Onslaught

by Chris James

  A few jeering shouts broke out, and then died down as another man, fist shaking next to an angry face of furrowed brow over a thick black beard, insisted: “Rubbish, you’re talking rubbish. How can you have been in touch with your ‘cousin’ if all the electronics were burned out yesterday, eh? And you, old lady, how did you hear from your grandson? Did he send you a carrier pigeon?”

  The last question caused a ripple of laughter among the tired and frightened people, but Berat felt the mood change when the first man defended: “I have an older model of slate which kept working longer than most of the devices.”

  “Or,” said the second man with suspicion, “you’re something to do with the government and you have protected military equipment on you.”

  The laughter vanished, but the first man remained passive and calm. He opened his arms in a friendly gesture: “Friend, do we not have enough trouble around us now?”

  But the second man spat: “You and I are not friends. And if the Third Caliph is so gentle and merciful, please tell us why he has burned out all of our electronics.”

  “Because of expected resistance,” the man answered without missing a beat. “This is the first part of a very important process which will change all our lives—”

  “Yes, by ending most of them,” the old woman on the pallets interrupted.

  “For the better. But the Third Caliph has to prepare for those who would oppose his teachings.”

  The second man let out a loud, cynical scoff and stalked away from the gathering. The first man, moving to stand next to the old woman on the pallets, addressed the rest of the crowd: “And that is why I implore you all, that if you are true believers, you should return to your homes, your apartments, and your farms—”

  “Rubbish,” the old woman said. “Don’t listen to these lies. The invaders will kill us all—”

  “She does not speak the truth. She speaks of hatred, of poison, and this is not what the benevolent Caliph deals in. The Caliphate believes in building peaceful futures for all of its children…”

  Berat could listen no longer, so he backed out of the crowd, wondering what the other people really thought. In the past, he and his friends and his colleagues had kept their opinions to themselves and only spoke openly in trusted company. Everyone realised Demir was dragging the country into dictatorship, but the president’s mumbles approving of the Caliphate hadn’t been given much weight for the simple fact that if Turkey acceded to the Caliphate, Demir would no longer be the one in charge, except perhaps nominally. He recalled a conversation among his friends a couple of weeks earlier where the prospect of a referendum was dismissed as highly unlikely. Now it hardly mattered.

  He backed further away and returned to the tall signpost to which he’d chained his bike. Full darkness had almost arrived, and he considered whether to try to find somewhere to stay warm for the night, or keep pedalling through the darkness and rest in the open in the morning when the sun warmed the air. As the crowd thinned, he sensed someone following him.

  He glanced back to see another young man, similar in age and build. When Berat made eye-contact, an accented voice called out: “Hey, is that bike yours?”

  Berat increased his slight gait as much as he could, as a sudden burst of adrenalin accelerated his steps on the realisation that he might be obliged to fight to keep his bike. He realised he hadn’t taken anything that he could use as a weapon.

  The man repeated: “Hey, is the bike yours?”

  Berat spoke over his shoulder, “What if it is?”

  “How much do you want for it?”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  Berat reached his bike and felt for the key to release the antique padlock and chain he’d used to secure it.

  The man stopped some distance away and said: “It’s okay. It was just a suggestion. There’s a group of us over in the solar hangers. Power and water aren’t a problem, but we need money for food, and, you know, there’s strength in numbers. I saw you and thought you looked like a smart, reliable guy. Thought maybe you could join us… My name’s Panit.”

  Panit stuck out a hand, but Berat hesitated. He said: “If you need money, why’d you offer to buy my bike?”

  Panit smiled and said: “I wanted to know if you were willing to sell it, and if you were I’d help you find a buyer.”

  “I could probably sell it by myself, you know. And why would I want to share the money with you even if I did?”

  “I told you: strength in numbers. Who knows what’s going to happen in the coming days and weeks. People need to stick together, and I see you’re on your own.”

  Berat couldn’t make a firm decision whether to believe Panit. The expression on his face and his body language seemed genuine, but Berat felt suddenly seized by an irrational fear. Berat said to him: “Let me think about it, okay?”

  Panit tilted his head, “Sure,” he said. “We’re in the solar hanger at the far end. You’ll be warm for the night.”

  “Thanks.”

  “See you,” Panit said, and turned and strolled away.

  Berat’s logical engineer’s mind wondered why he felt so disinclined to join Panit and his friends, but he could find no source for his reluctance. He glanced up at the bright half-moon and star-scattered night sky, as if searching for an answer. He shrugged his shoulders a couple of times to settle the rucksack on his back, sat on the seat, and pedalled to the road. Once on the tarmac, he flicked the little lever to increase the gears and accelerated.

  Panit was right: Berat would be warm for the night, cycling ahead of the total chaos which reigned behind them and swept towards them in an unstoppable wave. For tonight, the disaster remained out of sight, out of their knowledge, but Berat knew it was there all the same, ready to overtake them should they dare to rest too long.

