The red chrome-trimmed Bentley slipped around Parliament Square before taking the turning to Parliament Street and moving on to Whitehall.
‘That’s Downing Street over to the left,’ said Michael, acting like a tour guide.
‘Is that where we’re headed!?’ asked Russell.
‘Nope, just a bit further along… there!’ Michael indicated a large white stone building opposite Horse Guards Avenue. ‘Park here.’
‘There is no parking here,’ replied Russell.
‘Are you worried about a ticket!? Just mount the pavement if you have to!’ Russell found a section of road that was clear but also a restricted parking zone. He pulled up there.
The doors flung open and his three passengers alighted sharply. Michael raced around to the boot where the other two met him. Russell followed awkwardly, eyeing the street for traffic wardens or cops.
‘Russell, grab this,’ Michael ordered, flinging a large briefcase from out of the boot of the car. ‘Sir.’ Michael then handed Mr. Waterstone a holster of sorts and tried to help him put it on. It strapped over the cat’s bulbous trunk presenting a metal support structure at the top that stretched the length of the cat’s back. ‘Fetch the tube gun, would you, Russell?’
Russell looked into the cavernous boot of the Bentley but failed to spot any guns. There was a hollow metal tube, however. He picked it up, surprised by its lightness; it closely resembled a relay baton. ‘This it?’
‘Yes,’ replied the spider, ‘give it here!’
Russell watched as the spider clicked it onto the cat’s holster. It looked feeble.
The woman studied her own gun, an oversized, single-barrel shotgun with a flared mouth: an elephant gun. Following the revelation of The Truth he had taken it as read that this outfit could take on the Sponsors, but now he started to have serious doubts; maybe he’d simply jumped to the obvious conclusion, the wrong conclusion. He decided to voice his concerns:
‘You sure you have a handle on the alien tech you’ll be facing? You know you’ll be up against a: “formidable, ruthless and highly advanced alien race” – your words, Michael.’
The woman just snorted in derision. Michael and Mr. Waterstone ignored him; the cat had contrived to get a strap caught around one of its legs and the spider was attempting to free it.
‘Oh, this’ll work,’ said Russell to the woman. She responded by pointing the elephant gun at his head and making a shooting sound.
‘Okay, we’re ready,’ declared Michael, almost sounding tense. ‘Ma’am,’ he added, pointing to the revolving-door entrance.
The tall woman walked towards the front of the grand building and beckoned Russell to follow her. The spider and cat followed behind him.
As Russell entered the building behind the woman he instinctively glanced back to ensure the others had managed to negotiate the revolving door without incident. They had, and Russell felt slightly relieved. First obstacle over, he mused, now to slaughter some unknown, and possibly unknowable aliens.
The lobby to this (presumably) government building was oak panelled and rich with ornamentation. Huge and ancient oils hung from the walls, suits of armour and other details hid in the various recesses. The floor was marble and comprised of alternating dark and light diamonds, but the central section was carpeted with some kind of rich, patterned, burgundy shag. The sunlight streaming in from the street was minimal and so further illumination was provided by various wall-mounted lamps and further still by an enormous crystal chandelier.
Halfway between the door and the front desk, the wall panels made way for floor-to-ceiling mirrors on both sides. As Russell passed by these he glanced over and was shocked to realize he still had on his aerobics garb: Tight pink lycra top, yellow too-short shorts, white socks and chunky white trainers. To top it all, literally, he sported a head band. Oh God, he and the others looked like a circus act about to try their luck on Britain’s Got Talent. He tore off the head band.
The woman arrived at the desk and from behind it an unfriendly looking chap shouted: ‘This building is not open to the public!’ The woman held her ground and the man returned his attention to the various screens on his desk. Behind him, two heavily armed police or special forces types gazed at the group but with only casual interest. The woman stepped around the desk and studied a floor plan before gesturing towards the corridor that branched off to the right.
‘Come on,’ murmured Michael, and Russell and Mr.Waterstone followed.
‘What about her?’ whispered Russell.
‘Why are you whispering?’
‘Erm…’
‘You can follow what ma’am gets up to once we are on the roof.’
‘The roof!?’
‘Yes! now come on… and you, too, sir.’
Russell and the cat followed the spider down the corridor and through some doors on the left. He half expected to hear ‘Halt!!!’ or some such from the security personnel in the lobby, but when he glanced back he saw that the three men just seemed to be going about their idle business. Presumably the perception filter, or whatever it was that had allowed this bunch of oddballs to pass through central London without being molested by pedestrians or fellow motorists, was still in force and working adequately here. Although the guy at the desk had shouted at them before becoming quiescent again. Were they trained for this sort of thing? And would it work on an alien? Russell was about to put this point to the spider but when he turned around again he found himself alone in a stairwell. Hmm, well, the roof had been mentioned; he ran up the steps as quickly as he could.
