He hesitated, then continued. “There are so many bottlenecks, however,” he added. “We don’t have access to our own industrial base any longer, so we’re largely dependent upon Britain, Japan and Taiwan. They’re quite willing to help, but they do have their limits – and we have to be careful how we ship items around the world. If the aliens catch on to what we’re doing, the results are unlikely to be pleasant.”
They stopped outside a heavy metal door. “The Prime Minister is waiting,” Jones added. “I think that you have a great deal to say to one another.”
***
There were people in the British Government, Prime Minister Arthur Hamilton knew, who would have been privately delighted if the American President came to them as a supplicant, begging for their help. It hadn't been that long since Hilary Clinton had provided encouragement to Argentina, suggesting that the matter of the Falkland Islands was a colonial issue, rather than one of freedom and self-determination. As it was, every American ally had had to keep one eye on Washington for the eventual betrayal. It had been the tendency to quit when the going got tough that had made it hard for others to trust the United States.
Now, however, the United States was occupied by a ruthless alien race – and the rest of the world was in big trouble. Britain had been lucky, Arthur knew; a combination of determination and isolation had allowed him to preserve his country from the chaos sweeping Europe. France was in uproar, according to the reports from British observers, while the government played musical chairs to determine who took the blame for the fiasco. Germany wasn't far behind, while Greece and the other South-Eastern nations had collapsed into chaos. Once, genocide in the Balkans would have been front-page news, with demands for intervention shaking governments in the West. Now, they were just a footnote, a tiny tragedy compared to the nuclear holocaust in Pakistan or the civil war in China.
It was impossible to say with any certainty just how many people had died since the aliens had arrived in orbit. The United States had lost hundreds of thousands, but even that was a drop in the bucket compared to India and Pakistan, or China. Millions, perhaps billions, of people had been killed, while more followed as chaos swept the globe. Africa was being shattered by racial, religious and ethnic conflicts, sending thousands of refugees fleeing north into Europe. The massed naval might of France, Spain and Italy, sinking every boat they could, wasn't enough to deter them. And why not, when they were fleeing death itself?
“Mr. President,” Arthur said, standing up. “I wish it were under other circumstances, but it’s good to see you again.”
“You too,” the President said, as they shook hands. “Thank you for arranging this meeting.”
Arthur nodded as they sat down, unable to avoid thinking that the RAF base wasn't quite prepared for a high-level conference. The tables were basic, the seats were wobbly ... maybe it would have been easier to come to other agreements if they’d held the discussions in such uncomfortable rooms. But diplomats demanded their creature comforts.
Maybe we should change that, he thought, ruefully. It had been his observation that diplomats who spent all their time in embassies, or visiting governmental offices, offered advice that was invariably wrong. Or they went native and started supporting the host government instead of the government that paid their wages.
He sat down and studied the President. It had been a long time since they’d last met, but he was shaken by the changes in the President’s face. His eyes were those of a hunted animal, while his hair was greying; if he hadn't been working out every day, it was likely that he would have slipped into depression. The medics who’d examined him when he arrived at Guthrie Castle had warned of malnutrition and other health problems. They weren't uncommon these days. Only last week, there had been an outbreak of scurvy in Britain. Scurvy!
“I haven’t heard anything from any other government,” the President said. “Do you have any contacts with France at all?”
“Very little,” Arthur admitted. He briefly ran through what they knew of the situation in France. “We might be able to get elements of their military to cooperate, but the government keeps changing so rapidly that it’s impossible to make any long-term plans.”
He looked down at the white tabletop. “We have a plan now, I’m told,” he said. “Andrew, do you think that it is workable?”
“I don't think that we have any choice,” the President admitted. “Even if they left Britain alone indefinitely, what happens when they start wheeling out Humanity, V2.0?”
Arthur shuddered. He hadn't wanted to believe the first reports, not until they had been confirmed by covert observation of a handful of alien bases. War and conquest, even mass extermination, were understandable. Creating a whole slave race was not.
But Hitler would have done it, if he’d had the tech, he thought, numbly. Actually making his dreams and delusions real? He would have jumped at the chance.
“The end of the world as we know it,” he said. “But if the plan fails, we lose everything.”
The President smiled, although there was no humour in the expression. “How long do you think they will leave Britain alone?”
Arthur made a face. The RAF had tracked alien craft passing through the UKADR, moving too quickly to allow Eurofighters or Tornadoes to intercept them. Intimidation tactics, the Permanent Joint Headquarters had concluded; Britain and Russia were the only major human states left largely untouched by the aliens or civil war. No one expected them to leave them alone indefinitely. Once Britain and Russia were gone – and Japan and Taiwan fell to starvation – there would be nothing left to oppose the new master race. The insurgencies could sting, but they couldn't defeat the aliens. And, within a few decades, resistance would not only be futile; it would be inconceivable.
