Invasion

by Chris James

  Duncan lined up a shot on the black, but no longer looked along the cue. His friend’s observation caused a spark to flash in his mind’s eye. He hit the shot, and to his complete shock, the black ball hit the back of the pocket with a loud thud. “Oh, that’s eight,” Duncan said, seeing his own surprise reflected on his friend’s face. He retrieved the black from the pocket and put it back on its spot, asking Graham: “But that would only work until the enemy ACA registered the variation, and then adjusted its own shielding frequency to match, thus negating the advantage, wouldn’t it?”

  “The engagement in the Med only had a few moments to run, so it didn’t matter greatly on the night. But since then, the lasers we’re using to fight the enemy have shown that the variations are not sufficient.”

  “And?” Duncan asked, lining up his next red ball.

  “And what?” Graham asked before taking a pull from his glass.

  “What’s the current situation regarding this advantage?”

  “It’s been forwarded for consideration in the next generation of weapons.”

  Duncan played the shot, missed the red, stood up, and said in exasperation: “But unless we do something now, there isn’t going to be a next generation of weapons, for Pete’s sake.”

  Graham put his glass down on the small table by the wall and went to the table. “That’s why I wanted to meet you like this, in private. Come on, Professor, things haven’t only been a tad hectic the last few days, they’ve been positively manic—”

  “I don’t think we should over-dramatize things too much, old chap, but I do take your point.”

  Graham leaned over the table to take his next shot and said: “The super AI is spitting out all kinds of suggestions, projections, simulations. Our political masters are overloaded with this; the military are struggling to manage what is becoming a total rout.” A red disappeared into a middle pocket. “Good ideas, things that might actually help NATO troops in the field, can slip past everyone without being noticed.”

  Duncan had already called up the relevant data in his lens. He said: “But the battlefield pulsars out there now are all based on the Yank design.”

  “Yes, the modification was made but ended when the enemy’s super AI noted and adjusted the frequency of its ACAs’ shielding to negate our advantage.” Graham took on an ambitious pink to a centre pocket and missed. “Just the one,” he announced. He said: “I wanted to be sure you were aware of the whole story, Professor.”

  “Hmm,” Duncan said, staring at the snooker table but not seeing anything, his mind buzzing with thoughts. He said to Graham, without looking at him: “You know, I have been wrapped up in two very important aspects at my place: the fusion reaction behind the enemy’s propulsion systems and their remarkable jamming systems.”

  “Got anywhere with them?” Graham asked before sipping his drink. “I was quite surprised at that Reyer fellow working out the large-scale fusion issue like that.”

  “Oh, me too. Some of his research is very good.” Duncan had a half-hearted attempt at a red but missed. He stood, looked at his friend, and said: “Yes, I am playing around with a couple of ideas regarding the enemy’s jamming. Personally, I regard their behaviour on that score as deeply unsporting; we should do something to stop them getting away with it as soon as possible.”

  “So how about a trade?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Graham leaned over the table and his short, thick arms stretched as he aimed his cue. He sighed, gave up, and reached for the rest that hung under the end of the table. He said: “What about randomising coherence-length variation on each Pulsar shot?”

  Duncan took a pull of his light and bitter and stared at his friend. He knew something had been bothering him since Graham had brought the subject up. He said: “Of course, randomisation will prevent the enemy from making adjustments to the frequency of its ACAs’ shielding, but, wait, will there be enough—”

  “Yes, there will,” Graham interrupted. “I ran a secret simulation and I am certain it will work.”

  “So why don’t you put it forward yourself? Why are you telling me?”

  Graham played his shot with the rest and potted a red neatly into a corner pocket. He said: “One… Because it’s a little outside my field, Professor. If I put it to my committee, they would be equally as likely to berate me for wasting my and their time when I and my team are supposed to be finding an answer to the enemy’s jamming… Black.”

  “Oh, I’ve looked at that. The answer is somewhere in the super-high frequencies, in highly concentrated beams. They could ‘burn’ through the jamming, creating directional corridors to allow comms.”

  Graham missed the black and stared at Duncan, mouth agape. “What did you say?”

  Duncan said: “Hmm, yes. If there is enough wavelength… and an inducer that randomised… Yes, I do believe that would work.” He glanced at his friend to see Graham’s eye twitching and asked: “Well? I must admit, it is only a theory I came up with at one of those interminable meetings we seem to be obliged to attend almost every day now.”

  “You must admit, Professor, there is quite a lot to have to keep up with. Your shot.”

  Duncan shook his head and muttered: “But where are the snags?” He lined up a red, played the shot, and missed.

  “Must there always be snags?” Graham asked with a sigh, picking up his cue.

  Duncan walked back from the snooker table and said: “Of course. How many times do I have to tell you—”

  “It was already too many at least ten years ago, probably longer.”

  “The snags must always be found before one makes oneself look an arse in public.”

  “You’re right there,” Graham said, impressively potting a long red.

  Duncan saw this and said: “Damn and blast you, sir. You have been practising without telling me, haven’t you?”

  Graham smiled and replied: “The way this war’s going, I thought I might as well enjoy it while I can. I can’t imagine a world without snooker.”

