2000 Light Years from Home (James London)

by Iain Benson

  “We don’t make them here,” said Sadiq. “Heaven forbid. That manufacturing process is dangerous. Our Health and Safety executive would have a heart attack. In fact, we had a committee of health and safety experts in before we could have the Health and Safety department debate where to put the munitions factories.”

  Wishbone shook his head. “So where are they?”

  “India,” said Sadiq. “Egypt, Tuvalu, Mozambique and Guernsey.”

  “Isn’t Guernsey part of the UK?”

  “Technically,” said the Prime Minister. “But it’s quite close to France. If there’s an accident, it’s the French that will have the problem.”

  “Not anymore,” said Wishbone. “There’s no such thing as France.”

  “But there are still French people,” said Sadiq.

  Wishbone sighed. “Sign the paper.”

  Wishbone’s tablet flashed. He clicked the message icon. It was from Janet.

  Wishbone read that a spaceship had appeared in orbit, landing somewhere in the Lake District. He read that the mystery man from the early tests had taken out an entire squad of soldiers with the help of a young Chinese woman and a large man in a blue lion fancy dress costume. The last part made Wishbone feel suddenly cold. He clicked the link for the video feed from the soldiers, watching the attack by Vera from several points of view. He watched as the prime target came into the consciousness of the soldiers and they focused on him. The human had obviously learned from the previous encounter, the blue flashes that terminated each feed were from an energy weapon.

  “Crap,” Wishbone said.

  “Is there a problem?” Sadiq asked, hopefully, peering at an upside down picture of James London frozen in the video feed.

  “Nothing I cannot fix,” Wishbone arose. “Sign the papers or I will dismantle this country brick by brick. I will start with your house.”

  “Which house?” Sadiq asked. “I have a second home allowance.”

  Wishbone ignored him and got to his feet.

  Two soldiers were waiting quietly by the large black double doors with embossed rose panelling. They opened both doors as Wishbone approached. Two more were waiting on the far side. Flanked in each corner, Wishbone left the building. Sadiq’s aide came in.

  “Get the video feed of this room,” Sadiq said. “I want to know who the man was on Wishbone’s computer. Whoever he is, he has Wishbone very worried, and that can only be a good thing.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the aide, nodding.

  “When you have the picture, get it to all the agencies we still have any control over, and tell them to offer any assistance this man needs.”

  “Yes, sir,” the aide nodded again.

  “That’s it for now. Oh, and somebody get me a sandwich, I’m starving.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the aide, nodding for the final time and backed out of the room.

  Chapter 11

  In which London goes to America

  To a casual observer, noticing the difference between an occupied and free UK by looking at the M6 would have proven difficult. It had taken a few hours to get to Hilton Park, what with Bonbon alerting them to curfew patrols so they could pull to the side of the road, turn off all the lights and hide. It was five in the morning by the time they reached Birmingham, and rush hour was starting, hindered by ubiquitous roadworks on the M6.

  “Why do people sit in these cars on their own?” asked Vera just past Hilton services in yet another snarled up jam. “Sharing vehicles would lessen the number of vehicles allowing everybody to arrive at their destinations sooner.”

  “They’d rather sit in a jam than listen to somebody else’s music choice,” London said.

  It being early morning, they were through the contraflow and soon speeding back along their route. The reason for closing three of the four lanes had not been apparent.

  “Why had the lanes been closed?” Xia asked.

  “No idea,” London replied. “My personal theory is that cones are nocturnal creatures that congregate on motorways for mating purposes.”

  “That explains why some of them were stacked,” Xia said.

  “They do look reminiscent of one species I have met,” Vera said, playing with the car radio.

  The Rolling Stones blared out of the speakers. London expected the large blue alien to react badly to the discordance of Jumping Jack Flash, but instead he nodded his head in time with the music, his mane flowing in rhythmic ripples.

  “Human music is good,” said Vera.

  “You’ve not heard Nickelback,” London replied.

