“Betray the betrayers? An odd scenario.”
“I’ve seen it before,” said Ian.
“Have you?” Medea thought it over. Now that Gabriella knew whom Walters was working for, he served no useful purpose, it was true enough. And yet, he might be good for some future espionage. She said so to Ian.
“He’s threatened to expose the whole thing if I don’t do as he says,” said Ian.
“How much does he know?”
“Enough to ruin me as a double agent.”
“You told him too much, then.”
“Nonsense,” protested Ian. “I had to let him know a few things in order to enlist him in the first place.”
“Why didn’t you deal with Nigel Smythe-Walmsley yourself, you fool?”
Ian looked uncomfortable after that question. “Nigel didn’t trust me. It was impossible for me to gain his confidence, but he’d known Robert for many years. They were at university together. Robert always claimed his subsequent failure was a result of the class system, not of any lack of merit on his part.”
“I see. It seems a man like him might yet serve us, if he’s so full of resentment.”
“But he’s threatened to tell everything he knows!”
“Let me talk to him,” said Medea. “I think I can keep him on our side. After all, if he tells all he knows he’ll be implicated, too. I don’t think he wants that. . . just a guarantee of safety against the wrath of Gabriella Nicks.”
“But how can we guarantee such a thing?” “Gabriella will be caught and brought to justice sooner or later. Until that time, Robert Walters will be a guest on our ship.”
A slow grin spread over Ian’s fine features. “That’s a fine idea, Medea, a fine idea.”
“I thought you might like it. Bring him to the communicator and I’ll speak to him.”
“Right this minute?”
“Yes, be off with you.”
Ian rose and disappeared for a moment, leaving nothing to look at but the canvas flap of his tent. While he was gone, Medea considered her options. Things had changed since the destruction of British Resistance HQ. Now Ian was of little use, his problems wasting more time than they were worth. Perhaps it would be best for everyone if the remnants of the British Resistance were gone.
There would be a splendid opportunity for their disappearance very soon . . .
A Mghtened-looking young man sat down at the communicator.
“Mr. Walters?” Medea said.
“Yes.”
“You have nothing more to fear. We are taking you under our protection so that the mad terrorist Gabriella Nicks will be no threat to you from now on.”
Chapter 27
Nigel couldn’t remember how long he had been in this tiny room. His mind never seemed focused in all the time he was here . . . and that was beginning to feel like eternity.
The only things that made it bearable were Gabby’s visits, and even those didn’t seem quite right most of the time. He supposed he was being too finicky and yet he could swear there was something different about her. If he could just think more clearly—it seemed as if the ubiquitous mist were filling his mind as well as this room. He could hardly remember a time when the mist wasn’t here, but there was a time when he had been taken out and put in a chamber.
He had thought of Father then, the time that Father had been unable to attend his birthday party when Nigel was a little boy. The sense of
betrayal was still strong when he remembered that day.
The door to his room slid open and a man was standing there. It was Father. Was he dreaming? At the very moment he had been thinking of Father, Lord Smythe-Walmsley himself was walking into the room. Yes, it must have been a dream. He knew that Father was far, far away, though he couldn’t say just where far away was. For that matter, he couldn’t even say where he was, except that he was in this room full of mist.
“My boy,” Father said, standing in the mist like an apparition from another world.
“Father ... is that really you?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Why, I’ve come to see you, my boy. I’m your father, you know.”
“But you can’t be here.”
“And why not?” Father smiled benignly.
“Because ...” Now that Father asked, he couldn’t seem to remember exactly why he was so surprised.
“I’ve been away for a little while, but now I’m back,” said Father. “After all, today is your birthday.”
“Today? ...” He had been thinking of Ms birthday. Why? Because it was today, or was there some other reason? “I can’t remember very clearly,” Nigel said at last.
“Surely you remember the party we had,”
Father insisted. “All your little Mends were there, and the vicar, and Mother and Auntie . . . and the servants, too, of course. There was a cake and party favours, and you blew out all seven candles. Everyone had a wonderful time.” “Yes,” Nigel smiled. “Yes, I remember now . . . but I thought you weren’t there, Father, and I was very sad.”
“What rubbish, my boy! Of course I was there. Don’t you remember my gift?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
“Surely you do. ’Twas a bear, a big stuffed fellow that you showed off to everyone.”
“Oh.” Now that he was reminded, he did seem to remember a teddy bear. But he didn’t remember Father giving it to him in person. Was there something wrong with his memory?
“Ah, but you’re tired, Nigel,” Father said, “and here I am, keeping you up with all this chitchat.”
“No, Father, I don’t mind,” Nigel said. “I want you to stay as long as you wish.”
“Well, that’s very good of you, my lad. Of course, I can’t stay for very much longer. I am needed at the House of Lords.”
“Yes, they will need you, won’t they, Father? It’s selfish of me to try to keep you.”
“Not at all, Nigel, not at all.” Father tsked at him. “In fact, I’ve come in part to get your approval on an important vote.”
