The Trojan Horse

by Christopher Nuttall

  Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet. He’d acquired a taste for strong coffee from his father, one of the few things he'd kept since he’d left the farm. The coffeemaker had been one of his few expenditures since he’d moved to Washington, but it had been worth the price to have a cup of strong coffee available upon demand. He poured himself a cup, added a splash of milk and a spoonful of sugar, and then drank it in one gulp. It was hot enough to scald the back of his throat, which was how he liked it. The shock of hot caffeine brought him back to his senses.

  Every week, a team of counter-intelligence experts from the Secret Service gave his apartment a careful check for bugs. Toby suspected that they would have missed the alien bugs; hell, he had no way to know if they hadn’t tagged him again, or if Gillen and her team would ever develop a small bug-sweeper that could be used to find and remove alien bugs without a full search procedure. Sitting down in front of his desk, Toby pulled out a sheet of paper and started to write a letter to his father. It was a risk, but it was impossible to do it mentally; he’d discovered that while he was a child. His father had been obsessed with codes and he’d taught all of his children how to create and decode basic ciphers. Oddly, the memory gave him a pang of homesickness. It would be wonderful to be a child again.

  Every code could be broken, given enough time and computing power. Toby was counting on the aliens only paying attention to internet and cell phone traffic. They would find it much harder to keep track of messages hand-carried from place to place. The mundane cipher he’d used to encode his message was based around a book he and the Colonel both had on their bookshelves. With some effort, the message shouldn't arouse suspicion in alien minds, although a human might wonder if someone was trying to hide something. He wrote the message out in clear, wrote it again in code, and then fed the original message through the shredder. Anyone who worked in politics knew better than to keep embarrassing documents around when they could be shredded. Who knew what could prove embarrassing or career-destroying in the future.

  Picking up his coat, Toby headed downstairs, nodded to the security guard on duty in the lobby and walked out onto the streets. He could hear the sound of chanting in the distance and knew it to be protesters, demanding immediate compliance with the terms of the Galactic Federation. How could they be such fools? But then, they knew nothing about the alien bugs, or any of the other signs that the aliens weren't being entirely straight with the human race. And the aliens had given them the most significant thing of all. They’d given them hope.

  There were any number of bars and restaurants around Official Washington. Many of them served young lobbyists, reporters and others who existed on the outskirts of politics, rather than serving within the White House or Congress. Toby walked into one that served a number of lobbyists who were currently pressing for immediate acceptance of the Galactic Federation’s terms and ordered a whiskey and soda. His father’s friend was seated at a single table, all on his own. Officially, he represented a small company in Virginia that was hoping to get a piece of the vast funds everyone assumed would be doled out by Congress once the human race was enrolled in the Federation. It helped that he had a legitimate reason to be in Washington. And if he’d been marked by the aliens...

  Toby cursed the uncertainty under his breath as he sat down. His father’s friend looked up, one cigarette drooping mournfully from the corner of his mouth. Toby said nothing; he merely unfurled the newspaper he was carrying and made a show of reading it. The paper was talking about the wonders of Federation membership. It was all they talked about these days. He finished his drink and put the newspaper on the table.

  “Hey,” his father’s friend said. “Can I have the paper?”

  “Knock yourself out,” Toby said.

  He passed the paper – and the note concealed in its folds – to his father’s friend and left the table. Behind him, the man put the paper in his bag and headed off in the opposite direction. Toby silently prayed that the aliens weren’t following him closely. Given enough computing power, they could probably track everyone in Washington, or even the country. The ultimate national security state, all the more dangerous for being far less intrusive than anything the Soviet Union or the Nazis had devised. They wouldn't even know that they were under observation until it was far too late.

  And that could be the most devastating thing of all.

  ***

  “Joe Buckley,” Matt Robertson said.

  Jayne looked up, rubbing her tired eyes. They’d spent the last two days trying to track down the sources of funding for the protest movements that were mobilising hundreds of thousands of young Americans, but most of the money seemed to disappear in an official haze. Follow The Money was standard advice for journalists, yet the money trail seemed to have completely disappeared. It didn't help that the protesters had opened up a hundred different ways for their supporters to donate money electronically, ensuring that they no longer needed to rely on supporters who wanted to remain unseen.

  “Who?” She asked. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  Robertson leered at her, cheerfully. He was a computer nerd who might not have been cut out for the life of a blogger, but he was quite capable of supporting other bloggers. It helped that he had no visible link to the BAN. Rumour had it that he'd hacked a number of government databases and that the FBI was after his head, preferably not attached to his body. When not working on the computer, he was devouring junk food and watching pornographic material on his television. Jayne was privately surprised that he wasn't too fat to walk. Some people, she thought, remembering all the exercise she had to take, had all the luck.

  “Joe Buckley,” Robertson said. “Famed for writing the Grand Fleet Saga, from Baen Books. Former US Navy crewman; former Navy brat...New York Times bestselling author...and former alien sceptic.”

