The Fall of Night

Epilogue

He came back to awareness in a burst of pain, memories flickering at the back of his mind; a Russian, an attack; grenades… the pain ebbed and flowed away as a soothing balm flowed over his body. Darkness rose and fell over the coming weeks as his body was slowly repaired, the latest in American medical science rebuilding most of his body. The doctors had warned him that he would be crippled for a very long time, perhaps permanently disabled, but he would otherwise make a full recovery.

It was a month before they told him what had happened. He had raged then, screaming at them, demanding to know why he had lived when others were spared. They tried to tell him about the medics who had pulled out most of the wounded from England, convoying them to Iceland and then onwards to America, but he hadn’t listened; he was the last survivor of his unit and he was miles from his wife. Eventually, they filled him in on some of the details, but the true horror had to wait until he was well enough to escape from the hospital bed and manoeuvre a wheelchair to a computer terminal. They found him there, crying, as he took in the news about the fall of night across the whole of Europe, the new Iron Curtain descending remorselessly around the continent. His wife…

They looked, of course; there was no mention of a woman fitting the name and description she gave in the registered refugees. Thousands had escaped the fall of night, some of them heading to Canada or Australia instead of America; she might have escaped the country, but as the Russians clamped down, it seemed less and less likely that she had escaped. The news was grim; it always was these days. Greece had signed a pact with the Russians to avoid a Turkish invasion, while a holy war was raging over Corsica, Sardinia and Sicily as the natives resisted the invaders with everything at their disposal. Spain was transformed into a nightmare of civil war, but the remainder of the continent seemed to be surprisingly peaceful; resistance seemed almost non-existent.

He had cursed them too as he raged.

The staff hadn’t quite known what to do with him. One of them, a scholar and expert in sociology, tried to explain to him; most people only wanted a quiet life. The Russians weren't hammering them directly, so they cooperated and remained low, avoiding the Russians as much as possible. Some would resist, but the Russians were getting better and better at ferreting out resistance networks… and not all Europeans liked the thought of getting rid of the Russians. People who had been terminally unemployed, suddenly finding themselves with honestly earned money in their pockets, liked the Russians, others just liked the camps that been set up for Muslims, criminals and socialists… and politicians. Russian television had even broadcast views of Germans and Frenchmen jeering the detained politicians before they were whisked off east for an uncertain fate.

The staff had wondered what would happen to him; he didn’t seem the type to just settle down in America, and even if he did offer his services to the government-in-exile, he was in no fit state to be inserted back into Britain, or to join the American Army. He himself had just given up; what was his life without her?

Two months later, she arrived.

She knew him at once, even though he was still wounded and hadn’t been taking care of his appearance; she flung herself into his arms despite being heavily pregnant. The staff had smiled to themselves as they had watched the touching scene; the man might have been a problem patient, but they were used to those. He had deserved to escape; he had deserved to be reunited with his wife…

Stuart Robinson, no longer a Colonel or a Captain, held his wife tightly and felt her tears trickling down her cheeks. They had been the lucky ones; they had escaped the nightmare and found a new home in America.

For countless others, the nightmare was only just beginning…

Nikolai Lvovich Serdiukov — who had been known as Zachary Lynn, or Control, in another life — walked calmly down the corridors of the detention centre that had been established near Dorking, first for British soldiers who had been captured, and then for policemen and political prisoners. The serious criminals had been treated in the standard Russian manner; a handful, however, had been spared and told that they had a choice between working for the FSB, or death. Serdiukov smiled; few had refused the offer…

The President had made it clear at their meeting, when he had pinned the medal on his face personally; Britain was going to be the hardest European country to rule. The British had had time to develop all manner of resistance cells and the records in the country’s computers had all been wiped… well, mostly. Serdiukov was confident that Russian computer experts would eventually piece together a complete list of who had been in the army, or the police force, but for a few years everything would be chaotic. The Russians had to be ahead of the game.

There were two guards on the door ahead of him; they saluted him and opened the door, allowing him entry into the single cell. She sat there, hands handcuffed behind her back and secured to the chair, her legs shackled to the floor. It was overkill, restraints that would have been overkill for anyone, but a trained commando, but Serdiukov had wanted to make a point. She was completely helpless; she was completely at his mercy. Unlike so many others of her kind, she had a brain; Serdiukov knew that if she could be broken, she could be used.

“Good morning, Daphne,” he said. He spoke in English, making his voice bright and cheerful. “How are you today?”

Daphne Hammond looked up. Her eyes widened. “Zack?”

“FSB Colonel Nikolai Lvovich Serdiukov,” Serdiukov said. “I suppose you could say that I was one of those infiltration and destabilisation agents that you spent so much time accusing the Americans of creating and sending into” — he allowed his voice to become sardonic — “poor helpless counties who have never done anything wrong…”

Daphne glared at him. “Let me go,” she snapped. “What do you want with me?”

“Well, we owe you,” Serdiukov said. “Without you… perhaps it would have been harder to complete the conquest of Europe… but then, your sources will have told you what happened in Hanover and a dozen other places in Germany. The new world order has no place for your kind.”

He paused, enjoying the moment, before continuing. “You have a choice,” he said. “You can continue to work for us as a… legitimate politician trying to steer the ship of state through some troubling times… or you can die. No one knows what happened to you since your government grew a pair and dumped you in one of their detention camps; your supporters, most of whom believe that you believe the kind of stuff you come out with, will believe that it was the British Government that had you killed.”

He saw fear flicker into her eyes. It was good to be able, finally, to laugh in her face. She was no innocent; she had taken people who had wanted to build a better world and used them to create power for herself, power that might have pushed her beyond the level where she needed the innocents who had believed in her… and then she would have betrayed them. She had no principles, no redeeming features; she wanted power and power alone.

She wilted. “Daphne,” Serdiukov said, “I can have you thrown to the soldiers for their own amusement, or I can make you powerful if you work for us. Choose.”

There was a long pause. Her body was shaking. “All right,” she said finally. “What do you want me to do?”

Several thoughts came into Serdiukov’s head; he dismissed them. “Oh, you’re going to run Britain for us,” he said. “Your assistance will be invaluable.”

Daphne thought about it. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head. It was power and power was what she wanted. She would do anything for it; he would have considered a whore more honest in her work. “You would make me the power behind the throne?”

Serdiukov smiled. “I think that Prime Minister Daphne Hammond has quite a nice ring to it, don’t you?