Onslaught

by Chris James

  Anthony threw down the seven of spades on Maria’s king. “You know you have some family in the Forces, not least poor cousin Bernie in the Navy, but—”

  “Yeah, I know, Dad,” Martin interrupted. “But if the bleaker assessments turn out to be true, then we’re all in the deepest shit imaginable, and I’ve decide I’d rather go down fighting. That’s your second trick, Maz,” he said, laying the five of spades.

  Maria collected the cards. “Right, that’s all I want. So, Dad, you want one of these, while Martin needs both of them. And I need to lose the lead.” She put down the five of diamonds and saw her brother wink at her.

  “Damn, wrong suit,” her father said, putting down the six of hearts.

  Martin said: “Thanks, Maz,” laid the nine of diamonds, and collected the trick. “Okay, Dad. As you would say: have you kept the right suit?” Martin’s grin warmed Maria as her brother put down the seven of diamonds.

  “Nice one, dearest brother,” Maria said with warmth as she laid her final card, the nine of hearts.

  “You cheeky little bugger,” Anthony said. “You know I haven’t got any diamonds left.”

  “You not got a trump, Dad?” Martin said with a smile.

  “Bugger,” Anthony said, throwing down his final card, the queen of spades. “I suppose you kiddie-winkies are bound to get lucky from time to time.”

  Picking up the pen and recording the scores, Maria announced: “So that’s thirteen for Martin, twelve for me, and oh, er, only two for you, Dad.”

  Anthony flashed two of his three children a warm smile and said: “It’s a good thing you’ve got a father who knows that a game of Forecast Whist has seven hands. Seriously, do either of you think you’re going to get another bonus?”

  Maria looked at Martin and rolled her eyes. Martin winked and said: “Dad’s deal for six, Maz.”

  Anthony sighed and said: “Such a pity your brother spends all his time inside those bloody games.”

  Maria said: “I think his intentions are good, Dad. He’s got this idea of winning a Bounty to make all our lives easier.”

  Her father scoffed as he shuffled the pack. “Doesn’t he read the media? Doesn’t he see the interviews with all the gamers who’ve spent years in the Universes and got nothing?”

  Martin said: “Try and tell him and he comes straight back with all the other gamers he’s spoken to who say that those stories are false, planted by the government to try and get people to stop total immersive gaming.”

  Anthony dealt each of them six cards.

  Maria said: “It depends on who you want to believe. For every person who says they’ve been cheated, Mark will show you someone who’s gained a Bounty and is living the life.” She picked up the pen. “Your first call and lead, Martin.”

  “A week ago I would’ve said it didn’t matter that much, but now it does. That boy needs to think about what he’s going to do if things do get really bad,” Anthony said, looking at his cards.

  Martin also looked at his cards and said: “And I heard the government is also going to stop paying the U-Bee… I’ll have a silly two, Maz.”

  Maria made a note and said: “I’ll have two as well. You can’t have two, Dad.”

  Anthony said: “No way they’ll stop the U-Bee, there’d be riots on the streets if the government tried that… I’ll have one, then.”

  “Right, there’s one spare. Your lead, Martin.”

  Martin looked at the others. “Does it matter? Does anything matter anymore? So what if there’re riots on the streets? That’s nothing compare to what’s coming. Look at the state of Athens and Rome. That’s going to be all of Europe in a few weeks.”

  “Maybe it won’t be?” Maria offered, not wishing the atmosphere to become morose.

  Martin scoffed at her.

  Their father said: “Come on, let’s not worry about things we can’t change.” He looked at Martin: “Play the game, lad.”

  Martin scoffed again and threw down the ace of trumps.

  Chapter 38

  22.02 Saturday 11 February 2062

  DAHRA NAPIER SAT back on the cream couch and let her aching neck and shoulders sink into the smooth, welcoming upholstery. Five minutes; she only needed five minutes. She regulated her breathing, an exercise she’d used since she first entered the English Parliament in the 2046 election. While she closed her eyes and counted the time between inhalation, pause, and exhalation, pause, she reflected how much had happened in her sixteen years as a parliamentarian, and how suddenly everything had changed.

