"We have become slaves to the machine," the voice was saying now. "The workshop of the world has become the most heinous pillager of the planet. And now, the rulers of this Empire are prepared to make the same mistakes beneath the oceans and on other worlds beyond our own, condemning the rest of the solar system to death."
The images being broadcast changed accordingly, now including scenes from the lunar cities and the colonies on Mars.
"Every minute of every hour of every day, the Empire commits the most heinous crimes against the planet and its own people. The upper classes hunt animals they do not intend to eat whilst children starve on our own doorsteps. Magna Britannia is the most technologically advanced nation on the planet and yet disease is still rife among the abused lower classes.
"And what are these crimes perpetrated in aid of, in an endless cycle of abuse of this planet and its soon-to-be endangered indigenous species?"
At this point a picture of Victoria Regina, from her heyday during the last century, appeared on the multiple screens, and flames began to lick hungrily at the sepia-tint photograph.
"To maintain the intrinsically corrupt status quo. Magna Britannia is morally and ethically moribund. After 160 years under the yoke of the corrupt, bloated ogre that is the British Empire, it is time for a change, in order to beat the social and moral stagnation and corruption that has infested this nation like a life-stealing cancer, and to welcome in a new age of freedom from the shackles of industrialism and Imperial rule. The old must make way for the new, so that social evolution can pursue its natural course."
The last scraps of the photograph of the Queen burnt away to reveal a new flag that was entirely black other than for the white-stencilled dinosaur skull at its centre. This too was ultimately consumed by the flames.
The protests and even occasional cheers from the crowd could not drown out the voice of condemnation that damned a nation and a whole, world-spanning way of life. The voice blasted from every street corner across the capital, and could be heard throughout the cities of the United Kingdom, wherever the propaganda screens of Magna Britannia stood, so that every citizen of the British Empire - man, woman or child - who laboured under the dominion of the Empire might hear the Darwinian Dawn's brutal message of savage hope.
Ulysses Quicksilver, his manservant Nimrod and Genevieve Galapagos - emerging from the back of the battered Silver Phantom - simply stared dumbfounded at the burning screens before them.
"The time for change is now. We are the agents of that change, the Darwinian Dawn. It is time for the old way of life to be made extinct. Our terms are simple. We demand that the Queen abdicates her throne immediately and that the bloated glutton that is Magna Britannia be dissolved. Until such time as our demands are met we vow that such incidents as have been witnessed today will continue to escalate, and anarchy will reign."
As the booming echoes of the voice of the Darwinian Dawn died away two words - one simple alliterative phrase - swam into clarity on the screens amidst the crackling flames of anarchy, until they dominated every screen visible around the city and beyond. And in case any could not read the words, the same voice of thunder uttered the phrase over and over.
"Evolution expects!"
"Evolution expects!"
"EVOLUTION EXPECTS!"
ACT TWO
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
MAY 1997
CHAPTER TEN
Wormwood
Uriah Wormwood stepped into the Members' Lobby, beyond the Commons Chamber of the Palace of Westminster, and allowed himself a smile. His speech on the occasion of being elected to the position of Leader of the Conservative Party, and thereby Prime Minister of Her Majesty's government, had been particularly rousing.
Minister for Internal Affairs to leader of the Tories and First Lord of the Treasury in a few simple, yet cunning, moves that seemed to have taken everyone else, including the leader of the opposition and his own predecessor, totally by surprise. But then he was a chess player of grandmaster level, so the Machiavellian manoeuvrings and machinations of the British Parliament were easy enough for him to negotiate and twist to suit his own agenda.
His predecessor discredited, following the recent terror attacks on the capital, he was now the single most powerful politician in Magna Britannia and hence, effectively, the world. In light of his predecessor's perceived ineffectual action in the wake of the terrorist atrocities perpetrated by the Darwinian Dawn there had been no way that he could keep his position as head of the government. George Castlemayne had been forced to resign in the face of further terror attacks on the city. Following the Overground disaster at London Zoo, and the subsequent release of the dinosaurs from the Challenger Enclosure, there had been bombings at Marble Arch, Charing Cross and even during a concert at the Royal Albert Hall. All had resulted in loss of life and the Overground had been forced to close. It was still closed now and the situation was having a crippling effect on the city's economy.
"What we need now is a man of action as well as words, who will see Londinium Maximum, and hence this nation, put back on track. And Her Imperial Majesty's jubilee will not only be a celebration of 160 years of her noble reign and wise rule but will act as a starting point for a new Imperial age the like of which the world has never seen, as we approach the dawning of a new millennium." That bit in particular had made him smile wryly to himself.
He had made all the usual vapid promises - an end to poverty, jobs for all, better health care, a clearing of the slums, open formal discussions with the Martian Separatists - fully aware of the fact that if any such things ever did actually come to pass that it would, in reality, spell the end of the Empire. And that wasn't what he had in mind at all. No, not at all. He smiled his chilling crocodilian smile again at the thought.
