Invasion

by Chris James

  At length, the pain in his ribs made his laughter subside and he heaved for breath. He decided that the tree trunk against which he sat was in fact quite comfortable, and the night was not cold. As his breathing came back under control, he recalled the evening: an opulent party at the refurbished Galaxy building celebrating the five-hundredth-and-something anniversary of the final defeat of one of those great dynasties—Ding? Ming? Ping?—where the world’s diplomats and dignitaries took care to pay homage to the leaders of the most powerful country on Earth.

  But the Marshall. Oh, how Marshall Zhou had missed his Englishman. Memories of what had happened after the party surged through the Englishman’s drunkenness. How many pills had he given Zhou? Too many. And the booze? There had been at least three different flavours of baijiu, and the Chinese alcohol did not mix well with single malt whiskey.

  Ah, but the information Zhou revealed after they’d had sex; that was worth the worst hangover in the world. At first, the Englishman had thought Zhou mocked or teased him, but he knew from his youth that certain tears cannot be summoned at will.

  Zhou admitted that his wife had confronted him about his indiscretions, which fact the Englishman found tedious beyond toleration. But suddenly, Zhou had drawn the comparison between him losing face in front of his wife, and China losing face in front of the Third Caliph.

  The Englishman’s head lolled on the hard, rough bark of the tree behind him. He said aloud: “Oh yeah, face. That’s everything to these guys. No fucking compromise—you can’t take a Chinaman’s face.” A familiar warning bell tinkled in the furthest recess of his alcohol-submersed sobriety, reminding him that he must not be indiscreet. He began giggling again, wondering if Zhou’s anus could also be accused of indiscretion.

  “Not if he gets a portion up it in private,” he said aloud, wiping his hand across his forehead. “No,” he went on, warming to the thought, “in private, everyone does what they fucking well like… In private, the Chinese President can threaten the Third Caliph that if he doesn’t stop bombing the shit out of Europe, China will stop all exports.” The Englishman giggled again but then reverted to sullen anger as he said: “But, in private, the Third Caliph can tell the Chinese President to go fuck himself.” He mused: “Ah, the mad little fucker in Tehran stole the Chinaman’s face, in front of the whole Politburo—” he dissolved in a fit of uncontrolled laughter.

  Presently, the throaty guffawing transformed into sobs of utter despair as memories of the desperate images of Europe’s suffering cut through the Englishman’s drunkenness. He sobbed from depths of his stomach; loud, echoing yelps of crushing desolation. He stopped only when mucus ran out of his nose and he had to wipe his sleeve across his mouth and inhale the remainder back into his sinuses.

  “Fucking bastards,” he spat in a mix of anguish and hate, tears running down his face. “Fucking bloody bastards, playing Europe like it’s a fucking pawn.” He became aware of the approach of another person. He looked along the path to see someone coming towards him, but he found it difficult to focus.

  “Hullo there!” called a cheerful English voice. “I am so sorry to disturb you, Sir, but I do think you need to come with me now.”

  The Englishman fought to get his breathing under control and to focus his eyes. A young man stood in front of him, slim and dressed in formal attire.

  “What?” was all the Englishman could say as he looked into the unsmiling, Mongolian face.

  The man offered a hand, but his eyes showed no trace of friendship. His polite voice dropped a tone, and the request became a demand: “I am dreadfully sorry, Sir, but you really do have to come with me now.”

  Chapter 46

  11.01 Friday 14 April 2062

  THE GIRL OF Senegalese descent with porcelain skin leaned over to Maria Phillips and said with infectious enthusiasm: “Finally, we’re going to get our hands on the serious stuff—I can’t wait.”

  Maria smiled and said: “Come on, Nabou, it’s already been intense. I swear I’ve never been this fit in my life.”

  Nabou grinned back, her brilliant white teeth completing her cheeky expression. “I think they want to stop us thinking about the future, you know?”

  “Yes,” Maria said, “stop us worrying about the war by keeping us worrying about locker inspections.”

