Then NATO had disbanded in 2027, much to Zane’s delight. In fact, it was the perfect storm for BDS and Zane. AI had never been a BDS strength and since it was banned, they could shine in what they were good at: the design and manufacture of human-controlled military robots. With the UK lacking formal allies and the BIP’s stated aim of Making Britain Great Again, the stage was set for a defence-spending explosion. Everyone knew that part of that ‘great’ meant securing the energy supplies of the Middle East and North Africa, which, in turn, meant defeating IC. But the war was going badly and it seemed it’d take a revolution in military capability to oust the IC fanatics at an acceptable cost in British lives. Neither the Americans, the Chinese nor anyone else had the motivation, capability or the mandate to do it. And the Russians were actively supplying weapons to IC and making billions in the process. With the planned military investment by the new BIP government, Zane knew BDS would receive a big, fat slice of the pie. He too wanted to see Britain great again; but most of all he wanted power and he knew just the way he and his allies could achieve both.
A gentle ping sounded in his brain before his thoughts directed the ICS to connect the call.
“Victor, we did it! Thank you for your support,” said a jubilant Hardcastle from campaign headquarters. Zane wasn’t sure if he was calling from his ICS or an external device—both were possible for Hardcastle, Zane and ‘cyborgs’ like them.
“You’re welcome. Congratulations, John, you must be very pleased,” he replied in a measured tone.
“Not quite a landslide victory, but enough to get our agenda seen to. Guess I’ll finally get to meet King William after all...”
“I’ve met him. Sharp fellow—some say with help from his trusty ICS—but still not as influential as his grandmother.”
“I have to admit, we’ve both benefited from the wonders of mind machines over the years, haven’t we, old chap?”
“That we have, John. So, I suppose you’re calling to tell me we can go ahead with the Doncaster plant forthwith are you?” BDS planned to build an enormous new battle robot plant near the Midlands city. On the same site, a new R&D centre would develop the Centurion Mk2, next generation Humanoid Infantry Unit.
“Well, that will be one of the first things on my agenda with Nigel next week. Goodness knows we need the jobs and investment it’ll bring. The headlines will be a good start too. We’ll be true to our word, Victor—as soon as we can deal with the Planning Commission and fast-track the consent you’ll be able to start.”
“And what of the Defence Review? Are we still on track for the number of units agreed?” asked Zane. With the number of units and minimum price assured, the investment in the new plant would be a low risk money-spinner for BDS. And for Zane.
“Yes... Don’t you worry, my friend. We’ve got you covered. One hundred and eighty thousand Mk2s and twelve thousand Sentinel-B1s. Did I get that right?” said Hardcastle. The Sentinel-B1 was the bipedal version of the tracked Sentinel-Mk1 Heavy Warfighting Unit.
“That is correct and the prices as agreed, adjusted for escalations in materials, labour and so on.”
It was a symbiotic deal as far as the ultra-nationalist Hardcastle was concerned. His wing of the BIP had an even more militaristic vision than Faraday did. As far as Hardcastle was concerned, Britain had achieved past glory and security through military means—the British Empire and the defeat of Hitler had shown this. She would win her future in the same way, and it started with the means to produce weaponry.
“Indeed. Well, that’s enough of business. I need another glass of champagne. Say, why don’t you join us down here?” asked Hardcastle, knowing what Zane would say on grounds of privacy and distance from the now-ruling party.
“I think I’ll pass, thank you. Enjoy the sweet taste of success, John, but don’t savour it too much, it can become addictive, my friend.”
***
Friday, April 20th, 2040 9:00am: Outside 10 Downing Street, London
The rain had stopped and now the handsome fifty-five-year-old former army officer stood behind a podium surrounded by press. Prime Minister Nigel Faraday was speaking outside of his new home and iconic seat of power. The British people had swept the old guard away, now the country and the world waited for the BIP leader’s victory speech.
“I have just accepted His Majesty the King’s kind offer to form a new administration and government for the country. Ed Bull’s dignity and courage over the last few days and the manner of his leaving are the marks of the man. I am pleased to pay tribute to him.”
After orating about the responsibly placed in him, unemployment, health and education he moved on to world affairs and the military.
“We will build a great nation once again and we will defend it by the strength of our military. For too long the armed forces have been neglected. The world is a dangerous place and without our security, all of our work will count for nothing. Two years ago, Russia started work on its Sila Orbital Military Base. Across the Middle East and Africa, the war on the Islamic Caliphate continues to take British lives. Thousands of our brave servicemen and women have died fighting extremism there, in many instances without the equipment and the support necessary to get the job done. We will make sure that in future conflicts they do. This is a BIP Government that remembers what His Majesty’s armed forces have done for our country. Throughout the ages, from World War Two to the fight against IC, the military has safeguarded everything we hold dear. We are proud of our military and we shall support it as it has supported us. It shall be our job and our duty now to modernize it for a modern world, and that we will do.
