Invasion

by Chris James

  She pushed the door in the high wooden structure that swept around in a horseshoe surrounded by a small lake and climbing frames for the gorillas and chimps to play on. Penka entered the house and hurried along the deserted corridor. She stopped and caught her breath. She rested her hand on a stripped-oak upright support and felt a trembling vibrate through the wooden post. Distant thuds punctured the air. She listened and concentrated to try and separate the sounds of the city from the noises the animals in the enclosure made. She stopped when she saw Sasho a few metres from the glass. She ran to him.

  Sasho sat close to a rope swing opposite the glass. Penka’s smile faded when she saw his melancholy expression. She could sense at once that he was worried about her. She reached the glass that separated them and placed her hand on it, fingers spread out.

  His simian brow furrowed and then he rolled his eyes as if to say, “What a mess, huh?”

  Penka smiled and nodded her agreement.

  Shasho shrugged and loped over to her. He put his right hand on the glass opposite hers, fingers also splayed, as he always did. Only the glass separated their touch.

  Penka’s breathing shallowed and accelerated as she struggled to find the words. Part of her brain noted that Sasho could not hear her words nor would he understand them if he could, but she spoke them anyway: “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. They’re coming. Bad people…” she reconsidered for a second, tutted, and amended: “Even worse people.”

  Sasho shrugged again and pursed his lips. He shook his head, heaved a sigh, and looked down at the floor of the chimpanzees’ enclosure. To Penka, this meant: “Yeah, they’re all horrible, but you’ve still got me.”

  “I know, I know,” Penka said, slipping seamlessly into the same conversation she had with Sasho every time she came to be with him. Part of her mind had decided to block out the obvious, the inevitable, even as her ears registered the growing cacophony of deep thumps which could only denote explosions.

  She tried to explain to the only creature that cared about her: “But you know, my dearest Sasho, they don’t know what they’re doing. They think they are being kind to you and your family. They try to make you happy, they try to show they care—” she stopped as a thud from outside seemed to rock the entire zoo. A loud rain of heavy things thumped onto the outside of the roof.

  Sasho suddenly began shrieking, a piercing tonal bark that Penka had never heard him make before. Other members of the troupe behaved in a similar manner. Sasho left the glass and swung up on the ropes and dead tree limbs of the enclosure. Penka shivered at the sudden change in demeanour; now the family of chimps howled and flew about their mock jungle environment in fear-driven fury.

  An abrupt shudder shook the ground around her, like a small earthquake, and she lost her balance. Dazed, she looked at the fresh graze on her hand as crimson blood oozed through scuffed skin. Pain invaded her senses. Sounds seemed to be very distant. Her young spirit questioned again why she had to feel the pain, why she had to suffer. She felt so tired of having to bear pain.

  The door at the entrance to the enclosure collapsed with a tearing, wooden shriek. Penka hoped it was help, that someone, somewhere would care about the animals, if not her; that someone would do something. She looked towards the entrance and saw a large ball of silver metal partially embedded in the ground there. Articulated arms snapped out from the surface, and the last thing Penka saw was the Spider as it clattered towards her to take her in its deadly embrace.

  Chapter 12

  09.21 Wednesday 22 February 2062

  CRISPIN WEBB WATCHED the man with the cropped hair and rectangular glasses shake his head as he repeated: “Quantum encryption simply cannot be broken or otherwise circumvented, that’s the whole point of it. How many times must I repeat myself?”

  The Prime Minister, Dahra Napier, pinched the bridge of her nose and replied: “Doctor Canham, while we appreciate your explanations and your time in coming to speak with us today, we can’t impress on you the seriousness of the situation facing us. Some kind of shortcut to help us reach our objective would be greatly appreciated by our defence forces.”

