Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory

by Christopher Nuttall

  Or they thought that it was normal to have paedophilic desires, Nicolas though, coldly. After all, everyone is normal in their own mind.

  “That’s unfortunately true,” the doctor agreed, when he said it out loud. “A good example would be homosexuals, who do not – at base – see anything wrong with what they are doing, even though society disagrees. They still have the sexual lusts; it’s just directed at their own sex.”

  Nicolas scowled. Just what had the doctor been doing before he’d been pulled into the resistance?

  “As fascinating as this is,” Oldham said darkly, “could you kindly get to the point?”

  “We have successfully disabled the implants in Sanderson’s brain,” the doctor said. “At the moment, however, his brainwaves are in flux; we cannot decide if he is returning to normal or if he is on the verge of a complete mental collapse. What we are seeing is largely unprecedented. It would help if we knew more about how the alien technology actually worked. None of our agents have been able to tell us what happens when someone is transformed into one of the Walking Dead.”

  Nicolas looked over at the doctor. “What is your best guess?”

  “My best guess is that the aliens stamped some commands into Sanderson’s head and then used the implants to keep him in line,” the doctor said. “Their grasp of how our brains work must be far superior to our own. Every time Sanderson had an unapproved thought, he would be zapped back into compliance. I suspect that this actually explains the apparent lack of real emotions from the Walking Dead. They’re conditioned to avoid emotions – and patriotism, for example, is an emotion.”

  “If that was true,” Oldham said thoughtfully, “surely there would be people who could break the conditioning ...”

  The doctor shook his head. “As children, we learn not to touch hot stoves because we do it once and get burned,” he said, simply. “The experience is burned into our minds. Now, the Walking Dead get their thoughts rerouted every time they think a disloyal thought – or, rather, a thought tinged with the emotions that lead to disloyalty. By the time they are sent out to do alien work, they’re incapable of breaking out. The mere act of trying to break out would be punished. I suspect that it doesn't actually take long to break their minds into servitude.

  “In the long term, I think that the Walking Dead are going to eventually have mental breakdowns and collapse,” he continued. “There actually was a report of one dying for no apparent reason, down in Texas. It’s quite possible that they have started to reach the limits of their endurance.”

  “Except they can keep producing more and more of the bastards,” Nicolas growled. “Everyone they catch can be turned into a slave, an unwilling collaborator. Hell, if they spread the word that the Walking Dead die quickly, the other collaborators will be even more willing to prove themselves useful.”

  The doctor’s pager buzzed and he glanced down at it. “Sanderson is awake,” he said. “Do you want to see him?”

  Nicolas nodded.

  The doctor led them into a small private room, where Sanderson lay on a bed, his hands and feet manacled to the railings. Nicolas was shaken by just how unsteady the man looked, as if he would have collapsed if he’d been trying to stand upright. His face was covered in sweat and his eyes were moving around wildly, as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. Perhaps he did, Nicolas realised. He’d had something in his brain controlling his actions and monitoring his thoughts. Stronger men would have been broken by such treatment.

  Oldham was oddly gentle. “I’m Colonel Oldham, your superior officer,” he said. “Can you tell us what happened to you?”

  Sanderson’s eyes focused on Oldham, then he started to laugh, a high-pitched sound that became a giggle. “You’re my CO? My CO is in my brain.”

  Nicolas looked over at the doctor, who scowled.

  “The man probably needs years of treatment,” he said, grimly. “I suggest that you let us work on him. If we manage to get through to him, we might have a working treatment for dealing with others.”

  “True,” Oldham said. “Let me know the moment you make a breakthrough, of any kind.”

  He led Nicolas outside the room. “If we manage to save him,” he said, “I believe that we will have the basis for an agreement with your friends. But if not ...”

  Nicolas understood. Any fool could kill one of the Walking Dead.

  “It should work,” he said. “It may just take some time for the results to become apparent.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Oldham said. he nodded to the guards. “These men will take you back to your room. Have fun with your reporter.”

  “She wants some books,” Nicolas said. “I don’t suppose you have some good books in this bunker?”

  Oldham laughed. “Books? I’ll see what I can do.”

  Nicolas nodded, then allowed the guards to lead him away. He’d just have to pray that Sanderson made a full recovery. If he didn’t, the resistance would draw the only reasonable conclusion ...

  ... and the last hope of victory would be lost forever.

  Chapter Six

  Area 52, Nevada, USA

  Day 197

  Alex Midgard had the distant feeling that he was suffering from cabin fever.

  Area 52 wasn't a large military base. It was small – and smaller still, in a way, because half of its interior was taken up by the underground hanger, the biohazard research laboratories and the base’s power plant. The base CO had decided, as the alien grip on the USA tightened, that there would be as little contact as possible with the outside world. Alex couldn't put a foot outside the research levels without having grim-faced guards ordering him to go back inside.

  The security precautions were necessary, he knew. If the aliens ever realised that a large team of scientists was working, right under their noses, to unlock the secrets of their first crashed ship, they would have come after Area 52 with all the force they could muster. And if they realised that the sole alien to be held captive was in Area 53, only a few kilometres away ... Alex was privately surprised that the aliens hadn't stumbled across the base already. But then, it looked like nothing more than a disused airport from high overhead, not even close to a large population centre.