“We are proud of what British industry has achieved. One only has to consider the British built single-stage to orbit spaceplanes that now ply the continents of the world. Our military robotics industry is second-to-none and we shall ensure it thrives. But we risk falling behind the world leaders in space. The Chinese completed their moon base five years ago in 2035 and their Orbital Military Base is due to come online later this year. As we speak, China is prospecting the moon for resources while America’s Space Resources Corporation gets ready to bring much needed rare metals from the asteroid belt. We will see to it that domestic industry and research get the funding they need. That said, we cannot allow the unchecked spread of dangerous technologies like super-intelligent AI. We supported the previous Government’s AI Limitation Act two years ago and we stand by that. To work is a basic human need and we will not allow unbridled automation at the expense of British jobs. And neither will any other democratic country. We need business and business needs the British people.”
He returned to more generic matters. As he delivered his speech, Faraday wondered how much of it the speechwriters had borrowed from the previous PM’s acceptance. Trust in politics, British values and the rest of it … it was all there.
He paused, collecting his thoughts and looked around at the gathered press savouring the moment.
He concluded, “For eighteen long years my party has been in opposition. The British people have given us the mandate to do their work. Today we are charged with the deep responsibility of government. Now, enough of the talking—it is time now to do what we need to do.”
The hard work has only just started and I feel like I need a holiday already, he thought.
His wife, Sue, joined him for the rehearsed hug and kiss in a public show of marital support and family values.
She smiled at her husband with camera flashes bursting all around.
“Congratulation Prime Minister,” she said dutifully.
3
Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.
Winston Churchill
Friday, June 8th, 2040 9.35pm: Milton Robotics Lab, British Defence Systems Research, Cambridge, England
The world’s largest robotics lab was one of the many research centres of the sprawling Cambridge Science & Technology Park. Close links with the nearby university provided BDS and companies like it with the talent
they needed. The park-like setting of low-density buildings had grown quiet over the last few hours, leaving the concourse and small car park outside BDS’s Milton Lab all but empty. The subdued glow of street lighting had almost supplanted the sunset’s dying illumination. Pedestrian traffic had largely gone. The fact that car parks were now far smaller than they used to be had allowed BDS to expand the facility fifteen years ago. Its workers were among the early adopters of driverless car technology, so there was no longer any need to go hunting for a space. For the majority, there was no need to own a car either, given how easy it was to simply hail an autonomous taxi. People increasingly looked at the car ownership model, with its five percent utilisation, as pure folly.
Other than being the size of two football fields, the single storey building was non-descript and functional. Its brick façade and lobby were the only concessions to style it afforded. At this time on a Friday night, most people were either home with their families or in the pubs and restaurants of the nearby city centre. For the lab’s lone security guard, Jimmy Dawson, the night was still young. He sat in his control room, drinking his second cup of instant since his shift began hours before. The stocky, fortysomething Dawson must have been the most diligent security guy in the country as he focused on the array of twenty-five monitors in front of him. Not even the cheap, poorly fitting uniform distracted him. His black eyes focused on the lobby feed where they expected Dr Māris Jansons to arrive shortly. Dawson scanned back to feed #17 where project engineer, Charlotte Evans, sat in the glass cubicle office opposite the tiny camera’s viewpoint.
The slim but athletically-built Evans pretended to study the twin displays sitting on her glass desk. She wore casual clothes—jeans and a fitted white tee shirt—and twirled her blonde, collar length hair more like a teenager than a thirty-two-year-old woman. Just a habit she’d never kicked. She’d been assigned to the BDS Lab three months ago and found the company’s robotics research fascinating. The output was amazing but also scary—the way the metallic battle bots moved so quickly, so precisely and with such strength. After seeing what the next generation of Centurions and Sentinels were capable of she never wanted to face off against one in anger. Not that that was likely, given she was a member of the Security Service, better known as MI5. She never liked Charlotte Evans the Engineer—too stiff, too boring for the real Sophie Walsh. Even with her interest in the robots themselves, the nitty-gritty of daily working life had started to drag after the first week or so.
She had played many roles in her four-year career with MI5, since leaving the Met Police—unfortunately, most of them were mundane and non-operational. After many years of back-room roles and playing second fiddle to the more experienced officers, she’d finally been given her break on a major op alongside Ashley. She wasn’t one to blame others, but had always secretly believed that the entrenched hierarchy that ruled her career had labelled her early on. She suspected that her superiors—many of whom she considered inept and promoted to the level of their own incompetence—had her down as an annoyance. Her previous boss had even called her ‘uppity’ to her face. The arrogant bastard thought they were still in the nineteenth century where everyone had their place. In Sophie’s view, questioning of authority was a good thing, but that same authority didn’t always agree. On top of that though was something else that should’ve died a death in a previous century. The thing that really pissed her off was something that had dogged her all her life. Being labelled ‘just a nice bit of skirt’ and therefore by implication, less competent. It seemed the dinosaurs hadn’t gone extinct after all. Her fight to be taken seriously had followed her from the Met police to MI5. Ridiculous that it was still, in part, an old boys’ club even with a female director-general. Perhaps Maison was too busy hob-knobbing with the PM to sort out her own organisation.
