V 13 - To Conquer the Throne

by Tim Sullivan (UC) (epub)

“Please do.” Kelly smiled so sadly and warmly that she could hardly believe that he was a terrorist. It was a thought that often crossed her mind when she was talking to him.

  She smiled back at him.

  “We must do all we can to rid our world of this tyranny, as Sir tells us,” Kelly said thoughtfully. “Perhaps your way will help us more than eliminating them. We’ll see.”

  “Yes, we will,” Gabriella agreed. “And with any luck, we’ll soon see what’s under those canvases.”

  Kelly smiled knowingly. “True enough. Let’s hope the Visitors don’t find out before we do.”

  Chapter 20

  There was a great deal of shouting on the floor of the House of Lords, not to mention the gallery.

  “I propose that the recently deceased commander of the European Visitor fleet, Kaspar,” intoned Lord Fotheringay, “be interred in Westminster Abbey, as befits a being of his stature. Further, this will show once and for all that Britain intends to cooperate with the Visitors.”

  Everyone had seen it coming, but now that the patriarch of one of the most distinguished families in Britain had actually proposed such a thing, chaos ruled in the august chamber for several minutes.

  “I must stand against you, sir,” said Lord Smythe-Walmsley, standing. His white wig seemed a symbol of purity to those who looked on that day.

  “You, Smythe-Walmsley?’ ’ Fotheringay said in mock amazement. “You who have stood for law and order these past lawless months? You who have called for cooperation with our Visitor Mends? You who have been called an appeaser by the press? You stand against me on this issue? I find this difficult to believe.”

  “You may find it any way you care to,” Smythe-Walmsley replied with seeming indifference. “Nevertheless, let the record show that I have objected to this sacrilegious notion.”

  “You speak of sacrilege as though you have the ear of the Almighty Himself.” Lord Fotheringay’s round, red face was self-satisfied with this pronouncement. “And yet you stand before us, as mortal a man as any among us.” There was some laughter from the Lords.

  “I speak of sacrilege, but I am not alone in this judgement. The English people will not sit still for the desecration of a shrine that has stood for centuries as the burial ground of those who have contributed most to the welfare of our great nation. This proposal does not merely constitute poor politics, it symbolizes complete submission to an alien power. This is asking far too much.” “Are you saying, then,” Fotheringay queried, a glint in his bloodshot eyes, “that the Visitors are our enemies? That is tantamount to treason, since Parliament has welcomed them as our allies.”

  “You twist my words, sir.”

  Another outraged uproar came from the gallery.

  Angered, Fotheringay tugged at his ermine cape. He was one of the most accomplished speakers in the House of Lords, and he did not care to be beaten with a few elegantly chosen words. Nevertheless, he would clearly have to do something to gain the favor of the crowd.

  “May I be so bold, Lord Smythe-Walmsley, to ask a personal question?”

  “Of what possible interest can my personal life be to our esteemed colleagues?” Smythe-Walmsley riposted.

  “I shall attempt to clarify that very point in a moment, if I may have your forbearance.”

  “Very well.” Smythe-Walmsley prepared himself for the worst.

  Fotheringay looked around the chamber, even at the spectators up in the gallery, before he began.

  “Sad news has come to us,” he began. “Lord Smythe-Walmsley’s son has been killed.”

  A gasp, followed by a murmur, rose from the assemblage.

  “You are perhaps surprised as well as shocked to hear such tragic news. I know that I was. However, the facts behind this particular tragedy are even more shocking than young Smythe-Walmsley’s death.”

  The crowd fell silent, wanting to hear more, afraid that they would miss whatever was to come. Fotheringay, they knew, could be counted on for good theater, and they hoped he would not disappoint them this afternoon.

  “What are you getting at?” demanded Lord Smy the-Walmsley.

  “It is very simple, sir. I charge that your son, the late Nigel Smythe-Walmsley, consorted with known terrorists and enemies of the Crown. What is more, he was engaged in a criminal act at the time of his death.”

