Awaiting departure in a first class cabin aboard the Lisa Marie, Angon Duke watches the BVC News in rapt amazement. He never dreamt the assault would be broadcast live; Britain’s secret weapon was a secret no longer! He’d got them so scared they’d thrown away every advantage of having such a service in the first place. His terror squad had no idea they would die in Port Alpha, and Christiana had no knowledge of the operation until it happened; the faithful would even now be watching in wonder, celebrating those Angon had sent to their deaths as heroes of the cause.
Miles has not been having the best day. He’s been shoved, bundled, clubbed, harshly gabbled at and loomed over, he’s stared down the barrel of a gun and he still didn’t have a visa; this was taking the piss even for Martians. Singled out and shut in a room alone, possibly for lying about mice, he becomes aware of movement beyond the drawn curtains. The door is unlocked, but an armed insurgent stands guard without; Miles moves quickly and silently to the window, and pulls a heavy blackout drape to one side. Sometimes, one small movement can change your perspective beyond all recognition; from the moment Miles drew back the veil he was a no longer the star of his own show, but a helpless and inconsequential bystander in a baffling new netherworld.
A massive frogman with big boots and a gun is staring full at him, goggles amplifying wide mad eyes sloshing with testosterone. Miles is surprised to see Froggy has a detonation clacker in his hand, and wonders what he is going to blow up; hand-squeezed dynamos don’t have the power for long range work, so whatever’s about to go off must be close. Froggy frantically makes the ‘get back’ gesture before diving sideways from the window and Miles finally catches on; he sprints to the doorway, but the world explodes and he is borne on cascading snowflakes which cut him as they fall. Froggy is shaking him, striking him, pulling him to his feet from a pile of shattered glass and masonry; Froggy knows his name.
“Miles! Can you walk?” Miles dumbly nods and is pushed from the room and down the stairs. Troopers are throwing hostages towards the exit, a bucket chain of black clad shouting infantry pitch and catch; the embassy is burning. For Miles the smoke clears and he is face down with cool damp grass on his face and arms handcuffed behind his back. Miles wonders if this sort of thing is necessary; he turns his head to the man beside him, intending to share a few indignant words regarding their situation, but instead starts screaming at the top of his lungs.
“He’s a terrorist! He’s a terrorist! He’s one of them!” The man is twisting in his shackles, attempting to right himself, but a trooper puts him back down and barks at Miles.
“Are you certain?” Miles forces his voice to stop shaking; it’s easier now a rough tough space trooper has her knee in his tormentor’s back.
“Positive; I’d swear on a stack of Scripture or my mothers’ grave. I’m telling you; he was on guard outside the room I was found in! He must have dropped his gun and walked out with the hostages.” The trooper calls her Sergeant across; Rod Vivar confers briefly and the prisoner is led to one of a fleet of waiting ambulances. Miles never sees him again.
The Alpha Governor arrives at the Specials’ barracks that evening with a very important plus one; the Prime Minister of Britain and her Colonies. Spirits are high as forty troopers attempt to settle in front of a large BVC screen, and Rods’ view is obstructed by a giant of a man seated in front of him; he flicks a freshly drained can at the imposing bulk.
“Move yer ‘ead, you twat!” His blood freezes as the Prime Minister and Commander-in-Chief of the British Armed Forces turns to face him, shifting a creaking chair as he capitulates. Rod mumbles an apology with at least three Sirs in it, but the PM waves a shovel-like hand.
“Think nothing of it; I get worse in the cabinet office on a daily basis. Damned good show from your people today; just a shame you had to let one live, eh?” Rod felt a tightening in his stomach; he hadn’t wanted any of them to die. He wanted the bastards to stand trial and spend long dull incarcerated lives with nothing else to look back on, and little to look forward to but an unremarkable death; he didn’t want martyrs inspiring a new generation to throw themselves away on some mad old patriarchs’ power trip. Looking at the Prime Minister now he understood the irony, but managed a weak smile.
“Can’t win ‘em all, Sir.” Deafening cheers break out as BVC Daybreak News opens with the first explosion.
Miles has been released into captivity; an impassive policeman is staring at him across a desk.
“I demand to be set free immediately! I’ve done nothing wrong and my family will be sick with worry!” The officer sighs.
“I happen to know you have no family, Mr. Ravenscroft, but what I do not yet know is why a journalist with a long and colourful police record just happened to be in the building at the time the gunmen entered.”
“You think I was tipped off? What kind of maniac would voluntarily lock himself up with a gang of armed terrorists?”
“The kind who achieved an as yet unbroken record of fifty eight separate traffic violations, twenty nine involving serious risk to the public, in one single year?” ventured the copper. Miles is appalled they would stoop so low as to drag up his youthful transgressions.
“Now look, that was a long time ago.”
“Then there was the smuggling charge.”
“Never proved.”
“And a recent stretch for vehicle theft.”
“I wouldn’t call it so very recent.” Miles’ interrogator sighs again.
“And what, Mr. Ravenscroft, would I find if I were to ask you to turn out your pockets right now?” This catches Miles on the back foot; he hasn’t checked in all the excitement, but is fairly certain he still has a quarter ounce of Alpha Kush down his sock. The weed was largely legal in the colonies, but the current hard line Governor had declared it a controlled substance again; it was time for a more conciliatory tone.
