Chronicles of the Invaders 1: Conquest

by John Connolly

“You took your time,” said Just Joe. “You missed all the excitement.”

  The Illyri took in the prisoners, and the wounded. His eyes lit on Duncan.

  “I never liked him,” he said.

  “I never liked him either,” said Just Joe.

  “No loss, then.”

  “None at all.”

  And Just Joe embraced the big Illyri, and the Illyri hugged him in return.

  “It’s good to see you,” said Joe.

  “And you, my friend.”

  The Illyri stepped back, and Joe pointed to Syl and Ani.

  “Safe and well,” said Joe.

  “And the other?”

  “Still alive, but he doesn’t talk much.”

  The Illyri shrugged.

  “He won’t have to talk to tell us what he knows.”

  “If you’re right.”

  “Yes, if I’m right.”

  The Illyri raised a hand in greeting to Syl and Ani.

  “My name is Fremd,” he said, “spelled with a D but pronounced with a T: Fremt. I’m going to be looking after you for a while. . . .”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  M

  cKinnon slouched in the front of the van, brooding, while Craven, the group’s driver, revved away from the battered jetty where they’d tethered their forlorn boat after guiding it to shore without the aid of oars. Thankfully their van was still parked where they’d left it beneath the copse of scraggly trees, unremarkable and untouched. They weren’t concerned about being stopped by the Illyri. They had no weapons, and they had been interrogated often enough to know the routine. There was light in the sky, or as much of it as could filter through the clouds and the rain, and it lifted his mood. He had traveled often before the arrival of the Illyri; his father had worked for a big bank, and McKinnon’s early years had been spent in the Far East, and Australia, and the United States. He’d seen many beautiful places but he loved the Highlands most of all, although even he sometimes wished that it would rain a little less.

  Duncan sat in the back with the others, lost in his own grievances. He would be another mouth to feed unless McKinnon could get rid of him, which he planned to do as soon as they reached the next town. Duncan could find his own way in the world now, because McKinnon didn’t want him around. A man who betrayed one master would betray another even faster because he had the taste for treachery in his mouth. McKinnon had enough trouble keeping his own men in line. He had no desire to add Duncan to the mix, especially after Duncan had seemed all too ready to put a bullet in him in order to ensure his silence.

  McKinnon was surprised that Just Joe had let them go so easily. Joe was a hard man, and McKinnon had always respected him. It was why his words had cut him deeply. He was a bandit. He’d started out as something better, but he’d just lost faith somewhere along the way. Ritchie had changed him. Ritchie believed that in hard times, the strong preyed on the weak, because the strong should survive. But now Ritchie was dead, and McKinnon was the leader of their less-than-merry band. Perhaps he could change, but what would be the point? He doubted that the Resistance would have him even if he wanted to join them, and the only reason he remained alive—let alone free—was because enough people feared him and his men. No, the die was cast now, and there was no turning back.

  Damn, but he’d wanted the Illyri captives for himself. The Grand Consul and a governor’s daughter could have bought him a lot: freedom for his imprisoned men, but maybe also a chance at another life. He could have handed them back to the Illyri in return for a fresh start: money, a new name, a decent home. Painful though it might have been for him, he would even have been tempted to leave the Highlands and build a fresh existence somewhere else. He was still dreaming of lost opportunities when he heard the skimmer approach. It drifted down from the east, swooped over the van, then rose behind them in a lazy arc.

  “What should I do?” asked Craven.

  “Just keep going for now,” said McKinnon. “If they want us to stop, they’ll let us know soon enough.”

  The usual procedure was for the Illyri to illuminate any vehicle they wanted to investigate using searchlights, but this skimmer seemed content to shadow them without forcing them to stop. They could hear its whine above the van’s engines, and McKinnon could see it flying low to the east. It was black, and it gave him an ominous feeling.

  “I don’t like it,” said Craven. “Why haven’t they just stopped us?”

  “I don’t know,” said McKinnon. This wasn’t typical Illyri behavior.

  Any further questions were curtailed by a deep roar, and a pair of black cruisers burst from the clouds. One of them came to rest half a mile from the van, blocking the road. The second stayed directly above them until Craven pulled over, whereupon it landed nearby and began disgorging Securitats and Galateans. The van was surrounded before Craven even had time to kill the engine. More Securitats poured from the carrier on the road. For the first time, McKinnon was truly grateful that Just Joe had deprived them of their guns. If he had not, they would now be living their last moments on Earth. The Securitats wouldn’t have bothered with trials and exile to the Punishment Battalions; they would have killed them here and dumped their corpses in a bog.

  “Stay calm,” said McKinnon. “Keep your hands where they can see them, and say nothing. If they ask where we’ve been, we tell them we’re laborers heading back home. We have nothing to hide. Remember that.”

  A voice boomed from a speaker in the nearest carrier.

  “Out of the van. Keep your hands held high once you exit. Do not disobey. Any sudden moves will be treated as a hostile act, and you will be shot.”

