The Only War

by Jason Wray Stevensson

  “I need a lift into Port Alpha.”

  “OK, I want to drop by the Martian embassy anyway; if I hang around long enough I’m hoping they’ll eventually renew my visa.” The Martians had a deserved reputation of being the most awkward cusses in the known galaxy. Living alongside the natives was a sizeable human population, descendents of early settlers who for one reason and another stayed when the StringStreamer drive unlocked fatter pickings farther afield; both varieties of Martian were known to take their time, and love a rule.

  Sergeant Dave Wesson of the Port & Sunlight Constabulary is on duty at the embassy door, having lately been assigned to the Diplomatic Protection Group; he recognises Miles as he enters.

  “Bloody Hell, if it isn’t young Ravenscroft! I heard you were dead!” The former adversaries shake hands.

  “I almost was, once or twice; not so young now, either.” Wesson grins under a salt and pepper moustache.

  “You and me both, buddy.” Miles is at the front desk when he turns to see six armed and masked intruders pushing Wesson backwards into the lobby, firing into the ceiling; a huge chandelier suspended above the inner atrium shatters, adding falling glass to the confusion. They quickly round up all twenty six occupants and secure the building, but the authorities have been alerted via a silent alarm button beneath the front desk.

  The Combined Operations Briefing Room, COBRoom[‡‡‡‡‡‡] for short, is not necessarily a physical place, but an assembly of men and women at the head of every arm of government from the Space Fleet to the sewers; beneath the streets of Port Alpha the authorities congregate. The policy from the outset is to isolate the gunmen; anything they want, they will have to ask for. A relationship of supplicant and benefactor must be cultivated, if the captives are to be released unharmed.

  The room the hostages are contained within has an armed man at the door, but they find a photophone behind some filing cabinets out of sight, and the authorities have yet to achieve a communications blackout over the building. Before the phone dies five detainees have reported back to their loved ones or, in Miles’ case, the Maximum Media van; luckily Emmy’s back from her errand.

  “Emmy; I’m being held hostage by gunmen with about twenty others. Get everything rolling and call everyone.” As she flicked switches and speed dialled, Emmaretta Sunbury knew her break had arrived; fear for Miles’ life and her own safety met the elation of netting the scoop of the century head on and they cancelled each other out, leaving her remarkably calm and clear headed.

  The Martian Chargé d'Affaires had attempted escape by jumping from a first floor window, and remains out cold on the pavement until he is recaptured; his first sight on regaining consciousness is two armed terrorists stooping to haul him painfully upright. This is the prize they have been seeking; a leading light in the new administration which had proved so effective in breaking up Angonist terror cells. They drag him inside and he is deposited roughly with the others; Miles thinks they’ve beaten the man, until he realises jumping from a first floor window rarely ends well. He kneels by the injured officials’ side and looks to the terrorists’ leader; he recognises him as Selim, the young acolyte from all those years ago at the Igniters’ one show for Christiana.

  “This man has a broken jaw, possibly broken ribs but they’re definitely bruised. He needs medical attention right away.” Selim is suspicious, and stares for some time at the press laminate clipped to Miles’ jacket; if he recognises Miles, he gives no indication.

  “How do you know all this, Mister Newspaper Man?”

  “I used to have a motorcycle; all my friends had motorcycles and we fell off a lot. Look, he needs a doctor, either call one or let him go!” The insurgents huddle and converse quickly; Selim turns to Miles.

  “This is impossible at this time; maybe later.” He wasn’t about to release their prime bargaining chip. The man is losing consciousness again and Miles feels panic rise; he can hardly hear him breathe now. Don’t die. Whoever you are, please don’t die. Not again. He half rises and begins screaming at Selim.

  “Can’t we just call a fucking doctor for Christ’s sake? It’s three nines! It’s not fucking rocket science!” A rifle butt to the head and that’s all Miles will know for a while.

