Outside Context Problem: Book 03 - The Slightest Hope of Victory Read online

  The internet was still working and, at his request, the rebels had sent a message asking the resistance to meet them. It was a message that should have gone unnoticed by the alien filters – a human book was used to substitute innocuous words for words that might have attracted attention – but they might well know that he’d been captured. And if that was the case, the resistance might have assumed that it was a trick and refused to show.

  And they might think we’re Walking Dead, he thought, grimly. If that happens, they might plan a mercy kill.

  He scowled at the thought. The Rogue Leaders had spent decades abducting humans from Earth before they showed themselves to humanity, carrying out experiments that would have made the Nazi scientists from World War Two blanch. But, as inhuman as it was, it had paid off for them. They could brainwash a human into becoming their loyal servant – and, so far, no one human had discovered a way to reverse the mental conditioning. It made resistance much harder if the aliens, instead of looking for collaborators, could make them for themselves.

  The Walking Dead, thankfully, were easy to spot. They were cold, utterly inhuman, more alien than the aliens themselves. There was no way that someone could be captured, brainwashed and then returned to their friends, not without being spotted. It was such an obvious ploy that Nicolas hadn't been surprised to discover that the Rogue Leaders were working on ways to create Walking Dead that didn't act like zombies. If they succeeded, it would be the beginning of the end.

  They can’t brainwash everyone, he told himself. But it was no consolation.

  The ground came closer, until he realised that they were almost definitely going to land near the planned landing zone. Bracing himself, he pulled on the parachute to slow their descent further and smiled as his feet touched the ground. He hadn't even realise how being on the alien ships had affected him until he touched solid earth. It was almost like being at sea, although he hadn't felt seasick. But then, what sort of SEAL would feel seasick?

  He tugged at the harness, releasing Abigail. She staggered forward – for a moment, he was sure that she was going to be violently sick – and then caught herself, turning to face him. Nicolas pulled at her mask, checked her eyes and then grinned at her. She grinned back.

  “If you think that’s bad, wait till you get a chance to try a HALO jump,” he said. High-attitude/low opening jumps were one hell of a rush. “Welcome back to Earth.”

  He glanced around as he gathered in the remains of the chute. The clearing they’d landed in was in the midst of forest, well away from civilisation – or what passed for it, these days – but he knew better than to think that they were completely alone. Apart from the resistance, there was no shortage of people who had decided that camping out in the wilderness was better than staying in their homes to face the aliens – or their human collaborators. Nicolas couldn't blame them, even though the first winter was likely to kill far too many of them. The Walking Dead were bad enough, but the willing collaborators were worse. They looted, raped and killed with impunity.

  Which might be the point, he thought. Compared to the Order Police, the alien warriors are almost popular.

  Abigail rubbed her hands together and then placed them against her face. “I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again,” she said, crossly. “Does it get better?”

  Nicolas smirked, remembering his first drop. “Yes, it does,” he said. He’d felt the same way too. “You’ll warm up after some heavy exercise.”

  He removed the small shovel from his pack and started to dig a hole. Abigail joined him a moment later, digging until the hole was big enough to take the chute and their suits. Nicolas would have preferred to wear the uniform, but it would have attracted attention if they were seen by alien collaborators. They’d been known to arrest anyone wearing something that even reassembled a uniform. Most Americans with military experience had joined the survivalists trying to eke out an existence outside the cities, if they hadn't joined the resistance. No one knew what had happened to most of those who hadn't vanished quickly enough, but it probably wasn't anything good ...

  He froze. There was someone out there, watching them.

  One hand twitched towards the pistol at his belt, before he stopped himself. They’d told the resistance they were coming, after all. But what if it was the Order Police? Nicolas hesitated, then stood up, peering into the darkened forest. There had to be someone there ...

  Abigail looked over at him. “What ...?”

  “All right, folks,” a new voice drawled. “Keep your hands where we can see them and make no false moves.”

  “No better friend,” Nicolas said, as Abigail froze.

  “No worse enemy,” the new voice said. “Which is pretty damn obvious, if you ask me.”

  Nicolas relaxed, slightly. The first part of the sign and countersign was obvious, but the Walking Dead wouldn't have pointed out that out. And yet that was the real countersign.

  “Say something funny,” the unknown voice ordered. “Please.”

  “A joke?” Nicolas asked. It wasn't something he would have thought up, but he had to admit that it was a neat test for Walking Dead. They lost their sense of humour as well as their freedom of thought. “Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side!”

  Abigail giggled.

  “Yeah, very funny,” the voice said. “You’re under seven guns, Lady and Gent; I suggest that you offer no resistance.”

  “We won’t,” Nicolas assured him.

  The resistance fighters ghosted out of the trees. None of the ones who showed themselves were carrying weapons, something that amused and appalled Nicolas in equal measure. The United States had been awash with weapons even before the President had removed all the restrictions, seeking to prepare the country for alien occupation, but all of the ammunition plants had been shut down by the aliens. What if the resistance was finally running out of bullets.

