be the first of her clan to sit in the Oval Office and be addressed as Madam President.

She smiled to herself as she walked towards the alien chambers.  Her appearance had been – like everything else – carefully calculated for maximum effect.  She wore a stiff suit, one that made her look businesslike, and had her hair tied up in a tight bun.  Margaret Thatcher, one of the few women to wield supreme power, had served as her idol.  A President had to appear impassive and approachable, capable and yet vulnerable.   It wouldn’t be long until the next election cycle, when she would attempt to knock President Hollinger off the ticket and run for President herself.  Her aides had already started the long process of securing contributions and support prior to the nominations.  The family’s long service in Washington gave them a network of allies and clients and she had no intention of wasting them.  She would be President, the first female President in America’s history.  No one would ever forget her name.

Her aides buzzed around her, each one competing to provide her with the latest update from her corps of political monitoring personnel.  The winner in any political campaign would be the one who understood the national trends in public opinion and Jeannette had no intention of being behind the curve.  Reaction seemed to be mixed, but there was a general trend towards an admiration for the Galactic Federation – and a drop in support for the government.  Even those who might be counted upon to be patriotic seemed inclined to condemn the government – a condemnation that would fall on the head of the sitting President, even if the trends they condemned had started long before his administration.  Jeannette listened with a practiced ear as the results of the latest polls were shoved in front of her, before dismissing her staff.  She would make the walk to the alien chambers alone.  As always, it was a carefully planned political gesture; the aliens had walked into the heart of human society without fear and she intended to visit them just as openly.

The aliens had requested a set of chambers within the UN complex for their personnel use and the UN had scurried to comply.  Jeannette knew that every other ambassador, special representative and even some of the world leaders still in New York would be scurrying to secure a private interview with the aliens.  The promise of alien technology and a change in the global balance of power was irresistibly attractive.  Jeannette knew that the nations with the least to lose – debtor nations that felt as if they were exploited by the West, fairly or unfairly – would be the ones most inclined to buy into the promise of a brave new world order.  At worst, they would be no worse off than they already were…and they would have the satisfaction of seeing their tormentors brought down to the same level.

A UN security guard waved her through into an antechamber, where she encountered what had to be an alien version of a security guard.  The alien waved a device over her body, checked the results and – apparently satisfied – allowed her to proceed into the next chamber, where the alien Ambassador rose to greet her.  Up close, the alien was utterly inhuman; his eerie body moved in a manner that sent chills down her spine.  She reminded herself firmly that this was another intelligent being and – more importantly – had the backing of seventeen starships in orbit.  The aliens could not be taken lightly.

“Thank you for receiving me,” she said, as she took the chair the alien indicated.  He seemed to show no inclination to sit down at first, and then perched himself on a stool.  Jeannette wondered if it was a deliberate sign – either a gesture of respect or a deliberate slur – before realising that the alien wouldn’t find a human chair very comfortable.  “It is my hope that we can proceed together towards a mutually-satisfying dialogue that will respect the needs and inclinations of both our peoples.”

The aliens had to know that she could only speak for the United States – no one could really claim to speak for the world – but they’d allowed her to be the first to visit their chambers for a series of private discussions.  That had to mean something, she told herself; the aliens talked a good game, but if they wanted to work with the human race they’d have to work with the most powerful nations on the planet.  Jeannette was more than familiar with the high ideals and lofty blether of politics – and how rarely the words of political leaders translated into any form of great and lasting change.

“We welcome you,” the alien said, in a whispery tone.  “There is much we must discuss.”

Jeannette leaned forward, careful to keep her face impassive.  There was no way of reading the alien’s body language, but the aliens might be capable of reading human body language.  They’d been intercepting transmissions for years and many of those transmissions would have been educational, intended to teach a human audience about everything from the economy to basic biology.  They might have even determined how to read human expressions, or monitor internal physical reactions that could indicate if a person was trying to lie…there was just no way to know the limits of their capabilities.

“Of course,” she said.  “I would be very interested in hearing what you have to say.”

***

“They’re offering us what?”

Toby sat in one corner of Air Force One’s Presidential Lounge, listening carefully as the President, Jeannette McGreevy and Albert Demeter, the Director of the CIA, discussed the alien’s offer.  The Vice President’s face could be seen on one of the screens; he’d been told to remain in a secret underground bunker until they knew for sure that the Galactics came in peace.  General Elliot Thomas should have been included, but he’d had an urgent appointment elsewhere.

“They’re offering us ten fusion power units,” McGreevy said.  Her hawkish face – Toby distrusted her and had ever since she’d tried to bribe him away from the President – was flushed with excitement.  “According to the figures they’re offering, they would be able to power the entire nation alone, without the need for any fission power plants, wind farms or any other means of producing power.  They’re clean and environmentally friendly…”

The President twitched.  Bare hours after the alien speech, the environmental lobby was already pressing their political representatives to start reducing pollution sharply – never mind the fact that most global production came from China and the Third World.  The price of rapid growth and the development of heavy industries was pollution, a price that dictatorial governments willingly paid to ensure that they became more independent of the free world.  No one knew for sure just how badly the USSR’s government had polluted Russia, but what had leaked into the public domain was horrifying.   The former USSR might be the most polluted country on Earth.

“They’ve also offered to start licensing certain items to our industrial firms,” McGreevy continued, seemingly unaware of the President’s concern.  Her ambitions were an open secret in Washington, but few were prepared to challenge her openly.  “From what they’ve offered us, we can produce advanced batteries that will allow us to become energy-independent of the Middle East, medicines that will allow us to cure most diseases and hundreds of other devices that will improve the quality of life all over the world.  And all they ask in exchange is some land.”

Toby frowned.  The aliens had asked for only one thing; a small area of territory within the Continental United States that they could make their own.  It wasn't an unreasonable request, but there were sticking points.  Galactic Federation law, which no one on Earth knew anything about, would govern the territory, effectively granting the aliens extraterritorial rights and freedom from American law.  It struck him that the Chinese must have felt just as stunned and offended after the Opium Wars, when the Westerners had demanded the right to create enclaves in China that were not responsible to Chinese authorities.

The aliens hadn’t threatened anyone.  They hadn’t pointed a gun to the government’s head and given them a choice between surrender or dying bravely.  What they’d done was far more subtle – and dangerous.  If the President refused to accept the alien technology – refusing to allow the aliens to establish an enclave on Earth – the United States would be cut out of the technological advances that would blossom all over Earth.  Toby knew that fusion power could change the world – and refusing to accept such a boon would be political suicide.  The President’s impeachment would be a foregone conclusion.

“Tell me something,” the Vice President said.  “Did they have anywhere in mind?”

“They said we could choose,” McGreevy said.  Toby knew that there would be an immediate political catfight over the location of the alien base.  Some Congressmen would want it for their states; others would fear the consequences of having the aliens so close to their constituents.  “They have a list of requirements, but none of them are particularly onerous.”

Toby glanced at the list.  The aliens wanted fresh water, a certain degree of isolation and an airport capable of taking human aircraft.  An old military base would serve as an ideal location, one that could be controlled.  After all, as soon as the aliens were established, the Witnesses would be on their way to picket the alien base and welcome the star gods to Earth.

“True,” the President agreed.  “Have they made the same offer to the other nations?”

“It’s impossible to tell,” the CIA Director admitted.  It was an open secret that the CIA – and every other intelligence agency in the world – spied on the UN.  “We had the room bugged, but something happened to the bugs – we have no independent record of what took place during any of the meetings.  I think we have to assume the worst.”

We don’t know what the iron bitch and the alien really said to one another, part of Toby’s mind added, silently.  McGreevy had refused to carry a recorder into the chamber, pointing out that the aliens might consider it an unfriendly act.  It was logical enough, even believable, but Toby suspected that it hadn’t been her only motive for refusing.  The woman was simply too ambitious to be trusted.

“I think that we can find a suitable patch of land,” the President said.  He looked around the small compartment.  Despite all of its mystique, Air Force One was still only a jumbo jet, with the limited carrying capacity of its fellows.  “And then we will have to see if their promises really come true.”

Toby scowled, thinking hard.  The Native Americans hadn’t just lost because of smallpox; they’d lost because they could never duplicate the technology owned and used by the Europeans.  Gunpowder had been a mystery to them until it had reached America and they’d never been able to develop their own industrial base.  And then the Europeans had simply waged war from a playbook far more advanced than any known to the local civilisations.

“Yes, Mr President,” he agreed.  He already knew who would be placed in charge of finding a suitable patch of ground.  At least they’d have the opportunity to monitor the aliens as they set up their base.  They needed data and what little data they had was patchy, almost impossible to fit into a greater picture.  “I’m sure that we can find something suitable.”

Chapter Seven

Nevada

USA, Day 12

The heat slapped Jason in the face as he scrambled out of the air-conditioned aircraft and down towards the tarmac far below.  He winced as his hands touched the railing; it felt hot enough to cook eggs, or burn exposed human flesh.  The sun beat down on them from high above, mocking the puny humans making their way off the plane and heading towards a handful of buses waiting at one end of the runway.  In the distance, the silvery towers of the alien base rose up against the skyline.

“Papers, please,” a policeman said.  There were a number of armed policemen waiting at the buses, carefully checking the papers carried by the visitors.  The alien base had already become a favoured destination for travellers – the curious, the worshipful and even the hostile – and the local police force had found itself overwhelmed as it struggled to try and keep the unwelcome guests from scrambling over the fence and slipping towards the alien base.  “I need to check your papers.”

Jason produced his ID – his SETI card, the letter that had invited him to the base and the security card he’d been issued by a government minder – and waited for the policeman to check it, cursing the sun under his breath.  The heat seemed to grow every stronger – sweat was trickling down his back – as he waited; it seemed like hours before the policeman finally returned his ID and motioned for him to enter the bus.  It was cool inside, thankfully; he stumbled to a seat and collapsed in front of one of the windows.  He’d never faced such heat in his life.

The bus lurched into life and started driving down a road towards the alien base.  It had been constructed near a former USAF base for heavy-lift aircraft, allowing the Federal Government a high degree of control over the surrounding area.  The airfield was separated from the alien base by a network of fences and armed guards, but hardly anyone came to visit the former base unless one of the alien shuttles came to land on the field.  They reserved their attention for the aliens.  Nearly a week since the aliens had made their speech at the UN, they were still a source of endless fascination to the inhabitants of Earth.  Every alien base on the planet existed under the same state of friendly siege.

He winced as the bus neared the second layer of fencing.  There was a much stronger police presence there, along with a number of pro-alien and anti-alien protesters.  The policemen had separated the two sides when they started fighting, according to the driver, and left them sitting by the side of the road, their hands cuffed, until a police transport could arrive to take them away for processing.  God alone knew what would happen to them after that; Jason had known a couple of arrested protesters while he’d been at college and all they’d received had been a caution.  He looked away from one crying girl and up towards the alien base.  They built remarkably quickly.

Inside the fence, the alien base rose towards the sky.  Jason had seen videos of the aliens landing components on the ground and then assembling them into a single set of structures.  They’d moved with remarkable speed; some commenters on the television had pointed out that only a military unit could move with such speed and skill.  Their prefabricated structures looked oddly simplistic for a star-travelling society, although he did have to admit that the human race had no benchmark to measure the aliens against any other race.  Perhaps simple designs were a constant among the Galactics.

The base was composed of large angular structures, reminding him of the Pentagon to some extent, although the exact number of sides seemed to vary.  Their featureless metal walls seemed to glow of their own accord, although it could merely be a trick of the light.  He caught sight of the bus’s reflection as it parked beside one of the larger buildings and waited for the aliens to open the doors.  When the building finally opened up, Jason was among the first to scramble for the door.  There was no way he was going to pass up on the opportunity to see an alien base from the inside.

Inside, the alien base was something of a disappointment, although it was clear that it hadn't been built with humans in mind.  The proportions were odd to his eyes, casting a faint air of unreality over the entire scene; the lighting was bright, almost bright enough to hurt.  It smelled strange to his nose, something almost familiar, but he couldn't place his finger on the precise scent.  The aliens who had arrived to serve as silent escorts beckoned them forward whenever they started to fall behind, as if they were impatient to begin.  Jason found himself struggling to contain mounting excitement as they were finally shown into what was clearly a lecture hall.  It was large enough to hold almost two hundred humans.

He smiled as he took one of the seats and waited patiently.  The Galactics had offered to give information sessions to humans – and Jason, as the Discoverer, had found it easy to get a place.  He felt as if he didn't belong among the gathering of political leaders, businessmen and even a handful of religious representatives, but it hardly mattered.  How could he have refused the chance to actually ask questions of beings who had seen what awaited the human race in space?

***

An hour later, he was feeling much less optimistic.  The Galactics – they all seemed to be the same race, almost indistinguishable from one another – had opened with a brief session that repeated what they’d said at the UN, and then followed up with a series of blandishments that were long on optimism and short on detail.  They seemed happy to answer some questions in great detail, but other subjects seemed to draw imprecise answers – or even a simple refusal to answer at all.  It galled him as much as it puzzled him; they’d been promised answers, yet all they’d been given were bland statements that were devoid of any actual content.

Impatiently, he raised his hand.  The alien standing in front of them – wearing a black unmarked tunic and a hood that almost seemed to cover the alien face, but not the bright red eyes – looked at him, inviting him to speak.  SETI had primed him with any number of questions about the universe, yet so far he hadn't had an opportunity to ask any of them.  And now that he did, he wasn't sure if he wanted to ask after all.  The answers might not be forthcoming, or he might not want to know...

“You’ve told us that there are many forms of intelligent life among the stars,” he said, without preamble.  SETI had picked up on one thing about the Galactics that really didn't make sense.  For a multiracial society – in the truest possible sense – they seemed to all share the same racial origin.  “Why haven’t you introduced us to other forms of intelligent life?”

There was a pause as the alien appeared to consider.  Jason had once attended a political rally where the candidate had made the mistake of too-obviously depending upon prompts from his political manager, waiting in the wings and using a concealed earpiece to advise his master.  The alien seemed to be doing the same, although it was impossible to tell for sure.  They might be simply checking and rechecking the translation.  There had been a number of confusing utterances made by the aliens that had been blamed on translator error.

“Your race is unprepared to encounter more than one other form of intelligent life at present,” the alien said, finally.  They hadn't been given any names, or any other way of telling the aliens apart, something that bugged Jason and everyone else.  “You must understand that while there are many races that are humanoid, there are many others which have almost nothing in common with your race.  We were chosen to meet with you as we share a superficial similarity in form, but no biological similarity that might open the risk of a disease passing from an alien race to your own.”

Jason frowned.  He’d read The War of the Worlds in grade school and he’d been disappointed by the ending.  SETI, however, believed quite firmly that germs and viruses from another ecosystem would not be able to make the jump from alien into human – or vice versa.  The idea that the aliens might be so close to humanity as to allow cross-contamination seemed implausible – but then, alien life itself seemed implausible.  And SETI had never really had any data to prove or disprove its theories.

“That is a valid concern,” he acknowledged, after a moment.  “However, you have been reluctant to tell us anything about the other members of the Federation.  What kind of beings are they and when can we hope to meet them?”

There was a second pause.  “All such information is being restricted until your race develops the political and social maturity to handle such information,” the alien said.  The voice was as inhuman as ever, but Jason was sure that he detected a note of...irritation behind the cold dispassionate tone.  “We do not wish to cause political turmoil on your world that might upset the schedule for your entry into the Federation.”

One of the other visitors, a famous writer of military science-fiction, interrupted before Jason could say anything else.  “And you don’t want to tell us anything we could use against you,” he said.  “After all, we might not join the Federation.”

The alien looked at him, bright red eyes pulsing with an unreadable emotion.  “That is a concern,” he admitted.  “Your race’s xenophobia may lead you to challenge the Federation itself.”

“Now see here,” the writer said.  “That’s the bit I don’t get.  How can you possibly feel threatened by us?”

“When one race joins the Federation, it alters the pattern of Federation affairs – even if the race in question is harmless,” the alien said.  “Over the years, the Federation has never been threatened by another race, but we have learned to embrace change brought to us by new arrivals.  And yet your race has a level of xenophobia beyond anything displayed by any other known race.  We fear what you might do if introduced into our society.”

“Interesting,” the writer said.  “Does that mean that the Federation doesn't fight wars?”

This time, there was a very long pause.  “The Federation has not fought a war in generations,” the alien said.  “We do not need to fight when the benefits of cooperation are so clear to almost every race.  There is an unlimited bounty of resources out among the stars, enough for everyone.  Your race worries us because you may prove dangerous to others.”

The subject changed rapidly.  “As you are aware, we have already started distributing fusion generators to your nations,” the alien said.  “These generators produce enough power to handle all of your projected energy requirements for the next four decades before they will need to be refuelled.  By then, we expect that you will have made the switch to a fusion-based economy and started cleaning up your homeworld...”

Jason sighed and settled back in his chair.  At least they’d learned something about the aliens, if only that they were clearly reluctant to share certain kinds of data with Earth.  And that puzzled him.  He could have understood the aliens refusing to share designs for weapons – they would have made humanity much more dangerous – but surely information on the Federation’s member races couldn't be harmful.  The human race had had nearly two weeks to get used to the concept that they were surrounded by thousands of other intelligent races.  They surely could handle seeing visual depictions of other aliens; what were they - Cthulhu?

“I have another question,” the science-fiction writer said.  “How is the Federation actually governed?”

The alien seemed to hesitate again, before answering.  “The Federation is organised along democratic lines, with each race being given a vote in the government,” he said.  “Our government is run by consensus, with all proposed laws requiring a majority vote to pass into law.  Each race has internal autonomy within the Federation, but is expected to respect other races while in space...”

Jason jumped in, quickly.  “So there’s no shared sense of ethics...?”

Oddly, the alien didn't seem to mind the question.  “You must understand that different races have different ways of living,” he said.  “We have races that have one intelligent sex and one unintelligent sex.  Those races do not have any concept of equality between the sexes – and why should they?  Other races are telepathic, capable of operating a perfect democracy; they have little need for the complex governments designed by less capable societies.  There are races that breed in manners that would sicken you – and races that regard the human interest in sexual acts as barbaric.  Any attempt to force a united code of conduct on the Federation would result in disaster.”

He looked around the room.  “As I was saying, the importance of fusion power...”

***

Joseph Buckley had never hidden the fact that he’d served in the United States Navy during the early stages of the War on Terror, although he’d never seen anything reassembling real action.  Indeed, he’d been discharged from the Navy in 2010 and had turned his service experience into a series of best-selling science-fiction novels.  He’d invented his own science – a system involving a network of concentrated gravity streams, allowing transit from star to star – but he’d based the fictional space navies on his own experience in the USN.  The critics had loved them and he’d become moderately wealthy.  He’d even had a film planned out that had become stuck in development hell.

He’d been surprised when his application to visit one of the alien bases had been accepted so quickly.  A series of telephone calls to various other writers he knew had revealed that the aliens seemed to be biased in favour of fantasy and fantasy-SF writers, and against those who took the care to develop universes in line with understandable scientific concepts.  His puzzlement had deepened until he’d realised that a woman who wrote trashy romantic fiction about a young teenage girl who rode a giant unicorn from star to star would be unlikely to discover anything that might actually provide a clue to how the Galactics science actually worked.  Writers with strong military or scientific backgrounds had been barred; writers who made up their own crap had been prioritised.  One didn't have to be Fox Mulder to get a sense that something was badly wrong.

After the alien presentation was finally finished – the only thing saving it from terminal boredom had been the presence of the alien himself – Joseph remained behind after the aliens escorted most of the humans out of the room, saying that he had to go to the washroom.  The aliens accepted it, leaving him alone for long enough to allow him to take an unsupervised look around the chamber.  In a bad novel or TV series, he would have discovered the secret plans at once.  Instead, he found almost nothing.  The chamber seemed to be little more than a movie set.

Puzzled, he slipped out of the door, purposefully choosing to head in the wrong direction from the tour group.  Silently researching excuses in his head, he walked down the metal corridor, noting the strange proportions as he passed a handful of sealed doors.  An attempt to open them resulted in nothing, apart from a sore hand.  The alien locks seemed unbreakable – at least without revealing his presence.  He was on the verge of giving up when he discovered a door that was half-open and slipped through it before he had a chance to think.  The door slid closed behind him and he swore under his breath.  There was no way to retreat back to the relative safety of the tour group.

He paused – and realised, for the first time, that the slightly unpleasant scent that seemed to accompany the aliens was noticeably stronger.  The lighting, too, was different, seeming to blaze down on his bald skull.  Nervously, wishing he’d been able to carry his handgun into the alien base, he kept walking down and paused at the corner, peering around into a vast chamber.  Two aliens stood in front of him, their backs turned, studying a set of images that flickered in and out of existence in front of them.  Some of the images seemed to be human television channels, others appeared to be jumpy, as if they were carried by an amateur cameraman.  One of the aliens seemed to twist in a manner that reminded him of his grandfather’s pet snake, his sinuous neck snaking outwards towards a single set of displays.  They showed a handful of humans within what looked like an operating facility...

Joseph must have gasped, for both aliens spun around with startling speed.  It was already too late to retreat.  He was still inching backwards when something stuck him in the back and he crashed down to the cold metal floor.  The smell grew stronger as a third alien loomed over him, picked his paralysed body up with apparently effortless ease, and carried him down another corridor.  His mind, already spinning under the influence of whatever they’d shot him with, started to blur; he spun in and out of awareness.  A whole series of flickering images seemed to flash across his mind; an alien, looking down at him; something being extended towards his neck; a brief sense of almost intolerable pain...

And then everything seemed to fade away into nothingness.

***

Jason looked up as the science-fiction writer was escorted back into the chamber.  “I just got lost,” he mumbled, as if he were drunk.  “They pointed me back here.”

“Good for them,” one of the other visitors said.  “Isn’t it lucky that they were here to help?”

Chapter Eight

Fort Meade, Maryland

USA, Day 17

“If you’ll follow me, sir...?”

Toby followed the NSA staffer with some irritation.  The call to Fort Meade – the headquarters of the National Security Agency, responsible for intercepting enemy messages and protecting American communications security – had come out of the blue.  It was true that he was overdue for a routine security check and lecture, but his life had been really quite alarmingly busy.  Unlike many of the government staffers, Toby didn't hold security in absolute contempt, yet it could be irritating at times.  He was cleared for almost everything, after all.

He’d expected a pleasant office, like the ones that had been used on his prior visits.  Instead, he found himself led down a long corridor and into a sealed examination room.  He was still puzzling over this when the staffer vanished out of the door and the room sealed behind him with an audible thump.  A moment later, a stern voice came out of nowhere.

“Remove all clothing and personal possessions,” it ordered.

Toby bit down the comment that came to mind and slowly undressed.  Coming from a large family, he had few taboos about being naked in front of strangers – and besides, he could be reasonably sure that the NSA would only have male officers peering at him.  The thought wasn’t much reassurance as he removed his pants and boxers, dumping them all into the marked tray at one side of the room.  They would be held in storage for him once he returned from the bowels of Fort Meade, he assumed.  There was no way that they could charge him with anything, for the very simple reason that he hadn’t done anything.  It still made him feel slightly guilty.

A door hissed open at the other end of the room.  “Proceed through the door and lie down on the table,” the voice ordered.  “Lie on your back.”

The cold air wafting through the doorway didn’t help Toby’s nerves.  Unexplained security procedures were always bad news.  “What are you going to do?”  He asked, as he entered the second room.  It looked like a medical examination chamber, although it was surprisingly bare, with only a small set of equipment in one corner.  “Stick fingers up my butt to prove that I’m not hiding anything there?”

The voice, not surprisingly, failed to rise to the bait.  Instead, a man wearing a protective suit appeared out of yet another door, his face hidden behind a mirrored surface on his mask.  Toby braced himself as the man pressed what looked like an oversized hypodermic needle against his shoulder, expecting to feel the needle entering his skin.  Instead, there was a brief sucking sensation and then the masked man stepped back, apparently satisfied.  He slipped out of the door before Toby could sit up, the doorway closing and vanishing amidst the room’s white-painted walls.  Toby knew the door was there and yet he couldn’t pick it out from the wall.

A third door opened at the far end.  “Proceed through the doorway and dress yourself,” the voice ordered.  “You will be met once you have cleared the sterile environment.”

Toby scowled, but did as he was told.  A small pile of clothing awaited him; a simple military-style tunic, with a pair of underpants.  There was nothing else; his original set of clothes would have to wait until he left the building.  When he had finished dressing, a final door hissed open, revealing a small waiting room.  Four people stood there, waiting for him.  Toby was surprised to realise that he recognised three of them; the fourth was a complete stranger.  But in hindsight, it should have been obvious.  Someone was clearly taking security very seriously.

Director Nimitz of the National Security Agency was a tall thin man, with a pale face and sallow features that had led some of his subordinates to whisper that he was a vampire.  He was renowned for having no sense of humour, but then he’d reached his present post as the result of a complete failure in intelligence that had cost his predecessor his career.  The NSA was the most secretive of government agencies and the thought of actually revealing their – much-hyped – capabilities to the great unwashed, which included every other intelligence agency in the world, was anthemia to its officers.

Toby spared a smile for the person standing next to him.  Gillian Baskin was a blonde woman with an unbelievably perky smile, which concealed the sharpest mind Toby had ever encountered.  They’d been pushed together when the President had ordered Toby to handle liaison with the intelligence communities – something he found uncomfortable – and Gillian had been assigned to brief him.  Toby had asked her out to dinner a couple of times, but their relationship had remained strictly professional.  He couldn’t really blame her.  The operatives who served in her position couldn’t risk even the slightest hint that they might have been compromised.

The CIA Director opened the meeting, once they’d walked into a small conference room and been served cups of steaming coffee.  “Mr Sanderson, this is Sir Charles Hanover, the Deputy Director of MI5,” he said.  “I’m sorry for the cloak and dagger routine, but we needed to talk under strict security.  We may have a serious problem on our hands.”

Toby nodded, taking a sip of his coffee.  There were few places that could be deemed absolutely secure – particularly to TEMPEST standards – but Fort Meade’s underground complex was one of them.  So were the White House Situation Room and a number of other facilities, some of them so heavily classified that Toby was barely even aware of their existence.  The experts in the NSA had staked their reputations that the complexes – and their computer systems, light years ahead of computers in the public sector – were absolutely secure.  It was impossible to signal out of a secure room – and any attempt to do so would be detected.

“Over the past three days, our counter-surveillance systems” – he didn’t go into details; some of them were so highly classified that even the President had no need to know – “picked up a number of disturbing transmissions from Washington.  Gillian?”

Gillian’s cool voice echoed in the silent room.  “I’ll spare you the technical details,” she said.  “Suffice it to say that the transmissions were focused on a very high frequency and ultra-compressed; each transmission lasted little longer than a microsecond.  Our first assumption was that we had stumbled over a nest of foreign spies within the capital and started attempting to track them down, while analysing their signal transmissions in the hope of understanding how it was done.  It didn’t take more than a few hours to determine that the transmissions were utterly impossible to crack.”

Toby sucked in his breath sharply.  The NSA had dropped most of its objections to commercially-owned encryption programs, secure in the knowledge that most of them could be decrypted by the NSA, even without a copy of the secure key used to encode the message before it was sent.  Everyone knew that the NSA intercepted transmissions from all over the world, cracking Russian, Chinese and even European encryption schemes and giving the American intelligence community unprecedented access into the minds of their potential opponents.  The network of quantum computers held in Fort Meade could decrypt anything, if only through brute force decryption.  No one on Earth possessed more advanced computers than the NSA.

His blood ran cold.  On Earth…

Gillian nodded, following his train of thought.  “It was surprisingly easy to locate the sources of the transmissions,” she said.  She tapped a control pad hidden on her side of the table and a slide appeared on the wall.  Toby frowned.  It was a pinkish background, with a tiny silver object on top of it.  The detail seemed almost blurred.

“That is pretty much the maximum magnification we can give it,” Gillian added.  “We removed that device from your arm.”

Toby looked down, remembering the oversized needle that had been pressed against his skin.  There hadn’t been anything there, had there?  But then, diseases and germs were too small for the human eye to see…and they could be lethal.  He hadn’t had the slightest idea that anything was there.

“I see,” he said, as calmly as he could.  Inwardly, he was reeling.  “How big is it?”

“Just a hair or two above true nanotechnology-size,” Gillian said.  “I don’t think I have to explain just how dangerous this could be.”

No, Toby knew; she didn’t have to explain.  If the devices – the bugs – were so tiny, they could be taken anywhere by the unwitting host, turning loyal Americans into unknowing traitors.  How long had it been on his arm?  Toby was cleared for everything, a silent observer of secure briefings covering everything from defence to the ongoing economic crisis.  He was loyal and yet he’d betrayed his country.  And if there had been a bug on his arm, how many others were carrying their own unwanted guest?

“The transmissions,” Toby said, finally.  “What did they say?”

“We don’t know,” Gillian said.  “The real problem is simple.  They cannot have come from Earth.”

“The Galactics,” Toby said.  The conclusion was inescapable.  So were the implications.  “They’re spying on us.”

“So it would seem,” Hanover said.  The Englishman leaned forward.  “MI5 has been tracking a worrying series of meetings between the Galactics and people from…shall we say vested political interests?  As far as we can tell, the Galactic bases in the EU have been seeing the same curious pattern of behaviour.  There’s good reason to suspect that they’ve been holding such meetings in Russia and China as well.”

He sighed, deeply.  “Who are they meeting?  Political leaders – often those with the least stake in the establishment; businessmen with interests that may be harmed or helped by alien technology; media editors and newspaper men…and what are they saying in those meetings?  We don’t know.”

Toby scowled.  “You don’t do follow-up debriefs afterwards?”

“Not everyone is willing to talk,” the CIA Director admitted.  “We cannot force American citizens to disclose details of confidential discussions – it hasn’t been that long since the Cancer Drug scandal.  But connected with these alien…bugs, it poses a worrying question – what are the Galactics truly playing at?  What do they really want?”

Toby remembered the brief moment he’d locked eyes with one of the aliens and shivered, feeling cold.  “Another question,” he said.  “How many of these bugs are there?”

Gillian shook her head, slowly.  “It’s impossible to tell,” she said.  “They’re very hard to detect – we only knew you’d been bugged because the device was transmitting at the wrong moment, when it was too close to one of the sensor stations we positioned throughout the White House.  If we assume that each of the transmissions we’ve picked up comes from a separate bug, we could be looking at upwards of five hundred devices within Washington alone.  The real number could be much higher.”

His father had often lectured Toby on the value of good intelligence.  Given a series of nearly undetectable bugs, the Galactics could snoop into almost anywhere they wanted to go.  Their long list of guests at one of their bases was a cross-section of American society, the movers and shakers who made America work.  The Galactics would know everything the American Government knew before too long.  And then – what would they do with the information?

“We carried out a set of checks on government databases as well,” Gillian added, dourly.  “There’s always been a hacking threat from China and other rogue states – and our own stable of hacking anarchists who think that information should be free.  There is some real proof that a number of secure government databases have been hacked, but we have been unable to track down the perpetrators.  In several cases, the FBI thought they’d finally gained evidence to convict known hackers, but they always had alibis.”

“One attack came out of England,” Hanover added.  “We checked it out and found…we found a woman who barely knew anything about computers.  She couldn’t have hacked into her own computer, let alone the most sophisticated computer security system in the world.”

“Someone hacked into her computer and turned it into a remote platform for further hacking,” Gillian said.  “It’s not an uncommon hacking pattern, but this one seems to stop dead at her computer.  The level of technological sophistication in these attacks is light years ahead of anything we’ve got, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Apart from the Galactics,” Toby said, bitterly.  He looked up as a thought struck him.  “Did they stick a bug on the President?”

Gillian’s blue eyes seemed to refuse to meet Toby’s brown eyes.  “We don’t know,” she admitted.  “We can only really detect the bugs when they’re transmitting, unless we put someone through a full security check.  And even then it’s patchy.  If we hadn’t known that you were bugged…”

Toby could complete the sentence for himself.  “I would have walked out of this meeting and the aliens would have known at once,” he said.  The thought refused to fade from his mind.  “Do they know we know?”

“We don’t know,” Gillian said, when her superior seemed disinclined to answer the question.  “Their hacking attacks weren’t completely subtle; their bugs may have been removed naturally…”

“I think we have to assume that they do know that we found the bugs,” the CIA Director said.  “It would be too much of a coincidence to lose a bug on one of the few people with direct access to the President.”

Toby swallowed hard.  “But what do they want?”

Despite himself, it came out as an almost plaintive cry.  His throat felt dry; his palms were sweaty.  He’d been there when the President had been briefed on the nuclear weapons at his command, the weapons that could wipe out a good percentage of the planet and contaminate the rest for thousands of years.  The President had been shocked, but Toby hadn’t understood – until now.  There were things so big as to be almost impossible to grasp until they slammed into one’s head.

“We don’t know,” the CIA Director said.  “One; they mean everything they said to us and they’re monitoring us to ensure that they know what we’re doing with their gifts.  Two; they’re hostile and they want to monitor us to ensure that we don’t catch on to what they’re doing before it is too late.”

Toby shuddered.  “They’re spying on us, covertly,” he said.  “That doesn’t suggest friendly intent.”

“It would seem so,” the CIA Director agreed.  “At the very least, they don’t trust us – we’re naked before them, almost defenceless, and they’re still spying on us.”

The thought was almost impossible to grasp, despite his fears over the true intentions of the Galactic Federation.  But then – the aliens had been very careful in what they’d said to the human race.  Very little of it was actually useful and they’d presented almost no technological data.  The fusion plants they’d provided for the United States were sealed units, with human scientists barred from studying them.  A handful of other gadgets had yielded little more information.

On one hand, it was easy to understand a certain caution in dealing with the human race.  The Galactics had pointed out many issues that suggested a certain insanity surrounding the human race, everything from fouling the environment to cheerfully committing mass murder and even genocide over trifling issues such as religion.  Who knew how the human race would behave if given access to the stars?  Even a society that had renounced war might be concerned by the possibility.

But, on the other hand, there was a sense of…shiftiness surrounding the Galactics and how they dealt with the human race.  They had been careful to withhold details, even details that could be of no conceivable military use, from their human questioners.  No one even knew how many of them there were, or…

“All right,” he said.  “What do we do about it?”

“That is the question,” the CIA Director said.  “Can we take this to the President?”

The NSA Director had a different question.  “Do we dare take it to the President?”

Toby opened his mouth to argue, and then saw his point.  There might be other bugs within the White House, ones that might be lying dormant, recording everything they heard before transmitting it up to the alien starships.  If Toby – having lost his bug – sought a private meeting with the President, any other bugs would certainly be ordered to listen in to the conversation…who knew just what the aliens were capable of doing?

And the President, the most powerful man on Earth, would certainly be a target for alien surveillance…

“We can’t,” he said, bitterly.  The unanswered questions made it difficult, almost impossible, to think of a viable counter-strategy.  And even if they did…there were still seventeen starships in orbit around the Earth.  The Galactics – if they came with hostile intentions – could certainly bombard the planet back to the Stone Age.  But given their technology, what could they possibly want with Earth in the first place?  All the reasons human nations had attacked other nations were meaningless to the Galactics.  If they were so scared of competition, why hadn’t they simply nudged an asteroid or two in towards Earth?

Slowly, very tentatively, an idea began to form in his mind.

The intercom buzzed before he could start outlining his plan.  “Director,” a female voice said, “Mr Sanderson has been summoned back to the White House.”

Toby felt his heartbeat start to speed up.  The moment he stepped out of the secure building, the aliens would know that he was no longer under surveillance.  And then…what would they do?  His family’s dead heroes might have been calm in the face of danger, but they’d understood the dangers of Japanese kamikazes and German Panzers.  Toby found it impossible to come to grips with the alien threat – if indeed it even was a threat.