  Jayne looked up, lifting one eyebrow. “Former alien sceptic?”

  “Yes,” Robertson said. “Buckley was one of the people who publically questioned the alien motives in visiting Earth. For some reason, they actually invited him to their base in Nevada – where he underwent a conversion. Since then, he’s been telling everyone he can reach just how wonderful the aliens are and how many benefits they will bring to Earth. It’s created quite a stir in right-wing circles. Everyone is asking if he’s been replaced by a pod person.”

  Jayne blinked. “Pod person?”

  “There was an old science-fiction movie that had everyone dropping asleep and being replaced with a pod version of themselves,” Robertson explained. “The pod people were...well, non-aggressive beings. I can’t remember the rest of the story; the point is that someone got to Buckley and turned him into an alien supporter.”

  Jayne considered it. “But how do we know that he didn't see something that made him change his mind?”

  “If you changed your mind about going out with me on Saturday night, you’d know why,” Robertson pointed out. “But what has Buckley told his friends, his family, his legions of fans...? Sweet fuck-all. He’s said nothing about why he’s decided to convert to alien-worshipping; the platitudes he mouths to his fans are the same the aliens have been given us ever since they made that speech at the UN. So what happened to him and why?”

  “You think they got to him,” Jayne said. “And what did they do to him?”

  Robertson grinned. “You’ve never wished for the power to change a person’s mind? You’ve never wanted to force your editor to give you a massive raise? The CIA has been working on brainwashing techniques for decades; they talked about taking a Russian spy and brainwashing him into becoming a loyal American. And people like Joe Buckley reach a wide spectrum of Americans, even the ones who think he’s an insane right-wing nut who serves as a good advert for gun control.

  “I bet you anything you care to put forward that your alien friends did something to him while he was at that base and turned him into their ally,” he concluded. “And if you could find proof of that...”

  “We’d have proof t
hat they meddled with people’s minds,” Jayne said. It wasn't hard to follow his logic. “But how do we prove something like that?”

  “Carefully,” Robertson said. He made a show of stoking his chin. “It really depends on what they did to him. They might have stuck an implant in his brain – there was a whole series of novels based around a Nazi UFO base in Antarctica where they abducted people and stuck implants in their heads. Or they might have some kind of conditioning system that allows them to stamp new ideas into a person’s mind. Hypnosis doesn’t actually work like they have it in the movies. You can't actually program a person into believing something different without a great deal of preparation...”

  “And I’m sure that that’s a big relief to all those girls who feared that someone would hypnotise their way into their pants,” Jayne injected. “What do you think we can do about it?”

  “I’m honestly not sure,” Robertson admitted. “Most of the literature on this kind of stuff is highly speculative or highly classified. I think we could probably start by scanning his brain and looking for any foreign matter...but I don’t know if we could find a doctor with the right attitude for this. Hell, Buckley himself could be counted on to object.”

  “If he’s under alien control, yes,” Jayne agreed. “How do we get access to Joe Buckley?”

  Robertson grinned and pulled out a brightly-coloured sheet of paper. “Joe Buckley, world-famous science-fiction author, will be one of the guest speakers at the Welcome Foundation as it incorporates as a charitable organisation bent on ensuring that humanity joins the Galactic Federation,” he said. He passed her the glossy sheet and Jayne scanned it quickly. “We’d at least be able to talk to him there, assuming you’re up for a visit...”

  Jayne nodded. “Why not? In fact...”

  An alarm rang. “That’s the breaking news alarm,” Robertson said, with some alarm. “The President is going to be making a statement on Live TV.”

  ***

  The White House Press Room was as full as ever, with hundreds of reporters, television cameras and bystanders watching as the President made his speech. Toby noticed a number of familiar faces in the crowd, some of them political enemies of the President and his Party, others reporters who could be counted upon to put the best face on political disaster. But maybe all the old certainties no longer applied. The Mainstream Media had practically transformed itself into a cheerleading squad for the aliens. And a number of bloggers who had opposed the aliens, no matter how ineffectually, were dead.

  He scowled as quiet gradually fell over the room. Outside, the shouting of the protesters could vaguely be heard, even though the soundproofing. If anything, the crowds seemed to be getting bigger; the Washington PD had reported that the protest organisers seemed to be funnelling more and more people towards the White House. There were even rumours that the Secret Service had ordered plans to evacuate the White House to be put into high gear, although Toby knew that the President would object strongly. Running from a crowd of his own citizens would utterly destroy his presidency.

  “My Fellow Americans,” the President said. “One month ago, the world changed forever when we finally discovered that there was an entire universe of intelligent beings living beyond the solar system. They brought gifts and words of warning; we, the human race, were on the verge of destroying ourselves. We had trapped ourselves within the gravity well at the time we needed to be heading outwards and ensuring that we would no longer have all our eggs in one basket. The Galactic Federation has offered us help in climbing to the stars, but that help comes with a price. You have all heard the terms they have demanded in exchange for their assistance.

