Abigail nodded. “How did they give you your orders?”
“Verbally,” Brenda said. “They tended to give me a task, then leave me to carry it out as I saw fit, as long as I was efficient. I was supposed to do it in the most direct manner possible ... sometimes, when I wasn't sure what to do, they would give me other orders.”
“I see,” Abigail said, feeling a moment of relief. They’re feared that the Walking Dead were directed remotely, as if they were nothing more than remote drones. If that had been the case, it would have been impossible to fake compliance. “And what happened if you didn't know what to do?”
“They’d give more specific orders,” Brenda said. “They were quite patient with us.”
Abigail could believe it. They could trust the Walking Dead completely, so they would know that any attempt to gain clarification came from genuine puzzlement, rather than a deliberate attempt to slow them down. And it explained the mechanical behaviour some of the Walking Dead had shown. They’d literally just been following orders.
“Good,” she said, vaguely. “What were your duties, since you were captured?”
“They had me organising manpower,” Brenda admitted. “There were hundreds of thousands of people who could serve as a source of labour, so they had me rounding them up, classifying them and then dispatching them to where they were needed. The interstates, for example, need a considerable amount of repair work after the fighting. Everyone who had road-working skills had to be dispatched there.”
Abigail frowned. “Why did they want the interstates repaired?”
“I don’t know,” Brenda said. “But they were looking for others too. Anyone with experience in construction, for example, or anyone who had held a whole list of jobs. They wanted computer repairmen and fast food waiters, among others.”
That sounded weird, Abigail decided. Why would the aliens need either? Maybe they would want someone who had worked at McDonald’s to help dole out alien rations – which actually tasted worse than fast food – but she couldn't imagine why they would need computer repairmen. It wasn't as if they were about to let humans loose on their computer network.
“And they wanted more Order Policemen,” Brenda added. “As many as would volunteer, they wanted. They were just sent away in trucks and I never saw them again.”
“They must have a shortage of manpower,” Abigail muttered, although she doubted it. The US had had virtually unlimited supplies of manpower and the aliens had inherited most of it. And there was no reason why they couldn't simply recruit from the Middle East or Africa if they didn't trust the Americans to labour for them. “Did they have any long-term goal in mind?”
“If they did, they didn't tell me,” Brenda said. She hesitated, then looked up at Abigail. “What is going to happen to me?”
“We’re not quite sure yet,” Abigail admitted. The girl was free of the alien control – they thought – but they had no idea what to do with her. “What happened when you were off duty?”
Brenda laughed, but there was an edge of hysteria in the sound. “I was never off duty,” she said, dryly. “I worked sixteen hours a day, spent one eating the rations they gave me and slept for the rest of the time. I was never allowed to get up late, or spend the day in bed, or even find a guy to take to bed with me. I honestly didn't have those desires at all!”
Abigail frowned. “You had no sexual lusts at all?”
“Not really,” Brenda said. She hesitated, as if she was trying to find a way to explain it. “It was like ... you know dogs? They’re naked all the time and you see them, but you don’t feel any attraction to them. You don’t even recognise the fact they’re naked, not really, even though they are. I mean if I was in a room with naked girls, I would realise that they were naked, even though I’m not attracted to girls. And guys would do the same if they were with other guys, wouldn't they?
“But every time I saw someone, male or female, they were just ... an object, something to use,” she added. “I won’t even say that they were sex objects; they didn't even reach that level. They were just tools.”
“I see, I think,” Abigail said. “They really did a number on you, didn't they?”
Brenda nodded. “And the worst of it is that part of me thanks them for it,” she said. “I know it’s stupid, but I was grateful to them for freeing me from my life ...”
“I think that's something they poured into your brain as a failsafe,” Abigail said, tartly. A post-hypnotic command lingering after the implants had been disabled or something more sinister? There was no way to know. “The doctors will want to keep working on you.”
“I'm sure of it,” Brenda said. “But right now all I want to do is sleep.”
***
“She seems capable of maintaining the facade,” Nicolas said. He gave the alien – Theta – a sharp look. “Or is that something you programmed into the implants?”
“They are still regulating her emotional displays, to some extent,” Theta informed him. “That is a requirement to ensure mental stability, particularly if you wish her to pass for one of the implanted. After that, we will slowly dampen down the implants until they are non-functional, completely so.”
Nicolas nodded. Part of him wanted to tear the rest of them out of Brenda’s head, but he knew that it would be disastrous. He looked over at Philip, who was taking a break between being debriefed by the intelligence officers. They wanted to know everything about the time he’d spent on the alien command ship.
“If Brenda remains stable, we might be able to advance our plan forward,” Oldham said. “I’ll have the copies of the results forwarded onwards to higher authority. After that, we should have a clear idea of what to do next.”
Nicolas frowned, looking down at the monitor showing Brenda’s interview. “We’re asking a lot of someone,” he said. “They almost certainly know that Brenda has been captured by now. If she is released ...”