“Oh, and what vote is that, Father?”
“It concerns the burial of a foreigner in Westminster, something that is quite controversial.” “Where do you stand on the issue, Father?”
“I am inclined to let it pass. This particular foreigner has done a great deal of good for England, and for all of Europe.”
“And who might this foreigner be, Father?” “His name is Kaspar.”
Kaspar. Where had Nigel heard that name before? It seemed frightfully familiar, and yet the feeling the name evoked could hardly be described as positive.
“Well, what do you think?” Father asked.
“I... I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Haven’t I taught you to be a decisive man?”
“Yes, but ...”
“But what, my boy? Speak up.”
“But you also taught me to always go with my conscience, to not allow myself to be dissuaded from the truth . . . even by those I love.”
“And have I tried to dissuade you from the truth?”
“No ... I mean, I don’t know . . . I’m so confused.”
“Indeed you are, my lad, judging from the gibberish you spout.”
“Father, it doesn’t seem like gibberish to me.” “Very well, then. What do you think I should do?”
Nigel felt pressured for an answer. It was very
odd that Father would do this to him, but then, everything was odd these days. He had to have time to himself, to think. If only he could think clearly.
“I have to have time to consider what you’re saying,” he said at last in a deliberate tone.
Father looked surprised. “But it’s such a simple thing, my boy. It shouldn’t require more than a moment’s thought.”
“Nevertheless, I must think it over.”
“If you insist,” Father said. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts now.” He walked towards the door. It slid open, and just
before he stepped outside the room, he said, “But I’ll be back.”
Chapter 28
“We’ve fooled his own offspring,” Medea gloated. “Fooling the rest of humankind shouldn’t be at all difficult.”
“You forget that his son was drugged,” Beverly reminded her.
“Yes, but no one else will get close enough to him to detect any difference. Lord Smythe-Walmsley will make his speech from the floor of the House of Lords, and then there will be no significant political voice to stand against Kaspar’s interment in Westminster Abbey.” “Maybe you’re right, Medea.”
“Of course I’m right, and our credibility will be restored in the eyes of the British public.” “Do you think so?”
“Of course. It was Smythe-Walmsley’s change of heart that caused all the trouble in the first place. Now that he’s going to go back to his
original position, it is only logical that we’ll be vindicated.”
“I hope you’re right about this.” Beverly was worried that Medea was going to be successful after all. Things were going much more smoothly at this juncture than she’d expected. If this kept up, Medea would receive a medal, and Beverly would remain second-in-command.
“What have you done with the real Smythe-Walmsley?” she asked.
“He’s in a stasis pod,” Medea replied absently. “Shouldn’t we be trying to get more information out of him?”
“We’ll never get anything out of that old man, not even if we threaten to kill his son.”
“That’s what I was going to suggest.”
“That we kill Smythe-Walmsley the younger?” “No, just that we convince the father that we are going to kill him, not that we actually carry it out... at least not while Nigel is of any use to us.”
“What possible good can that do?”
“You know how emotional these apes are. If Smythe-Walmsley believes the life of his single offspring is threatened, he’ll be forced to do as we say.”
“Doubtful ...”
“But certainly worth a try.”
“Perhaps, but there is one flaw in your argument.”
“Oh?”
“If he doesn’t come round, we’ll have to kill Nigel, and we still might find a use for him.” She turned and stared at her underling. “There is a much larger issue at stake now, Beverly. Playing with the Smythe-Walmsleys is all very well up to a point, but we must concern ourselves now with this business at Westminster Abbey. If we are successful with this mission, it will look very good for us back on the home world.”
“I understand that this mission means a great deal to you, Medea,” said Beverly. “But we must look beyond it to the ongoing battle. One propaganda coup doesn’t win the entire war, you know.”
“Perhaps not, but I’m going to concentrate on this one mission for the time being. If we can pull it off, it will be hard for any resistance force to fight us effectively. It will seem unpatriotic, after one of us is buried underneath that hallowed cathedral. They take their past so seriously, you know. They’d really be much better off without it, as we are.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Beverly said. “They take such stock in the mixture of lies, half-truths, and myths they call their history!” “They are very primitive creatures, but they are full of fight, too . . . some of them, at least.” “If we can defuse those few who will stand up to us, then we’ll have them where we want them.”
“True enough, Beverly. That is what Kaspar’s interment is all about.”
“I see.” Perhaps, Beverly thought, Medea had more intelligence than she had given her credit for. She was engineering a psychological stroke that might very well help the invasion immeasurably.
If it was as successful as Medea hoped, Beverly’s prospects would be dim indeed. And Medea would never recommend her to a command post, not after the way Beverly had tormented her. She was left in the dubious position of wanting the burial mission to fail. That was a treasonous sentiment at best.
She’d better keep her mouth shut and pretend to be helping Medea, at least until the interment was over.
