The craft seemed to slow, coming to a halt in the air, before it fell the rest of the way and struck the ground with a loud thud. Nicolas felt the ground shake as he pulled himself upright and started jogging towards the crash site, followed rapidly by the rest of his team. Four of the men were carrying coffins – the sealed boxes that blocked all transmissions, intended for transporting the alien and his human ally – and the others carried weapons. If a rescue mission did arrive, Nicolas intended to give it a hot reception.
Even disabled, the craft was radiating enough heat to darken the grass and threaten to set fire to the forest. A hatch opened in the side of the disc-shaped hull as they approached, revealing a pair of alien workers. The two aliens ignored the armed humans and started to work on the hull, doing something that caused the temperature to drop sharply. Part of Nicolas wanted to know what they'd done, the other part knew that their time was rapidly running out. The alien rescue mission had to be on its way.
He hesitated as he reached the hatch, then realised that the air was cool. Inside, he smiled as he saw Philip and the alien standing next to him, the alien seemingly utterly unbothered by the crash. Nicolas saw Philip gulp as the coffins were placed on the deck and nodded in understanding; the coffins would leave him trapped in darkness for hours, unable to move or speak or escape. People had been known to go mad if they’d been trapped for too long.
“I'm sorry,” he said, “but we cannot risk having you traced.”
“I understand,” Philip said. He held a small alien injector device in his hand. “I’ll sedate myself as soon as the lid is closed.”
“Good thinking,” Nicolas said. The astronaut wouldn't have to do anything until they got back to the bunker and he'd been thoroughly checked out by the doctors, just in case the aliens had given him any unpleasant surprises. “We’ll get you out as quickly as possible.”
Philip walked over to the first of the coffins, lay down inside it and then pressed the injector against his neck. He slumped back a moment later, falling asleep. Nicolas wondered absently just what sort of drug it had been, before deciding that it didn’t matter at the moment. The alien walked over to the second coffin, lay down – it had to be an uncomfortable pose, because the coffin hadn't been designed for the inhumanly tall aliens – and peered up at them until Nicolas pulled the lid over his head.
“Take them out of here,” he ordered, as he pulled the explosive pack from his belt. “Hurry.”
Nicolas placed the pack on the deck, keyed the activation code into the pad and then stepped backwards, almost tripping over someone standing directly behind him. He turned around and saw the two aliens, staring at the explosive pack with wide dark eyes. Nicolas hesitated, unsure of what to say or do; the aliens had to die, just to cover the resistance’s tracks. And yet ... he’d never hesitated to kill aliens before, but this was different. These aliens had volunteered to die.
He’d fought suicide bombers, and idiots who had thought that faith could replace training and experience and that death would win them heaven, but this was different. His throat choked up as the little aliens, barely taller than Nancy herself, sat down next to the explosive pack and waited. They were going to die ... did they have no sense of self-preservation, or did they know that there was no other choice? It struck him, suddenly, that he was looking at the fate of humanity if they lost the war. Endless unthinking servitude to alien masters.
The thought broke him out of his trance. Turning, he sprinted for the hatch and dived back out of the alien craft, back on to solid ground. There was no sign of any alien recovery mission, but it would only be a matter of time before one arrived. Luckily, any observers from orbit wouldn't see anything more than a group of humans looking inside the craft, then running for their lives. There was, in theory, no way to know that there was anything inside the coffins. But Nicolas had learned the hard way never to underestimate the limits of alien technology.
He was still running when the ground shook. The explosive pack had detonated, destroying the craft – and all evidence that the alien rebels had been there. If they were lucky, the Rogue Leaders would never know that the craft had been effectively abandoned when it had been destroyed. And even if they suspected the truth, they would never be able to prove it.
If they care about proof, he thought, as he sensed something racing by overhead. The alien response team had finally arrived, too late. He paused and looked backwards, catching sight of alien warriors as they dropped down to secure the crash site. They looked as ready to fight as ever, but Nicolas knew that it was pointless. Now that the mission had been accomplished, the resistance had no intention of fighting, or even trying to drop a mortar round on their heads. There was no point in simply bleeding the aliens.
Turning, he allowed himself to slip into the darkness. It was a long walk to the bunker and he needed to get there before daybreak. Or else he would have to hole up somewhere and wait for nightfall.
***
Abigail had been pressed into service as a medical orderly. It wasn't a job she enjoyed, but she did have some First Aid training and it gave her something to do. The bunker just didn't have very much to distract her and going outside was completely out of the question. If she happened to be caught, the aliens would realise that she was meant to be a prisoner in a POW camp and start asking questions. Or maybe they would implant her first and ask questions afterwards, when she would have no choice, but to tell the truth.
“Get the coffins open,” the doctor ordered, briskly. He’d been as irritated to have her as she’d been to work for him, but there were few medics in the bunker. Most of them had been assigned to work as combat medics in other resistance camps. “Hurry.”
