A human might have spent time engaging in small talk before getting to the meat of the matter. The aliens didn't seem to feel inclined to waste time.
“Your country has been preparing for war against us,” the alien stated, flatly. “We find that most disquieting.”
“We are making preparations to deal with the chaos across the English Channel,” Sir James lied, smoothly. It wasn't remotely true, but it might convince the aliens. He’d certainly been told, by the Prime Minister personally, that it was worth a try. “We don’t want the French disease to spread to England.”
The alien wasn't fooled. “Such preparations would not require the use of the American aircraft and equipment you interned on your soil,” he said. “Nor would it require the extensive deployment of your own aircraft. Your preparations have only one logical target – us. We do not regard that as acceptable.”
Sir James kept his face as expressionless as the alien’s own. “You do not have the right to dictate to us what we do inside our borders,” he stated bluntly. “We certainly do not intend to cross the Atlantic and attack your positions here.”
The alien tilted his head slightly, hands fluttering in front of him in a complex pattern. Sir James stared; the briefing notes had stated that their hands were how they expressed emotion, but they hadn't been very clear on how to read the signals. Was the alien pleased, or angry, or amused, or ... what?
“We are the masters of this world,” the alien stated. “You will inform your leaders that they have one week to disarm. Nuclear weapons and their delivery systems will be handed over to us. Fast jets and other such equipment will be handed over to us. You may keep your soldiers and naval ships, save only those intended to serve as air defence vessels. We will not permit you to possess anything that can be used against us.”
Sir James felt rage breaking through his diplomatic mask and fought hard to control it, to keep his face blank and expressionless. Such blunt demands had gone out of fashion long ago on Earth; even Hitler and Stalin, both evil bastards who had cared nothing for the rights of their neighbours, hadn't been so blunt. But the aliens understood the realities behind diplomacy, that in the end the strong dominated the weak. They just didn't bother to pay lip service to human niceties.
“I shall convey your words to the Prime Minister,” he said, when he was confident that he could keep his voice under control. Someone had clearly leaked to the aliens; they might well have set up a spy network during the years they’d kept the Earth under close observation, or perhaps they’d simply inherited a couple of American or Arab spies when they’d overrun their countries. “He will make the final decision.”
“You will also inform him that if your country refuses to disarm, we will come in force and remove your ability to do us harm,” the alien said. There was absolutely no give in his voice at all, no hint that negotiations were possible. “And then your country will be ruined.”
Sir James winced, inwardly. The aliens had occupied Israel; even if they didn't occupy Britain, losing the war would still be disastrous. God knew that the country was on a knife edge, trapped between fascism and anarchy. If the aliens smashed most of the military, the government would lose the ability to keep the rising tide of chaos under control.
“I will inform him,” he said, tightly.
“Good,” the alien leader said.
It was clearly a dismissal. Sir James stepped backwards, turned and allowed the Walking Dead man to lead him out of the Oval Office and back towards his car. It was a struggle to keep himself under control, despite his extensive experience. He’d never been treated so bluntly by anyone, not even his political enemies. Even the world’s dictators showed a modicum of tact when dealing with more powerful nations. A soft answer could often turn away wrath.
But the aliens hadn't bothered with any niceties. They'd simply threatened Britain – and they’d meant every word. Sir James knew what they’d done to the once-mighty American military and the Israeli Defence Force, to say nothing of the combined militaries of a dozen Arab states. He hadn't been briefed on preparations to resist the military confrontation that everyone knew was inevitable – the aliens might take and interrogate him at any moment – but he doubted that they were enough to give Britain a fighting chance. It was much more likely that they would steamroll through the RAF, just as they had crushed the USAF and the IAF. And then Britain would be crushed too.
He climbed into the back seat of the car, feeling his hands shaking. “Take me back to the embassy,” he ordered. “Now.”
The car hummed to life as he settled down into the back seat. His legs felt unsteady; he was silently grateful for the one-way glass that allowed him to collapse without being seen by any inhuman eyes. Assuming, of course, that the aliens hadn't bugged him. The security team at the embassy was good, but they’d warned the diplomats that the aliens might be able to produce bugs that were utterly undetectable. Perhaps they’d slipped a few into Britain and picked up on the preparations that way.
Or perhaps they just kept an eye on us from orbit and figured out that something was up, he thought, numbly. God damn them to hell.
He shuddered as the car drove through Washington’s empty streets. The devastation – and degradation – was terrifying to contemplate; if it had happened to Washington, it could happen to London. Would alien craft destroy the Houses of Parliament and land troops in front of Ten Downing Street? Or would they simply bombard London from orbit in order to crush resistance without risking more of their warriors? God knew there had to be limits to their manpower.
Sure there are, he told himself. We just haven’t found them yet.
***
Nancy was taking their stay in the concentration camp better than he was, Greg had realised after the first day. There was almost nothing to do in the barracks, but sleep; there were no board games, packs of cards or anything else they could use to distract themselves. A number of couples had paired up and were finding what pleasure and solace they could in one another, but he hadn't joined them. He’d been too worried about Nancy seeing him.
