Now they could all hear the sound, a low roar that grew steadily louder until the ship split the clouds and soared down, raking the land with the powerful beam of its searchlight. It was a cruiser, a troop carrier, and Syl picked out the insignia of the Diplomatic Corps on its side. There would be twenty or thirty heavily armed operatives on board. If anyone caught sight of the Highlanders, they were finished. Sheer force of numbers would overwhelm them.
The cruiser descended still farther, hovering just above the hilltops but unable to go lower for fear of crashing. Its beam came so close to where Syl lay that she could almost feel the heat of it. If she were to stand up now—even if she were just to move her arm a fraction—she would be seen. She had a strange, self-destructive desire to do just that, but she fought it, even as the light hurt her pupils and the roaring of the cruiser’s engines pained her ears.
Suddenly the beam was extinguished. The pitch of the cruiser’s engines changed as it rose and headed southeast, staying below the clouds so it could search the land. They saw its beam activated again in the distance, but it continued to move away from them, and soon it was lost to sight. Paul opened his eyes and half smiled at Syl.
Just Joe stood first, and the rest of them followed his example. He gave Syl no thanks and simply told everyone to get moving again. They walked for hours, leaving the river behind them, until a hint of dawn began to light the sky. A giant glossy stag sprang from nowhere and, seemingly without fear, watched them pass, but otherwise it was deserted and quiet, save for the chill wind that cut through the vale.
Finally the valley floor rose again, and Syl saw a small village in the distance. They drew closer to it but did not enter, instead skirting it until they arrived at an old crofter’s cottage, its whitewash graying with age and its slate roof battered by the elements. They were now on a rough path, muddy and well trodden by boots. As they approached the house, a woman appeared, dressed in a dark checked shirt tucked into green canvas trousers. She had binoculars around her neck and a rifle slung casually over her shoulder.
“Just Joe!” she said. “I thought it was you. It’s been a while.”
She smiled, and her teeth shone white and even in her handsome, weathered face. There was something about the way she looked at Just Joe. These two have been together, thought Syl. They’re lovers, or once were.
“That it has, Heather,” said Just Joe, and he reached for her, drawing her close to him and kissing her on the cheek. “We need a place to lie low for a time. Can you oblige us?”
She looked past him, taking in the figures of Syl and Gradus. Even in the darksuits, their difference was clear.
“Where did you get these two?” she said.
“From a downed shuttle.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“The male we’re taking to the Green Man. The girl . . .” Just Joe paused. “The girl we’re not sure about yet.”
“Is that why the big ship was disturbing my sleep?”
“It was. Would you like something else to disturb your sleep instead?”
Heather slapped Just Joe on the shoulder, and laughed deeply in her throat.
“You haven’t changed,” she said. “I swear, I’ve never met a man who loved himself more. Come on, let’s get you all under cover. Tam is about. He’ll be pleased to see you.”
Behind the main house, a copse of scraggly trees surrounded a scattering of newer farm buildings, punctuated with rocks and the occasional bedraggled sheep. A pig rooted around under a midden heap dotted with thistles, and a ratty terrier barked without stopping when it spotted the newcomers.
“Shaddup, Lex,” said Heather.
Lex did as he was told, and contented himself with sniffing doubtfully at the strangers from a distance. Syl followed Paul and the others over the deeply puddled ground into one of the smaller buildings, its windows boarded over and its thatch repaired with thick pieces of black plastic anchored by stones. Inside it was damp and dim. A man in jeans and a heavy padded jacket stood by a metal table, a gas lamp at his right hand. A selection of weaponry was laid out in rows on the table. There were two machine guns, a smattering of pistols, and several shotguns. There were also axes, scythes, and a large array of blades, from meat cleavers to steak knives. Boxes of ammunition were stacked nearby.
“Open for business, I see,” said Just Joe.
“You never know when trouble will come calling,” said the man. He turned and shook Joe’s hand.
“We need a place to stay for a few hours, Tam,” said Just Joe.
“That won’t be a problem, as long as you don’t go bothering my sister.” He grinned at Heather.
“Your sister, if I remember rightly, was the one who bothered me.”
“Well, a man’s got to defend his sister’s honor, even if it’s more than she ever did!”
“You’re both ignorant men,” said Heather, who had been listening to it all, but even as she chastised them her face was bright with fondness for them both.
Tam studied Syl, and then his eyes drifted to Gradus. He didn’t seem very surprised to see two Illyri in his barn. Syl guessed that they might not have been the first prisoners to pass through this place.
“I see you brought company,” he said.
“And a story to tell,” said Just Joe.
“I’ll go and put the kettle on,” Heather said. She tapped her brother on the arm. “And you, put your toys away and get breakfast started.”
•••
The outbuilding was dank and grim, and the straw on which Syl sat was so prickly and uncomfortable that fashioning even a slightly agreeable seat was impossible. She was more than a little annoyed that she’d been put in here, with the door locked. It seemed to confirm her status among the Highlanders; she was more prisoner than anything else. At least Gradus was confined elsewhere. She couldn’t have stood to be incarcerated with him.
