The Trojan Horse (15 page)

“We know almost nothing about the Federation,” Thomas said.  “They have been reluctant to tell us anything about themselves; we know nothing about their interstellar geography, their biology, their technology...some data, sure, isn't what anyone would choose to share when confronting a violent bunch like ourselves, but they have often refused to share data that would have no conceivable military value.  All we know for sure is that they have seventeen starships orbiting over our heads and that those starships are crewed by one race.  They tell us that the Federation includes thousands of races...so where are they?

“But that is outside my remit,” he continued.  “They have demanded that we hand supreme authority over to a world government that will not be elected into power – even by the world’s population – and that we disband most of our military force.  I see no logic to their demands.  Why would they want us to cut the military when the military poses no threat to them – or any nation under their protection?  We know almost nothing about the Federation, Mr. President; we are in a state of almost complete ignorance.  And that is very dangerous.

“It is my feeling that agreeing to sign up to this alien-designed world government is not a constitutional action,” he concluded.  “Even if the aliens meant every word they’ve told us, I would still recommend that we do not surrender our government to a global government that is not – cannot be – accountable to ourselves.  There are other ways to integrate their technology into our society.”

Toby smiled, impressed.  The General had summed up the problems he’d seen with the alien terms – problems that had been reported on the internet, before a number of bloggers had dropped dead.  A tenth blogger had been reported dead in Texas in what looked like a drink-driving incident, although his friends had sworn blind that he was a strict Christian who never touched a drop of alcohol.  And now the General himself might be targeted.  Toby started reviewing the procedures he'd put in place for contacting his father.  General Thomas was someone who could not be allowed to die.

“You are interfering in a political matter,” McGreevy snapped.  “That is
well
outside your remit.”

The President looked uncomfortable.  “General...”

“I understand,” Thomas said.  He pulled one of his medals off his uniform and dropped it on the table.  “I cannot go along with this, Mr. President.  You’ll have my resignation on your desk by the end of today.”

He stood up and stalked out of the room.  The President watched him go, a shocked expression meandering over his face, before he caught himself and turned back to the table.

“We need to take a recommendation to Congress,” he said, flatly.  “How many of you are in favour of accepting the alien terms?”

Toby didn't get a vote, of course, but the remainder of the table knew that what they agreed upon would be pushed through Congress with ease.  He watched as dispassionately as he could as the votes were tallied up.  Only two politicians were prepared to put their doubts on the record; the remainder agreed that America needed to join the global government at the start.  Toby couldn't quite believe it.  They were signing away America's independence, for what?  Alien technology, toys and gadgets – and a fear that if they refused, America would become a Third World state and their political careers would be over.

“The ayes have it,” the President said, flatly.  He glanced towards the covered windows.  Outside, the Witnesses and their throng of protesters had gathered, shouting their demands towards the White House.  Parts of Washington reassembled a battlefield after protest marches had turned into riots.  Rumour had it that the National Guard was on the verge of being called up to help keep the peace.  “We will join the Galactic Federation.”

Chapter Fifteen

Washington DC

USA, Day 25

As the President’s Special Assistant – a term that covered a multitude of sins – Toby was technically entitled to a room at the White House.  He’d declined the honour, choosing instead to set up his home in an apartment some distance from the White House.  It allowed him to tell himself that he had some independence, while being close enough to the President’s residence to get back there within twenty minutes if there was an emergency.

He entered the apartment, checked the expensive security system to ensure that no one had tried to break in while he'd been at the White House and closed the door behind him.  There were only four rooms within the apartment – the high rent came from being so close to official Washington – and he walked into the bedroom and threw himself down on the bed.  He was tired, immensely so, yet he dared not rest yet.  There was too much to do.

Rolling over, he stared up at the ceiling.  It had never stuck him until now just how little he’d done in the apartment, even though he’d rented it for the last three years.  A small shelf of books, a secure laptop from the NSA, a handful of DVDs and CDs...there was little to show that anyone lived and worked from the apartment.  Some of the people he shared the apartment block with had money to burn, using it to outfit their apartments with tasteless paintings and decorations.  Toby had treated it as little more than a place to sleep when he wasn't on duty, or catching a power nap on one of the White House sofas.    His father would probably not have approved. 

The President had wanted him to write a speech that he would use to address the nation as the sun set and darkness fell over the land.  Toby had almost handed the task over to one of the official speechwriters in Washington; only the high security classification on the material had ensured that he kept it to himself.  He felt beaten, almost defeated.  Whatever else happened, the aliens would almost certainly get what they wanted.  All of Earth’s major powers would join their global government, disband most of their military forces and destroy their nuclear stockpiles.  It sounded like a dream.  Toby knew that it could become a nightmare.

