The Trojan Horse

Chapter One

Washington DC/Virginia

USA, Day 1

“Holy shit!”

Jason Lucas stared down at his screen. It had seemed like a routine day at SETI, monitoring the heavens for some sign of extraterrestrial life. Interns like Jason joined SETI, worked for a few months or years as technicians and computer geeks, and then left the foundation when it became clear that no alien message was going to be forthcoming. He’d expected to go back to college and concentrate on something more practical, something that would look better on his resume…

He couldn’t believe his eyes. A signal was flooding in on the hydrogen band, a frequency that all of the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence’s experts believed would be the one most likely used by another intelligent race. It was almost perfect, almost exactly what they’d expected to find. Jason felt a strong sense of excitement flooding through him, tempered by caution. SETI had been mistaken — or hoaxed — before and no one would thank him if he alerted the media and then discovered that he’d picked up signals from a forgotten Russian satellite or a top secret military spy satellite high overhead.

But all the computer programs geeks like Jason had devised to verify the origins of any unknown signal all agreed. The signal was coming from the Lagrange Point between the Earth and the Moon, precisely balanced at the point where the gravity fields created by such huge objects were perfectly balanced. A space station could have been positioned there, if NASA had gotten off its ass and actually done something apart from sucking up tax dollars and providing employment for lobbyists and political pork for congressmen. There was nothing up there, as far as Jason knew; even the long-rumoured Chinese lunar mission had failed to get off the ground. He keyed in a final set of commands, verifying the findings through the network of radio telescopes that SETI monitored on a routine basis. By now, others would be aware of the signal. It wouldn’t be long before the news got out.

For all of his life, Jason had dreamed of travelling in space. He’d been told that by the time he reached his teenage years, mankind would have space stations in orbit around the Earth and colonies on the Moon and Mars. But the dreams created by Robert Heinlein, Doc Smith and other science-fiction writers had never come true; by the time Jason had left high school, NASA had shut down the space shuttle program and the economic recession was sweeping the country. There was money for everything, it seemed, apart from space travel. An angry visionary had drifted into SETI in the hopes of touching some of the wonder he’d dreamed of in the past, yet knowing that alien contact would change the world forever. The Native Americans had encountered advanced beings who might as well have come from a whole new world. They hadn’t survived the experience.

The computer results all agreed. There was a signal source where no signal source should be. Jason felt growing terror overriding his excitement. SETI had always expected to discover alien civilisations light years from Earth, civilisations that could pose no serious threat to the planet. Unless someone discovered a means of travelling faster than light, only the most hardy of space travellers would seek to cross the interstellar void and pay a call on Earth. And yet, the signal was definitely coming from nearby. There was an alien spacecraft near the Earth.

He reached for his phone and dialled a number. It was early in the morning and the Director, Daniel Crenshaw, didn’t get in until late, but the protocols for any form of verified encounter were specific. Jason — or whoever was on duty — had to report the contact to his superiors at once, who would then start alerting others — and probably calling the media, the cynical side of his mind added. SETI had been having problems raising funds and a genuine alien contact would ensure that they received all the funding they needed to keep watching for alien life.

“Sir,” he said, when a tired voice answered, “I think you should listen to this.”

The Director didn’t believe him at first, which wasn’t surprising. SETI had been hoaxed before, after all. But once Jason had convinced him that he was telling the truth, the Director leapt into life. Jason left the matter in his capable hands and turned back to the computers. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could decipher the message before the world’s scientific community came in and buried the whole issue under a series of studies about how to decipher the message. He didn’t have high hopes. It was hard enough to learn a human language, let alone one from another world. SETI had all kinds of programs that should allow them to establish a common understanding with an alien race, but they’d never been tested. It should have been impossible to decipher the message.

He succeeded on his very first try.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” Colonel William Sanderson (retired) said. “I wish you were still alive.”

He stood below the rising sun, looking down at the two gravestones in a private part of his Virginia farm. His wife and eldest son lay below the ground, his wife dead in childbirth, his son dead in the wars. The Sanderson family had a long and proud tradition of military service; there had been a Sanderson with George Washington when he crossed the Delaware, a Sanderson with Grant and Sherman as they marched on Richmond and put an end to the slave-holding Confederate States of America, a Sanderson in the Spanish-American War, the World Wars and Vietnam. The Colonel had served in Desert Storm when the United States had first waged war against Saddam and his evil regime; two of his children had fought in the liberation of Iraq a decade later. And one of them had fallen there.

“I don’t know how to cope with Toby,” he told his dead wife. “I feel as if I failed him — I failed my son. Did I blame him for your death…?”

The memories rose in front of his eyes, memories that neither military service nor drink could keep from his mind. Mary had been slight for her age and the doctors had warned that she might have difficulty bearing children, but she’d given birth to five healthy children without apparent difficulty. The Colonel had been delighted when she’d told him that she was pregnant again, yet it had been the beginning of the end. His memories took on a nightmarish hue that none of his memories of combat matched, even when he’d been on the verge of capture by enemy forces during a mission that had never been officially acknowledged. Mary’s pale face, the blood, the crying child… and the face of the Doctor as he admitted that they hadn’t been able to save the Colonel’s wife, despite all of their knowledge. The Colonel had tried not to blame Toby for his mother’s death, yet there had always been a rift between the Colonel and his youngest son. And then Robert had died in action.