After a six-storey dash, made all the more exhausting by the heavy case he still carried, Russell finally emerged onto the roof of the Whitehall building. The views were impressive but not an unbroken panorama. Several of the neighbouring buildings, most obviously the Houses of Parliament, loomed over him, but there was a clear view out to the east and south. Only up to the north where the land rose gradually did London close in and significantly restrict the prospect. Up above, the sky had become noticeably more cloudy since he’d last paid it any attention, but the sun still shone on their location, and much of the scene around; mild summer zephyrs carried smells of diesel and cooking. He spied Michael and Mr. Waterstone standing on the highest flat surface amid various air conditioning vents. The spider beckoned him over.
‘The case, here!’ Michael’s voice was a bit breathy, was he nervous? Russell handed over the case and watched as the spider deftly re-orientated it, opened the clasps and extracted the contents: a large laptop and some exotic brass instrument that resembled several binoculars fused together. As the computer fired up the spider grabbed the binocular device and held it to his eight emerald eyes. Ah, a telescopic lens for each of his eyes, nice. Michael perused the sky, the various telescopes adjusting their focus and orientation.
‘Anything?’ asked Russell.
‘Partly cloudy,’ replied the spider, removing the octoculars, but keeping them close. He focused on the laptop. ‘How’s your awareness, Russell?’
‘I… come again?’
‘Can you sense what ma’am is seeing?’
Russell was baffled by that remark but then realized that part of what he assumed to be his imagination was now providing strikingly vivid visual imagery.
‘Oh yeah…’ He trailed off as his focus changed.
“Russell” entered an open office space and studied the sober, near-silent scene. Along with the predominantly human workforce various “things” moved slowly among them, apparently overseeing proceedings. So these were the Sponsors. Unpleasant looking bunch. He’d expected the Sponsors to be the classic ‘greys’ of ufology mythos; if aliens were real then it followed that most of the canons of ufology should likewise be true. But these aliens were tall, and clearly insect-like; their bodies a chaos of scaffolding, shiny black and chitinous, like that of a beetle. Nevertheless, there were some overlaps with the ufo greys: the large black eyes and almond head shapes seemed similar. Russell guessed that ufology as a whole was
under the direction of the Sponsors who, perhaps, dropped it into the human subconscious experience from time to time, both to misdirect and to provide the occasional teaser – maybe to test reactions should the two species ever formally meet.
Such a meeting of equals would not be occurring anytime soon, though. He noticed the Prime Minister sitting at a desk opposite one of the Sponsors. This was no meeting between statesmen, no interspecies negotiation. The PM was “out of it”, glassy-eyed, mouth agape and dribbling. He was like some poor beast at the vet’s: knocked out by general anaesthetic as the surgeon poked about amongst its innards. Except the innard here was PM’s brain. Russell felt outrage!
‘Disgusting, init?’ remarked Michael and Russell’s focus jerked across to the rooftop where he stood.
‘Yeah!’ he agreed, perusing the spider’s laptop. ‘What’s all this?’ he asked.
‘I’m tracking the Sentinel and any local aerial traffic.’
Russell studied the increasingly cloudy sky. ‘What’s up there?’
‘Sentinel’s still orbiting Jupiter, reciprocal to Ganymede,’ replied Michael, matter-of-factly, ‘no local traffic, unless you count that Airbus.’
The laptop indicated the presence of the twin engine jet passing nearby to the south on its way to Heathrow. Russell strained to hear it over the street sounds below and thought he could, just, although the heavy clouds were distorting and muffling its engine roar. Other blips moved over London, presumably more aircraft.
A clear image of the Sponsor facing the Prime Minister grabbed hold of his attention. The insect-thing was very close, presumably that meant the woman was very close to it. Russell tried to catch her actual thoughts, but there was nothing. It just felt as though he was watching this from a fully packed football stadium: there was a palpable sense of anticipation as “our guy” prepared to take a penalty. Russell pulled back to the roof.
‘Is this being broadcast to the whole population?’
‘No, just you.’
Russell shrugged and the scene occurring several storeys below returned.
The Sponsor’s head filled his “view”. He was observing something that very few fully-human beings had ever beheld without becoming ensnared by their exceedingly capable telepathic manipulation.
‘This mind control they exercise is creepy!’ Russell said out loud.
‘It’s more of a hack, than mind control,’ remarked Michael, seemingly in his head. ‘When they constructed you they built these various “backdoors” into your mental architecture. Simply a case of accessing them. Even a human could do it – if it knew how.’
Russell watched in shock as the woman’s finely manicured hand reached out to the Sponsor; thick claw-like scarlet nails dragged down its face ripping into flesh, bursting it open. The wounds instantly filled with a yellow puss and this soon began to sprout fungal structures. The Sponsor let out an ear-shattering shriek.
Russell continued to gaze as the Prime Minister came abruptly to his senses. He first looked confused, then horrified as he observed the disintegrating Sponsor before him.
'Get out of here!!' shouted Russell. The PM gawped at him, or her, but then he vanished from vision and awareness.
A wider view. The humans, or human things, were slowly standing up and staring blankly at him. The other Sponsors, the insects, had stopped dead and were glaring.
‘Ooh, looks like we have a nibble,’ commented Michael, as Russell’s attention returned to the roof. ‘The Sentinel is on the move.’
***