“Tell them to bring as much ammo as possible,” he ordered. Another pair of alien workers appeared out of nowhere and lunged towards the humans. He shot them both and watched dispassionately as their bodies hit the deck. “We need to push through as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” Carlson said. There was a pause. “I’ve had an idea.”
“Oh,” Nicolas said. In his experience, ideas by someone standing at the rear weren't worth the paper they were written on. But he had to ask. “What do you have in mind?”
***
Edward frowned as the new orders came in over the tactical net. “Hold the line? Sir ...”
“Trust me,” Little said, sharply. “Hold the line and wait.”
“Fucking brilliant,” Dudley muttered. Up ahead, yet another group of aliens were massing, either to bleed the humans when they advanced forward or preparing a charge of their own. It was sheer madness to give them any time to reform and press the advantage. “I really have a bad feeling about this.”
“Thank you, Han,” Edward said. “Just remember to shoot first and you should be fine.”
***
“You sure this is going to work?” Nicolas asked. “This isn't a human system.”
“Did five years with the Royal Engineers before I passed Selection,” the gruff-looking British trooper said. “I still remember which end of a screwdriver to hold. Could do with a sonic screwdriver right now.”
Yates snorted. “Are you sure ...?”
“The basic concept of this system is the same as one of ours,” the engineer-turned-SAS trooper said, tartly. “I can use it, if necessary. I’m just not sure how long it will be before it starts to work.”
Nicolas nodded and keyed his radio. “Everyone, find something to hold on to,” he ordered. “Do it now.”
“One moment,” the engineer said. A dull rumble echoed through the bulkheads. “Now!”
***
Edward heard the rumble and looked behind ... to see a wall of water racing towards his position. He grabbed onto a piece of alien equipment and held on for dear life as the water hit him and smashed onwards, raging towards the alien position. It didn't seem to be flowing quite right – perhaps it was the fluctuating gravity field, he realised dully – but it was heading into the alien ship. The fire from the aliens cut off abruptly.
“Forward,” he snapped. Water seemed to be scurrying down the corridor, as if it were running down a very slight slope. It would be slippery, but they were used to that after Camp Pendleton. What sort of Marine slipped on running water? “Take them out!”
***
“The emergency system is designed to cope with fire inside the hull,” the cold alien voice said, as Nicolas advanced down the drenched corridor. The alien warriors didn't seem to have enjoyed their unwelcome bath, but thankfully they’d been knocked out of position and weren't able to fight back so effectively. “In the event of it being triggered, the water is directed inwards.”
It seemed an odd precaution to Nicolas – fire didn’t actually burn in space, so venting part of the hull might make more sense – but the aliens had been in space for generations and so he assumed they knew what they were doing. Instead, he ran onwards until he reached the computer core itself. The airlock was sealed; a pair of explosive charges took care of it, blasting it inwards. Inside, he saw a colossal compartment, dominated by something that looked like a giant crystal pillar. The computer core, he guessed, although it was hard to be sure.
A small group of worker aliens were plugged into the computer core, ignoring the humans completely. Several warriors and two of the unidentified caste were standing next to them, all holding weapons, but none of them opened fire. Nicolas realised, with a sudden sense of relief, that they weren't willing to risk a firefight in the heart of the mothership; their weapons would probably do more damage to the core than any mere M16. And, behind them, he saw the Rogue Leader.
The one he’d faced in Washington had been powerful. This one seemed somehow ... less capable, although it was clear that he was in charge of the small group of aliens. It was impossible to read any emotion in the alien’s dark eyes, but judging by the way his hands were moving the alien was quite agitated. It was impossible to blame him. The Rogue Leaders had started the day ruling two civilisations. Now, they were reduced to a single one.
“Get the grenades,” he muttered. The alien had nowhere else to run, nowhere to hide. He didn't care if they destroyed the computer core; indeed, doing so would safeguard Earth. “And get ready to move, if I fail.”
He stepped forward, carefully moving his rifle so that he wasn't pointing it directly at any of the aliens.
“There’s no way out,” he said, trying to push as much conviction into his voice as he could. Talking a reluctant terrorist down wasn't easy ... and there, if he could see the terrorist, he could at least pick up on his cues. Reading the alien was much harder. “You are the last of your kind.”
He couldn't help thinking of the time he’d watched Wrath of Khan on DVD with his comrades, out on a FOB in Afghanistan. Khan had been a superhuman, engineered to be a mighty leader – and he’d been judged too dangerous to reintegrate into civilian society. But he hadn't managed to seduce anyone, apart from a single rather odd crewwoman. The Rogue Leaders had been far more dangerous to their own people – and humans too.
“You can stand down and surrender,” he said. “We can take you to a place where you can spend the rest of your days in peace.”
“A prisoner,” the alien said.
“A prisoner,” Nicolas agreed. They’d have to take extreme precautions, but the ‘super-charisma’ the Rogue Leaders used didn't seem to work over telecommunications links. It should be possible to keep one prisoner indefinitely. “There is no way out for you, no way for you to recover your control over your population. At worst, we blow the entire mothership and get rid of you.”