But she seemed to be having fun with the other kids. She’d made friends with a whole host of boys and girls and they spent most of their time running around the yard, screaming and playing tag. At first, Greg had feared that the guards would abuse or shoot the children, but instead they just seemed to ignore the kids. Eventually, it had become harder to care about the possible danger. It might almost have broken up the monotony.
He had the distinct feeling that the aliens, having dragged most of the population of Mannington into camps, didn't really know what to do with them afterwards. It beat the other possibility, he’d pointed out when the adults had talked about their situation in hushed voices; the aliens might just have decided to leave them in the camps to rot. But they’d been picky; unattached young men and women had been separated out, right from the start. God alone knew what had happened to them. If the reports of devastation across the country were halfway accurate, Greg guessed, the aliens might want to use the young men for labour. But why take the young women too?
There were several possibilities, none of them good.
He scowled as he stared across the yard, watching the older children as they kicked a soda can around the field. One of the guards had tossed it to them, allowing them to use it in place of a ball; Greg honestly couldn't see why they hadn't provided a real ball, or even a pack of cards for the adults. It wasn't as if they could use either to escape. Nicolas, with all of the training that made a SEAL under his belt, might have been able to escape the camp. Greg, a civilian to the core, had looked around, but hadn't been able to imagine any way to get out without being spotted and killed. The inner fence was too sharp to climb – he had persistent nightmares about Nancy slicing her fingers off by accident – and the ground was solid concrete. He couldn't have dug a tunnel if the guards had provided him with a shovel.
The gate opened, revealing a man wearing a black uniform and a blank expression. One of the
Walking Dead, Greg realised with a shudder. He didn't know the man, thankfully, but it didn't make it any easier to look at him. The man’s eyes swept the camp, passing over the children ... and coming to rest on Greg. He marched over to where Greg was sitting, hauled him to his feet and marched him towards the gates. Moments later, he was outside the camp and being shoved into a small office.
“Be seated,” a human voice said.
Greg looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a sickly-sweet smile. She reminded him of the actress from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix – she’d played one of Harry’s worst enemies, if he recalled correctly - and the social workers who had questioned his ability to raise another man’s child. None of them had been sensible ... and somehow he wasn't surprised that they had gone to work for the aliens. If any of them had really thought of the children, he hadn't seen any evidence of it.
“I’ll come right to the point,” the woman said. “You called our masters and informed them that a resistance leader had taken up residence in your house.”
Greg said nothing, but he flushed angrily. Maybe he had saved Nancy by betraying her father, but she was still in terrible danger. What would happen if they realised that her DNA was a direct match for Nicolas’s DNA? They'd have a weapon they could use against him ...
Not that it matters, he thought, grimly. All they'd have to do is implant him and then they would know everything he knows about the resistance.
“Right now, you are in a camp filled with the discontented and the bitter-enders,” the woman continued. “We require you to keep an eye on them for us. If there are any plans to escape, or do something else drastic, we wish you to notify us.”
“Oh,” Greg said, feeling his temper snap. “And how are we meant to escape the camp?”
The woman eyed him darkly. “You will inform us if there are any plans, no matter how impractical,” she said. “Or we will be forced to take steps.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your daughter, for example, could be taken from you,” she added, “and given to someone loyal to raise ...”
Greg blanched. Nancy was all he had left.
“... Or she could go into a different research program,” the woman added. “She is immature, not fully developed, allowing our masters to experiment with splicing other threads of DNA into her genetic code. Some of those experiments have failed, or created monsters.”
“No,” Greg said, feeling his knees buckle. If he hadn't been sitting, he would have collapsed to the floor. “You can't ...”
“We can and we will, unless you spy for us,” the woman said, flatly. “Should you fail to report any scheme to us, your daughter will be transferred elsewhere. She will never be allowed to see you again. Do you understand me?”
Greg clenched his fists, feeling helpless rage burning through him. The bitch was just like a goddamned social worker, wielding her power for the sheer pleasure of wielding it ... not for the good of the child or anyone else. There were countless parents whose only qualification for parenthood was passing the practical exam; somehow, they were considered sacred, untouchable, while adoptive parents were treated with suspicion.
He could hit her. Maybe he wasn't Nicolas, but he could still slam his fist into her face ...
... And Nancy would face the consequences.
“Very well,” he snapped, bitterly. “I will spy for you.”
“Excellent,” the woman said, clapping her hands together. “We look forward to your reports.”
Greg shuddered. Somehow, he would have to report without people noticing and growing suspicious ... and he honestly didn't see how that was possible, not now. There was no privacy in the camp. After several days, almost everyone had lost their modesty. But he would have to think of something. Nancy’s life – and worse – was at stake.
