Onslaught

by Chris James

  Chapter 3

  08.34 Tuesday 17 January 2062

  GENERAL SIR TERRY Tidbury stared at the data in the screen on his desk, fighting an overwhelming sense of disbelief. He stroked his right hand over his bald head as he exhaled, and glanced up at Simms, his adjutant, whose stern, angular face retained its passive indifference.

  “Did MI5 say where they got this from?” Sir Terry asked.

  “A deep-cover agent in Beijing, Sir Terry; apparently reliable.”

  The General looked back at the screen and shook his head. “And Squonk’s probability?”

  The adjutant shrugged: “Slightly less than eight percent.”

  “What’s your opinion?”

  “The obvious reaction is to agree with Squonk. The Caliphate is certainly a brutal society, but—”

  “We don’t know that. It’s only what our intel surmises.”

  “Absolutely, Sir Terry. But since the cuts a few years ago which saw MI6 folded into MI5, for intel we’ve had to rely much more on our super AI’s forecasts and other estimates. And Squonk ascribes higher probabilities to many other scenarios: civil war, economic collapse, rampant internal repression. The Caliphate was built on—”

  “But supposing it’s true?” Sir Terry broke in. “What if the Sunnis and Shias aren’t at each other’s throats as we’ve always thought? What if the last two Caliphs have somehow unified enough of their domain to produce those kinds of armaments and that great an army?”

  Simms nodded in acceptance and replied: “Then Squonk would factor it in and increase the threat probabilities accordingly, which it has—” Simms broke off as his face twitched. “Ah, ten minutes to today’s COBRA meeting, Sir Terry. Your transport will arrive downstairs in three minutes.”

  “Very well. You’re excused.”

  Simms nodded and left the room.

  Sir Terry glanced back at the screen. His dislike of the department’s super artificial intelligence added to his sense of foreboding. The UK government, in keeping with all governments and corporations the world over, employed super artificial intelligence in supposedly advisory roles. But over the years, Sir Terry had noticed a growing tendency at all levels of authority to trust super AI until it progressed from an advisory to a primary role.

  “Squonk,” Sir Terry said as he rose from his chair and walked towards the vast, ornate windows which looked out across the slate-grey Westminster rooftops, “assume the figures in the data-pod are accurate and estimate what such forces might be used for.”

  The gender-neutral voice replied, seemingly from the middle of the room: “The highest probability would be for the Caliphate to assimilate the Muslims in the Asian Caucuses closest to its bor—”

  “Yes, but what about Europe?” Sir Terry interrupted with impatience. “What is the probability of the Caliphate using these forces to attack Europe?”

  Squonk answered: “Negligible, Sir Terry. Given the Third Caliph’s actions to date and the historical and behavioural patterns, the likelihood of an assault on Europe is less than eight percent.”

  Sir Terry watched the vehicles on the streets between the buildings scurry and buzz and weave, each one controlled by intelligences like Squonk. “Let’s assume that this eight percent is enough. If the contents of the data-pod are accurate and the Caliphate attacked Europe with that volume of armaments and warriors, how long would it take NATO to defeat them?”

  “With such overwhelming numerical superiority, defeat would be all but impossible. I have a range of forecasts which, in fact, project total defeat for NATO from within two weeks to four months. However, I must stress, General, that all available data insists that such an attack is highly unlikely.”

  Sir Terry stared through the window, lost in thought. An inexplicable suspicion preyed on his mind. He considered yet again how NATO’s position in global affairs had become less and less relevant over recent decades. On one level, this made Europe marginally safer: the world’s military flashpoints all involved China and India and Russia and a myriad of fault lines in Asia, Africa and South America. On another level, however, Sir Terry felt the sidelining of Europe’s significance on the global stage might work against it.

