Hardcastle said nothing.
Sinclair joined in. “People like me and Victor, here, won’t stick around in this country if we get taxed any higher. There are still some places that haven’t jumped on the old tax-the-rich-and-create-useless-jobs bandwagon. Some of them are quite nice too. Small, but nice.”
Zane hadn’t finished his rant. “And now … now you guys want to renege on your promise! Who’s bright idea was it to reduce the Centurion order?”
“Let’s keep calm here—it’s just a proposal at the moment. The treasury needs to find the cash somewhere. Look, I don’t support these measures any more than you do, but the centrist-left wing of the party hold sway in the Cabinet and in the party.”
“What about securing the Middle East, getting the oil flowing and compliant governments with juicy contracts for good old British companies? Whatever happened to that plan?” asked Sinclair with raised eyebrows.
Hardcastle went to reply, “Look, the PM—”
“Don’t tell me, the kids didn’t like it,” interrupted Sinclair.
Zane swirled his single malt around his glass, looking into it, mulling over what he would say next. “I’ve come to the opinion, the firm opinion, that I don’t now consider Faraday as ‘our guy in Number Ten.’ He’s got to go, John,” he said, stony-faced, locking eyes with Hardcastle.
Sinclair agreed with Zane. “I’m having déjà vu here: we’ve had this conversation before. And nothing seems to persuade him to our way of thinking. This is not how we want the country run. And it’s not just us—there are many, many others, as you know. The last two decades have been costly for people like us and it seems to have swept the Western world. One-person, one-vote … that’s at the root of all this,” he said, with a grim smile.
“It’s time to dust off The Plan, my friend,” concluded Zane, resolutely.
Hardcastle agreed with them, but hoped persuasion would see them through. It hadn’t worked and now they had to do what they needed to do.
“Okay, I’ll talk to Rose.”
***
Sunday, March 15th, 2043 2:15pm: Marlow, England
“What’s his name?” asked Hardcastle.
“Rory. Three-year-old King Charles spaniel. Harriet wanted him … gets me out walking on nice days like this … and miserable days sometimes too,” replied the tall, distinguished-looking gent walking beside him. They approached the lock on the canalised section of the River Thames near the small town to the west of London. Field Marshal, Sir Anthony Rose was Chief of the Defence Staff—the most senior professional soldier in the UK and a family friend of Hardcastle’s. “What’s on your mind, John?”
“The proposed spending cuts—what’s your take on them?”
“Well, as I’ve stated publicly, I don’t agree. It was hard enough getting enough support for even having robot army, so it’s no surprise you now want to cut it in half to save money. But I have learned over a long period dealing with politicians that they are fickle at the best of times and these are not the best of times.”
“Then you will be pleased to hear that I, unlike the PM, don’t agree with the Chancellor’s proposal. In fact, there are a lot of things I don’t agree with and neither do my supporters—both inside the party and out.”
“Okay, so why are you telling me this? And why are we having this little Sunday afternoon stroll, John? We haven’t caught up outside of work for years.”
Hardcastle explained The Plan, seeking his friend’s support. He didn’t expect an immediate answer, as Rose and he would need to sound out other officers too. But the strength of Rose’s rejection shocked him.
“Even if I supported such a treacherous plan, how on Earth would that even work? Even if half the officer corps supported you—which I doubt is achievable—the average squaddie would not. They’re not mindless automatons you know—they’re taught to think independently and exercise field control even at the lowest levels. No, there’s no way you’ll succeed without foreign involvement and that is what I believe you’re not telling me. I know how the system is set up and it can’t be done without outside help.”
“I’ll say it again—this is a British endeavour, which starts and ends in this country. We are just as loyal as you are, but the path this country is taking is so far wrong it’s off the map. I was hoping you could join us—”
“Look, my family and I also resent the taxes, the political games with our military and all the rest of it, but I cannot support what amounts to a coup d’état. And I strongly suggest you have a change of heart, John. In fact, I expect you to change your mind.” He shook his head in disappointment. “Never expected to hear this from you, John...”
Hardcastle tried to talk him around, but there was no budging Rose. The military was in his blood. King and country, with immutable lines that could not be crossed. Hardcastle went into damage control mode, but knew, as he walked away from the sleepy towpath, that their relationship had been irreparably damaged.
***
Sunday, March 15th, 2043 10:30pm: Sir Anthony Rose’s Home, Marlow, England
“Hello Sir Anthony. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure late on a Sunday night?” asked the middle-aged director-general in her received pronunciation.
“I have something very serious to discuss with you. But not now. Are you available tomorrow morning?”
“I will make myself available if it’s as bad as it sounds.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
***
Thursday, March 19th, 2043 12:15pm: 10 Downing Street, London
“The king is on tour as you know so no audience with His Majesty today. So I wanted to take the time to discuss something with you one-on-one, John. Please, sit down,” proffered Prime Minister Faraday coolly.