“I’ll be on my way,” he said.  His voice sounded weak, even to his ears.  “Did they say why?”

“The aliens have completed their negotiations,” the female voice said.  “They are prepared to tell us what we need to do to join the Galactic Federation.”

Toby looked over at Gillian, who looked just as nervous as Toby felt.  “It’s starting,” he said.  But what was it?  “Pray for us.”

Chapter Nine

Washington DC

USA, Day 18

Jayne allowed herself a tired smile as she sat down in front of her laptop, using the tip of one finger to turn the machine on.  It had been a gift from the BAN after she’d received the required number of points to qualify as a Senior Blogger, a person whose written words were read all over the world.  Unfortunately, the position came with obligations as well as rewards – and one of them was keeping her finger on the pulse of blogger opinion.  Peer review wasn’t the greatest system for monitoring public opinion, but in the words of Winston Churchill, it was so much better than all the others.

The BAN had devised a fairly simple system for monitoring the conduct of the bloggers who signed up to the BAN.   Each blogger was required to make a political declaration, outlining their positions on any number of contemporary political issues, before defining themselves as left, right or centre.  Their readers would in turn rate them, with the effect that several bloggers who called themselves centrists were actually rated as extreme left or right-wing posters.  Bloggers were only human, of course, and they could make mistakes, but outright lying was not tolerated.  A number of bloggers had been removed from the BAN after being caught out.  Jayne still remembered the blogger who’d claimed to be an Army Ranger; in fact, he’d never served in the military and the closest he’d come to military service had been a few years in a radical militia in Kentucky.  The irony was that even if he had told the truth, the BAN wouldn’t have ejected him.  There was room for all political beliefs in the community.

Jayne rolled her eyes at some of the hopeful posters – bloggers who hoped to be invited into the BAN – before moving down to read one of her favourite blogs.  The writer was rather extreme, but he was always funny to read.  He’d kept most of his life hidden from his readers, even though he participated on the BAN’s online forums and community groups.  People either read his blog or they didn’t.  He had thousands of followers, so Jayne assumed it worked for him.

Greetings folks; its Arnie Pie here – no offence meant, whoever is producing the umpteenth season of The Simpsons.  It’s been a radical week two weeks out here, hasn’t it?  We learn that there actually IS life out there and guess what?  It isn’t very impressed with us.  That isn’t too hard to understand, is it?  IMFFHO we vote for dumb-ass politicians who would sooner spend your tax dollars on pork instead of space programs that might actually get us off this rock.  Find out who cut money to space programs, my dear readers, and start hounding the bastards.  Remember, you voted for them.

But enough of such pleasant sarcasm – there are more important matters at hand.  We have been told that there is a Galactic Federation out there and we may be invited to join.  It’s an exciting prospect, isn’t it?  Countless thousands have been thronging to Washington to demand that Congress starts immediate steps towards joining the Galactic Federation – and if that means cutting industry down to the bare bone and actually trying to cut back on consumption…well, that’s fine by them.  After all, who really benefited from the economic crash we had in the last decade?  Bankers, businessmen and fat pigs in Congress, eh?  Fuck the lot of them, right?

Except…there is a slight problem.  What do we really know about the Galactic Federation?  You may have seen the video on YouTube of a kid asking one of the Snakes – pardon the racial slur, but we don’t even know what they’re called – what the Galactic Federation actually is?  And what was the alien’s reply?  The Galactic Federation is the Galactic Federation.  A perfectly honest answer that actually answers nothing – and an answer like that suggests either stupidity or that someone has something to hide.  I mean, consider it; what is the United States of America?  The United States of America – perfectly true, but it’s not actually helpful.  ROTFLMAO.

What do we really know about the Galactic Federation?  Almost nothing – and all we think we know comes from the Snakes.  And that raises another question; if the Galactic Federation consists of thousands of different races, why have we only seen one?  What would it matter if we knew what the other races in the Federation even looked like?  Your humble writer cannot think of any good reason to conceal even the features of other aliens in the Federation.  And that raises a worrying question – do those races even exist?

We have been told that there are vast benefits from joining the Galactic Federation, but what are those benefits?  Your humble servants in Congress – particularly the ones so fecklessly bent on wreaking the country that they will never be offered a chance to run for President – have been telling us all kinds of New Age dreams.  There will be a redistribution of wealth – an idea human history tells us is a dumb idea – and countless other benefits.  They have even been talking about a national healthcare system that won’t be a colossal drain on government finances.  Except – what have the aliens themselves said?

And they haven’t.  Their words consist of vague promises and grim warnings about a possible political, social and economical crash in the near future.  But the media is choosing to portray the aliens as friendly allies, beings who will help us – but for what?  Altruism, you think?  Let’s be clear on this point.  The NGOs in the Third World are supposed to be altruistic.  Maybe many of the workers in the field are genuinely bent on helping the locals – I won’t diss people like that.  But their offices are filled with people who insist on massive salaries, luxury treatment and produce entire rainforests worth of paperwork saying that we can beat poverty, famine and death – if only we make a massive commitment.  They do well by doing good, don’t they?  And that raises the question of just what the Snakes get out of helping us?

What?  You can’t think of anything?  Neither can your humble servant.  We have been told that they will take us to the forbidden barn where we will all board our intergalactic vehicle and head off to new, perfect lives on Blisstonia - well known for its high levels of bliss.  And yet…what have they offered to prove their case?  And let’s face it.  There is nothing to be found in alien speeches to back up the more extreme claims made by the Witnesses.  They seem delighted to welcome our new overlords.

What have they actually done?  They have provided us with fusion generators – already, there are calls to decommission every remaining fission reactor within the continental United States.  Have we forgotten so quickly why we couldn’t give the House of Saud the thermonuclear spanking it deserved?  We were dependent upon their control over oil to maintain our economies – and our oilmen in the style to which they had become accustomed.  Should we be so quick to become dependent upon them?

At base, we know nothing about them.  And that is worrying.  What do they want from us?

The basic problem with any government-provided service is that it is, ultimately, beyond accountability.  There are thousands of stories about ordinary hard-working Americans who have had their lives ruined through government incompetence and found that they are unable to gain any recompense for what they have suffered.  And believe me, there are worse sins carried out against Third World citizens by the so-called disinterested partisans of international aid.  They have wrecked local farms by moving in food supplies from the West.  They have destroyed local industries by insisting that they source their requirements from politically-favoured industries in the donor countries.  And they have carried out the most terrible abuses against the local population – rape, paedophilia, slavery – through ignorance or deliberate malice – and then they have tried to cover them up, hoping to save the tattered shred of decency that they hide behind.

Even if the Snakes have decent motives, should we be so quick to accept their promises of aid?  We might find that we had become forever dependent upon them, or discover that we were at the mercy of planners thousands of light years away.  How can we trust them when we cannot hold them to account?

Jayne shook her head.  It was impossible to escape the sense that the writer had a few good points, and was then burying them under a paranoid fantasy.  She knew that many of the charges against the government and the aid agencies were true – one of the many reasons that government agencies hated the BAN was that it put the people in contact with genuinely disinterested experts – but there was no way of knowing if they applied to the Snakes.  And yet...it was hard to dismiss the core of his argument out of hand.  The Snakes had promised little; their supporters had promised much.

Sighing, she clicked on the rebuttal from another blogger.

There is much to be ashamed of in humanity’s long history.  We have never been very kind to our fellow humans and we have treated the environment very badly.  How many different kinds of animal have been driven to the verge of extinction – or even over the edge – by humanity?  We don't know.  The blunt truth is that the Dodo is far from the only creature to exist only in museums.  We tell ourselves that we are aware of the dangers of destroying countless other creatures, yet we do far too little to save them.  Every year, rhinos are hunted for their horns, which can be ground down into a folk medicine to boost male stamina in the bedchamber.  The fact that such treatments simply don’t work doesn't seem to stop the trade.

Nor can we excuse our treatment of our fellow humans.  We allowed Saddam to rule Iraq for far too long.  When we removed him from power, we did very little to protect the Iraqi people from the predicable chaos that emerged in the sudden power vacuum within Iraq.  Our measures to remove dictators from Libya and a dozen other nations were half-hearted at best.  We consider Saudi Arabia – a state that treats women and minorities worse than Iran, our sworn enemy – a friend and ally, despite the fact that the Saudis fuelled the terror network that eventually smashed the Twin Towers.  The record of man’s inhumanity to man, stained in blood, is not one to be proud of.

Now consider yourself an alien looking down on Earth.  Would you consider the human race civilised, or would you wonder what might happen if those barbarous savages, too stupid to realise that they’re fouling their own nest, advanced into space?  And even if you were optimistic, would you be quick to give those barbarians the technology that would allow them to reach your worlds?

The Galactic Federation doubtless has considerable experience in dealing with new races.  Their mere presence in space points to a mature political system, unaffected by wars and dogma that hold us back on Earth.  The selfishness that dominates human politics has no place in a multiracial community that has access to the boundless wealth of space.  What – exactly – do they have to fight about?  There is enough living space to satisfy even Hitler.

We must, I feel, understand and accept that the Galactics will be very careful when it comes to handling our world.  They will not trust us to act in our own best interests – because humanity’s record of acting in its own best interests is non-existent.  We are children under the gaze of mature adults, too wise to allow their anger to affect their judgement, but unwilling to evade the responsibility to pass judgement.  They have promised us that they will help us mature, yet we must accept that this will be a slow process, one that will require the development of trust on both sides.  And really – what do they have to gain by waging war on us?

Consider; what are the motives of humans at war?  Land – there is an endless supply of land in space.  They’re certainly advanced enough to terraform worlds like Mars and turn them into gardens.  Given enough time, they could break down an entire solar system and create a Dyson Sphere.  Slaves – what could human slaves do for them that machines couldn’t do better, without the threat of a slave rebellion?  Breeders – we’re unlikely to be sexually compatible with them.  And really; how many humans find a Snake sexually attractive?  I ask again; what do they have to gain by waging war on Earth?

I think we will have to accept, right now, that they do know better than us.  And I think that we should take this priceless opportunity to learn from a race that is far more politically and socially mature than our own.  The concerns of those who fear losing control, or profit, or anything else should be dismissed.  We will build a brave new world, one for humans mature enough to live in the Federation as equals.  And if there are those who refuse to join us, let them isolate themselves.  In the end, they will lose – and they will have no one to blame, but themselves.

***

The man who called himself Arnie Pie stretched and stood up from the computer monitor.  It had been a long day on the internet, where posting a single article on the BAN could generate thousands of responses, ranging from thoughtful rebuttals to angry semi-coherent flames that were rapidly squashed by the site’s moderators.  Arnie knew better than to allow himself to be dragged into a flame war – as a listed blogger, he was expected to show a high level of decorum – but there were times when the sheer level of stupidity on the internet drove him insane.  Anyone could pose as an expert on the internet and false information was rife.  And then flame wars broke out because trolls made it impossible for anyone to back down.

Shaking his head, he started towards the kitchen for a can of soda.  It was nearly time for him to leave the computer for the night and go to work in the 7/11.  He disliked the job intensely, but it had been the only one he’d been able to get, despite his qualifications and status as an accredited BAN blogger.  Personally, he blamed Congress; instead of funding prioritising getting Americans back to work, they rewarded incompetence and bailed out banks that should have been allowed to fail.  And hard-working Americans paid the price for their failures, while up on the Hill, Congress debated how to hand the nation over to a force from outer space.

He would have liked to believe the silken promises offered by the Galactics and their supporters, but he didn't dare.  In the real world, no one did anything for nothing – and some took their payment in feel-good feelings.  The thought that they had done something to help pleased people; the fact that giving money to a homeless druggie only helped the druggie to keep doping himself seemed to have escaped their notice.  Even if the Galactics meant well, that didn't mean that they would actually do good.

The knock on the door was loud and firm.  He scowled as he changed course and marched towards the door, mentally cataloguing anything incriminating that might be in sight.  His apartment had been raided once before when the Washington PD had got the wrong address; they’d damaged his computers, confiscated anything that even looked significant...and refused to pay any compensation.  They hadn't even admitted that they’d screwed up and raided the wrong apartment.  And the mainstream media hadn't cared enough to send a reporter to make the whole thing public.

He peeked through the peephole and blinked in surprise.  Instead of a pair of uniformed policemen, there was a single man standing outside the door.  He was black, with dark stubble on his cheeks and a short, almost military haircut.  The dark coat he wore concealed almost everything else.  He looked official, maybe a Fed; Arnie wondered, grimly, what he might have done this time.  It was well known that the Feds kept an eye on the BAN after the network had been used to distribute official papers proving that the government had been economical with the truth.

The door clicked as it opened.  “Yes?”

“I’m Federal Agent Davenant,” the black man said, holding up a card.  Arnie made a show of studying it, but in truth he wasn't sure precisely what a FBI card looked like.  “I’m investigating a case at the moment; are you alone in the apartment?”

Somehow, he’d moved forward enough to block the door.  “Yes,” Arnie said.  “Do you have a warrant...”

He never completed the sentence.  The man lunged forward and slammed the palm of his hand into Arnie’s neck.  Arnie was barely aware of a crack before darkness loomed up and swallowed him whole.  He was dead before his body hit the ground.

***

Moving with a speed that belied his bulk, Davenant swooped down on the body and dragged it into the apartment.  Closing the door behind him, he carted the body over to the sofa and dumped it out of sight.  The research had said that the blogger lived alone – there was no girlfriend at present – but there was no way to be entirely certain.  Once the body was hidden from casual view, he went into the next room and looted a drawer of cash and a handful of small items that could be fenced easily.  By the time the police found the body – it would start to smell soon enough – it would look like a robbery that had turned into a murder.

Smiling to himself, he looked around the apartment one final time and then left, closing the door behind him.  No one saw him leave.

Chapter Ten

Near Mannington, Virginia

USA, Day 20

“I wonder,” Toby asked himself silently, “if I’m doing the right thing.”

It had taken several days to set up the meeting.  He could have just picked up a phone or emailed, but he had to assume that the aliens were monitoring cell phone conversations – and he was already a target for their attentions.  In the end, he’d had to send a friend to speak to his father and trust his father not to ask too many questions over an open line.  Luckily, Colonel Sanderson was just as paranoid as his son, although for different reasons.  He had arranged the meeting without comment.

He followed his father into his study, feeling old memories crawling up into his mind.   The bookcase, containing his father’s collection of manuals from his military service, books he’d studied as a child.  The desk, a heavy wooden object that had been passed down from the first Sanderson to buy the farm and raise a family in America; his father was the only one allowed to use it, at least until he passed the farm on to his children.  The leather chair, the one he’d bent over for a thrashing after a schoolboy prank had gone horrifyingly wrong…the room’s smells assailed his nostrils, bringing back memories from the past.  And the two pictures hanging on an otherwise plain wooden wall; Mary Sanderson, Toby’s mother, and Robert Sanderson, his elder brother, the one he’d looked up to as a child.  They were both long dead.

There were nine people seated in the room, waiting for him.  They were all ex-military, mainly from the infantry, although one of them was a Marine.  The Colonel had no truck with those who argued that the Marines weren’t real soldiers, not after he’d fought alongside the Marines in the Gulf.  He did have a prejudice against the politicians in uniforms who fought wars to please the media rather than concentrating on actually winning, but Toby wouldn’t have disagreed with that sentiment.  Ten years in Washington had left him with few illusions about the true nature of politics.  For every Senator and Congressmen genuinely devoted to the country – or even to their state – there was a dozen devoted to nothing more than their own power.

His father opened the meeting with the Pledge of Allegiance, a reminder that they all served – or had served – the United States of America.  Toby, who had heard his father’s rants about businessmen who refused to feature the pledge at their annual meetings, echoed their words, even though he wasn’t sure how much it meant.  Doing the right thing for the country required careful consideration of what the country actually needed, rather than knee-jerk reflexes from both sides of the political divide.  There were men in his father’s clannish network that would happily ban abortion and yet refuse to teach children about sex, ensuring that the number of teenage pregnancies continued to rise.  Toby had never been impressed with either side of the argument.

“Very well, Toby,” his father said, finally.  Toby thought that the old man had been pleased to see him, but it wasn't in his nature to slaughter the fatted calf and welcome his lost son home – at least not at once.  “You wanted this meeting.  Here we are, waiting on you.”

Toby nodded, slowly.  He knew five of the men; old friends of his father, dangerous men with a sense of honour, the sense that separated warriors from the barbarians warriors fought to keep away from the civilians.  The other four were strangers.  It was a good thing, in a way; if he was taken and interrogated, he wouldn’t be able to betray all of them to the aliens – or to the FBI.  The Federal Government disliked what it chose to call right-wing militias and devoted a vast amount of effort to tracking them down and maintaining surveillance over potential targets.  And the aliens would presumably have access to all of their files…

“Before we begin, there is something I need to make clear,” he said.  He was nervous, but his voice sounded steady.  It helped that he had known most of them since childhood; Blake Coleman, a massive black man, wasn't too intimidating to the kid he’d bounced on his knee or carried on his shoulders across a river.  The sudden childhood memory almost made his voice catch.  “The information I will impart to you is – at least partly – covered by any number of regulations governing national security.  The Federal Government has chosen to assert that civilian possession of this information will threaten national security.  If you listen to me, you may face legal action; if anyone wants to leave now, please do so.”

“Respectfully suggest,” one of the strangers grunted, “that you quit insulting us and get to the point.”

Toby nodded.  “It has been just under three weeks since the starships arrived in Earth orbit,” he said.  “They have already turned the world upside down, but until now we didn’t know the terms for Earth’s provisional membership in the Galactic Federation.  We do know now – and they are disquieting.  The aliens say they come in peace, and that they mean us well, but the evidence doesn’t back up their claims.  Among other things, they have been telling different things to different people.”

He scowled.  It had taken a covert international effort – sharing information from Britain, France, Russia and even China – to put together a picture of what the aliens were telling the different nations.  The aliens had visited almost every nation in the world, even the ones that were abominations on the face of the planet.  They condemned human nations that were built around a religious ideal – one that served as an excuse for oppressing their own people – and yet they hadn’t hesitated to visit Saudi Arabia and Iran.  Their presence in the Middle East had worried the CIA, even the analysts who hadn’t known about some of the more suspicious alien actions.  The arrival of fusion power threatened the Middle East oil states and a number of Islamic terrorist groups had issued threats against the aliens.  No one knew what the Snakes would do if one of their people was shot, or kidnapped, but no one wanted to find out.

“Their terms are alarmingly simple.  First, they want a global government that the Galactic Federation can actually treat as speaking for the majority of the planet.  The UN just won’t cut it.  They want us all to sign up to a global supranational government, one that will have a great deal of authority and the clout to ensure that its mandates are followed by the individual nation-states.  Any state that refuses to join and contribute to the global government will be frozen out of any trade and technological deals with the Galactic Federation.”

“Hell,” Coleman said.  “Why don’t they just call it the Global Community and have done with it?”

Toby smiled, recognising the reference.  “Second, they want us to largely disarm.  States are to cut their military forces back by at least ninety percent – and all nuclear weapons are to be dismantled.  The global government – whatever form it takes – will handle Earth’s security and the Galactic Federation will provide whatever support is required to ensure that the states that don’t join the global government are unable to threaten the new status quo.

“Third…they want us to work on fixing our own mess.  The global government will have a very powerful oversight role over businesses and industrial production sites.  They will have the clout to close polluting businesses without facing centuries of legal battles in the courts.  Among other things, most of the weapons industry across the world will be dismantled and the world will switch to a wholly fusion-powered lifestyle.  Further, they will control the banks and work on fixing the debt mess that caused the economic crisis in the last decade…”

“It sounds,” Coleman observed, “as if they wish to take control of the entire world.”

Toby nodded.  “From what we’ve been told,” he said, “the Galactic Federation is actually a three-tier structure.  First, you have races like us; races that have to be helped into space.  Second, you have races like the Snakes; races that made it into space on their own.  And finally, you have races that have actually helped another race into space.  The Snakes have confided in a handful of their more persistent questioners that they desperately want the status that comes with helping another race into the Federation and that’s why they’re so determined to help us, even if we don’t want to be helped.”

“How very human of them,” the Colonel observed.  “Do you believe them?”

Toby hesitated, and then shook his head.  “No,” he said, flatly.  “There are too many holes and inconsistencies in their story.  And then there’s the other evidence.”

He ran through a brief outline of the nanotech bugs the NSA had discovered, and then went on to a different – even more alarming – matter.  “There have been a number of deaths recently,” he added.  “Nine people who have publicly questioned the Galactic Federation’s motive in visiting our world have wound up dead over the last four days.  Six of them were killed in what looks to be muggings or robberies gone bad; one of the women was apparently knifed to death by a would-be rapist and one is dead of a heart attack.”

“I’m not sure that proves anything,” Coleman pointed out, mildly.  “A shit of a lot more than nine people drop dead every day from unnatural causes.”

“True,” Toby agreed, “and so far the police appear to agree with you.  But I spoke to a friend at the FBI and he pulled up the case notes – and there are a lot of odd things they have in common.  Apart from the fact that all of the dead were alien sceptics, the forensic teams found no traces of DNA evidence that might lead to the murderers – even the attempted rape scene was clean.”

“That’s absurd,” one of the strangers said.  “A rape – even a failed rape – always leaves evidence.”

“I know,” Toby said.  “My view of the situation is that all nine of them – with the possible exception of the heart attack victim – were killed by professional assassins.  I have been reluctant to draw this matter to the attention of the FBI; I think we must assume that all government databases have been compromised by the aliens.  And I don’t think that the deaths prove that the aliens have good motives.  They’re the only ones who benefit from the deaths.”

The Colonel held up a hand.  “This is all very interesting,” he said, “but let’s go back to the matter at hand.  I can’t see the President accepting the terms the aliens are offering…”

Toby scowled.  “The President may not have much choice,” he said.  “The Galactic Federation has told us that if we refuse to join the global government on their terms, we will be frozen out of all agreements – and tech transfers – with the Federation.  You have to understand what that would mean for American businesses.  Every overpaid lobbyist in Washington is currently banging down doors and making it clear to their tame Congressmen that if the government refuses to accept the alien terms, they can forget about having any more contributions to their campaign funds.”

He shook his head.  “And that doesn’t include a hundred other lobbies,” he added.  “The environmental lobby is demanding that we close down all of the remaining nuclear plants and switch to fusion – which the aliens provide – at once.  They have millions of supporters who will back the candidates who agree to the Federation’s terms.  And then there are the millions of people who have seen their lives ruined by the depression while the government flounders and Wall Street’s big bankers walk away with huge payments and untroubled lives.  Those people had lost their hope; the aliens returned it.  The foreign aid lobby looks towards the resources that could be put to use eliminating poverty across the world, the peace lobby thinks how wonderful a world we would have without a military…everyone who just knows that the world would be a better place if we all agreed to just get along has signed up to support the Galactic Federation.

“Some…friends of mine in Washington have been tracking the visitors to alien bases.  We know of political leaders who have agreed to support the aliens; protesters and political lobbies…the aliens are building up a power base on Earth.  And they’re doing it everywhere; there are now alien bases in almost every major country and they’ve even been buying human buildings and refurbishing them for their use in the capitals.  I think they’ve even been quietly manipulating the stock market and placing orders for components with human firms, just to ensure that they have an incredibly strong bargaining position.”

The Colonel frowned.  “I remember when people were paranoid about the Japanese buying up everything,” he said.  “That didn’t last forever.”

“This is different,” Toby said.  “The worst-case scenario is that the aliens have been quietly muscling their way towards controlling interests in everything from heavy industry to the media.  Some of their allies are known stockbrokers with years of experience, or political lobbyists who have plenty of skills and no scruples.  And one thing keeps echoing through my mind.

“They want us to get rid of the army – every human army on Earth.  And that makes no sense; surely, if they were telling the truth, human armies would wither away soon enough without encouragement.  Even if we kept a million men under arms, what possible threat would it pose to the Galactic Federation?  One asteroid on our heads and it’s bye-bye Earth.”

“They want to invade,” the Colonel said, flatly.  “You don’t destroy an army unless you fear that it will be in a position to oppose you.”

“And the only way the army could oppose the aliens is if the aliens came down to Earth,” Toby finished.  “And I am telling you, right now, that the odds are seventy-thirty in favour of the aliens getting what they want, or claim to want.  The United States will sign the treaty forming a global government and we will lose ninety percent of our armed forces – and all the nukes will be gone.”

The Colonel nodded, slowly.  “And you want us to do what about it?”

Toby gathered himself, meeting his father’s eyes.  “They have access to all of our databases,” he said.  “I have a few allies working on options, but without the President’s authority there are limits to what we can do – and they’re keeping a very close eye on the President.  The NSA sent a team through the White House and there are at least seven tiny bugs monitoring the President.  And if we remove them, they’ll know that we found them.  And then God knows what will happen.

“I need – the country needs – someone off the grid,” he added.  The irony was almost killing him.  He’d called his father a nut more than once, a man convinced that the government was permanently on the verge of grabbing all the guns – just before returning the vast majority of the country’s population to debt-peonage.  And he wasn’t even the craziest of the bunch.  There was a guy who believed that driving licences were illegal and unconstitutional, as if the Constitution recognised a driver’s right to get others killed through bad driving.  “We need to prepare for the worst.”

“Invasion,” the Colonel said.

“More like a slow takeover,” Toby said.  “Each step will be presented as logical and reasonable; each step will be rewarded…but each reward will make us more dependent upon them.  And one day we will wake up and discover that we’re nothing more than slaves.”

One of the strangers leaned forward.  “But slavery is uneconomical for pretty much anything apart from sexual favours,” he said.  “Why would they want us ugly bastards as slaves?”

Toby had wondered about that himself.  If the aliens had merely wanted the Earth, exterminating the human races wouldn’t pose any problems for their advanced technology.  A handful of abductions would give them the knowledge required to tailor a virus to humanity’s DNA, which could then be dropped on the planet with a suitably long gestation period.  And then the entire human race would drop dead and the aliens would land, once the bodies had decayed and the stench became tolerable.  No; the only answer that made sense was that the aliens wanted slaves – and that suggested that they were interested in securing humanity’s industrial base.  But it was primitive compared to theirs…why would they want it?

“I wish I knew,” he admitted.  He looked up at his father.  “I won’t mince words; there is a very real danger that they might have followed me here.  I may have just put your lives in terrible danger.  And yet we have no reason to think that they might know about you.  Your country needs someone capable of resisting them when they take over…”

“Or someone capable of taking the fight to them now,” the Colonel said.

”Someone expendable,” Bob Packman said.  The former CIA officer met Toby’s eyes.  “And someone completely deniable…right?”

Toby didn’t attempt to lie to them.  “Yes,” he said.  “If something goes badly wrong and the whole plan is blown, the government will swear – largely truthfully – that it knew nothing about you.  We cannot risk tapping much in the way of available resources from the government or the CIA or anyone who might be watched by the aliens…”

“I understand,” the Colonel said.  He looked, just for a moment, as if he were proud of Toby.  Toby tried hard to conceal just how much that meant to him.  “I will speak to some of my friends and start putting a second network together.  You go back to Washington and keep us informed.”

“Yes, sir,” Toby said.  “And thank you for everything.”

Chapter Eleven

Washington DC

USA, Day 20

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go any further.”

Jayne nodded at the policeman as she halted in front of the tape someone had thoughtfully stretched across the doorway.  POLICE LINE – KEEP OUT it read, as if anyone would just run past the burly policeman and into the cramped apartment.  From her vantage point, she could see a handful of stuffed bookcases, a sofa that had clearly been dragged halfway across the room – and a chalk outline on the ground where the dead body had fallen.  A handful of police photographers were wandering around, taking photos with monotonous regularity, but little else seemed to be going on.  Washington had too many murders per month and not all of them, whatever the Washington PD claimed, were solved.

There was little spectacular about the death of Albert Grossman, honours student at Caltech and current wage slave in a company that cared more for brute labour than it did for the hopes and aspirations of the young men and women who were entering the job market.  Jayne was honest enough to admit that under ordinary circumstances, she would never have given the murder a second thought – but Albert Grossman was also Arnie Pie of the Blogger Association Network.  His murder was odd enough, but a handful of bloggers had checked the details and raised a disturbing question.  What were the odds of at least eight anti-alien personages being killed within the same few days?  Six bloggers, a newspaper reporter and a fact-finder for CNN’s website had all died within days of one another – and the only thing they had in common was that they had all raised concerns about the Snakes.

She looked up at the policeman.  He wasn't someone used to the streets, really; he’d admitted that he was more of a glorified dispatcher.  Someone who owed the BAN a favour had arranged for him to escort Jayne to the murder scene; Jayne had been privately amused to watch his eyes straying from her breasts to her rear end, as if he’d never been given any training in how to interact with the media.  Not that she cared, really; if he was attracted to her, he might be more willing to answer her questions.

“He didn’t deserve to die,” she said, bluntly.  It was easy to inject a note of sorrow into her voice.  Death was never amusing, even when the person in question deserved to die.  And who was she to make such a judgement anyway?  “Do you know who did it?”

She hoped that it would be taken for a naïve question.  “I’m afraid we have little to go on,” the policeman admitted, finally.  “No one saw anything; no one knows anything; no one is prepared to admit to anything without a lawyer.  This is one of the places where everyone minds their own business and doesn’t speak to the police, which turns it into a very satisfactory place for anyone engaged in criminal activity.  There are at least ten druggies in this area, along with five prostitutes and at least one suspected robber.  But we can’t pin anything on him and if we rounded up the prostitutes, they would be replaced within the day.”

Jayne nodded.  She’d covered human interest stories back in the days when she’d been a cub reporter.  Even the honest and decent folks living in poor areas tended to view the police as their natural enemy, tools of a shadowy government that was prepared to interfere in their lives, but not to do anything to actually help them.  There were a dozen theories as to why that was the case – Jayne believed that it had something to do with low sentences and lack of discipline – yet it hardly mattered.  The bottom line was that the murderer would probably go unnoticed.

“He worked for the BAN,” she said, changing the subject slightly.  Most policemen loved the BAN; hell, a number of bloggers were policemen.  That was technically a violation of their service agreements, but they’re done excellent work exposing the stupidities of rules and regulations imposed by men who never walked the streets while wearing their uniforms.  “Would we be able to get access to his computer files?”

“I’d have to check,” the policeman said.  Jayne moved, just slightly, to show him another centimetre of cleavage, but it didn’t change his mind.  “The stiff left behind no will; we wouldn’t even have known about his death if he hadn’t left a key with his former girlfriend.  She came to pick up some of her stuff from his flat and found his dead body.  I’m afraid that she had hysterics and we had to remove her to a hospital.  I think his parents will wind up with his gear; perhaps they could let you have access…”

Jayne thanked him and walked away, heading down the stairs to the streets below.  It was a blustery cold day in Washington, with hints of rain falling from the sky to the ground.  She shivered and pulled her coat around her as the wind blew stronger, pushing against her.  As a child, she’d feared the wind; now, she looked up into the gloomy sky and wondered what was lurking high overhead.  The observatories said that the alien starships could be seen with the naked eye, but Washington was too bright a city for anyone to have any hope of picking out a single light high overhead.

Every reporter dreamed of stumbling onto a story that would make their names famous over the entire world.  Journalists still studied the Watergate story, where a team of journalists had discovered a trail that led all the way back to President Nixon himself.  America had lost her innocence that day, Jayne considered; the day when they’d discovered that even the highest in the land could be brought low by the media.  It had been the day when the media had started to shift from reporting the truth to scrutinising everything the government said, convinced that the government had to be lying to cover up dark intentions…

There was no conspiracy, she knew.  Nine times out of ten, there was no conspiracy; the government truly was as incompetent as it had seemed.  And yet people still believed in the most insane conspiracy theories, from the American government having known about the 9/11 plot and doing nothing to the American government actually carrying out the bombing itself.  It seemed to her that the people who chose to believe such insane theories were actually looking for a kind of reassurance, a sense that even if something had gone wrong, someone was still in control.  The idea that screw-ups happened anyway terrified them.

But maybe there was a conspiracy after all.  A number of people who happened to hold anti-alien views were dead – and no one had been arrested or seemed likely to be arrested for the crime.  And that suggested that the killers were professional assassins, trying to disguise the murders behind simple ‘robberies gone wrong.’  And who benefited from that?  Only one answer came to mind.

Stepping into a shop entrance to escape the wind, she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and called an old friend.  He was curious, but agreed to meet her without asking any more questions.  If she was right – and if cell phone networks were being monitored – saying the words out loud might just make her the next statistic in a murder investigation.

***

They met at Kent’s Bar and Grill, a deafeningly loud eatery that catered to Washington’s students and junior workers.  It was difficult to hold any kind of civil conversation over the music, but it should have the effect of making it very difficult for anyone to overhear their words.  Besides, there were enough distractions in the crowded bar to make it very difficult for someone to peer into their corner without being blindingly obvious.

Vincent Felt had shared a journalism class with her, back before they’d both graduated and he’d gone to work for the New York Times.  He’d always had a little crush on her, which Jayne had exploited ruthlessly from time to time.  The BAN might be growing, but it didn't have the same level of access possessed by the Grey Lady – and besides, many people thought that the internet wasn't quite real.  He was a tall man tending towards obesity, a trend encouraged by the large plate of nachos and salsa he was devouring while talking to her.

“The word’s come down from on high,” he said, as he held out a dripping nacho for her.  Jayne took one look at the cheese oozing off it and shook her head.  She’d contented herself with fries and a coke.  “The aliens are friendly and the human race should commit themselves to the Galactic Federation.”

Jayne scowled as she took a sip of coke.  Most of the deaths also had one other thing in common; almost all of the victims used modern media like the internet, rather than old-fashioned print media or even television.  She’d expected more interest from the newspapers, but it seemed as if the fix was in already.  Reporters didn't get anything like as much freedom of action as the public generally assumed.  Only a complete fool of a reporter would push a story forward knowing that his editor – or senior management – would disapprove.  The stories the public were told might bear only a slight resemblance to the truth, or might ignore the truth altogether.  It was very rare for a story to be reported with the emotional detachment that was the key to true reporting.

“I see,” she said.  “And who issued the order?”

“It came down from senior management,” Felt explained.  He swallowed another nacho and burped contently.  “The editing staff weren't too chuffed about it, I can tell you.  They normally get to decide how to slant the story themselves.”

Jayne nodded.  “Is there anyone in the political field being pushed forward?”

“Not as far as we can tell,” Felt admitted.  “We have orders to promote the causes of politicians who have verbally committed themselves to supporting the Galactics – and mankind’s efforts to get into their Federation.  Those who refuse to support the Galactics...”

He didn't need to finish the sentence.  They both knew that a carefully-placed story, just one hair short of libel, could destroy a political career.  There were plenty of politicians whose only fault had been irritating the media – and discovered that their side of the story was being presented with a magnifying glass held over his flaws.  A written story always had more influence than the internet, although that might be changing.  The newer generations were far more comfortable with the internet than their parents – and why should they allow editing staff to decide what they wanted to watch?

“Clever,” Jayne said.  She was starting to have a very bad feeling about the whole thing.  Part of her was tempted to bring Felt into her confidence, but one of the reasons he would never make it into the BAN was because he hated to question authority.  Anything she gave him would end up in front of his superiors – where, if she were lucky, it would merely be dumped in the waste paper bin.  “Thank you for your help.”

She spent just long enough with him to allay any suspicions that all she’d been interested in was knowing who might be trying to shape public opinion, and then escaped the racket.  Walking down the streets towards her apartment, she made a handful of phone calls to a number of trustworthy bloggers.  Two of them were her mortal enemies online, but she knew that they could be trusted to stand up for themselves.  The truth was out there and – these days – bloggers did more for exposing it than any other part of the media.  She was still smiling at the thought when she froze.  An alien was standing at the bottom of the street.