  Not for a moment had she thought anything like this abrupt and brutal war would or could mark the end of her premiership. Her major political goals of this parliament, which had guided all of her decisions until the previous Monday night, faded out of sight as she thought of them: to manage the protection of England’s coastline, to bring unemployment down, and to rein in the exploitative power of the immersive gaming industry. The thought occurred to her just how much those gaming companies might welcome this explosion of violence, for she suspected many more ordinary citizens would run to the total immersive gaming worlds to hide from this, the real world. On reflection, could she really blame them?

  The statement she’d given to the House of Commons that afternoon had made the chamber echo with cries of concerns and a barrage of obtuse observations. The Leader of the Opposition, the stiff and hesitant David Bentley, had laced his reciprocal statement with lashings of the childish sarcasm he and his MPs thought passed for wit, and the supportive questions and observations from her own party felt more laboured and sycophantic than usual. At length, she took comfort from the fact that in the five days since the world had gone mad, she hadn’t lost a single minister to public pressure, despite the media’s best efforts. And regarding the media, Sir Terry Tidbury had undoubtedly been correct.

  She let out one final long exhalation and said: “Okay. Crispin, Monica, you can come in now.”

  Her two aides hurried into the room. Napier stood up, stretched, and asked the new arrivals, “Wine?”

  Webb and Monica smiled, nodded and thanked their boss in unison. Napier went over to an ornate occasional table on which a bottle of white wine chilled in an ice bucket. After seven years, the housekeepers at Ten Downing Street had learned the occupant’s preferences.

  “Any interesting feedback on this afternoon?” she asked as she filled three glasses.

  “Initial reactions are positive,” Webb began. “Focus groups rate you strongly on determination and reliability, in any case. On Monday, we’ll begin our monthly polling research to establish the—”

  “No, you won’t,” Napier smiled as she handed a glass to each of them. She returned to the table and collected her own, before striding to the windows and looking out into the darkness. She gazed at the yellow and green hue from the glass of wine, followed the minute bubbles as they rose to the surface, and wondered how much longer she had to enjoy such luxury.

  She spoke to her aides without turning around: “Did you make the enquiries I asked you to?”

  Monica said: “I’ve sounded out a couple of the senior content editors and they seemed to be expecting something a bit more than a memo.”

  “Which outlets?” Napier asked.

  “The Telegraph and Buzzfeed.”

  Webb spoke: “I had a chat with that psychopathic vulture MacSawley at The Mail and only just managed to keep him in check on the implied threat that he wouldn’t get a gong at the end of your premiership.”

  Napier turned to face them. “As long as it was only implied, although the end of my premiership may come a lot sooner than they think. Don’t any of those fools realise the gravity of the situation?”

  Monica answered, bright and animated: “I think they realise how serious it is, ma’am, but they want the person responsible for not seeing it coming. They want blood.”

  “Oh,” Napier replied, her thin eyebrows rising, “very soon they’re going to get all the blood they want, and lots more besides.” Th
e sudden blinking of Monica’s eyes conveyed the aide’s sense of shock to Napier.

  Webb said: “The Times is, as usual, more sober, but that’s been behind a paywall for half a century, so its reach among the general public is negligible.”

  Napier looked at Monica. “You said they expected more than a memo. How much more?”

  Monica blew air out through her teeth and replied: “What you’d normally do when you need an important favour: invite them all round here for a slap-up meal and drinks.”

  Napier grimaced, “I thought so. Awful people, journalists. The worst part of my job is having to sup with them… Well, it used to be the worst part.”

  Webb said: “It wouldn’t be a bad move, boss. We can get everything organised and have all, or most, at least, of the important editors here towards the end of next week.”

  Napier gave him a withering look. “Do you have any idea what the situation could be by the end of next week?” she asked rhetorically.

