The Trojan Horse

Chapter Thirty-Four

Washington DC

USA, Day 65

Jason poured the bottle of alcohol — he’d long since stopped caring about what he ordered — into the glass and cursed as it ran dry. He’d never drunk before — well, not outside of college parties — and the wine was going to his head. But what else could he do? There was no hope for him now, or the Welcome Foundation, or anything else he might have cared about. SETI had had a dream, but the dream had become a nightmare and his life was at risk. The insurgents — or terrorists, as the official line from the government called them — would just as soon blow off his head as look at him. He was the Discoverer. They blamed him for their woes. And it wasn’t even fair.

And the Snakes were another worry. Every day, Jason feared that they’d learned how he’d helped a defector to escape their continuous surveillance. If they had, or if they decided to turn him into a pod person, they would kill him, or turn him into a weapon to use against his countrymen. Or perhaps they didn’t need to bother. He was already a weapon against his countrymen. The Welcome Foundation had become the spearhead for an alien plan to enslave large parts of the human race and probably exterminate the rest. There was nothing left for him at all. The human race, assuming it survived, would remember him as a traitor. What else could they do?

He swallowed the wine in one gulp and winced as he felt it hit his chest. The sensation was alarmingly familiar; the dull taste in his mouth was not. Even the Welcome Foundation couldn’t get good wine these days, even with the aliens backing them. There were shortages everywhere and those who were trying to keep the country going had better things to worry about than supplies of wine to those who weren’t helping. He could have called and invoked what remained of the Foundation’s authority, but it would only add to his woes. And anyone who felt like being a patriot might just poison the wine before they sent it to him. One of the more blatant collaborators had been murdered in just that fashion. Another would have died were it not for alien medical technology.

Jason reached for the bottle with an unsteady hand and cursed as he only managed to knock it over. It fell to the floor and shattered, scattering glass and drops of wine everywhere, a terrible mess for someone to clear up. Jason started to pull himself to his feet before remembering that he wasn’t wearing any shoes and in his half-drunk state he was just as likely to step on a piece of glass than avoid it. He was perhaps more likely to hurt himself by accident, in fact. The depression that threatened to overwhelm him seemed stronger, somehow, with the aid of the drink. There really was nothing left for him now.

Somehow, he pulled himself to his feet and shuffled away from the broken glass. One of the maids would clear it up tomorrow, he told himself firmly. It was what they were paid for — and besides, they seemed to like Jason more than the other collaborators. The others seemed to think that the maids were there to service something other than the rooms. It reminded him of a documentary he’d once seen of the last days of Hitler’s Germany. The Nazis had joked about enjoying the war, because the peace would be terrible. And they’d wined and dined and fucked while their soldiers had fought to hold back the Russian tide just long enough for their masters to see another sunrise. Once, Jason had been disgusted, but now he understood. They had known that the end was coming soon, so why not get what pleasure they could out of life before the Russians stood them against a wall and shot them?

“That’s going to make a terrible mess,” a voice said.

Jason started. He hadn’t heard anyone coming in — coming to think of it, he was almost sure that he’d locked the door before he’d started his nightly binge. An assassin from the resistance could simply have picked the lock… Jason started to sober up rapidly out of sheer terror, even though he knew it was futile. If someone had come to kill him, he might as well stay drunk, just for a little anaesthetic. And then he managed to look up and was surprised to realise that he recognised his visitor. Mr Sanderson looked older and greyer, somehow, but at least he knew that Jason had tried to help the resistance. He probably wasn’t here to kill Jason, unless he thought that Jason might betray the secret. If the aliens knew that a defector had escaped their ranks, their reaction would not be kind.

“I…”

His stomach heaved and he swallowed hard, trying to keep back the tidal wave of vomit that threatened to burst out of his mouth. Mr Sanderson picked up a bucket and held it, without comment, under Jason’s mouth. Jason could barely mutter a thank you before he lost all control and threw up, expelling all of the alcohol and food he’d swallowed since he’d locked the door, enjoying what life while he could. His mouth tasted awful afterwards, but somehow he felt a little better. He hadn’t thrown up so badly since a marathon drinking session back as a freshman. Since then, he’d known better than to drink to excess.

“I think you need a shower and a change,” Mr Sanderson said. Jason almost wanted to snap at him for acting like Jason’s father, but he was right. Besides, Mr Sanderson was his contact with the resistance. Coming here risked exposure — and the Snakes didn’t need to torture someone to make him talk. “I’ll wait here. You go get ready and come back as soon as you can.”

