It wasn't like competition shooting. The military snipers who’d given her and the others a crash course on hunting humans had made that clear. A sniper could shoot any number of low-ranking soldiers and make little difference at all, but shooting a couple of officers could throw the entire advance into chaos. She could have put down at least ten soldiers at any time, yet they were not her targets. She had strict orders to wait for an officer. The Arab leadership stayed well behind the lines and only came forward when they believed that an area was clear, where they would look around, make rude comments about the Americans, and then go back to their beds and American prostitutes. Rumour had it that the prostitutes had patriotically given the Arab leaders AIDS. It was just a shame that the alien leadership didn’t indulge.
Time passed slowly. It was tempting to believe that she was missing the Arab leadership because they had chosen not to wear uniforms, but she held her fire. The military snipers had warned her that salutes were forbidden in a combat zone, and uniforms were often discarded for fear of snipers, but that it would be obvious when a really high-ranking officer finally arrived. One would come, sooner or later, and when he arrived, she had to kill him. By now, she was used to killing. It helped that she knew men and women who’d been killed by the aliens and their servants. She remembered their names and faces, and then pushed them aside, reviewing her escape route. Getting killed or captured after taking the shot would really ruin her day.
A pair of Bradley AFVs and a vehicle she didn’t recognise appeared at one end of the street and drove slowly towards the Arab checkpoint at the other end. The Order Police were taking it slowly, very aware that their vehicles could be mistaken for enemy vehicles at any moment. One particularly daring resistance stunt had involved recapturing a set of Bradley AFVs and turning them against the Arabs, firing madly into their positions and slaughtering hundreds of them before antitank weapons finally took out the captured vehicles. The war would be easy to win, she’d been told, if they kept the enemy jumping at shadows. She tracked the vehicles with her scope as they finally slowed to a halt nearby. The Arab soldiers formed up into a protective formation as the door opened and a man climbed out.
He looked a little like Saddam to her, although his moustache was bushier and his face betrayed a certain level of intelligence. He wore no insignia on his uniform, but that in itself was revealing. He had to be a senior officer of some kind. A second officer followed him, followed by…she felt her mouth drop open. The third figure was far from human. The alien leader stepped out and she saw the Arab soldiers stepping back, several of them muttering prayers under their breath. The alien’s mere presence was daunting. What the hell was it doing in the combat zone?
It was her first sight of an alien and she felt a chill running down her spine. The alien was inhumanly tall and thin, with an oversized head and massive dark eyes. It was alien as hell. It was subtly wrong on so many levels that merely looking at it was hard, as if she was staring at a spider or a crab. She wanted to crawl away and hide; yet somehow she managed to track the alien and draw a bead on him. An alien leader was a more important target than an Arab, right? She hesitated for a long moment. Who should she shoot first?
And then the alien turned his massive head and looked up at her. She found herself staring into a pair of dark eyes. Even through the scope, the effect was profound and she was utterly convinced that the alien knew she was there. He didn’t point, or scream, or do anything to draw his protectors’ attention to her. He just looked at her, somehow holding her in place with his eyes. Dolly felt her head spinning, as if the alien was looking deep into her thoughts. Brilliant flashes of memory spun through her mind. She recalled her first boyfriend, and the first time she’d slept with him, and the time he’d dumped her for another girl who’d go down on him, something she wouldn’t do on a bet. She recalled winning the shooting championship and her plans to join the military and go professional. She recalled…
A fit of rage overwhelmed her and she pulled the trigger. The alien’s head exploded into a shower of green blood and brain. The spell was broken instantly and she took aim at one of the Arab leaders, but he dived for cover behind one of the Bradley’s before she could fire. Cursing, still unstable, she threw the grenades over the side and ran for the fire escape chute. Her brain felt as if she was thinking through a haze of cotton wool, but she somehow focused on escape. There was very little time left before they sent people into the building to root her out.
She found herself laughing as she plunged down into the depths. No one else had plugged an alien in Chicago. No one. If she got out of it alive, it would be one hell of a story. The aliens would never be so confident again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chicago, USA (Occupied)
Day 150/151
Someone killed an alien, Abigail thought. There had been a complete news blackout over the event, but everyone in the camp knew the truth. Someone killed an alien leader!
The thought made her smile. The aliens had lost people before, but most of them had been workers or warriors. If any alien leaders had been killed in combat, or on the massive ship that had been shot down over Washington, they’d kept quiet about it. Losing one in Chicago…what had he been doing in the combat zone in the first place? She’d asked the other reporters, but they knew little more than she did, leaving them sharing rumours and innuendo rather than fact. It was a story that had to be written up for the Committees of Correspondence, yet she already had one story and she didn’t dare add that story until the rumours had spread further. God alone knew if anyone suspected her of writing for the underground newspaper…no, that wasn't true. If they’d known, or even suspected, they would have hauled her in for interrogation. Reporters, no matter how useful, had been vanished before.