Sophie had enjoyed the infiltration part of the operation and now looked forward to the predicted climax. The parts in between playing the boring Charlotte Evans were sometimes dreary and reminded Sophie of why she’d followed a career with a real sense of purpose. Truth be told though, she loved action and the rush of adrenaline. It was what attracted her to taking up martial arts as a twelve-year-old and playing soccer. The soccer, she was sad to admit, had had to take a back seat in recent years—work commitments made it difficult to secure a position, even in a social team. The time away didn’t help her on-off relationship with Tom either. The jiu-jitsu instructor had his own club to run, The Combat Room, in Chelmsford, Essex, and was never short of female admirers. Sophie wasn’t the jealous type though and she herself was exceptionally attractive. Her sapphire blue eyes, high, rounded cheekbones, slim nose, and soft, pouty lips were complimented by her easy, charming smile. She knew her looks allowed her to win trust quickly and engage with people. She’d also long since become adept at dismissing pests. Wherever she’d worked there were pests—men, and occasionally women, who tried to get a look-in with her.
Dawson, a.k.a. Dean Ashley, took a few moments to zoom in on his MI5 colleague. It was his first operation with Sophie and he had the hots for her. What red-blooded man wouldn’t? he justified to himself, his mind moments later thinking of his wife and two kids back home in Brixton. Ashley considered himself a good man, but after twenty-five years of marriage and two past affairs, he thought about how good a third would be with Sophie. Although he was handsome and well built, he knew he wasn’t her type. Still, he could dream. His thoughts were broken by Control.
“Delta-one and Delta-two, target is ETA two minutes from the lab, over,” said the male voice in the tiny earpiece hidden in their ear canals.
“Copy that, Control,” he heard Sophie say. He loved her middle-class, public school accent.
“Copy, Control,” he said into the hidden mic on his throat. Both the mic and the earpiece communicated wirelessly to the coin-sized transceiver in his pocket. He felt for the 9mm subcompact handgun concealed in the ankle holster on the inside of his left leg. He was supposed to be an unarmed civilian security guard, complete with navy blue jumper and cheap cap with its shiny, black visor.
“Victor-bravo-nine, this is Control, please confirm status, over,” said the voice to the Police Tactical Firearms Unit providing backup. They waited, hidden in a non-descript white panel van in the car park outside. Other Armed Response vehicles and regular police waited at each of the exit roads to the science park. Once the target was inside BDS, they’d set up an inner armed cordon and an outer one to keep away civilians.
“Victor-bravo-nine, ready to go when needed, Control,” replied Sergeant Rawlins, leader of the other seven specialist firearms officers. Rawlins knew well the plan they’d worked with MI5, providing surveillance and confirmation of the target’s ingress. He knew what they were doing was a risk and must have been based on some sure-fire intel. If they spooked the target and he left without stealing the sample, they’d need to disperse the cordons pretty damned quick.
The drone tracked Dr Jansons’s autonomous electric cab as it left the A14 for the A1309. It turned right onto the roundabout and right again towards the robotics lab where he worked as a materials researcher.
Sophie wondered what excuse Dr Jansons would give for coming back at this time on a Friday night. Perhaps he’d walk straight past her on his way to the materials lab without stopping. She dismissed the thought—she’d time it so he saw her leaving, passing her in the only corridor to the lab from the lobby. She’d be the only other person there, and he’d want to seem as normal as possible.
The medium-build, late-forties Jansons stepped out of the cab and walked briskly to the lobby. As he neared the door security, he ran his hand over his shaved head and adjusted the rimless glassed on his Roman nose. He placed his left hand in the RFID reader, simultaneously placed his right eye to the retinal scanner, and said, “Doctor Māris Jansons, staff number one-zero-three, eight-seven-seven.”
The light turned green and the outer sliding doors glided open. He waited for them to close behind him and looked up
at the security camera. He knew the duty guard would need to verify him using facial recognition. This didn't bother him as he’d been working there for the past year—working there as a Latvian immigrant on a skilled work visa, with previous experience at the Mikoyan Defence Company in Saint Petersburg, Russia. No doubt, his colleagues at BDS thought him a ‘private guy’ and said of him that ‘he likes to keep himself to himself.’ No matter, many scientists are like that and not many of this bunch socialise outside of work anyway, thought the SVR agent, whose real name was Andrei Lukin.
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