by Tyler Danann
“I don’t know what the Race Relations Act even is?”
“Ah, of course, it was before you were even born I think. In layperson’s terms, anyone who offends another person on the grounds of ethnicity, race or background has broken the law. The offending person need not have intended to cause offense if the offended party is distressed with what has taken place.”
Valerie was speechless, she had no idea such a law existed and now that she did, she wondered why on earth it was applying to her. It was bad enough that her father had been slaughtered by a mob in Iraq, now Iraq seemed to be upon her and Omar was its manifested ringleader.
“You’re a very lucky lady, because this is your first transgression you won’t be expelled from the college, as long as you apologize that is.”
“Transgression? I didn’t know I even did anything wrong? Omar insulted Nikky and I. Isn’t that against the College Code under bullying?”
“Your racist ways—”
“I’m not racist—”
“Your indirectly racist ways and lack of cultural understanding top the list and take precedence. I can see the tolerance classes aren’t doing any good.”
Valerie knew the man was as dangerous opponent and changed tack.
“I will apologize to them publicly. May I please leave?”
“In a moment, I’ll inform the officer outside.”
In the corridor Ministry Constable Jeneston waited earnestly. He was slightly disappointed the blonde would not face a harsher punishment. After going over the details on the radio his Sergeant was unsure about going through with it. He doubted they could get a race-related charge to stick with the Crown Prosecution Service, not enough for a good chance of conviction anyway. The college was technically not a public place either and her sentencing could result in negative publicity. ‘Not in the public interest’ was the likely result. Yet Jeneston was ready with a new line of investigation.
The short man left his office and smiled awkwardly.
“She agrees to apologize,” the Head Tutor said. He was starting to be relieved and his fears of a public relations nightmare began to drift away.
“This girl and her friend; are they both politically active?”
“I don’t think so, they both study hard, Miss Beauford’s father fought and died overseas, in the oil wars I think. I recall she did an essay about it.”
“Was he a Yeoman?”
“This was before the Colonels War so I don’t think so.”
“I see,” the policeman said slowly.
“Wait, her mother commutes to Albion I think. She’s training the Yeoman girls over there. Medical type stuff, not a combatant. ” The policeman’s eyes widened and Gladstone knew he’d over-talked and attempted to gloss over it.
“It’s just while there’s a shortfall, nothing political you understand. Just as a volunteer.”
“Go on…” the Ministry officer prompted. His notebook was already out again like a flash from the inside of the constable’s jacket. The spineless man spoke on and the pencil began scribbling.
“We’ll be in touch later Mr Gladstone,” the constable said after nearly a minute of note-taking. “Don’t go far from the city,” he added with a wiry smile.
Chapter 5
Polemic
At the prearranged hour the two forces met in secret under the flag of truce. It was mid-afternoon at an ancient railway bridge built by the Victorians in a previous age. That age was when the island of Great Britain had practically ruled the world and the harmony of village, town and city were in equilibrium. Now though the island was spiritually and physically torn by oppression, division and decadence.
On one side was a small convoy of military Land Rover Defenders that the Albion forces crewed. The green and black paint on the vehicles went well with the dozen soldiers nearby. They kept watch for danger nearby, knowing full well that on the other side of the river were the Ministry who did the same as they. The London-based organ of state apparatus represented the very nadir to Albion and the Yeomanry. Only three years ago a border clash had resulted in two Ministry men slain to the cost of a wounded Yeoman. There had been an emergency meeting between the Ministry leadership and the Yeomanry to defuse tension then. An escalation was avoided, but now it was set to begin anew.
Some of the Albion troops carried long-barreled L1A5 battle-rifles but most held Janson bullpup carbines. Both weapons were chambered in the unique, hard-hitting caliber of 7mm. This was optimal for the British Isles in general, while it packed a punch it was controllable by most soldiers when fired in bursts or even full-auto. The bullpup excelled at close-quarter fighting in the streets and lanes of English towns. The battle-rifle was more for rural engagements, its longer barrel allowing a more accurate shot. A few Yeoman privately imported light-caliber 5.56mm M4 carbines but these were few and far between.
