Catherine walked up behind him, looking out over the darkening city. “Do you remember when we thought that we were in control?”
“We will get back into control,” Alan said, flatly. He was not going to let her rattle him. They were on the verge of losing everything — if the aliens bombed a city, it would be the end of his provisional government — and the damned woman was making a power play! “The resistance will release their prisoner.”
“But how do you know?” Catherine said. “They might just believe that chaos is better for their goals than a country under your foot.”
Alan prided himself on his self-control, but the woman was driving him insane. “And what happens if the aliens decide to administer the country themselves?” She asked. “What use will they have for us then?”
A hot flash of anger boiled through Alan’s mind. He slapped her, right across the face. She staggered backwards, one hand raised to the ugly red mark where he’d struck her. Alan stepped forward and slapped her again, knocking her to the floor. He bent over her and put his hand on her throat, ignoring her feeble attempts to push him back. A sense of dark power roared through him as he stared down at her. He could do anything to her; rape her, choke the life out of her… and who could stop him? The old order had died the day the aliens had landed in Britain and the rest of the world.
“You will do your fucking job or I will kill you,” he hissed, finally. Part of his mind pointed out that it would be unwise to let her live, but the feeling of triumph overruled it. “Now get out and find a way of convincing the sheep down there to go back to work nice and peacefully.”
He took his hand off her throat and stepped back, half-expecting her to lunge at him. Instead, she pulled herself to her feet and walked towards the door. Alan watched her go and then turned back to the window, shaking his head. He’d mounted a tiger when he’d made his bargain with the Leathernecks. They didn’t care how he ruled the country, provided that he ruled it for their benefit. But the moment he stopped being useful, they’d kill him.
Outside, the fires were growing brighter. Alan watched, feeling cold despair replacing the exultation he’d felt when he’d humbled the bitch. If he stopped being useful…
“Damn you,” he muttered, knowing that no one would hear him. “Why did you have to go and spoil it?”
“They shot up a crowd as they headed to Whitehall,” one of the resistance fighters said. “At least thirty wounded, fifty dead — should I have them forwarded to here?”
“Only if you get me more supplies,” Fatima said, tiredly. She’d been working like a demon, almost non-stop since the riots started to tear London apart. Hundreds of wounded had been brought in, passed across her table and then sent somewhere to recuperate. Many of them wouldn’t survive, no matter what she did. They needed a proper hospital and one wasn’t available. “Didn’t Joe get some from the nearest hospital?”
“Only a few,” the fighter said. “They’re inundated with wounded too. We’re trying to slip some of our own into their system, but if they’re not registered…”
Fatima nodded, and then yawned. Tiredness caused people to make mistakes — and yet she hadn’t been able to get any rest since the day had begun. She wasn’t the only medical doctor in the resistance, but the others were scattered out over the city; like her, they were fighting to keep people alive who really needed proper treatment and a hospital…
She yawned again, feeling the room spinning around her. Had it only been last year when she’d taken the last two weeks of Ramadan off because she had worried about what would happen if she grew too hungry? What a joke! She’d worked herself half to death over the last few days and now she could barely keep herself together.
“Bring them in,” she ordered, tiredly. Her last patient, someone who had been shot through the shoulder by one of the alien bullets, would probably never recover the use of his arm. One of the soldiers had commented that the aliens seemed to use elephant guns, something that made sense given how tough they were. Ordinary ammunition wasn’t quite good enough against Leatherneck skin. “I’ll have a look at them as soon as I can.”
“You’d be better off getting a nap,” a new voice said. She looked up to see Abdul. “You look too tired to work properly.”
“I feel dead.” Fatima admitted. She hadn’t seen Abdul in days, ever since he’d brought her to the first of the makeshift hospitals. From what she’d heard, he’d been too busy organising attacks on collaborators and the alien patrols. “Can you have someone else take care of the patients?”
“I’ll do my best,” Abdul promised. He hesitated. “I think you need at least five hours of sleep, so get to bed and stay there. We’ll wake you up if we have to vacate this place in a hurry.”
Fatima looked up at him, nodded, and then stumbled into the next room. God alone knew what it had been originally intended for, but they’d set up a cot for her beside the window. Outside, she could see fires in the distance. London was burning — absently, she wondered if someone on the other side would realise that the resistance hadn’t set any fires near its hideouts. But judging from the chaos, the collaborators had too much else to worry about before they started hunting the resistance again. They’d have to put out the fires, calm the rioters and — if the aliens carried out their threat — provide help to a destroyed city and its stricken population.
She closed her eyes and felt sleep overcome her.
Chapter Thirty-Four
North England
United Kingdom, Day 46
“There isn’t any question about it,” Gabriel said, flatly. “We’re going to return the alien prisoner.”
He held up a hand before Brigadier Gavin Lightbridge-Stewart could say anything. He’d come to the Prime Minister’s hiding place despite the security risks, because it was one conference that they couldn’t trust to the internet. The Leathernecks had a great many human computer experts in their hands now, people who could presumably track messages through the internet and locate their destination. Gabriel found their dependence upon messengers and carrier pigeons oddly ironic, given the circumstances. The longer the war continued, the more primitive the resistance would become.
“I know that the alien represents a treasure trove of valuable information and biological data,” he continued, “but keeping him isn’t worth a few million human lives. We can shove him out somewhere and one of their patrols can pick him up.”
Lightbridge-Stewart frowned. “There are complications, Prime Minister,” he said. “The first one is simple; if we give in to their threats, we create a precedent. If they feel that they can threaten us into submission, they will use it again and again, blackmailing us into surrendering our only hope of carrying on the fight. What would you say, a week from today, if the aliens threaten to bombard London or Edinburgh or Newcastle if you don’t surrender yourself to them?”
Gabriel hesitated. “I’m aware of the risks,” he said, flatly. “Doesn’t the fact that they haven’t threatened mass bombardments suggest that they don’t intend to push it that far?”
“They may not have believed that it would work,” Lightbridge-Stewart countered. “From what we have been able to draw from our alien friend, we know that humans are often more barbaric than the Leathernecks — we’re certainly a lot better at justifying inhuman treatment to ourselves. If we give them proof that it will work, they may try it again. Where do we draw the line and say where we will no longer allow them to threaten us into submission?”