He remembered the brief discussion they’d had last night. The source had been specific. Anyone caught with a weapon, or without an ID card, would be shipped to one of the detention camps and disappear. The police – the real police – had announced that anyone who handed in a weapon before the offensive begun would be granted amnesty. The aliens or the Order Police hadn’t dissented, which was interesting. Was it an attempt to minimise bloodshed, or to ensure a bloodbath? An echoing call to prayer sounded out and the Arabs lined up in front of a Mullah, who looked rather unhappy. Edward had heard that the Mullahs had been told that rabble-rousing would result in a bullet in the back of the head. Who knew? It might even have been true.
His lips twitched. They’d taken something out of the Iraqi playbook all right, and only half of them had lined up to pray. The other half remained on guard duty, watching for enemies who might try to slip through the defences. The resistance had smuggled a couple of people though in the first two days, but then the Arabs had tightened up security and intercepted the third sabotage mission. The resistance fighter had blown himself up along with at least four Arabs. Edwards hoped that they enjoyed the suicide bomber tactic as much as he’d enjoyed it in Iraq, although he had no intention of making a habit of it. It was un-American.
The Mullah finished his raving and the men prostrated themselves in the direction of Mecca. For a moment, Edward felt an odd kinship with them, sharing their prayers that they could come through the fighting without being killed. There were no atheists in foxholes, as the old saying went, and he knew no soldier who wouldn’t pray when under fire. Most of them were going to die in the next few days. He studied faces through his optical sensors, wondering if he would see anyone he might remember, but found no familiar faces. They were a curious mixture, wearing American uniforms – their commander had apparently decided that national uniforms would only upset people – and standing to attention. They might have made good soldiers if someone had given them half a chance. He gritted his teeth as he scanned the parade ground, wondering if their commander would show himself. It would be worth a hell of a risk just to take a pot-shot at him. He was probably all that was holding them together.
A pair of aliens, both Leaders, walked past the human soldiers, their dark eyes glancing from side to side. A number of Arabs flinched away at their gaze, some muttering prayers under their breath. The Arabs disliked the aliens as much as Americans did, yet they fought for them. Edward didn’t laugh. If things had been different, perhaps he would have joined the Order Police. He followed the aliens and saw another group of aliens standing waiting for them, speaking in their odd language. It was impossible to make out what they were saying. If any humans understood the alien language, they weren't in Chicago.
He glanced down at his watch and then started to crawl off the rooftop, heading towards the stairs back down to the ground floor. The apartment had officially lain empty ever since the aliens had landed in Chicago, but there was always the prospect of squatters, or someone trying to hide from the aliens. He’d seen no sign that anyone else had entered the building since the invasion, yet that meant nothing. There were plenty of people in the city with a motive to hide.
The Order Police rarely came into the area except in force, although they dominated some parts of Chicago. Edward hadn’t gone there since the invasion, but he’d heard that a person might be asked for his card at every street corner, just to track them as they moved through the city. With a few powerful computers, the aliens could probably track the movements of every human under their control, providing a picture of what they’d been doing ever since they registered with the aliens. There was little choice if he did run into a patrol. He’d have to escape, or kill himself. The thought never failed to chill.
He glanced from side to side and then ran. If luck was with him, he’d be back at the base before darkness fell over the city. The Arab offensive was intended to begin in less than a week. With their competent commanding officer, they might just make it.
***
Abigail had seen plenty of aliens by now and she had grown used to them, even though she knew never to take any of them for granted. They weren't human and they didn’t think like humans. The presence of the looming alien warriors was a constant reminder of their power, a remainder to both her and the Arabs. They’d been warned that failure to succeed would result in a death sentence. No one doubted that the aliens would carry out their threat.
She gazed over the camp as night fell over Chicago, bringing cold air sweeping down from the north. Canada was up there somewhere, free human territory – until the aliens decided they wanted it too. The Canadians had depended on the Americans for their defence and hadn’t built up their army to the point where it might be able to stand off the aliens, although so far every nation the aliens had challenged had been beaten. She wished, oddly, that the Canadians had been a little more paranoid where their American cousins had been concerned. They could have built up a powerful army and prepared for war, preparations that would have served them well against the aliens. It was too late now.
The scent of cooked food wafted across her nostrils and she felt her belly rumbling. The Arabs had insisted on bringing their own cooks and meat to the United States and their soldiers would be eating curry and rice, along with other meals she’d only been able to eat in ethnic eateries. She wasn’t sure if that was actually a good thing or not, although her stomach was insisting that she begged some food for herself. She’d eaten MREs when she’d been embedded with American soldiers and while the soldiers had grumbled, she hadn’t thought that they’d been that bad. They’d certainly been way ahead of her cooking. The Arab cooks were all men, she noted with a certain frisson of amusement. They hadn’t brought any women with them to the war.