  He’s ten years old again; a school trip to the Britannia Mining Company museum sees himself and Jimbob in the Early Days exhibition. There is a stone block and a hand operated drill, the elongated bit inserted halfway into a hole in the rock. The interactive exhibit is intended to show how strong the original miners of Earth had to be, before the advent of powered machinery; Miles and Jimbob operated it in turns uninterruptedly for three hours during the visit. At closing time the laser micrometer reported they had successfully tunnelled one sixth of an inch; they got a printout with their names on it and everything. As he comes to with a banging headache and a lump at the back of his skull, Miles can still hear the drill squeaking forlornly in its stone socket, which is a puzzler. Selim stops and listens.

  “What is that sound?” Miles thinks fast. Selim can hear it too and doesn’t like it; inspiration strikes.

  “It’s just mice; these older buildings are lifting with them.” Selim takes a notebook and pencil from a nearby desk.

  “I don’t know what you mean; draw mice.” He inspects Miles’ work, and looks him in the eye.

  “It’s not mice.” The comparative silence is suddenly shattered by a road drill breaking Tarmac on the hard to view east side of the building. Selim drags Miles to a window and forces his head outside.

  “What do you see, Mr. Newspaper Man?” He screams above the din.

  “Uh, just workmen. It looks like a gas main; if it’s an emergency they have to deal with it immediately, no matter what.” Selim drags him back inside and police photographers are firing off upwards of a hundred images and videos to the COBRoom; this is the first sight the authorities have of Selim. The road work is deafening; if bugging devices were inserted into the holes Miles was sure they were drilling, he couldn’t imagine what they’d pick up with all that going on. As suddenly as the racket had started it stopped, and the lesser but still prevalent sound of the 20:45 from Barnards’ beginning its long and noisy descent could be heard in the evening sky. Miles checked the time; just gone eight. The service was running early today, and that had never happened.

  Sean Siemens has joined Emmy at the scene; he turned up alone with the full intention of sending her away to safety, but Emmy is having none of it and refuses to leave. Before the last line of communication dies, Miles is issued a prepared statement which he reads via videoline to the Maximum Mobile Unit.

  “Sean; this cannot be an exclusive. We have to share it as far and wide as possible or innocent lives will be lost. The statement is as follows:

  We belong to Christiana, and as such represent all true Centaurians everywhere. We apologise to the British people and government for the use of force. We are seeking to bring your attention to the incarceration of our people by the Martian authorities. We are asking their release and safe passage, and for the recognition of both Christiana and the moon on which she stands as an autonomous region. If our demands are not met by midnight we will begin to kill the hostages; when we run out of those we will destroy the building.”

  The hostages were searched by the insurgents, but it was a perfunctory pat down and Wesson still has his truncheon in the long internal pocket of his thick close fitting police jacket. A length of turned wood may seem a laughable anachronism, but the regulation truncheon was fourteen inches of hickory with a steel core heavily weighted at the thick end and a loop of strong leather at the other; it was an object with possibilities.

  The young freedom fighters are confident their demands will be swiftly met, and Archbishop Angon Duke will return them to Christiana as heroes. Duke has assured them of this, but at that moment is leaving Bd on the same false passport he escorted them in on, and does not expect to meet them again until paradise. He has bestowed upon them the glory of martyrdom, which can
not be claimed like a birthright or cravenly snatched as a rare jewel. True martyrdom is the horrific end you didn’t want and never saw coming; he genuinely envied them.

  The embassy alarm has also been received aboard HMS Eric Winkle Brown at the barracks of Unit 22 (Special Space Service) Royal Naval Outer Infantry. The Specials spend more time in training than any other unit, and the call to arms is at first suspected as a prank. Forty troopers check their communicators in mild disbelief; the message contains little real information but it’s not an exercise, and it’s right in the middle of Port Alpha. They are soon arriving at the scene, climbing fences, passing kit over, moving quickly and silently through the urban jungle to arrive at a house next door to the embassy, which is an upmarket surgery specialising in haemorrhoids. Hurry up and wait, that’s life in the services, and Sergeant Rod Vivar passes the time reading medical books and examining instruments; the more he learns, the more he appreciates the benefits of a high fibre diet. They have a scale model of the embassy showing all fifty rooms; he is pleased to hear even the little doors open in the correct directions, such details could make all the difference. Now they are fully dressed for combat and on stand by, each with a semi automatic nailgun. A one piece anti-chemical suit is covered by body armour and they wear gas masks as protection against their own grenades, which produce light, noise and choking fumes on a par with the birth of the Universe. A complete absence of peripheral vision exaggerates their movements, lending a bizarre animation to exchanges. Two have already been on the embassy roof and an insecure skylight has been found; Rod is holding a tactical meeting.

