The Trojan Horse

by Christopher Nuttall

  And if they saw him looking like that, they’d know exactly what he’d done.

  Behind him, the shouts seemed to be growing fainter. The enemy troops had either decided it wasn't worth the effort of hunting him down, or they believed that they’d killed him already. Or perhaps they’d decided not to let a single insurgent slow them down any more. More out of curiosity than wisdom, he shimmied up a drainpipe he remembered as a child, climbing onto the house’s roof. His father had thrown a colossal fit when he’d caught Timmy and his friends playing on the roofs, but no one had ever been hurt. Now...he was heavier, yet his body remembered how to climb. Compared to some of the climbing frames at action camp, the drainpipe was easy.

  He kept his head down as he reached the roof, knowing that armed men were nearby. One of them might see him and open fire – and if he was blown off the roof, he was dead. Behind him, where he’d triggered his IED, the fire seemed to be mostly out, with a couple of enemy traitors using fire extinguishers to put out the remaining flames. It wasn't the fire that caught his attention. It was the small crowd of people who had been yanked out of their houses by the traitors. They sat in the middle of the street, hands on their heads, watched by armed soldiers. A number of bodies lay on the ground, torn apart by bullets; they’d been gunned down in cold blood. Timmy fought down the urge to vomit; instead, he stared, heedless of his own safety. One of the enemy soldiers was shouting at the prisoners, demanding attention. Timmy could barely hear him, but he got the gist of it. They wanted the prisoners to point them in Timmy’s direction, or else. But the prisoners couldn't help them...

  There was a long machine gun rattle from where they were kneeling. They died as the machine gun was played over their position, leaving a pile of bleeding bodies in the street. Timmy couldn't take his eyes off the scene, even though he wanted to run, or to fight back. They’d killed everyone just because they’d lost a few trucks and a couple of soldiers? He’d killed the prisoners just as surely as if he’d killed them himself. None of the war movies he’d seen, or the tales his father told, had suggested anything like a cold-blooded massacre. It was a nightmare.

  A shot pinged off the roof. Timmy realised he’d been spotted and threw himself to the ground instinctively, crawling back towards the drainpipe as if his life depended on it. It was a harder task to get down than he remembered, and he scraped his arms quite badly on the brickwork, but he was eventually down on the ground. Turning, he ran as hard as he could, cursing his own curiosity. If they gave chase, they’d catch him – and if they caught him, he knew it would be bad. There were shouts after him, but nothing...

  ...And then he felt something strike him between the shoulder blades. The ground came up to slam into him with staggering speed, just as a red-hot needle seemed to dig into his back. He hit the ground, feeling his nose break as he slammed down face-first, trying not to scream out in pain. He’d been shot; they’d seen him and shot him and killed him...

  He was dimly aware of running feet, and then silence.

  ***

  “Please remain calm,” the loudspeaker said. “Terrorists are attacking this building. Please remain...”

  A thud echoed through the building and the loudspeaker fell silent. The Welcome Foundation had been targeted by the insurgents, Jason knew; it was hard to blame their thinking as the Welcome Foundation had been the spearhead for alien seduction and then conquest of Earth. The attack had started only twenty minutes ago and he’d spent them cowering in his office, knowing that any of the insurgents who saw him would gun him down without realising that Jason was working for the good guys.

  He winced as something struck the building. An alarm started to sound, only to cut off several seconds later, leaving him completely isolated. A glance at his cell phone revealed that the phone networks had gone down, something that puzzled him until he realised that the insurgents were probably using cell phones to coordinate their actions. They’d have to be careful. The networks had loved the alien devices they’d been given, but they did have the disadvantage that every cell phone call was routed through one of the alien servers. They could listen in to everyone. Jason had his doubts about how well such a system could work in practice – there were literally billions of cell phone calls every day, requiring the aliens to scan them all – but given the right software the aliens could probably listen in to anything important.

  There was another sound – the high-pitched whine made by some of the alien craft – and then a series of smaller explosions that seemed not to affect the building itself. Moments later, the gunfire died away as the insurgents retreated. Jason suspected that the Snakes themselves had taken a hand and the insurgents had fallen back, rather than risk facing the Snakes directly. Washington DC would suffer if any of the Snakes were killed. He thought, briefly, about the defector he’d helped, and then pushed the thought aside. It was a secret that could not be spoken aloud.

  Forty minutes later, the all-clear was sounded and Jason had a chance to get out of his office and check up on the damage. The insurgents had inflicted considerable damage, he realised, although they hadn't managed to bring the building down. They’d wasted a number of optimistic paintings and killed a number of guards before the Snakes had arrived, but unless he was much mistaken – and he was no military expert – the attack had been designed to annoy them rather than kill. The insurgents had pinned the guards down, yet they’d failed to move in for the kill.