They did look like humanoid snakes, she realised, as she found her legs shaking with tension.  The alien moved on as if he hadn't seen her, accompanied by a pair of uniformed soldiers and someone wearing a nondescript suit.  He was smoking like a chimney, despite the health risks – or had the aliens promised a cure for cancer among their other miracles?  And what were they doing near her apartment?  Terrified, she spent nearly twenty minutes – after the alien had gone – telling herself that it would be safe to return home, before she headed to a nearby guesthouse and paid cash for a single night’s stay.  Cold logic told her that the aliens wouldn't have shown their hand so blatantly if they wanted to assassinate her – and they might not even have realised that she was on to them – but cold logic provided very little reassurance.  As soon as she was in the rented room, she lay down on the bed and found herself shaking helplessly.  She had never felt so threatened in her entire life.

It almost made her want to give up and vanish into the country, but the thought of the great reporters like Woodward and Bernstein forced her to carry on.  Somehow, she managed to take a shower and head back outside towards her destination, the Spandrel Caravan.  It had been founded as a place for bloggers to meet in person – an experience that was often disappointing – and served as neutral ground for the BAN.  Jayne admired the idea behind the eatery, not least the meeting rooms, which had been secured with the most advanced technology in the public domain.  Rumour had it that the CIA had sealed a lock on a story by outfitting the meeting rooms themselves and ensuring that no one could spy on the bloggers.  She’d asked twelve of her comrades to meet with her; not entirely to her surprise, only eight turned up.

“Thank you all for coming,” she said.  They were all reporting bloggers, rather than political analysts and commenters.  Most of them had real journalist experience that they used to ensure that their reports were as clear and factual as possible.  “I won’t mince words.  I’m onto something that could be the biggest story in the entire history of journalism, but it could also get us all killed.  Those of you who agree to work with me won’t just have non-disclosure agreements to worry about – this could be more dangerous than Jonny Russell’s scoop four years ago.”

She watched as it sank in, slowly.  Jonny Russell had been an investigative reporter in California who’d discovered that the Governor of the state had close links with a Mexican criminal organisation that had been terrorising Northern Mexico and Hispanic regions in America.  He’d nearly been killed four times before the FBI put him in a secure witness protection program; the story had ended the Governor’s career and gone a long way towards cleaning up California.  And if he had been just an inch less lucky, he would have died and no one would have known the truth.

“We will have to assume the absolute worst,” she added.  “There will be very powerful vested interests out to stop us.  We may well end up dead – or worse.  Do you have any objections to this level of danger?  If so, you may as well walk out now.  Nothing will be disclosed without your agreement.”

She’d carefully picked friends without families, without anyone dependent upon them.  One left, a man she knew to be courting a girl at the office; the others remained where they were.  It was the closest she’d get to agreement, she knew.  Bloggers rarely trusted one another too closely.  Besides, any official agreement might be detected by the aliens.  The dead blogger’s name and address had been stored under tight encryption at a data haven in England and the aliens had still tracked him down.  They had to assume the worst – and that meant that anything placed in a computer might be read by unfriendly eyes.

“I believe that someone is manipulating the world,” she said, and outlined everything she’d dug up over the past hour.  The suspicious deaths, the media slant, odd trading on the stock market...and alien technology being hyped as the cure for all mankind’s ills.  “And that someone may not be from this world.”

There was a long aghast pause.  “My god, Jayne,” one of her friends said, finally.  “Are you sure about this?”

“As sure as I can be,” Jayne admitted.  “We need to do a hell of a lot more grunt work before we have anything more than suspicions – and then we need to decide what to do about it.  Until then, no one is to put anything on computers; we’ll go back to the days when we used real notebooks and pencils.  I want you to remember how the NSA hacked our computers last year; the aliens could be a great deal worse.”

“My sister’s kid loves the aliens,” one of her older friends said.  She sounded stunned, as stunned as the rest of them.  They had all read the posted blogs, they all knew about the discrepancies in the alien statements, and yet...learning that they might all be lies was shattering.  “He was talking about joining the Witnesses after they set up a recruitment booth on campus.”

“I suggest you don't say anything to your sister,” Jayne said, firmly.  “This is what we’re going to do.  We’re going to follow the money; we’re going to find out who is benefiting from the alien presence and why.  And then we’re going to try and figure out what they actually want on Earth.”

It had only been a few decades since the Soviet Union had tried to manipulate the Western media into convincing the West to let down its guard.  Jayne had been a child when the Berlin Wall fell, but she’d heard about it in the years she’d studied journalism.  So many had been profoundly shocked when Communism had fallen apart and its moral bankruptcy had been exposed for all to see.  And so many had refused to believe the truth.

“And then...”

She shook her head.  “God knows what we will do.”

Chapter Twelve

Near Mannington, Virginia

USA, Day 20

Toby was long gone by the time the Colonel returned from his wife’s grave.

His mind was spinning, both with the realisation that his country was under threat – and that his son had trusted him enough to bring him in on the counter-conspiracy.  Maybe he hadn’t gone so badly wrong in raising Toby after all.  The thought didn’t last long; if half of what Toby said was true, he’d endangered his old man and hundreds of other people.  His entire clan of survivalists could have been targeted because Toby had unwittingly led the aliens right to their base.  Not all of them had volunteered to be targeted by the aliens.

Night was falling rapidly and the stars were coming out.  The Colonel remembered when his father had told him about the day they’d looked up and seen a Russian satellite crossing the heavens, high overhead.  They’d felt naked that day; naked and defenceless, even though the Russian satellite was hardly dangerous.  And now seventeen alien starships orbited the Earth, poised to do...what?  The uncertainty was far more worrying than discovering that they were facing the Death Star; no one, but no one, knew what weapons the aliens might have to use against a defenceless world.  It begged belief that they would be defenceless.  The idealists might believe that the Galactic Federation was peaceful and war was a thing of the past, but the Colonel knew better.  The key to survival was beating one’s enemies and he found it impossible to believe that the Federation had never had to go to war.  If nothing else, they might have encountered a race so alien that communication was impossible and the only option was war to the knife.  No one had any right to survive in an uncaring universe.

An object was moving across the heavens.  The Colonel shivered, wondering if it was one of the alien starships – or perhaps the International Space Station, a bold effort dreamed up in the days before the aliens had taught the human race just how inadequate its imagination actually was.  He stared at the blinking light, wondering if the aliens were looking back at him, before shaking his head and entering the farmhouse.  The die had been cast the moment he’d agreed to allow Toby to speak to him and a handful of his most trusted associates.  He could no more refuse to help form the resistance than he could refuse to serve his country in its hour of need.

Bob Packman met him in the sitting room.  The others would have gone to eat – the Colonel’s daughter had promised them a feast and had been disappointed when Toby hadn't stayed – but he’d waited for the Colonel.  He looked haunted, his eyes constantly glancing around like a man with a guilty conscience – or a man who felt terrified beyond belief.  The Colonel couldn't blame him.  The CIA trained its officers to look at the big picture and the big picture was terrifying.  How could anyone hope to stick a spanner into the alien plan to take over the Earth?  And what did the aliens really want?

“I'm terrified,” Packman admitted.  The Colonel shrugged.  He’d been terrified back in the Gulf, when Saddam had looked like a viable threat and the pundits were touting the Iraqi Republican Guard as the latest version of the Waffen SS.  And then Desert Storm had rolled over the Iraqis and Saddam had survived by the skin of his teeth.  The only thing preventing the Allies from removing his vile regime right there and then had been politics.  “What do they want?”

The Colonel sat down beside him, ignoring the smell from the next room.  A memory rose up inside his mind, mocking him.  Every time she’d given birth, Mary had insisted on a full Thanksgiving dinner the moment she’d recovered enough to cook it.  It might have been nowhere near Thanksgiving, but the Colonel had known better to disagree with her – and besides, she had cooked a wicked turkey.  And then she’d died in childbirth and the Colonel had ordered the Turkey they’d bought for the feast thrown out, knowing that there was little to give thanks for.  Mary had deserved better than to die giving birth to her youngest son.

“It isn't what we prepared for,” Packman said, softly.  “We told ourselves that when the Crash came, we’d run away up here and hide from the chaos.  We had guns and ammo and food – enough to ensure that we lived through the first few months.  And we told ourselves that the only things we had to fear was mutant zombie bikers and government agents coming to take our food to feed the starving grasshoppers from the big cities, the fools who depended on the government to take care of them.  How we laughed when we thought about lynching the government agents, hanging the fools who tried to tell us that the Second Amendment didn't apply to us – and standing in judgment over who we would let into our new paradise.

“We told ourselves that by running away and hiding, we would inherit the Earth,” he added.  “And now there’s nowhere to hide.  No hiding place down here.”

The Colonel didn't disagree.  In truth, there had always been a degree of fantasy surrounding survivalist preparations, but having the ability to imagine the disasters that might consume the nation was a vital part of the survivalist mentality.  And running away and hiding?  There were some disasters so great that the only thing one could do was bunker down and hide, waiting for the chaos to subside and the vast starving hordes to die off.  The Colonel’s Christian faith told him to help the helpless, but not at the cost of one’s own chances of survival.  And besides, he had no faith in the vast masses who depended on the government for their daily bread to behave when the government fell apart.

“Look at us,” Packman said.  “We’re just as dependent upon modern society as the rest of the world – and that makes us vulnerable.  Every single goddamn cell phone is a potential spy.  Anything we post on the internet – anything we download from the internet – becomes something they can use to track us.  They can probably slip into our databases and alter details as they see fit, making it impossible for us to even remember the truth.  How can we fight when we can’t even trust our own weapons or memories?”

He shook his head.  “They’re carrying out a goddamned soft coup and half of our population is probably quite prepared to welcome the New World Order,” he concluded.  “And what’s going to happen to us then?”

The Colonel nodded.  He’d seen the studies.  The Chinese Government had spent most of the Clinton Administration stealing every piece of computer software they could get their hands on, sometimes aided and abetted by members of an administration the Colonel considered a national mistake.  And some folks in the CIA had wondered if that couldn't be turned to their advantage, if they couldn't penetrate systems the Chinese didn’t fully understand and take control of them.  If they could do that, they’d thought, they could effectively control the Chinese nation – and no one would ever know what they’d done.  How could the Chinese fight back when they couldn't trust their weapons?

Nothing had ever come of the plan, of course.  There were too many risks involved for it to be anything other than a theoretical study.  But he could see how it applied to their situation.  If Toby’s friends were right and the aliens had calmly hacked their way into every government database, they’d know everything they needed to know to draw up plans for the invasion.  The implications were devastating.  A poker player couldn't hope to win if his opponent knew what cards he was holding in his hand.

“I’m in shock,” Packman said.  “Twenty days ago, the world changed forever ; nothing has changed on the surface, but you can feel it moving underwater.  This is the calm before the storm.  God alone knows what will happen when the storm finally hits.”

The Colonel shrugged.  Packman had always had an imagination.  It was one of the reasons his superiors had asked him to leave.  “We’ll need to think about it carefully,” he said.  He disliked cell phones personally and insisted that they be turned off in the house.  He’d even ordered his guests to leave them behind when Toby had briefed them, something that might have saved their lives.  It was quite possible to turn a mobile phone on remotely and transform it into a spy.  “And we need to find a way of operating under their radar.”

Susan stuck her head through the door.  “Are you not coming?”  She demanded.  “The food is getting cold!”

The Colonel knew better than to defy his daughter over her cooking.  Like her mother, Susan was tough and very determined to control the female sphere – which included cooking and wedding planning.  If he’d skipped dinner, she wouldn't have forgiven him for months, just like Mary.  At least Mary had understood when he’d been called back to his unit for an emergency drill that had led nowhere.  Susan’s husband was on the other side of the world.

“Coming,” he said, hauling himself to his feet.  He’d kept himself in peak physical condition for a man of his age, but he was suddenly chillingly aware that he wasn't anything like as strong or active as he’d been before his retirement.  “Come on, Bob.  You don’t want to get her angry at you.”

“Quite right,” Susan agreed.  Standing against the light, she looked terrifyingly like her mother.  “And if you don’t eat a full plate of stew, you won’t get any desert.”

***

They reconvened in the living room after the dinner.  The Colonel rubbed his stomach – he’d eaten more than was good for him, but it had tasted so good – and started to pour the coffee into a number of mugs.  Susan and everyone else not directly involved with the resistance – for the Colonel had already determined to resist, whatever else happened – hadn't been invited to the meeting.  There was no point in risking the lives of anyone who hadn't already committed themselves to the fight.

He thought, just for a moment, of Toby.  His youngest son was right in the heart of enemy territory, Washington DC.  The Colonel, like many survivalists, treated Washington with great suspicion, an attitude that had only hardened over the years that Washington's politicians had fiddled while the country burned down around them.  It was one thing to talk – and political leaders could talk the hind leg off a donkey – but it was another thing to act...and nothing he’d seen had convinced him that Congress could pass an act to save its life, let alone the entire country.  The first step in solving a problem was recognising that there actually was a problem and Washington’s stable of politicians would prefer to avoid admitting that for as long as possible.  Who knew where the blame might fall?

“Let’s be clear about this,” the Colonel said.  “We are at war with a force of unknown power.  We don't know what they are, we don't know what they want and we don't know what they can actually do.  They have most of our politicians in their pockets and large parts of our society trust them more than they trust any human.  All of our data consists of little more than wild-assed guessing.  If there is anyone here who wishes to back out and hide, rather than try to fight, say so now.  It will not be held against you.”

“Respectfully suggest,” Coleman grated, “that you stop insulting us and get down to business.”

The Colonel smiled.  “Right,” he said.  “The aliens are telling us to disarm.  There’s only one logical reason for them to want us to disarm and that’s because they intend to invade – and intend to deprive us of the tools needed to resist them effectively.  We are staring down the barrels of an alien invasion.  God alone knows what they want from us, but I doubt they think that it is anything that we would give to them willingly.”

“Perhaps they want to eat us,” Packman suggested.  Food seemed to have restored his good humour, although his eyes still looked haunted.  “Maybe diced human is the food of choice among the stars.”

“Doubt it,” Coleman said.  “Does anyone here believe that the Chinese or the Russians or the Arabs wouldn't take the opportunity to sell troublemakers to alien butchers if it meant they would have access to alien technology?”

The Colonel couldn't disagree.  There were plenty of governments on Earth that didn't put the well-being of their own citizens on their list of priorities, let alone anywhere near the top.  It was one of the many reasons why he was glad to be an American.  If African governments were prepared to allow famines to take place because the people starving belonged to hostile tribes, they wouldn't hesitate to sell living humans to the aliens.  Africans had been selling their fellow Africans into slavery long before there had ever been a United States of America.  And the Chinese...if they were prepared to carry out a religious and ethnic genocide in Tibet and other regions, they wouldn't hesitate to sell them off to butchers.  Hell...he wouldn't have put it past his own government.

“No,” the Colonel said.  “They want something and the only answer that makes sense is that they want humanity’s industrial base.  Anything else they could get by wreaking the planet or exterminating the human race.”

“No offense, but that can't be right,” Packman said.  “Why would they want humanity’s industrial base when we can barely lift a few tons into orbit?  Building a ship like theirs would take at least fifty years; we’d have to build the tools to make the tools long before we even started work on the ship.  What the hell do they want from us?”

Dawlish stroked his chin.  “Maybe we’re more advanced than them in some areas,” he suggested.  “The Japanese moved ahead in civilian computing technology...”

“Because we had all of our brightest minds going into the military,” Packman countered.  “I find it impossible to believe that they don’t have everything we have and a great deal more...”

His voice trailed off, slowly.  “Oh.”

The Colonel looked up at him.  “Oh?”

“They need our industrial base because they don't have one of their own,” Packman said.  He shook his head slowly.  “If they need to use our industrial base, it suggests that theirs is somehow lost – or missing.”

“Or maybe they intend to upgrade ours once they have control,” Coleman suggested.  “How long would it take them to boost what we have to a level that can be used for building something comparable to theirs?  For all we know, it’s cheaper to build a new industrial base here rather than ship equipment in from thousands of light years away...”

The Colonel held up a hand.  “As interesting as this is, we need to start building a resistance,” he said, firmly.  “Bob’s pointed out that the aliens will have access to government databases.  We need to build a network without compromising ourselves – thoughts?”

“Nothing gets put online, ever,” Packman said.  “And we don’t make telephone calls – at least not ones where we discuss anything sensitive.  We meet our potential allies face-to-face...”

“Which would blow us wide open if the aliens have tagged one of them,” the Colonel said.  He was still reeling from the news about the alien surveillance devices.  If they’d bugged the President they could bug anyone – and it would be almost impossible to locate the devices without specialised equipment.  Perhaps Toby could get his hands on some of it...maybe.  “I think we’re going to have to assume the worst.”

“The worst is pretty bad,” Packman said.  “I keep up with a few friends of mine from the Agency.  We have ways of tracking people, even in godforsaken Afghanistan and Pakistan, without them ever even knowing that they’ve been tagged.  And then we call in a Predator and drop a Hellfire on their heads.  We must be very careful; someone who works with us may unwittingly lead the aliens to our location.  I think we need to start creating smaller cells, right fucking now.  The loss of one won’t destroy them all.”

The Colonel nodded.  “We’ll reach out to anyone we know with real military experience,” he said.  “We won’t touch anyone on active duty, not when their records are already in alien hands...”

“Our records will be in alien hands,” Packman pointed out.  “We’re all former military or former intelligence...”

“We’ll have to pray that we’re not noticed,” the Colonel admitted.  There were ways to pass unnoticed, even in modern society.  He’d have to start tapping some of his more dubious friends for false ID and other counterfeit documents.  The government had been more careful about identity fraud since 9/11.  “If we allow fear to paralyse us, we won't get anywhere at all.”

The discussion lasted long into the night.  After a few more ideas had been dropped into the mix, the Colonel started writing them down on a notepad.  They’d have to shred the paperwork once they’d finished the discussion, if only because the farm might be raided by government agents.  The Colonel still remembered the arrogant agent who’d turned up because of a vague report that the farm was selling unprocessed milk to locals – never mind the fact that everyone who’d bought the milk was an adult and knew the risks.  Government treated people like children or criminals...

“And we will have to devise a secure link to Toby,” he added, almost as an afterthought.  Toby was in the best possible position to know what was about to happen.  “How the hell do we do that?”

Chapter Thirteen

Washington DC

USA, Day 24

“Federation, Federation, Federation...”

Jason could hear the chanting protesters through the taxi’s closed windows.  The elderly Pakistani who was driving the cab looked nervous as the protesters came into view, a disorganised mob of young people – mainly students – with a hard core of professional protesters.  There were a number of police officers wearing riot gear watching the protest nervously, wondering if it would turn violent.  The radio claimed that it was the largest single protest in America; hundreds of thousands were thronging the streets, demanding that the Government immediately accept the alien terms for starting down the long road towards Federation membership.

He rubbed his tired eyes as the noise grew louder.  The alien terms had leaked two days ago and since then, SETI had found itself at the heart of both pro-alien and anti-alien protests.  SETI had always believed that ET would be friendly and there was a strong feeling running throughout the organisation that they should accept the Federation’s terms, but not everyone agreed with them.  There was a core of protesters who believed that the alien terms were demeaning and should be rejected without further comment.  The radio updates had started that there had been several violent clashes between the two sides and hundreds of protesters had been arrested.  Rumour online had it that protesters from all over the United States were being bussed into Washington, where they were making their feelings known to the Government.  Jason wouldn't have wanted to be a senator who stood against the aliens, not with tempers running so high.

“Foolish children,” the taxi driver snarled.  A group of kids – they couldn't be more than fifteen years old – had run past the taxi, heading down to join the protest.  They wore grey alien facemasks, the ones that had become the logo used by the Witnesses.  It struck Jason as ironic – the legendary Gray aliens had never been friendly – but it did have worldwide recognition.  “Don’t they know that people have to work to eat?”

“Probably not,” Jason agreed.  He kept his other thoughts to himself.  If he’d known that all that awaited him after he graduated was a hard scrabble to earn enough money to stay alive and in reasonable comfort, would he have worked so hard at college?  It was easy to see why so many youngsters loved the ideal of the Galactic Federation; they knew nothing about it, apart from the fact it offered them hope.  And hope was something that could warp and twist a person’s thoughts out of all recognition.  “I don’t think we’ll get through in a hurry.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a handful of dollar bills.  SETI had paid for his trip to Washington and they could afford the bill, particularly now that donations were going through the roof.  Everyone wanted to claim that they’d had a hand in the Discovery, and First Contact, and if that meant pouring enough money on SETI to build an observatory on the moon, they’d do it.  The taxi driver offered the change, but Jason told him to keep it and opened the door.  The racket struck him full force the moment he stepped onto the street.

It was terrifying, almost like being caught up in a riot.  As a student, Jason had gone to parties and matches where everyone had just been caught up in the music or game, but this was worse.  Thousands upon thousands of people seemed to have formed a hive mind, the undertow of their emotions threatening to pull him into the mix.  Their deafening shouts for Federation membership and an end to war seemed loud enough to shatter buildings.  If any of them recognised Jason, they couldn't make themselves heard over the racket.  Silently grateful, Jason hurried through the blocked streets to his destination.  A handful of policemen guarding the streets looked as if they were going to block his way and then changed their minds.  The entire street felt as if it was on a knife edge.

The chant changed, almost spontaneously.  “No more nukes, no more nukes, no more nukes...”

Jason shook his head as the sound grew louder.  His ears were starting to hurt, shivers of pain that threatened to generate a real headache.  He started to move faster and then he burst into a run, although he wasn't sure what he was running from, or even where he was running to.  His head started to spin, seconds before the sound finally – mercifully – started to fade.  The numbers of policemen blocking streets was rising rapidly, almost as if they were trying to contain the protests.  It felt as if they were on the verge of a riot.

High overhead, a line of helicopters roared over the city.  Jason found himself wondering where they were going – and why.  The White House wasn't too far from the protesters; the radio had said that the protesters intended to march down to the White House and present their demands to the President in person.  Somehow, Jason doubted that it would go well.  He kept his legs moving, heading towards the meeting place.  Time was running out.

***

SETI had turned into a lobbying organisation surprisingly quickly, which was part of the reason it had transferred its headquarters to Washington and even positioned many of the review sections – where Jason had worked before he'd become the Discoverer – in Washington.  The easiest way to get funding from political leaders was to prove that the funding would help the politician’s chances of getting re-elected, and that meant pork – lots and lots of pork.  SETI couldn't compete against the military-industrial complex when it came to building new factories in specific states, but it had had influence.  And now it had a great deal more.

Jason sipped a cup of water gratefully as the meeting room slowly filled up.  He shouldn't have been in the room at all – and wouldn't have been, if he had not been the Discoverer, the man who had become famous around the world.  Crenshaw and the rest of SETI’s senior directors hadn't hesitated to take advantage of Jason’s fame, using him to attract funding to SETI and convince politicians to support SETI’s vision of the universe.  And that fame came with a sting in the tail.  If Jason went off-message – if he decided that the aliens weren't friendly – it would rock their little utopia.  The money they’d received since the Discovery would be at risk.

He sat up sharply as a familiar scent intruded upon his nostrils.  An alien had just entered the room, escorted by a pair of plainclothes officers from the Washington PD.  Personally, Jason suspected that the officers were actually from the CIA, but there was no way to know for sure.  The alien waved one hand at Jason – he’d learned that that was a loose greeting from a Snake – before sitting down on a weirdly-shaped stool.  Jason had to take his eyes off the alien’s body as it moved and sat.  It was so wrong to human eyes that he almost felt sick.

Fighting it down, he studied the alien carefully.  It was still hard to tell them apart, but he was starting to realise that tiny indentions and colour patterns over their faces served to differentiate them from one another.  There was still no way to separate the sexes; hell, no one even knew if the Snakes had two sexes.  They could easily be functional hermaphrodites, with asexual bodies, or perhaps their females laid eggs which were then fertilised by the male.  There was no way to know.  One of the many subjects upon which the aliens refused to discourse was their own biology.

Jason frowned as the alien eyes turned to meet his.  He had never considered himself a xenophobe – xenophobes never went into SETI – but there was something about the glowing red eyes that seemed to awaken old instincts long buried behind the veneer of civilisation.  There were people in America who had trouble looking into the face of a black man; Jason understood, just now, what they must have felt.  They could never have explained the feeling and perhaps concealed it, fearful of the dread accusation of racism.

“Thank you all for coming,” Crenshaw said.  Jason looked up from the alien, surprised to see that the room had filled up without him noticing.  Many of the faces were familiar from SETI, or political broadcasts, but a handful were strangers.  He caught the eye of a Japanese woman of indeterminate age who winked at him when she noticed him staring.  Feeling as if he didn't belong in the group, he sat up and tried to pay attention.  “As you can tell, feelings are running high outside.”

Jason winced inwardly.  The room was supposed to be soundproofed, but he could still hear the protesters as they thronged the streets of Washington.  Their demands had blurred into a deep roar that was all the more chilling for being barely understandable.  He wondered if someone had also leaked the fact that this meeting was being held; SETI had once needed all the publicity it could get.

Crenshaw nodded.  “The Washington police tell us that we should be safe in here, but we do need to keep an eye on the situation,” he continued.  “Without further ado - Jeannette McGreevy.”

Jason felt his mouth fall open as the Secretary of State stood up.  She was shorter than he’d expected, somehow, which might have been why he hadn't recognised her.  Even so, there was an air of bulldog determination in her face that suggested that anyone who got in her way was in for a very hard time.  He hadn't seen anyone so determined since his mother had confronted his father over rumours that his father had been cheating on her.  It wasn't a pleasant memory.

“I had a long speech with praise for the Discovery and the Discoverer,” McGreevy said, “but I’m afraid I will have to ask you all to take it as read.”  She smiled at Jason, who found himself on the receiving end of an almost shark-like smile.  “The Secret Service has taken the precaution of placing a helicopter ready for emergency evacuation, so I don't want to stress the poor dears.  They work so hard to protect us from threats.”

There was an amused note in her voice that Jason didn't like at all.  “It is my belief,” McGreevy continued, “that the Government will accept the terms offered by the Federation.  After much intense negotiation, the Federation has agreed to bring forward the schedule for integrating Galactic-level technology into humanity’s general technical base – in exchange for prompt acceptance of their terms.  It will help cushion us from the inevitable economic earthquake when the full effects of the terms make themselves felt.”

Jason nodded, impatiently.  Disposing of the world’s nuclear stockpiles might not cost the world anything – particularly if the Galactics could be convinced to fly them into space and push them towards the sun – but every other term would certainly have an economic effect on America, as well as the rest of the world.  There were trillions of dollars tied up in the defence industry – everything from producing tanks to training and hiring out mercenaries – and all of those dollars would be at risk.  Some production plants could probably be retooled to produce components for space-based industries instead, but others would have to be scrapped.  The protesters outside demanding that the human race join the Federation might not be so enthusiastic when they realised that they’d lost all prospect of getting a job in the economic crunch.

“It is our belief that SETI – the organisation that detected the Federation’s presence – should be reconfigured as the Welcome Foundation,” she concluded.  “The Welcome Foundation will have two goals; one, it will prepare the world for membership in the Federation and two, it will help cushion the economic problems by suggesting new uses for our industrial plant.”

There was a long pause.  “Any questions?”

Jason hesitated, remembered that he was the Discoverer, and held up a hand.  “Our general tech base is well behind the Federation’s,” he said.  “Why do you expect industrial corporations to retool for space when they will be effortlessly outmatched by Federation products?”

McGreevy looked, just for a second, angry.  Oddly, it was the alien who answered.  “The Federation will ensure that your economic base has a chance to adapt to the new situation by levelling protective tariffs on Federation technology entering your system,” he said.  “There will be a number of incentives provided for shared development, but such incentives will depend upon Federation corporations working with their human counterparts.”

“That will be one of the roles of the Welcome Foundation,” McGreevy said.  “I trust that this is acceptable to you all?”

Jason was unsurprised to see Crenshaw and the others agree at once.  They’d wanted to be important and now they were.  And his global fame would help them.  Everything McGreevy had said had made sense, and yet...somehow, Jason was worried.  Something didn't quite add up.

***

“So why did you come here today?”

“Because the government, like, will cover it all up if we let them,” the young girl said.  Jayne had her doubts that she was old enough to escape being branded jailbait.  She was blonde, with a tight top showing off everything she had, carrying a sign that read NO NUKES NOW!  “They cannot be trusted; we must, like, like them know what we feel.”

Jayne sighed inwardly.  The BAN had sent several reporters to the protests and she'd volunteered to be one of them, although her true interests were different.  A few hours of data mining had revealed that the protest networks were being funded by a wide range of different interests, all working together to ensure that the protests were as loud and noticeable as possible.  The latest update from the Washington PD suggested that there were nearly a million protesters in Washington.  It certainly looked that way.

“But who told you to come?”  She asked, as the girl blew a bubble of gum.  “Why did you come here?”

“Because this is, like, Washington,” the girl said.  “The filthy thieves in Congress wouldn't notice a protest in Podunk, USA.  They don’t, like, pay any attention to anyone outside Washington who doesn't have a big bursting wallet.  We got together and made up our minds to take a trip here and we’re going to camp out until they give us what we want.”

Jayne watched the girl move back into the protest and vanish into the crowd, shaking her head.  It had always struck her that most protesters might have a valid case, but they didn't have the slightest idea of how to actually go about getting what they wanted.  The American Government was far from perfect, yet it actually listened to the results of election campaigns.  A protest movement that concentrated on selecting the right politicians would go further than one that merely consisted of shouting and screaming.

Another protester was in front of her before she could move away, almost demanding to be interviewed.  “I must say that we find the government’s decision to sit on the alien terms abhorrent,” he said.  Jayne tried to keep the disgust from her face.  He smelled as if he hadn't washed for a week.  His outfit, a torn tunic that looked as if it had once belonged to a janitor, was marked and stained by dark liquids.  She didn't want to think about what they might be.  “Don’t we have a right to know?”

He grinned, revealing gaps in his teeth.  “But we’re going to make them pay for deceiving us,” he added.  “We won’t let up until those bastards are removed from Washington and we have a federal government that actually cares about the little people.  Do you hear me up there?”

Jayne managed to walk away while he was making rude signs to the helicopters high overhead.  The entire tone of the demonstration was growing darker by the second, threatening to turn into a riot.  She caught signs of hundreds of black-clad policemen in riot gear moving forward, only to be greeted with a hail of abuse and stones from protesters who had clearly come prepared for a riot.  The policemen raised their shields to protect themselves, while bringing up reinforcements.  Jayne, who had been arrested before during a protest that had turned violent, turned and headed back to safety as fast as possible.  It hadn't been a very enjoyable afternoon.

Behind her, the noise of the riot grew louder.  More and more police vans were racing towards the scene.  She spared a thought for the innocents in the crowd and then kept walking.  She'd see it all on CNN or FOX once she was back in the motel.

***

Later, after a shower and a quick meal, she logged on and checked the records.  According to the mainstream media, the riots had begun when a group of anti-alien protesters had deliberately provoked their opponents into a battle.   The police had been caught in the middle while trying to separate the two groups, making thousands of arrests before they’d been forced to pull back and let the rioters burn themselves out first.  At least a hundred people were confirmed dead and thousands were injured.

She shook her head, bitterly.  Someone was definitely manufacturing the news.  She hadn't seen any anti-alien protesters deliberately sparking off a riot.  Some of the bloggers were pointing that out, although she doubted that anyone would take them too seriously.  One problem with witness statements was that the witness could believe they were telling the truth, but it would be only as they saw it.  A hundred accounts of the same event could yield a hundred different versions from witnesses who only saw what had happened to or near then.

It hardly mattered, not now.  The entire country would see anti-alien protesters as rioters – and anything they said would be ignored.  The noose was tightening around the entire country...

Was there no one who could see it?

Chapter Fourteen

Washington DC

USA, Day 25

Toby followed the President into the conference room, watching as the Cabinet rose to greet their President.  It was their second full meeting since First Contact and they’d been joined by the Majority Leader, Minority Leader and a handful of influential Senators and Congressmen.  Personally, Toby would have been surprised if such a diverse group ever came to any conclusions, but most of them knew that their careers were at stake.  The pro-alien lobby was growing rapidly – one of his allies had mentioned that someone behind the scenes was funding the protesters – and the political leaders were under immense pressure to deliver the goods.  Normally, they could expect the fickle public to have forgotten about the issue by the time elections rolled around, but not this time.  One way or another, the public would never forget.

“Please be seated,” the President said.  He stood at the end of the table, his eyes travelling down the line of seated politicians.  The Vice President, who was making a long-overdue visit to Japan, was linked in via videoconferencing technology, but everyone else was present in person.  Toby knew that at least five of the politicians in the room had been tagged by alien surveillance bugs and that meant that the aliens would know everything that was said in the discussion.  They’d know how best to target their resources to get what they wanted – whatever they wanted.  “It is no exaggeration to state that whatever choices we make today will change the course of American history – of Earth’s history – for a thousand years.”

He pressed one hand against the table, a sign of nervousness.  Politicians trained themselves to reveal as little as possible of their inner feelings – one never knew when a camera was trained on one, recording one’s reactions for posterity – but the President was at the end of his career.  There were no higher positions to reach than President of the United States.  After his departure, he would write his memoirs and go on the lecture circuit.  He would never return to government life.

“You’ve all seen what the aliens are asking,” the President said.  “They want us to sign up to a global government with transnational authority.  They want us to discard – to disband – most of our military, including the nuclear warheads that have guaranteed peace and security for the past fifty years.  And they want us to make the shift to a fusion-based economy as soon as possible.  If we refuse to accept these terms, we will be frozen out of Earth’s upgrading process and find ourselves at a major disadvantage when it comes to competing with the rest of the world, let alone the Federation.  The promised loans and technological upgrades will never materialise.

“The best-case scenario is that we will be able to join the transnational government later on,” he continued.  “We already know that certain governments – North Korea, for example – will not be joining the world government, even though they will be guaranteed full internal autonomy.  But the Federation is apparently convinced that they will eventually fall and when that happens, they will be allowed to join the world government.  If that happens to us, however, we will lose all input into the negotiations surrounding the formation of the world government.  We will have to accept whatever terms are dictated by the transnational authority.

“The worst-case scenario is that we will never be allowed to join the transnational government, which means that America will not be part of the Federation.  It is quite possible that the effects of such isolation will be utterly devastating.  The remainder of the world will soar ahead into space, their industrial bases upgraded by the Federation, while we remain mired in the gravity well.  You all know what would happen to our economy if we lost the ability to trade with the rest of the world.  At best, we’d be a modern version of pre-Perry Japan; isolated, backward and unheeded.  At worst...”

“They’d take over,” Senator Hamlin growled.  He was renowned for being excessively right-wing, but he was under a great deal of pressure from his home state.  Elections were coming up and the deciding issue would be the Galactic Federation.  Making the wrong choice could destroy his career.  “We’d be ground away until we’d just collapse like the Ottomans...”

Toby wondered, as the President cleared his throat with a hint of irritation, if the Senator had just signed his own death warrant.  He had no way of knowing that the aliens were watching the meeting, or that he ought to guard his words.  On the other hand, a Senator was far better protected than an ordinary blogger and any assassination attempt, even an unsuccessful one, would run the risk of exposure.  He started to lay plans in the back of his mind, wondering if the aliens could be pushed into exposing themselves, as the President continued to speak.

“At worst, we’d be looking at total social collapse,”  the President said.  Toby remembered the day, just before his inauguration, when the President had been shown some of the highly-classified contingency plans drawn up by government agencies.  Some of them had been harrowing, warning of the dangers of racial and ethnic conflict in America, or of the sudden loss of all oil supplies from the Middle East.  In theory, the United States could survive such an embargo, but in practice the results would devastate the economy.  “I don't think that our public would thank us for condemning them to outright chaos while the French and the Russians get to go to the stars.”