  “You he!” Smythe-Walmsley shouted.

  By now, the chamber was in an uproar. It took several minutes for the spectators to become sufficiently quiet for the debate to continue.

  “You deny, my lord,” said Fotheringay, “that your son was killed while engaging in treasonous acts?”

  “I do not deny that my son has been killed.” Lord Smythe-Walmsley’s voice was now choking with emotion. “But I do deny that he was a traitor. My son worked in the best interests of Britain.”

  “Then you believe that the best interests of Britain include overthrowing the established alliance between our nation and the Visitors.”

  Smythe-Walmsley knew that this was technically a fact, due to the treachery and force of the Visitors. But he also knew that the British people were not kindly disposed towards the alliance. Tyranny was tyranny, no matter what face was put upon it. As yet, no one had dared stand up in the Houses of Parliament and say that. It was about time someone did.

  “I do indeed believe that, Lord Fotheringay,” he said. His tone was quiet and yet strong enough to carry throughout the chamber.

  Lord Fotheringay’s stentorian tones rang to the rafters. “Then you are an enemy of the state, and I say—nay, six, I demand—that you be put under arrest.”

  The crowd exploded again, as two armed guards appeared and put their hands on Lord Smythe-Walmsley. They wore copper-colored Friends of the Visitors uniforms.

  “Is there no one who will stand with me?” Smythe-Walmsley asked his distinguished colleagues.

  They remained silent.

  Proudly, Smythe-Walmsley permitted the armed men to lead him away.

  Chapter 21

  The media was foil of Lord Smythe-Walmsley’s arrest, of course. He was the first national figure, outside of scientists and intellectuals, to be accused of treason since the Visitors had landed. He had been among those who had advocated rapprochement with the aliens at the beginning, but now he stood alone against them in the political world of London.

  “They’re painting him as a hero!” Beverly shrieked. “Look at this copy of the Times. Have you ever seen such nonsense?”

  Medea glanced at the headline: “Smythe-Walmsley Arrested in Bold Stand Against Visitors.”

  “Don’t they understand he’s simply acting in spite, because of what happened to that brat of his?” Beverly screamed. “These creatures are so irrational!”

  “I have often found that to be the case since I’ve been posted on Earth,” Medea said absently. “They are very emotional, these humans, and that trait seems to be both a blessing and a curse to them. More of a blessing in the long term, I think.”

  Beverly looked at her superior officer strangely. “If you admire them so much, Medea, why don’t you go over to their side?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Medea spat back at her. “Then you’d be in command here.” “I... I only want what’s best for our mission.”

  “Of course you do, Beverly. That’s why you’ve tried to undermine my authority ever since you were stationed here. You were only doing what’s best for everyone.”

  “Well, of course. I am a loyal Sirian citizen, a soldier in the star fleet. I came to the London Mother Ship with nothing but the love of our planet in my heart.”

  “Save the speeches for our court-martial.” “Court-martial?”

  “If Lord Smythe-Walmsley turns all of Britain against us, then we are finished.”

  “But we have Lord Fotheringay on our side. Surely that counts for something.”

  “Fotheringay is a fine orator, and he commands a certain amount of respect among the people. On the other hand, it takes only one major incid
ent to turn the public away from a

  politician. The arrest of Smythe-Walmsley may very well be that incident.”

  “But surely it can’t matter now that we have both Smythe-Walmsleys, father and son, in our custody.”

  “That’s all very well, but if we gain no more state secrets from Lord Smythe-Walmsley than we have from his son, then we will have gained nothing at all.”

  “They are illogically stubborn creatures.” “Yes, but once again, that works to their advantage.”

  “Indeed.”

  Medea ignored that, turning to her guards. “Bring the new prisoner to me.”

  Two of the guards clicked the heels of their jackboots and turned smartly. They exited through a sliding door.

  “We’ll soon see if the old man is any easier to deal with than the son,” Medea said. “He is a politician, after all. Surely we can make a deal with him.”