“Not long,” he admitted, shortly.
Britain had been desperately preparing for war ever since the aliens had crushed America, but Arthur had no illusions; America had possessed the most advanced and powerful military machine on the face of the planet and the aliens had still won the war. The MOD had quietly concluded that it wouldn't take more than a day or two for the aliens to establish air superiority and then move on to pick off the British military, piece by piece. Even the modified missiles – to say nothing of the alien-derived technology – wouldn’t tip the balance against the aliens. They were just too powerful.
The old theory of MAD – mutually-assured destruction – had stipulated that a nuclear-armed state could never be truly defeated. If it had been beaten comprehensively, what was to prevent it from launching its missiles and destroying its enemy, ensuring that both sides died in a blaze of fire? But the aliens trumped that; they could intercept missiles in flight, or retaliate against human nations that struck at their cities. It was notable that the only time the aliens had deliberately killed civilians had been after the Israelis had nuked a handful of alien cities, during the invasion of Israel. And Israel was effectively gone.
It was a gamble. He couldn't help feeling that Churchill would have approved.
“So we act,” the President said. “And pray.”
Chapter Twenty
Area 53, Nevada, USA
Day 220
Alex Midgard looked down at his notes as the international conference call was slowly set up, each network node checked carefully for eavesdroppers before the next one was contacted and added to the link. It was galling to realise that it would once have taken bare seconds, if that, to speak to someone on the other side of the world, but now it could take hours to establish a secure link. The satellite network that had once allowed the United States to coordinate military operations on a global scale was gone.
And this was true of the world before telecommunications, he thought, ruefully. How would we cope if it was months before we knew that a battle had been fought and won – or lost?
He sat upright as a handful of faces appeared in front of him. The President, looking somewhat the worse for wear, his face grim. No President had been a virtual
prisoner in his own country before, not even during the Civil War. Beside him, the British Prime Minister looked grimmer – but then, he had much more to lose. The British had insisted that all information and intelligence was to be shared freely, as the price for their assistance. Alex wasn't too surprised. Concealing the existence of the first alien craft had allowed the aliens to blame hostilities on the United States – and shattered trust between the US and its allies, preventing them from supporting the Americans. Who knew? If the aliens had faced a united front, perhaps they would have been more inclined to negotiate.
It seemed unlikely, Alex told himself. The aliens had started by offering to covertly split the world between themselves and the United States, then manipulated public opinion against the US when the President had turned down their offer. Now they knew about the Rogue Leaders – and the limited supply of alien technology – the alien offer made a great deal more sense. They would have wanted the US to do most of the heavy lifting, after which they would have stabbed a knife into America’s back.
“The secure network is secure,” Jones said. His face could be seen on a different screen. “Or at least as secure as we can make it.”
Alex gritted his teeth. The aliens didn't seem to realise the potential of some of their systems, but it was quite possible that the Rogue Leaders had kept a great deal of information from their fellow leaders. If they had cracked the secure network, they might just settle for monitoring it rather than destroying it outright – and if they did, the entire plan would be exposed before it had even begun. And then the alien rebels would also be exposed.
It was a security nightmare, but there was no choice. It would take months to use couriers to set up planning meetings, even inside the United States. Outside, submarines would have to be pressed into service as couriers – and that risked exposing them to the aliens. It would simply take too long to organise everything, even if the aliens didn't manage to scoop up a courier or two through simple bad luck. They’d done it before and the results had been disastrous.
“I will allow Doctor Hatchery to make the first report,” Jones continued. “Doctor?”
Jane leaned forward, speaking with clear precision. “It has been seven days since we successfully broke the alien control over one of the Walking Dead, while allowing the victim to continue posing as someone under their control,” she said. “We have since repeated the process twice more, in both cases producing a viable infiltrator. It is not a perfect solution – the implants will eventually kill them ahead of time anyway – but it is workable. According to our ... source, the alien leadership will not be able to tell that there’s anything wrong without a direct examination of the implants. As long as they are given no cause to worry ...”
She scowled. “We have debriefed them extensively,” she continued. “As we had assumed, the implants allow the aliens to make use of humans with specialised knowledge, without actually requiring their direct input. Accordingly, an implanted army officer will continue to possess the skills of an army officer, but he will just be devoted to the aliens. In effect, he will be a super-patriot for the alien cause. The aliens are completely confident in their control ... and, under normal circumstances, their confidence would be justified. Human tech is unable to remove or disable the implants without killing the victim.
“A full report will be forwarded to you after this meeting,” Jane added. “However, for the moment, we have a tool we can use against the aliens.”
“We will have to be careful when we use it,” Alex added. “Most of our test subjects were almost certainly reported as dead.”
“So we can’t reintroduce them to the aliens,” the President said. “Couldn’t we claim to have been holding them prisoner?”