There was a long uncomfortable pause.  “Let’s be clear on this,” the President said.  “We are talking about giving up almost all of our ability to influence the world.  We are talking about giving up most of our ability to defend ourselves – even though the Federation has promised that any state that joins the world government will be protected by the Federation.  And, most importantly of all, we are talking about giving up ultimate authority over ourselves.  We have refused to work with the International Criminal Court and other such transnational entities because they would compromise our independence and our right to stand in judgement over our own people.  If we join now, we will have some say in how the global government is organised, but we won’t have a decisive vote.  That, ladies and gentlemen, is what is at stake here; America herself.

“Do we accept their terms and become part of a world government, or do we refuse and attempt to negotiate better terms for ourselves?”  He asked  “But we have very little to bargain with, don't we?  They do not need our technology, or our food, or our industrial base.  The space components we have seen them order from our industrial corporations can be just as easily be produced in China, or Russia, or even Africa.  We are in a very weak bargaining position; on one hand, technology in exchange for surrendering part of our independence; on the other hand, isolation and inevitable decline.”

And the termination of a number of political careers, Toby thought, coldly.  The mainstream media had been painting Federation membership in glowing terms.  There was no constitutional basis for a national referendum or any other form of direct democracy, but if a referendum happened to be held, Toby was not sanguine about the prospects.  The latest polls showed a massive upswing in pro-alien views.  If any of the politicians took too strong a stance against the Federation, their careers would likely be terminated.

“The choice is ours,” the President concluded.  “Where do we stand?”

Unsurprisingly, Jeannette McGreevy was the first to speak.  The Secretary of State, according to the FBI’s counter-intelligence division, had had at least a dozen meetings with the aliens, during which they’d discussed...what?  She’d been reluctant to allow the CIA or anyone else to debrief her afterwards, citing confidentiality concerns.  As the Secretary of State, she’d been involved in any number of sensitive negotiations – including some with countries the American public regarded as one step below Satan himself – that would have caused a political catfight if any details were released into the public domain, but surely negotiations with an alien power were different.  Toby would have given his right arm to know what the aliens had said to her – and what she’d said to them.

“I feel that our choice is obvious,” she said.  “I think that we should accept the alien terms, without hesitation.  We are a very strong and capable nation, even outside the military field.  We will be very well placed to take advantage of the infusion of alien technology and the loans they’ve promised us to get our technology up to speed.  Given ten years, we can make the switch to a fusion economy and start repairing the damage we've done to the Earth – and, just incidentally, see the Arabs try to drink their oil.”

There were a handful of nervous chuckles.  “We should not think of this in terms of giving up our independence,” she added.  “We have been told that we will have full internal autonomy and our local government systems will remain as we choose to keep them.  There will still be a Senate, there will still be a Congress, there will even still be a President.  And, given the time needed to develop our own industries, we have the ability, the drive, the determination, to take what the Federation can offer us and use it to take America to the stars.  Is there any other nation on Earth as capable as we are of developing and deploying technology?”

She shook her head.  “We are always scared of change, as a race,” she said.  “There are people who prefer to remain in squalor rather than make a jump to an unknown destination, fearful of what might happen to them if they move.  We see battered wives remaining with their husbands because they’re scared to leave.  I tell you now that there is no reason to fear the future.  We have the ability to take the alien technology and use it to our own best advantage.  And the Federation will allow us to do just that!

“Yes, we are puny by their standards, but that will change.  A bright shining future awaits America – awaits the entire human race – if only we dare to reach out and grasp it for ourselves.  Don’t think of what we will be giving up, Mr. President; think of what we will be gaining by joining the Galactic Federation.  We are no longer alone!  We are children in a universe of adults.  It’s time to put aside childish things and grow up into the adults we have always known we could be.  It’s time to join the interstellar community.”

Her speech sounded good, Toby had to admit.  Anti-alien bloggers had concentrated on the negatives, wondering aloud why the Federation would even care about human military forces when they could obliterate them from orbit with ease.  By focusing on the positive, she made the negative seem absurd, a small price to pay for humanity’s leg up into adulthood.  And if Toby hadn't known about the alien bugs, he would have wanted to believe her.  The entire world would want to believe her, if only because the promise was so...promising.  A bright shining future seemed to beckon, waiting for the entire human race.

The President cleared his throat.  “Jeannette has spoken in favour of accepting the alien terms,” he said.  “Would anyone like to speak against them?”

Toby watched, keeping his face expressionless.  Several Senators who had been vocal opponents of transnational institutions in the past kept their mouths shut, seemingly unwilling to challenge the Federation openly.  But then, modern Washington leaked like a sieve; a single leak, picked up and amplified by the media, could destroy a career.  The blandness of modern politics contrasted sharply with the world it had created.  No one dared to venture onto the record when it could shatter their hopes and dreams for the future.

There was the sound of someone clearing their throat.  Toby looked down and saw General Elliot Thomas preparing to speak.  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had been invited to what was, officially, a political meeting because he had his thumb on the pulse of military opinion.  Whatever the Federation might have in mind, disbanding ninety percent of the American military machine would put hundreds of thousands of people out of work and onto the streets.  That hadn't worked out too well in Iraq and it wouldn't be much better in America.  Toby had heard that Congress was even debating a bill to ensure that all military personnel continued to receive their salaries for at least six months.  It was a nice idea, but he doubted it would pass.  Congress hated the thought of paying someone for nothing, at least someone outside the political circle.

“Mr. President,” he said, gruffly.  “I would not say that the Federation’s promises are not extremely attractive.  I would not argue that we are being offered something we should refuse, without consideration, even if we were the only nation on Earth.  And, put bluntly, decisions regarding discussions with foreign powers are a political concern.  It is my duty, however, to make you aware of the military implications of the Federation’s demands.”

“There are none,” McGreevy said, sharply.  “The Federation is not planning to invade us, General.  And even if they were, how much chance would we stand against someone who can cross the gulf of space?”

Thomas ignored her, but then; they were old enemies.  Toby knew that Thomas had never forgiven McGreevy for her political interference during a brief crisis with Iran, nine months ago.  He’d said that she’d intruded upon military affairs and almost cost America nine young lives.  She said that she’d managed to negotiate a mutual stand-down that had avoided the need for violence.  Toby knew that it had involved treating Iran, a nation that much of the American public regarded as the Great Satan, as an American equal.  The Iranians had made much out of their political success at the UN – and it had made the United States look very weak.

“We know almost nothing about the Federation,” Thomas said.  “They have been reluctant to tell us anything about themselves; we know nothing about their interstellar geography, their biology, their technology...some data, sure, isn't what anyone would choose to share when confronting a violent bunch like ourselves, but they have often refused to share data that would have no conceivable military value.  All we know for sure is that they have seventeen starships orbiting over our heads and that those starships are crewed by one race.  They tell us that the Federation includes thousands of races...so where are they?

“But that is outside my remit,” he continued.  “They have demanded that we hand supreme authority over to a world government that will not be elected into power – even by the world’s population – and that we disband most of our military force.  I see no logic to their demands.  Why would they want us to cut the military when the military poses no threat to them – or any nation under their protection?  We know almost nothing about the Federation, Mr. President; we are in a state of almost complete ignorance.  And that is very dangerous.

“It is my feeling that agreeing to sign up to this alien-designed world government is not a constitutional action,” he concluded.  “Even if the aliens meant every word they’ve told us, I would still recommend that we do not surrender our government to a global government that is not – cannot be – accountable to ourselves.  There are other ways to integrate their technology into our society.”

Toby smiled, impressed.  The General had summed up the problems he’d seen with the alien terms – problems that had been reported on the internet, before a number of bloggers had dropped dead.  A tenth blogger had been reported dead in Texas in what looked like a drink-driving incident, although his friends had sworn blind that he was a strict Christian who never touched a drop of alcohol.  And now the General himself might be targeted.  Toby started reviewing the procedures he'd put in place for contacting his father.  General Thomas was someone who could not be allowed to die.

“You are interfering in a political matter,” McGreevy snapped.  “That is well outside your remit.”

The President looked uncomfortable.  “General...”

“I understand,” Thomas said.  He pulled one of his medals off his uniform and dropped it on the table.  “I cannot go along with this, Mr. President.  You’ll have my resignation on your desk by the end of today.”

He stood up and stalked out of the room.  The President watched him go, a shocked expression meandering over his face, before he caught himself and turned back to the table.

“We need to take a recommendation to Congress,” he said, flatly.  “How many of you are in favour of accepting the alien terms?”

Toby didn't get a vote, of course, but the remainder of the table knew that what they agreed upon would be pushed through Congress with ease.  He watched as dispassionately as he could as the votes were tallied up.  Only two politicians were prepared to put their doubts on the record; the remainder agreed that America needed to join the global government at the start.  Toby couldn't quite believe it.  They were signing away America's independence, for what?  Alien technology, toys and gadgets – and a fear that if they refused, America would become a Third World state and their political careers would be over.

“The ayes have it,” the President said, flatly.  He glanced towards the covered windows.  Outside, the Witnesses and their throng of protesters had gathered, shouting their demands towards the White House.  Parts of Washington reassembled a battlefield after protest marches had turned into riots.  Rumour had it that the National Guard was on the verge of being called up to help keep the peace.  “We will join the Galactic Federation.”

Chapter Fifteen

Washington DC

USA, Day 25

As the President’s Special Assistant – a term that covered a multitude of sins – Toby was technically entitled to a room at the White House.  He’d declined the honour, choosing instead to set up his home in an apartment some distance from the White House.  It allowed him to tell himself that he had some independence, while being close enough to the President’s residence to get back there within twenty minutes if there was an emergency.

He entered the apartment, checked the expensive security system to ensure that no one had tried to break in while he'd been at the White House and closed the door behind him.  There were only four rooms within the apartment – the high rent came from being so close to official Washington – and he walked into the bedroom and threw himself down on the bed.  He was tired, immensely so, yet he dared not rest yet.  There was too much to do.

Rolling over, he stared up at the ceiling.  It had never stuck him until now just how little he’d done in the apartment, even though he’d rented it for the last three years.  A small shelf of books, a secure laptop from the NSA, a handful of DVDs and CDs...there was little to show that anyone lived and worked from the apartment.  Some of the people he shared the apartment block with had money to burn, using it to outfit their apartments with tasteless paintings and decorations.  Toby had treated it as little more than a place to sleep when he wasn't on duty, or catching a power nap on one of the White House sofas.    His father would probably not have approved.

The President had wanted him to write a speech that he would use to address the nation as the sun set and darkness fell over the land.  Toby had almost handed the task over to one of the official speechwriters in Washington; only the high security classification on the material had ensured that he kept it to himself.  He felt beaten, almost defeated.  Whatever else happened, the aliens would almost certainly get what they wanted.  All of Earth’s major powers would join their global government, disband most of their military forces and destroy their nuclear stockpiles.  It sounded like a dream.  Toby knew that it could become a nightmare.

He would have shaken his head, if he hadn't been so tired.  General Thomas had been right; the government was walking down an unconstitutional path, seduced by the promise of alien technology and threatened by the prospect of losing their political careers.  The protesters thronging through Washington and every other state capital were a reminder that careers would be made or broken on this issue, an issue that affected everyone in the entire world.  Toby had watched in numb disbelief how abortion and gay marriage had been moved from minor issues to political millstones, dragging political careers below the waterline and effortlessly drowning them before the politician ever had a chance to run for national office.  And they’d been minor matters.  Membership – or not – in the Galactic Federation affected everyone on Earth.

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet.  He’d acquired a taste for strong coffee from his father, one of the few things he'd kept since he’d left the farm.  The coffeemaker had been one of his few expenditures since he’d moved to Washington, but it had been worth the price to have a cup of strong coffee available upon demand.  He poured himself a cup, added a splash of milk and a spoonful of sugar, and then drank it in one gulp.  It was hot enough to scald the back of his throat, which was how he liked it.  The shock of hot caffeine brought him back to his senses.

Every week, a team of counter-intelligence experts from the Secret Service gave his apartment a careful check for bugs.  Toby suspected that they would have missed the alien bugs; hell, he had no way to know if they hadn’t tagged him again, or if Gillen and her team would ever develop a small bug-sweeper that could be used to find and remove alien bugs without a full search procedure.  Sitting down in front of his desk, Toby pulled out a sheet of paper and started to write a letter to his father.  It was a risk, but it was impossible to do it mentally; he’d discovered that while he was a child.  His father had been obsessed with codes and he’d taught all of his children how to create and decode basic ciphers.  Oddly, the memory gave him a pang of homesickness.  It would be wonderful to be a child again.

Every code could be broken, given enough time and computing power.  Toby was counting on the aliens only paying attention to internet and cell phone traffic.  They would find it much harder to keep track of messages hand-carried from place to place.  The mundane cipher he’d used to encode his message was based around a book he and the Colonel both had on their bookshelves.  With some effort, the message shouldn't arouse suspicion in alien minds, although a human might wonder if someone was trying to hide something.  He wrote the message out in clear, wrote it again in code, and then fed the original message through the shredder.  Anyone who worked in politics knew better than to keep embarrassing documents around when they could be shredded.  Who knew what could prove embarrassing or career-destroying in the future.

Picking up his coat, Toby headed downstairs, nodded to the security guard on duty in the lobby and walked out onto the streets.  He could hear the sound of chanting in the distance and knew it to be protesters, demanding immediate compliance with the terms of the Galactic Federation.  How could they be such fools?  But then, they knew nothing about the alien bugs, or any of the other signs that the aliens weren't being entirely straight with the human race.  And the aliens had given them the most significant thing of all.  They’d given them hope.

There were any number of bars and restaurants around Official Washington.  Many of them served young lobbyists, reporters and others who existed on the outskirts of politics, rather than serving within the White House or Congress.  Toby walked into one that served a number of lobbyists who were currently pressing for immediate acceptance of the Galactic Federation’s terms and ordered a whiskey and soda.  His father’s friend was seated at a single table, all on his own.  Officially, he represented a small company in Virginia that was hoping to get a piece of the vast funds everyone assumed would be doled out by Congress once the human race was enrolled in the Federation.  It helped that he had a legitimate reason to be in Washington.  And if he’d been marked by the aliens...

Toby cursed the uncertainty under his breath as he sat down.  His father’s friend looked up, one cigarette drooping mournfully from the corner of his mouth.  Toby said nothing; he merely unfurled the newspaper he was carrying and made a show of reading it.  The paper was talking about the wonders of Federation membership.  It was all they talked about these days.  He finished his drink and put the newspaper on the table.

“Hey,” his father’s friend said.  “Can I have the paper?”

“Knock yourself out,” Toby said.

He passed the paper – and the note concealed in its folds – to his father’s friend and left the table.  Behind him, the man put the paper in his bag and headed off in the opposite direction.  Toby silently prayed that the aliens weren’t following him closely.  Given enough computing power, they could probably track everyone in Washington, or even the country.  The ultimate national security state, all the more dangerous for being far less intrusive than anything the Soviet Union or the Nazis had devised.  They wouldn't even know that they were under observation until it was far too late.

And that could be the most devastating thing of all.

***

“Joe Buckley,” Matt Robertson said.

Jayne looked up, rubbing her tired eyes.  They’d spent the last two days trying to track down the sources of funding for the protest movements that were mobilising hundreds of thousands of young Americans, but most of the money seemed to disappear in an official haze.  Follow The Money was standard advice for journalists, yet the money trail seemed to have completely disappeared.  It didn't help that the protesters had opened up a hundred different ways for their supporters to donate money electronically, ensuring that they no longer needed to rely on supporters who wanted to remain unseen.

“Who?”  She asked.  “I’ve never heard of him.”

Robertson leered at her, cheerfully.  He was a computer nerd who might not have been cut out for the life of a blogger, but he was quite capable of supporting other bloggers.  It helped that he had no visible link to the BAN.  Rumour had it that he'd hacked a number of government databases and that the FBI was after his head, preferably not attached to his body.  When not working on the computer, he was devouring junk food and watching pornographic material on his television.  Jayne was privately surprised that he wasn't too fat to walk.  Some people, she thought, remembering all the exercise she had to take, had all the luck.

“Joe Buckley,” Robertson said.  “Famed for writing the Grand Fleet Saga, from Baen Books.  Former US Navy crewman; former Navy brat...New York Times bestselling author...and former alien sceptic.”

Jayne looked up, lifting one eyebrow.  “Former alien sceptic?”

“Yes,” Robertson said.  “Buckley was one of the people who publically questioned the alien motives in visiting Earth.  For some reason, they actually invited him to their base in Nevada – where he underwent a conversion.  Since then, he’s been telling everyone he can reach just how wonderful the aliens are and how many benefits they will bring to Earth.  It’s created quite a stir in right-wing circles.  Everyone is asking if he’s been replaced by a pod person.”

Jayne blinked.  “Pod person?”

“There was an old science-fiction movie that had everyone dropping asleep and being replaced with a pod version of themselves,” Robertson explained.  “The pod people were...well, non-aggressive beings.  I can’t remember the rest of the story; the point is that someone got to Buckley and turned him into an alien supporter.”

Jayne considered it.  “But how do we know that he didn't see something that made him change his mind?”

“If you changed your mind about going out with me on Saturday night, you’d know why,” Robertson pointed out.  “But what has Buckley told his friends, his family, his legions of fans...?  Sweet fuck-all.  He’s said nothing about why he’s decided to convert to alien-worshipping; the platitudes he mouths to his fans are the same the aliens have been given us ever since they made that speech at the UN.  So what happened to him and why?”

“You think they got to him,” Jayne said.  “And what did they do to him?”

Robertson grinned.  “You’ve never wished for the power to change a person’s mind?  You’ve never wanted to force your editor to give you a massive raise?  The CIA has been working on brainwashing techniques for decades; they talked about taking a Russian spy and brainwashing him into becoming a loyal American.  And people like Joe Buckley reach a wide spectrum of Americans, even the ones who think he’s an insane right-wing nut who serves as a good advert for gun control.

“I bet you anything you care to put forward that your alien friends did something to him while he was at that base and turned him into their ally,” he concluded.  “And if you could find proof of that...”

“We’d have proof that they meddled with people’s minds,” Jayne said.  It wasn't hard to follow his logic.  “But how do we prove something like that?”

“Carefully,” Robertson said.  He made a show of stoking his chin.  “It really depends on what they did to him.  They might have stuck an implant in his brain – there was a whole series of novels based around a Nazi UFO base in Antarctica where they abducted people and stuck implants in their heads.  Or they might have some kind of conditioning system that allows them to stamp new ideas into a person’s mind.  Hypnosis doesn’t actually work like they have it in the movies.  You can't actually program a person into believing something different without a great deal of preparation...”

“And I’m sure that that’s a big relief to all those girls who feared that someone would hypnotise their way into their pants,” Jayne injected.  “What do you think we can do about it?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Robertson admitted.  “Most of the literature on this kind of stuff is highly speculative or highly classified.  I think we could probably start by scanning his brain and looking for any foreign matter...but I don’t know if we could find a doctor with the right attitude for this.  Hell, Buckley himself could be counted on to object.”

“If he’s under alien control, yes,” Jayne agreed.  “How do we get access to Joe Buckley?”

Robertson grinned and pulled out a brightly-coloured sheet of paper.  “Joe Buckley, world-famous science-fiction author, will be one of the guest speakers at the Welcome Foundation as it incorporates as a charitable organisation bent on ensuring that humanity joins the Galactic Federation,” he said.  He passed her the glossy sheet and Jayne scanned it quickly.  “We’d at least be able to talk to him there, assuming you’re up for a visit...”

Jayne nodded.  “Why not?  In fact...”

An alarm rang.  “That’s the breaking news alarm,” Robertson said, with some alarm.  “The President is going to be making a statement on Live TV.”

***

The White House Press Room was as full as ever, with hundreds of reporters, television cameras and bystanders watching as the President made his speech.  Toby noticed a number of familiar faces in the crowd, some of them political enemies of the President and his Party, others reporters who could be counted upon to put the best face on political disaster.  But maybe all the old certainties no longer applied.  The Mainstream Media had practically transformed itself into a cheerleading squad for the aliens.  And a number of bloggers who had opposed the aliens, no matter how ineffectually, were dead.

He scowled as quiet gradually fell over the room.  Outside, the shouting of the protesters could vaguely be heard, even though the soundproofing.  If anything, the crowds seemed to be getting bigger; the Washington PD had reported that the protest organisers seemed to be funnelling more and more people towards the White House.  There were even rumours that the Secret Service had ordered plans to evacuate the White House to be put into high gear, although Toby knew that the President would object strongly.  Running from a crowd of his own citizens would utterly destroy his presidency.

“My Fellow Americans,” the President said.  “One month ago, the world changed forever when we finally discovered that there was an entire universe of intelligent beings living beyond the solar system.  They brought gifts and words of warning; we, the human race, were on the verge of destroying ourselves.  We had trapped ourselves within the gravity well at the time we needed to be heading outwards and ensuring that we would no longer have all our eggs in one basket.  The Galactic Federation has offered us help in climbing to the stars, but that help comes with a price.  You have all heard the terms they have demanded in exchange for their assistance.

“Congress and the Senate have debated the matter intensively over the past week,” the President continued.  That was, Toby knew, technically true.  On the other hand, one of the Congressmen who’d been briefed had probably been the one who had leaked the details of the alien demands to the Mainstream Media.  “We have had to make some hard choices.  If we refused to comply with the alien demands, we would be frozen out of the new era – and flying in the face of public opinion.  And yet, complying with the terms would be extremely difficult and costly.  We would have to rid ourselves of nuclear weapons.  Our proud Navy which has defended our freedom ever since our country was born would have to be scrapped; the military force we built will have to be discarded.

“And yet, the rewards promise to be literally astronomical in scope.

“My Fellow Americans, after urgent discussions on Capitol Hill, I can confirm that it is the intention of the United States Government to accept the alien terms.  We will reach out and boldly stride into an shining future where everyone has enough to eat, where everyone has enough to drink and where everyone has the promise of Galactic technology to lift them to the stars.  There are those who will say that we will pay a high price for those benefits, but we are looking at the realisation of mankind’s dreams!  Peace, prosperity and challenges that can be met peacefully.  There is a whole universe out there waiting for us!”

Toby watched the reaction of the Press Corps as the President finished his speech.  Some seemed shocked, even though they’d clearly anticipated it; others seemed delighted, convinced that the President had just personally inaugurated a whole new era for the human race – and for them personally.  Who knew what the Galactic Federation intended to do with the Earth?  The President had just ordered the disbanding of the one force that might be able to slow, or even stop, the invasion.

He silently prayed that his father could get to General Thomas in time.  The growing resistance was going to need him.  They would need everyone they could reach before the shit really hit the fan.

Chapter Sixteen

Washington DC

USA, Day 26

“I hate Washington,” the Colonel commented to no one in particular.  The city seemed to stink of the stench of politics – and pollution.  There were thousands of cars on the roads, driving as if their drivers had to be at their destinations yesterday.  “I really hope Toby was right when he gave us directions.”

No one said anything.  Washington DC seemed to be undergoing one of its permanent traffic jams.  The van they’d driven all the way from Virginia might not stand out among all the other unmarked vans, but the Colonel was grimly aware that being stopped by the Highway Patrol or the Police might prove fatal.  Whatever the Second Amendment said, there were things in the van that would ensure that they received a hefty prison sentence, if they were caught and stopped.  The Colonel had used a number of tricks to hide their trail as best as he could, yet simple bad luck had foiled more operations than anyone could count.  And bad luck now would be disastrous.

“The General’s address is right up here,” Packman assured him.  They’d already had a long argument about why a former CIA field agent couldn’t read a map.  “I guess the wife must be a wealthy girl.  Look at some of these apartments.”

The Colonel shrugged.  They were in one of the wealthier areas of Washington, dominated by large houses and larger gardens.  It was a far cry from the farm – and he’d never been very happy in any kind of city – but he had to admit that if one had to live in the city, there were worse places to live.  Even so, he knew that it probably cost more money than he’d seen in his life to buy a house here – and he was fairly sure that Generals didn’t get paid that much, even the successful ones.  But in Washington, success was often measured by how many asses you could kiss at once, rather than actual combat prowess.

General Elliot Thomas had been a fighting soldier before being promoted to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.  The Colonel had hoped that one of his little organisation members would know the General personally, but so far no one had admitted to serving beside General Thomas, at least in any position where the General might reasonably be expected to recognise him.  At least there was nothing phoney about the man’s war record.  He’d served in Iraq and Afghanistan before being promoted to take command of CENTCOM and then the Joint Chiefs of Staff.  Unlike so many uniformed politicians, he did know what end of a gun was the dangerous end.

And he was just who the growing resistance needed.  General Thomas commanded respect, even from those who hated his guts.  The Colonel had a high opinion of himself, but he’d left the military over a decade ago; almost all of the younger soldiers wouldn’t recognise him if they passed him in the streets.  And General Thomas’s life was in danger.  If the aliens were prepared to murder relatively harmless bloggers to silence anyone who might speak out against them, what would they do to someone who commanded national respect?  There were people who even talked about General Thomas as a potential President.

“That’s his house,” Packman said.  He nodded towards a moderate mansion that looked – to the Colonel – as if someone with too much money and too little taste had allowed the architect to drink while building the house.  General Thomas – or, more likely, his wife – had little taste.  “How are we going to make the approach?”

The Colonel scowled.  Even if they’d had someone who knew the General, there was a second problem.  The General was almost certainly under alien surveillance – and utterly unaware that there was any need to worry.  And even if he had worried, could he get rid of the alien surveillance device?  Somehow, the Colonel doubted it.  Toby had gone through a full search to have his removed – and they’d only found it because the device had been broadcasting at the time.  They would have to talk to the General without saying anything out loud.

“I’ll take the lead,” he said.  “Bob; you’ll come with me.  Blake, Sam, Jack; stay where you are and keep an eye on the situation.  If we need help, we’ll whistle for it.”

“Gotcha, boss,” Sam Mason said.  He was a former National Guardsman, but he hadn’t allowed his skills to lapse since his effective retirement.  The sports bag slung under his seat contained his assault rifle and enough ammunition to fight a small war.  Even if the cops let that past, they’d have real problems ignoring the grenades and the small quantity of C4 the team had brought with them.  Blake had insisted that one could never have too little C4 and the Colonel was inclined to agree.  “Just watch your back.  You can never trust anyone who moves to Washington.”

The Colonel scowled at him – Toby had moved to Washington – before he opened the door and slipped out onto the pavement.  Bob Packman slipped down beside him, one hand in his pocket where he’d concealed his pistol.  They both had concealed carry licences, but they couldn’t afford to attract any attention.  Gun carry laws changed so often that someone could become a criminal merely by driving over the state line.  He scowled at Packman until the former CIA agent took his hand out of his pockets and stood to attention.  Wearing a civilian suit that didn’t quite fit him, he looked more like a gangster than a military man.  The Colonel rolled his eyes, checked that his Sig Sauer was in a convenient position, and started to lead the way up the driveway.

General Thomas’s home address had never been made public.  It was a security precaution that dated back to the days when terrorists had tried to harm the morale of American troops by hitting their families back home in America.  The media had probably been trying to bribe someone to disclose it, but for once the alien subversion of the media worked in their favour; they wouldn’t want someone of General Thomas’s statue publicly opposing the Galactic Federation.  After the government had effectively signed away American independence, who knew what kind of reaction they’d have from the people?  The Colonel had heard – from a drinking buddy who was still in the National Guard – that the Guard was being prepped for mass civil unrest.  Rumours were flying everywhere, none of them good.

“I feel as if I’m in a bad movie,” Packman whispered, as they crunched their way up the driveway.  General Thomas – or his wife – drove an expensive car.  “Do you think he’ll have a butler and a maid?”

“Shut up,” the Colonel whispered back, not unkindly.  Packman dealt with stress by making jokes; the Colonel grew colder and quieter.  “Remember; we need to convince him to join us without any proof, or saying anything out loud.”

He pressed the bell and smiled as he heard a series of chimes from inside the house.  A long moment passed slowly, and then the door swung open, revealing a middle-aged mulatto woman with grey streaks in her dark hair.  Two sharp brown eyes examined the two visitors and found them wanting.  Judging from the faint look in her eye, her husband’s resignation had shocked her.  General Thomas had been a natural lifer, someone who would have been happy to spend their entire lives in the military.  And now he was a civilian again, even if all the paperwork hadn’t been processed.  The Colonel understood how he must have felt.

“He’s not in,” she snapped.  The Colonel guessed that some reporters had already been to visit, even though they would have had problems finding the General’s address.  But in Washington one could find out anything with a bribe to the right person.  “He’s permanently out to you.”

“We’re not reporters,” the Colonel said.  The wife’s face twitched, suggesting that he’d guessed correctly.  “We’re from the General’s former command, come to pay our respects.”

The General’s wife studied them carefully for a long moment.  Military wives spent quite a bit of time around their husband’s commands and some of them were often quite familiar with the soldiers under his command.  On the other hand, they had been living in Washington rather than a military base for the last few years.  The Colonel quietly prayed that he looked old enough to pass muster as one of the General’s first subordinates.  Thomas had been a junior officer when the Colonel had been mustered out of the army.

“Come on in,” she said, finally.  “He’s in his office.”

The interior of the Colonel’s house was far more tasteful than the outside, with a number of paintings hanging from the walls, illuminated by glowing lights set into wooden panelling.  There were no signs of children, which struck the Colonel as odd; he’d had a wife and a family while he’d been kicking Saddam’s ass in Desert Storm.  Maybe the General’s wife was barren, or maybe she simply didn’t want children.  The Colonel had met a few military wives who fretted about what would happen to their children if their husband died.

They stopped outside a wooden door.  “Elliot,” the General’s wife called, “you have visitors.”

The Colonel braced himself as the door swung open.  It was clear that the General had been allowed to decorate the room to his own personal satisfaction.  A single bookcase, crammed with books, dominated one side of the room; a second wall was covered in plaques and other legacies from his former stations around the world.  The Colonel noted that some of them came from Ranger and Delta Force units and nodded in approval.  Anyone who had served besides or commanded such units would have to win their respect to get a plaque.  Some other units could always be depended upon to produce something even if their former CO had been incompetent or cruel.  There were sycophants everywhere.

General Thomas looked up at them from a desk covered in writing papers.  The Colonel, who was old enough to recall the somewhat painful process of racial integration in the military, was pleasantly surprised.  General Thomas might be wearing civilian clothes, but he managed to make it look like a uniform; his shaved head seemed to glisten in the light.  There were plenty of officers who managed to look good everywhere, but the battlefield, yet Thomas had definitely seen the elephant.  He had the look of a man who had little fear left in his soul.

“Visitors,” he repeated.  He quirked one eyebrow.  “You do realise that I’m legally allowed to shoot reporters?”

“Very funny, sir,” the Colonel said.  He produced his notepad and held it out for the General to read.  “Here are my credentials.”

He saw the General’s dark eyes narrow.  The message read THE ALIENS ARE BUGGING YOU.  NOD ONCE IF YOU UNDERSTAND.

The General nodded once, quickly.  He picked up a pen and wrote a second message under the first in neat handwriting.  WHO ARE YOU?

THE RESISTANCE, the Colonel wrote.  YOUR LIFE IS IN DANGER.  YOU NEED TO COME WITH US.

I CAN’T LEAVE MY WIFE, the General wrote.  HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT WE WILL BE SAFE?

The Colonel almost smiled.  THE US IS IN DANGER, he wrote.  NO PROMISES OF SAFETY ALLOWED.

Thomas chuckled.  “Well, that is all very interesting,” he said, aloud.  He glanced down at the notepad and started to scribble another note.  “I’m afraid I have no interest in serving as a lobbyist for your form.”

He passed the notepad over to the Colonel.  WHEN DO WE LEAVE?

ASAP, the Colonel wrote.  GRAB YOUR OVERNIGHT BAG AND YOUR WIFE’S BAG.  WE NEED TO MOVE NOW.

It was at that moment that they heard the gunshot.

***

Julius Davenant disliked working with a partner, let alone three others, all of whom had dubious reputations for loyalty, but the orders from their employer had been strict.  He also tended to dislike working on American soil – the FBI was one of the better detective agencies on Earth – yet he’d swallowed his fears.  The money they were being paid was enough to allow him to retire to the Caymans or some other place where he could change his name and vanish into the multitude.  Besides, he had to admit that all of the assignments so far had been ridiculously easy.

The car pulled up beside the General’s house and they checked their weapons automatically.  Washington’s police department wasn't the best in the nation, but no one expected the cops to hesitate when it came to sending cars out to see who was firing shots in one of the wealthier areas.  The people who lived here were important; they paid taxes.  A failure to get the cops out on time, even if it was physically impossible, would result in mutual recriminations and job losses.

“Target the thumper now,” he ordered, as he switched his cell phone off.  He’d paid good money for a model that was almost impossible to trace, at least not very quickly.  Given access to the full resources of the NSA, the Washington PD might be able to trace the phone – but by then it would be buried or somewhere under the Potomac.  “Hit it as soon as you’re ready.”

One of his comrades looked up from the small device.  “Thumper ready,” he said.  “Now?”

Davenant scowled.  “Now,” he ordered.  The Thumper made a sputtering noise as the switch was pushed.  “Come on; hurry.”

The four men climbed out of the car and headed for the house.  If anyone had stopped to question them, they would have explained that they were federal agents – and they had ID to prove it. Their employers had provided the ID and, just out of curiosity, Davenant had had them run through the databases.  They weren’t just impressively clean; they were real.  And that meant that whoever was paying them was so highly placed in the government as to be nearly untouchable.  His coat shivered around him as a blast of cold wind caught him in the face, but he didn’t let go of his weapon.  The Thumper might have taken care of all the local security systems in the area, yet any professional knew how quickly things could go wrong.

He scowled as he saw the door.  If he was any judge, the flimsy wood panelling would be concealing something a lot stronger, making it almost impossible to kick down.  Instead, he pushed one finger against the buzzer and smiled to himself as he heard the machine playing inside the house.  If they were really lucky, the General himself would come to the door.  The contract only demanded the General’s death, but he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the General’s wife if it meant the difference between getting away clean and spending the rest of his life in a maximum security prison.  Anyone who could identify them had to die.

The door slowly opened, revealing a black woman who scowled at them suspiciously.  God alone knew what she thought they were, but as her eyes opened wide Davenant pushed his gun against her chest and pulled the trigger.  The heavy bullet slammed into her chest and she tottered backwards and fell to the floor, blood splashing out of the wound in her body.  Davenant was already stepping over her gasping mouth and heading inside.  They had to find the General and execute him before he escaped, leaving them without their pay and a murder rap.  Behind him, one of his comrades dragged the body inside and closed the door behind them.  No one would find the General’s wife until it was far too late.

***

“That was a gunshot,” the Colonel snapped.  He had his pistol out at once, looking for trouble.  Someone was breaking into the house.  He skimmed through his memory of their walk through the house to the study and realised that it would take several moments for the enemy to track them down – unless, of course, they had the General’s wife in their hands.  She could tell them exactly where to find her husband.  “How do we get out of here?”

The General looked stunned.  He’d never anticipated becoming a target in his own backyard, any more than anyone else in the United States had had to fear invasion.  And his wife might have been shot and killed by the enemy.  The Colonel could hear footsteps now heading towards them, footsteps that suggested that the enemy had abandoned stealth to search the house as quickly as possible.  Someone outside might have heard the shot and called the police.  He glanced down at his watch and discovered that it had stopped.  So had the other two digital watches in the room, along with all the other electronic gear.  The only thing that was still working was the clockwork watch the General wore on his right arm.

“Come on,” the Colonel snapped.  Fighting inside a house was dangerous enough when one knew the lie of the land.  He had no idea how to get the General out the back entrance, or if there even was a back entrance.  “We can’t stay here!”