Toby had loved Robert, his eldest brother. They’d all loved Robert. The Colonel had expected him to serve his time in the military and then return home to take over the farm. Instead, he’d been killed by an IED on the streets of Baghdad in the days before the government admitted that there was an insurgency underway, his death the result of blundering by the planners who should have prepared for chaos in the days following the fall of Saddam’s regime. Toby had taken it badly and a series of bitter arguments between father and son had blossomed into a deep and apparently permanent rift. He’d rebelled against his family’s traditions and disappeared into Washington. They hadn’t spoken since.

The Colonel rubbed his eyes. His father had told him that death was part of life, that everyone died eventually. All that mattered was how well a person lived. The Colonel liked to think that his family had lived well, even the Sanderson who had fought beside General Lee in the Army of Northern Virginia. But Toby had been at just the right age to be influenced by the death of his brother and he’d rejected the family.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” the Colonel said, again. He’d come to terms with his wife’s death, but he’d never found anyone else to fill the gaping void in his heart. Or, perhaps, to serve as the mother-figure for his daughters, who’d been still children when their mother passed away. How could they help being tomboys, even if they had found good matches and were raising the next generation of the family? “I wish things were different.”

His cell phone shrilled.

The Colonel straightened up in annoyance. His private time with his wife and son was private time. The others on the farm — his children, his grandchildren and the summer hands who worked during summer holidays — knew not to disturb him unless it was truly urgent, yet there shouldn’t have been anything urgent. They had had nothing planned for the morning, except the endless work that went towards keeping the farm up and running. Countless generations of his family had lived on the farm and worked the land and the Colonel had no intention of being the last.

“Sanderson,” he said, shortly. The caller ID identified the caller as Robin Greenhill, one of his older friends… even if he had served in the United States Navy rather than on land. “What is it?”

“Colonel,” Greenhill said. He sounded excited — and terrified. “Have you seen the news?”

“I’ve been busy,” the Colonel said. What had happened in the few hours since he’d glanced at CNN while eating his way through breakfast? There hadn’t been anything particularly important in the news. The President was due to give another speech on the economic depression, something that might make good comic relief; there was yet another flare-up in Palestine between Israel and the Palestinians; the Chinese were making threatening noises over Taiwan and the presence of an American carrier battle group in the region; the Russians were sounding off about the dangers of European military preparation… nothing to interest the Colonel, not now. “What is it?”

“Go see CNN,” Greenhill said. It was almost an order. “It may be time to panic.”

The Colonel frowned as he started the walk back to the farmhouse, passing the small orchard of apple trees he’d harvested since he’d been able to walk. One of the farmhands was picking apples for cooking now, preparing for the winter months to come; another was chatting urgently about something while holding the ladder. The Colonel ignored them as he tramped into his house, removed his boots — one of the few arguments he’d had with his former wife had been over dirty boots in the house — and walked into the living room. He disliked CNN on principle — it was too inclined to take statements from enemy countries at face value for his tastes — but he had to admit that it was often the first to sound the alert if anything changed. The internet was quicker, yet the level of fact-checking online was often very poor. He picked up the remote and flicked the television on.

“…Command has verified the presence of seventeen alien spacecraft in orbit around the Earth,” the newsreader said. The Colonel stared in disbelief as the newsreader, a blonde bimbo with breasts that kept threatening to break out of her blouse, kept reading from her teleprompter. “The aliens have so far not attempted to communicate with the government, but official sources in Washington have confirmed that the President will be remaining in the White House. We go now live to SETI headquarters in Washington… Director Crenshaw, how does SETI feel about this momentous event?”

Crenshaw’s face appeared in front of the Colonel, a balding lobbyist with a characterless face. “Well, Gillian, we’re all very excited,” he said. Sweat was shining on his forehead as he spoke, suggesting that he was either unused to being interviewed or that there had been no time for makeup and other preparations. “This is a time of great change for the human race. We always wondered if we were alone in the universe. Now we know that we are not — that we have cousins from beyond the stars. The world will never be the same again.”

Gillian’s face reappeared on the screen. “Do you feel that this… ah, First Contact poses any danger to the planet?”

“The aliens have so far shown no signs of hostility,” Crenshaw said. For a moment, he looked hesitant. The Colonel, used to watching Intelligence Officers from the CIA hide information they felt couldn’t be shared with the lowly soldiers who actually had to put their lives on the line, realised that he was hiding something. “They haven’t opened fire or done anything to threaten us…”

The Colonel muted the sound and picked up his cell phone, calling Greenhill. “I saw,” he said. “I think it’s time to gather the clan.”

“I’ll start calling people,” Greenhill said. “Everyone who’s seen Independence Day will want to get out of the cities.”