  “That sergeant has it in for our squad, I tell you, Maz. Look at poor Ronnie, having the whole company laugh at him because he dribbled saliva down his front during PT. Only because the sergeant told the other squads.”

  Maria marvelled at Nabou’s flawless, obsidian skin when the door to the classroom suddenly opened and the training sergeant strode in. The twenty-four recruits stood up as one and saluted.

  “As you were, you Muppets,” she said, a large-boned woman with narrow hips, who looked powerful and intimidating in her fatigues. She scanned the assorted recruits as they settled, and Maria noted the way the sergeant used just enough makeup to intensify the glare from her eyes. She stood at the front of the room on a raised platform, put her fists on her hips, and huffed in what, Maria had come to know, was certainly dissatisfaction.

  “Miller,” she said with a nod of her head, “you’re still as ugly this morning as you were yesterday afternoon. Why?”

  A male voice from the back of the room replied: “Sorry, ma’am. I have not been able to get compassionate leave yet to visit the beauty salon.”

  The sergeant said: “You’d be any beauty salon’s worst nightmare.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry ma’am,” Miller repeated.

  The sergeant paused and allowed the smiles to die down.

  Maria looked on in admiration; she had never encountered people like those she had met during her basic training.

  The Sergeant turned and touched the side of the large screen on the wall. As it came to life with an image, she spoke: “We have reached the stage of your Phase One training where, against my better judgement, we are going to let you touch some weapons. But before we do, we begin with this,” she stepped to the side to reveal the enlarged, three-dimensional image of a quantum matrix. “This is your SQCH–77B Battlefield Management Support System, colloquially known as the Squitch. I won’t bore you with the technical operational parameters…” she paused, then: “And besides which, most of you look too stupid to understand them anyway.”

  Maria felt everyone else in the room smile with her.

  The training sergeant went on: “This piece of kit is the one thing that can keep you alive in a battle. We can fit it in your own lens if you use one. We can implant it below your ear, or, if you prefer neither of those options, we can put it into your standard-issue goggles, although that does mean you have to wear them permanently while on duty.” As she described the options, images appeared showing example devices.

  “The Squitch is merged with all of the Army’s support systems. It allows your CO to know where you are and how you are doing, and it allows his CO to see how a firefight or battle is developing. The controller is this coin-shaped device that you keep in a special pocket.. Do not deactivate your Squitch. Ever. Without it, you are blind, totally defenceless, and completely disconnected from support.”

  The images of the types of device faded and were replaced with the outline of a rifle. The training sergeant went on: “Now, from among all of the small arms you will learn to use during your Phase One training, this is the most important: the NATO-standard issue PKU–48 smart assault rifle, called the Pickup. This weapon allows you to aim to within a few metres of a target, and still hit it. It fires smart bullets that adjust their explosive mix depending on the target. For example, if you are aiming at a building, your Squitch will adjust the compounds to maximise explosive damage, whereas if you fire at a physical enemy, the mix will be adjusted to do as much harm to human tissue as possible.”

  While describing this, the images in the screen displayed an enlarged smart bullet with simplified labels and other indicators of how it worked. A shiver ran through Maria when the sergeant mentio
ned human tissue, and despite wanting to contribute and do her duty, a small part of her hoped she would never have to fire the rifle at a real person.

  “In addition, the smart bullet, while not an actual guided missile, can nevertheless have its trajectory tweaked in flight. This might save your life if, for example, you come upon an enemy unexpectedly and have only an instant to get the first shot off. The Squitch will then direct the bullet, during its flight, onto the target. Any questions so far?”

  Silence greeted the sergeant’s enquiry. She scanned the class and said: “I’m trying to decide if you have no questions because you all understand everything I’ve told you up to now, or if it’s because none of you Muppets has a clue what I’m talking about.”

  A ripple of nervous laughter ran around the room.