  He gritted his teeth as he stared down at the report, feeling his eyes starting to blur. Area 52 had become the principle clearing house for intelligence-gathering in the USA, and for much of the world. Most of America’s intelligence assets overseas had been lost when Washington fell, but enough remained to give the underground a picture of what was going on. It didn't make pleasant reading. The aliens were still in control of the Middle East, what remained of Israel was either fleeing or submitting to alien rule ... and the rest of the world seemed to be going into the toilet. China was in the midst of a civil war, brought on by a colossal economic crash, Europe teetered on the brink of civil war, and Russia ... Russia was a mystery, wrapped inside an enigma. The last reports had spoken of martial law and tanks on the streets. After that ... nothing.

  It’s as if the aliens don’t exist, he thought, bitterly. All the resources that could be put to work fighting the bastards are thrown at our fellow humans instead.

  The news wasn’t good anywhere. Australia was facing a threat from the north as the civil war in Indonesia threatened to embroil Australia in war. Japan was in dire economic trouble and slowly starving, thanks to the colossal disruption in world shipping. Britain was hanging on, barely, while France was clearly having its own problems. Canada was desperately neutral, fearful of attracting alien attention, while Mexico had collapsed into civil war, a war that had spread across the border into the Southern US.

  And, above it all, the aliens were quietly moving ahead with the settlement of Earth.

  The reports were clear. There were no less than fifty alien cities on American territory, the population uprooted and forced into refugee camps to make room for the aliens. They didn't seem to want a single human near their cities, which made a certain kind of sense; humans had
a habit of launching suicide attacks on alien installations. Not even the collaborators were allowed anywhere near the cities. It was worse in the Middle East and North Africa, where the aliens had over a hundred cities. Given time, Alex was sure that they would expand into Russia and China too.

  After the population has thoughtfully wasted much of its military power on one another, he thought, sourly. India and Pakistan had already had a nuclear exchange, one that had shattered Pakistan and crippled India ... and killed millions on both sides. The aliens had probably quietly encouraged the war, hoping to remove two nuclear-armed human powers without having to intervene openly. If that was their plan, Alex had to admit, it had worked perfectly. Neither Pakistan nor India were in any state to fight the aliens.

  Angrily, he stood up and strode over to the drinks cabinet. Area 52’s small supply of good alcohol had been drunk months ago, but a mechanic in the garage had managed to rig up a small still and produce something that was almost, yet not completely undrinkable. He had warned that it was likely to damage the drinker’s teeth, but no one seemed to care. Alex poured himself a hefty slug and drank, scowling at the taste. No one drank it so they could come up with flowery lines to describe the sensation.

  He thought briefly of Robert Nguyen, the computer expert who had started to unlock the secrets of the alien computer system. He’d vanished somewhere in Washington and no one knew what had happened to him. The only real proof that the aliens hadn't taken him alive was the fact they hadn’t modified their systems to prevent further intrusion. But it was yet another frustration in a war that had too many frustrations. Everything they did, at best, seemed to stave off defeat.

  There was a knock on the door. “Go away,” Alex snapped. “I don’t want to talk.”

  The door opened. “I think you should,” Doctor Jane Hatchery said. She was tall and beautiful and absolutely the last person Alex wanted to see right now. “There have been developments.”

  She sniffed the air. “And I really think that you shouldn't be drinking that,” she added. “Brake fluid isn't a very healthy source of alcohol.”

  Alex scowled at her. “Yes, mother,” he said, sardonically.

  Jane ignored his tone. “You need to see this,” she said, passing him a set of papers. “It is important.”

  Alex sighed, irked. Jane didn't seem to mind their enforced confinement; she had several alien bodies to dissect and study, along with reports from other medical researchers to read. She could do something useful on the base ... once, Alex had believed that they’d make a discovery that would save the human race. Now, he had a feeling that even if they managed to mass produce the energy weapons and other tricks they’d mastered from studying the alien technology, it would simply be too late to do any good. Humanity was being weakened day by day ... and when the aliens weren't cutting away at humanity, it was other humans.

  He took the report and glared down at it. A moment later, he looked up. “This is serious?”

  “Apparently so,” Jane said. “They tested the cure on five Walking Dead. All, but one made a rapid recovery when treated properly.”

  Alex skimmed through the rest of the paper, scowled at the medical terminology and then looked back at the summery. It insisted that four of five Walking Dead had been ready to talk three or four hours after injection, while the fifth had started bleeding internally and dropped dead shortly after he’d been treated. Alex had seen the reports; they’d tried everything they could and had never managed to break the alien confinement. Now ... someone had succeeded. But who?

  “Get a shower and a shave,” Jane said, when he asked. “We’re currently arranging a conference call with Torchwood. You’ll want to attend.”