The Colonel nodded in agreement. His family would be safe — except for Toby. Whatever else could be said about the lad, he was as brave as anyone else in the family; he’d stay in Washington beside his President. And besides, he would be as safe there as anywhere else in the nation. If the aliens didn’t come in peace… they wouldn’t have to fly giant flying saucers into the atmosphere to wreck havoc. A handful of asteroids pushed down towards the planet would do the job nicely…

But they’d know that in Washington, wouldn’t they?

The Colonel and his family had been survivalists long before the word had been coined. They’d always known that they could never count on the government coming to their aid in a crisis; the government might not be evil — although some of his friends and allies believed that the government was always out to increase its power at everyone else’s expense — but it took time to respond. There would be a time between any disaster and the government’s response, a time when those who were prepared for disaster would live and those who frittered away their time would die. The Colonel had no intention of being among the dead.

And if the aliens were hostile, the survivalists might be the only ones to survive long enough to fight back.

The underground bunker under the White House was as luxurious as money could buy, outfitted in a manner designed to conceal that it was, at heart, a bomb shelter. A terrorist or rogue state could detonate a nuclear warhead in Washington and the occupants of the bunker would be perfectly safe. The displays scattered along the walls showed the live feed from a handful of military intelligence satellites in orbit, showing the positions of the alien spacecraft. It hadn’t taken a brief message from NORAD to warn the President that the aliens were out of reach of any weapon from Earth. They were positioned quite nicely above the gravity well.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Sergeant at the doors said, “the President of the United States.”

Toby Sanderson, Special Assistant to the President, rose to his feet along with the rest of the politicians and military officers in the bunker. The Vice President was already on his way to an undisclosed location, while contingency plans to disperse Congress and the Senate around the country were being put into operation. There was no plan, as far as Toby knew, for alien contact or invasion, but thankfully some of the contingency plans could be used to fit the unanticipated circumstance. It allowed the government to feel that it had some control over what was going on.

President Patrick Hollinger was in his early sixties, a man who had been in politics for much of his adult life. Oddly, he had had few scandals dogging his name as he wafted upwards in politics until he finally made a run for President. His detractors had pointed out that he had never taken a position on anything, but he couldn’t be blamed for that. In an era where unfortunate remarks made during childhood could come back to torpedo political careers, who could blame a politician for wanting to keep his thoughts and opinions private? The politicians had turned mediocrity into a virtue. The greats — Lincoln, Roosevelt, Reagan — would never be elected in the modern era.

Besides, Toby thought, as the President motioned for them to be seated, none of them would have taken my advice.

His career had been an odd one, to say the least. He’d gone into politics to spite his father, only to discover that he was surprisingly good at understanding and shaping public opinion. He had no desire to run for office himself, but he had helped push Hollinger into the Presidency — and Hollinger would be good for the country. Four years of boredom would be better than endless scandals. And while he had never served in the military, his family background had given him the ability to understand it as well as anyone from the civilian side of the tracks could understand it.

“This will be brief,” the President said. He sounded as firm as he ever did. “I will be addressing the nation in one hour, perhaps sooner. General?”

Toby watched as General Elliot Thomas, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, rose to his feet. Thomas was a beefy black man who’d served in almost every conflict in the last twenty years before finally reaching the highest uniformed post in America. There were some who tipped him as a prospective presidential candidate for the next election, but Toby doubted that Thomas would run. He had no sense of compromise, of the give and take that kept politics moving reasonably smoothly. A virtue in a military officer became a liability in politics, which was — at heart — a popularity contest.

“There’s little to say,” Thomas said. His eyes swept the room, passing over Toby in a manner that reminded him of his father’s insightful stare. The General didn’t approve of political advisors and resented Toby’s near-constant presence next to his President. “Orbital monitoring stations have confirmed the presence of seventeen alien starships near the Earth. Several of them are occupying the gravitational balance points between the Earth and the Moon; others appear to be drifting in very high orbits around the Earth. There may be others, but we have no way of detecting them past a certain range.”

There was a long pause. “They have so far shown no signs of hostility,” he added. “If it does come down to war, however, they would have little difficulty in stomping us flat. They could just roll asteroids at us until we surrendered.”

“There’s no need to assume hostility,” Jeannette McGreevy, the Secretary of State, said. She was ambitious as anyone Toby had ever met, with a coldly ruthless streak that contained more than a hint that a sociopath hid behind her smile. “They may come in peace.”

“They may,” Thomas rumbled, “but their mere presence has caused chaos on Earth.”

Toby nodded to himself. Barely an hour after the news had leaked into the public domain and there was already chaos. Hundreds of thousands of people were fleeing the cities, buying guns and stockpiling ammunition, while others weren’t averse to using First Contact as an excuse to loot. The various state governments were already calling up the National Guard and all police leave had been cancelled. They’d heard nothing from other governments on Earth, but Toby would have been surprised to discover that the other nations weren’t suffering their own version of the chaos.

“In fact,” Thomas continued, “we are naked…”

There was an urgent knock at the door, which opened to reveal a harassed-looking officer carrying a portable laptop. “Mr President,” he said, his face showing the strain of speaking directly to the most powerful man in the world. Under normal circumstances, anything new would be passed up the chain of command until it finally reached the President. “We picked up a message from the alien ships. They say that they represent the Galactic Federation… and that they come in peace.”