by Tyler Danann
“The sooner she’s back home with us here the better,” the undercover soldier said.
“An oath on it.”
“That grenade I threw wasn’t just because I was carried away you know?” Knight said.
“What do you mean?”
“That was SOTF, our worst enemies.”
“True, but now we’ve slain a few of their number they’ll be no mercy shown from them. Deep Eye Operatives will be in for a horror show if captured by them now.”
Once they’d past beyond Albion’s border the ring of steel that made up most of the borderlands gave way to the friendly laissez-faire world of the heartlands. The citizenry walked with their heads high and pride in their hearts. When had the people of the island last had this within them wondered Weyland? His heart was gladdened by the sight yet partly empty by Lorraine’s absence. Secretly he was praying in his heart that the strange pact of old she had made would at least bring his love home to him. Yet in his mind though he knew a terrible reckoning approached on the horizon with a SOTF nemesis at the fountainhead.
Chapter 9
Gearson
When the outlander arrived it was just another typical day at Heathrow Airport. The man from overseas showed his passport to the customs official. It was a forged Gibraltarian passport, and of an older design, making it a manual entry on their systems. After a few routine questions the tall, red-bearded man smiled slightly for his picture to be taken. The fake name on the red-colored passport read ‘Cedric Bridleman.’
Unlike the majority of those behind him in the queue, the one called Mr Bridleman was European. He had a stature and demeanor that was old-school. His icy-gray eyes, straight-nose and features were like a Spartan leader or one of Alexander the Great’s generals. The build of him was lean yet muscular, like a man who stayed in shape no matter where he was.
“What’s your duration of stay here Mr Bridleman?” the custom’s man droned with practiced repetition.
“Just a month.”
“You have relations here?”
“Distant ones, I hope to rekindle new ties to old family friends.
“What is it you do for a living?”
“I’m a freelance advisor, people call upon me to help out if their company or organization is in trouble. I advise and provide solutions.”
The official glanced at the man. His bearing was like an officer or VIP, gray eyes showed vigor and capability but his demeanor seemed warm and friendly. The effect discouraged any further inquiries. Even if the official wanted to question him further the new policy from the Home Office forbade it. All travelers with a valid passport were to be admitted unless major irregularities presented themselves. No visas were necessary nor were they even issued by British embassies from overseas nowadays.
“Welcome to the UK,” the customs official said.
“Is it not called Albion as well now?”
“Only in the north. The Prime Speaker’s Parliament changed it back months ago. The only people still using are Albion supporters in the north.”
“In the north?” Bridleman asked curiously.
“There’s a travel warning in place for some areas north of Birmingham. If I was you I’d steer clear of it, unless you want to be arrested as a supporter of theirs?” the security man warned.
“I see, just curious,” Bridleman spoke gently, picking up his documents. “I’ll be in London for much of my visit, thank you for your information.”
The customs official pushed a button on his console, opening a set of swivel doors behind him and waved in the next traveler waiting his turn. The official waited for the husband of an African family to move over.
Without incident Bridleman walked over to the doors. He’d barely cleared the entranceway when the swivel doors slammed shut behind him.
Descending the stairway he went down to the luggage-zone. Once there he picked up his two large jumbo bags from the ultra-rapid carousel system. Both his bags were soft-style luggage items with wheels and grip-handle. Inside it were several smaller cases. Wheeling the luggage past the ‘Nothing to Declare’ section the armed police he passed suspected nothing. Had they inspected the luggage they probably would have found nothing untoward. Had they dug deeper though, the man calling himself Cedric Bridleman would have been in a world of investigation. He wasn’t from Gibraltar and nor were the cases anything to do with corporate solutions either.