  Duncan scoffed and said: “Wouldn’t be a world worth living in, that much is certain.”

  Chapter 31

  08.12 Wednesday 1 March 2062

  CRISPIN WEBB HURRIED along the ground-floor corridor in the Houses of Parliament, not seeing the other members, the interns or the assistants who stared at him. Webb no longer cared what those in lower positions thought of his behaviour; the pressure on his boss had to be handled, and that was his job. In his lens, he followed numerous media feeds, his combative anger looking for a target. A more sober voice pointed out that perhaps he should not have taken that last pill with the reengineered GenoFluid bots.

  He called one of Napier’s other assistants and barked: “Monica?”

  “Yes,” came a distant, feeble response.

  Webb asked: “Are you still asleep?”

  “What? No, of course not. Too many late nights and early mornings, that’s all.”

  “I don’t care. Check the media now. A few outlets are carrying reports that Philip is under pressure to resign. Refute, now.”

  “Okay.”

  With twitches of his eye muscles, he called his least-favourite editor. “Morning, Mister MacSawley,” he said.

  “Anyone ever told you when a joke stops being funny?”

  Webb let out a chuckle and said: “What is this shit your outlet is disseminating about people drowning in the Bay of Biscay, and the government ‘doesn’t care enough to rescue them’?”

  Webb felt pleased when he heard defensiveness in MacSawley’s voice. “What has that got to do with the all-pulling-together bullshit we agreed to three weeks ago? This is a genuine human interest st—”

  “Bollocks, mate.”

  “Fuck you, Cris. We’ve got ordinary civilians taking their boats out to sea trying to pick up refugees off the coasts and not all of them are coming back. And the English coastguard, underfunded by successive governments for decades, doesn’t have the gear. That falls way ou
tside the scope of the agreement.”

  “No, Andy. It’s war-related and that means you should run it by me first, got it?”

  “No fucking way,” MacSawley spat.

  Webb slowed his pace as the voice in the back of his head urged caution. MacSawley was editor of The Mail, the most powerful media outlet in England and all of the Home Countries.

  The editor, now sounding far angrier than defensive, hissed: “Don’t you start acting like you’re some kind of censor, Cris. That’s not what ‘all pulling together’ means, you little shit. My readers want to know what’s going on, got that? These people with their boats are bloody heroes, making a fuck-sight more effort than either of us, safely tucked away in our London cocoon.”

  “Don’t accuse me of censorship,” Webb argued back, his own fury starting to crackle and burn at MacSawley’s repeated shortening of his first name, which he loathed. “I’m talking about working together so we don’t accidently panic the entire populations of the Home Countries. One wrong headline from you, and—”

  “What ‘wrong headline’ are you talking about? Did you even read the story?”

  “I don’t have to; I know—”

  “I suppose you don’t know about the recruitment drive we’re doing for the British Army, either? Have you seen even one of the features we’ve run this week?”

  “That’s not the same thing, not at—”

  “Listen, twat, you do your job and let me do mine. We know what your boss needs. And with all the shit going down right now, you and me are wasting what little time we’ve got left arguing the fucking toss over the cubed root of fuck-all.”

  MacSawley terminated the call and Webb swore aloud, eliciting a frown of disapproval from a woman passing him. He arrived at his first destination and resisted the urge to walk through the door without knocking. Instead, he gave the deep brown oak panelling a few heavy raps with his knuckles. A second later, there came a cough from the other side of the door, and that was good enough for Webb. He entered.

  Behind the desk on the far side of the room, Defence Secretary Philip Gough heaved a sigh when his eyes met Webb’s. He said: “I thought it was a little early in the day for the PM to unleash her number one jackal?”

  Webb ignored the taunt and strode up to Gough’s desk. He said: “Who’s been leaking that you’re under pressure to resign?”

  Gough laughed, which surprised Webb. The Defence Secretary stroked his trimmed beard and said: “Who cares?”

  “What? Listen, the PM is very keen to keep a united front. No resignations, no firings. So why are there reports this morning that you ‘might be asked to resign’?”

  Gough sat in his plush chair with a look of bewilderment on his narrow, angular face. He held his arms open said: “Why are you asking me? Perhaps someone misheard something. Perhaps some over-eager hack wanted to freshen up some tedious AI-written copy? How the hell am I supposed to know?”

  Webb stared at Gough’s eyes and his instinct told him nothing suspicious was going on. Gough might hate him—his boss didn’t pay him to be popular—but nothing in the Defence Secretary’s demeanour suggested subterfuge. He said: “So take my visit as a friendly reminder from the PM that no one’s resigning.” Webb turned to go.

  “Wait a moment,” Gough said.

  Webb stopped and turned back. “What?”

  “Do old habits really die that hard, Mr Webb?”

  “Old habits?”

  “Yes. You storm into my office—and, by the way, next time you had better wait for my clear invitation before entering—and start implying that I, or someone in my department, has leaked something patently untrue, as though we’re living through a normal Parliamentary session of the old fun and games. Have you seen the overnight situation reports from the four fronts?”