  A few minutes later, the prisoner was brought before them. Lord Smythe-Walmsley was brought roughly to his knees by an enormous guard who seemed to take pleasure in the old man’s suffering.

  “Your cruelty won’t do any good,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I’ll never do what you want.”

  “Won’t you?” taunted Medea. “Even if it

  means saving the life of your son?”

  “Do you think me utterly addlepated?” Lord Smythe-Walmsley said, uncowed by the savagery of the guards. “You have taken my son from me already. There is no threat you can make that can sway me.”

  “Bring him along,” Medea said.

  As they dragged the old man out the sliding door and through the gridded corridors of the massive Mother Ship, Beverly followed along, intrigued by Medea’s methods in spite of herself.

  A few minutes of wending their way through the tortuous passageways led them to Nigel’s cell. Lord Smythe-Walmsley stood next to Medea and Beverly as Medea touched a tiny indentation on the cell’s outside wall. The wall faded into transparency.

  “Nigel!” Lord Smythe-Walmsley cried.

  “It won’t do any good to call to him,” Medea said. “These walls are soundproofed.”

  “But how can he be here?” Smythe-Walmsley asked, wonder and terror in his voice. “The coroner examined his body ... I identified it myself.”

  “The answer is quite simple. We managed to capture him, thanks to a friend in the resistance. Once we had him here, it was a simple matter to clone him. We programmed the clone’s mind with enough information so that it could fool Gabriella Nicks into believing it was the real Nigel before it died.”

  Gabriella has been tormented these past weeks by the thought that the man she loved had died in her arms, thought Lord Smythe-Walmsley, just as he had suffered thinking his son was gone. But even knowing that Nigel was still alive wasn’t much of an improvement, considering the fine mess the two of them were in now. Only Gabriella and Subhash remained to carry on the good fight. So be it; he would give them nothing, even if they killed him. He only wished that Nigel could somehow come out of this alive. Not bloody likely.

  “What have you done to my boy?” he demanded.

  “He is unharmed,” said Medea. “But he won’t remain so unless you do as we ask.”

  “I won’t betray my country.”

  “You don’t have to. All you have to do is make a speech.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Recant what you said yesterday on the floor of the House of Lords. Say that you are in favour of Kaspar’s burial in Westminster Abbey.”

  Chapter 22

  “Things have got too far out of hand over

  there.” Kelly shook his head. “I always thought

  the Brits had more fight in them than this. To

  allow those filthy lizards to take the one man

  who still stood against them.”

  Gabriella was certain that Kelly hadn’t yet

  seen a photograph of Lord Smythe-Walmsley yet.

  He hadn’t yet equated Sir’s trip to London with

  the story in the Irish Times, which he had been

  reading here in the castle’s drawing room this

  morning. But then, why should he? She was

  tempted to tell Mm the truth, but a promise was

  a promise. She had told Lord Smythe-Walmsley

  that she would tell no one Ms true identity, and

  she saw no reason why she should not keep her

  word, even if he had been taken prisoner. It

  would only discourage the men to know such a '

  terrible thing, she believed.

  “The people are up in arms about what has happened to Lord Smythe-Walmsley,” Gabriella said. “Perhaps some good will come of it, after all.”

  Kelly shook his head. “Not if we don’t take action soon, Gabriella. I’m afraid we’ve been too soft. All this talk of appeasement... If I may say so, Lord Smythe-Walmsley made his own bed with his talk of cooperating with the lizards, and now he is forced to he in it.”

  Gabriella couldn’t deny that Nigel’s father had been in favor of peace with the Visitors at almost any cost, but in the end he had changed his mind and stood bravely for a principle. Was it too late now, though, to stem the alien tide?

  “Our own measures will become sterner,” Kelly said, “starting today.” He stood and walked to the window overlooking the courtyard.

  Something in his manner made Gabriella join him. She looked out and saw the Visitor prisoners marched out into the courtyard by three armed men. The Visitors stumbled awkwardly, bags over their heads. They were jerked roughly to their knees.

