He pushed the thought aside. The defence of Earth was out of his hands. His responsibility was his country and people.
“The media will be watching,” he said, slowly. “Do they know what’s happening?”
“The first reports came in less than ten minutes ago,” Templeton said. “However, it will not be long before the media realises that something is wrong. And then ...”
“Panic,” Andrew said. There had been panic in the streets after New Russia. Everyone had expected the aliens to punch straight through to Earth before the human forces could adapt to their weapons. “There’ll be anarchy.”
He sucked in his breath. He’d seen a multitude of plans for every contingency, from a Great Power conflict to outright civil war and none of them had made reassuring reading. Britain was a more unified country than some of the other Great Powers, but a combination of alien attack and governmental collapse would bring out the beast in everyone. The planners had been pessimistic. It remained to be seen if they were actually wrong.
“I understand that we have a contingency plan for this situation,” he said. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Templeton said. He spoke from memory. “We’ll alert military bases and police stations first, then inform the general public once the security forces have been deployed. Martial law will be declared. All reservists who haven’t already been called up will be ordered to report to their nearest base, while the remainder of the civilian population will be instructed to stay put and wait. We anticipate that most people will obey orders. Those who don’t will be arrested and detained until the emergency is over.”
Andrew swallowed. It was late, thankfully. Most civilians would be at home, he hoped. They’d be safe, for a while. But that wouldn't last. The government had advised everyone to stock up on food and water, when the war had begun, yet he had no idea how many people had actually followed the government’s suggestion. If food distribution services started to break down, millions of people would starve. Some of them would go looking for food elsewhere.
And they might be shot, he thought, grimly. The police had strict orders about dealing with looters. And won’t that come back to haunt us?
He pushed the thought out of his head. “Make it so,” he said. “I’ll address the nation once the first alerts have gone out.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Templeton said. He paused. “We also require your permission to deal with the media. They cannot be allowed to cause a panic.”
Andrew sighed. Even now, the media wielded considerable power. He’d be Public Enemy Number One after the crisis ... if, of course, the crisis ended. His party would certainly pay a high price during the next election. But if the crisis didn't end, the next election would be the least of their worries. He had no idea what sort of government the Tadpoles would impose on Earth - if they didn't simply eradicate the human race - but he doubted it would be one most humans would find congenial.
“Do it,” he said. Perhaps he could resign, afterwards. It might salvage the party’s chances in the General Election. “And make sure they know it was my decision.”
He took a chair and forced himself to think, dragging up details from half-remembered briefings. The Whitehall Bunker was deep under Whitehall, deep enough that nothing in humanity’s arsenal could destroy it without doing immense damage to London. It was linked to an entire network of bunkers and storage depots around the country, allowing the government to keep functioning even if the country itself was invaded. The cynical side of his mind wondered if there would be any point - any survivors above ground would not be pleased to see the government after the war - but it didn't matter. It was their duty to rebuild the country after the war.
The red icons on the display didn’t seem to be moving. It took him several minutes to work out that the display itself was shrinking as the alien ships moved closer and closer to Earth, gliding into position to threaten the entire planet. The bunker staff spoke in hushed voices as they struggled to coordinate a national response to a planetary threat, snatches of conversation echoing in Andrew’s ears as they worked. Many of them seemed to be dealing with officials who didn't quite believe the news.
We should have held more drills, Andrew thought. But we always considered them too disruptive.
It was a frustrating thought. The country hadn't held national drills since the Troubles. Even the annual military exercises hadn't involved more than a tiny fraction of the population. He couldn't help wondering just how people were going to react, when the news finally crashed into their minds. There would be panic, then chaos. He had no doubt that thousands upon thousands of people would rush to buy food and arm themselves, despite the order to remain at home. There was always someone who thought the rules didn't apply to them.
“The King has been informed,” a voice said. “He’s staying in London.”
Andrew nodded to himself. The Royal Family didn't have any power of its own - the Houses of Parliament were united on that, if nothing else - but it did have symbolic value. King Charles IV could encourage the population to work together to overcome their problems, although the cynic in Andrew suspected his words would fall on deaf ears. What did a man who had grown up in Buckingham Palace know of the common man? The Royal Family’s true role was to distract the public from power. There would be little cause for that if the Tadpoles won the war.
Templeton walked back over to where Andrew was sitting. “The datanet is already flooding with alerts,” he said. “Someone in America or France let the cat out of the bag.”
Andrew glanced at his watch, then winced. Barely twenty-seven minutes had passed since he’d entered the bunker. The police and military would do all they could, but they simply hadn't had time to prepare for either riots or enemy landings. There was no way to keep the word from spreading, too. The datanet was meant to be carefully monitored, but hackers had been exploiting flaws in the system for years. It hadn't been seen as a major problem, as long as they stayed out of government systems.