  “Simplest thing; ground floor windows. Land Rovers or sledge hammers; I’m fine with either.” The embassy caretaker starts signing furiously to a trooper who has a deaf sister back home.

  “He says they’re armoured, Sir; we’d just bounce off.” The caretaker had not long stepped outside for a smoke, when the gunmen stormed the building. He’d have joined up straight out of school, but the forces never accepted deaf people; maybe an experienced soldier with some hearing loss, even then they wouldn’t be on guard duty or point, but not a stone deaf recruit. He is currently having the best day at work ever.

  Each man and woman here knows they should be hoping for the negotiators to triumph; the only decent solution is for the terrorists to surrender peacefully and release all captives, but they wouldn’t be in the Specials if they didn’t want to be tested to the limit. This was an impossible situation without their shared expertise, but they knew they could end it with every hostage alive if given the order; to a trooper they longed to be sent in.

  At midnight in the embassy, there has been no reply; Selim is infuriated, and harangues the hostages. One, a fiery young Martian patriot, makes a charge at Selim while he is distracted in his rage. Selim draws his weapon, and the first hostage is murdered; Miles feels sure they must know they have nothing to lose now.

  It is Sean’s watch, and Emmy is roused from a nap by his voice raised in anger.

  “Bastards! BASTARDS!! BAAASTAAARDS!!!” She leaps to grab the legs dangling in mid air and pulls her boss down through the vans’ skylight.

  “Sean! What the fuck?! You’ll get us thrown out!”

  “We might as be, we’re seeing nothing from here! They’re laying down charges for a smoke curtain; bet you a signed tenner the Specials are going in. They never let you film them in action.”

  “Who are the Specials?”

  “British Navy Infantry, trained to the back teeth in all the mad stuff. Modern warfare follows a pattern and the forces are trained to deal with it, but every now and then there’s a situation nobody could have dreamed of, such as this, and you need an experienced squad with wider options than your usual grunt.” He looks through the rear window as he fires up the motors and stirs the gearbox like a pudding bowl; beyond the thick belt of media operations he can see the last team to arrive leaving. Nobody wants to get stuck the wrong side of a smokescreen, and the charge team have been noticed.

  “God dammit! The BVC are already moving out! We had the best bloody seat in the house; now it’s the worst and we’re completely boxed in!” Suddenly the front doors of the embassy open; a body is thrown into the darkened street by masked men, who scurry back inside. The other news teams are already retreating and haven’t noticed; Sean grips Emmy’s shoulder as she zooms in.

  “Get ready; the story is about to happen.”

  Sergeant Rod Vivar receives the signal; the Specials are going in and Operation Ninurta is now live. He turns to the troopers under his command and tells them the one thing they’ve been waiting to hear.

  “Ladies and gentlemen; we are going to war in Port Alpha.”

  The police have provided the terror cell with a two way radio and are keeping Selim talking for as long as possible, promising his demands will now be met and discussing a bus to take them to the spaceport. Selim is reporting some suspicious movement outside, about which the negotiator is keen to reassure him.

  “Selim; there is no suspicious movement.” The first floor windows are blown in, and magnesium grenades explode with noise and blinding light. Wesson draws his concealed truncheon and launches it, catching Selim in the chest and cracking two ribs; he doubles over in pain, dropping his weapon which Wesson makes a grab for. Selim throws himself screaming upon the policeman and they struggle for possession of the gun; from a discarded radio, a tinny voice is still reassuringly describing a world free of suspicious movement. A Hellish apparition is suddenly rising through the smoke at the wrecked windowframe.

