Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory

by Christopher Nuttall

  “But this is different,” Sharon insisted. “Perhaps we could admit that the other news is censored ...”

  “It would be better to have the Order Police cope with any problems the mushroom cloud might cause,” Daisy said. “We don’t want to admit to the truth, do we?”

  She looked over at Dave. “Do we?”

  Dave’s expression remained blank. The aliens rarely gave specific instructions for collaborator meetings, trusting him to handle matters on his own. As long as issues didn't go too far outside the alien parameters, they weren’t really concerned about it. Dave wasn't sure if that was arrogance or a touching faith in their implants ... which had, he admitted in the privacy of his own mind, been fully justified. Until he’d been liberated, he’d been their devoted slave. Resistance had been inconceivable.

  “The news must remain censored to avoid panic,” he said, gravely. There had been no specific instructions from the aliens concerning the nuclear detonation. “Panic will not be helpful or productive.”

  He scowled inwardly as the collaborators moved on to other matters. Recruitment for the Order Police was falling slightly, although Daisy had hopes of bringing in newcomers with a combination of threats and promises. The remaining Arab soldiers who had fought for the aliens in Chicago were being dispatched to Texas, where they would be expended on the resistance and the Mexican gangsters who were trying to take control of large parts of the border. Dave had to admire the alien ability to make two problems – the insurgency and the Arab soldiers – solve one another. Both would be weakened, perhaps destroyed, while the aliens built up their own strength.

  I wonder how many others there will be in the future, he thought, sourly. The Middle East isn't coping well with the aliens – and with the damage they unleashed.

  The thought wasn't a pleasant one. Like they’d done in America, the aliens who had landed in the Middle East had cleared entire populations to make room for their settlements. Countless millions had been displaced, while resistance had met swift and uncompromising defeat from the alien warriors. Now, according to the reports, millions of people were dying; they didn't even have the camps that the aliens had established in America. Dave wasn't sure if the aliens had decided that the population was worthless or if they’d given up after one suicide bomber too many. And then they’d done the same thing to Israel.

  “And so we can thank our benefactors,” Daisy concluded, with a simpering smile directed at Dave. It was all he could do not to be sick. “And we shall deal with the other issues after lunch.”

  Dave felt his stomach rumble as servants wheeled in cartloads of food and drink. There were people on the streets of Washington who were lucky if they could claim alien rations to eat, yet the collaborators had good bread, meat and vegetables. They even have an entire cart of desserts, each one seemingly more unhealthy than the last. He caught himself staring at a three-tier chocolate cake and scowled, inwardly. It had been too long since he’d eaten anything other than alien-provided rations. Right now, his stomach was insisting on reminding him of just how long it had been.

  He wondered, absently, if anyone would notice if he started filling a plate for himself. They all thought him to be under alien control, nothing more than a helpless slave. It might pass unnoticed if he ate something other than rations ... but he didn't dare take the risk. Instead, he stood up and headed towards the office the aliens had put aside for him. There was no shortage of ration bars there ... and, more importantly, information. Information the resistance desperately needed.

  And then all he needed was a way to get it to them.

  It struck him, a moment later. All he had to do was ask.

  ***

  Karen did her best to watch General Howery as the meeting wore on and on, despite her growing tiredness. Yes, the nuclear detonation was an emergency, but she already knew how the collaborator government would handle the matter. They would deny everything, sneer at the suggestions from bloggers that the aliens had been badly hurt – and use the Order Police to repress panic, if there was panic. And if there had been panic when nukes had started to detonate in the Middle East, there would be more panic now that one had detonated in America.

  The General seemed to be coping, but there were ... problems. He looked rather more interested in the meeting than he’d looked back when he’d been one of the Walking Dead, his gaze seemingly moving from face to face. If she hadn't been looking for it, she asked herself, would she have noticed that something was badly wrong? She could only hope that others weren't observant enough to see the problem even though they had no way of knowing that Howery wasn't under their command.

  His face definitely changed for a long moment when the servants wheeled in the food. Karen had feared that he would blow his cover by taking food – the Walking Dead never seemed to eat anything other than alien-prepared rations, presumably to avoid poison – but instead the General walked out, leaving the collaborators alone. Karen watched him go, wishing that she could go after him, then turned her attention to the food. Several of the senior collaborators had such appetites that they would happily polish off an entire cartload by themselves.

  Daisy caught up with her as she was piling potato salad and cold pasta onto her plate. “Ah, Karen,” she said, bossily. “I have good news for you.”

  Karen shivered, inwardly. The last time Daisy had given her ‘good’ news, it had been the assignment to supervise the transfer of Mannington’s entire population into the camps near Washington. It still haunted her nightmares, even though Jasmine had offered to spend entire nights with her – or find her some drugs that might help her to cope. Karen hadn't dared do either. God alone knew what she might say while she was half asleep.

  “General Howery requires an aide,” Daisy said. “I have been ordered to loan you to him for several weeks.”

  “Me?” Karen repeated. “But I ...”