On the surface of Earth, the media was abuzz with the news. In two days’ time, a Visitor would be buried under Westminster Abbey. The Times offered editorial comments that were polite but unfavorable, while the BBC offered on-the-spot coverage. The tabloids offered such headlines as: “Princess Di Related by Blood to Visitors.”
There was little official grumbling, but Robert Walters felt a qualm or two as he looked over the newspapers. Had it really come this far, that the sacred resting place of England’s kings and poets should be disturbed by these monsters? He would have felt ashamed had he not been a practical man. He had done the reasonable thing, he assured himself. Humankind could not stand alone against these aliens. They were too powerful, too technologically advanced for Earth to fend off their invasion. Yes, he had done the right thing . . . and yet, why did it feel so wrong?
Ian approached him and offered a cigarette. “Thank you,” Robert said.
Ian lit his cigarette for him. “Reading about the impending funeral service, I see.”
“Yes, it’s tomorrow, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.” Ian lit his own cigarette and inhaled thoughtfully. “I’ve a bit of news for you, too, Robert.”
“And what is that?”
“You’ll be picked up by the Visitors at the ceremony tomorrow.”
“At Kaspar’s funeral?”
“Precisely.”
Chapter 29
A squadron of beefy Visitor guards hustled Lord Smythe-Walmsley into the House of Lords. The gallery was silent, the spectators waiting to see what their champion would say on their behalf today.
Rumors had been spreading like wildfire through the city that Smythe-Walmsley had changed his mind once again. Few believed this, since he was famous for never giving in to political pressure. The popular sentiment was that Smythe-Walmsley’s rhetoric would spit in the eye of the Visitors once again, in spite of—nay, because of—his captivity. There was only the fact that he had been released willingly by the Visitors that made this scenario seem mildly implausible. And yet the people had faith that he would defy their alien conquerors.
Lord Fotheringay spoke first.
“It is with great joy that we gather in this ancient and honourable chamber today, for this is the day that we welcome back to the fold one whose approbation means a great deal to us all.”
The crowd began to murmur.
“Let us not wonder at the process of logic by which Lord Smythe-Walmsley has arrived at the position he holds today. Can there be one among us who doubts his patriotism, his love of the English people, his desire for Britain to take her place with the great nations of the world, as always?”
“Does that mean we must capitulate to the invader?” someone shouted from the gallery.
“Remove that man,” Fotheringay said coolly.
Two Visitors appeared and dragged the poor fellow away, kicking and screaming.
“I sincerely hope that there will be no further outbursts,” Fotheringay said.
The crowd continued to murmur, but there was no further shouting.
“To continue,” Fotheringay said. “There is no surer sign of greatness than the willingness of a man to admit to his mistakes. Lord Smythe-Walmsley stands before this august body in all humility and says that he is wrong. Can we ask more than that from any man?”
“Let him speak for himself!” a woman cried. A moment later she was carried out.
The buzzing of the crowd grew louder and more ominous.
“Very well,” Fotheringay said, cutting short his speech. “Without further ado, I give you Lord Smythe-Walmsley. ’ ’
A hush fell over the assemblage on the floor and the spectators in the gallery as Smythe-Walmsley, resplendent in his wig and robe of office, stood and addressed them.
“My dear countrymen,” he said in his unmistakable tones, “I have come here today to plead with you to try to understand what I have do
ne. I allowed my personal grief and, yes, my pride to stand in the way of what I now know is best for Britain.”
The gallery remained silent, waiting for him to elucidate his position once and for all.
“It is with a heavy heart that I confess that I have done my country a disservice. I believe it is in the best interest of our nation to bury Kaspar at Westminster.”
The gallery exploded.
“He’s been brainwashed!” someone shouted.
“Do you know what you’re saying, Smythe-Walmsley?” another demanded.
“To hell with you!”
“Traitor!”
Lord Smythe-Walmsley held up his hands. “Think what you will of me,” he said, “but I have thought long and hard on the subject, and I can in good conscience say only what I am saying now. Kaspar must be buried at Westminster Abbey for the good of Britain . . . and for the
good of the entire world.
“We must make our peace with our interstellar brothers and sisters. They represent a culture both older and wiser than our own, and we have no right to deny them their role of supremacy on Earth.”
There was no controlling the mob now. They were howling like banshees, hurling objects down at the floor, shouting obscenities like Americans at a sporting event.
Lord Smythe-Walmsley could not continue any more than his predecessor, Lord Fotheringay, had been able to. His red-clad guards surrounded him and drew their laser pistols, leveling them menacingly at the angry crowd.
“Please,” one of the Lords cried, “try to restrain yourselves.”
Few, if any, could hear him amid the uproar. Other voices tried to calm the spectators, but they were far beyond reason. They were by now consumed with fury at what they rightly believed to be some sort of fraud, designed to manipulate public opinion on behalf of the Visitors. Nobody cared any longer if Smythe-Walmsley was sincere or not. They simply did not, could not, agree with him.
Without warning, the Visitors began to fire their laser pistols into the crowd. Blue streaks of light arced into the gallery and burned through clothing into human flesh.
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