  “Congress and the Senate have debated the matter intensively over the past week,” the President continued. That was, Toby knew, technically true. On the other hand, one of the Congressmen who’d been briefed had probably been the one who had leaked the details of the alien demands to the Mainstream Media. “We have had to make some hard choices. If we refused to comply with the alien demands, we would be frozen out of the new era – and flying in the face of public opinion. And yet, complying with the terms would be extremely difficult and costly. We would have to rid ourselves of nuclear weapons. Our proud Navy which has defended our freedom ever since our country was born would have to be scrapped; the military force we built will have to be discarded.

  “And yet, the rewards promise to be literally astronomical in scope.

  “My Fellow Americans, after urgent discussions on Capitol Hill, I can confirm that it is the intention of the United States Government to accept the alien terms. We will reach out and boldly stride into an shining future where everyone has enough to eat, where everyone has enough to drink and where everyone has the promise of Galactic technology to lift them to the stars. There are those who will say that we will pay a high price for those benefits, but we are looking at the realisation of mankind’s dreams! Peace, prosperity and challenges that can be met peacefully. There is a whole universe out there waiting for us!”

  Toby watched the reaction of the Press Corps as the President finished his speech. Some seemed shocked, even though they’d clearly anticipated it; others seemed delighted, convinced that the President had just personally inaugurated a whole new era for the human race – and for them personally. Who knew what the Galactic Federation intended to do with the Earth? The President had just ordered the disbanding of the one force that might be able to slow, or even stop, the invasion.

  He silently prayed that his father could get to General Thomas in time. The growing resistance was going to need him. They would need everyone they could reach before the shit really hit the fan.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Washington DC

  USA, Day 26

  “I hate Washington,” the Colonel commented to no one in particular. The city seemed to stink of the stench of politics – and pollution. There were thousands of cars on the roads, driving as if their drivers had to be at their destinations yesterday. “I really hope Toby was right when he gave us directions.”

  No one said anything. Washington DC seemed to be undergoing one of its permanent traffic jams. The van they’d driven all the way from Virginia might not stand out among all the other unmarked vans, but the Colonel was grimly aware that being stopped by the Highway Patrol or the Police might prove fatal. Whatever the Second Amendment said, there were things in the van that would ensure that they received a hefty prison sentence, if they were caught and stopped. The Colonel had used a number of tricks to hide their trail as best as he could, yet simple bad luck had foiled more operations than anyone could count. And bad luck now would be disastrous.

  “The General’s address is right up here,” Packman assured him. They’d already had a long argument about why a former CIA field agent couldn’t read a map. “I guess the wife must be a wealthy girl. Look at some of these apartments.”

  The Colonel shrugged. They were in one of the wealthier areas of Washington, dominated by large houses and larger gardens. It was a far cry from the farm – and he’d never been very happy in any kind of city – but he had to admit that if one had to live in the city, there were worse places to live. Even so, he knew that it probably cost more money than he’d seen in his life to buy a house here – and he was fairly sure that Generals didn’t get paid that much, even the successful ones. But in Washington, success was often measured by how many asses you could kiss at once, rather than actual combat prowess.

  General Elliot Thomas had been a fighting soldier before being promoted to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Colonel had hoped that one of his little organisation members would know the General personally, but so far no one had admitted to serving beside General Thomas, at least in any position where the General might reasonably be expected to recognise him. At least there was nothing phoney about the man’s war record. He’d served in Iraq and Afghanistan before being promoted to take command of CENTCOM and then the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Unlike so many uniformed politicians, he did know what en
d of a gun was the dangerous end.

  And he was just who the growing resistance needed. General Thomas commanded respect, even from those who hated his guts. The Colonel had a high opinion of himself, but he’d left the military over a decade ago; almost all of the younger soldiers wouldn’t recognise him if they passed him in the streets. And General Thomas’s life was in danger. If the aliens were prepared to murder relatively harmless bloggers to silence anyone who might speak out against them, what would they do to someone who commanded national respect? There were people who even talked about General Thomas as a potential President.

  “That’s his house,” Packman said. He nodded towards a moderate mansion that looked – to the Colonel – as if someone with too much money and too little taste had allowed the architect to drink while building the house. General Thomas – or, more likely, his wife – had little taste. “How are we going to make the approach?”

  The Colonel scowled. Even if they’d had someone who knew the General, there was a second problem. The General was almost certainly under alien surveillance – and utterly unaware that there was any need to worry. And even if he had worried, could he get rid of the alien surveillance device? Somehow, the Colonel doubted it. Toby had gone through a full search to have his removed – and they’d only found it because the device had been broadcasting at the time. They would have to talk to the General without saying anything out loud.