The woman looked up. “Take him back to the camp,” she ordered. “He has a job to do.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alien Base, Near Casper, Wyoming, USA
Day 238
“The child is developing as predicted,” the alien doctor said. “You should give birth soon.”
Dolly stared at him, too tired to glare. She couldn't remember what she was supposed to feel like when she was pregnant, but right now she was tired all the time, barely able to keep her eyes open, let alone waddle around the complex to get some exercise. God – how had the baby developed so fast? What had the aliens done to her to accelerate its growth?
Or had she been their prisoner for nearly nine months?
The thought terrified her. They’d drugged her, they’d experimented on her ... she could easily have simply lost track of time so completely that it had actually been years since she’d been taken prisoner. Chicago seemed almost like a nightmare at times, except whenever she opened her eyes she was still in the alien base, a helpless brood mare for their long-term program, whatever the hell that was. All she knew was that she was pregnant and the child was developing abnormally quickly.
“Well, that’s a relief,” she managed to sneer. “And what happens then?”
The alien ignored her sarcasm. “We will continue the procedure,” he said. “The development of your child will be closely monitored.”
Dolly touched her stomach, feeling the baby kicking in her womb. What did the alien mean? She’d always assumed that they’d simply take the child away when she gave birth, a prospect that disturbed her more and more every day, but might they intend to have her raise the child? Or did they have something else in mind? What were they even doing?
She’d tried to think about the possibilities, every time her mind was reasonably clear. The aliens couldn't want to breed human slaves, could they? It wasn't as if there was a shortage of humans who could be enslaved, even before the invasion. Dolly had even collected charity for children who’d been abducted in Africa and sold into slavery, even though her father had pointed out – rather snidely – that paying slavers for slaves only encouraged the bastards. If Americans could adopt children in Africa without attracting legal attention, surely the aliens could just do the same.
But what else could they want?
Two other aliens appeared and helped her off the table, holding her upright until she was sure that her legs would support her. She had no idea what a normal pregnancy was supposed to feel like, but right now she felt fragile, unstable and she constantly needed to go to the toilet, almost all the time. The aliens, at least, had been understanding, once they’d realised the problem. It was something she’d found hard to explain.
“Tell me,” she said, desperately, “why are you doing this?”
There was a long pause, long enough for her to wonder if the aliens were really more talkative than usual.
“We are creating the future,” the alien said, finally. “You are helping us to shape our shared destiny.”
Dolly sighed, bitterly. More inanities, meaningless phrases that provided absolutely no useful information. How did a child help shape the future of two separate races? Surely the child couldn't be an alien-human hybrid, could it? And yet it was developing remarkably fast, unlike a normal human child ... unless, of course, it really had been nine months since she had been taken prisoner. It was so hard to be sure.
Her escorts helped her out of the chamber before she could say anything else, leading her through a series of corridors that seemed to twist and turn in on themselves. It was a maze, one that she knew she couldn't navigate without alien assistance; there was no way to know how they found their way through the corridors. As always, there were no signs to mark their location, nothing they could use to find their way. Maybe they just memorised the plans of the complex, she told herself. Or maybe they had something else up their sleeves.
She stepped to one side as a set of aliens advanced down the corridor. They seemed more machine than living beings, each one plugged into cyborg implants that flashed and flickered oddly under the brilliant light from high overhead. Several of them, she noticed, had had their eyes removed altogether a
nd replaced with ocular implants. They were aliens ... and yet she winced in sympathy. How could anyone do that to themselves?
But I knew people who had breast implants or eye surgery, she thought, as the aliens passed her by. There was a faint scent of decayed flesh in the air for a long chilling moment. Maybe the aliens consider implants a fashion accessory.
It didn't seem likely, she knew. But anything that made the aliens seem more human was welcome.
Her escort led her outside the complex, into what she had come to think of as the alien garden. The sky was darkening rapidly – it had been morning, she was sure, when she had been taken for her check-up – but the alien workers were still buzzing over the plants, inspecting their growth and pruning where necessary. The scents were strange, utterly alien to her, and yet she rather liked them. If only the planets weren't so eerie.
A handful of other girls, all in various stages of pregnancy, sat in the garden or wandered through the building that had been put aside for them. None of them were modest now, not after weeks – or months, or years – of being poked and prodded by alien doctors. Dolly wondered, absently, why she wasn't more outraged than she was about their treatment. The aliens had effectively raped them, getting them pregnant in the process. Did it really make a difference if they were artificially impregnated, rather than being raped by a man? She honestly couldn't remember if anyone had ever been taken to a fertility clinic and impregnated against their will. The closest thing she could recall was a court case where a man had refused to pay child support on the grounds that his girlfriend had made herself pregnant by recovering his condom and transferring the still-fresh sperm into her vagina.
Her escort gently pushed her into her quarters and motioned towards the bed. Dolly sighed, but obeyed. She needed to sleep again – and besides, the more she slept, the more she forgot what she had once been. After everything she’d endured, she couldn't help wondering if that would be a relief.
Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory Page 30