  The uneasiness on Doctor Canham’s face amused Webb as he wondered what fiendish genetic problem the man must have to be obliged to wear glasses. In better days, Napier’s aide mused, it used to be an enormous pleasure to watch the way people reacted if they couldn’t give the boss what she wanted, especially when they had been summoned to a COBRA meeting. Enjoying the discomfort of others had been a pleasurable benefit of having power, but now an even greater power from outside cast its shadow over all of them, and this tempered Webb’s satisfaction.

  “With the greatest respect, Prime Minister,” Doctor Canham said, sounding sycophantic, “one would have to go back to a time before quantum computing—over thirty years—in which citizens’ private data could simply be scooped up by, for example, GCHQ, and processed in bulk to identify certain trends in the general population. Those ‘Wild West’ days of no privacy and subverting democracy have long been over.”

  The Home Secretary, Aiden Hicks, said in a nasal tone: “But are you absolutely sure there is not a way super artificial intelligence can be repurposed to overcome this encryption?”

  Doctor Canham’s face seemed to be a mask of strained patience. He said: “As I explained at the outset, not without the data subject’s permission—”

  “In which case we’d hardly need super AI anyway,” Napier broke in.

  The doctor continued: “I’m no lawyer, but any attempt to breach citizens’ privacy in such a way—”

  The Foreign Secretary, Charles Blackwood, said: “They won’t be worried about their privacy if they’re dead.” Webb noted Napier’s sigh.

  Aiden Hicks’s double chin wobbled as he turned his head back and forth to look at everyone around the table. He said: “It looks like we have to accept the need to conduct a general appeal.”

  “My god,” Blackwood complained, “when was the last time an English government conducted any kind of public information campaign?”

  The answer immediately flashed up in Crispin’s vision, so he said: “That was in March 2048, when Wood’s government appealed for volunteers to assist with tidal—”

  Napier silenced him with a raised hand and said: “Yes, thank you, Crispin, but I rather think the Foreign Secretary’s question was rhetorical.”

  Hicks spoke: “Besides, this is hardly an appeal for assistance. What we need now is as many young people as we can muster who are willing and able to join the Armed F—”

  “Er, if I might make a suggestion, Prime Minister?” Doctor Canham broke in, with more than a little courage, Webb thought.

  She nodded her assent.

  The doctor continued: “I believe it might be worth utilising the local civil defence groups that are already quite well established.”

  Heads around the table looked in surprise at the dowdy, middle-aged civil servant who’d been summoned to brief the COBRA meeting on the potential by-passing of quantum encryption and the on-going recruitment drives for the Armed Forces.

  Doctor Canham went on: “With all due respect, Prime Minister, and—er, the rest of you—I believe many people already comprehend what is happening on the continent, and are, shall we say, quite ahead of His Majesty’s Government in this respect.” Doctor Canham paused as if unsure of whether he had overstepped his remit.

  Napier glanced at Webb and gave her aide a half-smile. She said to the doctor: “Please, go on.”

  “I think that instead of trying to find a shortcut of doubtful legality to reach people, which would run the risk of offending and alienating quite a number of the general population, it would be more productive to be open, to run a public appeal for volunteers. The advantage would be two-fold. First, you would create a sense of us all being in this together, rather than those in power resorting to some kind of subterfuge. And secondly, this would cause those who want to help to do so, possibly with more willingness. Whether you use subterfuge or not,
it will not make a difference to those citizens who will refuse to help due to ill-health, indifference or age.”

  Webb watched his boss push her chair back a little and cross her right leg over her left. A priority communication arrived in his lens that told him Sir Terry Tidbury was ready to give COBRA the latest update on the progress of the invasion. Webb said: “Okay, thank you, doctor.” He stood up and indicated the door. Doctor Canham also rose.

  “Yes, thank you,” Napier added. “That was very informative.”

  The doctor pushed his glasses up his nose and picked up a small briefcase.

  Webb opened the door to the COBRA conference room and let Doctor Canham go first. “We need you to wait outside for a few minutes for security reasons. We will call you back in shortly.”