“They’ll suspect that something might be wrong,” Oldham finished. “But we should have an opportunity to capture someone without tipping them off.”
Nicolas looked over at the CO. “Has there been any word on what happened to Mannington’s population?”
Oldham hesitated, noticeably. “Most of them have been shipped to camps near Washington,” he admitted, finally. “I don’t know why – we don’t have anything coming out of the area, not yet. The remainder were taken westwards, all young women. We picked up an Order Policemen who bitched about the waste.”
“They will serve as hosts for the next generation of humans,” Theta informed them. “Once they have a working gene strain for humanity’s replacements, they will deploy it and destroy your genetic heritage.”
“So we need to sabotage that program too,” Nicolas said. He frowned. “Is there anything we can do about it?”
“Those bases are some distance from here,” Oldham pointed out. “The local resistance will have to mount the attack ...”
“I could go,” Nicolas insisted. “I ...”
“Have another task here,” Oldham insisted. “The locals will do the recon and tell us what, if anything, they need from us. Although attacking their research complex may alert them that we know what they’re doing ...”
“It isn't as if their cities aren't priority targets anyway,” Nicolas snapped. “Or are we afraid to go after them now?”
“Israel lost her capital to an alien rock,” Oldham said. “Going after the alien civilian populations may mean that they go after ours ...”
“So what?” Nicolas demanded, sharply. Bitterness welled up in his voice. Nancy was gone, either dead or trapped in a camp. And there was nothing he could do about it. “They’ve already got our civilians in a vice!”
Chapter Nineteen
Guthrie Castle/RAF Machrihanish, UK
Day 220
Under other circumstances, the President would have enjoyed his stay at Guthrie Castle. It had originally been built in 1468 and had a sense of age that few American buildings, no matter
how significant, shared. Even the takeover by a business and conversion into a convention hall – and it’s later repossession by the British Government, after the aliens destroyed the global economy – hadn't ruined its charm.
It was, he realised, a place intended to keep him safe – and away from places that might attract alien attention. From what he’d been told, there was a battalion of British troops nearby to provide additional security, but he had his doubts about how long they could stand up to a full alien assault. The aliens had smashed through America’s defences and crushed Israel; how long could the RAF keep the aliens away if they came calling? And that didn't include the danger if the British were simply forced to hand him over at gunpoint.
However, it was a considerable improvement over the bunker – and over the submarine. He’d been able to stretch his legs on the grounds and even visit the nearby village, although he’d had to go in disguise. The internet might be flaky these days, but there were still too many people willing to upload information online that the aliens might use to track him down, if they were monitoring the net. And the only reason he could think of for allowing the humans to keep the internet was so the aliens could use it to gather intelligence.
Britain might not have been invaded directly, but it was suffering its own problems. The international trade system that had sustained the island nation had been crippled by the economic shockwaves that had swept the globe in the wake of the alien invasion. Most of the population was on short rations, while the government worked desperately to grow new food from British soil and reopen coal pits to replace the lost sources of oil. The Middle East’s oil supplies had slowed to a trickle since the aliens had invaded; they were using it to keep the rest of the world on a short leash. Other sources had either been lost too or were only available at a staggering price. Stockpiles of gas – the British called it petrol – were heavily rationed, available only to the military and emergency services.
The population hadn't taken it well. Parts of the country were under martial law, while other parts were uneasy – or starving. The government had reintroduced conscription, both for the military and for farming. If there was a shortage of farm tools, the fields would have to be tilled the old-fashioned, labour-intensive way. From what the President had heard, it was clear that long-lost skills were being desperately rediscovered before winter set in. It was quite possible that, if they didn't have stockpiles of food on hand, large parts of the British population would starve.
“Mr. President?”
The President turned to see Pepper - and Williams. Williams had been introduced as a butler, but the President suspected that he was also a combination of bodyguard and native guide. He was a short man who ruled the castle’s small array of staff with an iron hand, although they seemed to like him anyway. But then, if the government hadn't taken over the castle and its facilities, they would likely have ended up jobless. The economy just couldn't support fripperies any longer.
“There’s going to be a meeting outside the castle,” Williams explained. “A car will come to pick you up at twelve, if that is suitable.”
It wasn’t a request, the President knew. “That would be fine,” he said, as graciously as he could. “Do you know where we will be going?”
“I’m afraid not,” Williams said. “I was merely told to prepare you for departure.”
Pepper scowled. “What sort of security can we expect?”
“Several armed guards,” Williams said. “A high-security convoy might be noticed.”
The President had to smile, although Pepper didn't seem so amused. He was still the number one target on Earth, hunted by the aliens as well as international terrorists, anarchists and all the usual suspects. Hell, one of his daily briefings had included the titbit that several terrorist groups had come to believe that the United States had created the aliens through advanced genetic engineering – and through mystical processes that were one step removed from blood libel. The President couldn't understand why anyone would be so stupid as to believe it – if Earth had had alien technology, there would have been a much-reduced demand for oil – but it had adherents. No doubt the Roswell story was still believed too.