  London finally made it onto the Toll Road, where his previous bending of the maximum speed rule was made to look like a mere tweak. They rocketed through the darkness, pausing only at the toll booths and to refill the fuel tank, before once again hurtling through the slowly forming dawn.

  London had hoped he would miss the early morning commute in the Capital, but instead it was ten in the morning when they finally made it to the staff car-park for Number Ten.

  “If Wishbone’s still in the country,” said London, “he’ll be here.”

  There was a security guard at the entrance to the car park reading a Stephen King novel.

  “Morning George,” said London flashing his library card.

  “Morning,” said the security guard, raising the barrier.

  “How did that work?” London wondered as they found a space in the underground car park.

  “I told him you worked here,” said Bonbon.

  “I like you,” said London. “You can stay.”

  Despite the occupation, there were a lot of vehicles in the underground lot. Most of them were black, meaning London’s Volvo fit right in. The car-park was on a single level, four banks of parking under a low ceiling with alternating strip lighting and concrete supporting beams. London parked by the staircase door in the yellow hatched area. He couldn’t see any spaces large enough to let Vera out.

  Vera stretched after getting out of the car. Bonbon hopped out, and Vera placed the fur ball back on his shoulder.

  “We may need you to pull that trick a few more times to get us upstairs,” London told Bonbon, locking his car.

  The yellow door with the sign above indicating it led to stairs was unlocked, and did indeed lead to a set of stairs. Accurate signage was a British Value. Environmentally friendly lights turned on as they entered, illuminating several bare concrete steps and a black metal railing corkscrewing up into the darkness. As they rounded each corner the light came on, and as they left an area, the light went off, creating a moving patch of light in the shadows of the stairwell.

  There were four flights up to the security room at the top of the stairwell. The room was at the back of Number 10 in the large complex that existed behind the façade of the terraced housing. There were two police officers sitting behind a control desk. A large mirror on one wall betrayed the presence of more. There was an X-Ray machine and a metal detector as though they were going to be taking a flight to see the Prime Minister. Vera wasn’t going to fit through the metal detector, even if he learned to limbo.

  The two police officers stopped their chat about the upcoming FA Cup match between Arsenal and Tottenham, and looked at London’s motley band. They both looked like they should have had automatic rifles but when they came to their feet, had to rest their hands on their empty holsters.

  London wondered if Bonbon’s trick would work on two highly trained officers who looked like what they lacked in imagination they made up for in aggression.

  One of the officers put his hand to his ear, and looked puzzled.

  “Are you James London?” he asked.

  “Yes,” London asked, wondering if it was Bonbon.

  “It’s not me,” said Bonbon.

  “Follow me sir,” the officer looked at Vera, who filled the room, his head touching the ceiling, his massive bulk intimidating in the small space.

  London walked through the metal detector that immediately made a high-pitched wail. It
carried on again as Xia came through and then stopped when Vera squeezed through and broke the frame.

  “I’m going to have to ask that you remove anything metallic,” said the officer. Again the hand went to the ear. “Or not, it would appear that time is of the essence.”

  The officer led them through the door, the tough-wearing grey lino replaced with plush red carpet with a gold repeating Celtic pattern running in two parallel lines near the high skirting boards. All the lights were on. As they passed side rooms, they could see a lot of meetings going on. Judging by the weary looks on the faces they’d begun the previous night.

  “Through here, please,” said the officer, taking them through a door into an uninhabited office, empty but for some desks and a whiteboard, then out a door the other side. “We’re avoiding the soldiers,” explained the officer.

  A couple more turns and they were led into a large wood panelled room with a tall window in one corner, heavy red curtains closed over. A bookcase lined a far wall. London recognised the regular green spines of law books. A reading desk with a lamp, intercom and computer occupied the space immediately in front of the bookcase and to one side a drinks cabinet with three decanters and several crystal glasses. The officer nodded, and backed out of the room, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

  Another wooden door opened, and the Prime Minister came in.