  The doctor nodded his understanding.

  Webb followed the doctor through the door and called out to the woman waiting at the reception desk in the open space: “Monica, would you organise some refreshments for the doctor?”

  Napier’s PA acknowledged Webb’s request with a nod and Webb returned to the conference room. Some of the attendees muttered to each other but stopped when the door clicked shut.

  Napier said: “That was a good idea. While certainly not one of the original intentions of their formation, the civil defence organisations could also be used to coordinate a recruitment drive to the Armed Forces. Very well, we’ll design and commence a more… traditional appeal.” She looked at Webb and instructed: “Link to the War Rooms now, please.”

  “Of course, Prime Minister,” he answered. He tapped a screen in the worn oak table in front of him and paused, waiting for a response. When it came, Webb tapped again and the bald, round head of General Sir Terry Tidbury filled the south wall.

  The commander of the British Armed Forces said: “Good morning. I hope you’re not projecting me at full size on that wall there. That would be disturbingly close.”

  Faces broke into half-smiles as Webb reduced the size of the General and his surroundings to dimensions that matched more closely those of the physically present attendees.

  Napier said: “Let’s begin with the latest news from the fronts. General?”

  Terry’s face remained passive and his voice flat, as though he were relating a weather report. “Day four of the invasion is seeing the enemy advance broadly as our computers have forecast. He is making rapid gains on all four fronts. If I may, PM?”

  Napier answered: “Of course.”

  A thumbnail emerged from the bottom of the screen, smothering Terry’s head and expanding to cover all of the south wall. A map of Europe faced Webb and the others in the conference room, and various areas enlarged and retracted as Terry spoke: “In Spain, the enemy’s Warrior Group West has two spearheads advancing from the south and west, gaining an average of fifty kilometres a day. We are getting reports here of very aggressive tactics towards the civilian population on the spearheads’ flanks, which go some way beyond the militarily required minimum to ensure no interference from NATO forces.

  “Further east, Italy has now been cut in two. The southern half of the country is isolated, and due to the impenetrability of the enemy’s jamming, we have no information on what is happening there. Over in Greece, the situation is little better. Advance units of Warrior Group East are making rapid progress, so much so that NATO forces there are taking casualties because they can’t pull back fast enough. It goes without saying that our troops are being obliged to allow tens of thousands of refugees to fall into Caliphate hands.

  “Finally, the Istanbul front is advancing up through Bulgaria and we have lost contact with Sofia. The computers forecast that the two eastern fronts will be the first to link up, which we anticipate in the first few days of March. So far, the enemy has only deployed its primary, bomb-armed ACA, the Blackswan. Its secondary ACA, the laser-equipped Lapwing, has yet to make an appearance over the European battlefields.”

  Webb saw Napier look at the others around the conference table and her face seemed as ashen as theirs did. A pink-faced young male assistant to the Chancellor made an audible gulp.

  With a note of despondency, Home Secretary Aiden Hicks repeated Terry’s observation: “So the invasion is indeed progressing exactly as our computers said it would.”

  Napier asked: “Are there any options to delay the enemy’s advance, no matter how improbable?”

  Webb felt a flash of cynicism mixed with respect at the bravery the boss always seemed to deploy when in front of her subordinates, constantly looking for positives.

  The map of Europe withdrew to reveal Terry’s bald head. He said: “SACEUR in Brussels is coordinating research into alternatives, however remote they might be. But the enemy is sweeping over the continent in an invasion that, so far, has been perfectly executed. And frankly speaking, our forces are no match for him.”

  “But won’t they be obliged even to pause for at least a while? Overextended supply chains and all that?” Blackwood asked, aghast.

  Terry replied: “We do not anticipate that, no. We need to bear in mind that this is the first major war that has been fought with super artificial-intelligence and other modern technology. We must assume the enemy, like us, has replicators for food and water for his armies. Up to now, we believe that, also like us, they cannot replicate certain munitions, but given their advantage in firepower, that might not matter in any case.”