He opened the door, wishing for a grenade.  The sound of enemy footsteps was coming closer; a moment later, a shadowy form came into view.  The Colonel took aim and fired twice, feeling the satisfaction that came with scoring a direct hit when he heard a yell.  He watched as the form tumbled backwards, just before someone half in hiding fired back towards him.  They missed, but the shots forced him to keep his head down.

“Bob, get the General out the rear,” the Colonel ordered.  The General had found a pistol from somewhere and looked ready to go down fighting, but he was too important to be allowed to die.  The resistance would need him.  “I’ll hold them off.”

Chapter Seventeen

Washington DC

USA, Day 26

“They killed Kenny!”

“Good,” Davenant muttered back, as they pressed their way into the semi-darkness.  “The bonus will only have to be split three ways.”

The Thumper had taken out all of the electric gadgets in the house.  There was no lighting any longer, apart from streams of light shining in from uncovered windows and open doors.  Davenant was starting to feel as if using the Thumper had been a tactical mistake, even though it prevented the target from holing up in a panic room and screaming for help from the police.  General Thomas might have resigned – or been sacked; the press reports were contradictory – but the police wouldn’t hesitate to answer a call from his house.  They might be on their way even now.

He glanced down at Kenny’s body and scowled.  One of the shots had gone right through his forehead, which meant the person they were facing was either very good or very lucky.  Handguns were rarely as accurate as the media made them seem and the shooter had been firing in the semi-darkness…and Kenny had been silhouetted against the light.  If only they’d been able to find plans for the house…but the General had been able to get the plans put in the secure files.  They had proved impossible to access without tipping their hand too much.

“Keep low,” he muttered, as they pressed onwards.  Every shadow could be hiding an enemy gunman, ready to plug them both.  He would have given anything for a grenade or ten, but grenades risked drawing too much attention.  The false IDs might not stand up to a through scrutiny.  “We have to catch them before they get out of the building!”

***

“They’re blocking our way out,” the General muttered.  His combat instincts seemed to be kicking in, the Colonel noted absently.  The enemy could be anywhere, hidden within the shadows.  He hadn’t even considered the need to bring night-vision gear with him.  And with the watches out, their cell phones were largely wasted too.  They couldn’t call for help from the guys in the van.  “Get up the stairs, quickly!”

The Colonel nodded, allowing Packman to take point.  He glanced up once as the former CIA agent headed up towards the light, his lanky form coming into view once or twice.  There was a gunshot flash as one of their enemies fired towards him, the slug smacking harmlessly into the plaster.  The Colonel fired back, but heard nothing apart from a curse.  He would have liked to believe that he’d hit the guy, yet he suspected otherwise.

“Go,” he hissed.  The General nodded and crawled up the stairs, while Packman took up position to provide covering fire.  It was a situation that called for grenades, the Colonel knew, and silently thanked God for the proof that the enemy weren’t carrying any grenades.  He was tempted to hole up and wait for the police, but they’d have to explain what they were doing in the General’s house and why.  The General reached the top and joined Packman, his handgun pointed at the enemy position.  As soon as the Colonel followed him, they both fired twice into the darkness.  There was no sign that they’d hit anybody, but it should discourage them from trying to give chase.

The Colonel was breathing hard when he reached the landing, but the old exhilaration was flowing through him.  A dark shadow appeared and vanished back into the shadow when they fired at it, a pair of shots coming back at them and striking the back wall.  The General motioned for Packman to follow him towards a large window while the Colonel blocked the stairs, struggling to open it.  As soon as it was open, the General pushed Packman out and then waved to the Colonel, motioning for him to follow.

“Hang on,” the Colonel said.  His hand had closed around a metal container.  It smelled like something from a cosmetic bag.  “GRENADE!”

He threw the container down the stairs, pulled himself to his feet and ran towards the window.  Behind him, there was a crash as the object he’d thrown hit the stairwell and fell towards the ground.  If they were really lucky, their enemies would dive for cover, convinced that a grenade was about to explode.  How long would it be before they realised that they’d been duped?

The window opened up onto a smaller roof, covering an outhouse.  Ignoring the dangers, the Colonel clambered out of the window and jumped down to the ground.  Packman and the General had already taken up covering positions; at the Colonel’s angry shout, they beat feet for the van.  Behind him, a face appeared at the window, glaring down at them.  The Colonel snapped a shot off at it, but the face jumped backwards and vanished back into the shadows.  Cursing, the Colonel turned and followed the other two towards the van.

Blake was already scrambling out of the van, assault rifle in hand.  Unlike the Colonel and Packman, he was wearing black overalls and a mask that would protect his identity if anyone was snapping away with a cell phone camera.  The Colonel had a feeling that the attacking team would have made sure to disable all local cameras before they struck, but it would only take one picture to put out a national alert.  General Thomas was a national hero, after all.  It struck him that they might end up being branded kidnappers or murderers – the police might assume that there was only one group of assassins – but it hardly mattered.  Right now, they had to get the General to safety before the cops showed up.

There was a shout behind them as two members of the enemy force emerged from the house.  They were both wearing suits that made them out to be federal agents, but even the Colonel – who regarded federal agents with as much enthusiasm as he viewed Islamic terrorists – would have conceded that federal agents wouldn't have started by gunning down the General’s wife.  America wasn't a police state yet, thank God, and it would never be if he had anything to say about it.

Blake took aim and opened fire.  The M16 barked twice; one of the enemy managed to throw himself to the ground and scramble to cover, but the other one was caught by repeated hits and almost flew over backwards before he hit the ground.  Blake whooped as the General was hauled into the van and then turned to open fire on the remaining enemy agent.  There was a roar of engines and two more cars appeared at the far end of the street, driving right towards their position.  The Colonel cursed and bellowed at Packman to take the wheel.  Reinforcements had finally arrived.  The enemy’s reinforcements.

***

Davenant had lost any sense of dignity when it came to self-preservation.  He didn't bother to take time to appreciate the General’s garden – lovingly planned by the General’s wife, with the help of a set of landscape gardeners – as he crawled for safety behind the hedge.  The bastard with the assault rifle would mow him down if he even showed a tiny part of his autonomy; dear God, how had the simple plan fallen apart so effectively?  They’d killed the General’s wife for nothing.  Worse, they’d exposed themselves to the police.  There would be plenty of physical evidence in the house leading back to them – and it wouldn't be long after that when the FBI came knocking on his door.

Cursing, he found a gap in the hedge and peered through it.  The reinforcements he’d ordered to come and help sanitise the house after they’d killed the General had run right into the prick with the assault rifle.  He’d shot out their engines and caused both cars to skid and collide in the middle of the street.  It was sheer luck that no one was caught in the crossfire, but even so...it looked as if a team he’d put together for several operations was going to be hacked to pieces on their first joint mission.  Remembering why he hated working in teams, he drew his reserve pistol and took careful aim.  The enemy holding the assault rifle was probably wearing body armour – even crappy civilian shit would be able to stop a handgun round – but he wasn't wearing anything covering his face apart from a mask.  And Davenant had been handgun champion in his unit before he'd been forced to resign or face a general court-martial.  Pointing the pistol, he fired a single shot...

***

“Blake!”

The shot came out of nowhere.  Blake Coleman stumbled against the van and then collapsed, blood pouring from a hole in his neck.  The Colonel knew at once that it would be fatal, that there was no way they could save his life unless they could get him to an emergency treatment centre – and there was none within easy reach.  Angrily, he fired several shots towards the place where the enemy lurked, but there was no way to know if he’d hit anyone.

Blake’s body thrashed once, and then lay still.  His face seemed almost intact, compared to the mess his neck had become, but there was no escaping the grim awareness that he was dead.  The Colonel swallowed hard, remembering that Blake had been the first one to accept the danger of getting involved with the underground – he hadn't deserved to die.  And yet there was nothing he could do.  They’d been careful to remove everything that might lead back to the survivalists, but the moment the FBI ran Blake’s fingerprints or DNA against the army database they’d know who he’d been.  And then...?  What would they be able to find from there?

“I’m sorry,” the Colonel said.  The sound of sirens began to echo in the distance, coming closer.  Someone had finally managed to call the police.  “I’m so sorry.”

Grabbing the grenades from the van, he threw them towards where the remaining enemy were hiding.  Explosions shattered the General’s shrubbery as the Colonel climbed into the van and barked an order.  Packman put the van in gear and they drove away, heading in the opposite direction to the sirens.  They’d already planned where they would hide the van, pick up a second vehicle and head down to the farm, precautions that Blake had helped plan.  The Colonel swallowed hard, feeling an odd urge to sit down and collapse himself.  He’d seen death before – it was one of the risks of military life – but Blake had seemed larger than life.  He hadn't deserved to die.

“Get us to the garage as quick as you can,” he ordered.  The van lurched as Packman pushed it right to the limits.  How quickly would the police react?  What would they be able to draw from security cameras, witnesses and forensic evidence?  Would they set up roadblocks...?  Or what?  “We will not let his death be in vain.”

He looked over at the General.  “I’m sorry about your wife, sir,” he said.  Mary’s death was still a gaping wound, even though she’d been dead nearly twenty-eight years.  The General had had ample reason to expect a long retirement, a chance to write his memoirs, and a quiet death in the arms of his wife.  Instead...his life had been torn apart by the aliens.  The thought made the Colonel grind his teeth.  He’d never hated anyone as much as he did the Snakes, right at that moment.

And words were so inadequate, somehow.

The General looked up at him.  His eyes were bitter.  The Colonel had seen that expression before, written on the faces of soldiers who’d been pushed beyond their limits, where the only thing keeping them going was sheer determination.  And soldiers in a war expected to be hit and to be able to hit back.  The General had probably never anticipated that his wife would become a target, or that his peaceful suburban home would become a battleground.

“Who were they?”  The General demanded.  “What did they want?”

The Colonel hesitated.  There was no way to know if the General had one of the alien bugs tracking him, monitoring his every word and motion.  To hear Toby tell it, the devices could only be detected when they were active – and removing them was impossible without the right tools.  Toby had said that NSA was working on a solution, something that could be deployed in the field, but the handful of technicians involved had refused to give any specific deadline.  The Colonel found it hard to blame them.  He wouldn't have wanted to make any promises either.

But the General had a right to know.  And besides, the aliens should know that the human race had found a way to put a finger in their eerie bright red eyes.

“They wanted you dead,” he said.  “I’m sorry, sir.”

***

Davenant swore under his breath as he heard the sirens getting closer.  Any thought of giving chase had to be abandoned.  His few surviving men would have to get themselves out of the area, leaving behind too much physical evidence for anyone to ignore.  God only knew what team had been covering the General’s ass, but it had done a very competent job and left him holding the bag.

“Get out of here,” he snapped.  The bodies would have to be abandoned.  They’d be traced, of course; luckily, even if they invoked the Patriot Act, they’d have problems tracking Davenant and the few survivors down by the time they’d escaped and covered their asses.  “Move it, now!”

Jumping into the car, he started the engine and drove away from the scene.  He’d barely turned the corner when two cop cars went screaming past, sirens blaring.  Davenant tensed, preparing to shoot his way out, but the cops ignored him, thankfully heading towards the General’s house.  He’d have to give his superiors a call, sooner rather than later.  They’d be angry if they heard about it on CNN.

Parking the car beside a family car, Davenant broke in through the window and jump-started the car.  It would be reported stolen soon, of course, but by then he would have swapped cars again, and again.  By the time he got home, the trail would have been thoroughly obscured.  Three cars down the line, he abandoned the last car in a service station and walked down towards a fast food joint, crammed with people.   Once inside, he walked into the toilet, removed his suit and changed into a more casual look.  Once he had tied his hair back, he looked completely different.  A pair of glasses completed the ensemble.

Carrying his old clothes in a rucksack, he walked down until he found an isolated table and opened his briefcase.  The briefcase had been provided by his employers, who’d claimed that it could protect anything electronic from the effects of a thumper.  Davenant had stuffed a completely clean – and largely untraceable – cell phone inside and, much to his relief, it worked as soon as he switched it on.

There was no point in trying to hide what had happened.  “We lost the client,” he said, and gave a brief account of the disaster.  “What do you want us to do now?”

“Return to your home and wait,” the voice said, finally.  Davenant disliked not knowing who he was working for, but the money was good enough to overcome his scruples.  “We will deal with the situation.”

Davenant blinked in surprise.  “But we had to leave bodies behind,” he objected.  “The authorities will track us down.”

“There will be no bodies,” the voice said.  “We will see to that.  Return to your home and wait.”

***

“...Breaking news in Washington DC,” the newsreader said.  The Colonel tapped the volume control, turning it up so they could hear the speaker better.  “General Elliott Thomas, former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, has been the victim of an attempted assassination by unknown personages.   Thomas, who resigned from the Joint Chiefs over controversial government programs, was targeted by a number of terrorist gangs who intended revenge for missions carried out by men under his command.  We can confirm that Mrs Thomas was murdered by the terrorists, while the General is critically injured and in an unknown location.  Speaking at a hastily organised press conference...”

“Turn it off,” the General snarled.  “My wife is dead and they blame it all on terrorists?”

“Quite understandable,” Packman said.  “Islamic terrorists have one hell of a motive to hunt you down and behead you.  It gives the people the sense that the story is already out, so they don't have to think about it much more.  The vast majority of people are sheep...”

“Shut the fuck up,” the General said.  “I should go and tell them I’m alive...”

“And then you will be targeted again,” the Colonel snapped.  He hadn't expected the General to be so balky, but then he hadn't expected the General’s wife to be murdered either.  The General could simply walk into a military base, yet if he showed himself too soon he would simply draw a targeting crosshair on his head.  And the aliens would be watching and waiting from high overhead.  “Your country needs you to wait until we can confirm that you’re clean...”

He sighed.  It had taken two hours to reach the safe house, a dingy little apartment of the kind normally rented to Chinese or East Asian illegal immigrants.  The owner was the kind of person who would take a few hundred dollars in exchange for keeping his mouth shut and not insisting on any kind of documentation.  It would suffice as long as the money kept coming.

“And then we can find a way to hit back,” he concluded.  One plan was already going through his head, but it would require the help of a very old friend – and one hell of a lot of luck.  “We can show them that humans won’t roll over so easily.”

“They’ll be laughing,” the General predicted, gloomily.  “Or didn't you realise that the country just rolled over for them?”

Chapter Eighteen

Washington DC/Virginia

USA, Day 27

“So you’re saying that you recovered no bodies?”

“I’m saying that the ongoing investigation prevents us from sharing any information with the press,” the officer said.  He was a young Chinese man who bore an uncomfortable resemblance to a young Bruce Lee.  Jayne might have been tempted to flirt with him if she hadn’t been convinced that he was trying to lead her up the garden path.  “There is a very real danger that the terrorists who launched this cowardly attack will be able to escape using information released into the public domain.”

So if no one gets caught it’s our fault, Jayne thought, coldly.  The once-peaceful Washington suburb had been shattered by a scene out of a gangster movie – and the Washington PD had, somehow, failed to respond within anything like an acceptable time.  Apparently, Jayne had heard through a blogger who currently served in the police force, there had been a series of errors with the computerized system for directing patrol cars and SWAT teams to the scene of the incident.  The locals weren’t happy at all about how the police force – paid for with their taxes – had failed to protect them.  She could see several overweight men – lawyers or lobbyists – making that point to the nearest police officers.  Behind them, lines of police tape kept them from returning to their homes.

Jayne shivered as she took in the scene.  Someone had been tossing explosives around, according to her source, and a number of cars and gardens had been wrecked by the detonations.  There were bullet holes everywhere, suggesting that someone had been indiscriminate with their fire.  It was sheer luck that no one had been hurt, apart from General Thomas and his wife.  There had been no official announcement of his death, but Jayne couldn’t see how anyone could draw any other conclusion.  He’d definitely been the target of the terrorist attack.

“Of course,” she said.  “I’d hate to help terrorists escape a police force that failed to react in time to the reports.”

The officer’s face darkened, but he refused to rise to the bait.  Jayne smiled to herself, although she had to admit that something was badly wrong.  Shaking her head, she turned and left the officer to brief the next curious reporter, while she walked up to one of the men who were trying to pick a fight with the policemen.  He was balding, almost certainly in his fifties, bristling with righteous indignation.  His children, after all, had been in the house when the shit hit the fan and all hell broke loose.  It was a point he was making to the policeman with more force than was actually necessary.

“And when,” he demanded, “can we return to our homes?  We cannot stay out here until you boys have finished your investigations – I have to get back to work and the wife has to cook.  I tell you…”

“Excuse me, sir,” Jayne said.  She held up her BAN card.  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened here…”

“World War Three breaks out on our street and the police don’t send anyone to do anything about it,” the man said.  “I’m telling you that I will not stand for it!  My neighbours and I will launch a joint suit against the Washington PD for failing to protect us from drug-dealing terrorists who turn our street into their private battleground!”

“I’m sure you will receive very favourable mentions in the press, sir,” Jayne said.  The lawyer didn’t recognise the sarcasm, or he chose to ignore it.  “What actually happened, from wherever you were?”

The lawyer took a more careful look at her, allowed his eyes to drift over the tops of her breasts, and then decided to be more cooperative.  “I was in the study, working on the brief for the case I have to present at court next week,” he said, in a slightly calmer voice.  “The next thing I know; the computer’s failed and my notes are lost.  The lights have gone out, so I thought it was a power cut, but the batteries refused to work too.  I get to my feet and shout for Sofia – that’s my wife, you know – to see if she’s lost power too.  The boys are screaming because their latest video game projector has failed, so I yell at them to shut up…and at that moment we hear gunshots.”

He looked down for a moment.  “I yell at everyone to get away from the windows and get my cell phone out,” he continued.  “The phone’s dead.  I check the landline and its dead too; they’re all dead.  I go climbing for the gun I keep stashed away, fearing that one of my enemies has come to extract revenge for putting him in jail, and yell at the family to get under cover.  And then the shooting grows louder and there are explosions…

“I stumble outside, gun in hand, and see the terrorists beating a hasty retreat in a van.  And then the police finally arrive, too late to catch anyone.  What were they doing?  Giving the latest politically-correct course to deprived teenagers while we, the taxpayers, were under siege in our own homes?”

Jayne shrugged.  “I’m sure that the courts will look favourably upon your demand for compensation,” she said, dryly.  “Thank you for your time.”

She wanted to take a look at the crime scene itself, but the police weren't letting anyone through the barrier.  General Thomas had been the target and that alone made it a federal crime.  The FBI’s forensic teams were already crawling over the wreckage, pulling the spent bullets out of the building and trying to match them up with recorded weapons.  It didn’t sound as if the assassins had been very professional, but what did that matter?  She had a nasty suspicion about who had carried out the hit.

Who benefited?  General Thomas had been the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff – right up until the point when he’d resigned, over the belief that the Galactic Federation’s terms were unacceptable.  Who benefited from his death?  The aliens, of course; who else?  And that meant, added to the deaths of various anti-alien bloggers, that they were eliminating their opponents one by one.  But surely someone would notice a pattern…

Maybe they had.  Maybe someone in the government was doing what they could to defeat the aliens.  Or maybe they just didn’t care.

Shaking her head, she started to walk away from the scene.  There was work to be done.

***

One of the more curious aspects of the Presidency was that a single question, asked absently, could spur Washington’s colossal bureaucracy into action.  If the President happened to ask about a minor matter, a full report would rapidly be generated and produced for his eye, often surprising the President who might have forgotten the whole issue by the time the report was produced and ready.  Toby, as the President’s Special Assistant, was cleared for all kinds of information – and, very rarely, he could slip a query into the system under the President’s name.  He hadn’t needed to run the risk this time, however; the President was also very concerned about General Thomas.

The report made curious reading.  Trained interrogators had spoken to all the witnesses and tried to put together a picture of what they’d seen, while expert forensic teams analysed the physical evidence.  Only years in politics had kept Toby’s face under control as he read the report, knowing that a single piece of physical evidence that led back to his father would also lead back to him.  And yet…there was nothing.  No sign of any blood traces that could point the way to Blake Coleman and his friends.  Someone had sanitized the crime scene and done it at terrifying speed.  What the hell had they done?

He skimmed through the final sections of the report, very carefully.  The Washington PD had suffered a series of minor computer malfunctions that had managed to steer their cars away from the crime scene for a few minutes, long enough for the terrorists to make their escape.  Toby – who didn’t believe in coincidence – had a suspicion that he knew what had happened; the aliens, hacking into police databases, had somehow manipulated the police control system to gain as much time as possible for their assassins to escape.  There were no clues that would lead the police to either the resistance or the assassins.  The FBI was investigating, of course, but all they’d found so far was little more than a motive.  General Thomas had long been targeted for death by several terrorist groups and someone had taken advantage of his resignation to attack him before the General could organise additional security.

It was believable, Toby knew, but he also knew that it was inaccurate.  The only body found on the scene belonged to the General’s wife, yet no one was asking what had become of the General.  All of the media reports so far had merely reported that the General’s home had been attacked by terrorists.  By the time any questions were raised, the lie would be planted so firmly that it would be almost impossible to dislodge.  And if anyone happened to turn up claiming to be the General, they might not be believed.  Or they’d be believed and someone would call the aliens.  Toby felt the noose tightening, almost imperceptibly.  Didn’t anyone else want to question the aliens?

The second report in front of him made grim reading, even for Toby.  The American forces based in Afghanistan and the Middle East were preparing to pull out, honouring the agreement the President had signed with the Galactic Federation.  Behind them, they left a seriously uneasy Middle East; the anticipated switch to fusion power had sent oil prices plummeting across the world.  The United States, China and several other nations were taking the opportunity to increase their stockpiles of oil, but there were dire rumours that Saudi Arabia, Iran and Iraq were already considering an oil blockade against the Western powers.  Without oil money flowing in, the regimes that ruled Saudi Arabia and Iran would be unable to stand against their own people.  And then chaos would consume the Middle East.

He shook his head, bitterly.  Soon, it wouldn’t be America’s problem any longer.  No one would care about the Middle East without oil.  Let them kill each other, the average American would say, and they might even be right.  Except...the United States had escaped – was escaping – one dependency in exchange for accepting another.  And the aliens were too big and strong to threaten with military force.

The reports made that clear.  Already, soldiers were being told that their enlistments were on the verge of being terminated.  The Pentagon was struggling with the need to cut the military down to only ten percent of its former self, while the economic shockwaves from cancelling military contracts and laying off support personnel were already starting to bite.  Only a few days had passed since the President had signed the treaty and the counter-protests were getting more organised.  They’d be much more organised if they realised just how badly some of their politicians had sold out the entire country.

He glanced at his email.  Gillian had emailed him a light flowery email, the kind that would cause little more than raised eyebrows if anyone happened to intercept it.  Toby picked out the underlying meaning without difficulty; Gillian wanted a meeting within the next twenty days.  Who knew, he wondered; she might have found something that would give them hope.

If not, Toby had no idea what they were going to do next.

***

The Colonel disliked funerals as a general rule, but he had always made a point of attending the funerals of his friends, comrades and former subordinates.  Blake Coleman had definitely been a friend and it gnawed at the Colonel that they hadn’t been able to recover his body from the streets.  They’d had to take Coleman’s wife into effectively protective custody, removing the guns, ammo and other supplies from Coleman’s house in Mannington, expecting the FBI and BATF to turn up at any moment.  So far, no one had appeared to follow up the lead, something that puzzled the Colonel.  Coleman’s fingerprints and DNA would be on file with the military authorities.  A quick cross-check and the FBI would know exactly who had died in front of the General’s house.

“Blake was a good man, a loyal servant of his country,” the Colonel said.  Coleman had always said that he wanted a small funeral, although he’d also joked that he wanted dancing girls and plenty of booze to cheer up the mourners.  It hadn’t been a very edifying conversation.  “He risked his life countless times to protect the innocents and kill the fuck-heads who believed that they had the right to wage war on civilian women and children.  I do not believe that he deserved to die.”

Coleman’s wife was weeping soundly, held by her eldest son.  Jack Coleman had been talking about signing up with the Marines and following in his father’s footsteps, but the Colonel suspected that that plan had already crashed and burned.  The politicians would probably eliminate the Marine Corps entirely when they started slashing the defence forces to meet the alien demands.  God knew that Congress had always been trying to eliminate the Marines.

“He was the first to die in a war that threatens everyone on this planet,” the Colonel continued.  “He will not be the last.  But we will not forget him and we will remember him as he was in life; a brave man, a loyal husband and a good father to his children.  We will not forget him.”

The group broke up slowly, the mourners heading back to the farmhouse for the wake.  Coleman’s will had given specific instructions; he’d put money aside for beer and ordered the Colonel – who had been named as his executor – to invite as many of his friends and former comrades from the Marines.  The Colonel knew that he couldn’t invite anyone outside the circle, but he’d silently promised himself that he’d hold a proper wake once the war was over – assuming he survived the coming struggle.  If the aliens were prepared to launch a hit on a famous General, they were clearly preparing to come into the open.

“I’m sorry, Blake,” he said, quietly.  It was a long tradition that American forces never left their comrades behind, dead or alive.  He’d had no choice, but it still left him feeling as if he’d failed Coleman – and Toby.  God alone knew what kind of shit would fall from high above – quite literally – if anyone drew the line between Blake Coleman and Toby Sanderson.  They’d been careful not to leave any written notes lying around that could have attracted attention, but what if they’d made a mistake.  The Colonel had no illusions.  If the FBI had enough clues, they’d put the rest together in very short order.  “Go with God, my friend.  Perhaps you can remind Him whose side he’s supposed to be on.”

Leaving the unmarked – and empty – grave behind, the Colonel started to walk back to the farmhouse.  There would be a wake.  And then they would have alien butt to kick.

***

The first impression was blinding white light, so bright that it seemed to burn into his skull.  He closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but the light poured through, sending daggers of pain plunging through his eyeballs and into his head.  It moved almost like a thing alive, shivering into his mind and burning through his thoughts.  Blake Coleman screamed in pain as his eyes snapped open.  The light seemed to be coming from everywhere, all around his body.  He couldn’t even tell if he was lying on something, or floating in the air.  His body seemed to have lost all sensation.  Once, long ago, he’d volunteered for a session in a sensory-deprivation tank.  It had been eerie and thoroughly unpleasant, but this was worse.  The light seemed almost alive, flowing into his mind.  And could he hear something…?

Hell, he thought, as the noise finally registered on his troubled mind.  A high-pitched whining note, so loud that he honestly couldn’t understand why he hadn’t heard it at once, was tearing through his ear drums.  Slowly, so slowly, a shadow appeared against the light, inching its way towards him.  Discovering that he could move his eyeballs, even if nothing else, Blake turned his eyes and saw a form silhouetted against the light.  It was so bright that he couldn’t make out any features, but it was clearly not human.  The movements were all wrong.

Understanding dawned.  He’d been hit – he’d known at once that the shot was fatal – and he’d been taken prisoner.  Somehow, they’d saved his life.  Had the Colonel’s son been wrong about the aliens, or did they merely want someone to interrogate?  Blake had undergone extensive Conduct after Capture courses, but he knew that everyone broke eventually.  The aliens could probably reach into his mind and extract the memories directly…

A new sound appeared from high above him.  Blake’s eyes whipped away from the alien form and stared upwards, squinting into the light.  A long thin needle was slowly emerging from high above, reaching down towards his skull.  Absolute panic overcame him and he struggled desperately against the unseen restraints, but it was no use.  His body simply refused to obey his orders.  Inch by inch, the needle lanced down until it was right above his forehead.  Blake braced himself as best as he could, watching helplessly as the alien form peered down at him.  A hand touched his forehead – it felt almost like touching a lizard – and pushed his hair away from his face.  And then the needle came down.

There was a long moment of absolute pain…and then nothing, nothing at all.

Chapter Nineteen

Washington DC

USA, Day 35

“…Gives me great honour to declare that this building is now open,” Jeannette McGreevy said.  Sitting in a seat at the front, which he’d been assured was a great honour, Jason somehow managed to avoid looking at his watch.  McGreevy had been talking for at least half an hour, touching on all the benefits the Galactic Federation would bring to Earth and how it would improve the quality of human life all over the planet.  Beside her, a handful of smaller alien devices sat and waited for inspection.  One of them cleaned and purified water; another broke down waste food and turned it into chewy bars that tasted funny, but provided all of the essential nutrients for human life.  “It is my fervent prayer that the Welcome Foundation will assist the entire human race in uplifting itself to the stars…”

Jason snorted, inwardly.  It was his fervent prayer, right now, that McGreevy would shut up and finish, allowing him to get some work done.  Even before the Welcome Foundation had been officially announced, they’d been swarmed with lobbyists and lawyers demanding everything from a private look at advanced alien technology to bans on the spread of alien technology that might put humans out of work.  Congress had voted the Welcome Foundation a huge budget – they’d used it to buy up a set of buildings in Washington and convert them to their use – but Jason had a suspicion that Crenshaw, Professor Cavendish and the remainder of the Board would have to use the budget merely to hire administrators to handle all the requests.  And lawyers; Jason was already thoroughly sick of lawyers.  Even being the Discoverer didn’t seem to deter them from calling him at all hours and nothing, including threats of dire retaliation, seemed to deter them.

He glanced over at the aliens and smiled inwardly.  It was hard to read the expressions on their faces, but he was learning – and if he was reading them correctly, they were as bored as Jason himself.  The bracelets they wore to denote rank glittered brightly in the sun, but their faces were twitching, unlike the inscrutable expression that normally showed to the human race.  He knew that he could have just been imagining it, yet he was sure that he was reading them correctly.  Maybe they could be talked into convincing McGreevy to keep her speeches down to thirty minutes only.  He wouldn’t have bet against half the crowd needing the toilet.

There was a cough from the chair behind Professor Cavendish and Jason hid a smile that threatened to turn into a yawn.  The Professor had brought along a young intern from the Witnesses called Vanessa Dawlish and she was clearly just as bored as himself and the aliens.  Jason suspected that the Professor was studying something other than alien science with her – biology, perhaps – but in the end it hardly mattered.  The Professor was the kind of tutor he’d loathed when he had been at College, a person more interested in his politics and grading classes by ideology, rather than concentrating on actual learning.  He allowed himself to wonder if he might win Vanessa away from her tutor.  Imagining sleeping with her was more entertaining than listening to a thoroughly boring politician.

“And with that in hand,” McGreevy finished, “I call upon the Discoverer, the person who made First Contact, to cut the ribbon and open the building.”

Jason stood up.  They’d had four rehearsals before they’d invited the press and he could do it in his sleep.  The cameras clicked loudly as he stepped towards the red ribbon, picked up a pair of silver scissors and snipped through the tape.  There was a loud cheer from the crowd as it fell back, allowing anyone who pleased to enter the building.  The Welcome Foundation had decided that one of the buildings would be always open to be public, allowing them to study the history of SETI on one side and drink in the promises made by the Federation in the other.

“Thank you,” the Secretary of State said.  “And now we will proceed to the lunch.”

It was several hours later before Jason managed to get into his new office and sit down.  The Welcome Foundation might be paying him, but they didn't seem to want him to actually do anything apart from exploiting his status to promote the Foundation to anyone who cared enough to listen.  Jason didn’t feel special at all; the Discovery had been nothing more than a massive stroke of luck.  He wasn't cut out to be a celebrity, rubbing shoulders with world leaders and the most eminent scientists on Earth.  On the other hand, there would be more access to the aliens.  Perhaps he could actually convince them to tell him more about their society, or their world.  The chance to walk on an alien planet was something he wouldn't pass up for anything.

There was a cough at the door.  Jason looked up guiltily, meeting the eyes of one of the CIA agents he’d met in the weeks since the Discovery.  Like pretty much everyone who had contact with the aliens, he’d been debriefed extensively after each meeting by a mixed committee of representatives.  The ones who had bothered to introduce themselves were from the CIA, the FBI and the DIA.  He had no idea which particular agency employed the others.  They were literally nothing, but silent listeners.

“I wasn't sleeping,” he said, not entirely truthfully.  He’d been on the verge of dozing off.  The agent, who was a brown-haired young woman who was remarkably intelligent, grinned at him.  “What can I do for you?”

“There’s a meeting in a nearby building,” she said.  She’d introduced herself as Daisy, but Jason wouldn't have put money on it being her real name.  “I think you might be interested in attending.”

Jason shrugged and stood up, retrieving his coat and donning it in one quick motion.  One thing that had been made clear to him was that failing to cooperate with the intelligence agencies would carry very heavy penalties.  Jason wasn't sure what they could do to the man who had discovered intelligent life in the universe – apart from humanity, of course – but he didn't want to find out the hard way.  Surprisingly, Daisy led him down the back staircase to avoid the crowds and into an unmarked car waiting for them at the rear entrance.  Jason frowned as the car headed through official Washington, the driver taking every short cut he could find, before it pulled up outside a regular office block.  They were a long way from Langley.

“Come on in,” Daisy said.  “I think you’re expected.”

The interior of the building was unremarkable, a simple suite of apartments housing smaller corporate offices in Washington.  Jason noted that the security guard looked bored, as if he wasn't paying any attention to what was going on about him, but there was armour plating on the walls and cameras everywhere.  Security was a premium in Washington, yet it seemed a little excessive.  But if the CIA had a presence in the building, or owned the whole building, they would want security.  Daisy confiscated his cell phone, MP3 player and his watch, checking that he wasn't carrying anything electronic with him.  He was mildly surprised that they hadn't insisted on a strip search before they entered the elevator and it took them down into a basement.  Daisy held up a hand when it reached its destination and motioned for Jason to go ahead of her.

“I’ll be staying here,” she said.  “Good luck.”

The elevator doors closed behind her before Jason could ask any questions.  Puzzled, he stared around, looking for someone – anyone.  A person was sitting in one armchair in a corner of a medium-sized room, waiting for someone.  He stood up, revealing a brown-haired man with a shock of uncontrollable hair.  Before Jason could say anything, he tapped his lips and beckoned Jason through a door and into a smaller meeting room.  The door hissed closed behind them.

“I’m sorry about the cloak and dagger routine,” the man said.  “Please allow me to extend my congratulations on your new role in the Welcome Foundation.”

There was something in his voice Jason didn't like at all.  “Thank you, sir,” he said, stiffly.  He still hadn't sat down.  “Might I ask what this is all about?”

The man leaned forward.  “Do you know where you are?”

Jason shook his head.  “No sir,” he said, “and I don't know who you are, either.”

“Nor should you,” the man said.  He shrugged, expressively.  “My name is Sanderson and I have tried hard to stay out of the public eye.  I trust I can rely on your discretion?”  He inclined one eyebrow at Jason, who nodded shortly.  “You may be interested to know that this building is designed to serve as a secure facility for various intelligence services.  Among other things, the basement is surrounded by devices intended to ensure that any surveillance devices carried into the building are unable to record or transmit while inside the premises.”

Something clicked in Jason’s mind.  “That’s why Daisy took my cell phone,” he said.  “You were afraid I was going to record our conversation.”

“Not you,” Sanderson said.  He leaned forward, intently.  “I’ve been reading your debrief records from your sessions following your meetings with alien representatives.  In all of them, you express frustration at their reluctance to share information – even information that has no military value.  You’ve even implied that they’re not being completely honest with us.  Would you care to comment on that?”

Jason frowned.  He’d come utterly unprepared to the meeting, but he’d never said anything that he no longer believed.  Besides, it was a chance to express his concerns to someone who clearly possessed some form of political power.

“They seem reluctant to talk about anything,” he said.  “Every single person who meets one of the aliens has asked where they come from, which star gave them birth.  And they refuse to answer, or they give us a vague answer that could point to any one of a million stars.  They won’t tell us about their technology, even the technology they want to introduce into our society.  We’re going to have to buy the fusion reactors off them to power our cities unless we figure out how they work.  And if there are other races in the Galactic Federation, where are they?  We don't know.”