“Alert the population,” he said, finally. “Better they hear it from us than anyone else.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Templeton said.
Andrew sighed. The British public maintained a healthy scepticism of anything that came out of a politician’s mouth. It was hardly a surprise - British politicians had done a great deal of damage because they’d lost touch with reality, before the Troubles - but right now it was a major headache. Andrew liked to think that his honesty ratings were higher than his predecessors, yet that meant nothing. The person sitting in Ten Downing Street was a liar, as far as most of the population was concerned. They never had to deal with the compromises Andrew had to make every day.
“Keep it as truthful as possible,” he said. He’d have to address the nation. There were a number of emergency speeches in his desk drawer, but none of them really fitted the situation. “And make sure they know to stay indoors.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Templeton said.
Andrew leaned back into his chair, gritting his teeth. It wasn't going to be pleasant. Even in the best case scenario, hundreds of thousands of people were going to be seriously injured - or die. And yet, there was no choice. His country was about to be attacked.
And we’ll beat them off, he told himself. We will.
But he knew, all too well, that that was out of his hands.
Chapter Six
Sin City, Luna
There was definitely something darker in the air, Brian decided, as he made his way up the stairs and onto Level Five. The wild parties were still going on - he ducked as a piece of underwear flew over his head - but there was an edge to the air that worried him. He glanced at his watch, deciding that time had to be running out for most of the guests. They’d be in deep shit if they failed to catch the last train back to their destination.
“Banned in Boston, sir,” a young waitress said, holding out a set of datachips. “Yours for a hundred credits.”
Brian rolled his eyes a
s he took in the titles. Semi-legal porn, probably already pirated and uploaded to the darker corners of the datanet. They probably would be banned in America - the social conservatives had been fighting a war against datanet porn for years - but that probably meant nothing to anyone who actually wanted it. There was no shortage of ways to get around datanet restrictions with the right tools and knowledge. Besides, the porn flicks weren't banned in Britain.
“No, thank you,” he said, tersely.
The girl shrugged and headed on to the next potential customer. Brian rather doubted she’d have better luck. Smuggling datanet porn into a military base could get someone in real trouble, although there was always some idiot who thought he could get away with it. No doubt the idiot would have plenty of time to reflect on his stupidity in the brig. He glanced at the string of adverts on the walls, then walked down to the bar. It looked to be heaving with customers, the waitresses carrying vast trays of drinks from the bar to the tables. Brian couldn't help thinking that the clientele didn't look very savoury. Most of them were either merchant spacers or military types.
Many a foul crime has probably been planned in here, he thought, as he walked into the bar and looked around. Or tips shared on how to evade anti-smuggling patrols.
He gritted his teeth as the music started to pound, a dull throbbing beat that was supposed to be popular ... somewhere. A line of naked dancers appeared on the stage, shaking their breasts and kicking their legs in a manner that made Brian roll his eyes. He liked the female form as much as any other straight male, but there were limits. The blatant sexuality was more disturbing than enticing. But it didn't seem to be a problem for the drunkards in the front row. They were hooting and hollering as the dancing became more and more obscene.
A waitress, her skin as dark as the night, appeared in front of him. “Table, sir?”
“Yes, please,” Brian said. He passed her a tip, watching with admiration as she made the coin vanish before any of her superiors noticed it. The bar looked to be the sort of place where tips were expected to be shared. “Can you give me somewhere away from the stage?”
“Of course, sir,” the waitress said. “If you’ll follow me ...?”
Brian followed her, his eyes moving from waitress to waitress as he searched for his target. None of the waitresses looked particularly happy to be there, although some were clearly better at hiding it than others. A handful of girls had nasty marks on their skin, utterly unconcealed. Abuse was technically forbidden in Sin City, but the girls were probably not in any position to make a complaint. Their visas would be cancelled if they couldn’t find replacement positions after they were fired.
Poor bitches, he thought. But where is Abigail?
He was tempted to ask his escort as she offered him an empty table and waited for his order, but he suspected it would be a bad idea. It was unlikely that anyone at the bar knew who ‘Norma Lee’ really was, yet if they did ... Brian wasn't in the mood for a fight. God alone knew what Sin City’s Management would do if the shit really did hit the fan. They’d have to be insane to pick a fight with Abigail’s family, but their reputation for secrecy was important to them. Sin City would lose half its customer base if secrecy was no longer an option. He ordered a pint, then leaned back to watch the waitresses. He’d just have to keep his eyes open and wait.
The dancing finally came to an end, the dancers bowing obscenely before marching off the stage. Thankfully, Abigail didn't seem to be among them. Brian kept looking, silently praying that Abigail hadn't thought to change her looks. He’d seen videos of the girl, but he knew better than to think that he’d recognise her if she cut or dyed her hair. Facial identification software might not even be able to pick her out from the crowd.