“They might ask questions,” Alex warned. “The standard procedure for dealing with the Walking Dead was to kill them because there was no way to hold them prisoner or free them. If we change our patterns so significantly, they might start asking why.”
The President made a face, but nodded.
“The previous test subjects are still unsuitable for anything other than heavy therapy,” Jane continued, grimly. “It is the belief of our ... source that the implants weren't removed perfectly, causing mental health problems. We have transferred them to somewhere where they can be examined in detail, but we don't have a viable program of therapy yet.”
Alex rolled his eyes. Before the war, therapy had been common – too common. The first reaction of schools, colleges and even the military had been to arrange therapy to someone who might have been adversely affected by something that had happened near them. And that didn't include the hundreds of thousands of Americans who had popped pills to get them through the day. But now the drug supplies were gone; people with problems had to deal with them on their own, rather than rely on chemical crutches.
He cleared his throat. “We now have a good idea of just how the aliens are organised – and the true source of our problem,” he said. “And, perhaps, how to beat them.”
The President frowned. “And is it workable?”
Alex nodded and picked up the remote, displaying an organisational chart. “The alien leadership is made up, unsurprisingly, of the leader caste; there are no ... leaders who weren’t born leaders, if you understand the term.”
“Aristocrats,” the British Prime Minister said.
“More or less,” Alex agreed. “From what we have been told, it wasn't impossible for a worker to give birth to a leader or a warrior, although we have yet to comprehend how that is actually possible. Confusing the issue is the presence of hybrids, crossbreeds between two different castes that combine the best elements of both – but are seemingly sterile. That’s a second puzzle; if they weren't sterile, they might have produced a united race by now, as opposed to a number of different castes.”
“I suppose,” the Prime Minister said, “that they are all from the same race? They didn't uplift others to join them?”
“Biologically,” Jane said, “they’re clearly from the same evolutionary line. In humans, evolution produced darker skins where the sun was too bright; it is possible that the alien castes are merely a more extreme version of that process. Or they might have more in common with dogs; there are hundreds of different breeds, but crossbreeds are quite possible.”
Alex nodded. “To sum up centuries of alien history,” he added, “one group of aliens had the bright idea that they could engineer themselves so that they would be leaders in perpetuity. Previously, the genetic lottery didn't always ensure that the children of leaders became leaders themselves, which tended to make their society more democratic than you might expect. Yesterday’s leaders might be replaced by workers tomorrow, if you see what I mean.”
“There wouldn't be a guaranteed succession,” the President mused. “If you passed laws against workers, your children might be forced to live under them.”
“More or less,” Jane agreed. “Like I said, there’s a great deal we don’t understand about their genetics.”
“This group of leaders – the Rogue Leaders – set out to turn their world into an ant colony, with themselves at the top and everyone else fixed in their caste,” Alex continued. “Their natural talents for being persuasive would also be boosted until resistance became unthinkable. Eventually, they were found out and the rest of their world went to war against them. They were wiped out, or so it seemed. A number of them managed to conceal themselves onboard the first interstellar ark.
“They are the ones who caused the war. By the time they reached Earth, they managed to gain control of much of the ark, at least partly through convincing other leaders that humanity was a potential threat. They set up bases on Earth and experimented on humans, but they also built up their own forces in secret. Right now, they effectively control a police state where even those who are aware of the danger find it hard to build any countermeasures. If we give them enough time, they will eradicate independent thought, once and for all, from both races. That will be the end
of the world.”
There was a long silence.
“So,” the President said, briskly. “How do we beat them?”
Alex scowled. “We dealt them a heavy blow when we took out the command ship over Washington,” he said. “In some ways, we disrupted their network long enough for the alien rebels to establish a handful of safe zones. However, in order to win, we would have to take out most of the remaining Rogue Leaders and their supporters. At that point, the alien rebels could take over the orbiting network and the war would come to an end.
“There are around one hundred and fifty Rogue Leaders in all,” he continued. “We killed thirty of them on the Washington command ship – if we can take out or isolate the rest of them, we can win the war. But that won't be easy.”
He hesitated. “In human terms, they’re surrounded by fanatics,” he explained. “Each and every one of their warriors will die to protect them, even to the point of waging war on other alien leaders. It is that, apart from their computer network, that makes them so dangerous. The alien rebels simply don't have anything like the level of firepower the Rogue Leaders possess.
“However, they have to remain in close supervision of what happens on the surface. Without that, events might start to slip out of their control.”
The President smiled. “And down on the surface, they are vulnerable,” he said. “We can get them.”
“Precisely,” Alex said. “As our first step, we need to show them that they are not in control of the situation. We have to press them at every point, not just minor skirmishes, but attacks aimed right at the heart of their operations. The more damage we do, the more they will have to respond to us and deploy their leaders to the surface. And then we can get at them.”
The British Prime Minister scowled. “And how do you know that they won't remain safely in orbit?”
Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory Page 19
