by Alma Boykin
“First, we are facing at the very least another false-flag ‘alien invasion.’ The data Lt. O’Keefe, First Sergeant Lee, Commander Na Gael, and I have found, combined with other recent events, points to passive cooperation with an extraterrestrial agent or group.” He stopped. “See for yourselves.” He nodded to Lt. O’Keefe, and the junior officer called up Rachel’s timeline. After everyone had time to process the information, Rahoul swirled his finger, signaling for O’Keefe put Rachel’s, Lee’s, and her own work on the screen as a flow-chart. Again he waited, allowing everyone time to read—including himself, as he took in the materials O’Keefe and Selassie had turned up.
Cluj turned back from the projection and frowned, putting one hand to his earpiece. His eyes went wide, and without saying anything he started typing, patching the incoming call into the main speaker system for the room. “I need to speak with Command Two, Radio One, this is urgent,” a male voice informed the listeners. As Rahoul nodded his approval, Selassie turned on her microphone.
“Stalker One, this is Command Two, go ahead.”
“Command Two, Stalker One. We’ve blocked an attack on the Observatory staff, with the assistance of local police, over.”
The officers exchanged looks, and O’Keefe began typing quickly, taking notes as Selassie replied. “Stalker One, more details please. Command One is listening in.”
“Roger,” the disembodied voice began. “The Observatory gets a supplemental food and supply shipment every third week, in case of bad weather. Stalker Five got curious and inspected the latest shipment, comparing it with the previous orders and the manifest, and noticed that some of the food items came from a new source. Ruthie Peters, the person in charge of ordering supplies, indicated that she had not changed contractors, so we diverted those boxes. The local police found that the purveyor’s address did not exist, and helped us inspect the contents.”
Stalker cleared his throat and sounded a bit unhappy as he reported. “The food seemed a bit odd. Since there’s no forensics lab up here, we tossed a little to some seagulls to see what would happen. They dropped dead. No one has eaten anything from those particular boxes, and we are going back through the previous shipments, looking for any more poisoned items.”
Selassie took her computer out of the active program and called up a mapping program. “What is the address and shipper, Stalker One?”
Rahoul closed his eyes and balled his hands into angry fists as the soldier read, “Al Din’s Gourmet Halal Imports, 20 South End Road, Leuton.” He opened his eyes to see that Selassie’s display confirming the lack of any such business or building at that address.
Before Selassie could reply, Rahoul turned on his own microphone. “Stalker One, Command One. Very good job, Stalker One. Continue watching for now, and prepare to go on alert within the next few hours.”
“Wilco, Stalker One. Thank you, sir.” Selassie looked at Rahoul, and he made a slashing motion across his throat. She nodded, and after a few more words terminated the call. As she did, the attack appeared on the flowchart projected on the wall. A new line appeared as well, linking the Observatory to the Home Office. Rahoul frowned and turned to O’Keefe.
“The Observatory is supplied indirectly via a few shadow routes through OSS4, sir, probably because the control satellites for the Nimrod and Brutus systems are monitored and maintained through there,” she explained. “Sergeant Lee wondered if there might be a connection, so I went digging. Col. Selassie asked something similar when we found the attack pattern, so I dug harder.” The young officer leaned back a little, as if afraid of the reaction from her superiors.
They smiled. “Good work, Janet,” Selassie affirmed. She looked back at the chart and her smile began fading.
Sigurdsson and Cluj began speaking at the same time. Cluj stopped as Thorsten rumbled, “There are too many links to the Home Office, sir.”
“That’s what I was going to say, too, sir.” Sheep studied the two British natives in the room, as if trying to get a sense of their reaction. “Ah, does this put the branch in a pickle?”
It certainly puts me into one, Rahoul thought morosely. “No, Sheep, it does not, because we do not answer to the Home Office. Extraterrestrials are not considered immigrants, despite what some overly-rosy activists proclaim.” He noticed Smoot hiding a grin behind his hand. The South African branch had cleaned up the remnants of an exceedingly vocal, and fatally naïve, welcoming party a few years before, Rahoul remembered. “However, it does mean that we are potentially dealing with treason.”