Hardcastle sat. He said nothing. The atmosphere was cold and tense—quite unlike anything he’d experienced from his boss and political colleague before. Something has changed and it doesn’t take a genius to know what, he thought sourly. He felt like a naughty boy sitting in the headmaster’s office.
“I’ve been getting some disturbing reports about you, John. Things I thought I’d never hear. Things I thought had died out in this country with Cromwell.”
“Such as?”
“Come on, John, you know what this is about, man!”
“Do I?” He wasn’t going to volunteer anything.
“Okay,” sighed Faraday, “if I must spell it out…” He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts and continued. “What am I supposed to think when I get the Chief Whip telling me you’re leading a party rebellion and then … then the Director-General of the Security Service suspecting that you’re plotting a bloody coup d’état? I could hardly believe what I was hearing!”
Hardcastle laughed. “You’re joking, right?” he said, a grin still plastered on his face.
“They seem to be taking this seriously and they think I should be too.” Faraday sat back in his chair and exhaled, hands behind his head. “Look, I know where the whole coup thing came from: Sir Anthony Rose. And for the record I don’t believe it. But let’s be honest, we haven’t seen eye-to-eye for a least a year. God knows we’ve had our moments trying to hammer out a common position. So the rebellion allegations part I can and do believe, John. We’ve got an election in two years’ time and we cannot afford to be split like this!”
“So let’s just cut to the chase, Nigel. What do you want from me? My resignation?”
“Listen, John, you are a valued party member and I won’t lie, after the defections and by-election defeats I don’t want another MP jumping ship. And you’re not the only one—that I know too. But you simply cannot stay in the Cabinet. Our differences are not reconcilable in the short to medium term and I don’t want this thing distracting the Cabinet from its work. You can stay on as an MP in the sub Cabinet sub-committees, but your days at the top table are over, John. I hope you see that I have no choice,” he said decisively.
“Okay, fine by me,” Hardcastle replied, t
rying to sound untroubled. “I’ll tend my resignation first thing tomorrow. Goodbye Nigel.” He rose and left without another word. He would be Secretary of State for Defence for less than twenty-four hours longer. After that, he’d simply be the Right Honourable MP for Cambridge North.
Prime Minister Faraday waited for him to leave. With the closing of his office door, he spoke to the tiny mic clipped inside his shirt pocket and linked wirelessly to the tiny earpieces in his ear canals.
“Connect me to Diane Maison…”
“Hello Prime Minister,” said the director-general of MI5.
“Is everything now in place to legally carry out the Hardcastle operation?”
“Yes, all buttoned up and ready to go—just waiting for you to give the word.”
“I don’t think we’ll find anything, but we need to exercise due diligence. Okay then. Go ahead with the surveillance operation.”
***
Saturday, April 11th, 2043 9:15am: En Route from London to BDS Manufacturing Plant, Doncaster, England
“It’s a very nice model the VX5. Much quieter than its predecessor,” said Hardcastle as they climbed over the London skyline in Zane’s latest toy.
“Twin ducted fans, two-thousand kilowatts in this baby. We can have a go on manual once we’re over the Green Belt,” replied Zane.
“So why the visit today? You still haven’t told me.”
“That’s because you’re under surveillance, my friend. But I guess you know that already … don’t you?”
Hardcastle didn’t and it showed on his face. He said nothing.
“Man, you should get your own security team, not one that’s paid for by the taxpayer. The same people who pay MI5!”
Zane still needed Hardcastle—even without his Defence Ministry portfolio he was well connected to the political establishment and had formed a network of like-minded politicians and civil servants sympathetic to their cause.
“It doesn’t surprise me. How do you know?”
“Well that’d be telling now, wouldn’t it?” smiled Zane, tapping his nose.
Hardcastle suspected he knew how. It wouldn’t be the first time intelligence officers had been bought.
“So why is the MP for Cambridge North spending his Saturday going to the lovely city of Doncaster?” asked Hardcastle.
“I have someone for you to meet. You’re our political lead, this guy could shape up to be just the link we needed into the army. And, of course, I know for a fact this car is clean of bugs and so is my plant. I have them swept on a regular basis. Never know who’s listening, my friend,” grinned Zane.
***
Saturday, April 11th, 2043 10:15am: BDS Manufacturing Plant, Doncaster
“John, this is Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Becker, British Army liaison with BDS and CO of 2 PARA. Colonel, this is John Hardcastle former-Secretary of State for Defence,” said Zane.
Becker was a handsome, well-built man of medium height. Still in his mid-thirties, he was relatively young for the rank of lieutenant-colonel. He wore the red beret over his dark blond hair and the uniform of the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment. He commanded more than six hundred men, who made up part of the 16th Air Assault Brigade out of Colchester Garrison in Essex. He knew just who Hardcastle was after a bit of assistance from facial recognition and his ICS. From a moneyed background, he’d complemented his already substantial intelligence with an implanted computer. Just like the two men standing with him in Zane’s upper floor office, overlooking the assembly line. It was a twenty-four-seven operation with most functions automated and they’d already churned out the first batch of Centurions. There were many more to come and Becker was just the man Zane hoped he could rely on to help put them to good use.