  Napier spoke: “General, thank you for this update. Before you joined us, we had been debating the best recruitment strategy to encourage people to join the Armed Forces in England and, we hope, the other Home Countries. Would you like to have some input on that?”

  Webb bit his lip. A voice inside his head asked what the fucking point of that was, and part of him hoped the head of the British Army would say exactly that.

  Terry’s brow furrowed in consideration and he replied: “I suppose there might be a scenario in the future when more troops could help to delay the inevitable, but in the current circumstances, I would suggest it is highly unlikely any number of new troops—barely trained, inexperienced in battle—could seriously hinder the invasion of the British Isles in a few weeks’ time.”

  Napier said to Terry’s image: “But it might be a good idea to get people busy, keep them occupied, yes?”

  Terry head tilted in consideration. He answered: “That would be more of a political decision, PM.”

  “Quite,” she said. Then to Webb: “Crispin, show Doctor Canham back in, would you?”

  “Of course,” Webb replied, getting up.

  Napier looked at the image and said: “Sir Terry, we have an expert with us who has prepared a report. I have invited him here to deliver the summary in person. I think you might like to hear what he has to say.”

  “Very well, PM,” Terry replied.

  Webb showed Doctor Canham back into the room. The slight, bespectacled form shuffled to the seat he’d vacated only a few minutes before.

  Napier spoke: “Welcome back, Doctor Canham. Please give us a summary of the assessment you and your department have carried out regarding expanding our Armed Forces.”

  Canham said: “All data I will use is the most current available. As of today, England has a little under sixteen million, seven hundred thousand people of military age—in the eighteen-to-forty-nine age group. As our remit was to assume the introduction of conscription—”

  Foreign Secretary Blackwood broke in and spluttered: “PM, are you serious? If we take such a radical step—”

  “Charles, it’s quite all right,” Home Secretary Hicks said, raising a placating hand. “The PM and I discussed this purely as a hypothetical scenario and only to be implemented if the volunteer campaign does not yield sufficient numbers.”

  Charles Blackwood let out an offended huff.

  “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?” Napier said.

  The doctor cleared his throat and resumed: “Data analysis by super artificial intelligence has confirmed our suspicions regarding levels of
obesity in the general population.” He gave the room a long look before continuing: “One of this government’s key pledges since the last general election has been to lower levels of obesity in all age groups.”

  Webb had a morbid feeling as the new double meaning of the phrase ‘the last general election’ came to him. New data announced itself in the lower right of his vision, and as a distraction he began reading secure updates on the Caliphate’s advance.

  With one ear, Webb listened to Canham continue: “Success can be described as patchy at best. Diet and lifestyle choices, in addition to societal peer pressure, have prevented substantive measures from having the anticipated impact…”

  Reports from the four fronts scrolled up Webb’s vision and he marvelled at the destruction being wrought in southern Europe. A sudden change in the atmosphere in the room dragged Webb’s attention back to his immediate surroundings.

  Foreign Secretary Charles Blackwood’s round head whipped back and forth, looking as though it might topple off his slender neck. He said: “That’s ridiculous. One in three? One-third of the entire able-bodied population of the Home Countries? There must be some mistake.”

  The bespectacled civil servant remained unfazed, saying: “Not at all. It is, in fact, quite an interesting irony.”

  “What do you mean?” Napier asked.

  The doctor explained: “At the outbreak of the First World War a hundred and fifty years ago, the British Army had a similar rejection rate—thirty-two percent—that we can expect to see today. Then, the cause was poverty-driven malnutrition and its effects, whereas now it is due to poverty-driven obesity and its effects.”

  Hicks looked at Napier in disquiet and asked: “Where’s Joanne? Shouldn’t she be here to explain this?”

  Webb answered: “She’s on maternity leave, scheduled to give birth in a few days.”