“Alright, I get it. You have every reason to be suspicious, but I was applying for a visa; it can take hours and it was already my second attempt” he leaned closer to his interrogator, dropping his voice “I mean, come on… you know what the bloody Martians are like.” The ambience in the room noticeably cools.
“My Grandmother was Martian, Sir.” Miles considers this in silence for a moment. It’s no good; he has to ask.
“Was she one of the human ones, or…” The copper loses patience and slams his fist down on the table, making Miles jump.
“OF COURSE she was one of the human ones, you moron! Do I look green to you? Well? Do I?” Miles accepts he may have gone too far; the guy’s just trying to do his job after all. The officer is silent for a moment as he struggles to regain his composure. “If, in the fullness of time, we discover you were not at the embassy for the stated reason, rest assured we will be in touch. Other than that, Mr. Ravenscroft, you are free to go.”
Deep below Port Alpha, in the aftermath of the Combined Operations Briefing Room, the Prime Minister of Britain and her Colonies and the Governor savour a Churchillian cigar apiece. The Governor feels that if ever there were a time to scratch that itch, it had surely presented itself.
“Forgive me for asking, Prime Minister, but aren’t the Specials a spent force after all this exposure? They’ve been our secret weapon for decades, but some of these troopers are going to be celebrities.” The PM nods in agreement.
“The Specials are poster boys and girls for British supremacy now; quite finished as an undercover force. They’ll still do what they do, where we have the moral high ground; shame to waste ‘em after all this publicity” he extinguishes his stogie in an ornate ashtray “Britain is facing new threats, Governor, and the secret service constantly evolves; if I understood the half of it I’d probably be expected to kill myself.”
The PM sees himself out and the Governor flicks on the news channel; naturally it is set to glory all day in heroic rescues, massive explosions, plucky young newsgels and our brave boys. Alone and unobserved, he suspends cynicism and lets the jingo overwhelm him, eyes moist and
heart swelling with the whole Rule! Britannia of it all. Even in the full knowledge of everything we’ve done and continue to do, he considered, it was remarkable how you could still, sometimes, feel genuinely proud to be British.
* * *
[*] For U.S. readers; jelly is the correct name for jello (you’re thinking of jam) and the blackcurrant plant is illegal in your country, but the berries are a dark purple colour.
[†] It is often asked why foreign powers never pay the rent on their military bases. Seriously; what kind of bailiff are you going to send round?
[‡] I say fan, but the word really doesn’t do it justice; the enormous belt driven windmill looked more like something you’d use to propel a Spitfire.
[§] Even in stock form Bandits don’t corner well; they’re big lazy planet hoppers for the sort of people who think Range Rovers a bit common.
[**] Austrians who win far too many band competitions.
[††] Native to the system of Barnards Star, where pioneering missionaries had a direct approach to binomial nomenclature. They get to Bd in banana crates. Spiders obviously, not missionaries.
[‡‡] You can say allegro, but how allegro? What’s the notation for breakneck allegro?
[§§] Nine was filled in with platinum and other rubble so the mouth only went maybe forty feet back, but it was dark and creepy and something of a rite of passage. Local children stayed the night in nervous excited huddles, resulting in many a merry jape and soiled trouser.
[***] Three weeks; minimum.
[†††] It follows that audio recordings, made for human ears and missing wavelengths we cannot hear, sound different to a Nephilim. Does that little dog really hear his masters’ voice, or some strange approximation?
[‡‡‡] Cliffmas was formerly known as Beltane. The first of May now starts the British year with an orgy of overindulgence and bad music, because resolutions are better kept when not facing three months of freezing darkness.
[§§§] To summarise; Bd exports silver, lead and Alpha Kush. They import practically everything else, which is what tends to happen with colonies.
[****] Sometimes, even for those we may see as privileged, it’s really not who you know. It’s what you know about who you know, and Barwing senior did like to see a necktie.
[††††] The mountain tribes refer to all light skinned English people as Saxons; it’s not a compliment.
[‡‡‡‡] By Sean, for instance.
[§§§§] It was originally called the Great Reform Bill, but the Civil Service put their foot down. If you allow adjectives in legislation sooner or later you’ll get the Groovy Far Out Public Nudity Bill and we shall all go mad.
[*****] Despite there only being the one restaurant, the solar system was undeniably an Area. Nobody at the negotiating table could believe Reb was serious at first, but she was, and she got it.
[†††††] Emmy had given up explaining the Confederacy as it seemed to give British people the idea she was Argentinean, and that’s a whole other story.
[‡‡‡‡‡] Bigs’ real name is also Marc, so they were big Marc and little Marc all through school. Bernie felt, however, that ‘Little Marc’ did nothing for the titans of space rock image she was planning to craft around them.
[§§§§§] Yes that was Marx & Engels but you can’t tell Sean anything.
[******] Definitely two syllables; couldn’t tell you why.
[††††††] Nightriders have a slur for every race, and this one’s an allusion to the lawless tribes of the border between Scotland and England.
[‡‡‡‡‡‡] An unwieldy title, but the original COBRA had been dropped, as it is a silly name.
* * *
[JWS1]
The Only War Page 22