V 13 - To Conquer the Throne

by Tim Sullivan (UC) (epub)

“Aye, that it is.” McHugh slipped his pistol into a holster concealed underneath his jacket. “And from what I hear, lad, it won’t take much effort to do just that.”

  Subhash sighed. “We all have a common enemy, and we must work together.”

  “Tell that to himself downstairs, taking his

  pleasure at this very moment by torturing a lizard to death.”

  “Sometimes such harsh measures can’t be avoided,” Subhash said. “As an old IRA man, you should know that.”

  “As an old IRA man, I recognize them that enjoys inflicting pain, too, me boyo.”

  “Are you saying that Ian takes pleasure in this?” Subhash asked. But the indignation in his voice rang false.

  “Well, let’s just say that you know that fine English lad downstairs at least as well as I do, Subhash. Whatever you think about him is good enough for me.”

  Subhash remained silent, which made Gabriella wonder if he secretly agreed with the Irishman.

  “I notice there’s a third chair at table here, Subhash,” McHugh said. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Please do.”

  McHugh patted the breast of Ms jacket once for good measure and pulled out a chair. He turned it around and sat down with his forearms resting on the top of the chair’s back.

  “I’m going to make the same offer today that I’ve made so many times before,” the IRA man said. “I don’t know how many more times the big man will send me over here to reason with the lot of you. I think he’s growing a mite tired of your foolishness already.”

  “Then why don’t you leave us alone?” Subhash asked. “We do not plead with you to come here. Quite the contrary, we ask you not to come.”

  “And yet you never turn me away,” McHugh said.

  “That,” Subhash dryly replied, “would be a breach of courtesy.”

  “I thought you’d see it that way,” McHugh chuckled, “especially since you’ll be needing our services.”

  “Come now, Jimmy,” Subhash said. “Did we need your services this afternoon when we captured this Visitor captain?”

  “Capturing the Visitor captain, is it? And who was it who tipped your lads off this evening past that Smythe-Walmsley wasn’t long for this world?”

  Subhash leaned forward, his chair creaking. “Last evening? I was given to believe that it was late last night. That was why our men couldn’t get to Nigel in time.”

  Gabriella clutched Subhash’s arm. “Are you saying that Nigel’s life could have been saved?”

  “I... I don’t know,” Subhash stammered, clearly shaken by what he had just learned. He turned to McHugh. “Is what you say true, Jimmy?”

  “As God is my witness, Subhash, it was no later than half past six when we sent a man to

  tell your people what we knew.”

  “But I heard nothing about it,” Subhash protested. “You must believe me, Gabriella, I did not know.”

  “Someone did,” Gabriella said.

  “Now, who do you suppose that someone might be?” McHugh asked in a mock-innocent tone.

  They all knew whom he was talking about. “But why would he do such a thing?” Subhash cried in anguish.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” McHugh said, a note of sympathy in Ms voice. “You’re not the sort who could bump off Ms mates so that you could ascend to the top of the heap.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you believe Ian purposely allowed Nigel to die so that he could gain power in the resistance?”

  “Think what you will, my friend,” McHugh said, “but don’t think too long. I’ve a feeling that you command as much respect as Ian—perhaps more. You could easily fail into enemy hands, or have an accident, too.”

  Subhash sank back into his chair, deep in thought.

  “He’s going to pay for tMs,” Gabriella promised. Tears squeezed out of her eyes and traced their way down her cheeks. “I’m not going to let him get away with it.”

  “Please, Gabriella,” Subhash said. “We cannot be certain that this is the case. Perhaps Ian can explain. We must not jump to conclusions, in any case.”

  Gabriella sighed. “Maybe you’re right.” She didn’t really believe it, after her brief exposure to Ian, but she had to give him the benefit of the doubt. Her sense of justice was too strong to permit her to do otherwise.

  “Believe what you will,” said McHugh, rising. “I think I’d best be running along now.”

