Christopher Nuttall: Invasion

“But that would mean abandoning our allies to the aliens,” Spencer protested. “They won’t be able to escape alien domination.”

“Perhaps,” Paul said. He smiled suddenly, remembering how the prisoners had reacted to human society. There was no way to know — yet — but he would bet good money that the alien society they’d seek to establish on Earth wouldn’t last longer than a few years. “We can help them, covertly.”

The President lifted a hand for silence. “This is the President,” he said, keying the microphone. “We require the evacuation of the Texas settlement and occupation forces as part of the agreement.”

There was a longer pause. “Evacuating the settlement would be… difficult,” the alien said, finally. “The transport capability to move all of the million settlers and the supporting troops no longer exists.”

“And that’s us told,” Paul commented dryly. The destruction of the Guiding Star had obviously shattered more of the alien capabilities than they knew. “They can use shipping — our shipping, if they don’t want to stay with us and immigrate into American society.”

“We can provide the transport to your other settlements,” the President said, giving Spencer a warning look. The man had been clearly nerving himself up to protest, again. “Your people can be moved without much trouble.”

“You would agree to us continuing to hold the other two footholds?” The alien asked. Paul saw sweat beading on the President’s forehead. One way or the other, he was going to be remembered for this… perhaps as a hero, perhaps as the greatest traitor the human race had ever known. “You will not attempt to recover them later?”

The President suddenly looked very tired. “No,” he said. “Provided that you continue to supply the oil, as you have been making deals to do with the other powers, we will respect your right of conquest.”

The alien said nothing for a long moment. “The Arab world is going to go nuts,” Spencer said, angrily. “Mr President, I must protest this and…”

“There isn’t an Arab world any more,” Deborah snapped back. “What other choice do we have? We can’t liberate them even if we wanted to liberate them! How many of our fighting men and women — and our civilians — are you going to condemn to death just because you’re scared to face the Ivy Tower intellectuals and tell them that the world is hardly perfect?”

Spencer purpled. “The military doesn’t run the government,” he snapped. “We have…”

“They’re the ones who will do the dying,” Deborah snapped back. “This isn’t one of the wars where we can dip a toe into the blood, decide it’s too hot and back off; this is a war that could destroy us all! How many have to die because you were too stinking stupid to admit that we can’t give your backers what they want?”

“Enough,” the President said. His voice was very calm, but Paul could hear the tension underlying his voice. “General Hastings, do you believe that we could fight this war out to decisive military victory?”

“My job, among other things, is to issue military advice,” General Hastings said, calmly. “At the moment, our capability — ours and the combined forces of free humanity — to launch a liberation of the Middle East or Australia is effectively non-existent. The Navy is sunk or in hiding. The air force is wrecked and useless in an alien combat zone. The remains of the army can barely hold the line. The same, more or less, goes for our allies. The fighting would be effectively hopeless. It is hopeless.”

“I know,” the President said. “The responsibility is mine.”

The alien voice issued suddenly from the speaker. “We will abandon the Texas Foothold if you agree to provide us with transport to the other footholds and recognise our control of those territories,” the alien said. “We will recognise your independence, providing only that you allow missionaries to pass among your people and seek to lead them to the Truth. The precise details can be decided by our subordinates. Do you accept those terms?”

The President looked up at the display, and then back down to the speaker. “The responsibility is mine,” he repeated. “We accept your terms.”

“They’re getting closer,” Simon said, grimly. The parasite ships would be entering laser range — effective laser range — within minutes. The laser link to Earth would probably break the moment they opened fire. “Your orders?”

“We wait,” Gary said, sharply. They could have targeted the remaining parasite ships with the rail guns and perhaps destroyed a handful before they could react, but the remainder would probably blow the damaged shuttles out of the sky. If the aliens really were talking, however, how could they open fire and ruin the fragile truce? The wreckage of the Guiding Star’s battle section, drifting down and burning up in Earth’s atmosphere, was a potent reminder of how quickly the situation could change. “We…”

The radio buzzed once. “This is Mission Control,” it said. “The aliens have accepted our terms. The war is over!”

“Right on,” Simon said. “Bugger me, we actually won! What now, sir?”

“We’re going to have to ask them to help us get down,” Gary said, looking up at the icons of the alien ships. It was funny how they suddenly didn’t look so threatening. “See, you’re a hero! I told you it would work out fine.”

“No, you didn’t,” Simon said. “You told me to make sure I took out extra life insurance.”

“But you survived,” Gary said. He lit an imaginary cigar and pretended to take a long drag. “Once we get down, we’ll be heroes. They’ll be naming spacecraft after us.”

“Did I do the right thing?”

“There was no choice,” Paul said. He pushed as much conviction into his voice as he could. “We couldn’t have won a second outbreak of hostilities. This way, part of the human race remains free and can build up our own space capabilities. New spacecraft, bases on the moon and the outer planets, asteroid mining… within a few years, we’ll outstrip them completely.”

“Maybe,” the President said. His tone became pensive. “I have the feeling, however, that some of the electorate won’t understand that. Why should they?”

Paul considered it. “When has the electorate ever been right about anything?”

“When they elected me,” the President said, and grinned. Paul decided not to point out that he had voted for the other guy. “I think that was a good choice, don’t you?”

“They sit in their chairs and got fed soundbites by talking heads,” Paul said. “They looked at the world through a prism held up by people with dubious agendas. They swallowed all sorts of crap because it came from someone with a bright smile, or because they didn’t want to appear racist or sexist or whatever other kind of bad buzzword of the month, or because it was easier than thinking for themselves. They got whatever they wanted when they got it and forgot that it came with a price — a heavy price, one that they didn’t have to pay.”

He shrugged. “I guess we’ve had it too easy for too long.”

The President smiled. “Rich democracies are soft?”

“No,” Paul said. “Rich democracies just have a habit of forgetting how cold and harsh the universe can be. They might crucify you for… abandoning the Middle East, but everyone who knows anything about it will know that you had no choice. The world is in chaos and… well, we have our own reconstruction to go through, again. I think they’ll probably forget what’s important by the time the next election comes around.”

“How true,” the President said. “The war is over. Now, all we have to do is win the peace.”