  The men in the van did as they were told. Once they were outside, the Galateans took over, forcing them to their knees while a pair of Securitats searched the vehicle. As they did so, an Illyri dressed in a smart black suit approached McKinnon, heedless of the rain. The only clue to his identity and position was the gold badge on his lapel, but McKinnon knew who he was, for his picture had long been circulating in the Highlands and elsewhere: Sedulus, the Securitats’ torturer in chief. Maybe, thought McKinnon, I won’t live out this day after all.

  The two males, human and Illyri, watched each other carefully but said nothing while the van was torn apart. Eventually the two Securitats climbed out. They looked puzzled.

  “It’s empty, sir.”

  Sedulus frowned.

  “You’re certain?”

  “We removed the panels and the flooring. There’s no question.”

  Sedulus pointed to the kneeling men.

  “Scan them.”

  The Securitats moved behind the six humans, each holding a small circular scanning device. They both stopped when they came to Duncan, who looked nervously over his shoulder.

  “What? What is it?”

  One of the Securitats moved closer, the scanner now almost touching Duncan’s clothing. After a moment’s hesitation, he put his hand into the pocket of Duncan’s jacket and came up with an Illyri tracker.

  McKinnon started to laugh. He had underestimated Just Joe.

  The others looked at him as though he was mad. Only Sedulus seemed to echo McKinnon’s amusement. His face broke into a faint smile.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “You were unwitting decoys.”

  McKinnon’s laughter faded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well then you’re no use to me,” said Sedulus. He drew his pulser, and shot McKinnon dead. He did the same with four of the other men, leaving only Duncan alive. Duncan cowered, his face almost at the level of the ground, his hands curled over his head, waiting his turn to die, but Sedulus simply tucked his pulser back into its holster, its work done for the time being. His smile returned as he regarded Duncan.

  “Now,” he said, “perhaps you’d care to tell me how you came by that tracker. . . .”

&nbs
p; •••

  Duncan made a halfhearted effort to resist the interrogation. He tried explaining that the coat had been given to him on a farm when his own had simply fallen apart due to wear and tear. Unfortunately for him, the tracker had been sending its signal ever since Paul removed it from its lead box and slipped it into Duncan’s pocket as he manhandled him into the boat. The initial transmission had come from nowhere near the location of the fictitious farm on which Duncan claimed to be working with the others. Joe had entrusted Gradus’s tracker to Paul when he placed him in charge of the prisoners, and Paul had known just what to do.

  Duncan’s story instantly collapsed, and he was taken into the larger of the two cruisers and strapped to a chair. In a pen at one end were what appeared to be three empty mechanized space suits, until one of them moved its head and Duncan saw what looked like oily black smoke swirl behind its visor. He might have been tempted to ask what they were had Sedulus not administered the first of the electric shocks, quickly followed by a second and a third. Within minutes, Duncan had told them of the finding of the wreckage, the survival of the three Illyri, his own attempted betrayal of the Resistance to McKinnon and the rest, and the arrival of the Illyri deserter named Fremd.

  “Where are they taking them?” asked Sedulus.

  “I don’t know,” said Duncan. “Only Just Joe knows.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not, I swear it.”

  “Then why should I let you live?”

  Duncan considered the question. He saw McKinnon’s body slumping lifelessly to the ground once more, and the others that followed, blood leaking from their mouths and their ears.

  “You’ll kill me either way,” he said.

  “I will not kill you,” said Sedulus. “You have my word.”

  “The word of an Illyri,” said Duncan, making it clear how much he felt that was worth.

  “That would hurt more if it did not come from the mouth of a traitor.”

  Duncan conceded the point with a shrug.

  “I can’t take the Punishment Battalions,” he said. “I wouldn’t last a week. I’m too old.”

  “You will not be sent to the Punishment Battalions. Again, you have my word.”

  Duncan swallowed. He looked to the pen. All three of the suits were now in an upright position. Whatever moved behind those black visors seemed to be interested in him.

  “What are they?” he asked.

  “They are the Sarith Entities.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” said Duncan.

  “Frankly,” said Sedulus, “I’m not sure that I do either. You were saying?”

  Duncan hung his head. “Only Just Joe knows the destination for sure, but I heard him tell Logan and the others that they’re going to turn northeast, and there has been talk of a Green Man.”

  “Who is the Green Man?”

  “It’s a code word for a Resistance leader, but I’ve never met him. That’s all I know, honest.”

  Sedulus nodded. “I believe you.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?” asked Duncan.

  “Why, you’re going to die,” said Sedulus.

  A pair of Securitats appeared. They undid the straps on Duncan’s arms and legs, and helped him to his feet. He staggered, weakened by the shocks.

  “But you promised!” he said.

  “I promised that I wouldn’t kill you, and I won’t,” said Sedulus. “They will.”

  He pointed at the three mechanized suits. The black clouds swirled behind the faceplates as Sedulus gave the order.

  “Feed him to the Entities.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  S

  yl could not resist stealing glances at the strong, graceful Illyri named Fremd. She had already learned a little about him from Alice, who was in awe of him. He was an Illyri deserter, one of the first to change sides, and the Securitats had placed a price on his head that grew every year. Alice didn’t know why he’d abandoned the Illyri for the humans, and Heather, when she joined them, would say only that he had his reasons. The Resistance had imprisoned him for a long time before they began to trust him.