  She stopped and had to fight down an urge to laugh. All Howery had had to do was put in a request – and, knowing that he spoke for the aliens, Daisy wouldn't even have hesitated before agreeing to loan him an aide. Even if she wondered why Karen was the only one who would do, she wouldn't dare argue. Crossing one of the Walking Dead was a good way to end up in the camps – or dead.

  Daisy took her arm and half-pulled her outside the conference room, down the corridor and into one of her many offices. Two Order Policemen caught sight of them and smiled, causing Karen to flush brightly. It was just like being dragged home by her mother after doing something stupid – or naughty.

  “I want you to keep your eyes open,” Daisy ordered, as soon as the door was closed. “If you hear anything that can be used to improve my position, I expect you to tell me.”

  Karen made a show of hesitating. “But the General might not like me spying on him ...”

  “Idiot girl,” Daisy snapped. “You are not to tell him, of course.”

  “Of course not,” Karen said. “What do you want to know?”

  “Their long-term plans, if any,” Daisy said. “And just why they’re buying so much crap from American factories.”

  She leaned forward. “And if you find something of value,” she added, “you will be richly rewarded. I can get you a place on the reconstruction committee.”

  It would have been the offer of a lifetime, Karen knew, if she’d been a loyal little collaborator. A chance to build up her own power base, a chance to establish herself as an independent personage from Daisy ... she’d still be expected to kowtow to Daisy, but she’d also have much more independence. And, given that some of Daisy’s colleagues expected their subordinates to literally kowtow to them, it would safeguard her if Daisy took a fall and ended up in a camp herself.

  But as someone working for the resistance, it would move her away from the centre of power.

  “I will do my best,” she promised. She would have to find a way to talk to Howery without anyone listening in, then see what information she could slip to Daisy without compromising her position. “And if I s
ucceed ...”

  “If you succeed, you will be rewarded,” Daisy assured her. Her voice turned sickeningly sweet. “And do try not to fail.”

  ***

  Dave was halfway through a series of reports on food supplies for the Order Police when there was a tap at his open door. His memories of being an alien slave reported that visitors were rare, almost always having to be ordered to visit him – or any one of the Walking Dead. That wasn't too surprising, he knew; the other Walking Dead scared hell out of him and he’d been one of them.

  And will be again if you make a mistake, old man, he told himself, as he looked up. Or worse.

  He would have smiled if he could have smiled when he saw Karen at the door. She looked nervous, understandably so. No one knew just how closely the aliens monitored the Walking Dead, although Dave had a suspicion that the aliens trusted in the implants and didn't bother to do anything else to watch them. If they had, he would have been rounded up and re-implanted as soon as he’d returned to the Green Zone. And Karen would have been implanted right alongside him.

  “Come in,” he said. “And sit down.”

  His voice was still stiff and cold, no matter how much warmth he tried to push into it. Maybe that was a good thing too. The US had been using voice monitoring software to track emotional states before the aliens had invaded and if the human race could do it, the aliens could probably do it better. A change in tone might alert them that something was wrong.

  Karen sat down, folding her hands in her lap. God, she was gorgeous; he felt like an old pervert even for looking at her. He hadn't thought so much of her when he’d first seen her, had he? No, she’d just been another collaborator functionary, leading him to his fateful meeting with the aliens. And after that, she’d been a tool. The Walking Dead weren't permitted sexual feelings – or any kind of feelings. Part of him just wanted to grab her, to kiss her, to make love to her ... he thrust that feeling aside, angrily. He couldn't afford anything of the sort.

  “I need assistance in sorting out these files,” he said. Everything was on computer, but he’d never enjoyed using them before he’d been implanted. They made life too easy for someone in a comfortable air conditioned office to look over his shoulder and issue pointless orders. “And then I have a list of other tasks for you to do.”

  Karen nodded, her bright eyes studying him minutely. She was certainly braver than most of the others who faced the Walking Dead, Dave realised; most of them didn’t dare make eye contact with the alien slaves. But then, she already knew what had happened to him. Would someone else be able to realise that he wasn't a slave any longer? There was no way to know.

  I’ll have to find out if this room is monitored, he thought, inwardly. The aliens did keep an eye on Daisy Fairchild and her ilk, although they preferred to do it through the Walking Dead than any form of electronic surveillance. Dave wasn't sure if that was because they wanted the collaborators to know that they were being watched, or if they simply didn't have the resources to keep tabs on everyone. The more people the CIA had monitored during the War on Terror, the harder it had been to provide the level of comprehensive monitoring and surveillance demanded by the supervisors.

  “Yes, sir,” Karen said, finally.

  He leaned closer, until he could smell her scent. “Don't worry,” he hissed. “We’ll get through this somehow.”

  He passed her a set of USB sticks, pointing out one in particular. No one would have noticed, he hoped, that he had made a set of copies of vital information. Karen could take it and pass it out of the Green Zone ... somehow. Dave wondered, absently, how she did it, but he didn't really want to know. What he didn't know, he couldn't be made to tell.