  “Er, no, I haven’t had time,” Webb replied, feeling nonplussed for the second time in a few minutes.

  “Estimates range between ten and thirty thousand casualties, just while you and I were sleeping peacefully in our beds last night.”

  “Yes, well, we’re all at some risk I sup—”

  “But that’s just it. You, me, the PM, the people on these islands, we can all sit back and relax while those Europeans get slaughtered like cattle, and no one saw it coming. I suppose I should congratulate the PM for reining the media in to some degree. When all this kicked off, they were baying for political blood, preferably mine. And I would’ve given it to them, too, if it had made a jot of difference. But it wouldn’t have then and it won’t now. The media can see it. The country can see it. But you can’t. You need to adjust to the new reality.”

  “Is that it?” Webb sneered.

  “Yes. Now get out of my office and only come back when you have something important to say, jackal.”

  Webb slammed the door when he left Gough’s office and strode on to his next destination, deeper in the warren of the Palace of Westminster. He made another call and said: “Monica, update now.”

  He heard Monica say in his ear: “Yeah, refuting, can’t find a source.”

  “Keep an eye on any other bullshit that starts gaining traction.”

  “Will do.”

  Webb noticed broken filaments high above in the gothic stone architecture and recalled a recent report about how the Palace of Westminster was once again beginning to sink into the Thames, despite the billions spent a mere thirty years earlier to shore it up.

  Webb considered Gough’s words and wondered just how much truth they contained. The voice in his head noted his own cynicism: who cares if the Palace of Westminster slides into the Thames now, when in mere weeks it would likely be blasted to rubble anyway? But nevertheless, here he was running around trying to micromanage media opinion as though the only important forthcoming political event was a general election. He concluded the effect of the pill must be wearing off.

  He arrived at another vast and imposing panelled door and knocked. He waited for a distinct, “Come,” before entering.

  Webb entered to see the Leader of His Majesty’s Opposition, David Bentley, turn from a tall bookcase and walk towards him. Despite being the political enemy, Webb admired Bentley’s style; always well turned out, Bentley still put credence on the old-fashioned view that presentation counted, even if he were a known alcoholic.

  Bentley looked askance at Webb and asked: “Is everything all right with the PM?”

  “Yes, she’s fine,” Webb lied. “She asked if you wouldn’t mind explaining your concerns to me and I will relay them to her. The PM hopes you’ll understand the pressure she finds herself under these days.”

  Bentley shrugged and said: “If you like, although it is not so very important, I suppose. Have you had breakfast?”

  “Er, well…” Webb stammered, nonplussed for the third time in almost as many minutes.

  Bentley clapped his hands and said: “Good. Come along, then. We can talk over coffee and eggs benedict.” The Leader of the Opposition opened the door and went through. Webb followed. They walked along the high gothic passageway with the winter sun flashing off the surface of the Thames outside. Bentley said: “It’s an issue I’ve mentioned to Dahra before, but I really think she should put some of the shadow cabinet in positions of government if we want to avoid the need for an official coalition.”

  “The PM gave you seventeen committee positions last week, half of which you’ve still to nominate.”

  “On the understanding that we would consider and get back to—”

  Webb glanced and saw Bentley’s eye twitch.

  Bentley said: “Not now, Martin, I’m with the PM’s PPS… Listen, Mr Webb, a number of Right Honourable Members are beginning to express, shall we say, certain reservations regarding the immediate future.”

  Webb wondered if his interlocutor was trying to be funny, but said nothing.

  “They see little sense wasting time—as they see it—in the House. They have families, children, they want to spend some quality ti—”

  “Yes,” W
ebb interrupted, “we in government are also aware of that, but the business of government will go on.”

  “Until the bitter end?”

  “I expect so,” Webb replied, feeling a sudden hotness in his chest that spread up to his face.

  “My point is,” Bentley said, “that I’d be grateful if Dahra could consider filling any sudden vacancies with some of the very talented individuals we have on the Opposition benches…”

  They reached one of the entrances to the vast Members’ Dining Room. Bentley put out an arm to signal Webb to go first.

  Webb saw this but could not react. The voice inside Webb’s head tutted as the hot flush climbed like a massive, angry, burning centipede over and around his shoulders. He briefly registered a look of abrupt concern on Bentley’s face and wondered why it should be directed at him. He fell back into the panelled door, which also surprised him. He tried to straighten up but the door upended itself and Webb found himself staring at eye level with the red carpet on the floor. In the corner of his vision, a notification flashed in his lens that he required medical attention. “No shit,” he murmured before the heat and sudden exhaustion swept him into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 32

  08.59 Wednesday 1 March 2062

  MARIA PHILLIPS HOLLOWED out the canvas holdall with her hand to be able to pack as many things as she could. The British Army’s guidelines for new recruits stated the maximum size of the bag they should bring and gave a helpful list of things it did not provide so the recruits could prioritise for themselves.

  Her older brother Martin appeared in the doorway and said: “Step on it, Maz, there’s been a change of schedule.”

  She looked up and said: “What?”

  He tutted and said: “You don’t have your lens in, again?”