"But how can you seriously countenance the idea of Her Majesty's jubilee celebrations going ahead at this time, in this climate of terror watched over by the spectre of the threat of violence? Would you, newly elected as First Lord, really make your first action to put our beloved monarch in mortal danger?"
"My Honourable Friend is labouring under a serious misapprehension," Wormwood had said, to chuckles from the commons benches behind him. "Of course not, but Magna Britannia will not kowtow to terrorists. This glorious Empire, of which I am proud to be a part, has endured for over one and a half centuries. It is the strongest and most profitable it has ever been. Fully two-thirds of the world's population, and two-thirds of its landmass, are fortunate enough to fall under the benevolent shadow of this great nation, enlightened by both its knowledge and power. We rule on land, and sea, and below it, and the skies are ours to command.
"No, I make my declaration now that the celebrations intended to mark Queen Victoria's 160th jubilee, along with the unveiling of the nearly-completed statue of Britannia in Hyde Park, will go ahead as planned, come hell or high water. And to ensure that this all comes to pass, as it should, I would take this opportunity to urge each and every honourable member here present to vote in favour of the new Anti-Terrorism Bill."
There were shouts of "Here, here!" from his own party and childish mutterings from the other side of the House.
"It will mean more police on the streets with more effective powers, tighter controls on those passing through our borders and, most importantly, a safe home for the good people of Britain. Britannia rules the waves - above and below - the land, the air. Even the worlds beyond our own submit to British rule. Britons never, never, shall be slaves!"
At that a great cheer had gone up from the Conservative benches and his rhetoric had even stirred some members of the opposition to raise their voices in support, before they realised what they had been duped into doing by his powerful oration. The public gallery had gone wild.
But it was all just words, telling his fellows what they wanted to hear. And yet Uriah Wormwood never underestimated the power of words. With armies, fleets and factories a man could rule all the peoples of the world. But with words you could own t
heir thoughts, their hopes, their desires, their very souls. Magna Britannia's armies could bring a nation to its knees! Words could make those same nations give themselves willingly to the rapacious monster that was the British Empire without a single shot ever having to be fired. No, he never underestimated the power of words. The man who controlled them could reshape the world as he saw fit.
The Bill Against the Predations of Terrorism - devised by Wormwood himself - was as good as passed, he was sure of it. When the House of Commons voted in its favour there was no way, in light of the current situation, that the Lords would dare contest it. For the peers almost all had a vested interest in keeping London free from terror attacks. As well as having personal palatial residences within the capital, many of them were feeling the aftershock of the effects on the nation's economy, having great portions of their own fortunes tied to the success of various businesses throughout London and beyond. The sooner the Overground was open and running the sooner a number of the lords would see the money stop draining from their accounts.
And with the Anti-Terror Bill in place Wormwood would be in a position to personally do something about the current climate of fear and dread of imminent, and bloody, disaster. For, amongst other measures, such as allowing the police to arrest anyone suspected of terrorist activity, the bill would give the First Lord of the Treasury the power to declare martial law in cases of extreme emergency. Then all the resources of Magna Britannia would truly be at his disposal, to be used to reshape the Empire as he saw fit.
Wormwood made his way through the corridors of power - the civil servants he encountered on his way all bowing or congratulating him on his recent rise to power - until he reached his office.
He pushed open the door into the outer office where his personal secretary was rearranging the papers on her desk in a state of some agitation. She had only been with him for the last two weeks and was still having to adjust to his draconian ways.
"Oh, sir, thank goodness you're back."
"What is it, Blythe?" Wormwood demanded, his eyes narrowing and the unnatural smile disappearing from his lips.
"Y-you have a guest, Prime Minister."
"Where?"
"Well, that's the thing. He is waiting for you in your office."
Wormwood's face darkened to a scowl as he strode towards his private chambers, without waiting to hear any more.
"He said his name was Mr..." The rest of the sentence was lost as Wormwood flung open the door.
"Good afternoon, Prime Minister," came a voice from the high backed leather-upholstered chair in front of his desk. "Congratulations on your recent promotion."
"Quicksilver. What are you doing here?"
"Can't a friend drop by to congratulate you on your recent success? You've got it all now, haven't you?"
Wormwood rounded the desk and sat down. Ulysses Quicksilver grinned at him, glass of cognac in hand.
"I hope you don't mind. I helped myself," he said, raising the glass as if in a toast. "Anyway, here's to you."
"What do you want?"
"Like I said, I just wanted to come by now that I'm up and about again, pat you on the back and say well done! Perhaps you'll get a nicer office now. One with a little more natural light. A view of the river, maybe. By the way, when do you move into Number 10?"
"Quicksilver," Wormwood said, arching his fingers in front of his face, elbows on the edge of the desk, "my patience is like the spare time I have to conduct impromptu meetings such as this one, there is very little of it."
He stared into the smiling face before him. Ulysses looked a mess, despite his otherwise smartly turned out appearance. His cheek was grazed, there were the scabs and scratches across his forehead and he was still sporting the yellow and purple bruise of a black eye.
"I thought you might like an update, seeing as how I am currently engaged on a mission on behalf of the British throne."