  Rationality insisted that Squonk and the other NATO super AIs must be correct in their assessments. When Sir Terry looked at the facts presented so starkly in the data-pod, common sense pointed out that there were two almost insurmountable barriers to believing that Europe could be in even the remotest danger. Firstly, the data-pod’s contents could merely be an elaborate hoax: for the Persian Caliphate to have produced such vast stockpiles of ordinance as well as the described six armies totalling three million warriors, defied belief given what the rest of the world suspected of life inside the Caliphate. Secondly, if true this information would be of far more interest to the states closer to the Caliphate’s borders, especially India, but also those countries adjoining the Caspian Sea, including Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan. Russia would not appreciate the Caliphate expanding towards its soft underbelly, and such a manoeuvre would raise serious concerns in Delhi as well as Beijing. Still, Sir Terry reflected as the midday sun glinted from one of the skyscrapers on the south bank of the river, an eight percent possibility should not be entirely discounted.

  “Squonk,” he said, “will the PM be at the COBRA meeting?”

  “She is scheduled to attend, and I confirm she is en route now, General.”

  “Connect me with her.”

  Chapter 4

  08.53 Tuesday 17 January 2062

  CRISPIN WEBB, PRINCIPAL Private Secretary to the Prime Minister, scratched the stubble on his cheek and looked through the window as the vehicle in which he sat glided over Westminster Bridge. He didn’t see the buildings on the north bank of the Thames because in his vision four separate threads splayed down, each one informing him of who was doing what to whom in his boss’s government. Raised foremost was the media thread: the latest unemployment figures were due to be announced at any moment, and Webb needed to be ready to respond and refute without delay. On the occasion of any important government data going public, Webb had to direct his team to counter media criticism immediately, lest the media control the narrative in a disagreeable fashion. Such events were one of the key parts of his job of protecting the Prime Minister, Dahra Napier. He would have mere moments to influence the slant on the story and keep it in the government’s favour. If he failed, it meant a bad day for his boss, which meant a bad day for him.

  Abruptly, a communication icon flashed and expanded. Webb groaned aloud to see it was a redirect from General Sir Terry Tidbury, trying to reach Napier. Of all the problems he had to deal with, this relic of an old soldier was absolutely the one he could most easily do without, especially given that the COBRA meeting was due to begin in eight minutes. But the super-AI had sent the redirect to him as the most senior person available, rather than to one of his subordinates. Webb twitched his eyelid to select audio only.

  “Yes, Sir Terry?”

  “Mr Webb, I wanted to have a word with the PM before the meeting to make sure we’re all on the same page. I assume she’s been briefed on the new intel we’ve received?”

  At that moment, the new unemployment figures went live, showing a steep climb in the number of registered jobless in England. “Ah,” Webb stuttered, “I think we can discuss this at the COBRA meeting, General—”

  “But the new intel suggests the Caliph—”

  “Yes, I’m sure it does,” Webb snapped. “But, with respect, Sir Terry, the PM is rather wrapped up in getting the gaming legislation through its second reading. See you in a few moments, Sir Terry.” Webb ended the connection with another twitch of his eye. Then, a slight movement of another muscle under his eye brought up the six top news feeds, and he groaned.

  “Sylvia?” he called, and the connection went through.

  “Yes, Sir?” inquired the bright round face which appeared in a thumbnail in the top-left of Webb’s vision.

  “Refute, why aren’t
you refuting?”

  The girl’s face frowned, “We are. Doug has—”

  “And The Mail?”

  “They’re next.”

  “I thought I told you they should’ve been first?”

  Sylvia’s face creased into anger and she said: “We know, but a four percent increase is pretty stark, Sir, and we’re getting follow-up to our initial expla—”

  The thumbnail disappeared as frustration made Webb twitch his eye to terminate the connection. With another blink the other data feeds dissolved from his vision and he could look outside the vehicle. As usual, the super AI controlling the Westminster traffic flow halted the east- and west-bound vehicles so Webb’s Rolls could cruise into Whitehall unhindered. Webb used to get a flash of pleasure from enjoying these super-AI benefits that came with real political power, but now he appreciated the problems that such power also attracted. His boss’s government had more than enough issues to deal with, and few demanded greater attention than the reason for this COBRA meeting. Taking precedence over and delaying thousands of Londoners on their travels was scant compensation.

