Chronicles of the Invaders 1: Conquest

by John Connolly

  “Now you’re distracting me,” said Syl, “and I have a favor to request.”

  “Syl! I told you, he’s busy.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t disturb him. I’ll just wait outside until he’s finished. And please stop running after me. You know you can’t keep up.”

  Syl darted down the hallway, waved from around the corner, and was gone. Althea sighed deeply and leaned against the nearest wall. Below her, the city went about its business, the previous night’s bombing seemingly forgotten. In the distance loomed the crag known as Arthur’s Seat. There was a grandeur to Edinburgh, Althea admitted, but its beauty was stern and austere. Summer was at an end, and the first hint of a cold, damp winter was already blowing through the laneways. Althea hated the cold. She wished Andrus had become governor of Spain and Portugal, or Central America, somewhere with a little heat and light. These northern territories oppressed her with their gloom.

  But now someone was coming. She looked up to see the tutor, Toris. He was a scowling, wrinkled figure who walked with a pronounced stoop. There was no harm to him, but Althea, like Syl, regarded him as an old bore. Unlike Syl, though, she did not have to listen to him unless she chose to do so.

  “I seek Syl,” said Toris. “Class has commenced.”

  “Feel free to chase her, if you can run fast enough. She has no mind for classes today. It is the anniversary of her birth. She will spend the day in her own way, whether permitted to or not.”

  Toris seemed about to protest, then contented himself with a resigned shrug. “Well, let her roam, then, and much good may it bring her.”

  Althea was surprised. Toris was not usually one to allow such leniencies. Ani, Syl’s best friend and partner in crime, was regularly reported to her parents for even the slightest of infractions, and Toris would have beaten a similarly frequent path to Lord Andrus’s door to complain of Syl’s behavior if Andrus were not the governor, or if Althea had not become proficient at soothing Toris. Old books seemed to calm him, she found. So did wine. Speaking of which . . .

  “Have you been drinking?” asked Althea. “It’s not like you to give up so easily.”

  “I was young once,” Toris replied stiffly.

  “Were you now?” Althea sniffed. “I wonder that you can remember back so far.”

  “It is my task to remember,” Toris reminded her, with some dignity. “I remember, so that others will not forget.”

  “You fill her head with talk of the glories of Illyr, her and the other children. They dream of returning to a place they have never known, and meanwhile the life that they have passes them by.”

  “Illyr is great,” said Toris.

  “Perhaps it was, once,” said Althea. “But they will never see it, not as it was. Never.”

  “You do not know that,” said Toris.

  “I do,” said Althea. “And you know it too.”

  Toris did not bother to continue the argument. He and Althea had had this discussion before, and would have it again, but not this morning. Toris was tired. He always felt old on the birthdays of his students. He left Althea, and shuffled off to bore those of his charges who had not, so far, managed to escape.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  T

  he two young men walking toward the little restaurant near Edinburgh’s London Road were no different in appearance from any of the other youths who still viewed Edinburgh as “their” city, despite the presence of aliens, police, and anyone else who might have been of another opinion. One was taller and older, but the similarities between the two were too obvious for them to be anything but brothers. Their names were Paul and Steven Kerr, and they were members of the Resistance.

  Paul had been born not long after the initial Illyri invasion. Now he was just a few weeks shy of his seventeenth birthday, but he carried himself with the authority of an older man, as befitted someone who had risked his life in the fight against the Illyri occupation.

  Despite his relative youth, Paul was one of the Resistance’s best intelligence officers. He was good at listening, and skilled at slotting himself into places and situations that might yield useful information. The Resistance had young spies all over the city, and many of them reported to Paul, either directly or indirectly. There was little that went on among the Illyri about which the Resistance did not know—or so they had long believed.

  Recent events, though, were forcing the Resistance to reconsider this view. Whispers had reached them of possible secret tunnels beneath Edinburgh, constructed without their knowledge. There were darker rumors too: the sick and old disappearing from hospitals, and corpses sent for cremation becoming lost in the system. And all that was even before the attack on Birdoswald: Paul had not known of it in advance, and he was usually entrusted with prior notice of such operations. This troubled him, which was why he was glad that a meeting had been called. He wanted to know more.

  His brother, Steven, had just turned fifteen, and was less certain of himself. So far he had only been involved in minor operations, mostly as a lookout. Steven suspected that it was Paul who had been responsible for keeping him away from the action, although Paul had always denied it. Steven now felt that he was old enough to fight; after all, young men and women his own age had already died at the hands of the Illyri and their servant races, and it wasn’t right that he should be stopped from playing his part in the Resistance. Paul gradually seemed to have come to terms with this, at least in some small way, which was why he had reluctantly agreed that Steven should accompany him on this particular mission. School would have to do without them for a day.

  “Hurry up,” Paul said to Steven. “We’re going to be late.”

  Steven obediently sped up. Although there were sometimes tensions between them, as there were between any brothers, Steven adored Paul. Paul was a fighter.

  Paul had killed.

  As the restaurant came in sight, Paul halted.