He would have shaken his head, if he hadn't been so tired.  General Thomas had been right; the government was walking down an unconstitutional path, seduced by the promise of alien technology and threatened by the prospect of losing their political careers.  The protesters thronging through Washington and every other state capital were a reminder that careers would be made or broken on this issue, an issue that affected everyone in the entire world.  Toby had watched in numb disbelief how abortion and gay marriage had been moved from minor issues to political millstones, dragging political careers below the waterline and effortlessly drowning them before the politician ever had a chance to run for national office.  And they’d been minor matters.  Membership – or not – in the Galactic Federation affected everyone on Earth.

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet.  He’d acquired a taste for strong coffee from his father, one of the few things he'd kept since he’d left the farm.  The coffeemaker had been one of his few expenditures since he’d moved to Washington, but it had been worth the price to have a cup of strong coffee available upon demand.  He poured himself a cup, added a splash of milk and a spoonful of sugar, and then drank it in one gulp.  It was hot enough to scald the back of his throat, which was how he liked it.  The shock of hot caffeine brought him back to his senses.

Every week, a team of counter-intelligence experts from the Secret Service gave his apartment a careful check for bugs.  Toby suspected that they would have missed the alien bugs; hell, he had no way to know if they hadn’t tagged him again, or if Gillen and her team would ever develop a small bug-sweeper that could be used to find and remove alien bugs without a full search procedure.  Sitting down in front of his desk, Toby pulled out a sheet of paper and started to write a letter to his father.  It was a risk, but it was impossible to do it mentally; he’d discovered that while he was a child.  His father had been obsessed with codes and he’d taught all of his children how to create and decode basic ciphers.  Oddly, the memory gave him a pang of homesickness.  It would be wonderful to be a child again.

Every code could be broken, given enough time and computing power.  Toby was counting on the aliens only paying attention to internet and cell phone traffic.  They would find it much harder to keep track of messages hand-carried from place to place.  The mundane cipher he’d used to encode his message was based around a book he and the Colonel both had on their bookshelves.  With some effort, the message shouldn't arouse suspicion in alien minds, although a human might wonder if someone was trying to hide something.  He wrote the message out in clear, wrote it again in code, and then fed the original message through the shredder.  Anyone who worked in politics knew better than to keep embarrassing documents around when they could be shredded.  Who knew what could prove embarrassing or career-destroying in the future.

Picking up his coat, Toby headed downstairs, nodded to the security guard on duty in the lobby and walked out onto the streets.  He could hear the sound of chanting in the distance and knew it to be protesters, demanding immediate compliance with the terms of the Galactic Federation.  How could they be such fools?  But then, they knew nothing about the alien bugs, or any of the other signs that the aliens weren't being entirely straight with the human race.  And the aliens had given them the most significant thing of all.  They’d given them hope.

There were any number of bars and restaurants around Official Washington.  Many of them served young lobbyists, reporters and others who existed on the outskirts of politics, rather than serving within the White House or Congress.  Toby walked into one that served a number of lobbyists who were currently pressing for immediate acceptance of the Galactic Federation’s terms and ordered a whiskey and soda.  His father’s friend was seated at a single table, all on his own.  Officially, he represented a small company in Virginia that was hoping to get a piece of the vast funds everyone assumed would be doled out by Congress once the human race was enrolled in the Federation.  It helped that he had a legitimate reason to be in Washington.  And if he’d been marked by the aliens...

Toby cursed the uncertainty under his breath as he sat down.  His father’s friend looked up, one cigarette drooping mournfully from the corner of his mouth.  Toby said nothing; he merely unfurled the newspaper he was carrying and made a show of reading it.  The paper was talking about the wonders of Federation membership.  It was all they talked about these days.  He finished his drink and put the newspaper on the table.

“Hey,” his father’s friend said.  “Can I have the paper?”

“Knock yourself out,” Toby said. 

He passed the paper – and the note concealed in its folds – to his father’s friend and left the table.  Behind him, the man put the paper in his bag and headed off in the opposite direction.  Toby silently prayed that the aliens weren’t following him closely.  Given enough computing power, they could probably track everyone in Washington, or even the country.  The ultimate national security state, all the more dangerous for being far less intrusive than anything the Soviet Union or the Nazis had devised.  They wouldn't even know that they were under observation until it was far too late. 

And that could be the most devastating thing of all.

***

“Joe Buckley,” Matt Robertson said.