  Chapter 5

  09.23 Tuesday 17 January 2062

  CABINET BRIEFING ROOM A must have seen better days, Webb thought as he shuffled along the oblong conference table to take his seat. Polish could only soften the aged scratches in the oak surface, not make them invisible, and a fine splinter protruded from the edge where he sat. Six other people filed into the room as he tapped at a small panel in the desk in front of him to link the lens in his eye with the huge screens in the walls around the table.

  After much shuffling and an exchange of coughs, Prime Minister Dahra Napier gave a flick of her head and addressed the large, pugnacious mayor of London, Jack Stone. “What exactly happened yesterday?”

  The man’s blank eyes stared back at her, set back in his fleshy face. “The New Thames Barrier was raised successfully half an hour before high tide,” he replied in a goading voice.

  Napier nodded to Webb and he took her cue to reply: “We know that, Jack,” he began, giving the mayor a sardonic smile. “Because the Medway floodplains are currently under an extra two metres of water. What the PM would like to know is why you delayed okaying the raise order until it was almost too late. You’ve seen the media this morning, haven’t you? The most popular story in The Mail is ‘Fifteen minutes from disaster’. Why is that, Jack?”

  The mayor sneered and replied: “I told you: as far as I was concerned, I’d given my authorisation to raise in the morning when we knew how high the water would be. The idiot shift manager should have—”

  “That ‘idiot shift manager’ was following the correct procedure,” Webb broke in.

  Napier continued: “David Perkins here, from MI5, has passed on to me some worrying information, Jack.”

  The mayor’s chin jutted as he glanced at the slim form of the government’s master spy. Then he looked at the others around the conference table and the façade of arrogant indifference began to crack. He blustered: “It was a miscommunication, that’s all. It doesn’t change anything. I was reached, and I responded in time. You can’t possibly think—”

  Napier leaned forward and hissed at the mayor: “If you don’t, quite literally, stop fucking around, Jack, the party will find a way to replace you. Spring is on the way, Jack. There’ll be more high tides, so we’d all be very grateful if you could treat the responsibilities with which the voters of London entrusted you with just a tad more use of your brain than your penis. Now, get out.”

  Webb failed to suppress a smile of satisfaction when he saw the mayor’s hand tremble as he got out of the chair. Stone looked down at Napier and opened his mouth to speak, but the PM put her hand up and said: “No, just go. And be very, very careful what you say to the media.” She added: “And do give my regards to your wife when you get home, Jack.”

  The door closed behind the mayor and Napier said to the others: “Well, having come to within a whisker of tens of thousands of Londoners drowning, I think it’s time we moved on to consider the rest of the country. Linda?”

  The thin, angular face of the Minister for Coastal Defence, Linda Wright, her skin the colour of beige dusted with cinnamon, creased in a slight frown. She blinked twice, then swore. “Damn, hang on… New lens fitted yesterday. Sorry.”

  The screens on the walls of the conference room flickered before coming to life with a map of the east coast of England. Red markers and other signs littered the inland areas, and Wright explained: “Er, right, so… Yesterday’s high tide breached defences at the points on the coast you can see there.” She nodded to Sir Terry Tidbury sitting opposite her as she went on: “Local army relief units reported the surge at Wisbech to be a full metre higher than anticipated—probably aggravated by ground saturation—and army AAs are evacuating the last 50 residents of the villages of Wimblington and Doddington, which are now believed to be permanently cut off.”

  Napier asked: “What about the defences at Slip—” and was interrupted by Wright.

  “Sorry, Dahra, I’ve got Steve in Norwich, ready to report.”