  “Remember,” he told Steven. “Stay quiet. Don’t say anything unless someone asks you a question first. If I tell you to leave, do it, okay? No objections.”

  “You won’t even know I’m there, honest,” said Steven.

  Paul had been told to bring Steven along. He would not have done so otherwise. He knew what was going to happen. It was time: the Resistance had decided that his little brother was ready for major operations.

  •••

  Danny’s Diner was a typical greasy spoon. It offered breakfast all day, battered and fried anything from sausages to Mars bars, and served French fries with everything. It was even possible to order a plate of double fries, which was basically fries with a side of fries. Danny’s Diner was the unhealthiest restaurant in Scotland, and it was sometimes whispered that it had killed more Scots than the Illyri. Nobody looked at the boys as they entered. Everyone in there was a friend of the Resistance, but they still knew that it was best to mind their own business. Only Danny, who was working behind the counter, gave them the smallest of nods.

  Two young women, both of them only a few years older than Paul, sat in a booth at the back of the restaurant. Their names were Jean and Nessa Trask, and their father was one of the most important Resistance leaders in Scotland. They had cups of grayish tea before them, and the remains of some toast, with the mandatory fries now shriveled and cold.

  “I thought your dad might be here,” said Paul as he slid onto the plastic bench. “He’s busy,” said Nessa, the older of the girls, “but we’ll pay for your tea anyway.” She signaled to the waitress, who scurried off looking nervous, and with good reason. Nessa was bigger and broader than her sister. Some of the boys called her Nessy, after the Loch Ness monster, but only behind her back; she’d broken the nose of the last person she’d heard calling her by that nickname. Her sister, Jean, was prettier, and not as smart, but she was much more dangerous. She had a way with knives.

  “Lot of activity last night,” said Paul, referri
ng discreetly to Birdoswald.

  “We were as surprised as you were,” said Nessa.

  “It wasn’t us?”

  Nessa shook her head. “The fireworks in the city were ours, but not the business at the fort. Dad’s looking into it. That’s why he’s not here.”

  Their tea arrived, and the older teenagers watched in cool amusement as Steven took a tentative sip. It was horrible, as always. The boy immediately poured several packets of sugar into his cup and stirred it vigorously before trying again. The sweetness helped, but not much.

  “So,” said Nessa, still looking at Steven, who tried not to appear uncomfortable under her scrutiny, “this is the new little soldier.”

  Jean snickered. She picked up her butter knife and began playing with it, balancing it on the tip of her finger. It was a neat trick.

  “He’s been on jobs before,” said Paul, springing instinctively to his brother’s defense.

  “He’s stood on street corners watching for patrols,” said Nessa. “My dog could do that.”

  “Then why isn’t your dog here?” said Steven, which surprised Nessa, even as Paul raised his eyes to heaven and gave his brother a sharp kick on the right ankle.

  “He even barks like my dog,” said Nessa, but she seemed amused by Steven. “My dad says he’s ready. What do you say?”

  She leveled her gaze at Paul. Jean might have been prettier, but Nessa had something special, a kind of charisma. Paul might even have found her attractive if she hadn’t been so terrifying.

  “He’s ready,” said Paul, after only a moment’s hesitation. Beside him, Steven’s cheeks glowed with pride.

  “What do I know?” said Nessa. “I’m only a girl,” but she said it in the same way that a heavyweight champion of the world might have said he was only a boxer.

  “What’s the job?” said Paul.

  Nessa leaned in closer to him, and lowered her voice.

  “We think we’ve found one of the tunnels. . . . ”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  S

  yl could hear her father shouting as she neared his office. She paused while she was still out of sight of Balen, the secretary who carefully controlled access to the governor from his desk outside the door. Syl rather liked Balen, and his affection for her was obvious, but she could tell as she peered around the corner that he was unlikely to be welcoming this morning. He was staring at his screen, his fingers rapidly manipulating the display. The screen was a projection created by the castle’s artificial intelligence system, and allowed a screen to be summoned at any time, and in any room. As a child, Syl had thought it magical.

  Balen was simultaneously fielding calls to his communications console, adjusting his tone according to the importance of the caller, though each received roughly the same response: no, it would not be possible to talk to Governor Andrus. . . .

  The door to the office stood ajar. Syl could not see her father, but she glimpsed a short, balding human wearing a suit that was two sizes too small for him. It was McGill, the First Minister of the Scottish parliament, who served as the main channel of communication between the Scottish humans and the Illyri. The Illyri had allowed most local councils, and even national parliaments, to remain active, although they offered only the illusion of self-government, since no major decisions could be made without Illyri approval. Governor Andrus was often heard to remark that given how poorly human governments performed even the simplest of tasks, they might have found it preferable to hand all power to the Illyri, and at least see the job done right.

  As Syl listened, her father’s voice rose again.

  “Greater freedom of movement?” he shouted. “Are you insane? Do you have any idea what is happening in this damned country of yours? Shootings, bombings, acts of sabotage and murder. We had an explosion in the city last night, and then the garrison at Birdoswald was attacked. We lost twenty Galateans, and the captain of the garrison, not to mention two interceptors reduced to charred metal, and you’re asking me to give your people even more opportunities to attack us?”

