by Chris James
She continued: “Untold millions are going to die if this madman is allowed to invade and occupy Europe. If we’re talking about trade, how many Chinese businesses will suffer? How many Chinese and other ex-patriots reside in Europe, in harm’s way?”
“Beijing might not see it as sufficient reason,” Crispin countered, as with twitches of his eye muscles he called up the relevant data in his lens. “Trade between China and Europe accounts for less than one percent of China’s total volume of global trade.”
“But they control him,” she complained. “He will do what the Chinese tell him to do.”
“That was the assumption, until last week,” Crispin said. “Now it seems he wants to show the world his independence. We know the Chinese government is consternated at his actions, and like the rest of the world, is still coming to terms with his wholesale destruction of Israel—”
“Apart from those anti-Semites who think it wasn’t a bad thing,” Napier interrupted in a cynical tone. “Remind me, which one of the South American countries said the Caliph should be applauded for ‘resolving the Jewish issue once and for all’?”
“Venezuela.”
“And only the UN censured them.”
They arrived at the ground floor lift that would take them into the depths underneath Whitehall and finally on to the War Rooms.
Crispin steeled himself and said: “Boss, when we get down there, you’re going to see a pretty bleak situation. And it might be one that could be turned against us in unexpected ways.”
Napier’s finger stopped in mid-air as she went to dab the pad that would call the lift, and her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Crispin lowered his voice: “He hasn’t yet, but we can be certain the Caliph will demand our surrender, especially when it becomes clear NATO is incapable of mounting any kind of remotely effective defence—”
“He can demand it all he wants—”
“All of our super-AIs forecast mere weeks before effective NATO military resistance is destroyed. When the Caliph demands our surrender, we will have no choice but to comply.”
“I rather think—”
Crispin held a hand up to silence her in an unfamiliar reversal of authority. He said: “If we do not surrender, and if the bloodshed were to continue needlessly, then despite the Caliphate—”
“You can’t be suggesting we simply yield to their barbarism?” she broke in, a look of horror on her lined face.
“Despite the Caliphate having been the aggressor, the rest of the world may take the view that the governments of Europe are the more foolhardy, and we could end up squandering what little sympathy we currently enjoy.” Crispin finished by playing to his boss’s ego. He whispered: “And history might well view our ‘determination to resist’ as truculence, and our ‘resilience’ as murderous arrogance that led to the unnecessary deaths of millions.”
Chapter 7
15.56 Monday 20 February 2062
THE ENGLISHMAN WALKED along the concourse of one of Beijing’s largest shopping malls. He did not notice how the elegant, curved design of the roof splayed the bright sunlight so it dappled the fronds of the cypresses and firs that sat in pods dotted in front of the shops. He ignored the dead-eyed stares from the local people. The Englishman strode head and shoulders above everyone else, and in better days he used to joke that he walked at the same speed at which most normal people jogged. The Chinese habit of staring at foreigners had never bothered him to any significant degree, but he admitted to himself that his day was going badly, so his reciprocal glances would not be friendly.
This Monday offered little to comfort him. He should’ve been at a famous restaurant in a northern district of the vast city, keeping up his cover as a seller of the finest English wines, using his pigeon-Chinese to try and flog the Home Counties’ cats’ piss, but he’d been obliged to feign illness. For what was happening on this bright afternoon should not be happening. He blinked as tears welled in his eyes. He refused to believe the data his lens ran up in his vision. Frustrated beyond measure, he cursed the super AI, cursed the vanadium dioxide in the hardware which must surely be malfunctioning and conducting heat after all, and cursed the numbers scrolling up in his vision, which wobbled and shimmered as his tear ducts reacted to the emotions inside him, emotions which he fought to control even as he knew he no longer wanted to control them.
He stopped walking outside a shop that sold erotic underwear and choked back a distraught sob of despair. His lens listed the five largest stock markets in the world by capitalisation: 1, Shanghai; 2, Shenzhen; 3, Mumbai; 4, Tokyo; 5, Buenos Aires. Despite the sudden explosion of violence from the Caliphate against Europe, these indices were barely experiencing a tremor, much less suffering the shockwaves he’d expected to pummel all of them. The destruction the Caliphate was currently inflicting on his home continent should not be passing unnoticed by all of the most important global financial markets. They should be crashing, preferably, or at least shedding value in response to the chaos and uncertainty. But the fluctuations his lens reported denoted the same variations as could be expected on any average trading day. This meant that the rest of the world did not care about Europe, as though it were some third-world backwater whose battering by a more powerful entity could be overlooked in favour of doing business as usual.
His spirits lifted abruptly when Shanghai dipped and lost almost a quarter of a percent, mainly in tech stocks. He checked to see the other Chinese indices follow suit, caught his breath, and muttered, “Finally,” to himself. He resumed walking, oblivious to the more intense stares from the people around him: “Come on, you bastards. Crash, you pieces of shit…”
The leading markets dropped further, red becoming the dominant colour on the graphs in his vision. A ‘Breaking News’ icon flashed in the lower righthand corner. He ignored it until a voice in his head suggested that the market falls might be related to this new occurrence—events in Europe had been unfolding for several hours, but the stocks had only just began to drop. With a twitch of an eye muscle, he read about an explosion at a dysprosium processing facility close to Chengjiang, south of the city of Kunming. Initial reports insisted hundreds must have been killed.