Let’s hope they don’t get into Dearborn, she thought, slyly. Dearborn was home to the largest community of Arab-Americans, mainly Lebanese and others who had tried to escape the tyrants, terrorists and religious fanatics who had wrecked their home countries. She’d read, once, that several of them had roughed up an Al Jazeera reporter for being too pro-Saddam in 2004, something that had struck her as rather less than funny at the time. They’d probably be arming up now, prepared to fight to defend themselves and America. They weren’t that far from Chicago.
“Over here,” the minder bellowed. His voice sounded tinny against the racket of the camp, but no one would dare pretend not to hear. “Reporters; get over here!”
The Arabs had been garrisoned in a cluster of warehouses that had once, as far as she could make out, held mechanical components for nearby factories. The reporters weren't getting much better accommodation, although she would have bet her much-reduced pay packet that the minders had secured excellent accommodation. She was proved right as she was led around a corner and caught sight of several luxury trailers that had been requisitioned by the minders for their own comfort. A group of Order Policemen stood on guard, their faces carefully blank, yet showing hints of envy and fury…and fear. The whole camp was on edge.
She followed the other reporters into a large warehouse – wincing slightly at the cold air – and watched as the minder stood up on a chair to speak to them. “You all have your assignments,” he said. “You will be following your assigned units through the city, composing stories about the bravery of the loyalist units involved in the assault, all of which will be filed through me before they are broadcast to the waiting world. Between missions, you will be quartered back here where you will continue to write your stories. There will be no computer access without my direct permission. Any attempt to seek unauthorised access or distribution will result in heavy punishment. You saw the hanged men as you came in.”
Abigail nodded. There was no way of knowing what the Arabs had done, but someone – perhaps the aliens, perhaps the Order Police – had hung them from lampposts and left them strung up as an object lesson, pour encourager les autres. It had worked, too; there was no dissent from the reporters, no suggestion that they
should only write about what they had seen personally. Professional pride – and most reporters felt a little pride in their occupation – had been replaced by the desire to survive. It wouldn’t be long before it was replaced by Stockholm Syndrome and reporters started falling in love with their minder’s version of reality.
And there was another point. She had sent several stories in to the Committees of Correspondence and other underground newspapers. There were even several editions of each newspaper, each one slightly different, for uniformity wasn't even a possibility these days. If the minders insisted on supervising everything, it probably meant that they’d deduced that one of the newspaper’s contributors was among their tame reporters, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Submitting a real story might be difficult. On the other hand…
A bitch in sheep’s clothing, she thought, and smiled. She’d taken a few precautions with help from a few friends and if she played her cards right, she should be able to get a newspaper essay out first, and they’d never even be able to prove that it was her!
“The assault will begin in four days,” the minder said, as if it was as inevitable as death or taxes. “You will have that long to prepare your preliminary stories for inspection and have them examined by my department. Once you have completed the first stories, you may use the rest of the time to get acquainted with the city and the people who have been the helpless victims of terrorist aggression.”
Abigail fought hard to keep a smile off her face and almost succeeded. The aliens had shot themselves in the foot. Their collaborators had presented videos of terrorist violence and women being raped that were too good. Anyone with half a brain knew that CCTV cameras didn’t pick up such precise images, as if they had been directed by a movie producer, but a single viewpoint that was often frustratingly blurred. No video of violence included close-ups of the victim’s face, or hinted at anything rather than revealed it directly…the images had been faked. The thought amused her and depressed her in equal measure. It depressed her because the aliens or their collaborators thought that the humans would swallow such nonsense, but it amused her because she suspected that someone had insisted that the propaganda be made that way, to make it clear that it was all faked. By accident or design, it was a blow for the resistance.
The bloggers had made it clear from the start, although most of them had refrained from suggesting that it had been done deliberately. They’d provided exhaustive analysis and blow-by-blow commentary on the more obnoxious videos, proving that they’d clearly been faked, or at the very least weren't what they claimed to be. The best that could be said of them was that they hadn’t taken place in Chicago; the worst were clearly actors, playing a role. Abigail had never imagined that anyone could play a victim of violence, but she’d never thought about it. Hollywood could produce shockingly real special effects without actually beating an actor up to show blood, or raping an actress or slaughtering children just to get it exactly right. They would have been better to have accepted imperfect videos or even taken footage from police stations and public surveillance cameras. They might have gotten away with that. It would, at the very least, have been harder to disprove.
Her minder finished his speech and allowed the reporters to disperse to their rooms. The small hotel had once catered for people on low budgets and had decorated accordingly, although Abigail had slept in worse when she’d visited Paris as part of a group from school. There was enough food and drink to keep them going, although the food was American rather than Arab. She seriously considered walking down to the canteen and requesting a share, but decided that the idea would be unwise. Even if the Arabs she saw were…respectful of American women, the minders might decide that it represented an attempt to gain unsupervised access to the Arabs and treat her accordingly. She hated being so…controlled. Her worst boyfriend had never been such a control freak. He just hadn’t cared enough about her.
She found the bed and lay down in it. It was lumpy, but at least it was warm and dry. The noise from outside seemed never-ending, but somehow she finally managed to drift off to sleep, dreaming of Arabs and aliens and nightmares that seemed to merge into one, reminding her that she was on the front lines of a war. They might all be killed in the next few days.
