She waited until he was almost on top of her and then rammed her knee into his groin. He bent over, screaming in pain, almost falling on top of her. Jayne, discovering a brutality she hadn’t really known she’d possessed, slammed a palm into his throat. He gagged and hit the floor. A moment later, she clonked him on the head with a vase and he slipped into unconsciousness. Jayne hesitated, looking down at him. He’d intended to have his way with her, even if she’d changed her mind — and yet, could she kill him? There was no question that she should kill him; she’d certainly planned to kill him, but… could she really end another person’s life? Could she really kill someone in cold blood?
Shaking her head, she searched the apartment until she found some duct tape. The other items with the tape suggested just what he’d used it for, almost the exact mirror of what she intended to do to him. Gagging him first, she wrapped the duct tape around his arms and legs, binding him in place. Making sure he could breathe, she checked him as carefully as she could. He clearly had a thick skull. Jayne knew little about medicine, but it looked as if he would probably survive. And then he’d be missed.
She checked the bonds one final time and then started to walk around the apartment, looking for information that might come in handy for broadcasting on the internet. Inside a hidden fridge, she found a whole series of luxuries, food and drinks that were no longer available to anyone on the streets of Washington, unless one had connections with the aliens or the puppet government. Jayne swallowed some food and felt a great deal better, even as she took expensive ham and turkey from the fridge and started turning it into sandwiches. She’d have to leave the apartment before her would-be molester was missed; who knew what time he was supposed to leave for work. Coming to think of it, what did he know that might come in handy?
Sitting down in front of the computer, she allowed herself a tight smile at discovering that the oaf hadn’t bothered to set up a password. He’d clearly expected the guards to stop anyone a long time before they reached the apartment. Opening some files, she started to put together a picture of what he did for a living. Before the Galactics had arrived, he’d worked as a charity organiser and lobbyist. His apartment had come from his commission; clearly, he received a kickback for every dollar he convinced people to donate to charity. It wasn’t hard to start tracing the funds… and uncover a network that had been used, deliberately or otherwise, to support the aliens when they’d first arrived on Earth. Jayne had dismissed many of the wilder theories — including the theory that suggested that the Galactics had been infiltrating human society for years before they’d shown themselves — but maybe there was a hint of truth to them after all. Or maybe the Galactics had just taken advantage of a tool when they’d arrived.
The network unfolded in front of her as she followed one principle of investigative journalism. Follow the money. He’d paid out vast sums to agitators who had helped work up the crowds that had demonstrated in front of the White House or the UN or everywhere else that could hold a protest march. He’d funded and designed much of the propaganda the Welcome Foundation used to greet the aliens — propaganda that was now dismissed by anyone with eyes to see what the aliens were doing to the world. And he’d donated vast sums to McGreevy’s election campaign. Jayne stared, unable to believe her eyes. How could anyone have been so stupid?
She looked over at him and knew the answer. Arrogance. The arrogance that had told him that he could get away with anything, as long as he delivered the goods. His friends in high places would cover for him, perhaps, or maybe he didn’t even bother to think that far ahead. She’d seen enough lawyers and bankers who’d extruded the same sense of arrogance as they wrecked havoc on the stock market and the legal floor, certain that someone else would clean up the mess. The economic crisis that had been so big a deal before the aliens arrived owed much of its origin to arrogance.
Working quickly, she started to copy all the files on the computer into a USB stick. She’d have to be careful how she distributed them, but there were enough people on the internet intent on liberating it from the aliens to distribute most of the files before they could be wiped. And if necessary repost them if — when — the aliens started removing them from the internet. While she was waiting, she wrapped up her sandwiches, several bottles of mineral water and the stash of cash she’d found in a vase. It wasn’t a very good hiding place. She had half a mind to point that out to him before she left.
Grinning, she walked back into the lounge and realised that her captive hadn’t recovered from the blow on his head. Jayne checked him quickly, and then hesitated, cursing her indecision. If she left him alive, he would be able to describe her to the aliens and they’d know who to blame for the public relations disaster. But if she killed him… she couldn’t kill him. How could she cross that line?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure who she was talking to; the captive, or herself. “I can’t kill you.”
Picking up her bag, she pulled her clothes back into place and walked out of the apartment. It was tempting to stay and have a shower — and loot it further — but there was no time. Who knew if the aliens were watching their collaborator. Jayne wouldn’t have trusted him further than she could have thrown him.
She was still smiling when she left the building, passed the guards, and vanished into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Washington DC
USA, Day 65
Jason poured the bottle of alcohol — he’d long since stopped caring about what he ordered — into the glass and cursed as it ran dry. He’d never drunk before — well, not outside of college parties — and the wine was going to his head. But what else could he do? There was no hope for him now, or the Welcome Foundation, or anything else he might have cared about. SETI had had a dream, but the dream had become a nightmare and his life was at risk. The insurgents — or terrorists, as the official line from the government called them — would just as soon blow off his head as look at him. He was the Discoverer. They blamed him for their woes. And it wasn’t even fair.
And the Snakes were another worry. Every day, Jason feared that they’d learned how he’d helped a defector to escape their continuous surveillance. If they had, or if they decided to turn him into a pod person, they would kill him, or turn him into a weapon to use against his countrymen. Or perhaps they didn’t need to bother. He was already a weapon against his countrymen. The Welcome Foundation had become the spearhead for an alien plan to enslave large parts of the human race and probably exterminate the rest. There was nothing left for him at all. The human race, assuming it survived, would remember him as a traitor. What else could they do?
He swallowed the wine in one gulp and winced as he felt it hit his chest. The sensation was alarmingly familiar; the dull taste in his mouth was not. Even the Welcome Foundation couldn’t get good wine these days, even with the aliens backing them. There were shortages everywhere and those who were trying to keep the country going had better things to worry about than supplies of wine to those who weren’t helping. He could have called and invoked what remained of the Foundation’s authority, but it would only add to his woes. And anyone who felt like being a patriot might just poison the wine before they sent it to him. One of the more blatant collaborators had been murdered in just that fashion. Another would have died were it not for alien medical technology.
Jason reached for the bottle with an unsteady hand and cursed as he only managed to knock it over. It fell to the floor and shattered, scattering glass and drops of wine everywhere, a terrible mess for someone to clear up. Jason started to pull himself to his feet before remembering that he wasn’t wearing any shoes and in his half-drunk state he was just as likely to step on a piece of glass than avoid it. He was perhaps more likely to hurt himself by accident, in fact. The depression that threatened to overwhelm him seemed stronger, somehow, with the aid of the drink. There really was nothing left for him now.