  As the Irishman stood, Subhash smiled wryly. “Perhaps you’ve only done what I suspected you were up to when you first entered this room with your gun drawn, McHugh . . . divide and conquer.”

  “Perhaps, but if that’s the case, I did it quite by chance,” McHugh said, looking straight at first Subhash and then Gabriella. “What I’ve told you is the truth.”

  The sincere look in his eye convinced Gabriella that it was indeed the truth. How the message had been held up so long that Nigel had been trapped was still not known. Even if Ian had a good story, they couldn’t be sure he was telling the truth. He must have known they would find out about the IRA’s message; no doubt he had a foolproof excuse.

  “Good day to you,” McHugh said.

  “Just a minute.” Gabriella stood and faced him. “Are you willing to say what you’ve said to Ian?”

  Chapter 8

  “Not here,” McHugh said at length.

  There it was, then, thought Gabriella; if he wouldn’t stand and accuse Ian, they couldn’t take his remarks seriously . . . Perhaps McHugh had only meant to stir things up, as Subhash suggested. If so, that meant he couldn’t be trusted. But if it were true . . .

  “Why won’t you talk to Ian?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Perhaps in a more neutral setting, I would feel more inclined towards such a confrontation. But not here, where he commands all these men.”

  Subhash thought that over. Doubtless McHugh’s hesitation seemed sensible to him under the circumstances. After all, the place was crawling with British resistance fighters, and there was still no love lost between them

  and the IRA., even though there had been an undeclared truce since the Visitors’ invasion. Gabriella hadn’t been particularly interested in all this when Nigel had discussed it over kippers with her, believing that it didn’t really concern her. It did strike her now, however, that the two factions did not trust one another enough to successfully fend off the alien attack together . . . and if her suspicions about Ian were correct, things weren’t likely to improve.

  “Good day to you, then,” McHugh said, rising and backing towards the door.

  Before he could reach it, the door flew open and three men rushed inside. McHugh tried to pull Ms revolver, but they were on Mm too quickly. He struggled to no avail, overpowered and disarmed in an instant.

  Ian entered the room, a disdainful look on his face.

  “I had thought better of you, Subhash,” he said, without looking at Subhash.

  “What are you talking about?” Subhash demanded.

  “You know perfectly well.” Ian turned and looked straight at him, the glint of victory in his eye. “You have been conspiring with our enemy.”

  “Enemy? . . . Since when axe the IRA our enemy?”

  “Since they permitted the Visitors to kill Nigel.”

  “What the devil are you saying, you filthy liar?” shouted McHugh.

  With one quick motion, Ian turned and struck the Irishman across the mouth with the back of his hand. McHugh lurched, writhing in frustration as he attempted to break loose and strike back. But the three resistance fighters held him fast.

  “Take him away,” Ian commanded.

  They dragged the bellowing, red-faced McHugh out of the room. Subhash stood as if to help him, and then saw several shadowy figures just across the threshold.

  “Ah, Subhash,” Ian cooed, “showing your true colors now, are you?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Gabriella demanded.

  “Young woman, if I were you I’d hold my tongue,” Ian said. �
��You may very well be implicated in this scheme yourself.”

  Gabriella felt her cheeks flush hot in anger. “How dare you imply such a thing, you . . . you martinetl”

  “You won’t get away with it,” Subhash promised, “if you try to harm this woman.”

  “Harm her,” Ian said with apparent sincerity. “I’m trying to keep her from betraying us all, Subhash . . . and you know it.”

  “No, Ian,” Gabriella said with contempt. “You’re trying to grab all the power in the resistance for yourself. You don’t care what it means to the future of England or even to the entire human race. In your lust for power, you’ll destroy anyone who stands in your way.”

  Ian smirked. “Not very convincing talk, coming from a vixen who may very well have engineered the death of one of our best men.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Nigel, girl—what did you think I was talking about?”

  “You vile thing!” Gabriella leaped at him, nails digging at his face. She was prevented from inflicting any real damage by two of Ian’s men. She struggled to get free, but couldn’t quite manage it. “Let me go!”