  The sergeant continued: “Of course, your Battlefield Management Support System links directly to—and should not be confused with—Squonk, the Ministry of Defence’s, and therefore the British Army’s, super artificial intelligence. Although they’re part of the same super-AI operating system, the Squitch is your Squitch, just for you. It is your assistant on the battlefield. Squonk, on the other hand, is for everyone. Now, I expect all of you know and have worked with super AI in your miserable little lives. Is that right?”

  The look on the training sergeant’s face changed and Maria realised that someone had a question. The sergeant nodded to the person behind Maria.

  A female voice behind Maria asked: “Excuse me, ma’am, but what is a squonk?”

  The sergeant gave the questioner an incredulous look. She said: “I know I shouldn’t be surprised by any of you Muppets, but really, you don’t know what a squonk is? Okay, does any of you know?”

  Again, silence greeted her question.

  She let out a lengthy sigh and explained: “A squonk is an imaginary creature that, when captured, dissolves in a puddle of tears and bubbles. The British Army’s super artificial intelligence was given that name by a general who, many years ago, had the misfortune to have to deal with the only group of recruits in the entire history of the British Army who were stupider than you lot, clear?”

  Maria analysed the large image of the Pickup on the screen and shivered at the suggestion of lethality it presented. She questioned her decision to join up yet again.

  “Right, that’s enough of the jokes,” the training sergeant said, a stern look on her face. “You must all remember that your Squitch is your best friend. The Squitch can and will do everything to save your life in a battle. The Squitch will warn you of approaching threats. It will tell you what to shoot and where. It will tell you where to find cover. It will tell you how to get back to your unit. It will tell you where your nearest support is. Most importantly, your Squitch makes you part of a single, seamless military operation. In effect, you become an integrated element of one of the most advanced fighting platforms the world has ever seen.”

  Maria exhaled in the silence. The training sergeant put her fists on her hips again and concluded: “Now I would like to invite all of you Muppets to come with me to the armoury, where you will be fitted with a Squitch and issued with a Pickup.” She paused for a moment before smiling and saying: “And a few magazines of blank ammunition.” The screen behind her deactivated and she strode for the door.

  Maria stood with all of the other recruits. Over the noise of twenty-four chairs scrapping on the floor, Maria heard Nabou squeal in excitement: “This is going to be brilliant!”

  Maria glanced back at her new friend and smiled, feeling warmed by Nabou’s infectious enthusiasm.

  Chapter 47

  10.53 Monday 17 April 2062

  NAPIER’S FLESH CRAWLED at the way the Brazilian Vice-President leered at her, and anger crackled inside as his words patronised her. In normal times, she would have put up with it because of Brazil’s importance in global affairs. As it was the fifth largest country in the world with the fourth largest economy, English prime ministers had for years been obliged to be accommodating of the country’s dignitaries in the hope of gaining a few crumbs of investment from Brazilian conglomerates.

  Luiz Melo’s perfect white teeth shone when he flashed his smile after telling Napier that she looked like an English rose. Perhaps in better times she might have felt a twinge of appreciation, but the weight of problems smothered such considerations, and in any case, she knew better than anyone how much she’d aged in the last three months. “Mr Melo,” she answered, determined to apply whatever English aloofness she could muster, “my advisors tell me the Brazilian delegation will abstain on all of the resolutions which the European countries have put forward to condemn the Persian Caliphate. Is that true?”

  Melo’s smile softened when he replied: “Madame Napier, all of these resolutions are superficial. The Persian Caliphate is not a member of the United Nations, so those resolutions cannot carry any significance outside this chamber.”

  Napier sipped her water, glanced around at all of the other delegates about to enter the main chamber, and asked: “If they are not significant, why will Brazil abstain? Why don’t you support them and give them added legitimacy instead? And thus show the world that the Brazilian government opposes the death and destruction in Europe?”