The entrance lobby at arrivals was where Lorraine Riley, his contact and the Yeoman agent handler for London, waited. She held a white sign with his passport name on it. Her once lovely flaxen hair had darkened slightly to a pleasing mixture of brown and blonde. This was nicely tied back showing a face of beauty that radiated warmth and feeling. When relaxing or with her man she would let it down so it flowed around pale features to below the shoulders. She had green eyes that were bright and clear. A touch of gold at the pupil and a mildly predatory spacing between them showed fire to her placidity. Lorraine’s figure was slightly curvy and like an hourglass yet she was taller than most women being a couple inches short of six feet tall. When the mystery man raised his hand she moved towards him and they embraced each other with a passionate intensity.
Together they went outside. It was gloomy and overcast, a typical autumn day in England.
His contact made the opening password section.
“Bridleman to the horse…” Riley said confidently.
“Horse to the meadow,” completed the traveler.
“Welcome to Albion Kallan Gearson!” the woman smiled.
Gearson knew she had a man but couldn’t resist a subtle glance at the swell of her breasts. Riley had a much more graceful purpose and it gave him the impression she was subconsciously putting out a ‘come hither’ look. Eric Weyland was a lucky man he thought passively.
After some pleasantries and chit-chat they walked together towards Riley’s main travel vehicle. Gearson was several inches taller than she was and he moved with an ambling gait she struggled to keep up with.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come, hey slow down a bit will you?” she said struggling to match his stride.
“It’s been a while, but I managed to get away in time. I hope I’m not too late.”
“There’s still time, the Colonels are not ready to escalate any conflict. Hopefully if an agreement or purpose can be found they’ll be a stand-down from the killings and false-flags. There’s a lot of shadow-play going on right now though.”
“Your man Weyland is safe?” Gearson asked softly.
“He is, laying low in the Estates last I heard. I still can’t believe the lies and hate the media is showing. Even for them it’s a low-move.”
“That’s the way they operate Lorraine, their goal is to destroy the ancestral people of this island and elsewhere. All the while replacing them with the non-European hordes. If slandering and lying about a Yeoman helps the job along they won’t bat an eyelid.”
“By the Powers may we prevail.”
“We may, but this area of the island, perhaps even Albion may be a dream too far. You should hasten to your man sooner rather than later.”
“I should be out of the city next week all being well. It would have been sooner but my replacement is still recovering from an injury.”
“Good, what about Ian, the Colonel? I need to speak with him urgently,” Gearson asked, wondering if his old friend was in the city.
“He’s here in London, he traveled down for the annual proclamation. I have his lodging address.”
“Alright let’s go.”
Chapter 10
Proclamation
The Belgravia conference room in the Pegasus hotel was packed-out yet people still waited to try and get inside.
Outside the hotel a ring of steel made up of armed police-enforcers was established around concrete security cordons. Watchful sniper teams on standby scanned the crowds from high-places. Nothing was being taken to chance with the presence of so many VIPs.
Five members of parliament and the Prime Spea
ker himself were present at the left-hand side of the stage in their suits and puppet-expressions. On the right-hand side were the Yeomanry, they wore uniformed attire and held themselves with resolve and dignity. A backdrop to the stage was titled ‘United Kingdom Renewal’ with green fields and blue stars in the sky. Yet to call the landmass that was once Wales, England and Scotland a United Kingdom was not accurate anymore. Not least since Scotland was now fully independent and had been for a decade. Wales had slid along into being a nebulous region half-heartedly paying lip-service to the union of 1707.
Even Wales and England now flying the somewhat inaccurate Union Flag were not exactly a nation-state anymore. For officially they were a client-state. Indeed four of the six Ministers present were mixed-race foreigners from the European Union. The remaining two being a miserable-looking Kentish fellow and the other a disgruntled Welsh townsman.
All eyes were on Jerod Makean Veitch the Prime-Speaker who now arose from his seat to take center-stage at the podium. A child of mixed-parentage, his swarthy-looks and dark eyes flashed with an oily-charm while his tongue had a silver-edge of beguiling conviction. Even his retiring opponents in the lower-house had to admit he was a force to be reckoned with. The Prime Speaker considered himself a liberalist first and foremost, one making pioneering progressive moves into the new millennium. He openly mocked any who still held to the notion of nation-states, independence and conservative-values in general.
