Churchill

Winston Churchill sat in his office and swirled a glass of brandy in his hand, staring at the report on his desk. He’d read through it three times, and still couldn’t fully process it. The first shot of liquor had helped a little, the second less so. He knew the one he held now wasn’t going to offer him any greater clarity, but he tossed it back anyway.

He’d assumed the whole thing to be some absurd joke, even after his secretary, Jock, had assured him otherwise. Churchill wasn’t much given to flights of fancy, and it had taken the pictures to convince him. Setting the shot glass down, he flipped through those idly, turning them over one by one on the dark wood of his desk. The monstrosity that had landed out by Newcastle, scaring the garrison there half to death. The strange engines powering it. And last but not least, the creatures that had arrived with it. He ran a hand over his bald head, smoothing back the hair that clung around the edges. Those creatures…aliens, the report said, from another world. His scientific advisory staff was in a complete tizzy.

With a heavy sigh, he flipped the report shut and pushed it aside. “Send them in,” he growled, and leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk in front of him. No point putting it off any longer; he’d memorized their names and faces, now it was time to meet them.

Jock went to the heavy wooden double doors and stuck his head out, then retreated and opened both sides to admit the waiting group.

They traipsed in, exactly as the report had described them. The only remaining member of the Paris commando unit strutted in the lead, wearing a brand-new dress uniform and a grin that showed off a missing front tooth and spectacular bruises. Churchill cocked an eyebrow; the boy had stitched an inverted black triangle onto his shoulder, where his troop insignia would have been. A few stray threads trailed from it, evidence of having been rudely ripped from some prior residence and rehomed. He’d have Jock inquire about that later–he was fairly certain it wasn’t standard.

Behind him came the two members of the French resistance. A pretty petite girl, the legendary Fleur de Lis, came first, wearing a smart olive dress. She’d probably borrowed it from one of the girls in intelligence. He eyed her carefully. It was hard to believe that such a small thing had wrought so much chaos in the occupied zone, but the reports all agreed that she had. A brooding, sallow Frenchman with a dark complexion and a sour expression accompanied her. Francois, her cousin. Churchill pegged him for a veteran, and his eyes flicked around the room as he came in, checking corners even now.

Churchill straightened as the next two guests passed through the double doors, Two big, green turtles, wearing something like coveralls that wrapped over their shoulders and left their shells bare They’d had to make fresh ones for both, to their specifications; neither had any spares, after their narrow escape. The big one overtopped the other by at least a foot and a half, and the smaller one was still taller than Winston himself by a full head. They had heavy clawed hands, and their scales rippled over their muscles as they walked, feet thudding heavily on the carpet. Male and female, per the report, father and daughter, though their size was the only way he could tell the difference. They came to stand beside the French resistance fighters, forming a rough semicircle in front of the desk.

I’m going to have to give up turtle soup, he thought glumly. Not that he’d had turtle soup for years, but still…

The smaller alien, Reel, pointed to the decanter of brandy still on his desk, with a blunt claw and burbled something in her own language. Arcturus translated for her. “She wants to know if you mind if she has some.”

Churchill blinked at that. “Not at all,” he said, and gestured towards the decanter. She seemed to understand that, and happily snatched it up and poured herself a generous measure before stepping back into place. Where on earth had she learned that? With the Germans, obviously…but there must be a story there.

Last of all was the renegade German scientist. His face was in as bad of shape as Mark’s, though he didn’t wear it nearly as well. He crept in behind Reel and stood beside her, his shoulders and neck stooped like a vulture’s, his face pale and wan where it wasn’t discolored with bruises. His hair was as thin as Churchill’s own, and graying badly, in patches. Per the report, he’d concocted some kind of weapon that had made the escape possible.

Churchill didn’t wait for them to settle before he started in. “Gentlemen…” he paused, unsure how to address the two aliens. “Gentlemen and ladies,” he said, pressing gamely on, “Congratulations and our thanks are in order. I think it goes without saying that without your efforts we might have just lost this war.” He had to stop while they shuffled to allow translation. Mark rotated around so that he could translate for Konrad, and Captain Arcturus leaned down to whisper an explanation into Reel’s ear. Something had happened to her own translation device, per the report. The Germans had it now, sod them.

When the whispering died, he went on. “Her Majesty’s government owes you a debt of gratitude, as does the free world. That said, I understand that we’re not in the clear yet.” He looked to Arcturus, the supposed Captain, as he said it.