  “Put him on,” the Prime Minister replied.

  On the screens appeared an earnest young face showing concern and frustration. “COBRA?” his coarse voice queried. Then: “Good. Thanks for letting me join in.”

  “What’s the situation like there today, Steve?” Wright asked.

  “In a word: crap,” came the reply. “Nothing changes. We need either more or preferably better construction replicators to protect the city centre. The high tide yesterday just about did it for the Mid-Yare reserve downriver.”

  Napier asked: “But funds were made available for sufficient replicators to defend the city. They should have been enough. Why aren’t they?”

  Webb rolled his eyes as Steve replied with naked sarcasm: “Er, because this shit is second hand Chinese crap from Germany? They load themselves up with too much raw material and break down. The super-AI spends half of the day shutting individual units down because of diagnostic issues, and then can’t get them back in place again. Worse, three days ago we had an ultra-Graphene ribbon breakdown on a northern buttress. By the time the army fitted a replacement, and the super AI got things going again, there wasn’t enough time for the limbs to initialise. So, yesterday that section collapsed and the city authority is going to get its arse sued off for compensation.”

  “No doubt making greater demands on the government-backed compensation scheme,” Napier noted dryly.

  Wright’s right eyelid flickered and Steve’s image faded, to be replaced with a picture of a windswept bearded face holding a hand aloft in a high wind. “COBRA? Alfie says I’m on, can ye hear me?”

  “Yes, Finley,” Wright confirmed. “Looks a bit choppy up there. Go ahead.”

  “We got the Humber mostly under control, but we’re in a running battle with leaks on the north side at Broomfleet.”

  “How are your replicators holding up?” Wright asked.

  Finley scrunched his face against a more powerful gust and shouted: “Our super AI, Alfie, keeps chopping and changing, but she can’t help a breakage. She sends the request for a replacement but these things take time to get here. The flanges have a habit of getting bent out of shape after three million tonnes, and we can end up waiting days for new ones because we don’t have more modern replicators. We get many more tides much higher like this and we could be in big trouble.”

  “Thanks, Finley. Go and get out of that wind now.”

  Finley vanished to be replaced by the map detailing the breaches of the defences along England’s eastern coastline.

  Napier looked over to Wright: “Casualty update?”

  The data appeared on the screen and Wright read out numbers the people at the conference table could see anyway. “Twenty-eight dead, fifty-three missing. These are low numbers all things considered. People in the affected areas had plenty of time to get prepared.”

  Napier let out a sigh and looked at Webb. “Woul
d a quick tour of some of the more badly hit places help?”

  Webb replied, shaking his head: “Your schedule is too busy. Let me see if we can’t organise a short tour of the affected areas from a minor royal. One of the King’s grandchildren, perhaps?”

  “Good idea. Sir Terry, how are the rescue AAs performing?”

  “They’re at one hundred percent,” Sir Terry replied.

  “Everyone’s grateful for the army’s help,” Linda Wright said to the whole table. “But as Steve said, all of our super AIs repeatedly note the growing need either for better or more construction replicators.”

  A slight woman with long, straight black hair, who had yet to speak, looked at Wright and spoke in a soft voice: “The Treasury says there are no more funds available. They claim that what was allocated in the Autumn Statement will have to suffice.”

  “Thanks, Pam,” Wright said with a trace of sarcasm. She glanced at Napier and asked: “Are they aware of the increased ice melt that’s been forecast for the spring?”

  The Prime Minister held out a calming hand: “Linda, the Treasury has limited resources, and increased ice melt will also keep weakening the Gulf Stream, which will lead to harsher winters, for which we also need to keep reserves available. I don’t want to go running back to the IMF for yet another loan, not at least until we really do have no choice.”

  An awkward silence descended over the table. Crispin Webb considered how he and Napier were familiar with the English government’s financial limitations, but explaining the issue to those not fully aware of just how tight those limits were often led to understandable consternation in other departments.