Abigail opened the first coffin ... and almost screamed out loud when she saw the alien. The alien didn't seem too worried as he sat upright, his mechanical arm whirring and clicking like a living thing. Several of the soldiers pointed their rifles at the alien, even though they had been expecting him. The doctor snapped orders for them to lower their weapons and wait for other instructions.
The alien stood up, stepped out of the coffin and eyed the small array of human tech with what looked like disdain. But it was impossible to be sure. His gait, Abigail couldn't help noticing, was very inhuman. He seemed to be almost dancing forward, rather than striding in a humanlike manner. The doctor overcame his surprise and pointed the first of a series of sensors at the alien, paying particular attention to the mechanical arm.
“Tell me,” Abigail asked, “where are you going to stick the anal probe?”
The doctor eyed her darkly. “I think we have reached the limits of what anal probes can teach us,” he said, dryly. “Besides, I don’t think that the alien has an anus.”
“Our species is considerably better designed than yours,” the alien said. The dispassionate, almost atonal voice sent shivers down Abigail’s spine. There might be some aliens who were humanity’s allies, but she didn't think that she’d ever like them. They were creepy in a way that transcending any merely human racism. “We convert everything we eat to energy.”
“Oh, yeah,” one of the soldiers said. “How do you have sex then?”
“Sex is inefficient,” the alien informed them. “Our children are the products of DNA combining and reforming in a pod.”
Abigail blinked in surprise. That couldn't be true, could it? A race dependent on technology to procreate would never have evolved at all ... unless they’d had help, unless someone else had uplifted them for their own purposes. But maybe the Rogue Leaders would seek to streamline and eventually control the reproductive urge. It was powerful, even among the aliens. Maybe it was one of the factors that prevented the Rogue Leaders from taking complete control.
“That’s as may be,” the doctor said. “Can you remove your arm?”
“No,” the alien said. “I require the arm to handle the nanotech we have provided. There is no longer any purpose in delay. The process must be fine-tuned as quickly as possible.”
&nb
sp; “He’s right,” Nicolas said, from where he’d been watching the brief examination. “We have to start experimenting now.”
Abigail nodded.
“Take him down to the lower level,” Nicolas ordered. Two soldiers stepped forwards, their weapons slung over their shoulders. Others would follow at a safe distance. “Once he’s there, we can start work.”
And pray that this isn’t a trick, Abigail thought. Because if it is ...
She left the thought unfinished.
Chapter Eighteen
Virginia, USA
Day 213
Nicolas couldn't help worrying as the alien was slowly escorted into the examination chamber, along with the small pile of devices he had brought with him. He was reasonably certain that the alien rebels were genuine and that they weren't slowly making their way into humanity’s confidence so that they could betray them later, but that wasn't the only concern. It was quite possible that one of the guards would see the alien and fire off a few rounds, either through panic or through a deliberate attempt to hit back at the creatures who’d torn the country apart. There wasn't a person in the bunker who didn't have a good reason to hate the aliens.
Back during training, he'd been told that people were capable of drawing ever more exclusionary circles within their own society, while failing to realise that other societies had their own circles. It certainly made sense within the military; there was a colossal difference between a SEAL and a clerk hiding in the FOB, but an outsider might not realise that there was a real difference, at least not emotionally. He’d seen that in Iraq and Afghanistan; there had been a colossal temptation to regard them all with the same negative brush, even though they were just people. Why couldn't the same be true of the People?
Because they seem a faceless hive mind to us, he thought. His trainers had pointed out how many people were prepared to demonise everyone who happened to belong to a different group. Why shouldn't we see them as nothing, but monsters?
He wished, not for the first time, that he had a team of MPs trained in prisoner handling, even though the alien was not – technically – a prisoner. The MPs took a shitload of abuse from their prisoners, but they never lost control and shot them, or applied more force than was actually necessary. It hadn't stopped the prisoners claiming that they’d been abused, naturally, yet it had been enough to disprove such claims. Not that the world had cared.
The alien stood in the centre of the examination room, waiting. Nicolas had seen some of them sitting down, but it seemed to him that they were just as comfortable standing as sitting. Their chairs were certainly not designed for human backs and buttocks ... he looked at the alien and wondered, absently, just what was going through his mind. The alien acted more like a robot than a living being.
“Bring in the prisoner,” Nicolas ordered. The resistance had snagged a number of Walking Dead over the last couple of days, in the course of operations mounted to avenge Mannington. Not, he suspected, that it would deter the aliens from burning another town to the ground if it suited their purposes. “Let's see what you can do to her.”
He watched as the next subject was wheeled into the room. Brenda Shasta had been a community organiser, according to the handful of witnesses they’d been able to find, a young woman who had organised sit-ins and protest marches over the entire country. Apparently, she’d graduated with a worthless degree, then discovered that she was actually good at organising protests and people were prepared to pay her to do it. It was hard to take such a concept seriously, but then most protests in America weren't serious. And the protesters weren't facing armed men who might gun them down for speaking their minds.