Sanderson frowned.  “What do you think about them?”  He asked.  “You’ve met more aliens than anyone else, I believe.  What do you make of them?”

Jason hesitated, struggling to put his thoughts into words.  “They look down on us,” he said, finally.  “When I talk about SETI to them, they seem to view it as amusing, like a child playing with toys.  They think we’re stupid for not advancing into space; they think we’re stupid for fighting wars all the time.  And yet...there’s something just a little disturbing about it.  I don't think they think very highly of us.”

He shook his head.  “But they don’t tell us anything about themselves,” he added.  “We don't know how they organise themselves, or how their government works.  We don't know if we’re talking to big shots who can organise things to suit themselves or relatively minor officials.  We don't know how many of them there are on Earth, or what they’re doing crawling all over our planet.  And none of us, not a single one, has been allowed to visit any of their starships.  We haven’t even been allowed to ride in their shuttles.”

“I see,” Sanderson said.  “Can you keep a secret?”

Jason nodded.  “Sure,” he said.  “What kind of secret?”

“One that could get you killed,” Sanderson said.  His eyes met Jason’s and refused to look away.  “Understand this; whatever you decide, if you breathe a word of it to anyone, it could get you killed.  It will get you killed.  This is not the time to decide that information wants to be free or some other dumb belief like that, kid.  This is the real world.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Jason said.  He swallowed, hard.  “Do you want me to spy on the aliens?”

Sanderson’s eyes met his, again.  “Among the other remarkable tricks built into this building,” he said, slowly, “is a security suite that is supposed to allow us to detect alien bugs.  They’ve been stinging hundreds of people with tiny bugs, too tiny to see.  You may be carrying one now, but if so...it’s not transmitting.  They’ve been spying on us before they made First Contact.  We don't think they come in peace.

“You may see something that can help us,” he added.  “You’re going to be spending more time with the Snakes than almost anyone else in the future.  Part of the reason we pulled strings to help you get your position was that you were willing to cooperate with the CIA’s debriefing team.  We need you to serve your country by monitoring the Snakes for us.”

Jason stared at him, thinking fast.  It seemed impossible to believe, yet...all of the alien words, all of their evasions and their reluctance to discuss anything of a serious nature with humanity’s scientists, pointed to one conclusion.  The Snakes didn't come in peace.  And that meant that humanity was staring down the barrels of an alien invasion.

“Why me?”  He managed, finally.  He’d dreamed of being someone important – until his dream had come true.  He was the Discoverer; he’d done something that would never be repeated...and if it had been luck, it was his luck.  But now the dream was becoming a nightmare and humanity – if it survived – might learn to start cursing his name.  “Isn't there anyone else involved?”

“You mean; someone else we can insert into a place in the Welcome Foundation?”  Sanderson shook his head, slowly.  “I’m afraid not, Jason.  Most of SETI’s upper board are people who sincerely believe that the Galactics come in peace.  They don’t feel any urge to cooperate with our debriefing teams - and if we asked if they could keep an eye on the Snakes for us, they’d probably go confess all to the Snakes at the earliest opportunity.”

“Or make it worse,” Jason said, thinking of Professor Cavendish.  He’d been talking about the utopia that would blossom on Earth once nuclear weapons had been dismantled and the military-industrial complex had been swept into the wastebasket of history.  How long would it be before it occurred to him to start claiming that the military was hiding nukes somewhere in the United States?  Coming to think of it, it was quite possible that Russia, or China, or Pakistan was considering cheating and trying to stash some nukes away somewhere safe.  “What do you want me to do when I find something interesting?”

Sanderson reached inside his suit and produced a single business card.  It read T SAMSON, INTERNATIONAL IMPORT/EXPORT and gave a Washington telephone number and email address.  Below it, there was a neat line of text promising to deliver anywhere, anytime, and a sly note that the company was pleased to observe discretion in all of its business dealings.

“The company in question isn't important,” Sanderson said.  “When you look at the numbers, switch each number with the number required to take it up to ten – and then dial that number and leave a time and place within the next two days where and when you can be contacted.  If urgent, say so, but don’t say anything else.  The chances are good that the Snakes are monitoring our communications.  If anyone sees the card...”

“...Say that it’s one of the cards lobbyists are always giving me,” Jason guessed.  “And what if I need to talk to you immediately?”

“Say so on the voicemail,” Sanderson said.  “And don’t even think about saying something – anything – that might attract attention.  We cannot afford to make even one mistake.”

Jason swallowed, again.  “I understand, sir,” he said.  “I won’t let you down.”

***

Toby watched expressionlessly as Jason Lucas – a thoroughly decent young man completely out of his depth – was escorted out of the building and back to the Welcome Foundation.  The schedule had called for more tours of the building, where the Foundation would attempt to impress both the media and the Galactics with their plans for the future.  Some of the plans were even quite impressive.  Toby might have been tempted to believe them if he hadn't known that the aliens were watching the human race, covertly monitoring the human compliance with their demands.

The thought made him curse under his breath.  If the aliens were monitoring the human race closely, it might be impossible to stash more weapons – nukes in particular – somewhere where they could be used if necessary.  The aliens seemed to be utterly paranoid about nukes, to the point where they insisted on counting every nuke in the arsenal and marking them off one by one.  They seemed much less concerned about biological weapons, yet that made a certain kind of sense.  It was highly unlikely that any virus known to humanity would be able to infect a Snake.  So much for The War of the Worlds.

And there were other reports from Africa...

He scowled as he stood up.  The human race hadn't been able – or, rather, willing – to do anything about the genocides in Central Africa.  It hadn't been long before the Snakes became involved, running a refugee camp and actually providing some security for the thousands of displaced refugees.  Hell, they’d won hundreds of admirers for actually helping people who needed help.  And maybe they even deserved it.

Toby shook his head as he headed out the door.  Gillian was waiting for him in another secure compound, only halfway across Washington.  And then he had to meet with the President, and then exchange notes with the British and French representatives...his life was always busy.  And interesting...

And if Jason Lucas was placed at risk, it was a risk Toby was willing to take.  Before it was all over, God alone knew how many people would die.

Chapter Twenty

Washington DC

USA, Day 35

“He just isn't himself anymore.”

Callie Buckley was the type of woman Jayne tended to dislike.  She was overweight, with an attitude that suggested that she didn’t believe that she was overweight and that anyone who dared point out the elephant in the room would earn an enemy for life instantly.  Her hair was dyed and she wore clothes that tended to disguise her figure.  All in all, Jayne was privately surprised that the marriage had lasted, but it was clear that she loved her husband and he loved her in turn.

“I see,” Jayne said.  She’d been careful to visit when Joe Buckley was at the Welcome Foundation, just to ensure that she didn’t run into him.  A certain kind of woman resented the presence of another woman when with her husband and she had a feeling that Callie would not have been amused if she had visited Buckley.  “How is he not himself any longer?”

Callie gathered herself, visibly.  “The Joe I married was a tough son of a bitch,” she said.  “He was strong, determined and loved the Navy.  There were times when I thought he loved the Navy more than he loved me.  And when he left and started writing those books, he was still madly in love with the Navy, despite all its warts.  I loved having him back, even if there were times when I felt as if he was still courting the Navy – his other woman.”

She laughed, nervously.  “He wasn’t one of those hippie freaks who think that the Snakes are going to bring peace, prosperity and unlimited food and drink for people who have never worked a day in their lives,” she added.  “He was certain that the aliens had their own reasons for visiting Earth and that we might not like them when we discovered what they were.  And then he was invited to the alien base.  I don’t even know why he went; he told me that he expected to be flattered, but not to be told anything useful.”

Jayne frowned, thoughtfully.  “Do you know why he was selected?”

“The letter he received from SETI said it was because he was a famous writer,” Callie said.  “He was always getting invitations to conventions and suchlike – he once told me that if he took up every speaking engagement he’d never have time to write.  And I think a lot of his fans probably suggested him to someone.  They used to write him such flattering letters, even the ex-military people.  Joe kept each and every one of them.”

She shook her head.  “So he went,” she said, “and now he’s not the same man anymore.  They did something to him on that base, something that turned him into their dupe.  He’s always telling people how much one can trust the Galactic Federation, how they have Earth’s best interests in mind and how we will benefit from their presence.  And he won’t talk about what happened at the base.  It’s like watching one of the brats from the Demon Headmaster!  You ask him a question and he’ll rattle out a rote response…it’s like someone hypnotised him or something.”

“I see,” Jayne said.  “Are you sure he didn’t just have a conversion when he saw what they could do?”

“I’m sure,” Callie said.  “The old Joe loved food, drink, sex and – sometimes – fighting and it was my job to provide all four of them.  Now he’s barely into any of them; he nibbles his food, avoids alcohol and seems uninterested in sex.  And when I pry, as I do sometimes, he doesn’t even rise to the bait.  He’s a fucking pod person!”

“They did something to him,” Jayne said.  It made a certain kind of sense.  Joe Buckley was one of the people who shaped public opinion.  If the aliens could convert someone into a loyal follower – and the CIA had carried out all kinds of experiments into brainwashing – why wouldn’t they take advantage of the opportunity?  Except…if Joe Buckley was no longer the man he’d been, the process obviously wasn't perfect.  It might actually explain why the aliens hadn’t simply converted everyone who’d visited one of their bases; besides, there were plenty of people who took the aliens at their word without needing to be brainwashed.  “Does he have nightmares?”

The look Callie gave her – a look of absolute terror – convinced her that she was right.  “He does,” she confirmed.  “You don’t understand; even when we were fighting, I felt safe with my Joe.  And now he’s quiet, gets into bed without a bit of slap and tickle, and has terrible nightmares when he’s asleep.  I watch him tossing and turning, but when he awakens he doesn’t remember anything – anything at all!  He doesn’t even have the energy to argue with me over his dreams.  I don’t feel safe with him any longer.”

Jayne reached into her pocket and produced one of her business cards.  “If you have any problems, call me at once,” she said, firmly.  “I think…”

“I already have a problem, you stupid bitch,” Callie snapped.  She sounded as if she were on the verge of a breakdown.  “I want my husband back!”

She stood up and stalked around the room.  “God knows, I’d almost be happier if he was hitting me rather than being a…fucking pod person,” she said.  Tears were streaking down her face.  “He’s not human anymore!  It’s like he’s joined one of those crazy cults and become one of their loyal followers and isn’t allowed to share anything with non-believers…”

“It’s going to be all right,” Jayne said, standing up and giving the older woman a hug.  “Take my card; if you don’t feel safe any longer, perhaps you should leave and stay with a friend…”

“But Joe won’t care,” Callie protested.  “The new Joe wouldn’t care if I stayed or left!”

Jayne asked several more questions, but Callie was too upset to answer properly.  All she could do was offer Jayne a folder containing Joe Buckley’s correspondence for the last few months and a file of extracts from various novels.  Most of them referred to a character called Joe Buckley meeting a horrific death at the hands of various enemy forces, including one where he was killed making love to his superior in a tank.  Jayne put those aside and started to read through the letters.  The letter from SETI was bland and largely uninformative.  Joe Buckley had been invited to join one of the groups visiting an alien base; would he be interested.  There was nothing else, apart from a pile of unopened letters.  The date on the envelopes suggested that they’d been posted after Buckley returned from the alien base.

Shaking her head, Jayne bade Callie farewell.  In some ways, Callie was alarmingly like some of the abused wives she’d met while looking for human interest stories.  She was being tormented by her husband, but she couldn’t leave him – except Joe Buckley seemed to be showing no interest in her at all.  Whatever the aliens had done to him had permanently damaged his mind in some respects, yet in others he could almost function normally.

She froze as a thought ran through her mind.  What if the aliens were improving their technique?  What if they were arranging for senior military officers to get a tour of their base – and brainwashing them into compliance with alien commands?  The entire military was undergoing a massive reshuffle and reduction in force; with a little care, brainwashed officers would be left in high places, while free-thinking officers would be dismissed from the service.  And then they’d own the military…

Cursing, she hailed a cab.  It was time to start transmitting what she knew to the world – and pray that the aliens couldn’t track her down afterwards.

***

“It looks,” Toby said dryly, “as if a ghetto blaster had been unfaithful with a television.”

Gillian snorted.  The device on the table had clearly been put together in haste, with a dozen components linked together into one confusing mass.  Toby could do basic computer repair work, but he’d never had to actually open up a hard drive and repair the interior, not when a replacement could be easily obtained from a computer store.  Gillian and her NSA colleagues knew computers inside out.  They could put one together by hand out of a remarkable selection of mundane devices.

“The next model will be sexier, I promise,” she said.  “Whatever it looks like, the device is capable of detecting an alien bug when transmitting at several metres.  I think that the devices actually respond to pings from the alien starships, so we’re attempting to trigger an automatic dump response from the bugs we have in the vault.  Unfortunately, if we ping a device out in the open, the aliens will pick up the unscheduled dump and know that something’s wrong.”

Toby frowned.  “Rather like having a rogue signal opening a garage door?”

“Something like that,” Gillian agreed.  “The aliens don’t seem to use a constant stream of signals from their devices, which makes perfect sense when you consider that we might pick up a signal if it was constantly there – or it might scramble some of our transmissions.  I think that given enough time we might be able to construct a jamming device, but I’m afraid that that will definitely tip off the aliens.  There’s no other logical reason for us producing such a device.”

“Because the Chinese aren’t as capable as the aliens,” Toby agreed.  The aliens would know that the device was aimed at them, if only because there were no other possible targets.  And then they’d know that they’d been rumbled.  “What are they playing at?”

He scowled down at the table.  The aliens seemed to be toying with the human race; every day brought more and more reports of odd alien activity, activity that seemed to make little sense.  They were buying up food surpluses from American farms, driving prices upwards; they were placing orders with American firms for technology that had to be remarkably primitive compared to anything they had developed for themselves.  One scientist from NASA who had been quietly streamlined into the growing resistance had speculated that the aliens actually wanted to start mining the Moon and nearby asteroids.  Once out of the gravity well, human technology might be just as capable as alien technology – and easier to repair if it broke.  Surprisingly, no one seemed to be raising any objections to mining the lunar surface; the environmental groups seemed happy to concentrate on shutting down factories across the globe instead of fretting about humans polluting the moon.

“They want something from us and they can’t just take it,” Gillian said.  She stroked her chin thoughtfully.  “They clearly have a plan…”

“And we’re dancing to their tune,” Toby said, sharply.  Already, military units were being disbanded or reorganised into the forces that would remain part of the United States of America’s military machine.  It would be a leaner, but meaner army – at least according to the Pentagon’s press releases.  Toby knew that hundreds of military officers were protesting their orders in the strongest possible terms, if only because the pull-out of American forces risked destabilising the world.  And once the military had been cut down sharply…

Some of the officers had received orders to preserve as much military material as possible.  It was relatively easy to store tanks rather than dismantle them, or place aircraft in sealed hangers for later use if necessary.  An alarming amount of military equipment seemed to have gone missing, although most reports indicated that it had been the result of miscounting or items being cannibalised to keep vehicles operating.  Toby knew that most of the missing material – with the paper trail carefully fudged – had been placed into hiding, but he didn’t know precise details.  God alone knew just how closely the aliens were monitoring the United States.  Once Gillian’s device went into full production, at least they might be able to start marking out some clear areas.

“The entire world is dancing to their tune,” Gillian said.  “I heard on the grapevine that Iran has been handing out contracts on alien heads.”

Toby nodded.  The Government of Iran was seeing cash-flow problems as the implications of fusion power sank in.  They’d been threatening everything from war to terrorism, but the world wasn’t paying much attention.  For once, the Middle East wasn't the centre of world attention – and they hated it.  The Secret Service had quietly warned that there might be swarms of terrorists descending on alien bases, intent on avenging the loss of the oil weapon.  Toby privately gave governments like Saudi Arabia no more than a few more months before they were destroyed by their own people.  And then they’d discover that they couldn’t drink oil.

“So far, no one has dared strike at the aliens,” he said.  “What will they do when someone finally manages to take a shot at a Snake?”

He shook his head.  No one knew, not least because no one knew anything about alien mentalities.  The United States had been willing to tolerate a great deal of terrorism before finally attempting to take the war to the terrorists after 9/11.  But then – everyone had known that raising the ante by invading terrorist-supporting countries could result in more trouble at home.  And when the United States had let Iran get away with taking and holding hostages, everyone with a grudge had felt as if they could take a shot at the United States and get away with it.

But no one knew how the aliens would react…

A thought appeared in his mind.  It was a thoroughly nasty thought, one his father would probably have understood and approved.  But then, his father had friends who believed that Saudi Arabia and Iran were funding left-wing organisations that were undermining American freedoms and intending to replace the Constitution with Islamic Law.  It was a crazy idea, yet it might just work…and if they were lucky, it would take some of the pressure off the United States.  And it might just force the aliens to show their hand.

“I’m going to need you to be on detached duty for a while,” he said.  His father’s growing resistance organisation would need technical help.  Besides, he would have felt happier if Gillian was out of Washington.  The noose was growing tighter and he had an uncomfortable feeling that the shit was about to hit the fan.  How could the people outside, thronging the streets of Washington, be unaware of the looming catastrophe?  “Your superiors have already okayed it.  You’ll be working with an underground unit without links to Fort Meade.”

Gillian blinked at him.  “Why me?”

Toby considered several answers, and then settled upon the truth.  “Because I trust you,” he said.  “Because you already know what is at stake.  Because you’re the one who developed these bug-detectors and we need you on site so we can ensure that we’re clean.”

“All right,” Gillian said, reluctantly.  “And what will you be doing in the meantime?”

“You don’t want to know,” Toby said.  He’d have to have a meeting with the CIA and NSA – and then probably a discussion with an ally in the United States Special Operations Command.  At least there were so many units being moved around the globe right now; no one would even notice if one happened to be diverted.  And he had just the right unit in mind.  “Trust me; you really don’t want to know.”

“You can take me out to dinner tonight, then,” Gillian said.  “I’ll have to get my files organised for the move, and then pick up a few hundred spare parts for this monster.”  She tapped the detector with a long finger.  “I think it will work fine in the field, but I’m not sure just how well it will work, if you take my meaning.”

Toby nodded.  His father had been fond of complaining about expensive gadgets that worked perfectly in the lab and failed constantly in the field.  The United States had had thousands of companies intent on getting military contracts, each one armed with thousands of lobbyists intent on convincing Congressmen that their device would change the shape of modern warfare – and, just incidentally, ensure higher levels of employment in the Congressman’s home district.  It wouldn’t be the first time Congress had insisted that the military bought something that was of little use in the field.  If nothing else, the military cutbacks would force those firms to switch to non-military production in a hurry.  Their lobbyists would soon be out of work.

“You’ll be on hand to fix it,” he said.  He’d miss her, he knew.  Sharing the occasional dinner with her kept him going at times.  There were still times when he wondered if he could take their relationship to the next level.  But that would have to wait until afterwards – if there was an afterwards.  “Remember; paper letters only, written in code…”

“Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs,” Gillian said, tartly.  Toby flushed as she grinned at him.  She knew more about codes and security than he’d ever learned, or would ever learn.  Gillian might never have been out in the field in her life, but it hadn’t stopped her rising in the NSA.  Sheer competence alone had forced her forward.  “I know basic security precautions…”

There was a knock on the sealed door.  Toby cursed as he opened the door and saw an NSA officer, holding a secure phone in one hand.  “Mr Sanderson, sir, there’s been an emergency alert from the White House.  You’re to make your whereabouts known to the Secret Service at once!”

Toby shared a long look with Gillian.  Had the aliens decided to stop playing games and launch the invasion, or had something else happened?

“I understand,” he said.  His secure phone had been left outside, but it would be easy to fetch it and place a call.  “I’m on my way.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Washington DC

USA, Day 35

The Secret Service spared no expense.  A helicopter picked him off the roof of the NSA building and carried Toby over towards the White House.  Toby could see armed Marines patrolling the grounds, with Secret Servicemen staying well back and policemen working frantically to get the mob of protesters at the gates moved back for their own safety.  As soon as the helicopter touched down, a mob of security officers surrounded him, checked his identity and then pulled him into the White House and down the steps to the bunker.  The President was heavily protected at all times, but this was something greater.  Toby had been a child the last time anyone had carried out an attack in Washington, when an airliner had been flown into the Pentagon.  It had been chaotic back then too.

“It’s bad news,” the President said.  He looked stunned, as if someone had hit him neatly between the eyes.  It was hardly the most reassuring look for the most powerful man in the world, but then…all of the politicians who might be good in a crisis tended to be driving out of the running before they could even stand for President.  And then those who survived often found that they were not up to handing crisis after crisis.  “Air Force One has gone down in midair.”

Toby stared at him.  Air Force One – actually, there were several planes decked out as Air Force One, but only one holding the title and callsign at any given time – was normally the President’s exclusive transport.  But the President had had to send the Vice President to Japan to reassure the Japanese about America's commitment to certain treaties and, just to ensure that they took him seriously, he’d ordered him to fly on Air Force One.  And now something had happened to his flight…he’d been over the Pacific Ocean, if memory served, escorted by a flight of Tomcats from a carrier heading home to the United States.

“My God,” he said, finally.  Why…who…if the President was the world’s number one target for terrorist activity, the Vice President certainly ranked as number five or six.  His security was almost as good as the President’s security; there was literally no more secure aircraft than Air Force One.  And the Japanese wouldn’t have played fast and loose with American security, not like some Middle Eastern nations he could name.  It was already shaping up into a horrific nightmare.  Fingers would be pointed everywhere…

He thought rapidly.  Who benefited?  Islamic terrorists would definitely be the prime suspects, but very few of the groups that had managed to remain active after the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq would have the capability to mount such a successful strike.  Most of them had started to concentrate on soft targets, mainly outside the United States.  No halfway sane terrorist wanted to give the United States an excuse to wage war on their host countries.  And then there were the aliens…

On the face of it, the aliens didn’t benefit at all.  The Vice President had been, like so many others in government, a compromise candidate.  He’d brought valuable support to the President’s administration, but few other qualities of value.  On the other hand, he had been a good sounding board for some of the President’s qualities and he balanced the ticket nicely against Jeannette McGreevy…

Toby would have sworn aloud if he’d been alone.  Jeannette McGreevy, the Secretary of State, the woman who was using the aliens to build an impregnable power base for herself…and a woman who stood alarmingly close to the Presidency.  After the Vice President, the Line of Succession ran through The Speaker of the House of Representatives and The President Pro-Tempore of the Senate before reaching the Secretary of State, but neither of them could be expected to serve as Vice President, if only because they had few backers.  McGreevy was almost the only choice for Vice President, yet she couldn’t be trusted.  And the President didn’t know it…

He looked down at the President, who seemed tired and worn.  Somewhere on his person, or scattered around the room, was an alien bug, a surveillance device so tiny as to be literally invisible to the naked eye.  He couldn’t reach out to the President, or tell him about the resistance…or, for that matter, convince him to invoke presidential authority to help the resistance.  If he did, the aliens would know…and then what would they do?

***

“We flew SAR aircraft out of Diego Garcia to link up with helicopters from the Truman,” Major Dalton said.  He sounded nervous.  Briefing the President was never easy at the best of times.  Toby could hardly blame him.  Washington sometimes operated on the ‘shoot the messenger’ theory of government.  “They found nothing, apart from trace debris.  The aircraft literally disintegrated in midair.”

The President seemed more composed now, but Toby suspected that it was partly an act.  “What happened?”

“We have gun camera footage from one of the drones overseeing the flight,” Dalton said.  Air Force One never flew alone, no matter what the movies claimed; there had been a powerful fighter escort from the carrier accompanying the flight.  Terrorists might not fly in fighter jets, but one of the more persistent nightmares was a rogue state launching an attempt to shoot Air Force One down.  But they should have been safe over the Pacific Ocean...  “The footage suggests, after a preliminary look, that there was a bomb on the flight, which detonated with impressive force.  They would all have been dead in the first few seconds after detonation.”

Toby frowned, inwardly.  No one should have been able to slip a bomb onto the aircraft.  The USAF only put the most reliable flight crew on Air Force One, and the ground crew were all specially trained and vetted.  There might have been a lone Japanese terrorist who’d somehow managed to get onto the base housing Air Force One while the Vice President was in Japan, but Toby couldn't see how he would have been able to conceal a bomb onboard.  The security sweeps should have picked up anything before the Vice President got anywhere near the plane.  No one – no one human – would have been able to plant  a bomb on Air Force One.

He would have expected the aliens to simply shoot the aircraft down from orbit, but he had to admit that this was more subtle.  A laser-type directed energy weapon could have only one possible source, an alien starship.  It would have been an open act of war.  This way, there would be considerable doubt over who had carried out the bombings, rendering it impossible to extract revenge.  The aliens had carried out a neat strike and there was no way to prove what they’d done.

“We’re currently organising a sweep to pick up what remains of the wreckage, but the surrounding environment will make that difficult,” Dalton continued.  “Once recovered, the wreckage will be flown to the nearest base for analysis, while the FBI conducts interviews of personnel who could have conceivably planted a bomb on the craft.  We’ll vet everyone who might have had any access at all, Mr President.  We will find the people responsible.”

The President’s eyes crossed the room to the CIA Director.  “Who,” he said, coldly, “was responsible for this?”

Toby winced.  The CIA Director had almost certainly come to the same conclusion as himself, but they didn't dare say it out loud, not when the aliens might hear.  No, they would hear.  Gillian’s device might not be ready for mass-production yet, but the NSA had deployed a series of increasingly sophisticated detectors in the White House and they’d located at least nine active bugs.  There could be dozens more that weren't transmitting to anyone.

And McGreevy, who was almost certainly a traitor, was sitting at the other side of the room.

“Well, we’re only just looking at communications intercepts and human intelligence sources, but the general conclusion is that the attack was carried out by Islamic terrorists,” the CIA Director said, finally.  “Three of the crewmen assigned to Air Force One were Muslim; all three of them went down with the plane.  There has been a considerable upswing in chatter between known terrorist cells over the past two weeks and it is quite possible that one of them has made the shift from plotting to action.”

“A very clever strike,” the President observed, bitterly.  “How did this happen?”

There was an uncomfortable pause.  “Well, Mr. President,” the CIA Director said, finally, “there are always problems with ensuring that the security barriers surrounding any target are impregnable.  We are not allowed to discriminate against anyone just on suspicion, or because they practice a religion that includes terrorists who want to kill us all as brutally as they can.  At times, people slip through the holes and managed to get into a position they can use to hurt us badly.”

“So these terrorists managed to join the USAF and operate undetected for years before they struck,” the President said.  He sounded angry; Toby didn't blame him.  The cock-and-bull story they’d given him made the USAF’s security division look very bad.  And no matter what happened, chances were that three innocent crewmen were going to be posthumously declared the worst terrorists since the men who’d struck at America on 9/11.  The lives of their families would be blighted by the investigators, trying to prove a link between their dead relatives and international terrorism.  And it was quite possible that the aliens had turned someone on the plane into an unwitting traitor.  “Why now?”

“The Middle East has been going through a series of political earthquakes,” the CIA Director said.  “The price of oil has fallen dramatically ever since we started to turn to fusion power.  We may not have made a complete shift just yet, but perceptions are important – and perceptions say that there won’t be more than two years before demand for oil falls sharply.  And then the money runs out.”

Toby nodded.  The latest alien miracle introduced by the Welcome Foundation was a set of batteries that could store vast amounts of power almost endlessly, turning the long-held dream of electric cars into a reality.  All one had to do was plug the battery into the mains socket – power supplied by fusion, of course – and the car would be ready to drive within hours.  The designers had pulled an engine out of a popular car, replaced it with a battery, and let the results speak for themselves.  There were already ecological pressure groups getting organised to demand that all newly-produced cars were powered by fusion power, rather than gas.

“I think we will be looking at far more terrorism in the near future,” the CIA Director said.  “Whatever they say openly, far too many Arab governments – Saudi and Iran in particular – back the terrorists.  If they can force the Galactic Federation to abandon Earth, they could reclaim their former prominence as oil suppliers to the world.”

“So they’ll keep attacking the Federation,” the President said.  “We may need to increase security at their bases...”

“I think there is another problem,” McGreevy said, sharply.  “How do we know that this was an Islamic strike at all?”

“We don’t,” the CIA Director admitted.  “However, the Islamic terrorists have been threatening the Galactic Federation...”

“And so they struck at the Vice President,” McGreevy said.  “I’m not sure I follow their logic.  They want to hurt the Galactic Federation so they kill the Vice President of America?  Where’s the logic in that?”

“Terrorists,” the CIA Director said, carefully, “tend to look for spectacular strikes.  Destroying an aircraft in flight is irritating, but largely harmless in any long-term sense.  Assassinating the Vice President, however, gives the impression that they can strike anywhere – and if the Vice President isn't safe, no one is safe.”

“The fact remains that this serves no logical purpose,” McGreevy said.  Her eyes fixed on the FBI Director’s face.  “I think we should be looking closer to home.  Is it not a fact that we have been seeing an increased number of threats against federal agents from home-grown right-wing militia groups?”

Toby kept his face impassive, but he was starting to see her line of logic.  They’d lost Blake Coleman...and the only reason the FBI hadn't descended on Coleman’s family to discover what he’d been doing had been that the body hadn't been recovered.  And no one human could have removed the body before the police arrived.  If the aliens had worked out who’d intercepted their team of assassins, they might be trying to put the blame for the Vice President’s assassination on Toby’s father, ensuring that two of their enemies wound up fighting each other.

The FBI Director sighed.  He knew little about the alien threat.  “The FBI has been monitoring the militia movement ever since it became an issue,” he said.  “We have placed agents and informants within most of the militia movements – and, quite frankly, most of them pose more threat to themselves than to others.  Despite their often fiery speeches, the most serious criminal offense they do is hording illegal weapons – some of which are often illegal based on technicalities.”

“The law is the law,” McGreevy said.  “And why have you not arrested them?”

“There is a general feeling that they’re largely harmless,” the FBI Director said.  “You may recall Waco and other nasty incidents – I assure you that they do.  If we were to crack down on them – over minor issues that take a weapon from legal to illegal – we would run the risk of transforming a marginalised bunch of nutcases into a serious movement that would pose a serious threat to the stability of the country.  The vast majority of militias are peaceful – we have had some cases of people talking about striking back at the Feds – that’s us – and being pushed out of the movements.”

McGreevy snorted.  “And they are the ones with a real grudge against the Vice President,” she said.  “Wasn’t it he who took their money and then pushed for heavier restrictions on assault rifles?  Wasn’t it he who personally put forward the money for interfaith centres in all American states?  His reputation among the far right was lower than Bill Clinton’s – maybe, with the Galactic Federation offering us a way to live in peace, one of your harmless movements has moved from talking to action.”

“It’s a possibility,” the FBI Director conceded.  “However, in order to carry out such an operation, they would have to plot it, put their people in place and conceal it until the time came to strike.  None of the militias have that sort of patience – many of them would prefer to act at once rather than wait for the right moment.  I think that the evidence will eventually lead to Islamic terrorists.”

The President held up a hand.  “Enough,” he said, with surprising force.  “We will double our security precautions everywhere – perhaps attempt to halt demobilisation until we can get better security networks in place.”

“The Galactics won’t like that,” McGreevy warned.

“Their timetable is too short anyway,” the President countered.  “They’ll live.”

He looked up at her, grimly.  “You’ll be nominated as Vice President tonight,” he added.  “Congress will, I suspect, approve you as soon as possible.  I trust that that meets with your approval?”

McGreevy’s eyes glittered.  “It does, Mr. President,” she said.  “I’ll hold onto State until my Deputy is up to speed, and then transfer it to him.”

The President nodded.  “We will not allow this tragedy to destroy us, or everything we hold dear,” he said.  “America will endure, whatever happens.”

***

“Am I making a mistake?”

Toby winced, inwardly.  The President often asked him for advice on political matters; one of the many reasons he was so useful to the President was that he kept his finger firmly on the pulse of opinion, both public and political.  Politically speaking, appointing McGreevy Vice President was a sound move.  Her constituency would be happy, the feminist lobby would be delighted to see a woman in the Vice President’s position and it would limit her ability to take independent action.  On the other hand, it would put her right next to the President – and if something happened to him, she’d be President.  And she was working for the aliens.

But he didn't dare say it out loud.  The aliens would know that he knew about them – and then they would act.  If they drew a line between Toby and his father, they might be able to uncover most of the resistance and then destroy it.  And they might be able to follow up by destroying the cells of resistance members in the government...Toby knew too much to be allowed to fall into enemy hands.  He just hoped that he’d be able to commit suicide if the enemy ever did get their hands on him.

“I think that she would be an asset,” he said, untruthfully.  And politically – he was right.  “But her ambition does make her dangerous.”

The President nodded, slowly.  Ambition was always dangerous in political subordinates; given a chance, they might see advantage in stabbing their superiors in the back.  But if McGreevy took the Vice President’s position, she would take part of the blame for any failures by the President’s government.  Whatever they might have said publically, Toby knew that certain members of the Democratic Party had breathed a sigh of relief when Gore had failed to beat Bush in 2000.  Gore, a former VP himself, would have found himself taking much of the blame for 9/11.

“But there’s no strong alternate candidate,” the President said.  He smiled with black humour.  “I think we’re stuck with her.”

And hope that the aliens don’t use her to strangle us, Toby thought, sourly.  By now, the entire world would know that the VP was dead.  And America would want to see the President taking control, to remind them that life would go on.

Silently, he drew his plan together in his mind.  If they had enough time, perhaps they could give the aliens a shock.  And maybe, just maybe, expose them for what they really were.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Al Udeid Air Base/Virginia

Qatar/USA, Day 40

The heat slapped at Sergeant Albert Cunningham’s face as he double-timed it towards the Special Operations Command Centre and the promise of air-conditioning inside the building.  Four months in the Middle Eastern heat had hardened him to some degree, yet he still disliked the temperature, the insects and most of the people.  Maybe that was a little unfair – hell, it was a little unfair – but most of the people he met in his line of work tended to be terrorists, smugglers or religious nuts.  SOCOM still ran operations all over the region, with remote-controlled Predators and covert operation teams hunting down terrorists and disrupting their networks before they could form.  Most of the governments in the Middle East turned a blind eye.  After the big pullout from the region – after oil became little more expensive than water – the Princes and Emirs and Dictators of the Middle East were in for a nasty surprise from their own people.  Their castles were literally built on sand.

He scowled as the noise of a heavy transport aircraft echoed overhead.  American soldiers were being evacuated from the Middle East, travelling back home as fast as an overworked transport network could deliver them.  Albert had been expecting to be recalled himself, even though his Force Recon unit was blacker than black; there seemed to be little need to keep a major American presence in the Middle East.  Or at least that was what the government was saying publicly.  Privately, Albert has his doubts.  The terrorists who hated America for being better than them were unlikely to just allow the US to leave in peace.  There had already been a series of nasty demonstrations that had almost turned violent.

The guard checked his identity carefully, scanning Albert’s eyes with a pocket retina scanner before allowing him to enter the command centre.  Terrorists had proved themselves to be alarmingly capable of getting inside supposedly secure areas, even in relatively peaceful Qatar.  The buddies Albert had lost in Afghanistan stood as mute testament to the skills of the Taliban fighters, who combined a single-minded devotion to their version of Islam with fighting skills that relied on wearing down the enemy and breaking his determination to carry on the fight.  No one should be inside the fence without clearance and nobody, but nobody, was allowed into the centre without a careful security check.  And no one who wasn’t American was ever allowed inside.  The reliability of people in the Middle East couldn’t be predicted accurately.