Facing him were the icy-stares and rugged features of the Yeomanry, led by Major Matthews. They had travelled south to London to hear what new directives were being proclaimed. It was not unlike the days of old when the king would declare new laws to be followed with compromises forced by the barony class. In those olden times, following the signing of the Magna Carta, there were checks and balances. A balance that prevented outright tyranny and oppression from taking over. That was long ago and though and only recently had the Colonels attempted to halt the government encroachment. The EU directives still took precedence over common laws and rights in Britain, with Albion completely ignoring and scrapping them as it saw fit. As Albion’s Yeomanry had a degree of independence within their northern territory, they stubbornly stuck to tradition. Yet for the past five decades or longer there had been a growing trend away from the traditional-ways and conservative values. Moral decay was rampant along with too many influences and factors that seemed to be a force beyond his reason.
In the thronging crowd that was seated in the front and standing-room only further back a group of three watched the assembly. The tallest was a lean, powerful man in functional, practical clothing and holding a broad hat. He looked out at the scene with piercing blue-eyes that had an unnerving quality. He was a man in his prime, with noble, straight features, corn-silver hair and a medium growth red beard in contrast. To most minds who caught a glance of him they would easily write him down as a fellow liberal townsman. Possibly keen to hear what their beloved leaders had to say to the common people and spread the word to his middle-class fellows. Some others of a more discerning nature might have him down as a slightly quirky or possibly eccentric recluse emerging to welcome the Coalition message that Prime Veitch was about to unveil. Only those who knew him personally or perhaps had learned of him from hidden ways and means would know him for who he really was.
He leaned slightly on a firm-walking stick made of oak as the crowd became a touch over-excited and swelled about somewhat. His two companions had to take a step backwards but he kept his balance with ease.
Violent crime was common now in the country, yet possession of anything 'offensive' was a jailable offence. Yet that didn't keep his walking-stick with a concealed spear-head far from his hand. His usual side-arm of choice was not on him, the risk of detection was too great given the level of security at the entrance.
His companion and Lorraine Riley was next to him. Her hair was long and unruly, like an angry, feminine feminist, yet she spoke quietly in his ear.
“Kallan are you really going to make a leadership bid when we get to the Estates?” Riley asked curiously.
Gearson turned to her discretely and gave the beauty a wolfish look. “We shall see,” he said to her.
He looked over to his trusted friend Ian Penkin. The man with gray hair once served in the regular army, retiring as a colonel. As an insider to Britain’s existing military establishment, he shared with them the concern of the harrowing dangers Europe faced. Like Gearson and Riley, the Colonel wore civilian clothing, albeit with a tweed and corduroy fashion. His hair was mostly gray and his eyes a deep hazel-green. With a square-jaw and a prominent nose he was like a descendant of Robert the Bruce. The Colonel had Anglo-Scottish ancestry, but since Scottish Independence a decade ago he’d made Albion his home. While he was not true Yeomanry, he was a retired Colonel with at least some status and sway with his home regiment.
“I don't think the proclamation will be too harsh this year,” Penkin assured them. “Last year’s tax increases hit home hard, but his coalition government won’t last re-election unless they go easy. My man Roger will have him on the counter-speech. He’s Yeomanry but a real zinger. One who lived in the city and knows how these rabble think.”
“You’re an optimist old friend. Somehow I suspect it won’t concern city taxes and crime-rates,” Gearson said enigmatically. A sweetish taste, along with a ringing and buzzing sounded in his ears, heralding guidance from beyond the physical realm. Gearson’s inner-voices now rang out within him.
Some of them sounded louder, others more faint but all came from the racial consciousness common to the folk memory of a group. Gearson was one of few beings gifted enough to achieve this.