  Melo’s face dropped and Napier wondered if he were mature enough to take the point. He said: “You should remember that the UN is a lame-duck forum, especially compared to the Pan-Asian Confederation. You English, Americans, French, Germans and all the others, you are no longer as important as you think you are. Stop living in yesterday, stop think—”

  “Millions of Europeans have died,” Napier hissed, provoked by his smarmy indifference. “This is about genocide, genocide permitted by the world’s richest and most powerful countries, because China allows it.”

  His black eyebrows rose in interest more than concern. He said: “But—how do you say it in English?—the shoe is on the other foot, yes? It was not so long ago that you sat back and allowed the most atrocious genocides to take place, and even supported them if Western companies could increase their profits. For example, what happened in Rwanda seventy years ago? Or the Holocaust? All the way back to the slave trade. Why do you smart and complain now because countries which are so much more powerful than you show little interest in your suffering or merely offer empty platitudes?”

  “It is not the same thing,” Napier averred, despite a kernel of doubt germinating in her mind.

  “Oh, but it is, very much so,” the Brazilian maintained. “You English and Americans do not understand. You are like an Italian who demands more today because Rome used to govern the greatest empire on Earth two millennia ago. You are living in a past glory that your ancestors lost many years ago. You would do well to understand that.”

  Napier did not need a lecture on history. She said: “Millions of people are dying, have died, and will die. Europe did nothing to provoke the Third Caliph—” she broke off when Melo scoffed. “What?” she demanded.

  “Really?” he said. “Stationing those two groups of battleships in the seas around Caliphate territory? Making constant probing attacks on his satellites? Even sending Special Forces into his territory only to have the embarrassment of their dead bodies being put on display?”

  A headache began with a piercing jab of pain above Napier’s left temple. She wanted to blame it on the time lag after flying from London and arriving in New York a couple of hours earlier. She said: “Such actions were in no way deserving of the current invasion. You must give us your support. You must add your weight to the calls for the Third Caliph to withdraw his forces back to Caliphate territory immediately.” As the pain in her head worsened, she thought the look on Melo’s face showed some understanding if not actual sympathy.

  “My dear Madame Napier,” he said in a level voice, “we should go into the chamber as the debate regarding the wording of your resolutions is about to begin.” He paused and then added in a quieter tone: “Perhaps you should look at this from a broader perspective? For e
xample, what if the Third Caliph has grander ambitions? What if the invasion of Europe has another purpose? Europe is poorer and less populated than many other parts of the world, for example India, which the Caliphate borders and which the Third Caliph might covet. Perhaps even the mighty China herself? What if the invasion of Europe were merely a test, a kind of training exercise?”

  “You can’t possibly be serious,” Napier heard herself bluster while realising that what the Brazilian said made perfect sense.

  His black eyebrows rose again and he said: “The only thing the European countries can do to avoid more bloodshed is surrender—”

  “Never,” Napier choked out at the affront.

  “The Third Caliph made another appeal this morning, did he not?”

  “Yes, not that it’s going to make the slightest diff—”

  “He continues to hold his forces back in a show of mercy, does he not?”

  “Merely so his ‘warriors’ can rape and steal everything they—”

  “Perhaps,” Melo broke in with apparently strained patience. “But again, Madame Napier, I would urge you to look at the broader picture. To the rest of the world, however violent his conduct to date, he has now paused and offered the remaining European countries an opportunity to surrender and avoid a great deal of unnecessary bloodshed—”

  “What you are saying is preposterous,” Napier said, her words laced with disgust.

  “My point is only this: please understand that history may come to judge you and Coll and the other European presidents and prime ministers for actively choosing quite the most brutal—and completely unnecessary—annihilation for your peoples.”

  Melo strode off for the main chamber, leaving Napier staring after him in a new kind of shock—a shock of perspective—as the other delegates and representatives filed through the doors. The pain in her head felt like she’d been hit by an arrow, compounded by the shock and fear that the rest of the world would indeed blame the European countries’ intransigence for prolonging the war as much as the Third Caliph, while conveniently overlooking his initial belligerence.