Christopher Nuttall - The Trojan Horse

“Or units from the other side of the world,” the Colonel said. Once, before the shit had really hit the fan, he’d wondered why the aliens had intervened in Africa. Sure, everyone had believed that the Galactic Federation would lead them to a land of milk and honey, but their intervention had seemed pointless. It didn’t look that way now. The aliens had started to deploy human military units they’d armed and trained from Africa, after they’d smashed the dictators, religious fanatics and tribal leaders who had been soaking the continent in blood. It was a neat solution to their problem — and it made it difficult for the resistance to make contact with the newcomers. They simply didn’t speak the same language. “But we can go after them anyway.”

The General nodded. “We should be able to find contacts among them,” he agreed. “Unless they’ve all been brainwashed, or turned into unwitting spies.”

“True,” the Colonel said. “Thank God for Gillian.”

The aliens hadn’t been sitting on their inhuman asses, he knew. They’d been deploying their surveillance technology — and a great deal of stolen human technology — to hunt down and destroy the resistance. Even with the detectors that the NSA had developed before the aliens had revealed their true nature, they’d succeeded in tracking a number of resistance cells back to their safe houses — and then attacking in hopes of taking the fighters alive. The Colonel had had to order several bases abandoned because the aliens had taken people who might have been forced to betray them — leaving a set of IEDs behind in the hopes of nailing a handful of collaborators. And several teams had vanished without a trace. The Colonel could only conclude that they had been wiped out or captured to the last man.

Given time, the aliens would almost certainly win. The plan — the one they’d developed — would give them their only shot at victory, but if the aliens realised in time… they were doomed. And humanity’s freedom would become a thing of the past.

“All we can do is maintain the pressure and wait,” the General said. He looked down at the map, considering possible targets. “The aliens have been bivouacking the newcomers here, here and here. I think we should remind them that it’s against the Constitution to quarter troops on civilians.”

They shared a long grin. The alien collaborators would be in for a nasty shock.

President Patrick Hollinger — the real President, as far as Toby was concerned — was no better than he had been just after Tehran. He had been hooked up to a number of life support machines — all human technology — which were keeping him in a medical coma while he fought for life. The sound of harsh breathing echoed through the room, sending a chill down Toby’s spine. He’d hoped that the President would recover, although he suspected that it would merely sign his death warrant once McGreevy realised that her position was under threat. Toby wasn’t even sure why she’d ordered the President to be kept in the White House, unless it was to ensure that the aliens wouldn’t have a chance to brainwash him. If they did — and succeeded — McGreevy’s use as a puppet would come to an abrupt end.

Toby stepped away from the President and studied the medical monitor positioned by the side of the bed. It was almost impossible for him to read it; as far as he could tell, the President was stable, but showing no signs of recovery. The new team of doctors might well have been maintaining the coma just to keep the President out of play, yet there was nothing Toby could do about it. His only contribution to the President’s safety had been assigning four of the most trusted Secret Service agents to guard the President, night and day. Two of them had medical training. They’d be able to detect — he hoped — any attempt to murder the President in his bed.

He shook his head as he walked out of the door. They still didn’t know what had happened to cause the President to collapse. It was easy to blame it on the stress of his office, but Toby wondered if the aliens hadn’t done something to him. He’d read all the reports from the CIA agents interrogating the defector and they’d all agreed that the aliens didn’t seem to be really aware of the capabilities of their own technology. Or, perhaps, the High Lord did know and was keeping a few things to himself. It would be easy to infect the President with some nanotechnology that would make him collapse at the right time, allowing McGreevy to slip into the Presidency. Given time, they could create the ultimate national security state, with everyone carrying nanotech implants that would monitor their every move — and perhaps even read their thoughts. Some of the possibilities the analysts had raised were terrifying. The aliens might even be able to create a swarm of nanites that would rage over the Earth and turn everyone into a pod person. And that would truly be the end.

But they seemed not to be aware of the possibilities, or perhaps they were scared — too — by the possible outcomes. Maybe they’d wind up creating a hive mind that would take over even the aristocracy and eventually build massive cube-shaped starships that would assimilate the rest of the galaxy. The thought made him smile, even though the prospect was horrifying. Resistance really would be futile. But then, the Borg had been defeated by a Frenchman and a woman who talked out of her nostrils.

He glanced up as one of the President’s personal guard stuck his head into the room. “Mr. Sanderson, the President requests your immediate presence,” he said. If he was aware of the glowering Secret Service agents — and the disparity between their training and his — he showed no sign of it. Perhaps he was too stupid to know. “She’s waiting for you.”

Toby nodded. McGreevy’s paranoia had been rising ever since the first attacks. She’d had the Secret Service replaced with her own people, fired or arrested half of the Cabinet and insisted on everyone who entered her presence being thoroughly searched before they were allowed into the Oval Office. She hadn’t started screaming for beheadings and mass reprisals yet, but Toby was sure that it was just a matter of time. McGreevy controlled only a tiny fraction of the country now, whatever title she held. The aliens, their pod people and the resistance controlled the rest. And McGreevy was almost certainly coming to the end of her usefulness to the aliens.

“I’m on my way,” he said. He exchanged a long look with the lead Secret Service agent, and then headed out of the room. “Did she give a reason?”

“No, sir,” the guard said. “She just demanded your presence.”

Toby kept his face expressionless as they walked up the stairs. Every corner seemed to have an armed guard who checked their ID cards before waving them on to the next guard. Toby had been in the White House when Marines had been used to secure the building, but that hadn’t been anything like as scary as having several different groups of armed men in the building, each one watching the others for signs of disloyalty. All it needed was for someone to cough out of turn and there would be a bloodbath. The guards at the entrance to the Oval Office inspected their ID cards before starting a strip search. Toby had once joked that someone had better buy him dinner and flowers afterwards, but they hadn’t seen the funny side. They all knew that their lives depended upon keeping McGreevy alive and in power.

The White House staff had rapidly grown to resent the newcomers, but what could they do about it? They knew that any attempt to leave would be counted as a sign of disloyalty, while their families were being held as hostages in the detention camps. So they continued to serve the President, while enduring the gropes of her unprofessional guards and the constant feeling of living near a wild animal, one that might lash out at any moment. The White House, the very symbol of American government, was becoming a nightmare. Toby would almost have preferred to see a giant flying saucer blasting the White House to smithereens with a massive ray gun. At least then it would have been destroyed quickly, instead of a slow decay into disgrace. How long would it be before the White House took on the same air as the Kremlin?