He shivered inwardly as he looked down at the aliens. If they had been human, one of them might have turned his gun on his leader and then surrendered. It had happened before, when fanatical leaders had discovered that their followers were less inclined to die for the cause. But the aliens ... just obeyed. Resistance seemed to be futile.
The alien stepped forward, dark eyes still meeting Nicolas’s eyes, boring into his very soul. For a moment, Nicolas was spellbound ... and then he pushed the control aside, lifting his rifle. The alien didn't try to jump back, or hide. He just stood there as Nicolas pulled the trigger, blowing alien brains all over the computer core.
Nicolas couldn't help thinking that the alien had wanted to die.
***
“The Rogue is dead,” the alien rebel said. “We are currently attempting to assume command of the mothership.”
Philip barely heard him. He’d been listening to the reports from Earth. All, but two of the missiles fired towards alien bases and cities had been shot down. Two warheads had detonated on top of an alien base in Iran, just two. The remainder had been wasted.
He looked up at the image of Earth, floating against the sea of stars. From so high up, there was no trace of the war that had marred Earth’s surface, or of the damaged and destroyed cities that had been obliterated by the fighting. It looked so safe and tranquil.
We’ve won, he thought, as the next flight of craft from Earth finally appeared. Once reinforcements were on the mothership, the aliens would have problems continuing the war, if the two sides couldn't agree on peace terms. So why doesn't it feel like a victory?
Whatever else happened, the world would never be the same.
Chapter Fifty-One
Washington DC, USA
Day 260
“Feels rather weird to be in uniform again, doesn't it?”
Edward Tanaka had to agree. After what felt like a lifetime wearing civilian clothes and fighting an insurgency against the aliens, it definitely was odd to be wearing Marine BDUs again. He was surprised that any uniforms had survived the alien occupation, but they’d apparent
ly stored a great many pieces of equipment near their bases, just in case they might come in useful someday. Instead, they had been distributed to the resistance as the aliens pulled out of Washington.
It felt equally odd to be patrolling Washington and pulling security as they’d patrolled Baghdad, back when the world had made sense, but the Washington PD was long gone. The Order Police had fragmented and scattered, those who hadn't been able to convince the aliens to take them with them when they left had fled, hoping to hide in the countryside. Washington had threatened to collapse into chaos completely in their absence, as the recriminations began among those who hadn't joined the resistance – or had joined in the hour of victory, no matter how incomplete. Edward couldn't help thinking that the issue of who had and who hadn’t fought in the resistance was going to blight the political landscape for years to come.
“And we’re going to have to rebuild the Corps too,” Dudley continued. “This won't be the end of war.”
Edward nodded, grimly. The aliens might have pulled out, but there was still a civil war in Mexico that had spread into the United States and countless criminal gangs and Order Policemen who had seized territory for themselves. Once, dealing with them would have required nothing more than the political will to use deadly force. Now, the political will was there, but the force was very limited. Edward had heard rumours that his particular unit would be heading down south as soon as they had secured Washington, hoping to reclaim control of the southern United States. Failure was a very real possibility.
He scowled as he turned the corner and saw the bodies lying in the centre of the road. Collaborators, perhaps, or merely a handful of people who had been massively unpopular; their neighbours had taken advantage of the chaos to lynch them and leave their bodies for everyone to see. None of the dead looked familiar; he certainly couldn't recall seeing their names on any wanted list, although the lists did keep growing longer as the investigators dug through the collaborator files. But they’d been murdered without even the pretence of a fair trial.
“Maybe we won,” he said, although he knew that it had been a draw at best. “But the country is never going to be the same.”
He flinched as he heard a helicopter flying overhead, before realising in embarrassment that if he could hear the aircraft, it certainly wasn't an alien craft. It was heading north, towards the remains of the Green Zone – and the White House. It felt strange to see any human aircraft in the air so long after the invasion. As far as he knew, only a handful of American aircraft had flown since the aliens had landed. They’d wiped out almost all of the once-proud USAF.
“No,” Dudley agreed. “It isn’t.”
***
The President had known, intellectually, that Washington had been seriously damaged by the aliens. He’d even seen photographs and videos that had been uploaded onto the internet by resistance fighters and newsmen. But seeing it in person was somehow worse. Hundreds of buildings were nothing more than piles of rubble, while others had been damaged in the fighting and bore their scars proudly. The Pentagon had been destroyed, while the Capitol had been taken over by the collaborators, only to be blown up in the final hours of the fighting. And the White House was a shambling mockery of its former glory.
Maybe coming in by helicopter was a mistake, he thought, as the aircraft descended towards the White House lawn. I can see too much of the city from high overhead.
He sucked in his breath as he saw the remains of the walls surrounding the Green Zone. The resistance had knocked them down in a dozen places, allowing them to storm the compound, but the surviving pieces were a grim reminder of how the aliens had partitioned Washington and protected their collaborators, while the remainder of the population had been left to suffer and starve. They might still starve, he knew, even though the resistance had taken over the alien-operated soup kitchens. Winter was getting closer and far too many people had nowhere to shelter from the oncoming storms.