  Alex snorted. During the closing days of the war, several alien ships and bodies – shot down by the USAF or ground defences – had been shipped to Britain, where British and European scientists had started to work on them. Now that America was occupied, the main focus of research had to be in Britain ... and everyone in the know prayed daily that the aliens left the British alone. If the aliens had cut through the USAF and occupied America, they wouldn’t have much trouble wrecking Britain.

  “Understood,” he said, tiredly. “I’ll go now.”

  The fresh water and shave invigorated him. He washed himself thoroughly and stepped back into his room, finding a clean pair of shorts and a shirt. Jane had made herself scarce, unsurprisingly. Alex wondered, briefly, if he would have ever had a chance with her, then dismissed the thought. Their current living conditions weren't designed for romance.

  Besides, he told himself, there are more important things to worry about.

  The Tiger Team had gathered in the base’s main conference room, a simple concrete bunker with a metal table and uncomfortable chairs. Alex had a mild suspicion that the designers had intended to convince people to end their meetings quickly, just by providing uncomfortable chairs. They’d reckoned without the bureaucrats, who seemed to have asses of steel and bottomless bladders. The thought made Alex smile as he sat down beside Jane and grinned at her. Surprisingly, she smiled back.

  “Secure link, online,” a female voice said. The cable connecting America and Britain was completely secure, as far as they knew. Even so, the conversation would be heavily encrypted. “Direct connection to location one; online. Direct connection to location two; online. Direct connection to location three; online. Line integrity; confirmed.”

  Alex scowled. The only way – the only human way – to intercept messages passed over a cable was to link into the cable directly, something that could be detected with the right equipment. But the aliens were so advanced that they might have a trick that allowed them to do it ... he shook his head. If they had known, they would have ensured that Area 52, Area 53 and RAF Machrihanish were wiped off the map.

  “Good morning,” Tony Jones said. “There have been developments of a most interesting nature. Doctor Hatchery?”

  Jane cleared her throat. “Several days ago, a possible cure for the Walking Dead fell into our hands,” she said. She didn't go into details. “Accordingly, the cure was tested on five captured Walking Dead. In four cases, the Walking Dead returned to normal – although they were clearly traumatised by their experience. The fifth died – according to the autopsy, there was considerable damage to the brain and, eventually, internal bleeding.”

  Steve Taylor sucked in his breath sharply. “They’re normal? No longer alien slaves?”

  “We believe so,” Jane said. “Two of them were insisting on returning to the fight as soon as possible, while the other two need a long period of relaxation ... but they seem to be normal.”

  She scowled. “One problem is that they don’t seem to know much about what happened to them,” she added. “It became a nightmare in their minds. The knowledge that it was real probably help tip them over the edge.”

  “So we can't get useful intelligence from them,” Taylor mused. “Or might they recover their memories, perhaps through hypnosis?”

  “They’re working on that,” Jane said. “However, the whole brainwashing process was traumatising. They have fairly comprehensive memories of much of their time as Walking Dead, but they’re somewhat dreamlike. The ones who remembered the most were the ones who had been under their control for longer. We don’t know why, yet.”

  “This does offer us an interesting opportunity,” Taylor said. “How long does it take to cure someone, completely?”

  “At least five hours, assuming that nothing goes wrong,” Jane said. “However, it may take a considerable amount of time for them to overcome the trauma. The reports state, for example, that three of them have regular panic attacks; the fourth sometimes just zones out, then snaps back to normal with no memory of the attack. I’ve looked for reputable psychologists to consult, but this level of trauma is largely unprecedented. There may also be long-term health issues that have yet to surface.”

  Taylor smiled. “Could one of the healed Walking Dead pose as a Walking Dead?”
>
  Jane stared at him. “Are you suggesting that one of them could go back into the alien lair and pretend to be on their side?”

  “It isn't as if we are short of infiltrators who joined the Order Police,” Taylor pointed out, coldly. “This is a little more complicated ...”

  “It may be damn near impossible,” Jane snapped, icily. “Weren't you listening to me? Of the five we tested, one died, three have panic attacks and the last one has moments when their thoughts just zoom away from them! You cannot expect them to pass as Walking Dead indefinitely; I wouldn't expect any of them to fool their fellow Walking Dead for more than a few seconds. Just because the aliens don’t really understand our expressions – if we assume that, which I don’t believe to be true – doesn't mean that they can fool the Walking Dead!”

  “Or the collaborators, for that matter,” Jones pointed out.

  “It’s still worth considering,” Taylor insisted. “If we could refine the process ...”

  He trailed off at Jane’s glare.

  “You seem to think that it is worth risking their lives to spy on the aliens,” Jane snapped. “Do you think they could pass as normal Walking Dead for longer than a few seconds?”

  Alex held up his hand. “The process clearly needs to be refined,” he said. “Where did the technology come from? Britain?”

  “Not ... exactly,” Ben Santini said. The military advisor leaned forward. “I don’t think I need to tell you that this is considered utterly secret – and you are not to discuss it with anyone on the rest of the base, let alone outside the base. Do you understand me?”

  Alex snorted – they weren't allowed out of the base – but nodded in agreement.

  “Very good,” Santini said. He looked from face to face. “We seem to have allies among the alien ranks.”