Jerod Veitch glanced down at his pre-written speech and looked for a fraction of a second over to the waiting Yeomanry before drinking a glass of an unknown liquid. The act was noticed by few, but Gearson saw it and immediately fathomed the hidden meaning.
Now the puppet-man spoke and words that were like bullets to his opposition now came.
“The road to social equality is a long one but the end is in sight,” he said happily. “The great council of this country has deliberated and almost come to blows with their passion for what is ahead of us all. The class-divide along with the petty-hate for the New Europeans is the final obstacle to ushering in a new Europa for the ages! Only by us coming together and putting aside our differences can we find what we are looking for.”
Veitch beamed as he paused to the click of cameras and the twitch of buttons before reading more from the auto-prompt.
Gearson was rapid in self-translating the honeyed words and double-speak into a more glaring reality, one that saw the curtain was pulled aside and the true horror-show revealed.
“With effect from next month this island, this same land which welcomed my parents during the troubles in the middle-east twenty-years ago, will now be renewed. As will Germany, France and Scandinavia,” he said with a mania-like zeal about his sweating face. “The problem to the European Question is well and truly solved. All New Europeans from their asylum camps in France, Germany, Italy and Spain are now being granted full citizenship in the European States. Not only that but special powers will allow them to immediately enter this fine land. Finally an unrestricted immigration enrichment program will be put into effect, giving the troubled third world a place on our island.”
The die-hard supporters and party-faithful cheered as if on cue while howls and boos came in response from others.
Veitch continued. “The European Question of our woeful birth rate has now been answered. That this should come from a New-European as myself is a noble-irony but one I know we are crying out for. The dream of a truly multicultural Albion.” He spoke with a flourish that he felt would enhance his words. There was no need, over half the listeners were rapturously lapping up his every word. As he paused they broke out in cheers of rose-tinted joy.
The Colonel made a brief snarl and tried to compose himself as the officer that he was. Riley gasped in
fearful amazement. He finally hissed words that were restrained but angry. “Millions of refugees and peoples of non-European bloodlines are in those camps! Then there’s the ones swarming in from North Africa across the Mediterranean! There's no room! It is madness to force two different peoples together!”
“Well they've finally come out and said it,” Riley said fatefully. “They no longer even try to hide their agenda now, it's wide in the open. We are the enemy now. They will overwhelm, outbreed and finally reduce Europeans to a melting-pot existence at worst, an enclave one at best. Peaceful multiculturalism on the surface is genocide-by-proxy to those who can see. We see it, but can they?”
Gearson hardened his features, took in the words coming to him from beyond and maintained his manly cool saying nothing. For now he was but an observer for those who would decide. Watching, waiting, evaluating and even judging where necessary.
Despite the seemingly relentless support that cheered Veitch on there were those that were raging in defiance. Some called out ‘traitor’, others howled of the sedition he was proclaiming and a few were bold enough to decry the Prime-Speaker as a racist. Plain-clothes enforcers pounced on the protesters who now surged forward and almost breached the inner security cordon of bodyguards and zeal-ridden cadre-liberals.
“I know this is hard for some people,” Veitch spoke with misty-eyes and a strange form of sympathy. “I know you are scared but you'll realize this is for the greater-good of Europa. Once the Welcoming Bill is passed our cities will prosper and we will have our growth guaranteed into the next millennium!”
The fighting grew desperate from the flash-protestors. Many of them were conservative folk and nationalists who had travelled overnight to be there. Asp batons rained down and quick-cuffs snapped open and closed as a dozen were subdued and arrested. A uniformed Yeoman Ranger who went out to the enforcers and protested at the brutality being meted out was seized and he grappled against them. He accounted for two enforcers with skillful wrestling and forearms lashing out before they had him on the floor. There he had an arm dislocated as he too fell prey to the predatory enforcers. As the heart of the opposition was torn away the remainder were cowed into silence, all the while the jeering mass of fools to the left leered and spat like the baying mob that they were.