  Ian sneered at her from only inches away, as his henchmen’s strong arms restrained her. “So you’d attack the leader of the resistance, would you?”

  Gabriella spat in his face.

  Glaring, Ian wiped away the spittle. “Take her away,” he said coldly.

  “You cannot do this,” Subhash said.

  “I warn you, Subhash ...”

  “Ian, I implore you.”

  “Take him, too,” Ian said, turning away from Subhash.

  Several more men entered the room and forcibly restrained Subhash. He did not attempt to resist, allowing them to lead him out into the corridor without a word of protest.

  Gabriella was silent now, too. She cursed her luck, falling out of the frying pan into the fire; first in the clutches of the Visitors, and now under the power of this megalomaniac.

  Suddenly the corridor shook, as if the ground below were in the throes of an earthquake. Plaster dust spurted from the cracking ceiling, and everyone was tossed helplessly against the walls. The roar of explosions came from outside as the men shouted excitedly.

  “Hold on to those prisoners!” Ian commanded. But as he turned to face his men, another shock wave coursed through the corridor and an ancient beam fell to the floor with a crash. Two men were caught underneath it, their cries rising out of the miasma of plaster dust as pikes and halberds fell to the floor with a clatter.

  Subhash jabbed his elbow into the guts of the disoriented fellow to his right, and punched the one to his left in the nose. One of Gabriella’s captors was on the floor, and the other fell as Subhash struck him on the back of the head.

  Taking Gabriella by the hand, he ran back past the room where McHugh had found them. They came to a winding stairway, and were on the level below in seconds. A painting of a seventeenth-century nobleman thudded to the floor, and flames licked around a window casement.

  Subhash took Gabriella to a huge drawing room. Approaching the fireplace, he ran his

  fingers over the bricks.

  “What are you . . . ?” Before she could finish her question, the back of the fireplace swung open, and they bent to crawl into a stone passageway. It was pitch dark inside, but Subhash knew the way. A few moments later they saw light, and then came to an iron grating festooned with weeds. Putting his shoulder against the grating, Subhash pushed it up and over, and they crawled into an overgrown garden.

  Gabriella stood, seeing a skyfighter raining blue fire down on an ancient mansion on the other side of a cracked stone wall. The screams of dying men could be heard over the whoosh of laser fire and the crackling of flames.

  “Can’t we do something?” she cried.

  “Not now,” Subhash said, taking her hand again. “Now all we can do is run.”

  And they ran, out of the garden in the shelter of the wall, as the headquarters of British Resistance was destroyed behind them.

  Chapter 9

  Medea, her stomach grumbling with hunger, shouted at her underlings: “Bring the prisoner to me!”

  Half a dozen red-clad Visitors scurried out of the command center of the Mother Ship to do her bidding. She turned to the female figure, who wore her dermoplast human pseudoskin even here in space.

  “Beverly, we have crushed the British Resistance, and yet their leaders have all escaped . . . all but this one.”

  Beverly, second-in-command, said dryly, “Yes, it was a rather good plan, wasn’t it?”

  The fact that her second-in-command had thought of the successful plan seemed to mean nothing to Medea, and Beverly knew that Medea would have no compunctions about claiming to

  have thought of everything herself. That was the nature of things in the Sirian Army. Nevertheless, the bony sfae-reptile had slipped up twice before. She was so nervous about losing the battle of Britain that she had become an anorexic, eating virtually nothing. She had gone from portliness to little more than a skeleton in only a few months.

  Beverly opened a small, plastic canister and removed a mouse by the tail. Unhinging her jaw, she took the squealing rodent in one bite and swallowed it without chewing.

  Staring at her resentfully, Medea doubtless remembered when she had been able to eat anything she wanted. She had no appetite anymore, and would never have one again unless she subdued the British Resistance. Well, after today, it seemed as if she were well on her way to victory . . . unless those escaped rebel leaders managed to get the resistance started up again. After failing at two missions since she had come to Earth, she was not about to allow the Terrans to get the better of her a third time.