And nor could the reliability of some Americans, he added mentally.  The Vice President could have testified to that.  No one knew for sure who was to blame for his death, but hundreds of terrorist groups were already claiming the credit.  The grapevine claimed that the Teams would be sent after the loudest claimants, extracting revenge for the assassination before the pullout was completed.  It was as good a theory as any other.

Inside, it was cooler.  The handful of people within view worked at their terminals, muttering orders into their headsets as they struggled to coordinate the big pull-out.  No one outside the military really appreciated how much material the United States had stockpiled in the region, including weapons and supplies that would change the balance of power in the wrong hands.  Some of it would probably be turned over to America's allies, but the rest of it would have to be transported back to the US, left in secure storage or destroyed.  It wouldn’t be an easy task.

“Sergeant,” a voice said.  Albert looked up to see Brigadier O’Neil, a former SF soldier who’d been injured while on operations and confined to working in the rear until he could pass his tests and go back into the field.  The SF troops appreciated working with someone who knew what they could do – and also what they needed to get their jobs done.   Even the more secretive units like Albert’s team needed to draw supplies from the rear.  “If you’ll come with me…?”

Albert felt an uncomfortable sensation in his gut as he was led into a small room.  A man he vaguely recognised from a briefing rose to his feet as Albert entered, holding out a hand for him to shake.  Albert shook it firmly, guessing that the man spent most of his time behind a desk back home.  The thought jogged his memory into high gear and it produced a name.  Albert Demeter, the Director of the CIA.  They shared the same first name.

O’Neil shut the door firmly behind him, cutting off all noise from the outside world.  Even the omnipresent roar of aircraft was gone.  Albert’s eyes widened as the CIA Director picked up what was evidently a counter-surveillance tool and turned it on, carefully sweeping the entire room.  He even checked Albert’s hair and equipment belt.  Nothing about it made sense, Albert decided, and it left him with a bad feeling.  Why would the Director of the CIA carry out a sweep he’d normally have an underling do?

“I’ve been told that you and your team are the best Special Forces operatives in the world,” the Director said, without preamble.  “Is that actually true?”

Albert’s eyes narrowed.  No one joined the Special Forces without the underlying certainty that they were the best at what they did; the toughest and most capable soldiers in the world, the men who made terrorists scared of the dark.  In his years in Force Recon, he’d crawled through bogs and climbed mountains to slip into terrorist training camps and kill them all, or call in air strikes from a bomber loitering so high overhead that the terrorist scum had no idea that they were there.  He’d carried out missions in over a dozen countries, including several that it would have surprised the general public to know that American troops were operating there.  And he’d come alarmingly close to losing his life on several occasions.

“Yes, sir,” he said, flatly.

“The Director will brief you on your mission,” O’Neil said.  “The mission requires an operative with unique qualifications.  Failure is not an option, Sergeant.  These orders come from the very highest levels.  Once you know the mission, you will either carry it out as you see fit or you will be placed into lockdown until the mission is completed.”

Albert nodded.  As insulting as it seemed, one lesson the United States had learned quickly was that it couldn’t really trust its allies in the Middle East.  The only way to keep operations from being blown – or raiding empty buildings – was to have them kept highly confidential until the mission was over.  There were so many American units, helicopters and aircraft moving through the Middle East and Afghanistan that it was easy to put together a mission without letting too many people in on the secret.

“I must say that I have protested the orders,” O’Neil added.  “You have the authority to determine if you want others to accompany you or if you want to operate alone.”  His eyes darkened.  “But if you get caught, we will deny all knowledge of you.  Understand this; there will be no reinforcements or support from anywhere else.  You’ll be effectively on your own.”

“And expendable,” Albert said.  The nasty feeling in his gut was mingling with growing excitement.  It sounded like a mission that would test him – and his buddies, if he brought them along – to the limit.  Or, alternatively, an invitation to suicide, like several other missions that had gone badly wrong over the years.  “I will carry out the mission.”

“Good,” the Brigadier said.  “I will withdraw now.  Once you’re done, you will receive your instructions, but remember – nothing is to be written down or stored in a database, no matter how secure.”

He left, closing the door behind him.  “Sergeant, this will not be easy,” the CIA Director said.  “The Brigadier was not kidding when he said that you and your team would be on their own – and expendable, if you get caught.  If you want to back out…”

“No, sir,” Albert said, firmly.

“Very well,” the CIA Director said.  “It has been announced that Iran will receive a visit from one of the Snakes, someone who will negotiate with Iran for the introduction of Galactic technology into their society.  The Iranians have been pushing for this visit for some time and the Snakes have finally decided to grant it.  Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to assassinate one of the Snakes.”

Albert stared at him.  “Sir?”

“You heard me,” the CIA Director said.  “You have to get into Iran, assassinate the Snake and then get out again, all without being detected.”

The thought was exciting – and terrifying.  Albert had scant respect for Iran’s security forces – they’d tangled with them before, on missions that were officially denied – but the Snakes might have all kinds of technology protecting their scaly behinds.  He would have to travel into Iran on his own, sneaking through the desert and into Tehran, before finding a place to strike at the Snake.  It would be the thrill of a lifetime, if he pulled it off.  Failure would mean certain death.

“Sir,” he said, “with all due respect, what has been done to determine how the Snakes will react to the death of one of their people?”

“Nothing,” the CIA Director admitted.  “We need data, Sergeant, and we need to get it in such a manner as to ensure that someone else gets the blame…”

Albert saw it all, neatly.  Iran had been one of the countries threatening bloody retribution for losing its oil revenues.  If he carried out the assassination, the Iranians would get the blame and the brunt of any alien retaliation.  And it might distract the terrorists from going after American targets.

“I understand, sir,” he said.  “I won’t let the country down.”

“I know you won’t,” the CIA Director said.  “Under the circumstances, as your CO said, you have complete freedom to plan the operation as you see fit.  Good luck.”

Albert was already considering it.  It would be fairly easy to link up with smugglers and head east to Tehran.  The Gulf was lousy with smugglers, despite the presence of the American Navy and – for that matter – Iran’s naval patrols.  Iran’s forces were generally bought off with large bribes, a constant problem in the Middle East, allowing smugglers to ship contraband all over the region.  The Teams had used it before to slip in and out of Iran.

“I’ll need one other person,” he said.  “Sergeant Bainbridge.  We both speak fluent Arabic and Farsi; we can pass for Arabs or Iranians if necessary.”

“You have complete freedom to decide how to carry out the mission,” the CIA Director reported.  “Just remember, if everything goes south…”

“We’re rogues,” Albert agreed.  “And you will never have seen us in your life.”

***

“They confirmed McGreevy as Vice President,” Toby said, grimly.

His father looked up from where he was poking the fire.  Gillian sat at one end of the sofa, watching his antics with apparent amusement.  Toby had only been able to slip out of Washington at very short notice and they hadn’t really had time to chat.  His father had been eager to talk about his other plans, but Toby had refused to listen.  The less he knew the better.  With an apparent security breach opening up the path to taking down Air Force One, the FBI was gearing up to run checks on everyone who’d already been cleared.  It might uncover the resistance’s growing network of cells.

“The bitch,” his father said.  “The President should have appointed someone harmless, not someone who…”

He shook his head in disgust.  “You want to bet that she planned the VP’s assassination herself?”

“No,” Toby said.  The President didn’t understand his former Secretary of State, not really.  He knew that McGreevy was ambitious – it was why he’d tried to co-opt her into his administration in the first place – but he’d underestimated just how far she was prepared to go to gain power.  Now she had become Vice President, she was only one step away from the Presidency.  The Secret Service had quietly strengthened the ring of steel around the President, but Toby wasn't sanguine about the risks.  God alone knew what the aliens could do to assassinate the President.  “I think we have to count her as an outright collaborator.”

“So we deal with her,” his father said.  “Can’t you get a kill-team somewhere near her?”

“I doubt it,” Toby said.  The Secret Service would be hardly likely to accept him vouching for anyone, particularly a group of old soldiers carrying weapons.  “I think we have to assume the worst.”

He stared down at the fire.  “The DHS is already in her pocket,” he said.  “I think the Director is one of her people, which gives her a great deal of authority; more, I think, than the President recognises.  They’re already gearing up for dealing with mass civil unrest – after the riots in Washington, they have ample justification to prepare for further trouble.  I think the next step will be to clamp down on our freedoms down here.”

“Not until they’ve finished disbanding the army,” his father said.  The Colonel spat into the fire, causing it to splutter back at the watching humans.  “I cannot believe that so many military men so tamely complied with the government’s orders.”

“They swore to uphold the civilian government,” Toby pointed out.  “Do you think they should turn their guns on Congress just because they find their orders unpalatable?”

The Colonel snorted, but said nothing else.  “Besides,” Toby added, “there is a disquieting set of developments in military matters.  A number of army officers attended a seminar on one of the alien bases.  Apparently, it was to discuss the Galactic Federation’s military role…”

“And I thought they were pacifists,” the Colonel said.  “Now they admit to having a military…”

“And they have since been confirmed as officers who will be retained by our much-reduced military,” Toby continued, ignoring his father’s interruption with the ease of long practice.  “All of them have been willing to talk endlessly about how wonderful the Federation is and how we should be grateful for the chance to grow into a mature race – under the benevolent protection of the Snakes, of course.”

He waited to see if his father would draw the correct conclusion.  “They’re being brainwashed,” the Colonel snarled.  “God damn it – doesn’t anyone even realise that they’re being turned into alien serfs?”

Toby shook his head.  “That’s not the only thing they have in common,” he added.  “They’re almost all unmarried, which suggests that there won’t be anyone close enough to them to notice any alarming difference.  In fact, most of them have few friends or allies…”

“But they can still give orders and be obeyed,” the Colonel said.  “Unless they give an illegal order, who is going to question them?”

“The noose is tightening,” Toby agreed.  “I’ve started something that might give the aliens a shock, but I think we need to work faster when it comes to collecting and storing war material.  Now we can ensure that General Thomas isn’t being watched by the aliens, we can start using him to contact a number of officers.  If we’re careful, we might be able to start stockpiling war material without the aliens catching on.”

The Colonel looked up at him.  “And if one of those officers has been brainwashed?”

“We’re dead,” Toby said, simply.  The whole issue was turning into a frightening nightmare, one without a parallel in human history.  Anyone could be brainwashed into supporting the aliens, turning men and women with unimpeachable records into traitors who would betray their country – and escape suspicion until they carried out their work.  The security vetting system had been badly broken in the past, but this was much worse.  Who could they trust?

The aliens could watch anywhere, listen in to all communications…the slightest mistake might betray the resistance to their enemies.  And then the cells would be wiped out, one by one.  And then…perhaps the aliens would reveal their true nature?  And perhaps then it would be too late.

“They’re not all-powerful,” Gillian said, sharply.  “They can do things we can’t, sure.  They have a more advanced technological base than ours.  But we’re not as far behind them as we thought.  Their bugs aren’t too different from those on the drawing board, their transmitters are not too far ahead of our own microburst transmitters…they’re not gods.”

“They don’t need to be gods,” Toby said, sourly.  “They have seventeen starships hanging over our heads.  Why are they fucking around with us when they could just bombard us into submission and take the surrender of whoever is left when the rubble stops falling?”

“Maybe they can’t,” the Colonel said.  “Or maybe they’re so advanced that they regard us with almost-total contempt.  They may not consider us capable of matching them, or of seeing through their deceptions.  I’ve seen that sort of arrogance before; the people who have it think that no one is as smart as them, or that anything they do is automatically smarter than anything anyone else can do.  I wonder if they expect us to be able to understand their toys, or if they’re giving us tech confident that we lack the knowledge to understand it, let alone improve on the design.”

“Maybe,” Toby said.  He thought, briefly, of all the gifts the Galactic Federation had given humanity.  A food producer was helping to feed the homeless in Manhattan.  A water purifier was helping to produce water in Africa.  And fusion power was starting to allow fission plants to be shut down, at least until they could decide what to do with them.  And if the aliens had come in peace, how much could the human race have learned from them?  “I hope you’re right.”

“So do I, boy,” the Colonel said.  “So do I.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Washington DC

USA, Day 45

Jayne looked down at the notepad with an expression of irritation.  She had never fully appreciated how the legendary reporters of yesteryear had coped without word processors, laptop computers and even palmtop personal assistants.  They’d had to scribble out their stories in shorthand and score out any errors, rather than simply pressing the delete key and retyping the section.  Her hand was aching after writing out four versions of her story, each one of which hadn’t been good enough for the internet.  But at least no one could hack into a sheet of paper.

She looked down at the paper and scowled to herself.  It wouldn't be easy to read, but it should be difficult – in theory – for the aliens to even realise it was there, let alone read it unless someone pointed it out to them.  The text would be scanned into a computer and then uploaded as a JPG image, stored on a hundred different file servers.  It was a fairly simple trick often used to outsmart child protection software on the internet and, she hoped, it would serve her purposes as well.  Scowling, she started one final read through of the paper.  As long as it was legible, she’d accept the flames she was likely to get if anyone found out she’d written the article.

It has been a truly remarkable week.  The human race has started its advance towards joining the Galactic Federation and reaching the stars.  All over the world, small amounts of alien technology – with more promised soon – are already improving the lives of hundreds of thousands of humans.  We have been promised far more benefits to come, from access to the boundless resources of space to a clean and safe environment for our children.  And we have responded.  In every city, the Witnesses flock to show our gratitude to the Galactics and the Welcome Foundation is opening buildings that will allow us to feast our eyes on the glory of alien technology.  It is a bright new day.

The question we should ask ourselves is simple.  Why are the Galactics really here?

Others online have questioned their reasons for visiting Earth.  Many of those posters are now dead.  It seems that our vaunted law enforcement departments have more important things to do than putting together what – I believe – is a murder case against the Galactics.  Consider this; nineteen people who spoke out against the aliens are dead.  There appears to be nothing linking the nineteen together – and certainly more than nineteen people have been murdered in the same time period – except one thing.  They all spoke out against the aliens.  And if we didn't see this before the attack on General Thomas, who resigned his commission rather than accept the effective dismantling of much of our country’s military, we should certainly see it now.  The attack on General Thomas was a blatant slap in the face for those of us who have eyes to see.  Who benefits from the deaths?  The Galactics.

Ah, you might say; it is nothing more than a coincidence.  To which I would reply; pull the other one, it’s got bells on.  If nineteen people are dead, all of whom had one trait in common, is it not logical to suggest that that single trait was why they were targeted?  I believe that if ten young African-American girls were to be targeted, the police and FBI would deduce that the killer’s primary targets are young black women, instead of saying that the deaths had nothing in common.  So why the fear to draw the line between the deaths? I ask you; who does it benefit?

But if that is too much for you to stomach, consider this.  A number of people who harboured – and expressed – anti-alien views have changed their minds in the last few weeks.  Some of them have been convinced by the wonders the aliens have shown us, or have discovered that they can profit from the alien presence.  I would not say that no one is allowed to change their minds; indeed, most of the bitterest arguments I have seen could have been resolved, if one side or the other was allowed to change their positions.  Others, however, have changed their minds – and have been unable to articulate why they have changed their minds.  Am I the only one who sees something vaguely sinister in this development?

I would refer you to the case of Joe Buckley, a well-known writer of military science-fiction.  His works have been great successes over the past few years, with sales high enough to warrant a mention in the New York Review of Books.  And Joe Buckley didn't trust the aliens.  His posts, which I will have to quote from memory as they have somehow disappeared from the internet, asked why humanity should give up control to the Galactic Federation.  Even if we concede that humanity has made mistakes – and we have, let us not be deceived into believing otherwise – why do we assume that the Galactics mean us no harm?  Or, for that matter, why the Galactics can be trusted?  We were not – and have not – been allowed to visit their ships.  We still have no idea how many of them there are – and what we know, really know, about the Galactic Federation is insufficient.  These, dear readers, were the questions that Joe Buckley asked.

Except he isn't asking them anymore.  Does that seem odd to you?  It may even seem sinister when you consider what happened just before he changed his mind – or had it changed for him.  He visited one of the alien bases as part of a sanitized tour – and I can tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that the tour was definitely sanitized.   We learned nothing of importance, but whatever Joe Buckley saw was enough to convince him to become an alien supporter, almost a Witness.  He has joined a group he treated as objects of scorn, young men and women who chose to believe in glittering lights and insubstantial promises.  His attitude changed completely.

But why?  What happened at the alien base?

Some of the people who have joined the Witnesses have good reasons for supporting the aliens.  Michaela Duval knew that her nine-year-old child would never walk again after she was badly injured in a road-rage accident.  The Galactics cured her; a young girl can walk again.  Can anyone blame Mrs Duval for practically worshipping the Galactics?  And then there was Tommy Sinclair, who was certain to die of cancer within the next two weeks; the Galactics cured him.  And now he is one of their most effective advocates, testifying to their prowess in a manner that would do an evangelist preacher proud.

And yet we have no comparable reason for Joe Buckley.  Indeed, he is unable to articulate why he changed his mind.  What was it?  It may not surprise my more intelligent readers to discover that Joe Buckley was not the only one to change his mind.  A number of others have recently been toeing the alien line, including several military officers, senior policemen and government officials.  And – guess what?  They all went to an alien base.  Joe Buckley’s wife, who has fled her husband in fear for her life, called him a pod person.  What are the aliens doing to them to turn them into converts to their cause?  I do not know...

There are, however, some alarming possibilities.  We have long known that it is possible to brainwash someone into something they would not normally do.  The process – for humans, at least – is chancy.  The never-to-be-sufficiently-damned hijackers of 9/11 were pushed into a belief that they had the right to launch a terrorist strike that claimed thousands of innocent lives.  And they did that despite not being paragons of Islamic behaviour.  The CIA is supposed to have perfected techniques for creating spies from enemy personnel.  Is it too great a leap to suppose that the aliens might have developed a more advanced way to alter a person’s mind?

Let us consider the possibilities for a moment.  The aliens are steadily taking over the minds of our top officials – and doing it in a manner that makes it very difficult to detect, let alone prevent.  It will not be long before the country’s government is partly under alien control, or perhaps completely under alien control.  Think about it – how could a soldier know that he was receiving orders from the legitimate government, or a government controlled by alien dupes and drones?  And how could he solve the dilemma when you consider that both forms of government may be combined in a single unit?

I have attached a list of known people who have visited alien bases.  In the absence of any real test for ‘pod people,’ I am forced to recommend that anyone who has visited an alien base be considered guilty until proven innocent.  It is possible that a more advanced medical scan of their brains would uncover what was done to them and maybe even reverse it.  It is certain that refusing to heed this threat will have disastrous results for human security, even survival.

You think not?  Consider this – we just buried the Vice President, and saw the Secretary of State installed in his place.  Guess who has spent time in an alien base?  That’s right – the Secretary of State!  And if that isn't enough, let me ask you a second question.  The Vice President was travelling on the most famous – and well-protected – airliner in the world.  Air Force One was not intercepted by a flight of Chinese fighter jets; no terrorists lurked with portable missile launchers on beautiful Pacific islands to take a pot-shot at Air Force One.  The detonation that destroyed the plane was a bomb, all the experts agree – and yet how did it get through the security cordon?

Those who blame the attack on Islamic Terrorists refuse to ask how three Muslim crewmen managed to get a bomb onto the plane.  They died in the explosion, so we will never know for sure – but I believe that the security was extensive enough to prevent anyone from getting a bomb aboard.  The Secretary of State (now the Vice President) has been pushing the blame onto right-wing terrorist militias, yet they would still face the same problem.  It’s worth saying again; Air Force One is the most heavily protected plane in the world.  Any terrorists who could get a bomb through security would have waited for the President himself.  Taking out the Vice President just isn't going to cut it.

Hundreds of terrorist groups have claimed responsibility for the blast, yet none of them have provided any proof.  And the FBI has turned up no real leads, according to my sources.  The destruction of Air Force One may be an unsolvable mystery.

I ask again – who benefits?

There are those who would tell you that anyone who writes a post such as this one cannot be trusted – after all, I’m not telling you who I am.  But I am telling you that I know this for a fact, and I am trying to warn you.  If you heed my words, don’t trust your computers or cell phones.  They can listen to you through your most trusted possessions.  Watch your back at all times.

They killed General Thomas.  They won't have any hesitation about trying to kill you.

Good luck – and God bless America.

Jayne nodded as she reached the final section.  It was alarmist, but at least anyone who reached the bottom would be warned about the dangers.  And it was well to remind everyone that the country had been through tough times before and had come through them for the better.

Picking up the sheets of paper, she headed over to the scanner.  Once the document was saved and moved to a USB disc, she would take it to an internet cafe and have it uploaded with the help of some software a handful of her seedier friends had put together.  It wasn't quite hacking the BAN, but everyone who subscribed to any of the BAN’s blogs would receive a copy.  The little program attached to the message would automatically access their email address book, transmit a copy of itself to everyone in their contacts, and then shut down.  Given a few hours, it would be all over the world.

And then she would have to see how the aliens reacted.  If they could track her down, she had no doubts about her fate.  She’d be as dead as the other poor bastards who’d questioned the aliens, while the world continued on its merry slide towards doom.

***

“Yes, I can confirm that the Junior Ambassador will be visiting your school,” Jason said, rolling his eyes.  The frightfully-earnest headmistress had somehow obtained his number and was calling to confirm the arrangements – for the third time.  Having a chance to boast that one of the Galactics was visiting her school was a major feather in her cap, assuming that everything went off all right.  They’d offered to feed the Galactic visitor, but the Snakes had politely declined.  Jason, remembering the food he’d had to eat at school, was privately relieved.  They’d probably think that they were being poisoned.  “They’re quite looking forward to it.”

He scowled as he thanked the woman for her call and put down the phone.  Nearly a month and a half after First Contact, aliens were still not a common sight in humanity’s cities.  Washington had played host to a handful of Galactics on sight-seeing tours, but most of the Galactics seemed disinclined to play tourist.  Jason suspected that it was something to do with the crowds that gathered everywhere they went, watching the aliens with wide eyes.  He’d heard from one of the cultural experts that westerners in Imperial China had been followed by curious crowds.  It seemed likely that humans everywhere were the same, taking interest in novelty.

The Galactics, for reasons best known to themselves, had offered to send a set of visitors to schools and other educational establishments across the world.  They seemed inclined to choose at random, finally deciding to send a representative to a school for young children in Washington.  The oldest child was twelve, Jason had discovered while he’d been busy surfing the internet for details; they’d never have seen a live alien in the flesh.  They’d probably wet themselves the moment they met the bright red eyes that marked the aliens as utterly inhuman.

“Twits,” he commented, sourly.  The Welcome Foundation seemed to rely on paperwork; paperwork on alien activities, paperwork on alien technology and – ever popular – a list of applicants to visit the alien ships, once they finally agreed to allow humans to travel into space on one of their shuttles.  Jason knew that hundreds of interns had been hired to help handle the paperwork, but most of them had been delayed until they’d been vetted by the FBI.  The Witnesses in particular had refused to cooperate, seemingly convinced that they were being singled out for investigation.  They might have been right.

He glanced up in surprise as the door opened and an alien inched into the room.  They did move like humanoid snakes.  He’d started to learn how to tell the difference between individual aliens, but this alien was a newcomer, wearing a simple gray tunic that was devoid of rank badges.  It hardly mattered; they still hadn't deduced what each rank badge meant, leaving them uncertain who or what they were dealing with.

The door closed behind the alien as he came forward and placed a device on Jason’s desk.  There was a faint click, followed by an uncomfortable sensation in Jason’s ear, as if he was on a plane that was steadily rising ever higher in the atmosphere.  The alien sat down and stared at him with bright red eyes.  Jason had read endless reports that speculated that the alien homeworld was actually some distance from its primary star, but he didn't really care.  Familiarity had bred the awareness that it was still fucking creepy.

“There are no communications devices active in this room,” the alien hissed.  The voice was so incoherent that it took Jason a moment to understand what he had said.  And then he realised that the alien wasn't using a voder.  He was talking with his inhuman mouth, somehow making the words despite an oddly-shaped snout and very sharp teeth.  “They cannot hear us.”

Jason stared, wondering if he’d heard correctly.  “Who...who is listening to us?”

“Your people and my people,” the alien said.  “Nothing happens in this building that they do not hear.  Everything you do is recorded and studied for analysis.  You must be very careful what you say in this place.”

Jason tried to think.  His mind insisted on reminding him of all the times he’d gone to the toilet in the building, or of all the times he’d taken a shower...the aliens would have watched everything.  It was absurd to believe that the aliens might be interested in his naked body, but his mind refused to accept it.  They’d been watching everything...

Cold ice flared along his veins, reminding him of his duty.  “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you must understand the danger,” the alien said.  His red eyes seemed to widen slightly, although the expression on the scaly face was unreadable.  But his words forced Jason to concentrate on him, without any real awareness of his alien nature.  “Your world is in terrible danger.  And I want to defect.”

Jason gritted his teeth.  He’d have to call Sanderson...

“What danger?”  He demanded.  If the world was in danger...dear God, what had he unleashed upon the world?  SETI had believed that aliens would be friendly, and yet...the Galactics had hidden much from Earth.  “What’s going to happen?”

“Call your authorities, carefully,” the alien said.  “I will speak only to those who are willing to assist me.  Take me to your leaders.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Washington DC

USA, Day 45

“It’s a beautiful day.”

Toby turned sharply as Jeannette McGreevy turned from the windows and peered towards him.  She looked delighted to see him, which probably boded ill.  And was it his imagination, or was there a glint of triumph in her eyes?  The newly-confirmed Vice President had barely taken up the position when she had ordered a reshuffling of her staff, including dismissing several of the previous Vice President’s staff, even ones who’d been in Washington for most of their lives.  She would soon be surrounded by her faithful.  And then what would she do?  She was one bad day away from the Presidency itself.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed.  And it was; the sun was shining down on Washington from a clean blue sky.  High overhead, he could see the contrail of a fighter jet patrolling the secure airspace surrounding the city.  The defences had been surprised once on 9/11.  It wasn't going to be allowed to happen again.  “The President ordered me to brief you on a number of government programs…”

McGreevy waved her hand, casually.  “We can go over those later,” she said, as if they meant nothing to her.  “Right now, I want to know how we’re proceeding with the drawdown.  We need to satisfy the Galactic Federation if we are to become an advanced race.”

Toby kept his face expressionless.  Washington was known for a high level of political corruption – with hypocrites and double standards everywhere – but McGreevy was just…the worst he’d ever encountered.  She wanted power – the power of the Presidency itself – and she would do anything to get it.  Even before the Galactic Federation had arrived, she’d been dangerous; the President had only included her in his Cabinet because it would prevent her from sniping at the Administration from outside.  The last thing the party – and the country – needed was a power struggle in dangerous times.  And now she had the support of the Galactic Federation.  Knowingly or not, she was watched by the aliens at all times.  Gillian’s improved detector had shown that there were no less than four bugs on her person and five more scattered through her office.

“The drawdown is proceeding,” he said.  “We’re shipping soldiers back home and discharging them, but we’re still paying their wages for the next three months while they look to find civilian employment.  The President has ordered the creation of a number of schemes to keep the former soldiers gainfully employed, but some of those schemes are meeting powerful opposition in Congress.  I must add that military morale isn’t particularly high at the moment and that there is a great deal of bad feeling – which will only get worse as the effect of soldiers entering the workforce in large numbers make themselves felt…”

“That doesn’t matter,” McGreevy informed him.  She waved him to a seat and sat down facing him.  There was something uncannily intimate about her position.  “The important thing is satisfying the Galactic Federation.  The Welcome Foundation predicts that we will be in a position to take advantage of the Federation-sponsored economic boom and we will see full employment not long afterwards.   And then we will go to the stars.”

Toby wasn't so sure.  All of the projections were based upon factors outside humanity’s control.  The research programs had yet to find a way to duplicate alien drive fields – or however they lifted cargos from planetary surfaces to orbit – and without that technology, there were limits to how much could be lifted into space.  And if the Galactic Federation refused to share, for whatever reason, the economic depression would become far worse very quickly.  And all of that depended upon the Galactic Federation living up to its own words.  If they had darker motives in visiting Earth, all of the projections would be useless.

“So we are told,” he said, neutrally.

“So we are told,” McGreevy agreed.  She looked up at him, her bright eyes fixed on his face.  “I’ve been studying your record, Mr Sanderson.  You’re quite determined to stay out of the public eye.”

Toby felt a flicker of unease.  Where was this leading?  “I find that my work is easier without public recognition,” he said, finally.  “I have never sought to be a political leader.”

“But you have had influence behind the scenes, as it were,” McGreevy pressed.  It wasn't really a question.  “The President’s campaign was largely run – and won – by you.  You were able to create a President who appealed to just enough of the voters to scrape into the White House.  He was almost your tame monkey.”

“The President is his own man,” Toby said, tightly.  Even if she’d been entirely accurate, he wouldn’t have said anything else.  The Presidency was surrounded by a host of contradictions; Americans disliked strong leaders, and yet they wanted them.  Toby suspected that it was because they both wanted someone in charge and yet feared the damage a bad President could do to the country.  The President had little power to make things better – a point that was conveniently forgotten by his opponents – but he had a lot of power to make things worse.  “I would not presume to advise him on anything.”

“And yet you do,” McGreevy said.  She placed one hand on Toby’s knee, just for a second.  “Let’s not mince words.  You advise the President on matters political.  You serve as his representative on matters that he finds uncomfortable – secret intelligence, for example.  You may not be the power behind the throne, but he listens to you – and so do others, who know that you are close to the President.”

Toby said nothing, waiting to see where she would go.  If he’d been as immoral as her, he realised, he would have accepted the unspoken offer immediately.  But then, it wouldn’t have been a wise choice.  There was no way that McGreevy would trust him so close to her, not completely.  It wouldn’t be long before he was removed from his position.  An assassination in Washington didn’t have to leave someone injured or dead to be effective.  And character assassination was an old art in Washington.

“I would like you to come and work for me,” McGreevy continued.  “Let’s face it; the President is not going to run again.  You’ve seen how he’s having trouble coping with the brave new world; I doubt he’d want to remain in his post for another four years.  And besides, the National Committee isn’t going to re-nominate him.  They’re going to put me forward instead.”

Toby considered it, thinking hard.  The National Committee had quite a few of her supporters sitting on it, but there were also members who hated her, or feared her ambition.  And yet…she might be right.  Her work with the aliens had won her a large base of support within the party itself, something she could probably parlay into a nomination to run for President.  And if the President refused to even try to run again…

“You may be right,” he conceded.  He was mentally running through a list of committee members who could have their arms twisted.  Perhaps he could built a counterweight…but it would all depend on the President being willing to stand again.  It would be the political catfight of nightmares.  The contest between Hilary Clinton and Obama would be nothing in comparison.  “What do you have to offer me if I abandon the President?”

“Oh, I don’t want you to abandon the President just yet,” McGreevy assured him.  “I want you to report to me on his activities…to prove your loyalty, so to speak.”

And get thrown under a bus when my usefulness runs out, Toby thought, wryly.  Knowing McGreevy, it might even be literal.  And the aliens had killed the Vice President…

“I will certainly take it under consideration,” he said, finally.  “And I will expect a token of your loyalty in return.”

McGreevy smiled and they got down to bargaining.  Afterwards, Toby felt dirty, even though there was little choice.  The resistance would need a spy in the enemy’s camp – and McGreevy was unquestionably the enemy.  Toby’s position could make the difference between life and death for millions of people.  The thought didn’t help.  He still felt dirty.

He was still fighting the urge to shower when he returned to his office and discovered that one of his phones was blinking alarmingly.  Picking it up, he heard a message from Jason Lucas, the Discoverer.  He wanted an immediate meeting.  Nodding to himself, Toby called back, made the arrangements and then left the office.  Whatever it was, it had to be better than worrying about McGreevy’s vaunting ambition, or if he’d sold her his soul.

***

Blake’s Pizzeria was a small building just outside official Washington.  The owner, who claimed descent from the great pizza cooks of Italy, didn’t advertise.  Much of his clientele were federal employees working in the CIA or another intelligence agency who found the simple restaurant a convenient place to catch up with friends and – unofficially – share information from one agency to another.  It worked about as well as could be expected, Toby knew; the FBI and the CIA still didn’t get along, even though their failure to coordinate had led to disaster on 9/11.  The Pizzeria was secure, at least.  It was regularly swept for bugs and its owner and his staff had been vetted by the CIA.

He saw Jason at once, waiting outside.  The owner tended to be surly with visitors who didn’t come from Official Washington, particularly the media.  Blake’s Pizzeria was an open secret to those in the know, but it had never slipped out into the public domain.  Toby nodded to Jason, beckoned for him to follow Toby into the building and stopped in front of the counter.  The waitress, a young woman with bright red hair and a wide smile, grinned up at them and then recognised the Discoverer.  Toby had to smile at her expression.  Compared to Jason, he was unnoticeable.  But that was how he liked it.

“We’d like a private room,” he said, flatly.  Blake’s Pizzeria had nine private rooms, all cleared by the CIA.  There had been rumours that some of them were used for adultery and other matters that wouldn’t be approved of, if they came into the light.  “And we’d like the menu.”

As soon as they had ordered, they went into the private room.  It was the nicest secure room in Washington, at least outside the President’s bunker.  The tables were neatly decorated, with enough condiments to suit any taste – and the staff had no access to the room, save through a dumb waiter.  Toby knew better than to take that for granted, however, and he ran the improved model of Gillian’s detector around the room.  There was one bug on Jason’s neck, which he removed neatly and dumped into a sealed compartment.  Given the nature of the alien bugs, it seemed likely that any number of them were lost without any human interference at all.  Or so they hoped.  There was no way to know for sure.

“We’re as clean as we can be outside Fort Meade,” Toby said.  He ran the detector over the pizza when it arrived too, just in case.  “What have you discovered?”

Jason hesitated, and then plunged right into the story.  “One of the aliens wants to defect,” he said.  “He said that the world was in terrible danger.”

Toby blinked in surprise.  He hadn’t expected that – but then, why would anyone expect an alien race to be a united entity?  The human race wasn't united.  There wasn't even a union of democratic states that could be counted upon to put the best interests of their people first.  Why should the aliens have a monoculture?  Having the vast gulfs of space certainly suggested that different cultures could have some elbow room.

His second thought was that it was a trick.  “What assurances did he offer?”

“He warned me that everyone in the Welcome Foundation is under surveillance at all times,” Jason admitted.  “They watch us everywhere, no matter where we go.  He said he couldn’t give us much more without revealing his intentions; he’ll give us what we need to know when he’s safe on Earth.”

Toby swore under his breath.  Defectors on Earth were handled under a series of largely unwritten rules.  A defector who made it to a safe country was legally safe – although that hadn’t stopped the KGB from sending assassins after various Russian defectors during and after the Cold War.  The Russians couldn’t demand that a defector be returned or vice versa – but that might not apply to the aliens.  They had overwhelming power; if they knew that one of their people had defected, they might demand his immediate return on pain of planetary bombardment.  And there was nothing the human race could do to deter them.

And yet…did they dare pass up the opportunity?

He scowled as he took a bite of his pizza.  If it was a trick, the aliens might intend to allow them to take the defector and accept a great deal of false information at face value…or they might intend to turn the defection into a crisis they could use as an excuse for war.  But why would they provoke a crisis so soon?  If they waited for a year or two before coming into the open, humanity would be in a far poorer position to resist them; hell, they’d have a puppet in the White House.  Logic suggested that the defection was real – but that might be just what the aliens wanted them to think.

“We need to know what he knows,” Toby said, slowly.  He was starting to feel an odd flash of sympathy for the CIA officers who’d found that they blamed for every disaster that had ever struck the intelligence service.  It was easy to do nothing if one developed a risk-averse culture, where the risks threatened one’s employment.  “I’ll have to give it some thought.  Do we even know how to hide him from them?”