Time passed slowly, and the light outside grew brighter. After an hour or two, the door to Syl’s new cell opened to reveal a girl of seven or eight, her shock of hair haloed by the weak sun. In her hands she cupped a bowl of what appeared to be steaming oats. Behind her lurked one of the Highlanders, a shotgun hanging on his shoulder.
“Hello,” said the girl, smiling a little, shy but curious.
“Hello,” said Syl.
“I’m Alice.”
“Okaaay,” Syl replied, wary.
“Who are you?”
“An alien bitch,” said the Highlander.
Alice looked annoyed.
“No, don’t say that.” She turned her attention back to Syl. “What’s your name?”
“Syl.”
“That’s pretty,” said Alice.
Syl didn’t reply. She was tired, and sore, and—even though she was reluctant to admit it to herself—frightened. These people were not her friends. Even Paul hadn’t objected when it was suggested that she be confined to this outbuilding. He hadn’t stood up for her at all. It just added to the confusion of her feelings for him.
“My mum thought you might be hungry, Syl.” Alice put the bowl down. “There’s nothing wrong with it—honest. I even put extra sugar on it because that’s how I like it.”
The porridge smelled good. Syl’s stomach growled after being so long without food. Under the watchful eye of Alice—and the more hostile one of her guard—she wolfed down every morsel, even licking the bowl clean. She wiped her face with her sleeve, and Alice laughed.
“I knew you must be hungry. Here, you missed a spot.”
She used her finger to gently wipe Syl’s cheek. Their eyes met, and they really looked at each other now, close up, Syl’s large, swirling, unblinking eyes staring into Alice’s own black pupils.
Alice sat down against the wall opposite Syl. It was clear that she didn’t get much company out here, and was happy to have someone to talk to—eve
n if that someone was an alien.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“My ship crashed.”
“The men inside say that you were arrested by your own people. Is that true?”
“Yes. We did something we shouldn’t have, my friend and I. I got caught.”
“What about your mum and dad? Didn’t they try to help you?”
She was cautious, not wanting to reveal to the child that she was the daughter of the governor. It was bad enough that Just Joe knew.
“My mother is dead. My father couldn’t help me.”
Alice nodded. “My dad is dead too.”
“Really?”
“He was a fisherman. His ship sank when I was very little. After that, my mum and me came here to live with Uncle Tam. My mum didn’t want to look at the sea anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” said Syl.
“Where were they taking you when your ship crashed?”
“Offworld. To jail, probably.”
Alice watched her for a few long seconds before picking up the bowl and rising to leave.
“Duncan doesn’t like you,” she said.
“Oh.”
“It’s okay,” said Alice, “because I don’t like Duncan.”
She reached over and squeezed Syl’s hand, then bounded into the sunlight. The door was closed and locked again, and the room was suddenly emptier than it had been before.
Syl sighed heavily, sat back and tried to sleep, but her questions and fears would not give her rest.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
T
he sound of voices raised in anger leached through the closed doors of Governor Andrus’s private office. Balen, as the governor’s private secretary, should have been inside bearing witness to what was taking place, but now he was rather glad that he had been excluded. There was enough rage to spare in that room, and he didn’t want any of it to be aimed in his direction. Anyway, he was able to hear all that was being said perfectly well. The doors were thick, but they weren’t that thick. . . .
•••
“The shuttle went down twelve hours ago, and you’re telling us that there is still no trace of my husband?”
The voice was that of the Archmage Syrene. She had put aside her formal robes, and was dressed in a simple dress of red silk. There were dark patches beneath her eyes. It was clear that she had not slept the previous night.
“Or my daughter,” said Lord Andrus. “You forget that she was also on that shuttle.”
“Your daughter is a traitor,” said Sedulus, who was standing next to Syrene. He wore an unadorned black suit and a matching knitted silk tie. It struck Andrus as odd that Sedulus, who hated the humans more than most—and was similarly hated by them in return—should have embraced their fashions so wholeheartedly. His shoes were polished to a high sheen, and the only item of his dress that gave a hint of his position was a tiny gold pin in the left-hand lapel of his jacket, a pin in the shape of a fist clutching a bolt of lightning.
“Nevertheless, she remains my daughter,” said Andrus evenly.
“One might almost believe that you condoned her actions,” said Sedulus.
“I will not disown my daughter because of a single failing, no matter how grave,” replied Andrus.
His head ached, and he had slept no more than the Archmage. As the senior Military commander, he was in charge of the search for his daughter and the Grand Consul, even though it was a search that he had a vested interest in seeing fail. Meanwhile Syl was a prisoner of the Resistance, which was little consolation. He had spent a decade fighting them, and now the life of his only daughter was in their hands.
“None of this matters!” shouted Syrene. “Your daughter is of no consequence. My husband—and his safe return—is the priority here. Why have you not sent in waves of soldiers to sweep the land? How can one of the most important figures in the Illyri Empire be a suspected captive of a band of terrorists?”
