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Onslaught

Page 12

by Chris James


  Napier sighed: “Maddie, do you remember last year, when I told you about the League of Nations in the 1930s?”

  Coll rubbed her forehead. “Sure, I remember, but you know we can’t live in the past, Dahra. The UN carries more weight than you give it credit for.”

  Napier shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. Not any more. China only stays in it out of a dated sense of habit. The Asian Free Trade Area is the most important trade and diplomatic forum to it.”

  Coll tutted. “Gotta disagree with you there. We’re putting a ton of pressure on our allies to find out what the hell is go—”

  “As are we, Maddie. But ‘pressure’ isn’t what it used to be, is it?”

  “I doan know wh—”

  “I’ve spent the last couple of hours talking to my ambassadors and diplomats in the countries that really matter, Maddie. China, India, Russia, Brazil. You know, the countries with the largest economies and biggest militaries in the world? And I’ll tell you what I’ve found out.”

  The President looked back at Napier with a testy expression her face.

  Napier continued: “First, China will veto your UN motion to condemn the Caliphate’s violence and stop imports and exports—”

  “No, it wo—”

  “Second, it seems we may have underestimated Chinese patronage of the Caliphate and the weight that patronage carries in those countries.”

  Coll frowned and asked: “What do you mean, they won’t support us?”

  “We can expect a typical diplomatic fudge. For example, Brazil will send all the condolences we want, but as its trade with China is worth nearly twenty quadrillion Renminbi annually, and the Caliphate was China’s creation, Brazil is hardly going to risk antagonising Beijing unduly.”

  Coll shook her head. “No, diplomacy in peace is one thing, but this is a goddamn war. Whatever our relations were with these countries last week or last year, now everything’s changed. We’ve been in touch with Beijing directly and they’re distancing themselves from the Third Caliph’s actions, which is a positive sign.”

  “But how much? So what if the Chinese ‘distance themselves’ if they won’t condemn his outrageous aggression and get him to retract his ludicrous threat to invade Europe? And it’s not only Brazil. We’ve received the official position from India. Ansh Dasgupta is going to make a statement that while the Caliphate’s actions were wholly unjustified, the NATO governments must accept some responsibility for stationing naval battle groups so close to Caliphate borders.”

  “This is crazy,” Coll said in irritation. “We can’t have the world just accept what’s going on here. There has to be outrage. As far as we know, Israel has been entirely wiped out.”

  “Charles?” Napier said, glancing at her Foreign Secretary.

  Blackwood scratched the back of his slender neck with one arm while saying: “Absolutely not, Madam President. But it might pay to look at these developments from their perspective. For example, our super AI has aggregated Chinese media reports since the attack on the navies two days ago, and has found…” his words trailed off as his arm came down to dab at a screen embedded in the oak table top. He took a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his jacket and put them on. “That approximately seventy-eight percent more coverage was given across all platforms to a bombing carried out by Yunnan separatists at a shopping mall in the city of Lincang, which killed thirty-five and injured a hundred. Indeed, when all Chinese media outlets are aggregated for the last three days, reportage on recent events in Europe is twenty-third in popularity. In short, inside the world’s richest and most populous country, what the Caliphate has done this week to NATO, Turkey and Israel is little more than a sideshow.”

  “I didn’t realise it was that bad,” Crispin heard Napier mutter as he took amusement from Coll’s mouth dropping open like a goldfish at feeding time.

  Blackwood continued: “The most popular news story concerning recent events in Europe has been in the… West China City News outlet, which described what happened and recommended that its readers seriously consider exiting their European investments before the situation worsens.” He peered at Coll over the rim of his glasses and added: “I don’t think the Chinese government is unduly concerned about any kind of public outcry that they should intercede to rein the Caliph in.”

  Coll leaned back to consult her Secretary of State, and then said: “Okay, thanks for this. We’re in the process of seeing if the USA can’t bring a little more pressure to bear on those countries. We still do quite a chunk of business with them, so maybe we can persuade them to support our motion this evening. We’ll talk again after the UN vote.”

  Napier replied: “Very well,” and the image of President Coll and the others in the Oval Office vanished.

  Crispin reasoned that he didn’t need to be diplomatic: “Those bloody Yanks don’t have a clue.”

  Blackwood said: “That’s a very opinionated way to put it, Mr Webb, but accurate nevertheless.”

  Napier said: “They don’t seem to understand how little influence we have… Pity Preston Grant isn’t around to set them straight.”

  “The name rings a bell, boss,” Crispin said. “Who was he?”

  Blackwood answered: “He was arguably the best manager of fires-in-whorehouses the United States of America has ever produced. He would be able to point out to them the flaws in their arguments.”

  Crispin asked: “So what happened to him?”

  Blackwood shrugged and said: “Killed a few years ago in one of those pointless mass murders the Americans do so well.”

  “If the Third Caliph has the means to carry out his threat, the subsequent mass murder here in Europe could be the biggest and most pointless in history yet,” Napier said, looking through the large windows into the weak February sunlight outside.

  Crispin gave his boss a moment to think, and then politely coughed and said: “Er, it’s time to get the Cabinet meeting underway. Would you like me to show them in?”