  “James,” said Sadiq. “Forgive my lack of hospitality, but as you may have...oh?”

  Sadiq was looking up at Vera.

  “Vera, this is Sadiq Khan, the local government official,” London said, making introductions. “Mr Prime Minister, this is Vera Cocka, an alien from a different galaxy who helped me get back to Earth and would like to also catch Wishbone.”

  “Oh.” Sadiq was basically speechless.

  “This is Xia,” said London, deliberately not introducing Bonbon when he got the feeling he shouldn’t. “She’s human, abducted quite some time ago to be a milk cow.”

  “Oh,” Sadiq repeated.

  “You were expecting me?”

  “Wishbone got a message about you,” Sadiq said, his voice shaky. “Aliens exist?”

  “Yes,” said London. “You’ve already met one.”

  “Who? When?” Sadiq asked.

  “Wishbone,” London said.

  “He murdered my family,” said Vera.

  “I believe he’s gone to the White House in America,” said Sadiq. “I think he likes taunting President Cruise, so he almost lives there. Would you like me to arrange transport?”

  “We have transport,” London said. “But it’s in Windermere. Any chance you could lend us a helicopter, though, to get there?”

  Sadiq went to the desk, and pressed the intercom. “I need a Black Hawk on the helipad in five minutes, fuelled and cleared for a run to Cumbria,” he said into the box. “If there are any military personnel around, send them too.” Sadiq looked again at Vera. “Ah, best only send two. But send the best you have. Any more wouldn’t fit.”

  The box squawked something that could have been an affirmative response.

  Sadiq turned to face the four of them. “I have so many questions. They will have to wait. You have a world to save.”

  London nodded. The panelled door opened, and their police officer was waiting.

  “I’ve arranged for all the soldiers to be at the front door,” said the officer. “There’s a sudden small protest. If we are quick, we can get you to the helipad.”

  “Good luck,” Sadiq said.

  As London, Xia and Vera were led away, the other door opened. An aide came in. “Who is he?”

  Sadiq shrugged. “I’ve no idea,” he admitted. “But Wishbone’s terrified of him. MI5 says he works for London Met and has a clean driving licence.”

  “Scotland Yard?”

  “No, the University.”

  “He doesn’t look like he’ll save the world,” the aide said, brushing her brunette fringe out of her eyes. “Though, if he shaved, he would be quite cute.”

  “Having an eight foot blue alien with him, may help,” Sadiq said.

  London’s group was hustled at speed back down the corridor and through a set of automatic doors into a courtyard.

  White fronted outbuildings flanked the courtyard; a black helicopter was coming in low.

  “You must be important,” Vera said.

  “Not really,” said London. “I’m a bit mystified, to be honest.”

  The helicopter door was opening even as it landed. A black clad man with close cropped blonde hair waved them into the helicopter. Vera ducked under the rapidly spinning blades; Bonbon was almost knocked from Vera’s shoulder. Xia and London climbed in behind Vera. It was cramped, with a second black-clad man taking up the remaining space. The first black-clad man crouched between the seats. The sound of the blades was immediately muffled as the door closed. They felt the helicopter take off immediately, barely having touched down, flying backwards until it had cleared the buildings, spinning and heading off northwards at speed.

  “I’m Major Rivers,” said one of the black-clad men, “This is Major Keyes.”

  Keyes gave them a half smile. Apart from a larger nose and brown eyes, he was a doppelgänger for Rivers. Neither of them looked fazed by Vera.

  “Again, not me,” came Bonbon’s thoughts. “Though they are curious, they’re not showing it.”

  “We’re tasked with providing you assistance,” Rivers continued.

  “You’re not armed,” London said.

  “Well spotted,” Rivers said with a wry look. “Wishbone took all the ballistic weapons. That said, if you know the right grass, you can decapitate even these super soldiers.”

  “Grass?” London asked.