  Chapter 22

  08.56 Thursday 9 February 2062

  AS THE AUTONOMOUS Toyota Rive-All cruised along the M26 towards London, General Sir Terry Tidbury considered military spending options. Distracted by events, he glanced out of the window at the lanes of traffic all crowded with similar vehicles, and admired that so many thousands of them could move in such proximity at high speed and in such safety. For as long as he could remember, there had only ever been one accident and resulting delay, some eight years ago. Otherwise, the traffic around London and the Home Counties ran in a uniform smoothness and precision twenty-four hours a day. Vehicles changed lanes, decelerated and accelerated often with mere centimetres to spare. Perhaps, Terry thought, super artificial intelligence did have some benefits.

  “Time to destination?” he asked.

  “Seventeen minutes and thirty seconds, Sir Terry,” the vehicle replied.

  Terry forced himself to concentrate on the issues with which the data-feed in his slate presented him. He’d always thought that the Head of the British Army in peacetime was a relatively undemanding job because so much of the work was delegated. Often, Terry’s responsibilities consisted of approving deployments, expenditures and training which his colonels knew better than him were required or appropriate. Terry had fewer than forty thousand troops under his command, the lowest number of any head of the British Army in centuries. However, he tended not to dwell on this fact because warfare had changed so much; or, in the case of the British Isles, had ceased altogether. As he looked down at the data on the screen of his slate, he wondered again what the future held.

  His adjutant, Simms, flagged options with question marks, but one of the key problems was where to spend the little money the Department of Defence was able to wring out of the Treasury. Terry had already had enough testy debates regarding increasing levels of ACA production before the current crisis erupted, and didn’t relish the prospect of more. But now, with this explosion of violence from the previously peaceful Caliphate, money had to be found to fortify strategic defences around the southern coast of England at the very minimum, and preferably all of the British Isles’ coastlines.

  The vehicle interrupted his
thoughts: “Excuse me, Sir Terry. An important announcement has just been made by the New Persian Caliphate, and Squonk has instructed me that it is the highest priority that you view it. Would you like me to raise the screen or would prefer to watch it on your slate?”

  The breath stopped in Terry’s throat, and for the first time in years he felt a weight in the pit of his stomach. “On the slate, please.”

  He lifted the device up and looked at the screen, not seeing the other vehicles racing and changing lanes outside. Terry wasn’t sure if the figure in the screen was the same handsome, dark-skinned young man who had made the announcement on Tuesday morning, but he also sat at a typical news-reading desk and the official crest of the Third Caliph appeared over his right shoulder.

  As he spoke, the English translation scrolled along the bottom of the image: ‘The New Persian Caliphate announces its intention to correct an historical wrong. Ever since the Crusades nearly a millennium ago, the Christian infidel has stamped his boot in the Muslim face. Now the day is at hand when this mortal insult will be corrected. The Caliphate gives notice to Europe and the world that the Crusades, as well as the additional injustice that took place in the year of Mohammed 1062, will now be corrected. The Christian infidel in Europe, his power and influence waning for the last fifty years, will find his new role as the subordinate of the superior Muslim. The Caliphate will join with our Turkish brothers to correct this historical mistake, to bring a new balance to a small part of the world which for too long reaped the harvest of slavery and the money-lender’s irreligious charging of interest. Now, finally, Europe will be brought to heel and shown the true faith. God is great.’

  “Play it again,” Terry instructed.

  After he’d watched it a second time, he asked the vehicle: “What’s the meaning of the second historical reference, the year-of-Mohammed part?”

  “Highest probability is the Battle of Vienna, 12 September 1683, during which a multi-national European force led by Polish King Jan Sobieski defeated an invasion of Muslim Ottomans despite being significantly outnumbered. It was the last time Europe was so threatened and, had the multi-national force lost, Europe’s future would have been very different. You will arrive at your destination in five minutes.”

  Terry raised an eyebrow at the vehicle’s opining. “Thank you,” he said.

  He looked at the bleak English countryside outside and felt a strange, calming sensation, as though a threshold had been crossed and now the future took on a dark clarity which had hitherto been obscured by uncertainty. He recalled his basic training as a raw recruit so many years ago, and the one phrase which had stayed with him, yelled out by the training sergeant: “The controlled release of aggression!” This phrase defined more than any other what soldiering meant, and also acted as the pivot from which civilians who had not been in uniform could never comprehend: the military understood the importance of the controlled release of aggression in successfully managing any hostile situation, be it covert confrontation, terrorist attack, skirmish, battle or war.

  The data-feed on his slate had exploded with comms requests and other inquiries, but he looked at them with disinterest. Soon enough battle would be joined. He exhaled and again looked through the window, noting how the towering buildings of central London crawled into view as the vehicle sped towards them. He asked himself if he were able to face to the challenge, if perhaps the PM might not regret her decision to decline his offer of resignation. And then he remembered Maureen’s reminder that every soldier hoped for at least one war in their lifetime. He knew, as every soldier knew when a threat materialised, that he would meet the challenge. Once again, Europe would face a mortal threat to its very survival, and the capriciousness of fate had placed him in a key role.