Lord Andrus sat back in his chair.
“I don’t think you grasp the difficulty of the situation to the north,” he said.
“Well,” said Syrene, “why don’t you just explain it to me?”
•••
The Military interceptor flew high over the Central Lowlands, heading north for the Highland Boundary Fault—or the Highland Line as the locals called it, the ancient rock fracture that bisected the Scottish mainland from Helensborough in the west to Stonehaven in the northeast. The Line was the natural divider between the Lowlands to the south and the Highlands to the north and west, but the Illyri had their own name for it. They referred to it as “the Moat,” for beyond it lay bandit country. It was one of a number of regions across the globe that they had found impossible to police, and its inhabitants had largely been left to their own devices. While the Illyri had managed to maintain significant bases at Aberdeen and Inverness to the north, and a smaller mountain base at the Cairngorms Plateau, these were basically just besieged fortresses, surrounded by hostile, aggressive populations. Although the main offworld route out of Edinburgh lay over the Highlands, such flights were conducted at relatively high altitude whenever possible, and were consequently out of the reach of the Resistance’s weapons. Low-level shuttle flights to Aberdeen and Inverness tended to take what was known as the “scenic route” over the North Sea, well out of reach of the land. Keeping the base at the Cairngorms Plateau supplied was costly and dangerous; even the comparatively short hop west from Inverness to the Cairngorms base was known as the Suicide Run.
Thus it was that the interceptor was trying to remain low enough to spot any signs of what might be the Highland Resistance and their Illyri captives, and high enough to avoid providing an easy target. It was also flying slowly enough to more easily spot anyone on the ground, yet fast enough not to be hit by them if they proved to be hostile. It was a delicate balance, and one that was near impossible to maintain.
On board were the pilot and copilot, along with an eight-member Illyri extraction team, all heavily armed and armored. Their instructions were clear: if members of the Resistance were sighted, they were to be engaged and at least one of them captured alive, in the hope that, under interrogation, they might provide some clue as to the whereabouts of Grand Consul Gradus and the traitor Syl. The problem, as those on the interceptor well knew, was that the Resistance did not wear uniforms, and did not travel in convoys advertising their identity. There was, in reality, no way to tell who was an active member of the Resistance and who was not until the shooting began, and by then it was generally too late. The easiest thing was to assume that everyone beyond the Moat—men, women, children, and possibly even sheep and cows—was a member of the Resistance unless they could prove otherwise.
The interceptor veered northwest over the Grampians toward Fort William, where there had once been a small Illyri base until the Resistance had blown it off the map. Beneath the craft lay Loch Rannoch, still and silver in the morning light.
“I have movement,” said the copilot.
“Where?” said the pilot.
“Northern shore of the loch. Four—no, five humans, heading east. You want to take a look?”
The pilot adjusted course.
“It’s why we’re here.”
“That’s not answering the question.”
The pilot grimaced. “Just put the guns on them. I have the ship.”
The copilot activated the weapon system, and the twin-barrel heavy cannon beneath the interceptor spun in its housing. The craft zeroed in on the humans, and the copilot fixed them in his sights. The 20mm guns were capable of firing two thousand rounds per minute. They could reduce a human being to shreds of meat within seconds.
As the interceptor drew closer to the banks of the loch, the humans became clearer: three males and two females. The males were carrying fishing rods, the women tackle boxes. They stopped and stared as the int
erceptor approached them. Carefully they put down their fishing equipment and raised their hands.
“What do you think?” said the copilot. “Our orders are to stop and question.”
The pilot viewed the terrain dubiously. The ground was soft from the rains, and once they landed, their cannon would be virtually useless. They would be entirely reliant on the weapons of the extraction team.
One of the humans started waving wildly, smiling as he did so.
“We’ll—” the pilot began, but whatever he had decided was destined never to be heard.
The Resistance were students of history. Before the arrival of the Illyri, the United Kingdom had not been successfully invaded since the arrival of William the Conqueror in 1066. The men and women who fought in the Highlands had no direct experience of guerrilla conflict, but they had been taught about the battles their ancestors had fought against the English. They had also studied the campaigns of the mujahideen against the Soviets in the previous century, and the difficulties the Americans had subsequently encountered in Iraq, and Somalia, and Afghanistan. One of the lessons they had learned was how to bring down aircraft using rocket-propelled grenades. RPGs had originally been designed for use against tanks, but the addition of a curved pipe to the rear of the launcher enabled them to be directed at an aircraft hovering above from a prone position.
Two RPGs fired at the interceptor simultaneously, one from bushes to the east, and a second from a small copse of trees to the west. Snaking trails of smoke behind them, they struck the craft at the front and rear. The first entered through the cockpit window, while the second hit the shuttle’s port engine. The last thing the copilot saw before the interceptor exploded was the fishing party diving for cover after signaling for the start of the attack. The debris scattered itself across Loch Rannoch, and was swallowed along with the dead.
Chronicles of the Invaders 1: Conquest Page 25