Jason staggered over to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, and washed his mouth out. At least it tasted better than the bitter taste of vomit. Nodding, he staggered over to the bathroom and somehow managed to get undressed without tearing anything. He ordered a hot shower, but the water was only lukewarm. It said something about the nature of alien promises that even their most trusted collaborators couldn’t get hot water. They wouldn’t have found it hard to heat up a few buckets of water. And they’d promised Earth unlimited supplies of fusion-based energy.

The water ran cold a few seconds later. Jason yelped, before realising that the cold was helping him to sober up. Cursing, he staggered out of the shower and reached for the dressing gown he’d left hanging on one of the walls. It felt scratchy against his skin, but it was better than staggering around in the nude. When he managed to get outside, he was surprised and gratified to discover that Mr Sanderson had produced two cups of steaming coffee, one of which was pointed at Jason before he could say a word. It was stronger than his normal tastes, but it helped sober him up completely.

“I don’t have much time,” Mr Sanderson said. He sounded… annoyed. Jason understood. He’d risked losing his freedom of thought — or his life — to visit Jason, yet Jason had been thoroughly drunk and forced him to waste time making him sober up. “We know what the aliens are doing now, and how they’re organised. We need to get a team onto one of their starships, the warship. How can we do that?”

Jason blinked at him. The coffee cup felt hot against his hands, helping him to focus. But it hardly mattered. No one — despite pleas from almost every scientist and astronaut on Earth — had been invited onto any of the alien ships. And Jason would have bet good money that they would never allow any human, let alone an armed military team, to get onto one of their ships. The starships were their ace in the hole. No rebellion could take and hold ground with the bastards holding the high ground. They would know better than to allow any chance that they could be subverted, or destroyed.

And no weapon built on Earth could even reach the ships.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, finally. “They don’t let humans onto their ships.”

“We need to find a way to get onto their ships or we may as well run up the white flag and surrender,” Sanderson said quietly, but forcefully. “How can we do that?”

Jason thought, desperately. The entire human race depended upon their managing to take a ship; one ship, if what Sanderson was saying was true. But the ship was the one they would never even consider allowing humans to board, not as long as it was their ace in the hole…

He stopped. A thought had just struck him. “The aliens have taken over Andrews AFB,” he said. The Welcome Foundation maintained an office on the base, now that the surviving human military personnel had deserted or been converted. “They use it when they send people down to talk to the President.”

“True, although it’s more a case of talking at the President,” Sanderson said. “McGreevy is not in the best of mental states.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jason admitted. There had been a time when he’d thought highly of McGreevy — although she’d been a scheming politician, she had seemed devoted to the Welcome Foundation and the dream of Federation. Now… now she was just another collaborator, more highly-placed than most. “What are they doing to her?”

“I don’t think the aliens are actually doing anything to her,” Sanderson said. “I think she’s realised that she’s made a mistake and is too stubborn to admit it.”

Jason shrugged. It wasn’t his problem. “They fly a shuttle down from their flagship to the base, every week,” he said. “They seem to do it regularly, no matter what trouble or strife seems to be affecting the area. If you could get a team onto the shuttle, you might be able to get up to orbit…”

“This isn’t Independence Day,” Sanderson pointed out, dryly. “I don’t think that we could fly one of their shuttles. They’re not exactly built for human bodies…”

“We have at least one alien ally,” Jason said. “Couldn’t he fly the shuttle?”

“Possibly,” Sanderson said. He stroked his chin. “But there are a lot of things we don’t know about their security, or what codes the shuttle has to exchange with the flagship before it’s allowed to dock, or…”

He shook his head. “And we’d still have to get a team through the base’s defences and take the shuttle,” he added. “They’d have plenty of time to alert the flagship that the shuttle has been hijacked. One blast from the laser cannon or whatever they have to defend their ships and the shuttle will be nothing more than flaming ash.”

Jason stared down at his empty cup. Sanderson was right. Too much could go wrong, even considering the inside knowledge they had — and the alien leadership didn’t know they had. It was a secret weapon, but what good was it if it couldn’t be used? How could they hope to pull off a victory if they couldn’t get into orbit… he thought, carefully, about everything he knew about the aliens or thought he knew about them. What did they value? They probably cared about their own lives or at least the lives of their senior officers. They seemed much less concerned about their juniors and soldiers, preferring to vaporise their bodies rather than run the risk of allowing them to fall into enemy hands.

What did they value…?

He looked up, suddenly. “I know what we can use,” he said, grimly. “The one thing we have that they won’t want to throw away in a hurry. They won’t want to lose their collaborator of a President so quickly, will they?”