  “We are not responsible for actions taken south of the border,” said McGill. “And we’re not talking about the whole of Scotland either. For now, at least allow more ease of travel between the cities, and perhaps make Edinburgh itself a free zone, with unrestricted movement within the city limits.”

  “The reason you’re not talking about the whole of the country, Mr. McGill,” said Andrus, “is that most of the Highlands remains lawless. Travel north to Inverness and Aberdeen is only possible by air, because anything that moves along the ground risks being attacked and looted. Most of the time I’m forced to amuse myself by trying to establish which of you is worst: the Scots, the Irish, or the Welsh. The more I study your history, the more I pity the English for having to put up with the lot of you.”

  “And yet now you’re being attacked close to Carlisle,” McGill interrupted. “Forgive me for pointing this out again, but that’s England, isn’t it?”

  “Infected by a virus of rebellion that started up here, no doubt,” Lord Andrus countered. “In fact, I suspect that the terrorists traveled south to Birdoswald, not north. They’re Scots, or I’m a fool. And don’t think that the rebels have any love for your city either. They disapprove of even your limited cooperation with us, and they’d dearly love to make an example of the most obliging of you. Our security procedures protect you as much as they protect us.”

  McGill bowed his head; Lord Andrus’s words had hit home. Major attacks on the occupying forces were growing more frequent in Edinburgh, although Glasgow was worse: there were housing estates on the outskirts of the city, wellsprings of rebellion and vicious dissent, that even the Galateans refused to police.

  “There will be no relaxation of the travel restrictions for now,” said Lord Andrus. Then, remembering his own reputation for diplomacy, added: “We’ll review the situation in three months’ time. But I warn you: if the attack on Birdoswald represents the beginning of a new terrorist campaign, you can look forward to repression that will make the early days of the invasion seem like a dream state. You can pass that on to the rebels from me.”

  McGill started to object, but Lord Andrus interrupted him.

  “Don’t take me for a fool, Mr. McGill. I could have you tortured until you decide to share your knowledge of the Resistance. The only reason I don’t do so is that I’d prefer some channels of communication with the Resistance to remain open, and I dislike unnecessary violence. Increasingly, though, my voice is struggling to make itself heard among those who think that we have been far too tolerant. If the violence continues, I won’t be able to hold them back for much longer. You may have no love for the Galateans or the Military, but we are ordered, disciplined soldiers. We respond only to provocation, and fight to defend ourselves. Troublesome populations tend to invite the attentions of far more brutal forces.”

  Syl knew that her father was referring to the Securitats. They were the Illyri secret police, part of the Diplomatic Corps, and answered only to Grand Consul Gradus, the head of the Corps. The Military had no control over them. It was the Securitats who had been responsible for organizing the destruction of Rome.

  There was the sound of a chair being pushed back, and moments later her father appeared in the doorway, herding McGill ahead of him, an almost comically round presence compared with the tall, aristocratic figure of Lord Andrus.

  Her father was sixty, but fit and strong, with few signs of aging. The life span of the Illyri was longer than that of humans, thanks to gene therapy and organ replacements, routinely extending to a hundred and twenty Earth years or more, so Lord Andrus was only into his middle age. His military record was impeccable, and his experience of battle and conquest ensured that he was respected by the army and, if truth be told, somewhat feared by the Diplomats. Even the Diplomats’ leader, Grand Consul Gradus, who lived by the motto that “Armies conquer, but Diplomats rul
e,” was known to be wary of angering Andrus, although he still hated him. The reasons for their enmity could be boiled down to one simple difference between the two Illyri: Gradus was cruel; Andrus was not. Nevertheless, in Gradus’s ideal universe, the Military would wipe out all resistance in conquered territories and then retreat to bind its wounds while the Diplomats reaped the spoils. In fact he would have preferred it if the Military were entirely under his control, just another arm of the Diplomatic Corps.

  But it was Gradus who had supported her father’s appointment to his current position, despite the objections of many of the Grand Consul’s own staff. Curiously, at least three-quarters of the Illyri governors on Earth were Military officers, and the remainder had recently retired from service. Over dinner one evening, Syl had questioned her father as to why this was.

  “The humans call it a ‘poisoned chalice,’ he replied. “In the Military, it is known as a ‘dark command.’ It means that what appears to be a blessing may well prove to be a curse. Gradus wants the Military to fail here. If we fail, he and the Diplomats can take over. Gradus is no fool, Syl. This conquest of Earth is very different from any of our other previous imperial adventures. We have never before encountered a civilization so advanced. Biologically, culturally, socially, we have more in common with the humans than we have with any other conquered race. But Gradus and his kind are so convinced of their own superiority that every race but our own appears inconsequential to them. He has not even troubled himself to visit Earth. He sits in the palace of a dead king, spinning his plots as a spider spins its web, listening to the whisperings of witches.”

  Syl shivered at the memory of her father’s words. There it was, the mystery at the heart of the Illyri Empire, the secret power behind its great expansion.

  The witches.

  The Nairene Sisterhood.