  “Jason,” a voice called. Jason looked up in surprise to see the formidable Mrs Kraus. She was an iron-headed harridan, a secretary who ruled her department with a rod of iron. Jason wasn't surprised that she’d survived. Someone like her could never be killed by anyone, or at least it seemed that way. “The other Directors are dead. You’re in charge.”

  Jason stared at her, finally understanding. “Me?”

  “You,” Mrs Kraus said. “I suggest you stay in your office. You don’t want to die just yet. They’ll come back when they realised that they missed you.”

  Jason didn't disagree, not openly. But he strongly suspected that she was wrong. Sanderson had given him an opening. Now all he had to do was make use of it.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Washington DC

  USA, Day 72

  “Not bad,” General Thomas mused. “Not bad at all.”

  The Colonel didn't disagree. Every pinprick on the map represented a strike against the alien-backed puppet government, or its troops. Not every pinprick had been directly ordered by the resistance, but anyone looking at the map from the other side wouldn't know that. They would have an impression of a vast resistance force, armed to the teeth and striking at the enemy wherever and whenever it could. And large parts of the country had already slipped out of federal control. The feds just weren’t safe anywhere unless they were surrounded by armed guards at all times.

  His lips twitched. Once, back when all the survivalists had had to worry about was the federal government, the Colonel had studied a concept called Leaderless Resistance. It had suggested that individual insurgents – or small cells of insurgents – could, by operating independently of each other, keep the enemy off-balance and eventually bring it down. There would be no links between the resistance cells, ensuring that the destruction of one cell didn't spell disaster for the other cells. It hadn't worked out in practice for the Islamist scum who had tried to use it against America and Europe, but then they’d strongly overestimated their level of public support. Their war had been doomed long before the Galactics arrived to turn the world upside down.

  But now...most of America was up in arms against the aliens. The resistance couldn’t hope to coordinate them all, but it didn't have to, not when they were all attacking the right targets. Most of the resistance would have gotten the message by now; leave the Snakes themselves alone and concentrate on their collaborators. Willing or blackmailed – or brainwashed into becoming pod people – they would be targeted everywhere. The aliens would be forced to either write off large numbers of col
laborators or place their own forces on the ground to defend them from their outraged fellow countrymen. And the resistance had been careful to give the impression that alien military units would be left strictly alone.

  The Colonel looked back down at the map and shivered. It didn't matter if he wanted to admit it or not, but the aliens had a number of advantages, particularly the pod people. They tipped the balance in their favour, leaving him wondering why the aliens didn't simply convert every human in the detention camps and put them on the streets. The pod people were expendable, weren't they? Or maybe not; there were definite signs that the process wasn't perfect, and pod people often acted inhuman. If they ever perfected the process, to the point where they could create pod people who were utterly indistinguishable from normal humans, the resistance was doomed. And the handful of collaborators who were passing information to the resistance would be turned into double agents, without any of their handlers having the slightest idea that something had gone wrong.

  “We’ve hit most of the easy targets,” the General mused. Actually, they’d expended their supplies recklessly, striking at every collaborator outpost they could find. They’d taken out roadblocks, police stations and even struck at a handful of detention centres. It was a pity that they didn't dare trust anyone who had been in alien hands, even for little more than a few hours, but the newly-freed prisoners would be able to raise havoc without any connection to the resistance. They certainly couldn't go home again. “They’re going to lose control quite badly unless they start using their own units.”

  “Or units from the other side of the world,” the Colonel said. Once, before the shit had really hit the fan, he’d wondered why the aliens had intervened in Africa. Sure, everyone had believed that the Galactic Federation would lead them to a land of milk and honey, but their intervention had seemed pointless. It didn't look that way now. The aliens had started to deploy human military units they’d armed and trained from Africa, after they’d smashed the dictators, religious fanatics and tribal leaders who had been soaking the continent in blood. It was a neat solution to their problem – and it made it difficult for the resistance to make contact with the newcomers. They simply didn’t speak the same language. “But we can go after them anyway.”

  The General nodded. “We should be able to find contacts among them,” he agreed. “Unless they’ve all been brainwashed, or turned into unwitting spies.”

  “True,” the Colonel said. “Thank God for Gillian.”

  The aliens hadn't been sitting on their inhuman asses, he knew. They’d been deploying their surveillance technology – and a great deal of stolen human technology – to hunt down and destroy the resistance. Even with the detectors that the NSA had developed before the aliens had revealed their true nature, they’d succeeded in tracking a number of resistance cells back to their safe houses – and then attacking in hopes of taking the fighters alive. The Colonel had had to order several bases abandoned because the aliens had taken people who might have been forced to betray them – leaving a set of IEDs behind in the hopes of nailing a handful of collaborators. And several teams had vanished without a trace. The Colonel could only conclude that they had been wiped out or captured to the last man.

  Given time, the aliens would almost certainly win. The plan – the one they'd developed – would give them their only shot at victory, but if the aliens realised in time...they were doomed. And humanity’s freedom would become a thing of the past.