"Then why not arrange a meeting at the usual venue, as protocol and good sense would dictate?"
"My time is precious too. I decided direct action would be the best approach. You are a man of action, aren't you, as well as words?"
"Why are you really here? Why risk exposing our unique... relationship."
"Very well," Ulysses said, putting the glass down on the desk, the smile vanishing from his own swollen lips. "I want some answers."
"So am I to take it that your mission is still ongoing, that you have not reached any conclusions? The murder remains unsolved, the item stolen from the museum... missing?"
"Indeed. That would be a fair assumption to make."
For a moment, Magna Britannia's new First Minister said nothing. Then he eased himself stiffly back in his chair. His face remained an impassive mask, his lips pursed.
"Then I shall do my best to answer your questions, if it means that you will then be able to pursue your mission without further assistance and you will leave me in peace."
"Very well. Why did you send me to investigate the incident at the Natural History Museum in the first place? Am I to take it that Internal Affairs was already aware of the work of one Professor Galapagos?"
"That might have been the case. I couldn't possibly comment."
"But what possible interest could it be to Whitehall?"
"Naturally everything that might be a threat to the security of this nation and its people is of interest to the powers that be."
"So what you're saying is that Galapagos was developing a biological weapon?"
"I am saying no such thing. That is an assumption that you have managed to come to all by yourself. You know what was taken from the museum?"
"You might choose to make that assumption."
"I see. Very well." Wormwood breathed in sharply. "But you have not rounded up a suspect?"
"Again, you might choose to assume that, but I have my suspicions." Ulysses picked up the glass and took another sip of the warming spirit. "Did you know that Jago Kane is back in town?"
A nervous tic tugged at the left side of Wormwood's face.
"Didn't you claim that he was dead?"
"It would seem that appearances can be deceiving. I think I recall reporting that he was missing, presumed dead. Happens all the time."
"And now you are claiming to have seen him again?"
"I've done more than that. I fought him, up close and personal. There's no doubt it was him."
"And you believe he was involved in the robbery at the museum?"
"I wouldn't be surprised, but I think he's up to his neck in more than just that."
"I assume you are talking about the attacks by the group calling themselves the... Darwinian Dawn?"
"You know I am. Couldn't have come at a better time for you either, could it?"
"I hope you are not suggesting that I would use the occasion of such a tragic loss of human life to further my own ends?" Wormwood snarled, rising to the bait despite himself.
"You might think that, I couldn't possibly comment," Ulysses said with a smile. "And, while we're about it, how did the Darwinian Dawn manage to take control of every broadcast screen in the capital?"
"That is being looked into."
"By whom?"
"All you need to know is that the matter is already being investigated."
"And Kane?"
"You can leave that matter with me as well. It too will be looked into. Do not worry about Kane. You already have a job to do. Focus on finding this Professor Galapagos."
"Did I say that he was missing?"
"Now, Quicksilver, you have tried my patience enough today. Do not come here again, do you understand?"
"Oh, I understand."
"Then this meeting is over. Good day to you."
Taking his cue, Ulysses rose stiffly from the chair and put the glass back on the desk. "Good day, minister," he said, turning towards the door. Then he paused, glancing back at the scowling Wormwood. "Sorry... Prime Minister."
Then he was gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
; The Missing Link
From the shadows on the other side of the street Ulysses looked up at the façade of the town house. It looked as decrepit as its neighbours - all crumbling brickwork and paint-flaking window frames. It looked like the kind of place you might find an Oriental's opium den, or a back street abortionist's, rather than the home of an eminent professor of evolutionary biology.
After the Challenger Incident - as it was being referred to in the popular press - and the surfacing of the Darwinian Dawn, both the trails he had been pursuing had gone cold. Following the train-top battle and Kane's escape from his clutches, there had been no sign of the revolutionary. It would take all of Ulysses' underworld contacts for there to be any chance of him getting even a sniff of the anarchist's whereabouts. The Darwinian Dawn were a new group that, apparently, no one had ever heard of before, which would make tracking them down ever harder. And besides, Wormwood had made it plain that Ulysses was not to pursue that particular line of investigation any further.
With regard to the missing Galapagos, as far as Ulysses was aware there had been neither hide nor hair seen of the apeman since the de-evolving professor's breakout from the Natural History Museum weeks before. London was a big place after all, a vast teeming metropolis, one of the largest cities - if not the largest city - in the world. It had a population that numbered in the millions and covered an area of hundreds of square miles, operating on several towering levels within that vast expanse of space. And in such a large warren of a city there were an uncountable number of places to disappear, if one had a mind to.
It was always possible that Galapagos was already dead, of course, having met his end in any one of a thousand ways - under the wheels of a train, drowned in the Thames, or even as a result of the morphological change taking place within his body. However, a niggling instinct, that wasn't often proved wrong, told Ulysses that this was not the case. He was almost certain that Professor Ignatius Galapagos was still at large, somewhere within the capital.
Pax Britannia: Unnatural History Page 11