  On the other hand, he told himself, they wouldn't want to put guns within our reach.

  He offered no resistance as the fighters took his hands, pulled them behind his back and cuffed them. Abigail let out a squeak as she was cuffed as well. The resistance wasn't taking chances, he was pleased to see; they searched both of their prisoners carefully and removed anything that could be dangerous.

  One of them held an alien device up in front of him. “What is this?”

  “Classified,” Nicolas said. It was risky, but the fewer people who knew about what he’d brought, the better. “It’s to go to the higher-ups.”

  “Really,” the first voice drawled. Nicolas looked around to see a grizzled combat veteran, holding a shotgun in one hand. “And how do we know that you’re not collaborators?”

  Nicolas scowled. The Walking Dead couldn't be blamed for their actions – and the resistance, while it killed them, didn't linger over it. Collaborators, on the other hand, had chosen their own path through life; the resistance didn't just kill them, it killed them brutally. If they were mistaken for collaborators ... after everything he'd done, it would be the ultimate irony.

  “Check with my superiors,” Nicolas said, patiently. He’d hoped that a survivor from his own resistance team would have met them, but in hindsight it had been pretty unlikely. Someone who had known him might not have pulled the trigger if Nicolas had clearly been one of the Walking Dead. “And then run whatever tests you feel necessary.”

  The combat veteran – he looked old enough to have served in Vietnam, rather than modern wars Nicolas had fought in – eyed him for a long moment.

  “You will be taken to a particular location,” he said, finally. “And if you are found to be lying, I will execute you personally.”

  “We’re not lying,” Nicolas said, mentally cursing the Rogue Leaders. No doubt they’d watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers while they’d been studying Earth, preparing for the invasion. An enemy could wear a friendly face. A loyalist could become a collaborator during a few short hours when he might be separated from his friends. “And it is vit
ally important that we speak to someone higher up the chain as quickly as possible.”

  “No doubt,” the veteran sneered. “But you will be tested first.”

  He nodded to two of his men, who pushed Nicolas forward, into the forest. Nicolas caught sight of Abigail’s expression and allowed himself a moment of pride. Compared to how the aliens had treated her, the resistance were being downright gentlemanly.

  Which won’t stop them killing us if they think we’re collaborators, he thought, bitterly. This could still go very wrong.

  Chapter Two

  Near Casper, Wyoming, USA

  Day 191

  “It shouldn't happen in America.”

  Master Sergeant Edward Tanaka refrained, just barely, from rolling his eyes. Specialist Georgina Benton was a trained combat medic – she'd actually been working towards W1, Special Operations Combat Medic before the aliens had invaded – but there was a certain naivety around her that bothered him. No one who had spent time in the military, let alone been deployed into combat zones – and Georgina had – should have been that naive.

  But then, he admitted privately, a year ago he wouldn't have believed that it could have happened in America either.

  The refugee camp wasn't quite as bad as some of the camps he'd seen in Afghanistan or Africa, but it was quite bad enough. Thousands of people, some of whom had been doing nothing more than living in their homes minding their own business, had been uprooted and pushed away by the aliens and their collaborators. Large sections of Wyoming might have been effectively unpopulated before the aliens landed, but they’d just kept expanding until they’d pushed half of the state’s population into refugee camps. Or maybe they were just worried about how easily large numbers of insurgents could hide in the countryside or in the mountains. Moving most of the local population into camps would be a neat way to keep control of them.

  He’d smelled the camp a long time before they even approached it, a faint stench of shit and piss and hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm him. Edward had never placed much faith in FEMA even before the government agency had had so many problems dealing with the aftermath of hurricanes, but even FEMA hadn't done such a bad job of taking care of refugees. But then, they’d always intended those refugees to go back to their homes, while these refugees knew they would never be returning. Even if they escaped the camp, their homes had been destroyed. Where would they go?

  “Bastards,” Edward hissed. He'd thought himself desensitised after his escape from Chicago before the aliens finished grinding the city into dust. But seeing this reminded him, again, of just why they had to fight. “Fucking filthy bastards.”

  He peered through his binoculars as a handful of alien warriors moved in front of the camp, watching the human guards through beady eyes. The guards themselves were a mixture of Walking Dead and collaborators, the latter apparently under close supervision. Edward couldn't decide if that was a deliberate attempt to minimise the problems caused by the camp or just random chance. If the former, it struck Edward as pointless. The refugees had lost everything. Did the aliens think they were going to start liking them because they were also protecting them from rape and other forms of abuse?

  Maybe it’s just a plot to keep them under control, he thought, as he moved his gaze to the refugees themselves. And keep them fed.

  Unlike some of the early POW camps the aliens had used, the refugees had been allowed to bring their own tents – and anything else they could carry on their backs. The result was a crazed mix of holiday camp and prison camp, with colourful tents lined up in neat rows beyond the wire. Behind them, there were a handful of military surplus tents that had been placed there for the benefit of anyone who hadn't brought a tent of their own. The aliens had even provided toilets, fresh water and some kind of rapidly-produced food.