  “All we can do is maintain the pressure and wait,” the General said. He looked down at the map, considering possible targets. “The aliens have been bivouacking the newcomers here, here and here. I think we should remind them that it’s against the Constitution to quarter troops on civilians.”

  They shared a long grin. The alien collaborators would be in for a nasty shock.

  ***

  President Patrick Hollinger – the real President, as far as Toby was concerned – was no better than he had been just after Tehran. He had been hooked up to a number of life support machines – all human technology – which were keeping him in a medical coma while he fought for life. The sound of harsh breathing echoed through the room, sending a chill down Toby’s spine. He’d hoped that the President would recover, although he suspected that it would merely sign his death warrant once McGreevy realised that her position was under threat. Toby wasn't even sure why she’d ordered the President to be kept in the White House, unless it was to ensure that the aliens wouldn't have a chance to brainwash him. If they did – and succeeded – McGreevy’s use as a puppet would come to an abrupt end.

  Toby stepped away from the President and studied the medical monitor positioned by the side of the bed. It was almost impossible for him to read it; as far as he could tell, the President was stable, but showing no signs of recovery. The new team of doctors might well have been maintaining the coma just to keep the President out of play, yet there was nothing Toby could do about it. His only contribution to the President’s safety had been assigning four of the most trusted Secret Service agents to guard the President, night and day. Two of them had medical training. They’d be able to detect – he hoped – any attempt to murder the President in his bed.

  He shook his head as he walked out of the door. They still didn't know what had happened to cause the President to collapse. It was easy to blame it on the stress of his office, but Toby wondered if the aliens hadn't done something to him. He’d read all the reports from the CIA agents interrogating the defector and they’d all agreed that the aliens didn't seem to be really aware of the capabilities of their own technology. Or, perhaps, the High Lord did know and was keeping a few things to himself. It would be easy to infect the President with some nanotechnology that would make him collapse at the right time, allowing McGreevy to slip into the Presidency. Given time, they could create the ultimate national security state, with everyone carrying nanotech implants that would monitor their every move – and perhaps even read their thoughts. Some of the possibilities the analysts had raised were terrifying. The aliens might even be able to create a swarm of nanites that would rage over the Earth and turn everyone into a pod person. And that would truly be the end.

  But they seemed not to be aware of the possibilities, or perhaps they were scared – too – by the possible outcomes. Maybe they’d wind up creating a hive mind that would take over even the aristocracy and eventually build massive cube-shaped starships that would assimilate the rest of the galaxy. The thought made him smile, even though the prospect was horrifying. Resistance really would be futile. But then, the Borg had been defeated by a Frenchman and a woman who talked out of her nostrils.

  He glanced up as one of the President’s personal guard stuck his head into the room. “Mr. Sanderson, the President requests your immediate presence,” he said. If he was aware of the glowering Secret Service agents – and the disparity between their training and his – he showed no sign of it. Perhaps he was too stupid to know. “She’s waiting for you.”

  Toby nodded. McGreevy’s paranoia had been rising ever since the first attacks. She’d had the Secret Service replaced with her own people, fired or arrested half of the Cabinet and insisted on everyone who entered her presence being thoroughly searched before they were allowed into the Oval Office. She hadn't started screaming for beheadings and mass reprisals yet, but Toby was sure that it was just a matter of time. McGreevy controlled only a tiny fraction of the country now, whatever title she held. The aliens, their pod people and the resistance controlled the rest. And McGreevy was almost certainly coming to the end of her usefulness to the aliens.

  “I’m on my way,” he said. He exchanged a long look with the lead Secret Service agent, and then headed out of the room. “Did she give a reason?”

  “No, sir,” the guard said. “She just demanded your presence.”

  Toby kept his face expressionless as they walked up the stairs. Every corner seemed to have an armed guard who checked their ID cards before waving them on to the next gu
ard. Toby had been in the White House when Marines had been used to secure the building, but that hadn't been anything like as scary as having several different groups of armed men in the building, each one watching the others for signs of disloyalty. All it needed was for someone to cough out of turn and there would be a bloodbath. The guards at the entrance to the Oval Office inspected their ID cards before starting a strip search. Toby had once joked that someone had better buy him dinner and flowers afterwards, but they hadn't seen the funny side. They all knew that their lives depended upon keeping McGreevy alive and in power.

  The White House staff had rapidly grown to resent the newcomers, but what could they do about it? They knew that any attempt to leave would be counted as a sign of disloyalty, while their families were being held as hostages in the detention camps. So they continued to serve the President, while enduring the gropes of her unprofessional guards and the constant feeling of living near a wild animal, one that might lash out at any moment. The White House, the very symbol of American government, was becoming a nightmare. Toby would almost have preferred to see a giant flying saucer blasting the White House to smithereens with a massive ray gun. At least then it would have been destroyed quickly, instead of a slow decay into disgrace. How long would it be before the White House took on the same air as the Kremlin?