Jayne looked up, rubbing her tired eyes.  They’d spent the last two days trying to track down the sources of funding for the protest movements that were mobilising hundreds of thousands of young Americans, but most of the money seemed to disappear in an official haze.  Follow The Money was standard advice for journalists, yet the money trail seemed to have completely disappeared.  It didn't help that the protesters had opened up a hundred different ways for their supporters to donate money electronically, ensuring that they no longer needed to rely on supporters who wanted to remain unseen.

“Who?”  She asked.  “I’ve never heard of him.”

Robertson leered at her, cheerfully.  He was a computer nerd who might not have been cut out for the life of a blogger, but he was quite capable of supporting other bloggers.  It helped that he had no visible link to the BAN.  Rumour had it that he'd hacked a number of government databases and that the FBI was after his head, preferably not attached to his body.  When not working on the computer, he was devouring junk food and watching pornographic material on his television.  Jayne was privately surprised that he wasn't too fat to walk.  Some people, she thought, remembering all the exercise she had to take, had all the luck.

“Joe Buckley,” Robertson said.  “Famed for writing the
Grand Fleet Saga
, from Baen Books.  Former US Navy crewman; former Navy brat...
New York Times
bestselling author...and former alien sceptic.”

Jayne looked up, lifting one eyebrow.  “
Former
alien sceptic?”

“Yes,” Robertson said.  “Buckley was one of the people who publically questioned the alien motives in visiting Earth.  For some reason, they actually invited him to their base in Nevada – where he underwent a conversion.  Since then, he’s been telling everyone he can reach just how wonderful the aliens are and how many benefits they will bring to Earth.  It’s created quite a stir in right-wing circles.  Everyone is asking if he’s been replaced by a pod person.”

Jayne blinked.  “Pod person?”

“There was an old science-fiction movie that had everyone dropping asleep and being replaced with a pod version of themselves,” Robertson explained.  “The pod people were...well, non-aggressive beings.  I can’t remember the rest of the story; the point is that someone got to Buckley and turned him into an alien supporter.”

Jayne considered it.  “But how do we know that he didn't see something that made him change his mind?”

“If you changed your mind about going out with me on Saturday night, you’d know why,” Robertson pointed out.  “But what has Buckley told his friends, his family, his legions of fans...?  Sweet fuck-all.  He’s said nothing about
why
he’s decided to convert to alien-worshipping; the platitudes he mouths to his fans are the same the aliens have been given us ever since they made that speech at the UN.  So what happened to him and why?”

“You think they got to him,” Jayne said.  “And what did they do to him?”

Robertson grinned.  “You’ve never wished for the power to change a person’s mind?  You’ve never wanted to force your editor to give you a massive raise?  The CIA has been working on brainwashing techniques for decades; they talked about taking a Russian spy and brainwashing him into becoming a loyal American.  And people like Joe Buckley reach a wide spectrum of Americans, even the ones who think he’s an insane right-wing nut who serves as a good advert for gun control.

“I bet you anything you care to put forward that your alien friends did something to him while he was at that base and turned him into their ally,” he concluded.  “And if you could find proof of that...”

“We’d have proof that they meddled with people’s minds,” Jayne said.  It wasn't hard to follow his logic.  “But how do we prove something like that?”

“Carefully,” Robertson said.  He made a show of stoking his chin.  “It really depends on what they did to him.  They might have stuck an implant in his brain – there was a whole series of novels based around a Nazi UFO base in Antarctica where they abducted people and stuck implants in their heads.  Or they might have some kind of conditioning system that allows them to stamp new ideas into a person’s mind.  Hypnosis doesn’t actually work like they have it in the movies.  You can't actually program a person into believing something different without a great deal of preparation...”

“And I’m sure that that’s a big relief to all those girls who feared that someone would hypnotise their way into their pants,” Jayne injected.  “What do you think we can do about it?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Robertson admitted.  “Most of the literature on this kind of stuff is highly speculative or highly classified.  I think we could probably start by scanning his brain and looking for any foreign matter...but I don’t know if we could find a doctor with the right attitude for this.  Hell, Buckley himself could be counted on to object.”

“If he’s under alien control, yes,” Jayne agreed.  “How do we get access to Joe Buckley?”

Robertson grinned and pulled out a brightly-coloured sheet of paper.  “Joe Buckley, world-famous science-fiction author, will be one of the guest speakers at the Welcome Foundation as it incorporates as a charitable organisation bent on ensuring that humanity joins the Galactic Federation,” he said.  He passed her the glossy sheet and Jayne scanned it quickly.  “We’d at least be able to talk to him there, assuming you’re up for a visit...”