On the opposite side of the bridge a Rolls Royce and two Mercedes vans that comprised the Commissioner’s bodyguard. In contrast to the well-supplied Yeomanry the Ministry troops relied on ageing stocks of imported HK MP5s and pistols. A single Ministry riflemen had an L1A1 battle-rifle but even from afar it looked like it was a museum piece. No doubt looted from a military base during the Ministry Restoration two years ago. Unlike many of the rural and town-born Yeomanry the ministry bodyguard in civilian clothes were mostly city-types. About half were thuggishly presented with tattoos and swarthy demeanors, a visible sign of how changed Britain’s urban centers had become. To the undisciplined and untrained they were young, angry and intimidating indeed. The other half were more professional, clean-cut and urban Caucasians. They made up a kind of upper-caste of the Ministry’s Close-Protection branch. Yet they were older, some in their late fifties, a clear sign of the demographic tilt towards multiracial blood in Britain.
It was not the case with the Yeomanry troopers of Albion though, they were late teenagers and young lads in their twenties and thirties. All were of Briton stock, that unique fusion of Germanic Anglo-Saxon, tempered here and there with a touch of Celtic vibrance. A violent cohesion seemed to be ever present in them, it lurked below the surface, not quite noticeable unless under times of hardship and necessity. It was something not seen since the days of the Wars of the Roses. They were neither militia, nor regular soldiers like the remenants of the British Army, nor were they, for the most part, an actual elite fighting force. The Yeomanry occupied a niche that gave them the benefits of both a conventional and asymmetrical unit. It was one of the Colonel’s master-strokes, but also one that had complex drawbacks unique to the times they lived. Originally about half of the Yeomanry were made up of regular soldiers from front-line units. The other half were volunteers that were trained by the experienced Yeoman soldiers. Of the former a good many had been Colonels, Majors and Captains that had answered the call from the earliest days, and made possible the impossible.
Colonel Alexander Seymour had originally been part of the Grenadier Guards and was the elected leader of the Yeomanry. He was the only full colonel unlike the others senior leaders of the Yeomanry who were Lieutenant Colonels. Yet in the spirit of brotherhood they all regarded the other as his equal and Colonel was used casually whether a Lt Colonel or of full-rank. The Yeoman officer viewed his older half-brother with an icy stare. High Commissioner Roberts, chief of the Land Ministry smiled back distantly with the air of superiority about him.
Both adversaries were of a similar age. Yet Seymour and his Yeomanry wore camouflage while Roberts and his bodyguard were in smart, plain clothes. The gulf of military and civilian was as clear as the fragmented nature of the country. Day-to-day the island muddled on but across the jaggedly-diagonal border of Albion and England the seismic shift was stark. On the one side the cultural decline and crumbling decay was relentless, while on the other it was a slippery ascent urged on by their Yeomanry overlords. Underneath the surface though the tensions remained like a compound explosive. The detonator was in place, but no ignition or spark had been made yet.
T
he Colonel was the fitter of the two, a lifetime of military service and no medical issues reflected this. He was tall, muscular and had an aggressive prowess about him. Born and raised in the country he’d risen as an officer, first in junior positions during peace, then by waging coup for power and finally outright war to win Albion for his people. Silver-hair that had once been neither fair nor dark showed on his eyebrows, his head being covered by the brown beret of the Yeoman. Dark blue eyes that were weary but deep viewed the arrayed forces before him. The majority of the Ministry Bodyguard opposing them were likely former police force. Yet a handful looked to be ex-army, possibly special forces. His own Yeoman were evenly matched and both sides knew to engage in a firefight would cost them both dearly. The United Nations and NATO had given a final warning, an ultimatum against any that transgressed. It was that any more warfare would lead to a taskforce being launched against the island from overseas. As it was there was an observer platoon from a neutral country that roamed both territories unannounced. They acted as heralds and occasionally mediators. For this meeting though, it was strictly between the island elites, the U.N observers being well-occupied elsewhere with the Heysham incident.