The silence following the general’s words stretched until the senior NCO waved his hand. “Why astronomers and Commander Na Gael? Why are they the targets? And are they the only ones?”
“They are not the only ones, Smith. There was an attempt on my family this morning. They’re fine, and are in a pre-arranged safe location.” Rahoul preempted any further comment. “Desta?”
“Janet, highlight just the murders and attempted attacks, please.” The other boxes and lines faded, and Selassie picked up her laser pointer. “These are not just astronomers. All of the attacks are on individuals associated with satellite control systems.” She circled the most recent incident. “As well as radio astronomy and extra-solar object tracking.” Desta pointed out the actual attacks, as well as two possibles that Rahoul hadn’t known about. “We lost the targeting units for the Brutus system for most of last month, along with several other sky-eyes. Without the Brutus we don’t have full defensive coverage, even though the Nimrod system remains effective. And we can no longer spot incoming objects before they get to within five minutes of the moon.”
That raised a groan, and Janet waved her hand. “Ma’am, we now can go ten minutes out, as of yesterday morning, and a little further if the Russians will send us their Mir-8 data.” She slumped a little. “But that still leaves a hole, especially during our nights for the next week.”
You have thirty-four hours, Rahoul heard Rachel’s voice in his memory. “The danger point is tonight or tomorrow night,” Rahoul said. “I can’t tell you more than that as far as timing, but whatever is coming will be tonight or tomorrow night.”
It was Sheep’s turn to rustle uncomfortably. “Ah, sir, today is also Friday. Trouble seems to come on Fridays, after noon. And it’s supposed to be almost forty degrees in the south. That doesn’t help does it?”
Smoot shook his head. “No, it does not. An invasion into a riot would be fun to watch, though.”
“Not funny, Captain Smoot,” Desta said, giving her commanding officer a concerned glance.
“Not funny but excellent cover, depending on the invader’s goals,” RSM Smith pushed.
“Any other thoughts?” Rahoul noted that Capt. Cluj started to speak, but stopped himself with a little shake of his head. “Very well. Cluj, you and O’Keefe bundle everything we’ve put together, less the religious aspects of this, and send a copy to Vienna. Prepare one for the MoD, but do not send it yet. Smoot, leave the two detached groups where they are and plan on having headquarters divide into four tonight, with Army back-up and without.”
After they signaled their agreement, he continued, “Sigurdsson, see what we have in the way of non-lethal riot weapons, as well as urban warfare packages, in case the RSM is correct. RSM Smith, we go on alert at 1400, if not sooner. Selassie, pull our urban warfare files, especially those involving hostile crowds, along with technologically advanced aliens, and prepare a briefing for 1430.”
“Very good sir,” she murmured, already looking through the quick-access database top level.
“You are dismissed. Except you, Cluj, I need a word.” Sheep told O’Keefe something and handed her some papers to take with her. Rahoul waited until the others left and had shut the door. “First, once you get the data sent, contact the wizards and see what they’ve found out about the little item I sent them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rahoul leaned back in his chair. “What was it you wanted to ask, Sheep?”
“
Nothing important, sir.” He looked away from the general. Rahoul raised his eyebrows and waited, catching the younger officer’s eyes. Sheep twitched a little, then blurted, “You said that you, Lt. O’Keefe, Sgt. Lee, and Commander Na Gael worked out the connections. But Rachel is—” he cut himself off.
“Captain Cluj, I will just say that Rachel had a gift for anticipating events. I hope that I will have a chance to explain later. For now, however, leave her access codes open.”
As Rahoul stood up, Sheep shook his head. “I couldn’t close them if I tried, sir. Only the Branch commander and Vienna can block her codes, and even then both have to log in and agree in real time together.”
Somehow, Rahoul was not at all surprised.
The sound of her telephone woke Rachel from a much-needed nap. She pulled it off of her belt, plugged in her earpiece, and answered. “Hier Na Gael.”