  “Well, obviously—” Webb began.

  “No, I want this communicated tonight. We simply don’t have a moment to lose.”

  “Of course, boss,” Webb said.

  Napier said: “Memo begins: Top secret, highly classified. For distribution to all media editors and owners with outlets with an English, Home Nations and/or international impact exceeding one-point-one on the Gosforth Social Penetration Scale. Important communication from the office of the Prime Minister of England.

  “Dear Sirs and Madams, the frightening and appalling events of the last few days have completely upended our way of life, and now we stand on the threshold of a future which looks black indeed. As the government works tirelessly with our friends and allies in Europe and NATO to find responses to the indefensible actions of the New Persian Caliphate, the danger which has become so apparently sudden… No, wait. Change the second clause to: the danger which has so abruptly overtaken all our lives threatens to engulf us in a level of violence not seen in Europe for well over a century.

  “There are a number of objectives the English and other European governments need to achieve if we are to have even the slimmest hope of surviving this storm. One of those regards our populations and how the majority of our citizens respond to this terrible threat to our societies and way of life.

  “In this respect, the media has a vital role to play.” Napier stopped talking and sipped her wine, composing her thoughts. She continued: “I believe… No, change that: The government believes the time has arrived when the whole country needs to pull together to face this most powerful of foes. While it is understandable that the shock of the suddenness of this week’s events would lead to a strong desire to find and punish those responsible for some imagined oversight or intelligence failure, the truth is that the only individual responsible for the situation resides in Tehran.

  “Therefore, the government believes that you, the media, now need to step up to your responsibilities not only to maintain factual, accurate reporting of events, but also to ensure that citizens understand the full danger that threatens us: a war which will probably entail the worst destruction Europe has seen since the Second World War. Citizens need to be informed, assisted and educated rather than scared out of their wits. They require guidance on how to prepare, how they can contribute to Europe’s defence. At no time in the last one hundred and twenty years has it been more important that our communities and our societies come together and work together, and, ultimately, fight together.

  “I cannot underestimate the importance of your role in this significant task. The time for recrimination amongst us is over. We must face the coming storm with all our energy focused on this new and powerful enemy. Let us draw now on the best qualities of our humanity, our strength, our resilience, our determination… Very sincerest regards, Prime Minister, First Lord of the Treasury, etc, etc.”

  Napier watched her two aides as she finished the memo, and their reactions satisfied her that it was sufficient.

  Monica asked: “Shall we put an R-Notice on it?”

  Napier replied: “Certainly not. We’re still an open society, for now.”

  Webb said: “Boss, I suggest replacing ‘surviving’ as you might be questioned on that word. In this sentence: ‘There are a number of objectives the English and other European governments need to achieve if we are to have even the slimmest hope of surviving this storm,’ I recommend saying ‘if we are to battle this storm,’ as that would not imply you might have some secret plan to defeat the Caliphate.”

  Napier said: “I only wish I had. How about ‘successfully battle the storm’? I’d like to include the very occasional positive word if I can.”

  Webb nodded. “Of course,” he said.

  “Good,” Napier replied, and sipped her wine. “Send paper copies out with my seal and signature by courier as soon as you can, please.”

  Both of the aides nodded. “Will that be all for now, boss?” Webb asked.

  Napier let out a sigh and looked at them. She briefly wondered what they really felt about the violence that would shortly engulf Europe, but stamped on the thought at once because of her growing fatigue. “Yes, thank you,” she replied.

  “Okay, boss,” Webb said. “I’ll brief you first thing tomorrow, assuming nothing vastly dramatic happens overnight.”

  “I’ll trust your judgement on whether something’s important enough to have me woken, Crispin.”

  Crispin nodded. “And then you’ve got the party leaders’ meeting at the House, over breakfast at nine. There’s two hours for that, and then—”

  Webb stopped when Napier held out a hand. “Certainly, we’ll get through everything, but now I need to see my fam—”

  Monica said: “Wow, that’s interesting.”