  “Dave! Get down!” Wesson dives. Some sort of cyborg knows his name; best do what the big killing machine says. There is a short burst of noise like hail on a tin roof and Selim falls beside him, his face disfigured by a neat diagonal stripe of perforations. There are shouts outside and Rod retreats to the balcony, looking up. A trooper has become entangled in an abseiling rope and the curtains are ablaze from the grenades; quickest way to raze a building to the ground is start with the curtains, and these are good thick ones. First cock-up of the day and we’re not even inside! Rod preferred the relative simplicity of ladders, but had been overruled; now he is cursing the idiot who imposed abseiling on the team. When lives are at stake it’s not about the quickest and slickest; it’s about eliminating potential snags, both metaphorical and literal. He briefly notices a camera van, not too far away. Strange, but it must be unoccupied; it’s practically within the evacuated zone and there’s no smokescreen. The men above manage to time it right, and the rope is cut; the trooper falls nine feet to the balcony and they rush the embassy. Each team have their objective; Rods’ have the cellars. Their sledgehammer man stoves the door in and they throw grenades down; Rod points the muzzle of his nailgun around the door frame and hoses down the stairwell. Once the primary objective is secured they move on to their secondary.

  “They’re not using the smokescreen!” To Emmy’s surprise they have an unobstructed view of the Specials swarming over the building like flies on a carcass; they step from the vehicle in shock. The gunfire, smoke and screaming is unbelievable; it sounds like total carnage in there. Sean is ranting into his mic and punching the air.

  “They want us to see this! Oh yes! This is what happens when you fuck with Great Britain! Who dares DIES!” Some poor bugger back at One Proxima has to time delay it just enough to iron out the boss’s language; a single F word and they’ve lost their license. Behind Sean and squinting through a camera lens, Emmy suddenly shrieks and points with her free hand.

  “It’s Miles! He’s at the balcony window; look! He’s just behind the third pillar from the left!” She runs through a cordon of police officers who should be stopping her, but are instead transfixed by the unfolding drama. An explosion her subconscious notices from the first incendiary flash pushes her to the ground, but however slightly prepared she has the edge; her body rolls with the blast independently of front brain thought, while her wits at least protect the camera. Exposed and panicked she scrambles over s
hattered glass littering the street like diamonds, and shields herself behind the front end of a parked pod; the dense mass of an electric motor provides better stopping power than a couple of gull wing doors. The Specials are going in through Miles’ window! She has everything in shot and the commentary is flowing; clipped, cool and collected she lays down the known facts, the background and her knowledge of the man on the balcony, musician and journalist Miles Ravenscroft. The BVC, now stuck fast in the permanent gridlock of the Port Alpha gyratory system, are attempting to return from a fruitless search for alternative vantage points; all they can do is get Sean on the phone and license Maximum Entertainment’s stream by the second until they re-establish themselves. Much is made of both Miles’ role as a late night BVC Worlds Service presenter and his work on Deep Planet, while Emmy is touted as ‘a rising star seen earlier this year fronting BVC reportage of the Humber Roots Festival’. The three systems are watching, and what they are watching is a live battleground report from Emmaretta Sunbury.

  In the living room of a flat above a restaurant in England, Charlie Murphy has to physically prevent his wife from storming South Downs and hijacking a cruiser to save her baby sister. Two boys are torn between the on-screen mayhem of Aunt Em’s warzone report, and the never to be repeated live show of their mother being proper told off.

  Back in the AV truck, Sean is calculating the days’ profits and taking a breather as he mixes the live feed. He marvels at the madwoman who just rushed a police cordon and damn near got herself blown up for the thrill of being right where the action was; a rare relaxation sooths his aching bones and he no longer feels part of a dying breed. As long as there were youngsters like this on the loose, he felt, humanity would continue to be as insane as it ever was; everything’s gonna be OK.