She paused outside the hotel and hesitated. She wanted to run, to hide, to flee Chicago and never return, but that wasn't an option. She’d told the minder that she would come to him to ‘discuss’ her possible future role and she couldn’t back out now, not when he could have her disappeared within hours. Besides, there was the other priority. It would make everything worthwhile. She patted her bag and checked that she had everything she wanted, and then she stepped into the lobby. The Order Policeman on duty checked her card, leered at her, and pointed her towards the lift. She thanked him and followed his finger, feeling her heartbeat racing as she walked towards her destiny. She’d never done anything so risky before in her entire life.
She’d been in countries where the government had been evil – although supported by intellectuals in the West – and she hadn’t understood why the people hadn’t rebelled against their oppressors. She understood now. America was pervaded by a sense of oppressive evil, pushing down on the people and suppressing them below a wave of fear and hatred. The Order Police seemed to be everywhere, using the ID cards, money systems and food distribution points to maintain control. They could isolate a single person and haul them out for questioning, or crush an uprising with ease. The underlying fabric of American life was being warped and perverted into a police state and those who fought back were being slowly isolated and destroyed. Chicago might still be fighting, but no one had any illusions about the outcome. The entire city would eventually be destroyed, along with the resistance. How many other cities would rise up against the aliens and their collaborators?
It wasn't even as if the aliens were under threat. They might be providing security, but their main focus was on their expanding colonies in the west, not in holding down the cities. Humans were killing humans, not aliens; they might intend to weaken humanity rather than waste their own force in crushing revolt after revolt. By that analysis, Chicago was pointless. The resistance would accomplish nothing. The elevator came to a halt and she stepped out into luxury. The hotel had once been a second-class hotel for people forced to stay in Chicago for a few days. Now, it had a first-rate staff and everything it could possibly want, apart from freedom to choose its guests. The collaborators had taken over t
he entire building.
They seem to have a fondness for hotels, she thought, as yet another humourless guard checked her papers and fingerprints. His eyes were focused on the papers, which made a pleasant change from most of the Order Police. They always take them over and make them luxurious as hell.
Her private speculation was that the collaborators were people who had always wanted to stay in the best hotels, but somehow had never been able to join the elite who had earned or inherited the money to enjoy such facilities. Envy was as powerful a motivator as anything else, one that she could comprehend. Perhaps it was worth the betrayal of the entire nation, although that struck her as a little odd. After Chicago, how could anyone believe that the aliens came in peace and meant well? Or was it a form of Stockholm Syndrome? Did the collaborators who had been pushed into collaborating come to love their masters?
“I’ll have to inspect your bag,” the guard said. Abigail shrugged and handed it over to him. It wasn't as if there was anything important in it anyway, just a handful of tissues, a set of condoms, a PDA and a USB stick. She watched the guard’s face and saw his lips twitch when he saw the condoms, before he closed the bag and passed an alien-designed scanner over it and her. She twitched as he ran it over her rear, but he was completely professional. “You’re clean.”
“Nothing up there, of course,” Abigail said, hoping to needle him a little. “How could I hide anything with this dress?”
“Just a routine security check, Miss Walker,” the guard said. He passed the bag back to her and waved her through. “Have fun.”
Abigail said nothing as she walked down the corridor towards the master suite. It had once been three separate bedrooms, but apparently the collaborators had insisted on melding it all together into a single set of rooms. She’d been amused to discover that even that hadn’t been big enough for their minders, but they hadn’t been able to go any further without running the risk of bringing down the building. She checked herself in the mirror – she wore a thin dress that hid very little – and knocked on the door. There was no way out now.
“Come in,” a voice said. She opened the door and stepped through into more luxury. The room itself would have been pleasant, except that twenty famous paintings that had once belonged in art galleries had been pasted across the walls. They’d been looted from one of the more famous collections in the United States, yet they clearly didn’t belong together. One table was groaning under the weight of food, another was covered with bottles, some clearly very expensive.
Her minder came to his feet as she entered, his eyes leaving trails of slime all over her breasts. The other female reporters who’d spent time with him alone had reported that subtle wasn't in his vocabulary and she’d dressed accordingly. She could have worn an Islamic veil, she saw now, and he would have reacted in the same way. The deal he was offering was as old as time. He would give her what she wanted – or he thought she wanted – in exchange for spending the night with him. It couldn’t be said to be favouritism. He’d slept with most of the reporters, male and female.
“You’re looking lovely tonight,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the air just above it in a parody of courtly love. At least he wasn't picking her up and hauling her towards the bed, or pushing her against the wall and fucking her right there and then. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, please,” Abigail said, more to be polite than any real desire for alcohol. Perhaps she could induce him to drink enough to render him incapable. She examined the collection of bottles, but she knew too little about wine to know which would be good and which wouldn’t be touched by anyone who wasn't a wine snob. Her minder bubbled in her ear, trying to impress her with his experience, although she suspected that he was talking nonsense. Wine snobs had never impressed her before, even though her old editor – wherever he was now – had been fond of showing off his collection. “Just a sparkling white, please.”
“An excellent choice,” he said. He poured them both a glass and handed it to her. “You may call me Percy, by the way. We’re alone here.”