“No, no, no,” the Englishman repeated to himself in despair, the fist of realisation crushing the opening bud of hope. Until today, the Englishman had never really believed the Caliphate’s invasion would be allowed to progress. Although his lover, Marshall Zhou, had warned that an invasion was inevitable, the Englishman knew that his own upbringing had polluted and distorted his view: the Englishman still believed his country and the rest of Europe meant something in the world, that it had not yet been eclipsed by the economies of Asia-Pacific and South America and Africa. The pain he felt, he now realised, constituted the final disabusement of this illusion.
He reached a key junction in the mall at which five concourses converged in a cavernous atrium that yawned five floors above and three floors below him. He looked around him, but this part of the mall echoed in emptiness. He regulated his breathing as he prepared his report for London and gathered his thoughts. After further twitches of his eye muscles to encrypt his message, he began: “The Englishman reporting from Beijing. Time of report: 16.01, Monday 20 February 2062. Report begins…”
He paused, his easy erudition abruptly deserting him. In despondency, his glance took in the vast construction around him, concrete and steel and consumerism that would not feel the merest breeze from the storm raging seven thousand kilometres to the west. He swallowed his emotions and said: “It currently appears that the world’s most powerful economies are not moved by events in Europe. Z. accurately stated when the invasion would commence, and now claims it shall not be stopped or reversed. The invasion will consume Europe and the rest of the world will not lift a finger to save it. Europe is fucked.”
Chapter 8
11.34 Monday 20 February 2062
GEOFFREY KENNETH MORROW looked out of the rain-spattered window of his dilap
idated south London apartment, heaved a sigh of frustration, and said: “I can’t write anything worthwhile here. This is pointless.”
“So?” said a female voice behind him.
He turned and looked at the woman, a familiar frown on her usually smooth forehead. He shrugged. “I have to go,” he said, and held his breath in anticipation of her reaction.
She nodded in apparent reluctance and replied: “I know.”
He breathed a sigh of relief, crossed the small living room, grasped her shoulders, and said with passion: “This is the greatest single event of our lifetimes, Lisa.”
“I know,” she repeated with a forlorn listlessness. “And from what I’ve read, we’re all going to be dead within six weeks.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” he said with a knowing wink.
Lisa shook her head and said: “Only you journalists talk like that.”
Geoff wanted to tell her so much. But his instinct cautioned him that if he went on another assignment, she might not be here when he got back, especially if the rumoured Caliphate jamming was as complete as he’d heard and they wouldn’t be able to stay in contact.
Geoff allowed Lisa to take his right hand and place it on the slight bump protruding above her waistline. She whispered: “That’s you in there, Geoff. Your child.”
“Our child.”
“Why won’t you protect us?”
“The Caliphate’s machines are hundreds of miles away on the other side of the continent. Do you have any idea just how big the European mainland is?”
“Why can’t you protect us?” she asked.
“You don’t need me to ‘protect’ you, Lisa. The British Isles are at almost zero risk. The Channel has saved us so many times in the past and will do so again. Besides, there are your parents and my par—”
“But you own this flat. We’ve no debt on it. We don’t need the money you get from that bloody media outlet.”
“Lisa, that ‘bloody media outlet’ is one of the most prestigious brands on the market. If they use my stuff, if I get a byline on a piece—even only a lousy contribution—it helps me build my own brand.” He sensed he might have said the wrong thing. Again.
There came a pause and Lisa’s face hardened. Her hazel eyes shone like circles of varnished teak as they reflected the weak light. She shook her head and whispered: “Can’t you see? Are you—?”
“Lisa, please, don’t—” he stopped when she put her index finger on his lips to shush him.
She whispered: “Just one question, Geoff. Just a single observation.”
Geoff gave a slight nod.
“What use is your fucking ‘brand’ going to be when the British Isles are, like Europe, reduced to a massive, smoking ruin?”
Geoff turned away, saying: “It won’t come to that.”
“How do you know? All of the media is reporting that their ACAs are virtually unstoppable.”
“That’s what the media does, Lisa: sensationalism. It’s their job.”
“You’d think they’d hardly need to bother after what’s happened in the last couple of weeks.”
An incoming communication icon flashed in a small part of Geoff’s vision. It was the call he had been waiting for, from one of the most important editors in London. He saw Lisa recognise the familiar change in his demeanour and heard her exhale. With a twitch of an eye muscle, he opened the link. “Hi, Alan, thanks for returning my call. Finally,” he said, struggling to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“Yeah, whatever. I’m busy, Geoff. World War Three has well and truly kicked off, so what does a hack like you think he can do for me?”
“How many stringers have you got on the continent?”
“Don’t be a prick,” Alan spat. “I’ve got more content than I can use, and I don’t need any bloody stringers. And you know what? I also don’t have the time to talk bollocks with you, so—”
“Wait,” Geoff shouted before Alan terminated the connection.