  Napier tilted her head back and replied: “Yes, please.”

  Five minutes later, the twenty-three members of Napier’s Cabinet had filed in and seated themselves around the huge oak table. The women wore concerned expressions, the men attempted to appear stoic. In addition to the other regular non-ministerial attendees, the Minister of State for Defence and the Minister for the Armed Forces were also shown into the room.

  When all were seated, Napier looked at each in turn. She recalled happier times of canvassing and attending post-debate parties at the annual conferences with some of them. She remembered how she’d got to know each of them, their egos, their foibles, their strengths, their limits. She recalled the last election and how she and Crispin had discussed which of the potential cabinet members she could trust, which she couldn’t, and those whom it would be better, as Crispin said, to have on the inside of the tent pissing out, rather than on the outside pissing in.

  As she gazed at the faces looking at her, the realisation came to her that they expected her to lead them. Since the disaster began on Tuesday, she’d been in a strange kind of quasi-panic combined with a sense of disconnection from reality. Napier could trace her journey to the premiership of England quite easily, because she had it laid out in her journals from the last seventeen years of her political life. For most of them, she’d never really believed she would ever lead the party, and then become Prime Minister, however much she might have dreamed it when she was merely on the back benches. But with mentoring from the last Prime Minister but one, and successfully taking on a restructuring of the pension deficit when she was Minister for Work and Pensions, had seen her over the line at the leadership contest ten years previously. The six years of her premiership, at which she’d chaired countless cabinet meetings, had thus far centred on managing the rising sea levels and saving what she could of England’s battered and decaying coastline.

  However, now she sensed a presence, a weight in the room she could not identify, but which asserted its existence with a cer
tain subtlety. For three hundred and twenty-five years, the most significant decisions concerning these islands had been made in this place, and now, in merely the last forty-eight hours and for reasons she could not fathom, fate had chosen her as the Prime Minister who would lead England to its next great victory, or who would be the last English Prime Minister in the country’s history.

  She saw that the expressions on the faces looking at her showed their owners must have realised the same thing. She attempted to project calm confidence as she scanned and made eye-contact with each person around the table. When she spoke, her words came out clearly and with a sense of purpose: “Hello, everyone. Thanks for coming. It appears we have a spot of bother to sort out, so let’s get started, shall we?”

  Chapter 25

  13.17 Thursday 9 February 2062

  “COME ON, THIS is incredible. No one saw this coming, just no one,” Mark Phillips said as he stabbed with his fork at a cherry tomato in the salad in the bowl in front of him.

  “It’s not incredible, it’s extremely frightening,” Maria replied, eying her older brother with disapproval.

  “Pass the dressing, would you?” asked the oldest sibling, Martin.

  Their father, Anthony, did so and said: “Listen, kids, this is serious business. It’s not like one of your games, Mark.”

  Mark replied: “You know what, Dad? There’s currently around ten-K conspiracy theories which say that we’re all just living inside a computer simulation anyway.”

  Their mother, Jane, tutted and said: “Must we talk politics at the dinner table? This is the first salad we’ve been able to afford for weeks, can’t we just be civil and enjoy a bit of luxury?”

  “Yeah,” Martin agreed with a smile, “and how often does Mark pull himself away from those games anyway? Nice of you to come and see us for some decent food, brother.”

  “My pleasure,” Mark replied with a sneer. “I do like to see how your boring, ordinary lives are going nowhere, from time to time.”

  Martin shot back: “At least two of us are boring enough to take on our responsibility to bring in some money.”

  “I’ve told you before, brother: Mum and Dad get my U-Bee transferred straight to their account, and that’s enough to cover my expenses. For Christ’s sake, why does the government pay everyone the U-Bee if we’re then supposed to go and work?”

  “Because there are still jobs to be had, young man,” Anthony replied. “Don’t mock your brother and sister for wanting to do something with their lives.”

  Maria saw Mark’s mouth fall open in offence and she knew what was coming: “I am doing something with my life, father. While you all seem to think they’re just stupid games, there is method in this madness. After a few years in one of the Universes, I can get a Bounty for us which will help here in the real world—”

  Anthony scoffed: “Carrots and donkeys, young Mark.”

  “Don’t say that, fa—”

  Anthony put out a calming hand and said: “Listen, son, no one hopes more than me you’re right, and the rewards these gaming companies offer will actually materialise, but there’re plenty of reports in the media of gamers immersed in the Universes for years on just such promises, and then coming away empty-handed on some technicality buried in the legal—”

  “But the disreputable operators were purged last year and since—”

  “So that’s all well and good then, isn’t it?” Anthony broke in. “Now, let’s enjoy this delicious dinner your Mum has prepared, shall we?”

  During this exchange, Maria noted how her mother’s eyes had reddened. During such exchanges among the men, she often thought she saw her mother age, even though from Maria’s perspective there seemed little worth worrying about.

  Her mother appeared to force a smile and said, “Yes, thank you. Let’s enjoy the food. We really don’t know how long it’ll be before we’ll be able to afford this kind of luxury again.” She stabbed a cube of white mozzarella with her fork and ate it.