  Chapter 23

  09.07 Thursday 9 February 2062

  CRISPIN WEBB WATCHED the Caliphate’s broadcast four times, and with each viewing the numbness increased until it threatened to overwhelm him. He deactivated the lens in his eye, walked over to the window and looked out at the bare treetops in St. James’s Park, engulfed by a sudden despair that a hitherto certain future had abruptly been thrown into all kinds of doubt.

  He paced around the spacious, elegant room. He began to hyperventilate. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had a first in Political Science from Cambridge. He’d made it to his position as Director of Communications through relentless effort, not through birth or some other dewdrop of good fortune which had come his way by chance. He’d worked hard to support his boss, making her look good as a leader, helping her so the government could cope with the rising seas, the key dividend from the stupidity of generations past who, even when faced with crushing evidence of the damage they were doing to the environment, still continued to allow climate change to proceed apace.

  Climate change affected the British Isles as it affected many countries around the world, but the blame for it lay with people who for the most part were dead. As long as the boss was seen to deal with flood events in the most professional manner, no one could accuse her of being responsible for the damage and casualties. After that came the usual issues that had beset English prime ministers for decades: unemployment, crime, gaming addiction. And like all prime ministers, the boss had to compromise with the vested interests who didn’t want any changes that might eat into their profits.

  Crispin spoke his concerns aloud: “Nowhere, absolutely nowhere, does any of this include a bloody war.”

  He forced himself to control his breathing by counting the seconds between each inhalation and exhalation, which helped only until he replayed the memory of the Third Caliph’s announcement. He shook his head and swore, and then told himself to get a grip. In his mind he realised that the announcement had been inevitable, from the moment on Tuesday morning when the first Spider had crashed into the first ship.

  His breathing slowed. “Okay, okay,” he muttered. He reactivated the lens in his eye and steeled himself. In seconds, all of the data feeds filled up with press releases from around the world along with hundreds of requests for the boss’s reaction from every media outlet in the British Isles and Europe.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he spat as his eye muscles twitched to refine the data. From all of the media outlets, Crispin knew that only one really mattered: The Mail. Its editor, a vicious bulldog of a man called Andy MacSawley, used the outlet as his personal fiefdom to expound his hatreds, which he could do for as long as the Rothermeres kept making money from the outlet. Crispin and the boss knew The Mail’s support had contributed to her election victory, although not as much as MacSawley liked to claim.

  Crispin twitched his eye and the connection went through to MacSawley. “Cris?” the editor said. “This is a massive fucking disaster. What has the PM got to say about it?”

  Crispin gritted his teeth to keep down the anger of his name being shortened in a fashion he loathed, and then replied: “We’re still taking it in here, Mac, but you’ll know our reaction soon.”

  “Listen, I can give her some slack, but it won’t be long before my readers will start asking exactly how the fuck the government didn’t see this coming—”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit. Who could see anything coming? How many undercover journalists did your predecessor send in years ago, and when was the last time you heard from them, eh?”

  “Aye, so you’re feeling a touch the smart-arse today, are you? Well, enjoy it while it lasts, Cris. I’m telling you, Napier, her cabinet, and the whole fucking government are going to get ripped to fucking shreds over this disaster; hung, drawn and well-fucking-quartered. Now, get back to me soon. I want a quote and I want it before any of the others. Got that?”

  “Wait, Mac,” Crispin replied in a warning tone, determined not to be outsmarted. “I think you should remember who gives out the baubles around here. You don’t have anything yet, do you, Mister MacSawley? So if you want that knighthood, we’ll want to see a bit more fucking patriotism from your outlet. If war’s coming, we’re g
oing to need a lot more than just your usual hate-mongering.”

  Crispin heard a chuckle followed by, “Aye, lad. Now, piss off.” The connection ended.

  Crispin attempted to reach his boss, but she had yet to emerge from another appointment. With a further twitch he got through to the boss’s PA, Monica. Crispin said: “Have you heard? Where’s the boss, for Christ’s sake?”

  Monica’s narrow eyes came together in a frown. “She’s having a beauty treatment—”

  “What the? Seriously? Europe’s about to get invaded and she having a fucking manicure?”

  Monica said: “Chill, Crispin. She’s having the full service, so it takes a while. She’s been in there since before the announcem—”

  “I don’t care,” he almost shouted. “Get her out of there, now—and don’t tell me to bloody ‘chill’.”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Can’t we let her have just a few minutes more peace, Crispin? It’s out there. The storm’s coming, we know that now. This isn’t very good news. I think we should let her find out about it when she’s looking her best, don’t you? It’s just a few minutes.”

  Chapter 24

  12.11 Thursday 9 February 2062

  THREE GRUELLING HOURS later, Crispin Webb looked at his boss’s red eyes, the only physical sign of what she must have felt. They sat at the vast oak table in the Cabinet Room, the boss in her chair in front of the fireplace, Foreign Secretary Charles Blackwood to her right, Crispin on her left. Opposite them on the wall between the huge windows, hung a large screen which showed the tired-looking face of US President Coll, flanked by members of her Cabinet whom Crispin recognised.

  Coll spoke: “We’re tabling a motion to condemn the Caliphate’s actions and to effect an immediate cessation of exports from and imports to the Caliphate at the emergency session of the UN this evening.”