  The three IRA men held pistols to the bags. Three shots rang out. The Visitors slumped to the ground.

  Gabriella, sickened by the cold-blooded killing, gazed at Kelly.

  The IRA leader wiped his spectacles with a handkerchief.

  “How could you do that?” Gabriella said. “How could I not?” Kelly responded with a question. “They are our enemies, and they must die.”

  “But you said ...”

  “I said I’d think it over, lass, and I did.” Gabriella said nothing more. Words would not bring back the dead Visitors, any more than they would bring back Nigel ... or his dear father, whom she had so quickly learned to love. For a while, she had believed that things could be different, that men like Kelly might take to heart the humanistic values she still clung to. But no, Kelly had hardened his heart so that there was no compassion left in it. The Visitors would never know that these soldiers had been killed in retaliation for Lord Smythe-Walmsley’s arrest. Kelly believed that it was enough that he and his victims had known it. He had enjoyed exercising the power of life and death over them. She wondered if he had ever really considered letting them live.

  “I see the way you look at me, lass,” Kelly said. “I know that you judge me as an evil man. But llu!se creatures would bleed us of our life’s Mood. They would dine on our flesh and wash it down with the water they have drained from the o( cans of our world. We must make them pay a price too dear to make it worth their while.” Gabriella could not argue with his logic, only with his savage methods. He was like Ian, and yet he was not; Kelly was far more coldly calculating than Ian. She was not surprised at Ian’s cruelty, for he wore it on his sleeve. And Ian had not flaunted murder in her face as Kelly did this morning.

  “Why did you arrange for me to see this?” she asked.

  “So that you would know what it is to fight for your country ... or for your world. This castle was built by our oppressors centuries ago, so long ago that the beginnings of our struggle are shrouded in myth. We’ll never give up the fight. That much we’ve learned. You must never give in. You must give no quarter.”

  There was a mad glint in his eye, she now realized. Seamus Patrick Kelly was a man who must go on killing no matter who was in power. It was fortunate for Britain that he was at war with the Visitors at the moment. But what would he do if the Visitors were driven away tomorrow? He would return to his terrorist activities against the
British, no doubt. Gabriella shook her head in dismay.

  “You do judge me, then?” Kelly asked.

  “I don’t judge you, Mr. Kelly,” Gabriella said softly, “I pity you.”

  He nodded. “Then perhaps you understand

  more than I gave you credit for.”

  Kelly turned and walked away, seeming to bear on his shoulders the souls of all those whose lives he had taken. It was a terrible burden that he bore, and if he was indeed mad, maybe it was because he could not survive in this life if he were sane.

  She left the drawing room and sought out Subhash. She found him taking target practice by the sea wall, shooting at cardboard cutouts of men.

  “Gabriella,” he said as she approached, putting down his pistol, “how are you this morning?”

  “Not very well, Subhash,” she said. “I think I’m only starting to realize what I’ve got myself

  into.”

  Subhash glanced towards the courtyard. “You saw, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is a terrible thing, to see death at close range,” Subhash said softly. “And yet there is no other way to conduct this dreadful business we are about. It is good that you can still feel for the enemy. You have not yet lost your humanity.”

  “That’s what frightens me, Subhash,” Gabriella confessed. “I fear that I will become like Kelly, a cold-blooded killer.”

  “No,” he said, and put his arm around her. Together they took a walk away from the castle,

  down to the beach. They didn’t speak, and only the cries of the gulls and the shushing of the surf could be heard.

  Chapter 23

  Robert Walters waited at the tube for a man whose name he didn’t know. He lingered so long on the platform that he feared he would be noticed by the authorities before his contact arrived.

  “Mr. Walters,” a voice said from behind him.

  Frightened, Robert turned slowly. There was no telling if it was the man he was expecting or one of these bloody terrorists one was hearing so much about. Like the ones who had captured poor Gabriella after she’d been to see him the other week.