  “Don’t worry, Mum,” Maria said. “Martin and I have got our jobs and we’ll keep bringing money in.”

  Martin added: “I meant to tell you, I’ve got a chance of promotion to area manager coming up. If I can swing it, it’ll mean a few more thousand.”

  Jane smiled, “You’re good kids.”

  Anthony added: “Yeah, mostly.”

  “But I don’t see the issue of your promotion being decided just yet, dear,” Jane said.

  “Why’s that?” Martin asked, and Maria felt a change come over her mother.

  “Because we’ll be at war very soon, I expect.”

  “Don’t say that. Just because of what that idiot Caliph said,” Anthony replied.

  Jane sat back and looked around the table. “As much as I’d rather we didn’t discuss these things at dinner, I think you’re all missing something. The time is coming for a correction.”

  Maria watched her two older brothers frown, but Maria knew what her mother was driving at. Thirty years as a history teacher and then a teaching coordinator gave her mother a broader perspective.

  Jane continued: “Power among nations is always shifting. Sometimes a nation or block of nations can rise and fall relatively quickly, in just a few years or decades; on other occasions they can last a millennium or more.”

  Mark said: “Mum, we don’t need a lecture right now.”

  Anthony said: “Be quiet and listen to your mother.”

  Jane continued: “Europe has had it quite good for the last hundred and twenty years, especially with the USA’s protection, but its power has waned. Have you seen the media? No, not the English media which you’re used to; I mean, do you know what people in China, Africa and South America think about this?”

  “I read a report that there’s outrage at the Caliphate’s actions, as there should be,” Martin said.

  Jane shook her head. “Barely. You know you’re only getting algo-directed news in your feeds, dear. The super AIs are showing you what they think you want to see, the way it’s been for decades.” Jane’s delicate fingers closed around the stem of her glass of white wine. She took a sip and concluded: “I think Europe and its countries have reached the end of the road, and we should get out before the Caliphate invades.”

  Anthony held her hand and asked: “But where could we go? We couldn’t emigrate, now. We’re too old and the kids are—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Mark said. “I reckon the international community will wake up and stop him. For Christ’s sake, China and Russia created the bloody Caliphate. Surely they can control it?”

  Martin said: “I think Mum’s got a point. I agree and think we should maybe find a way to get out of Europe—”

  “Look,” Anthony began, “even if the Caliphate does invade the mainland, that’s over there, we’d be safe enough here. Being an island has always saved us in the past.”

  “Apart from Julius Caesar and William the Conqueror,” Jane noted.

  “I’m not sure emigration is the answer, either,” Maria said. “According to what I’ve read, the Caliphate has used all of its armaments to do what it’s done to Turkey and Israel. Despite that announcement, I don’t think they’ve got enough machines and soldiers to invade and conquer all of Europe.”

  Jane gave a slight smile as she looked around the table at her family. “Very well. So Martin and I will take it further and see what options we have. But mark my words, my dears: in terms of the history of nations, it is time for a change. It’s time for a major correction.”

  Chapter 26

  16.44 Thursday 9 February 2062

  GRAVEL CRUNCHED UNDER Professor Duncan Seekings’ feet as his long, thin legs strode towards the South Meeting Room at Porton Down military research establishment. He was running slightly late for his appointment to give a presentation on the Caliphate drama to the collected heads of the British Armed Forces, Home Nations’ Police forces, and certain people from the USAF. He’d become sidetracked, as was his habit, in his lab a few minutes
earlier on reading the latest article by a renowned Chinese scientific research facility, which forecast a material shift in understanding the relationship between matter and energy that had the potential to completely destabilise the global economy in the next decade. If there was one thing guaranteed to set Duncan’s blood boiling, it was fellow scientists making over-enthusiastic predictions of how the world was about to change.

  He walked on, fuming, oblivious to the cold wind blowing off Salisbury Plain, whipping in between the mix of Victorian red-brick and later white buildings. Duncan had worked at Porton Down, engaged in R&D on ACA propulsion, armaments and defensive shielding, for his entire career and now, well into middle age, he’d seen and heard too much wild speculation over the years to entertain the hope that things would improve or even change with any rapidity. The most egregious example of the last decade had to be the replicator. Duncan shook his head as he recalled the year when 3-D printing evolved into what the Americans decided to call ‘replication’ in honour of some long-forgotten science fiction programme from the previous century. Something which had caused virulent enthusiasm for a leap in technology that would change the world forever at the outset, trailed massive disappointment in its wake when the snags appeared.

  Duncan muttered aloud: “Bloody fools, never learn. Always snags. They forget there are always snags. Have a good idea, think it’s going to change the world, and then—oh look, no, it doesn’t. Well, perhaps it can. A bit. But never a lot.”

  He did concede that from the range of replicators currently available, the construction models were highly effective. His old school friend, Graham, was involved in their design and often extolled their abilities to Duncan when they met to play snooker. Construction replicators could do all kinds of work very quickly. But the food replicators, those which everyone claimed would end world hunger, remained, after several years, limited to creating only the very unhealthiest food because of numerous problems in replicating fresh food.

 

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