  The door slid open and the guards reappeared, dragging a human with them. They pushed the man forward until he faced Medea and forced Mm to his knees in front of her.

  “So,” Medea said, “perhaps you feel a little more like talking now?”

  The man, much weakened by torture and

  privation, said nothing.

  “Answer her when she speaks to you,” said the captain of the guards. He clutched the man’s face in Ms talons, squeezing as if to break Ms jaw.

  The human groaned. “I won’t talk,” he murmured, barely able to speak.

  “So you haven’t had enough yet, have you?” Medea taunted. “We’ll soon see about that.” “You won’t make me talk,” the prisoner said, “no matter what you do to me.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Medea told Mm. “You axe a leader of the resistance, and your father is a Member of the House of Lords, We will make you tell us everything you know . . . one way or another.”

  The prisoner shuddered, knowing from firsthand experience just how sadistic Medea could be. Even Beverly seemed a bit taken aback by the threat.

  “We haven’t put you in the conversion chamber yet, have we?” she asked. “What you’ve been through thus far is little more than loving attention in comparison with what’s to come if you don’t cooperate, do you understand?”

  Staring her straight in the eye, the prisoner said nothing. He was one of the toughest they’d ever dealt with. It wasn’t going to be easy to break Mm. He might be one of those who would die first, in which case Medea would be in trouble. This fellow was too valuable to kill, and yet she was becoming angry enough to finish him off just for spite. Her only hope was that the conversion chamber would do the job that torture had so far failed to accomplish. She had her doubts that it would work; unfortunately, she had but little choice now. There were facts that had to be learned if the subjugation of Britain was to be wholly successful, and in this human’s brain was the key to learning them. Prying them out of the stubborn mammal’s brain was not going to be easy, however. There was one other way to persuade him, but it might not work.

  “That girl,” Medea said, “the one you are engaged to marry ...”

  The prisoner looked at her sharply. “What about her?”

  “She i
s in our custody,” Medea said, her der-moplast face smiling maliciously.

  The prisoner’s face, so courageous even in the face of more torture, fell. “You’re lying!”

  “Am I? Watch this.” Medea pressed a button, and an overhead projector presented a hologram showing the aisles of a West End theater. Crimson-uniformed Visitors searched for someone, and the prisoner soon saw who it was. A young woman was apprehended and removed from the theater.

  The hologram ended there, and Medea looked at the dejected prisoner with renewed hope. He hung his head in despair, weeping, “If you’ve harmed her ...” he managed to say.

  “No harm has come to her,” Medea said, “and none will, so long as you do as I ask.”

  “You ask that I betray my father and my country for the sake of the woman I love. How can I make such a choice?”

  “Look at it this way,” Medea said. “Your country will submit to us in the end, no matter if you cooperate or not, and your father will be forced to recognize us, as will all of Parliament. You cannot stop that. Indeed, you are only prolonging the inevitable agony. On the other hand, you can save the woman you love from pain and probable death, while helping events along in their ineluctable course. Now what do you say.” “Good God, what can I say? I cannot allow the woman I love to be killed, but I cannot commit treason, either.”

  “You must make a decision within the next few hours, or her death will be on your conscience.”

  The prisoner shook his head in dismay.

  “Take him back to his cell, where he can think things over,” Medea said.

  The guards took him by the arms, but he shook them off for a moment and said through gritted teeth to Medea: “You’ve given me a hard choice, one I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life, but I have no choice but to do as you ask.”

  “On your word.” Such things were important to the British.

  “I, Nigel Smythe-Walmsley, swear as a gentleman that I will help you.”

  Chapter 10

  Subhash and Gabriella stole through the alleyways of Soho, an unsavory part of the city at best. With the Visitors about, however, the seaminess of this part of London seemed positively charming by comparison.