Terror Firma. Matthew Thomas

commanded four-fifths of the planet’s petroleum production, and judging by the state of their skin in the humid, tense bunker most of it was seeping through their pores at that very moment. They had good reason to sweat. At MIT there was a cold-fusion lab they very badly wanted shutting down – with terminal force if necessary. Despite their common goals the three were seated equidistantly around the table. More than one world war had kicked off thanks to misunderstandings in gatherings such as this. Past Chairmen had discovered to their cost that it never did to be too careful.

      The final member stood out from the rest in more ways than one. She’d held her post for fifteen years, ever since the previous incumbent had regrettably fallen off his yacht. Despite what the press had been told, this had not been down to a slippery deck and one-too-many G&Ts. He had rubbed the wrong people up the wrong way – always a fatal move when those people were sat in this room.

      The figurative leader before the reluctant swimmer had doubled as America’s Head of State – not a happy combination as it turned out. A carefully staged break-in and the threat of impeachment later, and he had gone as quietly as his insane tape-recorded ramblings would allow. The Committee had learned an important lesson with him: no more career politicians, their power was illusionary at best and too easily swayed by the pathetic whim of the great unwashed. The real power in the world was gathered here today, like pus in a festering wound. And at its centre sat a malevolent yet inconspicuous foreign body.

      OPEC’s leading light was just ending off a rambling rhetorical monologue, on the satanic evils encased in the atom, when the Chairman felt the need to interject. She wasn’t the first of her line to hold this post, for her power was very much a family affair – as was her perfectly formed accent. She spoke the Queen’s English, as well she might.

      ‘Yes, thank you, Yashif. One takes your point.’ Reaching for a glass of fizzy black liquid she paused to address the haughty corporate head seated next to her. ‘This cola, Bertram, I trust it’s not the mind-altering kind you feed to the masses?’

      The Corporate Man looked shocked. ‘Of course not, Ma’am. These days we’ve far more effective means of market penetration. Read the Abduction-Scenario Report and see for yourself. The stuff we drink is as pure as new snow.’

      ‘Not as pure as the glowing snow lying outside these devil-built reactors, I hope,’ muttered the Arab delegate, clearly heard over the elaborate sound system. The others chose to ignore this slight to Madame Chairman’s power; not so the lady in question. She had an unnaturally long memory for insults and an infinite appetite for revenge. But that could wait. Revenge was a dish best served cold, and she was colder than most. The Chairman felt the need move the discussion along, before they were sidetracked any further.

      ‘Now to more pressing business. I trust you are all aware that Operation Madcap is ready to begin? Potentially a most profitable endeavour for us all. The funds for the campaign are available and the production lines spool up as we speak. The merchandise will soon fill the warehouses. One simply requires the formality of an authorizing vote, then selected agents can be instructed to get the party going.’

      She’d get no dissent on this one. Too many round the table had fingers rammed in this particular pie to take them out and lick just yet. The voting console before her lit up pure green, signifying unanimous assent.

      ‘Good, we can proceed. But now to a less happy task. It has come to One’s attention that our Executive Section has been conducting an operation to recover certain … items that have fallen into the wrong hands. I’ve taken the liberty of summoning the head of that section to account for his actions. I know that some of you have reservations regarding his motives in this matter. Shall we call him to state his case?’

      A scattered affirmative rumble ran around the room. The Chairman thumbed a console switch. ‘You may enter now, Mr Becker.’

      The Dark Man looked defiant as he strode purposefully through a pair of vast sliding doors. The faces of his superiors were lost in shadow, but he knew each of them by voice, as well as reputation.

      The CEO of the world’s biggest aerospace corporation came straight to the point. ‘There’s been a serious leak from your department. We’re going to hold you personally responsible, Becker. You’re not going to weasel your way out of this one, like you did that Jamestown fiasco.’

      The intelligence chief snorted. ‘If it’s blame you’re looking to apportion may I remind you the Visitors escaped in one of the back-engineered craft your corporation were testing at the Nevada site. If your craft hadn’t been so easy to shoot down we’d be in a lot more trouble than we’re in right now.’

      The aerospace CEO looked ready to explode. It was left to the Chairman to raise a restraining hand. ‘Now, gentlemen, let’s not descend into fruitless bickering. Why do you both assume this leak to be a bad thing?’

      The newcomer shifted his weight, while marvelling at Old World aristocratic eccentricity. ‘Ma’am, there has been a serious breach of security, that I admit. We are currently mounting operations to recover the remainder of the crashed material. They have not gone smoothly to date, but you have my assurance our resources will tighten to crush the saboteurs in due course.’

      One of the sheiks chipped in from the shadows, his accent as thick as the tension-filled air. Few noticed the knowing glance he exchanged with Madame Chairman; Becker wasn’t one of them. ‘Why do we need to recover this material? Why not simply debunk it as we have done so successfully in the past? Remember the fake autopsy footage?’

      For the briefest instant Becker showed the first signs of stress. ‘In this case the evidence will be impossible to refute. If it gets into the public domain the truth of our Visitors’ presence will be in the open once and for all. We all know what that could do to the public’s fragile state of mind.’

      The head of a major entertainment conglomerate had to disagree. ‘You haven’t been keeping up with our latest research. Hard physical evidence has leaked before; we’ve even released it ourselves to help further our aims. On each occasion the majority haven’t given it a moment’s credence, while those few paranoids who do believe our lies help bolster our hold on power.’

      Madame Chairman nodded with an inscrutable smile that sent an icy shiver down Becker’s spine. His face, however, showed no sign of such emotion. ‘This time things are different. Events have quickly spiralled out of control, almost as if an exterior force were aiding the terrorists as they fled. I have proof that …’

      The Chairman interrupted him impatiently. ‘This is most worrying, Becker. There are rumours that your concern for the retrieval stretches to a personal matter. Can you assure us that nothing of the sort clouds your judgement?’

Becker fixed her with the sort of frosty stare which could have triggered an ice age.¹ ‘It is my professional opinion, Ma’am, that the dangerous lunatics who have the creature must be stopped at any cost. And stop them I will. But this situation highlights an issue I feel duty bound to bring to your attention once again.

      ‘I grow increasingly alarmed at the unintended results of Unified Conspiracy Theory. I fear our willingness to spread paranoia and irrationalism could turn out to be disastrously counterproductive. Already some unknown player seems to match us in an undesired duet. Whoever initiated the Glastonbury operation, it certainly wasn’t me. I have some very unusual satellite photos of the South Pacific you all must see.’

      Madame Chairman had heard enough. She held up a restraining hand and shut her eyes in disgust. Did Becker imagine it, or was she showing the first imperceptible signs of distress?

      ‘Yes, yes,’ hastened the aerospace CEO. ‘We’re all aware of your pet theories, Becker. But I find it hard to believe that we are playing into the hands of some unseen enemy. Our efforts to engender a widespread belief in conspiracies have been most effective. As long as the public think we know more than we do, they’re more likely to let us get on with running the show. No one seriously expects their leaders to be honest and open anymore. As long as we make the airlines run