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“No,” The alien admitted in a deep and gravelly voice. His English was excellent, though it had something of an American accent. “You should know that the Efreet have plans for this system, and that they will not tolerate your presence here.”

The Efreet. The initial debriefing that Churchill had read cast them as somewhere between slave masters and creditors of the Torellans. “They don’t know that we’re here, right?” Churchill clarified.

Arcturus swung his head from side to side, a nearly human gesture of negation. “I destroyed our communication equipment before they could learn of you.” He put a hand to his head, wincing, and the smaller alien put a comforting hand on his elbow. Churchill’s eyes narrowed; the report had briefly covered the other functions of the translation devices, the “implants”, but seeing it was something else. Errant thoughts punished on a constant basis; it made him shudder. God only knew what mischief Hitler would get up to, with the same capabilities.

“Well, that’s something at least,” Churchill said, turning his thoughts to the immediate concern. “So how long do we have before they do know?”

“The next crew is two years out. They will send word back, and from there, I would expect a response in three months.”

That was considerably worse than he’d thought it would be. A little better than two years to get ready…It would take him that long just to convince Parliament and the Allies of the need to prepare. He considered pouring himself a fourth shot.

“Well, at least you have denied the Germans their superweapon. No bolts of death from the sky, eh?” That had been the worst part of the report. The Nazis could have destroyed London in a matter of days, and he’d had no idea.

Arcturus cocked his head to one side. “Not right away, at least.”

Churchill stared at the big alien captain. “I thought the two landers had been destroyed? The Nazis shouldn’t have the means to build another bomber like the one you stole any time soon...”

Arcturus tipped his head back and forth in a gesture that Churchill took to mean “sort of.” “The ships are destroyed, true, but the engines are very robust. I would expect that they could be salvaged.” Churchill felt a sinking sensation in his gut. That hadn’t been in the report.

Konrad spoke up, and Mark listened, then translated for him. “He says that they still have some of the spare engines that Reel brought with her, too. They probably have as many engines as we do.”

“And Reel’s implant,” Arcturus growled.

“And most of France!” Liliane chimed in.

Churchill groaned and put his face in his hands. “The report didn’t make it sound this bad.”

“You English are masters of understatement,” Francois observed, with a wry little twist to his mouth.

That fourth drink was sounding better and better. He turned around to look at the big map on his wall, where his staff marked out the course of the war in tiny pins from day to day.

The axis powers still controlled most of Europe, though that control was shrinking. Hitler squatted in Berlin like a putrid, mustached spider, spitting poison across the continent. War was raging in the Pacific Ocean and across Asia. There was a famine in India that they hadn’t managed to quell, and fighting in Africa. All that, with the possibility of a German superweapon still looming, and the even larger specter of an invasion from space. He was going to need, he realized, a much bigger map.

Churchill turned back around, swiveling in his seat. “The worst part of all of this,” he growled at them, “Is that you waltz in here and dump this mess in my lap, and I’ll probably have to give you all medals for it.”

Mark grinned at him, toothy and brash. “And promotions. Throw us a big party, maybe.” He threw a glance at Liliane. “Someone promised me a dance.” Francois stopped translating that halfway through and scowled at Mark. Liliane half groaned, half laughed. Then the smile slid from Mark’s face, and a more serious expression took its place. Something hard glinted in his eyes.

“And we need to rescue the rest of my team, and the captured French resistance fighters,” he said. Francois and Liliane both nodded vehemently at that, their faces determined.

Churchill studied the boy. If half the things in the report could be credited, England would be best served by putting Mark as far out of combat as possible. Either that, or airdropping him into Berlin and cutting him loose. Churchill had assumed that in Mark, he’d find the worst excesses of special operatives, untempered by age or wisdom. And he had, and then some; Mark was chaos, and chaos was a liability on the battlefield. On the other hand, the results were hard to argue with.

“Some help getting back to our ship would be appreciated,” Arcturus said, breaking into Churchill’s revery.

“And we must liberate France,” Francois added. That prompted more nods from Liliane and Mark.

Even the German had a request. “With the right resources, I can help bring your people up to speed on what our scientists found out.” He fidgeted but held Churchill’s eyes as Mark translated. “You’ll need it. We have to get ahead of Lusser, or else who knows what evil he’ll dream up.”

Churchill glanced around and found the decanter out of reach. “Reel, be a dear and pour us each a shot,” he said wearily. “I think we have a lot of work to do.”

The End of Book 1 of The Torellan Chronicles

Turtles in the Trenches