The witnesses had said that Brenda had tried to organise protests after the Order Police had beaten and raped a number of students when they had taken over the college. Nicolas silently gave her points for bravery, but not for intelligence; anyone with half a brain should have been able to understand that the aliens and their collaborators would respond violently to any challenge to their authority. Or maybe she just hadn't realised that the world had changed.
“I’d like to monitor your progress,” one of the human doctors said. “If that is all right with you?”
The alien bowed his head in what had to be an impression of a nod. “That is understandable,” he said, as he produced a set of tools from his bag. “You may monitor the process.”
There was a pause. “I studied the records from your first experiments carefully,” the alien added. “The first batch of nanomachines did too much damage to the host brain to be a viable solution, while the second were unable to control an adverse emotional reaction from the host. This batch should provide more useful alterations to the nanotech. It will continue to control the host’s emotional reactions, but it will prevent them from being controlled directly by their masters.”
“They’ll recover their free will,” the doctor said. “And can this be detected?”
“An examination of the nanotech implanted in their heads would reveal that it had been altered,” the alien said. “However, this would require a proper examination. As long as they do not act poorly, they should remain undetected.”
Nicolas felt a surge of excitement, which he ruthlessly suppressed. The first set of experiments hadn't worked that well, while the second had produced someone who was inclined to panic or break into hysterics whenever he was forced to think about his enslavement. Having the ability to break someone free, without revealing that it had happened, might just be the key to victory. The alien rebels certainly believed it was, or they wouldn't have offered it to their human allies.
“We shall begin,” the alien said, as he bent over Brenda’s form. Oddly, she didn't shy away from him like so many others. “The nanites are being injected ... now.”
Nicolas watched, with a kind of queasy fascination, as the alien’s mechanical arm grew smaller needles and wires that slipped into Brenda’s head. He couldn't tell if the needles were cutting through her skin or if they were thin enough to move between the atoms of her skin. She didn't seem to be in pain, but that proved nothing. The Walking Dead could soak up a terrifying amount of punishment and keep going.
“The nanites are interfacing with the control implants now,” the alien added. It was impossible to see anything, apart from the silver strands reaching into Brenda’s head. The aliens evidently thought nothing of wiring their brains into their computer systems. Nothing human could match it, yet. “I am attempting to reprogram the implants, then disable their automatic reporting functions.”
There was a long pause.
Nicolas felt cold. The aliens hadn’t really seen the potential of their system - but he would have bet good money that humans would see it ... and use it too, no matter what laws were passed against it. Simulating a person’s pleasure centres alone would cause no end of trouble – and if people realised that other people could be controlled ... What would it do to places like North Korea if everyone could be wired to obey the Dear Leader or his heirs? There would be no desire for freedom, or even personal power, just obedience.
We were opening Pandora’s Box, he thought. And now the aliens have shoved us right into the box.
Brenda let out a gasp, then a cry of pain and then something that sounded suspiciously like an orgasmic moan. The alien doctor ignored the noises as he pulled away from her, carefully withdrawing all of his needles and strands. Brenda seemed unable to move, even slightly, until he had pulled away completely, then she let out a cry and fumbled against her restraints.
“Calm down,” Nicolas said, motioning for the alien doctor to walk behind Brenda, where he would be out of her view. “How much do you remember?”
“Everything,” Brenda said, She was shaking, although Nicolas couldn't tell if it was rage or fear. “I remember everything.”
***
Abigail had done thousands of interviews in her life, but she honestly couldn't remember meeting anyone like Brenda before. In some ways, her face was as fixed and immobile as th
e alien faces, while her voice was flat and cold. And yet there was a liveliness in how she moved that belied her appearance. She was mentally free for the first time in months.
And she didn't seem to have any problems talking about what had happened to her.
“They came for us when we were marching towards the college,” Brenda said. “Knocked us down, killed several of us, dragged the rest away. The next thing I remember is lying on my back in an alien building, watching helplessly as they did something to me. It’s funny, but part of me was almost relieved. At least I wasn't dealing with the Order Police.”
Abigail snorted. She had dealt with the Order Police and she preferred them to the aliens. They might want to rape and then kill her, but it was better than having her mind rewritten to suit the aliens. Or so she told herself. Her opinion might change if she ever fell back into their hands.
“I know the feeling,” she said, dryly. “What can you tell me about the procedure itself?”
“There was a ... needle-like tool that came down from the ceiling and touched my head,” Brenda said. She touched her forehead, but there was no scar visible. “I thought it should hurt, but it didn't, not really. All I felt was stuffy inside my head, if that makes sense. It might have been my imagination, of course.”
“Perhaps,” Abigail said. It was hard to believe that the aliens had placed enough material in a person’s head to be noticeable – she had no idea if she could actually feel anything inside her skull – but it might well be imaginary. “And then?”
“There was a lot of ... weird emotions running through my head, then the world just seemed to fade slightly,” Brenda said. “And then they gave me orders and I obeyed, thinking nothing of them. I would have walked off a cliff if they'd told me to.”
Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory Page 17