Zhanna Zykina, a.k.a. Dr Liv Martin, saw the three men enter the boss’s office and started wondering. What would a former-Defence Secretary be doing here on a Saturday morning?
7
The danger of the past was that men became slaves. The danger of the future is that man may become robots.
Erich Fromm
Monday, August 3rd, 2043 8:20am: Colchester Garrison, Essex, England
Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Becker stepped from the lift and walked into the cavernous hall deep below the large British Army base. The five-thousand square metre space sat protected beneath fifty metres of earth and another ten-metres of steel-reinforced concrete. There were another four of these great operations halls linked by tunnel. All major structural work was now complete and the infrastructure would start going in soon. A dozen or so tradesmen were already working in the grey, concrete space lit by its harsh temporary lighting. As the top soldier overseeing the project there and in two other major garrisons, Becker needed to keep close tabs on progress and how the MoD’s money was being spent. What his superiors didn’t know was that he and his cohorts had plans of their own—some far grander plans for the robot army. But, for today, he had a checklist to complete on the operations command centre that stood before him. In two years’ time, these five vast halls would house up to 30,000 people. This was a major undertaking to say the least, costing billions upon billions of taxpayers’ money. Money that Becker’s rich, old-money family were contributing by the bucket load. Still, thought Becker, it’s one of the least bad ways they’ve been spending it. At least it has a purpose, unlike the endless benefits going to generational loser-families. All that will change if I have anything to do with it.
Becker loved the military. He loved its rigour, its discipline and the way it could make men out of teenaged layabouts. If he had his way, military service—or something like it—would be compulsory. He was sure that if all people of fighting age received military training then Britain would have its way and be great once more. For too long had the political class relied on soft power. Where had it got them? They couldn’t even defeat the IC nutters, let alone any organised foe.
He looked up at the ceiling as he walked towards the tunnel in the far corner. He was seeking the site supervisor to help him with his checklist. He looked up towards the flat, concrete ceiling eight metres above him and imagined the overburden pressing down on the thick slab of concrete. He knew the world was a dangerous place and both Russia and China now had orbital military bases. The Chinese one went operational three years before and had a mass accelerator, otherwise known as a Kinetic Energy Weapon. It could accelerate slugs of dense metal to many kilometres per second, obliterating targets on the ground. The Russians were due to complete their orbital base in two years and would have a KEW of their own. The robot operations centres were designed to resist such attacks. Eventually there’d be mobile operations vehicles too—the number of those would be vast.
The army had already hired the first tranche of operators. Soon they would start their training programme on robot capabilities, weapons systems, sensors, communications, squad coordination and tactics as well as many parts of the training already given to regular infantry soldiers. They wouldn’t be there in the flesh, of course, but they wanted them to feel as if they were. They needed them to act ethically as well as preserving the multi-million pound robot they were directing.
Becker had seen real combat and experienced things these armchair warriors never would. His last mission had been the British-backed coup attempt in Somalia. He’d taken a prominent role in planning the overthrow and organising anti-regime forces. It had not worked, but it was damned close and only failed because of Russian support for the government. But if he was honest, he didn’t really care—only British lives lost bothered him and, of course, the blow to his rather large ego. In many ways, he’d learned more than if it had been successful. He thought about this as he passed through the tunnel, a hi-vis-wearing worker standing aside to let him by.
Becker accessed his ICS and recalled the perfect quote, glad that they’d installed temporary internet access down there. Many of life's failures are people who did not realise how close they were to success when they gave up. Thomas Edison. He did not intend to giv
e up on his dreams and those of his close friends. It was no less than the third coup he had been involved in: as a captain in Sierra Leone and way back in the 2032 attempt in Tunisia as a private. He was now probably one of the foremost authorities on staging a military coup d’état. As a rising young star of the British Army, Lieutenant-Colonel Becker was a very dangerous man indeed.
He smiled warmly at the civilian site supervisor and shook the man’s hand. He wondered whether this man would sink or swim in the New Britain he intended to shape.
***
Sunday, August 9th, 2043 9:30am: MIT, Cambridge, MA
Eight years earlier, professor of artificial intelligence, Marvin Szymanski, had deactivated his AI masterpiece, Eva. She was his pride and joy and he’d not done it willingly. The law passed in 2035 had mandated his action, so he completed the task scrupulously. The penalties for breaching the AI Safety Act were draconian and the monitoring of its compliance taught him just how thorough the Federal Government could be when it tried. He sat in his office and checked his emails. He’d sat in the same office with Eva all those years ago. The whole place reminded him of her. It was the same office in the same lab where her more limited successors now roamed. They still had a lifetime of valuable research to conduct and in the intervening years, he’d learnt so much. But looking back, he’d come to realise how revolutionary Eva really was. She was one of a kind—literally. And that she was conscious he had no doubt. He’d known better than any other human had. He’d been forced to take what he was sure was a life—a life he had created. Although he admitted it to no one, he still dreamt of her.
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