When the car arrived, Pepper relaxed slightly. The driver and two escorts were calm and competent, while the vehicle itself was armoured like a tank, even though it looked purely civilian. It probably couldn't stand up to a Javelin antitank weapon, the President suspected – the exact technical details were highly classified – but terrorists could take pot-shots at it all day with AK-47s and the shots would just bounce off. Besides, it was completely unnoticeable. The aliens would probably not try to track every car on Britain’s streets.
If there were cars, he thought, as they drove away from the castle and moved on to the motorway. It was almost eerily deserted; the only vehicles they passed as they headed west were a pair of army convoys and an ambulance heading east, sirens screaming. Britain had never been as car-mad as the United States – the public transport infrastructure was significantly better – but surely they’d had more than a handful of cars! And then he remembered the fuel rationing and shivered. Human mobility had been cut down sharply, just because they were so dependent on imports from the Middle East.
The car turned into a small airfield, where a large helicopter was waiting for them. Pepper insisted on checking it out first, before waving for the President to leave the car and climb into the helicopter. It looked considerably older than Marine One, he couldn’t help noticing, but the crew seemed competent enough. The President peered down as the helicopter lurched up into the sky, heading out over the waters. It was nearly twenty minutes before their destination came into view.
“Curious,” Pepper said, out loud. “That runway is far longer than the airfield needs.”
The President followed her gaze. Their destination seemed to be nothing more than a control tower, a pair of basic hangers and a runway that was far longer than any he’d seen, apart from a handful of USAF bases. Outside, there was a fence patrolled by armed guards; he couldn't see any settlements nearby, apart from a handful of houses. They didn't seem to be inhabited, as far as he could tell.
He braced himself as the helicopter touched down in front of one of the hangers. Inside, there was a small welcoming committee waiting for him. The President smiled as he recognised Tony Jones, one of his former advisors who had ended up in charge of Area 52 and the project to unlock the secrets of the first crashed alien craft, before he’d had to flee to Britain with many of the base’s scientists. Behind him, there were a handful of others, all unfamiliar to him. He scrambled out of the helicopter and walked into the hanger.
“Welcome to Torchwood, Mr. President,” Jones said.
The President blinked. “Torchwood?”
Jones shrugged. “Everyone calls this base Torchwood, particularly on official communications,” he explained. “It’s from a TV show – and it doesn't actually point anyone in the right direction.”
The President looked around. Apart from the welcoming party, the hanger was empty; there were no aircraft waiting for deployment, not even one of the alien craft that had been shipped to Britain as American defences crumbled under the alien onslaught. It looked as if it were well-maintained, but little else.
“The real base is underground,” Jones explained. He was practiced at reading the President’s expression. “If you’ll follow me ...?”
He explained as they walked into an elevator, which headed downwards as soon as the doors slammed closed. “This base is pretty much the British counterpart of Area 51,” he said. “Or at least it was; the base was largely shut down following the end of the Cold War, when it no longer seemed so important. After the aliens revealed themselves, the base was reopened to serve as the centre of research into alien technology. It’s nicely isolated, so if there's an accident or the aliens come calling, there won’t be any civilian casualties.”
The President nodded in understanding. “How much progress have you made?�
�
“Quite a bit,” Jones said, “even before we got the data from the alien rebels. We understand the theoretical basis of their technology now, even the FTL drive. Ironically, we could build one, but it would be completely useless at present. We couldn't even get up to orbit, where the drive could be used safely – and besides, generating enough power to make it work is another headache. Even they never solved that problem.”
“True,” the President agreed, remembering the early days of fighting over America. The alien FTL drive could only be used by very small craft, nothing larger than a jumbo jet, which limited its tactical utility. Their fighter craft had had to dock with larger craft to repower themselves before diving down into the atmosphere to engage the USAF. “And the drive fields themselves?”
Jones made a bitter face. “We understand the theory now, thanks to the alien rebels,” he explained, “and we can even work on simulating the ebb and flow of the drives. But actually duplicating them is going to take years. We need to make the tools to make the tools before we can progress, Mr. President. It’s a bit like trying to duplicate a modern laptop with the tools that were available in 1990.”
He shook his head. “I have no doubt that we will crack it in time,” he added, “but I don't know if they will give us the time.
“On the other hand, we have developed other ideas and concepts from their technology. We have a working plasma cannon system now, although it is only capable of firing a few shots before melting down. The designers think that they can fix that, given enough time, but we may not have time to come up with a final version before we have to deploy them. And we have a working energy weapon that should give the aliens a nasty surprise. And quite a few other tricks.
“For example, guns were useless against them during the first battles. They just glanced off their drive fields. Now, the shells have been modified to go right through their defences and strike their hull. It should be devastating. Their hulls aren’t that tough.
Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory Page 18