Sanderson nodded, slowly. “They have already been nudging at her to accept their protection,” he said. He smiled, sardonically. “For some reason, they believe that her life may be in danger — or they want to remove the rest of her independence of thought. Or maybe they think she’s worth more as an independent entity rather than a pod person.”

He considered. “If she happened to be at Andrews when the base was attacked,” he added, “what would they do?”

“Try to keep her safe,” Jason said. “And where could she be safer than their flagship?”

Sanderson smiled. “I’ll take this to some others and try to put an operation together,” he said. “I suggest that you don’t worry about this for a while. What you don’t know you can’t tell.”

Jason nodded, although part of him felt excluded. “I should come with you,” he said. “I already know too much.”

“I know,” Sanderson admitted. “And if we had someone else in your position, I’d pull you out and take you somewhere underground. But we don’t; we have to balance the risks here and the benefits we gain from having you where you are.”

“Someone who can see what the Welcome Foundation is doing,” Jason said, dryly. “Right now, I cannot think of anything we’re doing that is actually what we were promised before Tehran. We’re not even installing new fusion plants or medical centres or even food kitchens…”

“You’re doing good work,” Sanderson assured him. “The country won’t forget you afterwards, whatever happens.”

Jason snorted. “Winners write the history books, remember? The aliens will remember me as a collaborator if they win and so would most of humanity if the human race comes out of it with even limited independence…”

“The record will be set straight eventually,” Sanderson said. “Besides, you’re assured of a good mention whoever writes the history books.”

He nodded to Jason and left the room. Behind him, Jason took one last look at the mess he’d made on the floor and then turned to go to bed. He’d clean the mess up tomorrow, before the shit hit the fan — again. And then he would find what Sanderson needed to know, betray the aliens, and maybe — just maybe — escape with his own life.

Washington was burning.

Jeannette McGreevy, President of the United States of America, stood at the window in the White House and watched it burn. The Secret Service — whose agents regarded her with contempt when they thought she wasn’t looking — had warned her that there might be snipers in the area, who might just take a shot at the President. She’d been told that the windows were supposed to be bullet-proof, but why take the risk when it wasn’t necessary? And yet… if one of the snipers did end her life, perhaps it would be a good thing. All her dreams had turned to dust and ash.

She’d wanted power — but now all the power she had was enforced by the aliens. If they wanted to dispose of her and put someone else in her place, they could do it. She’d believed that she could ride the Galactic Federation’s coattails to power and a place in human history; now, all Americans would remember about her was that she had been a worse traitor than Benedict Arnold. He’d only plotted to surrender West Point to the British, a long time before anyone had even dreamed of alien life forms. Jeannette McGreevy had handed over her country to an alien power. The future would curse her name.

The portraits on the wall seemed to mock her. Every President was depicted, from the moment of America’s birth as an independent country to Patrick Hollinger’s predecessor, whose dark face seemed to scowl down upon her. George Washington, the father of his country; Abraham Lincoln, who’d unified it even as he’d purged the nation of slavery — and died for his beliefs. Even Richard Nixon, who had disgraced the office of the President, seemed to be glowering at her. Tricky Dick had wanted power too, but he’d never sold out the country. There were those who even believed that the United States would have benefited from a further Nixon term. And Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, George Bush… they would have loathed her.

She swallowed two pills without glancing down at the small container in her pocket. The drugs kept her stable, for whatever it was worth now. She told herself that she should fight back, that she should find a way to turn the Presidency into a weapon, but there was nothing she could do. The aliens had explained — without quite gloating — that she was under constant surveillance. If she did anything they didn’t like, they’d warned, the heart attack that had struck down her predecessor would be nothing compared to what they would do to her.

Turning, she strode back along the plush corridors to her bedroom. The Secret Service agents kept a discreet distance. McGreevy was unmarried — there had been no room for a First Husband in her life, or the White House — and had never regretted it, until now. Having someone to hold her while she cried would have been nice. She’d wanted power. Now she was nothing more than a figurehead, a helpless watcher as Washington burned and the country fell apart. The country she had done so much to destroy.

She should have killed herself, she knew. But she didn’t have the nerve.

Lying down, she closed her eyes and felt the drugs take effect. Sleep crept up over her, just before she could start to toss and turn. Her eyes closed and she fell back into nightmares. And in the morning, she thought just before she fell asleep, she would have to do it all over again. Be their figurehead. Sell out her country. The despair rose up over her and she almost cried as she fell into the darkness. She had betrayed the entire world. And now she was their puppet, their helpless slave.

What else was she good for, now?