“Kommander, Sie mußen nach Großbrittania fahren. Ganz schnell,” General Helmut Eszterházy ordered.
“I’m not going to Britain until General Khan apologizes,” she told him, eyes still closed.
“Enough with this silly game,” the military commander of the Global Defense Force snapped. “Swallow your pride and get back to work.”
Rachel rolled onto her feet, walked a few steps, and leaned against the edge of the Dark Hart’s open entry hatch, looking out at a meadow in the Drachenstal. “Sir, until General Khan acknowledges that religion is motivating the people who are being used to distract the Army from the pending invasion attempt, he will not listen to my recommendations. In which case I cannot do my job, so there is no point in my going to Britain.”
She could almost hear Helmut counting backward from one hundred in Hungarian before he spoke again. “Commander Na Gael. You goaded General Khan, then you stormed off. You told me yourself. Go back to Britain.”
“I will go back to Britain when General Khan calls for me, sir. Or if the branch fails to intercept whatever is coming in the next twenty-four hours. But I cannot go back if the branch commander does not trust my recommendations and observations, as is currently the case.” She did her best to keep her anger out of her voice.
“Where exactly are you?”
Rachel grinned. “I’m in the Graf-General’s back yard, although he doesn’t know it. It’s a peaceful place to go when you’re dead.”
There was a long silence. “I will speak with General Khan. If he calls you, you will,” Eszterházy leaned on the word, “return to Britain immediately. Otherwise I want you here in Vienna, ready to assist Dr. Spaustet. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” There was no point in angering Helmut further by pointing out that the Brits would be fine without her. I really need to spend more time away from the regiment, she decided. They’re not progressing as well as they should be. Rachel watched a lamb acting foolish in the pasture below the Dark Hart’s preferred ledge and smiled, licking her chops at the thought of fresh lamb leg and liver. Maybe I could rent a cabin from Joschka under an assumed name? Of course, neither of us would get anything useful done ever again if that happened. Her face warmed a little as she savored memories of her last meeting with her fiancé.
“Eszterházy out.” A click in her ear told her that he’d gone. Rachel unplugged the earpiece and holstered the phone, then stretched and got herself a piece of jerky. She stared out at the mountain valley as she gnawed the tough meat, fighting off the temptation to ring up Joschka.
As Rahoul reviewed the regiment’s urban warfare plans for several major British cities and Sergeant Lee prepared to go on duty, Bill Smith frowned and considered how to correct for the new developments. The failure of a second attempt to remove the critical officer of the anti-extraterrestrial paramilitaries had eliminated any chance of taking that group out of play, according to Bill’s specialist. “That thread is knotted,” the representative from Tarqi da Peerlan reported. “And your ‘window of opportunity,’ as the humans call it, is closing.” Bill had reported the developments to his programmers and now awaited their orders.
His workspace looked out on one of the busiest traffic interchanges in the London metropolitan area. He enjoyed watching the snarls and chaos that erupted at least twice a day. The Yylsavi had left him that much of his original personality, and he spread his lips in an approximation of a human’s smile as he remembered the swirling disorder of the previous month. The morning after the riots and power system collapse, he’d watched the fools attempting to return to work in London. Despite pleas not to come to the cities, many humans had failed to heed the warnings. Bill had taken pleasure in the rapid disintegration of in-bound traffic as frustrated humans caused wrecks, followed by fighting over delays, as others attempted to flee the spreading disorder, only to exacerbate it.
Bill Smith’s smile turned into a toothy snarl, lips curled in disgust, as he thought of his last conversation with Arnold Winston. The human failed to understand that chaos never surrendered to order without force. Even then, the strong merely created a temporary pocket in the glorious, riotous, churning entropy of the universe. Winston saw chaos as an enemy and thought he could create order—even among humans! Smiths’ programmers, and the creature now called Bill Smith, knew better. Only those able to use disorder to their own ends survived. Which number did not include one human called Winston.