Shots woke her up late at night, but otherwise there was no sound of alarm. She pulled the covers back over her head and tried to go back to sleep, her imagination filling in the story. Perhaps some of the Arabs had decided to desert, or perhaps they had killed some Americans, or perhaps the resistance had tried sneaking more people into the camp. She could write stories around all three ideas, showing people the underlying truth of the war. She could make it real for them.
The morning after, they were told that the shots had been a training exercise called at short notice. The Arab sharpshooters had needed to practice engaging targets in the dark. No one had been hurt and the shooters were all perfect.
She didn’t believe a word of it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chicago, USA (Occupied)
Day 145
Lieutenant Jalal Shafaqat braced himself as the line of vehicles began to move forward, through the barricade the demons had thrown up to block escape. The scene was a depressing reminder of barricades and operations on the streets of Cairo, even if he had never actually fired a shot in anger. The Muslim Brotherhoods had been out on the streets, screaming their rage at the corrupt and venal regime that ruled Egypt, yet Jalal and his comrades hadn’t faced them directly. That had been the task of the more experienced and ruthless units of the Egyptian Army, units who knew that if the crazy Mullahs and their howling servants took over, they’d be the first against the wall. They’d crushed the mobs with brutal efficiency and moved on to the next target, before the demons had invaded and crushed Egypt. They’d timed it perfectly. The Muslim Brotherhoods had been scattered by the army, yet the army hadn't been ready to stand off the aliens, even if they could have been defeated. Jalal and his fellows had gone into the camps.
He didn’t like Chicago, not one little bit. It was a cold and ugly city, populated by men and women who eyed the Arabs as if they would like to tear them apart. He’d seem similar looks on the faces of the Muslim Brotherhood prisoners, the few that had survived to be captured, men who hated everyone who wore the army uniform. They’d been taken out into the desert, shot in the back of the head, and then dumped in a mass grave. The Americans watched and bided their time. Jalal had no illusions. The Americans might respect the demons, but not the Arabs. They would lie in wait and strike when the time was right.
The older men in the regiment, including some who had fought covertly against the Americans in Iraq – and on the American side in the Gulf War – had told him all about the Americans. They were demons when it came to technology, often being able to do things that seemed like magic to young men and women brought up in a different world, and when they fought, they fought with an utter ruthlessness that terrified their enemies. And yet, they were acutely sensitive to casualties and could be dissuaded from their chosen course of action by a few deaths, the more shocking the better. It was a contradiction Jalal had never been able to understand, even when he had walked the streets of Chicago’s suburbs to try to gain a feel for the city. Chicago wasn't like Cairo or any of the other cities he’d seen. Chicago shouted its identity to the skies and dared them to answer back.
He hefted his rifle as he led the patrol along the street. The orders had been clear enough. The force would advance on a broad front until they reached the lake. Anyone encountered within the city was to be halted, searched, and identified. If he or she wasn't carrying an ID card, or a weapon, they were to be taken into custody and sent to the rear. Jalal hoped, despite himself, that they caught some young women, even though the men at the rear would have all the fun. American women, it was rumoured, were very skilled in bed. Jalal had never married – his family was too poor to afford a dowry – but he’d been induced to enter one of the whorehouses in his hometown when he’d joined th
e army. The whore hadn’t wanted to be there and the experience had left a sour taste in his mouth.
Chicago rose up around him as they advanced further. Despite the noise of the advancing armoured cars, there was a sense of eerie silence, underlying the entire city. It took him a moment to realise why. The Arabs were the only ones on the street. The Americans had vanished, leaving behind litter and few other traces of their presence. Perhaps they’d melted into their buildings, hiding from the soldiers, or perhaps they were planning an ambush. Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck and he cursed the day he’d volunteered to serve with the aliens. It couldn’t have been worse back in the prison camp. The older soldiers told him that if he lived through his first taste of combat, he’d be fine every other time, but the anticipation was making his palms sweat. He had to lick his lips to use the radio and, when he spoke, his voice was cracked and broken.
“We’re at the first waypoint, sir,” he said, and hoped that the Americans hadn’t been able to listen in. The senior officers had warned them to keep off the airwaves as much as possible, but it was impossible to coordinate the advance without some communication…and the different armies lacked a shared communications system. In time, he’d been promised, they’d develop a shared code, but for now, they just had to keep transmissions to an absolute minimum. “We are moving in now.”
The apartment block was pitted with bullet holes and pockmarks, suggesting that someone had been fighting a gun battle somewhere nearby. It was a depressingly ugly building to him, even though he had to admire how neatly it had been built. He walked up to the door – someone had sprayed a massive red V over the glass – and checked it carefully. There was no sign of any trap, but he allowed two of the common soldiers to have the honour of leading the way into the building. The Muslim Brotherhood had been very inventive when it had come to rigging up surprises in their safe houses and he expected the same level of ingenuity from the Americans.
Outside Context Problem: Book 02 - Under Foot Page 21