  Smiling inwardly, he turned back to his files and kept reading, allowing her to get on with her own work. She had a good memory, he assumed; she must have if she had spent months working for Daisy Fairchild. All she would have to do was copy it down and get the information to the resistance. And then they could make use of it, however they saw fit.

  As long as I get a chance to wring the alien leader’s neck, he thought, remembering his first meeting with the alien leader. He’d been coldly condescending in a manner that had made him think wistfully of REMFs. I could kill him before anyone else knew that I was no longer a slave ...

  But the aliens were stronger than they looked, he reminded himself. He had to be careful.

  Taking one last look at Karen, he walked over to the window and gazed towards the colossal alien ship in the distance. It dominated the skyline, dwarfing anything of purely human construction. Under other circumstances, it would have impressed him. Even a full-sized aircraft carrier would have vanished without trace into its bulk.

  Now, all he could feel as he stared at the craft was a feeling of sadistic pleasure. The craft had seemed invincible until a human weapon had brought it crashing down.

  And all we have to do, he thought, coldly, is bring the rest crashing down too.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Washington DC, USA

  Day 237

  The White House, Ambassador Sir James Kingston considered, had seen better days. It had been almost untouchable ever since it had been built, even though the terrorists who had struck on 9/11 had intended to target the White House as well as New York and the Pentagon; it had been well outside the reach of any conventional enemy. But the aliens defied human geopolitics and they’d taken the White House when they’d landed in Washington.

  They’d done a surprisingly good job of rebuilding, he noted as he climbed out of the ambassadorial car, but it still looked a wreck. One wing was still nothing more than ruins, pitted and scarred by evidence of the desperate fight to keep the aliens out long enough for the President to escape. The bodies had long since been removed, thankfully, but the remaining damage had been left there, a silent testament to how futile defence was against the aliens. And the White House was now occupied by an alien, rather than a human collaborator. The message was very clear.

  Three alien craft sat on the lawn, looking oddly out of place against the human building; five more orbited overhead, providing security for the alien base. Countless alien warriors swarmed the grounds, grunting incomprehensibly to one another as they hunted for intruders who might dare to try to raid the White House. It was technically within the Green Zone, but few humans were allowed to visit. Even the collaborator government was based elsewhere.

  “Ambassador,” a man said, as he emerged from the public entrance. Sir James didn't need to see his eyes to tell that he was one of the Walking Dead. “Come with me.”

  Inside, there was little evidence of the fighting – but a great deal of evidence of looting. Most of the decorations he recalled from his pre-war visits to the White House had been removed, leaving only a handful in place for the aliens after they’d repaired the building. A large portrait that showed every President from Washington to Obama had been defaced, several faces torn out and ripped apart; he couldn't decide if the aliens had decided to vandalise it or if their collaborators had taken the opportunity to show their contempt for the established order. Whatever else could be said about the aliens, he decided quietly, they didn't seem to have the human capacity for pointless spite.

  He shivered as he saw alien workers scurrying everywhere, carrying out the orders of their superiors. It was impossible to tell what the little creatures were doing, although they didn't seem to be working on the White House. Perhaps they were probing into the tunnel and bunker network Sir James knew to exist underneath Washington, or perhaps they were doing something alien that would be beyond human understanding. There was no way to know.

  The Oval Office looked almost new, as if the President was about to walk in and greet his guests. There were dozens of different stories about the last stand in Washington, with few of them agreeing on even the basic details. One had claimed that the Secret Service had knocked out the President and carried him out while the Marines fought to buy time, another had hinted that the President had led the def
ence in person until he’d been stunned by an alien weapon and dragged away from the scene. Sir James suspected that the truth lay somewhere in-between, although he couldn't see any competent close-protection detail allowing their principle to take command of the defence. It wasn't as if they were in a bad movie where the President was the only one who could fight.

  Sir James shivered when he saw the alien standing behind the President’s desk. He liked to consider himself a cosmopolitan – he’d shaken hands with dictators, terrorists and even religious fanatics – but the aliens just spooked him in a way that no fanatic had been able to match. They might have been humanoid, yet that somehow made it worse. He would almost have preferred to deal with an alien race that was non-humanoid.

  Oh, he asked himself. You would have preferred to meet Weber’s Bugs?

  “Ambassador,” the alien said. There was something almost human in his voice, although it might well have been an act. Sir James had met enough aliens to know that they didn't seem to feel the same way humans felt. “Thank you for coming.”

  Sir James bowed in acknowledgement as he quietly studied the alien – and the office he had appropriated for himself. They’d removed the chairs, he realised, something that might have been intended as a rude gesture – or as a simple cultural misunderstanding. Humans might prefer to be sitting down; the aliens didn't seem to care if they were seated or standing while holding discussions. On the other hand, it seemed a simple thing for them to master; he found it hard to believe that they truly didn't know.

  But there are places where eating with your left hand is considered the height of bad manners, he reminded himself. And yet we still have problems humouring them.