  “Now he’s at the core of the Resistance,” said Heather. “Him, and Maeve.”

  “Who’s Maeve?” asked Ani.

  “You’ll meet her,” Heather had replied. “He’s taking you to her.”

  There was a ruddiness to the gold of Fremd’s skin that spoke of long days spent battling the elements in Scotland. He had wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, astonishing for one who was still comparatively young. Even her father had barely a line on his face, and he was considerably older than Fremd. What struck Syl most about him was the sense of a spirit liberated, a being at peace with himself. In a strange way, this hunted man had found the place where he was always meant to be. If he died in the Highlands, he would die happy.

  He in his turn seemed curious about Syl and Ani. After all, they were in a similar situation. He had turned his back on his own people, at the risk of his life, to live among the humans, just as Syl and Ani were now being pursued for their own treason.

  After twenty minutes spent talking in private with Just Joe, Fremd fell back to join the little group comprising Syl and Ani, and Steven and Paul. Alice was with them too. Her mother had entrusted her to them, for it had been made clear that the group of Resistance fighters was going to split up. Already the others were preparing to leave without them. Only the lad named AK stood apart from the rest, holding one end of a rope that was wrapped around Grand Consul Gradus. Gradus’s jaw hung open, and his eyes remained blank and lifeless.

  “You’re all coming with me and AK,” Fremd told them.

  On the small rise above them, Just Joe let the rest of the Resistance pass him, then paused and raised a hand to Fremd in farewell before rejoining his group. There was something sad about the gesture, as if he feared that he might not see Fremd again.

  “Why are they leaving?” asked Syl.

  “Because Joe has to play a risky game now,” said Fremd. “He’s had his suspicions about Duncan for a while, and he’s been feeding him tidbits of false information about his plans. If all has gone well, Duncan is now in the hands of the Illyri, and is telling them what he knows, or thinks he knows. That will lead them away from us, and toward Joe.”

  “And what will Joe do then?”

  “He’ll fight them.”

  Syl looked back at the rise, but there was nobody to be seen. They were so few. How could they hope to take on their Illyri pursuers and prevail?

  “You’ve done well to avoid them so far, by the way,” said Fremd. “To tell the truth, I thought they might catch you within a day, but it seems the old gods are smiling on you.”

  “Old gods?” asked Ani. “What old gods?”

  “You can’t live out here for long and not start to believe in spirits, both good and bad,” said Fremd. “They’re in the stones, and the air. You don’t want to go messing about with the old gods, but if you treat them right, they’ll keep their part of the bargain.”

  Ani looked at him as though he were mad.

  “Do you drink?” she asked.

  “What, like whisky? Of course.”

  “Well, maybe you should consider cutting back.”

  Fremd laughed. “Have you ever heard of Pascal’s Wager?”

  Ani shook her head.

  “It’s a philosophical position,” said Fremd. “Pascal was a Frenchman who argued that it made more sense to believe in the existence of God than not, because you had nothing to lose by believing. So I take the view that if I act like there are old gods, and they don’t exist, then there’s no harm done, but if they do exist, then by treating them with respect I’ll avoid any harm to myself. I win either way.”

  Fremd began walking, and they all followed, AK leading Gradus the way a drover might lead
an obedient mule.

  “That woman back at camp, Aggie, she hates me, but she barely looked at you when you came into camp,” said Syl.

  “Do you hate all humans?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Aggie doesn’t hate all Illyri,” said Fremd. “She hates what the Illyri represent on Earth—conflict, repression, captivity—but she’s slowly learning that we’re not all alike. She doesn’t know you. To her, you and Ani and the Grand Consul are all the enemy. She’ll learn the truth about you as well, in time.”

  “Your name,” said Syl. “It’s not Illyri.”

  “No, it’s German. It means ‘strange’ or ‘foreign.’ Or in my case, ‘alien.’ One of my first captors was a German. He gave me the name, and it stuck.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Fremd, and for the first time Syl saw the steel beneath his placid nature. “That’s not who I am anymore.”

  The conversation ended, and they continued walking for an hour or more. They moved through places where there was a little cover, although Fremd was more concerned with making progress than reducing exposure to their hunters, until at last they came to an area of new-growth pine. Once upon a time, the ancient Caledonian Forest had covered the Highlands, but primitive tribes had begun its destruction, and the Vikings had helped by burning large parts of it. Farmers and fuel-gatherers finished the job. Even before the arrival of the Illyri, efforts to restore the woodland had begun, and now millions of trees were growing in the Highlands; not just pine, but alder, birch, holly, hazel, and mountain ash. Fremd had led them to the outskirts of one of these new patches of forest, and allowed them to refill their water bottles from a small stream.

  Syl winced and limped a little as she felt a blister burst on her heel.

  “Sore feet?” said Fremd.

  “Very.”

  “I have something in my bag that might help, when we stop to eat.”

  “Dry socks? Boots that fit?”

  “You never know; miracles do happen. But you have my sympathy. Just Joe walks a hard march.”