  They could feed themselves if they were allowed to hunt, Edward thought, bitterly. But, naturally, the one thing the aliens had made sure to do was to confiscate all of the guns the refugees carried with them. Maybe it made sense – no matter how comfortable the camp was, there would be fights as tensions rose and tempers frayed – but it also ensured that the refugees couldn't rise up against their guards. Any major attempt at resistance and the aliens would simply rip them apart.

  “Damn them,” he muttered out loud. Given enough time, the refugees would either become broken – or they’d become fanatics. The latter, at least, might fight. “Let’s go.”

  It was nearly an hour before they reached a place where they could observe the first alien city. The warriors were out in force, patrolling the area around the alien base; there were several times when Edward was sure that they’d been spotted, before the aliens had moved on and left them alone. There was no sign of any other aliens, something that puzzled him; surely, if the aliens wanted to keep Earth for themselves, they would be trying to exploit it. But then, there were insurgents – and independents – in the mountains. They might well take advantage of finding a few aliens on their own, utterly unprotected.

  “Look at that,” Georgina muttered. “They just ... burned it.”

  Edward nodded. There had been a town near the alien base, judging by the road network, but it no longer existed as anything other than a large patch of burned ground. He’d seen the aliens burning their way through Chicago, but this was different; they’d eradicated almost all evidence that the town had even existed. A few years and there would be nothing left at all.

  He caught himself wondering what the people who lived there had been like, before the aliens had come for their land. Had they been friendly and welcoming to strangers, or had they eyed them suspiciously and turned away when the strangers came? There was no way to know; right now, the only survivors would be in the alien refugee camps, or lurking up in the mountains.

  Cursing, he turned his gaze and looked out on the alien city. It was ... strange. If he hadn't known about the aliens, he suspected that he still would have pegged it for an alien city, rather than anything built by humans. It was just too weird to be human ... and Edward, who had served in the Middle East, Afghanistan and Japan, knew just how many different designs humanity had produced for itself.

  The alien city looked as if it was built out of melted plastic, as if it had once been a much larger city before the heat had taken its toll. Some of the buildings reassembled skyscrapers, but others reassembled nothing so much as melted cheese and hamburgers ... he almost started chuckling, before remembering that it didn't really matter how bizarre the alien aesthetics seemed to him. They were still hugely powerful in every way that mattered. He caught sight of an alien transport coming to a halt over the city before lowering itself to the ground and shivered. The aliens and their collaborators had a tactical mobility unmatched by any purely human force, even before America had been occupied. And they were learning how to cope with human weapons and tactics.

  He peered through his binoculars, allowing him to see the aliens as they moved through the city. There was something about their movements that puzzled him, something that nagged at his mind until it finally hit him. They almost seemed to be working in unison. A human city would have a population that did hundreds of disparate things, from students and unemployed to policemen and even soldiers, but the aliens seemed almost part of an ant colony rather than a normal city. The tiny workers ... worked. None of them seemed to be enjoying themselves, or relaxing, or even jerking off.

  Maybe they’re real party animals when they’re off shift, he thought, although it didn't seem very likely. The workers rarely showed much independence, according to the information he’d picked up from the internet and the resistance’s underground channels. They certainly never seemed to act as individuals. Maybe the aliens didn't have a hive mind – it was clear that what one alien knew wasn't automatically shared by others – but their society was regimented to a degree that few humans would have been able to tolerate. Perhaps they could have made communism work.

  But maybe it wasn't too surprising. The human societ
ies that were tightly regimented were that way because of external pressure. It was often the only way to survive, particularly if resources were limited. The aliens had been on a giant spacecraft, a vast but self-contained structure, for God knew how long. Regimenting their society might have been the only way they could have coped with the trip.

  “Maybe they’ll loosen up in a decade or so,” Georgina suggested, when he said that out loud. “Or maybe they’re just ... made that way.”

  “Maybe,” Edward grunted.

  It wasn't a thought he enjoyed contemplating. The Indian caste system was nothing more than racism, based on the colour of a person’s skin. Like all other forms of racism, it was nothing more than a fancy excuse to keep people under control – and deny them basic human rights. There was no real physical difference, apart from skin colour, between a Brahmin and an Untouchable.

  But that wasn't true of the aliens. Workers were small slight beings, although reports from brief encounters suggested that they were stronger than they seemed. Warriors were fast, strong and extremely difficult to kill. Edward had seen them take shots that would have killed a human instantly and they’d just kept coming. You practically had to behead one in order to stop it. Alien leaders were tall, willowy and – it seemed – extremely smart. Or so he had been told. And then there were the crossbreeds, who could be chillingly unpredictable.

  If Hitler had been able to genetically engineer human beings, Edward knew what he would have done. He would have made his delusions of the Master Race real. Had that been, he couldn't help wondering, how the aliens had become a caste-based society? Or had they simply evolved that way?