“Thank you, ah…Percy,” Abigail said. She found herself looking at him in a whole new light. Why, she wondered, had he chosen to collaborate? The wine tasted oddly sweet, but she drank it anyway. “I understand that you wanted to talk to me?”
“Over dinner,” Percy said. He walked over to a concealed intercom and spoke briefly into the speaker. “The maids will be here in a few moments. Enjoy your wine.”
Abigail was tempted to remark on the absurdity of having maids serving them when they could have easily done it for themselves, but she said nothing. The maids, wearing French Maid outfits that revealed everything and concealed nothing, served them quickly and efficiently, before vanishing away into the shadows again. The food was good and it went down surprisingly quickly. If it hadn’t been for Percy’s eyes falling to her breasts time and time again, making it clear how the day was going to end, she would almost have enjoyed herself. As it was, she couldn’t wait for it to be over.
“There’s a requirement to create more official broadcasts and warnings,” Percy said, as they ate. “The insurgents are only harming the country by endless resistance to the unbeatable. We have to convince people to stop supporting them before the entire country gets torn apart.”
“I quite agree,” Abigail lied. Perhaps that explained why Percy had become a quisling. He thought that the aliens were unbeatable, certain to win. He might even have been right. The resistance was currently fighting other humans rather than the aliens themselves. “What can I do to help you fight them?”
“We have to diversify the information we put out to the population,” Percy said, earnestly. “They seem to be…distrusting of our regular news broadcasts and television shows. They seem to think that we lie all the time.”
I cannot imagine why, Abigail thought, coldly. Saying out loud would have been suicide. Percy might be trying to come across as Mr Nice Guy, but she had no illusions about the weight of alien power behind him.
“We need to create new newspapers and information broadcasts, a rival channel if you like,” he said, finally. “Would you like to be editor of the second national newspaper in the post-contact era?”
Abigail stared at him. It couldn’t be denied that it was an opportunity, and not just another opportunity to serve the aliens and their puppet government. She could use a newspaper room to spread the truth, maybe even print out thousands of extra editions of the underground newspapers. But at the same time, it would also put her firmly on the alien side, at least in the public mind, and she would be targeted as a collaborator. She might end up dead, killed by the people she had been trying to help, or perhaps one of the Walking Dead. What would happen to her then?
On the other hand, if she refused the honour, they might start asking why. “It depends,” she temporised. “How much editorial freedom would I have?”
“As long as you followed the official line, as much as you want,” Percy said. Abigail translated that easily. None at all. “The purpose is to calm down the population and prevent them from supporting the insurgents.”
Abigail thought about pointing out that the population hated the collaborators and their puppet government, but she knew that it was pointless. She also knew that refusing the offer would certainly cause problems for her in the future, and it was an opportunity to help the resistance. The risks were worth taking, she decided; with a little care, she might even be safer than she was writing for the underground newspapers.
“I’d certainly like to try,” she said, finally. “Who do I have to impress to get the job?”
“Me,” Percy said, with a sly laugh. He looked up and, for the first time, met her eyes. “How do you intend to impress me?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Abigail said. She licked her lips and smiled inwardly at his reaction. “Are you sure we won’t be disturbed for the rest of the night?”
Percy looked towards a laptop sitting on the table. “My staff know not to disturb
me when I’m…working late,” he said, with a grin. His eyes widened appreciatively as Abigail stood up, drawing his attention to her legs. “We won’t be disturbed.”
Abigail leaned forward and kissed him, suppressing her revulsion. He probably wouldn’t notice any difference, but as his hands started to roam her breasts, she had to fight to control herself. He wasn't gentle or caring. He didn’t care if she had a good time or not, provided that he had a good night. One hand slipped up her dress and inside her panties, groping her bottom. She groaned, as if she was enjoying his attention, and pulled him to his feet. Her hands ran down his chest, undoing his shirt and trousers, dumping both of them on the floor. He didn’t have a bad body, actually; a little more exercise and he would be quite attractive. She reached inside his pants and felt him stiffen to attention. That, too, wasn't bad. Perhaps she would have enjoyed herself if she had chosen to sleep with him.
“Not here,” she whispered. She felt him pushing against her and knew that he was on the verge of just tearing her dress away and forcing his way into her. “On a bed.”
He pulled her through a pair of doors and into a room with a king-sized bed. She turned him around and pushed him down on the bed, pulling away the last vestiges of his clothes. He looked up at her as if he were slightly stunned, as if he’d never had a woman take the lead before – perhaps he hadn’t. Abigail recalled watching pornographic movies as a teenager and shimmied out of her dress, clutching her own breasts and rubbing at them, before reaching down to her panties and pushing them down towards the ground. Naked, she stepped forward and bent over him, taking his cock into her mouth and licking it, before bringing herself down on him. He was so excited that he came bare seconds after she had pushed down on him, gasping with excitement as he spent himself inside her. Abigail smiled to herself at his expression. She could have killed him outright and he probably wouldn’t have even noticed.
Outside Context Problem: Book 02 - Under Foot Page 26