Chapter Two
“I’ve been in worse places,” Wing Commander Kurt Schneider said, just loudly enough to be heard. “Haven’t I?”
“It sure isn’t the Academy,” Rose pointed out. His lover looked visibly ill-at-ease, something she’d never shown before. “This is a foretaste of hell.”
Rain crashed over the ATV as it crunched its way towards the refugee camp. The camp itself looked alarmingly like a POW camp, perhaps one of the detention centres that had been set up during the height of the troubles and used to house everyone the government of the time hadn’t liked. It was surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by armed soldiers, none of whom looked very pleased to be standing in the mud, rain dripping off their uniforms. And, behind the wire, there were a dozen prefabricated colonial buildings, providing emergency shelter for thousands of refugees.
The ATV screeched to a halt, allowing Kurt to see the inside of the camp clearly. Hundreds of refugees milled around, almost all of them women, their faces bleak and hopeless. The only men in the camp, he saw, were very old men or very young boys. A news report they’d picked up on the way in had stated that men from twelve to fifty had been conscripted into the armies of labourers trying to help keep back the floodwaters. He said a silent prayer for his son as he stood up and made his way towards the hatch. Percy might have been doing well in the CCF, but he hadn’t been remotely prepared for the greatest disaster to hit Britain in centuries.
But then, none of them had been prepared for the alien attack.
Outside, rain lashed down from high overhead, turning the ground into a sea of mud. Tiny rivers of water ran downhill, adding their weight to the floods growing in the valley, drowning human homes and farmland under an endless tide. He shuddered, recalling the farms that had once supplied his country with food. No one had been short of food since the Troubles, since the British Government had worked hard to ensure the island could feed itself, once again. But now there were food shortages everywhere. The emergency food supply had never been designed for a crisis of this magnitude.
Rose scrambled out behind him, struggling to unfurl her umbrella as the rain intensified, drenching her uniform jacket. Kurt allowed her to cover him as they walked towards the gate, where four soldiers stood with loaded weapons. The reports had also warned that two refugee camps had been overwhelmed by looters, who’d killed and kidnapped girls as well as stealing food supplies and vanishing into the countryside. Kurt swallowed inwardly as the soldiers raised their weapons, clearly ready to shoot. The entire country was under martial law.
“Identify yourself,” one of the soldiers snapped.
“Wing Commander Kurt Schneider,” Kurt said. He held up his palm, allowing them to scan the implant inserted into his right hand. It contained both his naval ID and his travel authorisation, something that bothered him more than he cared to admit. He’d never needed authorisation to travel anywhere within Britain before the war. “I have an appointment.”
The soldier relaxed, slightly. Kurt had never been a groundpounder, but he’d worked closely enough with both the army and the Royal Marines to recognise a soldier from the Territorial Army, probably someone — like Kurt himself — who had done his time and not expected to return to the uniform. But everyone with military experience had been called back to the colours after Vera Cruz, after humanity had realised it had a new and deadly enemy on its hands.
“There are rules,” the soldier said. He waved a hand towards a tiny building just inside the gate. It was no larger than a heavy-lift shuttle. “You may go no further into the camp than there, sir. Your family will be brought to you.”
Kurt stared at him, puzzled and alarmed. “Why?”
“We’ve had too many people trying to sneak in and abuse the refugees,” the soldier said, as he motioned for his mates to open the gates. “There were some quite nasty incidents until we sorted out the problem cases from the ones who could actually follow orders. Things will get worse before they get better.”
He snorted, rudely. “And we had some MP come around a day or so ago to make a speech to the refugees,” he added. “Fucked if I know what he had in mind, sir. But the refugees almost lynched him after the third condescending promise to address their concerns as soon as possible.”
Kurt swallowed. The thought of his daughter in a place like this was almost more than he could bear. Penny was sweet and young and innocent and… trapped. Their home was gone, washed under by the tidal waves or floods. Kurt himself would be expected to return to Ark Royal within the day, where he would resume his duties. It all seemed so pointless if he couldn’t look after his children. And his wife was gone.
The thought gave him a pang as he stepped through the gates and looked around, taking in the handful of refugees who sat in the mud with listless expressions. It was painful to admit that Molly and he had been growing apart for years, even before he’d been recalled to duty, but it was something he had to face. Their last face-to-face meeting had been far from pleasant: Molly had once held social ambitions and she’d thought the award for Kurt’s role in capturing an alien starship would help her to achieve them. But the money had been running out long before the aliens had attacked Earth…
And he had no idea what had happened to his wife. There were countless millions missing, utterly unaccounted for; Molly could be dead in a ditch, her body buried under piles of mud, or she could be in one of the refugee camps, so completely out of it that she hadn’t even been able to give her name. And why hadn’t she been with the children when the shit had hit the fan? Where had she been when the first missile struck the water and sent tidal waves washing out in all directions.
“Kurt,” Rose said softly, “do you want me to wait outside?”
Kurt hesitated. He had no idea how he would introduce Rose to his daughter, let along what the two women would make of one another. To Penny, Rose would be the Other Woman, the person who had broken up her parents relationship. It wouldn’t be true — not entirely true, he had to admit — but he doubted they would get along. And yet, he needed her support more than he cared to admit.
“I think you’d better come in,” he said, as they reached the solid metal door. “But let me do the talking.”
He hadn’t been sure what to expect in the visiting chamber, but inside it was nothing more than a damp room with muddy trails on the floor. There were no chairs or tables, merely a sodden rug that someone had put on the floor and then used to try to wipe up the mud. Kurt looked around, hoping to see something that would make it look less like a prison cell, but saw nothing. In the end, he leaned against the metal wall — it felt like a starship’s bulkhead — and tried to relax. But it didn’t take. He’d faced the aliens in combat without flinching, he’d chewed out the Heir to the Throne himself, yet part of him just wanted to run now. He didn’t want to see what living in a refugee camp had done to his daughter.
The door opened again, revealing two girls. Kurt started, then remembered that the babysitter — practically a live-in maid — had been trapped in the refugee camp too. Molly should have taken care of her children, the nasty part of his mind noted, before it was washed away by a sudden surge of love and pity. Penny looked… old, as if she’d grown up way before her time. Beside her, Gayle Parkinson didn’t look much better.
Kurt was across the room and wrapping his arms around his daughter before his mind had quite realised what he was doing. Penny smelt… unpleasant, as if she hadn’t been able to wash for several days. The trousers and shirt she was wearing were two sizes too large for her, while her long blonde hair lay in unwashed strands. Her face was tired and worn, just like Gayle’s. And she clung to him as if he was her only hope.