“There was more gunfire down south,” Pepper said, softly. “And quite a few threats against your person.”
The President shrugged, finding it hard to care. His declaration of martial law hadn't sat well with everyone, particularly the resistance fighters who wanted to round up and execute every collaborator they could get their hands on. The President didn't blame them, but he wanted to try to ensure that only genuine collaborators were executed; so far, he knew of at least nine resistance infiltrators who had died at the hands of their fellows. And then there were the local authorities who had made accommodations with the aliens, rather than see their towns occupied and administered by the Order Police. Did they all deserve to die?
And there were the resistance fighters who were calling him a traitor for leaving Washington, even though he hadn't had a choice. They were even talking about putting up a challenger in the next elections, whenever they were ...
“Hell of a mess,” he muttered, grimly. Lincoln had overseen a Civil War that had devastated large parts of the country – and his successors had had to handle a reconstruction that hadn’t been a complete success. Jim Crow might be dead now, but there were other nightmares that might rear their heads in the wake of the alien withdrawal. “The only thing costlier than a battle lost is a battle won.”
“Marine One, landing,” the pilot’s voice said, through his headphones. There was a dull thump as the helicopter touched down. “Welcome back to Washington, Mr. President.”
Yeah, the President thought, bitterly. Welcome back.
***
Alex hadn't wanted to take a few hours off to see the President return to Washington, but Oldham – who had been promoted to General and placed in overall military command of Washington and the surrounding states – had insisted. It was a historic moment, the General had said, and besides the reconstruction team did need a break. But there was just so much to do.
The collaborators, thankfully, had kept extensive files. Alex and the remainder of the team had been working their way through them, accounting for many whose fate had remained unknown – and identifying collaborators for future retribution. That hadn't been the main problem, however; large parts of the country were starving and the government needed to move food from the collaborator stockpiles to where it was desperately needed. With the transport network shot to hell, it wasn't going to be easy.
And there’s no help coming either, he thought, as the President’s helicopter settled down on the lawn. No one can help us, even if they wanted to.
Apart from Canada, which had sent food and some troops to guard supply bases, there had been little help from the country’s former allies. Britain was trying to rebuild too, after the alien invasion and the crash in Fife, while the rest of Europe was struggling to pull itself back together. And Russia, further east, was quietly securing control over large parts of Central Asia and Eastern Europe. They’d been smart enough not to try a direct military invasion of Poland and the Baltic States, but no one was in any doubt that the Russians were in charge.
And they have a couple of alien craft and our research notes, Alex reminded himself. God knows how that will end.
He looked over at Karen, who looked exhausted. She hadn't looked any better since she’d been asked to help with post-war reconstruction, although the death threats might have had something to do with that. There were far too many resistance fighters out there who hadn't heard that she’d actually been working for the resistance – and Daisy Fairchild had made herself so unpopular that the fighters wanted to lash out at any remnants of her administration. The SEAL standing next to her was her bodyguard, Alex knew. Without him, she might end up lying in the gutter with her throat cut – or worse. Security in Washington, even in the former Green Zone, was a joke.
Poor girl, he thought. The war is over and she’s still a prisoner.
***
Philip waited, as patiently as he could, for the President to finish shaking the hands of various resistance fighters and leaders and reach him. The Americans who had fought in Britain
had fought bravely, everyone agreed, but they weren't feted like the Americans who had fought in their own country ... well, not in America at least. His memory of the celebrations they’d held after the aliens had withdrawn from Britain would comfort him in his declining years.
“Mr. President,” he said, when the President finally reached him. “Thank you for trusting me – and them.”
“Mr. Ambassador,” the President replied. “Congratulations on your new post.”
Philip smiled. Once the last of the Rogue Leaders had been taken out, the alien rebels had managed to assert control of the command network and end the war. Hammering out a truce hadn't been hard; the aliens had simply withdrawn to their bases, leaving the humans alone. It had taken two more days to sort out a semi-permanent treaty, a remarkably quick negotiation compared to some of the discussions the United States had held in the past. The British diplomat he’d worked with had noted that it normally took weeks to decide the shape of the conference table, let alone anything of actual substance. But the alien rebels were just as keen on bringing the war to an end as the humans themselves.
“If congratulations are in order,” Philip said. “Did we really come out ahead?”
The alien rebels might not have wanted the planet, but they had a strong position in negotiations that had threatened to drag the discussions out endlessly. In the end, the human race – or at least the parts of it that had signed the treaty – had conceded that the aliens would have domain over a region stretching from North Africa’s Atlantic coast to the Indian and Turkish borders. There were humans living within their territory, of course, but the outside powers had agreed not to support any future insurgencies. The only major concession the aliens had made was to agree to resume oil shipments, although those wouldn't be necessary for much longer. Once alien tech entered the mainstream in a big way ...
Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory Page 48