“What for?”
Geoff saw a look of disgust form on Lisa’s face so he turned away from her, not wanting to think about what would happen at the end of this call. He spoke with urgency: “Alan, you’re going to need old-fashioned reporters out there, on the ground, especially when the Caliphate’s jamming kicks in.”
“No, this content will keep on com—”
“It won’t. You’ll need bodies on the ground, if we overlook the double meaning—”
“Yeah, nice one—”
“Look, all autonomous travel is on lockdown, right? No one, absolutely no one, can go anywhere without official approval, yes?”
“That’s a great story on its own: the authorities have shut down everyone’s self-driving cars because fucking GCHQ has overridden the local police forces and taken control—”
“Yeah, I know,” Geoff said as he felt his heartrate increase to a canter now he’d got Alan listening. He went on: “We’ve all heard about those poor sods dying because of missed hospital appointments, but that’s not the top story now.”
“And?”
“You can sort it. You’ve got the clout. Send me over, Alan. I’ll get you the best content, even maybe from behind the lines—”
“Don’t be stup—”
“I’m serious, Alan. Your outlet can get me onto the continent and across it. For sure, I could never do this now, as a private citizen. I’d be lucky to get as far as Kent.”
“And to do that you’d have to walk.”
“But you can get the clearances.”
“It’s not as easy as you think, Geoff.”
“Don’t give me that.”
“Seriously. We’re in a state of emergency. Nothing is going nowhere without full justification.”
Geoff paused and wondered how honest Alan’s defence could be. He said: “It’s up to you, Alan. You must have loads of guys like me begging you to get them across the Channel and close to the action. I mean, with the odds so heavily stacked against NATO.”
Alan replied: “All right. Sign this contract.”
Geoff opened the icon that arrived in his lens. “Okay,” he said, “give me a minute to look at it.”
“Hurry up,” Alan answered.
“I can’t find the clause on life insurance.”
“That’s because there isn’t one.”
“Come off it, Alan. It’s a fucking war zone over there. You can’t—”
“Yes, I can. I am not sending you into a war zone. I only want you to report on how those countries are coping with the approaching disaster, that’s all. This is our standard emergency T&C. If you want life insurance, buy it yourself.”
“You’re a charmer,” Geoff said as he approved his digital signature on the contract. With a blink of his eye, he sent the contract back.
Alan said: “Right, you’re on the firm. Our super AI will schedule your transport. Go to Paris first, then head south towards Spain. That’s the closest front to the UK, so I want regular progress reports. It will probably take some time to organise your transport approvals, so you won’t hear anything for two to three minutes.”
“Understood.”
“And I want quality. You file any old shit or plagiarise a Euro outlet and the contract terminates.”
“You don’t say,” Geoff replied with irony, and terminated the call. Then, he muttered: “Sanctimonious little prick,” before he caught Lisa’s icy stare.
“You’re a bastard, Geoff Morrow,” she said with open bitterness.
“I told you this is the most important single event of our—”
“You don’t even care about us, do you?”
“Of course I do,” Geoff said, a little too automatically, he realised. His mind whirred as he began deciding what he could and could not pack in his rucksack. A part of his brain made a note to contact his parents and ask them to look after Lisa while he was away. His parents had always helped him but now their aid took on a new importance.
“I do wish you did ca
re,” Lisa was saying. “Any last wishes you’d like me to pass on to your child? Any nuggets of your journalistic wisdom you would like me to convey to your son or daughter when he or she asks me what his or her Daddy was really like?”
Geoff approached Lisa and replied: “If it comes to that—and I don’t think for a moment that it will—then I trust you to tell him or her for me, Lisa.”
He saw Lisa bite her lip and tears well in her hazel eyes, causing them to shimmer, just as the authorisations allowing him to travel to the European mainland arrived.
Chapter 9
17.15 Monday 20 February 2062
PRIVATE PHILIPPA ‘PIP’ CLARKE scanned the mountain ridges for any movement and exhaled, relief calming her nerves now darkness covered the terrain. She glanced back into the cave behind her and heard a gargled snore from Crimble.
Opposite the rocky overhang under which she crouched, across a broad valley, the mountain ridge became better defined, a shadowed grey above which the winter sky glowed an ugly, angry red. She rubbed the fresh bruising on her thigh and shin, recalling the engagement with the Spiders that had caused it as well as Crimble’s broken arm. A sigh escaped her lips and she doubted for the hundredth time if ditching the bulk of their equipment had been the right decision. Her memory replayed the details of the firefight, how she and Crimble had ripped off the components of the Battlefield Management Support System, how they’d fled the immediate area, and how swiftly the next Spider had come down on their abandoned gear and destroyed it. Crimble had tried to suggest that deactivation might have been enough, but the violence and urgency of the battle saw both of them rip the modules and elements off their heads and out of their uniforms before retreating as fast as they were able. On the surface, of course it had been the right thing to do, but now they were isolated, faring little better than the civilians they were supposed to be defending.