Bill’s Yylsavi masters envisioned several possible futures for their human tool. If he succeeded in surviving the initial disorder, one party of Yylsavi wanted to turn him over to the rampaging Muslims to further fuel the riots. Another faction would put the human in among the human captives after their invasion and record the results for entertainment. That part of Bill that remained mostly his own enjoyed imagining what would happen if the Yylsavi allowed Winston to organize a small patch of the planet while they stripped the useable cultural and natural resources from the rest of the world before “pulling the rug out,” as the humans phrased it. Bill hoped that the programmers would at least model his idea, so he could watch Winston suffer as he tried to beat back the destruction of all that he’d squandered so much trying to preserve.
First, however, the Yylsavi had to conquer the world. Bill’s masters worked with existing conditions, rather than directly invading in force, accelerating the building chaos caused by the humans themselves. Bill’s programming did not permit him to ask why, or even to wonder. Instead, he studied the humans and their governments, including the turmoil seething among those that the humans’ military called “Islamists.” Their deity loved chaos as much as the Yylsavi did, or so it seemed to the creature called Bill Smith. And soon his masters would permit Bill to unleash that chaos. He bared his teeth again, seeing dancing flames and terrified humans in his mind’s eye.
Elsewhere, Rahoul tipped the little bottle of headache tablets into his palm. Only dust fell out, and he groaned. His temples throbbed with every beat of his heart. The buzz of the intercom sent a stab of pain from ear to ear, and he winced. “Yes?”
“Sir, General Eszterházy on the line.”
“Put him through.” Rahoul stuffed the small bottle into a drawer as he turned on the two-way computer screen. The GDF insignia vanished, replaced with a strikingly handsome face. Eszterházy was frowning.
“Good afternoon, Brigadier Khan.”
“Good afternoon, sir.” The formality and frown set off Rahoul’s internal warning bells.
The Hungarian cut directly to the point. “We received your data burst, Brigadier. Have you spoken with your government about your findings?”
“Not yet, sir. I’m reluctant to approach them, given the lack of solid evidence and the delicacy of the matter.” And I don’t want to warn the traitor he added silently.
Eszterházy gave Rahoul a searching look. “You are treading a fine line, Brigadier Khan. I suggest that you bring in someone with diplomatic experience. Such as Commander Na Gael.”
Rahoul couldn’t stop his bark of laughter. “I’m sorry, sir. The thought of Commander Na Gael in a diplomatic role . . .”
>
“Call her in, Rahoul. Whatever your personal disagreement with her is, the situation your report outlines is too serious for the branch to be without her. Call her in. Or I will reassign her to Vienna for the foreseeable future.”
Rahoul did not try to argue. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Eszterházy out.”
The screen turned black, and Rahoul put the computer to sleep, then turned to stare out the small window at the back of his office. She had to be wrong, Islam couldn’t have anything to do with the situation. Because if it did, then his family—his parents, cousins, others—might be part of the looming danger. Religion, especially that religion, had nothing to do with terror, with the riots. His thoughts churned as he kept seeing the flow charts, the connections, seeing the modified Koran and other books in his mind’s eye. What about Portabello Road? What about Granada? a little voice in his mind whispered, unrelenting and insistant. After an eternity, he picked up the telephone and dialed a number from memory. “Na Gael,” a woman’s voice said in his ear.
“Commander, come back. You were right about religion and we need you.”
Ten minutes later Rahoul and Rachel Na Gael stood in the lab, eying each other, neither willing to speak first. The Wanderer folded her arms on her chest and tipped her head to the side, waiting. Damn it, the human growled. What is she— A stab of pain drove coherent thought out of his skull. Red washed over the world, and Rahoul doubled over, clutching his head. Cool hands grabbed him and blessed, painless darkness replaced crimson agony.
When he came to, Rahoul saw ceiling tiles, Commander Na Gael, and Dr. Tierney. “I don’t recall ever seeing blood pressure that high before,” he heard the medical officer telling the xenologist.
“It was rather impressive for someone not beginning an extra-atmospheric combat drop,” she agreed. “Any lasting effects, Doctor?”