  “What is it?” Napier asked.

  “Protests are being planned for tomorrow in a number of cities.”

  Napier controlled her feelings. “Against my government?”

  She watched the heads of her two aides twitch from side to side as they followed whatever their lenses were showing them.

  Webb said: “Not really, no. Peace protests… Yes, London, Cambridge, Manchester, Birmingham, Lincoln.”

  Monica added: “The live feeds are showing the number of people planning to go. The total has reached a quarter of a million in the last three minutes.”

  “Filtering now,” Webb announced. “The usual suspects: Greens, Marxists. They’re talking about showing the Third Caliph that, and I quote: ‘The English people are a peace-loving race who do not deserve to pay for the mistakes of past generations yet again,’ although I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”

  Monica suggested, “Climate change?” and Webb grunted his agreement.

  “Crispin,” Napier said, “send a subsidiary alert to all police forces to be extra vigilant for racist attacks. They need to make sure nothing gains traction on that front.”

  “Will do, but it’s highly improbab—”

  “How many English Muslims did the Home Office record as leaving the country and potentially entering the Caliphate last year?” Napier asked.

  Crispin’s eye muscles twitched for a moment. He said: “Fewer than five hundred. The downward trend hasn’t changed in years, boss.”

  “Yes, I know, but I wanted to be sure. I don’t want the last remnants of the hard right dredging their tired propaganda up again.”

  “Boss, super-AI filtering is showing very little cause for concern on that front. What we’re looking at is a rapidly growing wannabe peace movement. Yup, the fringe parties are already trying to negotiate linkage for the media to report, but I anticipate no serious violence, either racist or other.”

  Napier sighed and said: “Okay, then. Thank you, both of you.”

  “Okay,” Webb said, “we’ll call it a night now, boss. It looks like the protests are going to be quite widespread and vocal tomorrow.”

  Napier replied with cynicism: “They can bleat like sheep all they want, and I promise it will have abs
olutely no influence whatsoever on the future.”

  Chapter 39

  08.00 Sunday 12 February 2062

  TERRY TIDBURY SIPPED his fourth cup of tea of the morning and stared at the familiar NATO crest on the wall screen, its blue background lightened by the bright winter sunlight streaming in through the office windows.

  “Still no sign of troop movements, Sir Terry,” Simms, his adjutant, reported.

  “I was concerned they might have begun something overnight; there was an outside chance.”

  Simms sat down in a chair on Terry’s right and said: “Indeed. I certainly expected yesterday’s attacks to be the beginning of the invasion.”

  “So did I,” Terry replied. “But it seems the enemy wanted to give us all a nice bloody nose first.” He sipped his tea and then asked: “How long have you been my adjutant now, Simms?”

  “Two years this June, Sir Terry.”

  “It is two. Time has been passing so quickly lately, I wondered if—” Terry stopped when the screen chimed and came to life with an empty desk that belonged to General Joseph E. Jones, Supreme Allied Commander Europe. The well-built African-American heaved into view, looking lethal in his combat fatigues. Rather than sit behind the desk, he sat on the front of it, and took up a larger part of the screen. Along the bottom, thumbnail images appeared as others joined the meeting. No one spoke until all of the generals and chiefs of staff who were slated to join had logged in.

  When Terry counted fifteen thumbnails along the bottom of the screen, General Jones took a swig from a Coke bottle, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and began: “Welcome, chiefs. First, let me start by expressing my country’s condolences to the Italian and Hellenic Armies for the unprovoked attacks they had to endure yesterday. I think I can speak for all of us here, and indeed many thousands of others in Europe, when I say that, in honesty, we expected those attacks on Athens and Rome to be the beginning of the main invasion. Now, on the one hand that turned out not to be the case, which gave some a little bit of comfort, that for whatever reason the enemy has paused; but on the other, this doesn’t detract from the truly terrible loss of life those two cities have suffered.