  “Keyes prefers rye grass,” said Rivers.

  “It’s fibrous,” Keyes chipped in.

  “You’re SAS?” London asked. “Why am I so important?”

  “Our brief briefing only said that Wishbone saw a picture of you and panicked.” Rivers grabbed one of the restraining straps just ahead of a spot of turbulence shook the helicopter. “The Prime Minister thinks you’re important, and that’s good enough for us.”

  London looked out of the window; they were flying low, the sun illuminating the clouds that circled the horizon.

  “Why are we so low?” London asked.

  “Wishbone has a tendency to shoot down anybody flying anything bigger than a kite,” Keyes said. “If he sees us, we won’t have as far to fall.”

  The pilot flipped his visor up. “Speaking of which,” he said, his voice betraying his Newcastle origins, “we’ve got two planes coming in from the west.”

  “I was hoping to get farther,” Rivers mused.

  London looked out of the window. It was difficult to locate their precise position, as they were currently over countryside. “Put down,” he said.

  “We’ll be sitting ducks,” Rivers said.

  “We’ll be steady ducks,” London said. “Besides, there’re no houses here, so it’ll be safer when the planes come down.”

  Keyes laughed, and pointed down to the pilot, who nodded, and aimed the black helicopter at a field of sheep that scattered at the sound of the helicopter coming down in their midst.

  “How’s your aim, Xia?” London asked, taking out his energy weapon and turned the dial up.

  “I don’t normally shoot at anything,” Xia admitted. “But let’s give it a go.”

  Rivers looked at the gun. “That’s not a human weapon is it?”

  Vera grunted. “No.”

  Rivers looked at Vera, as though for the first time. “I’m beginning to see why Wishbone is worried. Let Keyes and me shoot. We’re trained.”

  London handed the weapon over. Rivers looked at it.

  “You press that stud and whatever it fires comes out that end,” London told him, omitting the detail about how to change the colour of the beam, but otherwise providing a complete training course in one sentence.

  The end of the gun didn’t h
ave a hole, but Rivers nodded. Xia silently handed Keyes her gun, turning up her dial before she did so. Keyes took it as the helicopter touched down.

  “What’s the range?” Keyes asked.

  “Until it hits something,” Xia said.

  “If anything happens to us,” said Rivers to the pilot, “get these two to Windermere.”

  “Roger,” the pilot said, flicking his visor back down.

  The pair opened the doors and scuttled away from the helicopter, seemingly without having to check which direction was west. In the distance, sunlight glinted off rapidly approaching fighter jets. London watched the two special air service officers take up stances holding the weapons rock steady, tracking the aircraft. They had to be fearless, because London would have fired long before they did. Two streams of blue energy crossed the gap between Keyes and Rivers and the two aircraft instantly. The jets exploded, their wings spiralling off to either side, debris mushrooming out, forward momentum keeping the shrapnel together until gravity noticed, at which point they arced down.

  The pair returned to the helicopter, and handed back the weapons.

  “If we had more of those, we could put up a better resistance,” Rivers said.

  London turned the dial back down and put the gun back into his inside pocket. The helicopter left the ground at a shallow angle, missing a stone wall by a metre as they resumed their journey north.

  “We have four,” London said. “There are two spares on Vera’s ship.”

  “I do not like distance weapons,” said Vera. “I prefer close quarters combat. If a being must die, I wish them to know who killed them and why. This is what will happen with the being you call Wishbone.”

  “Wishbone isn’t his name?” Keyes asked.

  “No,” Vera replied. “On my world, he went by the name of Kyson.”

  “That’s his forename, here,” Rivers said. “Kyson Wishbone.”

  London got Keyes and Rivers to fill him in on what had been going on for the previous couple of months.

  “Why is he trying to unite the world?” London asked.

  “No clue,” said Rivers. “A lot of armies have been disbanded already. The Prime Minister’s been stalling for a week from signing the surrender agreement, but he won’t be able to stall for much longer.”