Perhaps I’ll have to ask after all, he thought, as he sipped his beer. Someone might tip her boss off if Clancy screws the pooch.
A new set of waitresses appeared, looking worn down by life. Brian studied them, but ... his eyes almost flickered over Abigail before he spotted her. She hadn't changed much, yet ... she looked different. She looked beaten down by life. There were no visible bruises, but that meant nothing. Brian was old enough to know that there were plenty of ways to hurt someone that left no visible trace. Naked threats and intimidation of someone who was very much a fish out of water would probably be enough to do the trick.
He watched her carefully, waiting for the moment he could signal her. Abigail looked young, painfully young. Surely someone would have noticed she was too young. But he doubted Abigail’s boss would have looked any further than her fake papers. They’d gotten her into Sin City, so there was nothing wrong with them. And if there was, Brian knew, it wouldn't be the boss’s fault. He caught her eye, just for a second, and waved. She hesitated, looking as though she wanted to send someone else, then slowly made her way to his table. Brian couldn't help thinking she looked as though she was walking to her own execution.
“Abigail,” he said, quietly. “I’m here to help.”
Abigail’s eyes went very wide. “Who are you?”
“Sit down,” Brian said, quietly. The music was drowning out every conversation, as far as he could tell, but he knew better than to count on it. Someone with a focused mike would probably be able to hear every word. “Your parents sent me to get you home.”
Abigail swallowed, hard. “I don’t want to go home.”
Brian studied her for a long moment. He didn't have daughters, but he’d seen his fair share of teenage suspects. They’d often been pushed into doing more and more stupid things until they attracted the attention of the law, then wound up in cells waiting for transport to the nearest borstal. They tried to sound prideful, they tried to sound grown-up, but most of them knew they were in deep shit. Abigail sounded just like the ones who wanted to call their parents, yet were too stubborn or too afraid to make the call. They were the ones who could be helped, once justice had run its course. The ones who couldn't were probably already doomed.
He sighed, inwardly. Kids grew up too fast, these days.
“You shouldn't even be here,” Brian said. “Do you even want to be here?”
He saw the answer in her eyes and nodded to himself. Abigail might be trying to put a brave face on it, but she was terrified. Someone had found her work, then taken a share of her salary ... perhaps all of her salary. It was hardly an uncommon problem, even though it was technically illegal. God knew the Management would turn a blind eye as long as it didn't become a major problem.
“Your parents aren't mad at you,” he reassured her. “They just want you home.”
“They think I’m a baby,” Abigail whispered.
“They know better now,” Brian said, seriously. Teenage runaways weren't that common on the moon. Most children grew up fast when they were raised in a lethal environment. “Let me take you home.”
“I owe money,” Abigail said, quietly. “I ...”
“Don’t worry about it,” Brian said. He’d seen shitty contracts before. The chances were good that the whole system was rigged. Abigail would get her salary, then be billed for everything from her food and drink to her outfits. She'd wind up more in debt than ever before. “I can take you out of here.”
He watched her for a long moment, silently praying that she’d take the opportunity. There was no way he could drug her and carry her out, not when the security forces might turn on him. And if she refused ... someone might ask her a number of very pointed questions about just why her parents had sent a private detective after her. Most runaways didn't have wealthy parents.
“I can't leave,” Abigail said. “They need me ...”
“They don’t,” Brian said, firmly. “There is no shortage of girls like you.”
“Fine,” Abigail said. She sounded torn between hope and fear. “I’ll get my coat and ...”
Brian met her eyes. “Do you have anything with you that can't be replaced? If so, come with me now.”
Abigail nodded and rose. Brian rose too, one hand dropping to his pocket
as he quickly swept the bar for potential trouble. Ideally, he’d just take Abigail and walk out before anyone could react, but her employer might not take kindly to it. Several potential excuses ran through his mind, yet all of them would be chancy. Abigail probably wasn't allowed to leave the bar, even when she wasn't on duty. Who knew what might happen if she found a terminal?
And the bar patrons aren't exactly the nicest people, he thought, wryly. They might join in a fight for the sheer hell of it.
The waitress at the door looked worried, then alarmed. Abigail gulped. Brian braced himself as he turned around, somehow unsurprised to see a giant slab of muscle ambulating towards him. The bartender - Abigail’s employer, he assumed - was a misshapen parody of a man, his arms and legs bulging with exaggerated muscles while his chest, neck and head seemed inhumanly small. His piggish eyes glared suspiciously at Brian, as if he suspected Brian of kidnapping a waitress. The outfit he wore hid nothing, not even the bulge between his legs. Brian hid his disgust with practiced ease. Smart people knew better than to have their bodies enhanced in back-alley cosmetic surgeries. The side effects were almost always unpleasant.
The Longest Day (Ark Royal X) Page 6