“He suggested that it would be possible to fake his death,” Jason said.  He swallowed the final piece of a pizza slice and took a gulp of coke.  Toby had ordered coffee.  “He seemed pretty sure that they wouldn’t look for him very hard…”

“Scratch that,” Toby said, flatly.  “They will search for him.  A dead body would tell us all sorts of things about him.  If someone – one of them – dies on Earth, they’ll want every drop of blood returned.  I’ll have to give it a great deal of thought.”

Jason nodded, sourly.  “What should I tell him?”  He asked.  “He seemed pretty eager to talk to us quickly.”

“Tell him that we are considering how best to extract him,” Toby said.  He shook his head.  Extracting a Russian officer from Russia would be easier than trying to trick the aliens into believing that one of their people had died – and his body had been completely destroyed.  A thought occurred to him and he made a mental note to look into it.  If something were to happen at sea, the remains of an alien body might not be found at all, at least for some time.  “And ask him if he wishes to take up water sports.”

The plan slowly came into focus in his mind.  He would have to talk to his father – and some of his father’s friends – about it, but it would allow him to kill two birds with one stone.  There were a number of SEALS who had been planning to fake their deaths; with a little work, they could vanish alongside the alien defector and never be seen again – at least until the shit hit the fan.  And it would.  Toby hadn’t doubted it ever since he’d looked into an alien pair of eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Jason said.  “Water sports?”

Toby grinned.  “They’ve been to see art galleries and museums and exhibitions,” he said.  The aliens – those who seemed willing to visit Earth – spent half of their time playing tourist.  The remainder of the time was spent making ambiguous statements to human interviewers.  Why shouldn’t one want to try out Earth’s water sports?  Their distant ancestors had probably crawled out of the water, just like humanity’s distant forbearers.  “Maybe one of them would like to go sailing.”

He pushed the thought aside and turned to other matters.  “Did you see the internet spam message?”

Jason nodded.  The message – warning of the dangers of alien pod people and human politicians who were in league with them - had gone viral on the internet.  Every attempt someone had made to wipe it had only spread it further, with copies being distributed right around the world.  A number of politicians were embarrassed – although McGreevy, he remembered, hadn’t mentioned it when she’d been trying to seduce him to her side.  It wouldn’t be in character for her to pay any heed to the message.

“I don’t think I’m a pod person,” Jason said, clearly anticipating Toby’s suspicions.  “But would I know if I was?”

“I don’t know,” Toby admitted.  There were plans afoot to snatch Joe Buckley and learn what they could from a scan of his mind, but the shadows who’d been attempting to follow him everywhere had lost him.  Buckley had been in the military.  He probably knew how to spot and break a tail.  “I just don’t know.”

He shook his head.  “I’ll get back to you as quickly as possible with the plan,” he said, grimly.  “If we can get this guy out, it’ll be worth it.  Even if he is trying to lie to us, at least we’ll know what they want us to believe.”

“I think he was quite nervous,” Jason said.  “Time is running out.”

“It always does,” Toby agreed.  The aliens had put one of their people in a very high place and they probably had influence over the remaining military officers.  It wouldn’t be long before they made their move.  “It always does.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Washington DC

USA, Day 47

Wilhelmina Potts was nervous.

She didn’t let it show on her face.  Showing weakness in front of Young Children was always a bad idea, or so she’d been taught.  The Washington Educational Foundation believed firmly in results-orientated learning, a focus placed on the staff by the wealthy billionaire who’d endowed the educational centre with enough money to ensure that the pupils received an excellent state in life.  Wilhelmina and her fellow teachers taught children from the ages of six to twelve, ensuring that they learned to read and write by the time they reached six – and were ready for more advanced subjects at twelve.

And they’d been honoured with the promise of a visit from a real live alien!  The other teachers were excited, but Wilhelmina was nervous.  She’d never liked snakes and the thought of walking humanoid creatures that bore an uncomfortable resemblance to snakes chilled her to the bone.  And then there was the heavy security surrounding the visit.  Armed policemen were stationed on the sports field – where the children played and learned how to keep themselves fit – and the school’s security centre had been taken over by the Secret Service.  The alien hadn’t even arrived and the whole building was already upside down.

She studied the long line of children carefully.  They all wore their Sunday best, even though a pair of cynics on the staff had pointed out that the aliens probably wouldn’t notice if the children were naked.  The girls and boys – carefully selected from ones who posed no behaviour problem – would welcome the alien with flowers, while the school’s choir would sing a hymn of greeting.  It seemed rather like too much protocol for her liking, but it was important that it worked.  The school needed more pupils and the visit from an alien would be good publicity.  If only they hadn’t looked like snakes…

“Look,” one of the boys said.  “Look up in the sky!”

Wilhelmina followed his gaze, sighing inwardly as the children fell out of line to point and gape as the alien shuttle flew into view.  Beside it, a pair of fighter jets turned loop-the-loops before vanishing off into the distance, an escort intended more to keep the news choppers away than intimidate the aliens.  The alien shuttle seemed to slow to a halt over the sports field, and then slowly start lowering itself to the ground.  A gust of steam blew up underneath it – to the general delight of the watching children – just before it touched down.  The gardener, Wilhelmina realised, wasn't going to be pleased.  Nor was the Building Manager who attended to repairs to any damaged structures.

She swallowed hard as the ramp came down and the alien appeared in the hatch, staring down towards the children with bright red eyes.  The children fell silent as they stared back in a mixture of horror and awe.  As the alien advanced, some children began to giggle while others started to back away from the creature.  There was something about the way the alien moved that was profoundly wrong.

Wilhelmina had to fight down her own fear as the alien came closer.  A strange smell, almost spicy, touched her nose and she coughed.  Oddly, it steadied her a little as the alien reached the children and stopped.  Most of the children had stood their ground, while the others were still slipping backwards; the alien didn’t seem to notice.  Instead, he reached into a belt and produced a small black device, which he passed to the nearest child.  As soon as she pressed the button on top, a holographic image of her appeared in front of the crowd.  The children laughed with delight as the alien straightened up and held out a hand to Wilhelmina.

She hesitated, unable to meet the alien’s eyes, and then somehow forced her hand forward.  The alien’s palm felt hot and warm and uncomfortably scaly; the handshake was brief, almost perfunctory.  He seemed to be waiting for her to say something and Wilhelmina remembered her manners.  They’d certainly rehearsed enough over the last couple of days.

“Thank you for honouring us with your presence,” she said.  “I am delighted to welcome you to the school.”

The device on the alien’s neck started to blink as he spoke.  “And I thank you for receiving me,” he said.  “I am happy to have received such a welcome.”

There was no trace of irony in his voice.  Wilhelmina nodded urgently to the youngest girl and she came forward to offer flowers.  The alien took them gravely and handed them to one of the human security officers.  Wilhelmina found herself momentarily lost for words.  What did one say, what small talk could one offer, to an alien?

“I would be delighted to show you around,” she said.  The alien would visit all of the classrooms and see – and be seen by – the children.  And then he would go and the visit would be over, or so Wilhelmina hoped.  “If you would please come with me, we can start the tour.”

***

Danny Raytheon leaned by the side of his squad car as the alien craft came into land.  Merely seeing the craft filled him with envy, the kind of envy he felt for the handful of humans who’d flown into space and returned.  It had been a long time since he’d been the small boy who’d dreamed of walking on the moon, but the dreams still had their power.  He would have sold his soul for the chance to fly into space, perhaps live on another world.  Washington just wasn't what it had used to be, he sometimes felt; the economic crunch had taken its toll.  Perhaps another world would be ideal.

He looked up as he saw a man making his way towards the crowd of onlookers.  Danny stood up and gave him the look, watching his reaction.  The newcomer was black, with a head partly covered with a baseball back.  He was carrying a camera around his neck.  Danny hesitated, and then stepped into his path.  Something wasn't quite right.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said.  “Might I see your ID?”

The man stopped for a moment, as if he hadn’t been aware of Danny’s presence until he’d spoken.  He reached into his pocket and produced a wallet, complete with ID card that marked him as a Secret Service operative.  Danny had to smile; the Secret Service goons might have been making a visible deterrent, but the ones in plainclothes might be better at spotting and intercepting threats before they became a problem.  He stood back and allowed the man to keep walking.  It was odd, though; he was running terribly late.

***

The child stepped into the alien’s path before Wilhelmina could wave him back.

“Sir,” the young boy said.  He was tall for his age, with blonde curls that he found a little embarrassing.  Nine was such a strange age for a boy.  “Can I have a ride in your spacecraft?”

Wilhelmina flushed, despite herself.  She should have known.  Young Hal was flight-mad, so determined to fly that he’d even tried to convince her to take the class to flight school.  It hadn’t been even remotely possible, of course, but it hadn’t deterred him from asking again and again.  On every other issue, he was a model pupil.

“One day you will all be flying in starships,” the alien said.  He lowered himself to Hal’s height and met his eyes.  The bright red alien eyes met human eyes and neither flinched away.  “And maybe you will be one of the first.”

“I want to see a picture of your home,” the boy said.  “Is it anything like Earth?”

“There are many worlds like Earth,” the alien replied.  “One day, you will visit them.”

Wilhelmina sighed inwardly.  At least the alien didn’t sound irritated – or angry – at the childish questions.  Maybe the visit wouldn’t be such a total disaster after all.  And if they were the first to get a look at the alien’s home planet…they would be famous.  Everyone would want to send their kids to the school.

***

Polly watched as the alien passed her seven-year-old daughter, feeling pride at how Cassie met the alien’s eyes without looking away.  She’d warned Cassie that she might be scared of the alien, who looked utterly inhuman, but she shouldn’t show it on her face.  Besides, if judging people by the colour of their skin was wrong, so was judging people by their race.  And now all the petty colour differences between humans seemed meaningless.  What did it matter if someone had black skin, when someone else might have a completely different biology?

She nudged the person standing next to her.  “My daughter’s over there,” she said, proudly.  “She’s…”

And then she saw what he was carrying.  She screamed aloud.  “Look out,” she screamed, as the crowd recoiled.  “He’s got a gun!”

***

Wilhelmina’s head snapped up as she heard the scream, too late.  The first gunshot rang out, followed rapidly by two more.  She turned to start pushing children to the ground, but something slammed into her back and sent her falling down to the ground.  Her body hurt and she felt something choking her throat, almost as if she was going to be sick.  It took her several minutes to realise that she’d been shot, just before something green and scaly hit the ground beside her.  The alien had been shot!

And then she realised that the children, too, were being gunned down.

***

Danny was moving as soon as he heard the gunshots.  The crowd was scattering, terrified for their lives.  He cursed the shooter under his breath as he ran towards him, wondering why the Secret Service snipers hadn’t taken him down.  The answer was obvious the minute he posed the question.  There were too many people around the gunman…Danny’s eyes opened wide in horror as he saw the gunman for the first time.  He was the man he’d allowed through, the man with Secret Service credentials…

“Put down your gun,” he bellowed.

The gunman didn’t seem to be aware of his presence.  He was still shooting towards the kids.  Danny didn’t hesitate; he fired as soon as he had a clear shot.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Washington DC

USA, Day 47

The President looked badly shaken, as well he might.  Only a few hours had passed since the worst terrorist atrocity to take place on American soil since 9/11 – and one of the aliens had been killed.  No one knew how the Snakes would react to losing one of their people, or what retribution they would demand for humanity’s failure to keep him alive.  The United States had developed the bad attitude of allowing such failures to go unpunished, but the Snakes might take a different attitude.  And they had the power to make all of humanity pay for the crime.

Seated behind the President, Toby kept his face under tight control.  The terrorists – whoever they were – had accidentally pre-empted the plan to assassinate one of the aliens in Iran.  Whatever happened would give the resistance a sneak preview of how the aliens would react, but if it was totally disastrous...there was no way to recall the covert team in Iran.  A second alien was going to die, whatever happened...and Iran would get the blame.  If the aliens were capable of discovering the truth, God alone knew how they’d react.

The Cabinet filed in, one by one.  Security had been tightened ever since the Vice President had been assassinated, with several Cabinet members dispersed to other command posts in case of disaster.  The new Vice President should have been with them, but she’d insisted on remaining in Washington to stay in touch with the aliens – and her followers.  Toby knew that she was going to make political capital out of the disaster – if there was anything left of the United States after the aliens reacted to the event.  He was mildly surprised that they hadn't said anything yet, but reports coming in from the alien bases reported that they had been sealed.  The aliens had recovered the body of their fallen representative.  They knew what had happened.

“I think we can disperse with formalities,” the President said.  His voice was weaker than Toby had expected, suggesting that he was reaching the end of his tether.  Presidents were made or broken by how they reacted to crisis after crisis; they rarely had a chance to shape events for themselves.  “What happened and why?”

All eyes turned to the Director of the FBI.  With an alien involved, the FBI had automatically taken the lead in the investigation, something that Toby suspected relieved the other intelligence and counter-terrorist agencies.  The Washington PD was cooperating, even though police forces tended to resent the feds muscling in on their turf.  This was too important for any turf battles between uniformed politicians.

“The latest figures state that there were fifty-one fatalities at the scene, including one alien and twenty-two children,” the FBI Director said.  He sounded tired; he’d been in New York when the attack had taken place and had had to fly to Washington.  His subordinates would have briefed him extensively, but he wouldn’t have had a chance to see the raw data for himself.  “One hundred and seventy people have moderate to severe injuries requiring hospital treatment.  There may be others who are as yet unidentified.”

He took a breath.  “The attack was filmed live; the entire country saw,” he added.  “The terrorist apparently got through the security cordon at one of the weak points, apparently through the use of false ID.  When he reached the crowd, he drew his gun and opened fire on the alien while using the crowd to shield himself from Secret Service snipers.  A local police officer – the one who was fooled by the fake ID – shot him in the head.  At that point, the bomb he was carrying on his person exploded with terrific force, accounting for many of the injuries and deaths.  The emergency teams responded with commendable speed and doubtless saved a good many lives.  Once they’d recovered their dead body, the aliens provided emergency help for our wounded.  They probably saved lives too.”

“I think we can all be grateful for them,” the President said.  “And that leaves one single question; who did this to us?”

The Director of the FBI hesitated.  “We managed to pick out some traces of the killer’s DNA,” he said.  “It was extremely difficult to be sure that we had the right person.  Eventually, we had to go through the camera footage and run comparisons to be sure that we’d eliminated everyone we knew had been there at the scene – apart from the killer.  The DNA was run through the national database and we found a match.  He was once one of ours.”

Toby knew what he was going to say before he said it.  “His name was Blake Coleman,” the FBI Director said.  “He was once a former Marine.”

Blake Coleman would have said, Toby knew, that there was no such thing as a former Marine.  A retired Marine, perhaps...but it hardly mattered.  Coleman had been killed during the mission to save General Thomas from the aliens.  No one knew what had happened to the body, until now.  And he’d definitely been dead.  Toby’s father wouldn’t have left a man behind unless he was dead – and he would have been reluctant to leave the body.  What had the aliens done to the body?  Had they reanimated it somehow and sent it out to kill?

“A former Marine,” McGreevy sneered.  “I think we have to realise, right now, that those who resent our willingness to deal with the Galactic Federation have decided to take the offensive.  Those filthy bastards killed children!  They might even have embroiled us in war against an alien race of terrifying power.  We need to crack down on them, hard.”

“We’re running through the files now,” the FBI Director said.  “According to covert surveillance, Coleman was a member of several right-wing militia groups scattered through the United States.  He was noted as a training officer for several of the groups, training them in military tactics they could use against the federal government.  His pupils have been linked to reported thefts of military materials from various military bases and facilities.”

And that, Toby knew, was an outright lie.  Blake Coleman hadn't been involved in any militia, unless one counted the Colonel’s survivalist group. And the Colonel had been careful to avoid making waves that would be noticed by the feds.  His paranoia might have saved his ass, even though Coleman’s reputation would be forever blackened by being linked to groups that were, at best, wannabe freedom fighters.  Most of the militias were little more than men drilling aimlessly and talking themselves up as often as possible.

He was starting to see how the alien plan was designed.  By creating a terrorist incident that could not fail to shock the nation, they would provide a ready-made excuse for clamping down on militias and any other groups that might pose a threat to the aliens.  Their assets – their pod people – in high places could be relied upon to deal with the militias with extreme violence, sparking off conflict that would only weaken the United States.  It was a pattern familiar throughout human history.  The invaders disarmed a population and then started cracking the whip.  Hitler had done it.  So, more recently, had the Taliban.

And, worst of all, no one would know the truth.  Blake Coleman’s remains had definitely been found at the scene.  His altered computer records would link him to militia groups he wouldn't have lowered himself to visit, let alone train.  And they would protest their innocence in vain.  They’d be crushed...and anyone who could be linked to them, even on the most spurious of links, would be destroyed.  The Mainstream Media would howl and demand new laws against militia groups...and the aliens, watching from high overhead, would wait until the chaos had subsided before revealing their hand.

“So we go after them,” McGreevy said, firmly.  She wanted to be President.  Right now, she seemed to believe that she was the President.  Or maybe she was honestly shocked.  She’d been the one to raise the issue of right-wing groups, after all.  Maybe the aliens hadn't told her what they’d had in mind.  Even McGreevy, surely, would hesitate at murdering children for political aims.  And American children at that.  No political career would survive even a hint of association with such a crime.  “We take the bastards out, once and for all.  We round up every member of every militia and put them behind bars...”

The FBI Director coughed.  “There is such a thing as due process,” he said, flatly.  “We will certainly be speaking to the militias as a matter of urgency, but we cannot imprison people just for shooting their mouths off...”

“God damn it,” McGreevy snapped.  “I’m not talking about people who are shooting their mouths off – I’m talking about people who shot at innocent kids!  And who killed one of the aliens!  Do you have any idea just how badly that could reflect on us?  We need the Galactics to help us, not cower in their ships for fear that some illiterate barbarian is going to take a pot-shot at them every time they show themselves.  We have to crack down on this hard!”

She glared at the President.  “The aliens are already offering assistance in hunting the bastards down,” she said.  “I need not remind you that that assistance may not be optional, at least for us.  Refusal could have the most severe consequences for us.”

The FBI Director leaned forward.  “We could round up every known militia member,” he said.  “The Department of Homeland Security has been tracking them for years.  But I am telling you that any halfwit of a lawyer will be able to file charges of false imprisonment on their behalf.  And then there will be a legal nightmare.  Many of them could only be busted on relatively minor charges, if that.”

His eyes narrowed.  “And it would certainly cause a major political upheaval,” he added.  “We had enough problems after 9/11.  This would be far worse.  We would be breaking into the homes of ordinary Americans and taking them away to secret prisons.  Some of these groups are not too tightly wired in the first place.  Give them a cause and blood will be shed – and then we will have chaos as well as everything else.”

“We have chaos already,” McGreevy said.  “One of these militia groups you seem inclined to coddle assassinated one of the aliens.  Do you have any idea what that could mean?”

Toby frowned, inwardly.  The aliens had put one of their own people in the firing line, sacrificing him to make the assassination look good.  It suggested a cold calculating mentality, unless the alien had somehow survived the gunshot.  Who knew?  The body had been removed to the alien shuttle after the blast and the cameras hadn't been able to give any idea of just how badly the alien had been wounded.  By accident or design, the alien recovery workers had sanitized the ground.  There was no trace of alien DNA.

He stared at the President’s back, thinking hard.  What if there had never been an alien at the site?  What if they’d sent a robot?  No human could have spotted such a deception, if only because the aliens were inhuman and rarely made small talk with humans.  It struck him as chancy, but it might just have worked...and even if it hadn’t been a robot, the alien might have survived.  There would be no way of proving it, one way or the other.

“I insist, and I believe that most of Congress and the Senate would agree with me, that we take the strongest possible measures against the militias,” McGreevy said.  “They are in violation of a number of federal laws even without any involvement in the assassination.  And we have to convince the Galactics that we are doing something.  If they think that we’re not following up these leads to the terrorist groups behind the attack, they may take action on their own.  And I don't have to remind you that any action they take would almost certainly be utterly disastrous.  They have the power to destroy our nation.  They could smash us flat!”

Toby doubted it.  The aliens seemed interested in America's tech base – and that of the other First World nations – and wouldn’t want to destroy it, even though he had problems thinking of any logical reason why they would want something that had to be primitive to them.  Any alien retaliation against America would be limited, although ‘limited’ might mean losing a city or two.  Millions of lives were at risk.  And McGreevy had brought them face to face with the reality that if they didn't crack down hard, the aliens might take action on their own.  And then the shit would really hit the fan.

The President could have opposed her, but he didn't have the strength.  One by one, the Cabinet members consented.  McGreevy would get her way.  The militias – and anyone remotely connected to them – would be targeted.  Toby had no doubt that the media would work hard to ensure that the public largely supported enhanced security measures, even at the cost of a little freedom.  The aliens would get a weak and disarmed population.

Bastards, Toby thought.  He had to talk to his father, despite the risks.  They had to find a way of hitting back – because, he had the nasty feeling, time had just run out.

***

Jayne lay on the motel bed, wearing nothing apart from a light blue shirt and a pair of bedroom slippers.  She’d moved from one motel to a second as soon as she’d uploaded her story, paying cash and using a fake ID she’d picked up from one of her more dubious contacts.  In theory, there should be no way to trace her.  In practice...she didn't know if they aliens had some magical gages that would allow them to track her down.  Impatiently, she stood up and started to pace the room.  Years ago, she’d wondered why journalists in the Middle East always looked nervous.  She understood now; they’d been permanently aware that the wrong story could earn them a bullet in the back of their head.  And she felt exactly the same way.

They were looking for her.  She knew that for a fact.  If the aliens were prepared to target harmless bloggers, they would definitely be prepared to target her.  And they had hundreds of pod people, probably far more than she knew.  One of them in the right place would see her and then she’d be dead.  And if she stayed in the motel room and hid, eventually she’d run out of money.  By now, they’d probably be watching her bank account for any sign she’d withdrawn money, using it to track her down.  Every civilian in America left behind an electronic trail wherever they went, from paying in shops to appearing on security cameras.  She’d once done a story about how the FBI could track someone down without ever showing their hand.  The aliens would have far greater capabilities for accessing, collating and using data.  They’d know everything about her.

She reached out and switched on the TV.  Every channel had been running the same story, covering the attack on the alien ambassador – and the innocent children who’d been gunned down or blown up in the explosion.  Jayne didn't need any help to recognise a put-up job, even without any inside knowledge.  The aliens had probably used one of their pod people to carry out the attack and then destroyed the body to ensure that whatever they’d done to it remained undiscovered.  In the absence of facts, the news networks were resorting to interviewing talking heads, each one with their own theory.  The general trend was becoming alarmingly obvious very quickly.  They seemed to be focusing on right-wing groups, rather than Islamic terrorists or any other threat.  That made a certain kind of sense; first, disarm the military, second, disarm the population, third...invade.

The TV picture switched suddenly to an emergency broadcast from the White House.  Jayne frowned as she saw the President.  He looked terrible, like a man who hadn't got enough sleep in the past few days.  His forehead gleamed under the light, suggesting that he hadn't had time to undergo the pre-broadcast sessions that applied makeup.  It suggested a sense of urgency that was lacking from most political broadcasts.  The news was not going to be good.

“My Fellow Americans,” the President said.  He sounded weak, indecisive.  It wasn't what Americans expected of their President in a time of crisis.  Had the aliens gotten to him too?  No, Jayne told herself, and hoped she was right.  They wouldn't need any deception if they could break through the President’s security and turn him into a pod person.  “A great disaster has struck our nation.  Terrorists launched an attack on a school, killing and maiming hundreds of innocent children – and assassinating one of the representatives of the Galactic Federation.  The assassin, who carried out a suicide bombing, was positively identified as a member of a right-wing militia movement that had been emitting loud threats towards the Galactic Federation.  They finally put those threats into operation.  They killed innocent children to make a political point.

“Desperate times require desperate measures.  With the full consent of Congress, I have authorised the proper law enforcement agencies to go after those terrorists with all the means at our disposal.  We will tear them out, root and branch; we will utterly destroy them.  Whatever their political cause, they lost all legitimacy when they struck at innocent children.”

The President seemed to weaken, noticeably.  “Please do not be alarmed,” he concluded.  “The innocent have nothing to fear.  We will track down and destroy these terrorists before they can do worse harm to our people.  We will not allow fear to hold us in its thrall.”

Jayne shivered.  It hadn’t been a good speech – and she suspected she knew what it portended.  New security measures, which would somehow never be revoked.  The entire country – the entire world – was marching towards disaster.  Could they see it?

Of course they see it, her thoughts whispered.  They just don’t care.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

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 shit 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 shit 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

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 grimaced 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 where 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

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 shit 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 fucking 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.

“Fuck 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.”

Chapter Thirty

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 wrecked, 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

Wanderer, Near Norfolk

USA, 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 Soviet Union’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 Iran – had obliterated the body beyond any hope of recovery.  They certainly hadn’t seemed inclined to drop a rock on New York to remind the human race of their power.

But maybe that wasn't too surprising.  Iran produced nothing, but oil, terrorists and trouble; the United States 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 United States flat.  But Iran 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 Africa 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.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

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 shit?”

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 wrecked 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

Washington DC

USA, Day 63

“Motherfucker,” 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 Washington.  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 Washington looked nervous, as if they expected the aliens to descend on them at any moment.  Washington 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 Washington 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 Washington 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 Washington, 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 Washington’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 wrecked 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.

Chapter Thirty-Four

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 fucked 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 shit 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

Washington DC

USA, Day 66

The sunlight was creeping up over Washington 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 Washington, 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 United States.  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 Washington, 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 Washington’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 wrecked 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

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 fuck 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 wrecked 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

Washington DC

USA, 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 US 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 Tehran.  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 Iraq and Afghanistan 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 wrecked 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 ditch.  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 shit 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

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 scum 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 shit 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

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 wreck 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 trucks 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 truck and muttered a command.  The truck 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 trucks.  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 fucked 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.”

Chapter Forty

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 bullshit, 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 meagre 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 shit 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 shit 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 shit hit the fan.

Chapter Forty-One

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?

Epilogue

Washington DC

USA, Day 100

“Congratulations, Mr President.”

Toby scowled.  He had never wanted to be President and he had never liked the thought of being in the public eye.  He’d felt much more comfortable in the shadows, but President Hollinger had lasted barely long enough to appoint Toby as his Vice President before falling to whatever the aliens had done to him to make him leave his position on cue.  His funeral had been quiet and low-key, as he had requested.  Toby had seen to it personally.

It had been far from the only funeral.  Hundreds of thousands of Americans had died in the time between the arrival of the Snakes and the destruction of their warships.  The surviving Snakes had had to be moved to a compound out in Nevada to prevent them from being lynched by angry mobs, a consideration that hadn’t been extended to their collaborators.  Toby had underestimated the power of mob rule, when a population had broken free of its shackles and set out to avenge itself on its tormentors.  The collaborators had been lynched in the streets, hung from lampposts or thrashed out of town, often with the cooperation of local police forces.  Even the pod people hadn’t been immune, although there had been some sympathy for the brainwashed tools of the Snakes.  They’d been moved to their own compound until something could be done for them.  Toby refused to believe that they couldn’t be freed one day.

He shook his head, tired.  The American Government had been devastated by the aliens.  Many familiar names and faces had been killed, either by the aliens or by McGreevy’s henchmen; others had been brainwashed into becoming pod people.  A number of politicians who’d supported McGreevy had found themselves lynched in office, or forced to resign and flee, looking for a safety that had proved to be elusive.  Toby had found himself a President without a Government, one that had needed to be rebuilt almost from scratch.  It hadn’t been an easy task.  No one trusted the government these days,

And America was one of the better-off countries.  China and Russia were lost in civil war.  The population of the Middle East was still slaughtering one another.  Europe and Latin America, where there had been heavy fighting, was suffering from food riots and a near-total breakdown of public order.  America had been gravely weakened by the fighting; many overseas bases had been withdrawn before the Snakes revealed their true nature, ships and planes had been decommissioned as part of the price for joining an imaginary Galactic Federation.  It looked as if there would never be order in the rest of the world.  There were parts of America that were still on the verge of social collapse, even with the help of alien technology.  At least they were no longer dependent on oil.

Toby’s father, whose body had presumably been vaporised when the nuke detonated, would have found it amusing.  The Federal Government as it had been was now a thing of the past.  Even if Toby had been inclined to resurrect it, the public would have refused to accept it, something the new breed of Congressmen and Senators were making quite clear.  The population would never allow Washington to hold so much power again, not as long as the scars from the brief period of occupation and collaboration lasted.  There would be no more government agencies thinking that they were above the law.  The Castle Doctrine had been resurrected with a vengeance.

“I wonder if you should congratulate me,” Toby admitted.  “I feel that there are times when everything is surging out of control.”

Jason Lucas shrugged.  Toby had appointed him Secretary of Alien Affairs, a title that managed to imply that Jason had been spying for the resistance all along.  It hadn’t stopped some of the more enthusiastic patriots from calling for his murder, with the net result that Jason spent most of his time out in Nevada, studying the Snakes and learning what he could from the few who were prepared to talk to humanity.  Unlocking the secrets of alien technology would take years, but Toby knew that they had no choice.  The Snakes were still out there – and God alone knew what else was heading towards humanity, out of the silent sky.  Toby intended to be ready to meet them when they finally stumbled across Earth.

The Snakes had started constructing a lunar mining base, using human technology, by the time they’d been defeated.  Toby had been quick to see the advantages of keeping and even expanding the base, using the captured alien ships to transport men and materials from the Earth to the Moon – and transport raw materials from the asteroids back to Earth.  It would be several years before Earth could build its own shuttles, but once that particular barrier was cracked there would be an explosion into space.  A few decades of development and humanity would be more than ready for the Snakes.  A few centuries…and who knew?  Humanity might be far stronger than the Snakes could ever hope to be.

And then…they could make contact with the Pacifists, try and bring the Snake Empire down from within…

But that was a dream for the future.  Toby knew that he might not live to see that day, the day when humanity would avenge itself upon the Snakes.  All he could do was prepare for it as best as he could.  Whatever else happened, the human race would not be fooled again.  The next aliens they met would be encountered when humanity was in a position of strength.

“I think you’re doing fine,” Jason said.  “Perhaps we needed this harsh lesson.”

Toby looked up, surprised.

“SETI thought that an alien race that managed to reach space would have to be peaceful,” Jason reminded him.  “No one would come ninety billion light years to start a fight, they said; it seemed impossible to believe that they would be as violent as us.  And that belief almost killed us.  If they’d kept their true nature hidden for a few more months, who knows how badly they could have fucked us?”

“True,” Toby agreed.  The radio telescopes kept swearing that there was no sign of any alien civilisation near Earth, but Toby had no faith in that conclusion.  He wouldn’t feel at ease until humanity had scouted the nearby stars and confirmed that they were barren.  Who knew?  Perhaps they would find races out there that were friendlier than the Snakes.

He glanced at his watch.  “The ceremony is in thirty minutes,” he said.  Outside, on the White House lawn, they’d raised a single slab of alien hull metal.  Using lasers, they’d burned into it the name of every resistance fighter who’d been killed in the war.  There would be many names missed, Toby knew, even in America.  Far too many people had simply vanished without a trace.  “You said it was urgent?”

“I did,” Jason agreed.  “The scientists at Nevada have made something of a breakthrough.  You’ll remember how the Snakes got here in the first place?  The Pacifists screwed up the control routines for the wormhole, under the impression that it would destroy the entire fleet?”

“I remember,” Toby said.  “Why…?”

“The scientists started crunching numbers,” Jason sad.  “The Snakes invented the generator, only to discover that it took a vast amount of power to make it function.  Their starships have to store power for weeks before they can jump to another star system.  It limits their tactical capabilities against other space-faring races…”

“But not races still trapped on their own planets,” Toby said, impatiently.

“The wormhole they formed by accident was a great deal more powerful than their average wormhole,” Jason said.  “The scientists believe that the wormhole was actually drawing power from the fabric of space itself, once the energy patterns had been shaped into a wormhole.  Looking at the equations, the wormhole actually became continuous; they could have gone far further than they ever dreamed of going, without needing the vast power reserves they had to build up for their interstellar hops.”

He leaned forward.  “The possibility is there in the maths,” he said.  “We could build a wormhole generator that could put anything they ever built in the shade.”

“We could get to them,” Toby said.  The prospect was dazzling.  “And they’d never see us coming.”

“A few decades of work and we would be ready,” Jason said.  “And if they never develop it for themselves…”

Toby smiled.  “Let me have the full report as soon as possible,” he said.  “I’ll review it after the ceremony.”

Alone again, he gazed down at the President’s desk.  His father would have been shocked to see Toby running the country, but then…they’d made up since the aliens had arrived.  It was something to be thankful for, now that the war was over.  And his father wouldn’t have wanted to grow old and die in bed.

Shaking his head, he stood up and left the Oval Office.  There would be enough time tomorrow to consider what Jason had told him, and the implications for humanity’s new space program.  A substantial proportion of the government’s remaining funds were already being spent on space; it would just have to be increased, along with what private funding could be diverted by offering companies tax breaks to invest in space.  And then…he smiled and nodded as Gillian met him, wearing a black dress.  Tomorrow, they would have time to think about the future.

Now, it was time to bid farewell to the dead.

The End

Table of Contents

The Trojan Horse Blurb

Chapter OneWashington DC/VirginiaUSA, Day 1

Chapter TwoWashington DCUSA, Day 1

Chapter ThreeNear Mannington, VirginiaUSA, Day 3

Chapter FourNew YorkUSA, Day 5

Chapter FiveNew YorkUSA, Day 5

Chapter SixNear Mannington, Virginia/New YorkUSA, Day 6

Chapter SevenNevadaUSA, Day 12

Chapter EightFort Meade, MarylandUSA, Day 17

Chapter NineWashington DCUSA, Day 18

Chapter TenNear Mannington, VirginiaUSA, Day 20

Chapter ElevenWashington DCUSA, Day 20

Chapter TwelveNear Mannington, VirginiaUSA, Day 20

Chapter ThirteenWashington DCUSA, Day 24

Chapter FourteenWashington DCUSA, Day 25

Chapter FifteenWashington DCUSA, Day 25

Chapter SixteenWashington DCUSA, Day 26

Chapter SeventeenWashington DCUSA, Day 26

Chapter EighteenWashington DC/VirginiaUSA, Day 27

Chapter NineteenWashington DCUSA, Day 35

Chapter TwentyWashington DCUSA, Day 35

Chapter Twenty-OneWashington DCUSA, Day 35

Chapter Twenty-TwoAl Udeid Air Base/VirginiaQatar/USA, Day 40

Chapter Twenty-ThreeWashington DCUSA, Day 45

Chapter Twenty-FourWashington DCUSA, Day 45

Chapter Twenty-FiveWashington DCUSA, Day 47

Chapter Twenty-SixWashington DCUSA, Day 47

Chapter Twenty-SevenNear Mannington, VirginiaUSA, Day 48

Chapter Twenty-EightNorfolk, VirginiaUSA, Day 51

Chapter Twenty-NineTehranIran, Day 53

Chapter ThirtyWashington DCUSA, Day 53

Chapter Thirty-OneWanderer, Near NorfolkUSA, Day 56

Chapter Thirty-TwoNear Mannington, VirginiaUSA, Day 61

Chapter Thirty-ThreeWashington DCUSA, Day 63

Chapter Thirty-FourWashington DCUSA, Day 65

Chapter Thirty-FiveWashington DCUSA, Day 66

Chapter Thirty-SixWashington DCUSA, Day 69

Chapter Thirty-SevenWashington DCUSA, Day 70

Chapter Thirty-EightWashington DCUSA, Day 72

Chapter Thirty-NineWashington DCUSA, Day 73

Chapter FortyWashington DCUSA, Day 73

Chapter Forty-OneWashington DCUSA, Day 73

EpilogueWashington DCUSA, Day 100