Commissioner Roberts finished his hip-flask of brandy before sending his security chief forwards. Roberts had been mostly office-bound and was largely an urban creature which reflected in his pudgy frame. He wore no hat which showed graying hair with a slight bald-patch. In his hooded, gray eyes was a glare of inner-cunning and covert supremacy. They viewed the Yeomanry with a mixture of disdain and contempt. Roberts was older, cunning and cynical from a lifetime of scheming and plotting. Put together in different circumstances the two would make a devastating team. As it was they almost seem to reflect a devastation of relations instead; the taking of power from government by Seymour’s coup first, then the civil war second.
Roberts’ security chief walked over to meet Seymour’s counterpart. Both were unarmed and showed this was so. Then, switching places with one another the Yeoman walked over to await the Commissioner while the security chief did the same for the Colonel.
The two leaders closed the distance to both their seconds. Neither was armed, as per the agreement and the bodyguards did their duty. Both men showed open hands first then jackets before turning around completely. To be sure the Colonel and Commissioner were frisked.
“No weapons,” the Yeoman Sergeant confirmed in a clear Cumbrian voice.
“Not armed,” echoed a Ministry fellow, his Bristol tone contrasting both groups.
The two leaders walked forwards beyond both sentinels until they were only five yards apart. Both stopped and for the first time in years they were face to face again.
“Greetings brother,” the Colonel said, opening the dialogue with a positive note.
“You’re no brother of mine,” the Commissioner said quickly.
“Oh? Do we not share the same father?”
“That bond ended when you launched your war on this country.”
Seymour ignored the jibe. “Albion is not yours now, but I called this meeting to avoid future bloodshed.”
“You are ready to annex Albion then?”
“Never, but you put a stop to the Welcoming Bill and I’ll talk with my Colonels about setting up a trade-zone.”
“A trade-zone?”
“Yes, it can be a buffer-area where your people, no matter what their race, calling or creed can trade and exchange with my people of Albion.”
“Why on earth should I try and do that?”
“Are you serious? Food supplies are barely coping, your economy is on the brink, you can’t keep printing money which isn’t backed by anything. Your nation, the once great Britain I salvaged Albion from, isn’t producing anything. You import most of your energy and ninety percent of your food. The oil and gas industry is paralyzed thanks to environmentalist lobbying and massive taxes to pay for your welfare state. Need I go on?”
“You are an economist now as well as a tyrant?” the Commissioner remarked dryly, unbothered by the plight of Britain.
“I have a good team of advisors, many of whom left Britain to join Albion. They all say the same thing, with limited cooperation we’ll be stronger, but this invasion of so-called New Europeans has to stop! Then we can work on getting this island back from the brink.”
“The brink is perhaps what will bring people together, that way they’ll need the safety I can provide more than ever.”
“Safety from foreigners you are bringing in! They may not wear the uniform or emblem of an invading army,” he stated, “but they are surely acting like one! I saw the writing on the wall years ago, only now is it providence.”
“What do you care about Britain? You have your Albion, you have UN recognition. What I do with Britain via the government is none of your concern, you showed that during the civil war.”
“I care about this whole island, not just Albion!”
The Commissioner laughed and looked to the gloomy, overcast sky.
“I remember when you were first admitted to the Inner Way. You were full of noble ideas and ways. I gave you the recommendation to join, along with two Grand Masters. Both of whom you had killed.”
“Yes, I thought I was entering an enlightened order of people to build a better tomorrow. Instead I was entering a cabal of Satanic refuse!” the Colonel hissed venomously.
“You were our greatest apprentice, and our greatest failure. You abandoned us, formed your own band of pretenders then waged war upon us. As a heretic your fate by us will be the worst imaginable.”
“I abandoned the Inner Way when I learned of its seditious ways and ill-will against this island’s people.”
“You don’t understand the forces we follow, what they require, it’s necessary to bring about chaos for order to emerge. An order in which we could become planetary overlords!”
“I slew your Grandmaster with my own hand. Don’t push me into resuming the war baby-killer.”
“You won’t defeat us Alex, we’ve been around for longer than you imagine. The Inner Way has powerful friends, ones that will smash you and your rogue nation. We’ve done it before, and we’ll do it again. It won’t be pretty either. When we have our way with upstarts and turn-coats an example has to be made.”
“Albion can hold the line,” countered Seymour. “We’ll just wait you out as your nation becomes weaker and weaker to the point where it doesn’t exist anymore. You’ll be among your own funeral pyres when the tidal wave of foreign hordes keep coming and settle. We Albion folk will watch on from our lands and lament what it’s come to, but we’ll survive as your Britain collapses.”
“So will we! We’ll always survive, always exist! If Britain falls, we’ll have places elsewhere we can start over. For you and your Albion, that’s all there is. Most other nations regard nationalist leadership as poison. It’s a dead-end for the new age we are in. The real power is in supranationalist entities that wield power by proxy.”
“Albion will smash through any dead end, whether you like it or not brother, the Yeomanry is here to stay and that secretly terrifies you. It challenges your Brotherhood agenda to destroy nearly all other Europeans. We will arise as a true nobility that leads for the common folk as the world looks on.”
“We’ll see.”
“Yet neither I nor my Yeomen want warfare or conflict.”
“Really?” laughed Roberts. “Your coup killed hundreds in cold blood and a decade later your war killed thousands!”
“A necessary act given the circumstances your traitorous vermin brought to a head. I am not here to argue, but to mend bridges.”
“Hah! Let’s hear your mending then?”
“Abandon this scheme to flood the island with desperate foreigners and troublemakers. Do this and we can have a peaceful resolution with a trade-zone. A place for the middle-ground to find a way. It worked for Ulster and Ireland, it can work here too!”
There was a pause between their talking before the Commissioner filled i
t.
“Very well, the Inner Way will consider your request when I put it before them.”
“When will I have an answer? A firm official answer I can take to the UN and NATO?”
“At the Annual Conference down in London. I expect you’ll be sending a delegation?”
“When have we ever not? It’s a Yeomanry tradition, something you’d do well to recall.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could attend,” Roberts looked expectantly at his brother.
“I’m not a fool Des, Major Matthews and his Rangers are for public relations. They will attend as they’ve done so before.”
When the meeting concluded both sides made their way back to their vehicles. At the Yeomanry side the old Colonel leaned into the passenger side of his V8 Defender. Waiting for him was Yeoman Weyland, his driver.
“That was the most powerful man in Britain you just saw me talking to, what did you make of him?”
“He reminded me of a cross between a politician and a headmaster,” Weyland bluntly said with an unfazed smile, causing the Colonel to laugh.
“That’s a fair description, I’d have used much worse,” Seymour said. The sound of the other vehicles starting their engines rang around them.
One of his two trusted bodyguards passed Seymour’s Janson carbine back to him and the Colonel passed it, in turn, to Weyland through the window. He stacked it in the twin-rifle rack as the two soldiers climbed in the back. The leader moved around to get in the passenger side. Then the leading vehicle turned and Weyland followed, keeping the usual distance between it.
As a convoy they drove from the buffer-zone territory of the Midlands north-eastwards for the border proper with Albion. The Colonel lit up a high-grade cigarette, something he often did while being driven. Cigarettes were like a luxury item and could sell for as much as an hourly wage each. Seymour offered him a cigarette and Weyland shook his head. He’d normally not be on driving duty, but Colonel Seymour was a strange man in some ways. While the NBBC media painted him as a fanatic keen to kill Weyland found him to be more of a brooding commander, charismatic yet dangerous if you crossed him. He was not aloof like some of the other Colonels though, but liked to always mix with his men and women. It was his way of bonding, much like the leaders of old who always made a habit of learning about the warriors under their command. People respected a tough leader, especially one who dealt fairly with others, for the most part. The other Yeomanry were die-hards for Seymour, yet Weyland was more cautious, he’d traveled too much to be encapsulated by leaders, even gifted ones like Colonel Seymour.
