Ashley rounded the corner to his left and shuddered at what he’d just seen. The emotionless efficiency of the humanoid killing machine sent a chill down his spine. So this is what we’re up against, he thought. He continued after the other nine, now fifty-odd metres away down a straight but more dimly lit corridor. As he ran, he reminded himself that, even though the robots seemed alive, they were just weapons systems. Somewhere sat a human doing the killing. Where they were and who it was he just could not fathom. It was the big, unanswered question. He just hoped he lived long enough to see it answered and to see his wife and children once more.
***
They’d continued roughly west following one of the PM’s aides called Alan, who seemed to know the layout of the tunnel system best. They’d taken two branches since losing the infiltrator Centurions. The tunnels had gotten narrower and lower and more basic. The one they were in was now just a round, brick-lined tube—much like a sewer without the smell—and looked like it had seen better days. They now faced their third choice: continue or take the right turn five metres up ahead. Once their place of safety, they were now trying to get out of the bunker system. Alan seemed to be confused at this one.
“From memory,” said the grey-haired, late-thirties Scotsman, “one of these is the way out … to the exit in St. James’s park that I was telling you about … where we’ve got a pre-prepped aero-car. If it’s still intact, that is...”
They approached gingerly with Ashley and his drawn 9mm leading the way, Sophie covering the rear. As they continued, he placed his finger to his mouth: quiet now. He listened intently. A distant electrical whir emanated from the right-hand tunnel. Just in front of the entrance, on the left side of the main tunnel, was a cordoned-off section of workers’ tools and a few scaffolding poles and fixtures. He raised his flat hand to silently signal a stop command. He edged forward to the right-hand turn and peeked around the corner, quickly withdrawing and turning to the group. Worry had reappeared on his face.
Without pause, he whispered urgently, “Centurion, forty metres to the right. We need to move. Quickly and quietly as we can. Come on!”
He waited to the right of the side turning and waved the groups past. Straight ahead, out of the gloom he could just discern the flight of red brick steps fifty or so paces up ahead. It led up to somewhere. This was where the Alan the aide had indicated was a way out. Ashley could hear the Centurion—closer than before—perhaps twenty metres to his right along the branch tunnel. He stepped back and hid behind the pile of workers’ gear, his gun drawn. He peered through the gap in the scaffolding poles stacked against the wall. The group of nine had made it to within ten metres of the steps. The Centurion was closer to the main tunnel than that. Ashley picked up a short section of scaffolding and tucked his gun into his waistband. He slinked to the side of the branch tunnel entrance and held the scaffolding aloft, baseball style. The last thing he noticed before the bot reached him was that the sound of shouts and gunfire behind him had, by then, gone silent. That meant it was only a matter of time until either a robot or a cop would emerge from where he just escaped. That all depended on who’d won the engagement and he had a sinking feeling that he knew which side that’d be. A war on two fronts—never an appealing prospect.
The Centurion strode from the right to the tunnel junction, already facing towards the exit steps. First came its assault rifle, then its engineered metallic form. Although mainly metallic in construction, the Centurion contained almost no water like the human body. That and its many composite parts and miniaturised components meant it weighed approximately the same as a human soldier would. Ashley drew back his length of pipe and rotated his body, tensing his muscles before releasing their potential in one almighty swing. He’d gone for the low hit behind its knees and contacted the right and rearmost leg dead-on the joint. The bot dropped as the joint gave way unexpectedly and toppled sideways, breaking its fall with its right arm. Ashley wasted no time and pulled out his handgun, jamming it into the bot’s left eye socket. He fired a contact shot—once then twice. The bot’s head moved, but in a strangely uncoordinated way that gave Ashley hope. He struggled to get the gun into the other eye socket and fire once more, before the bot started smoking from the left eye. It seemed to lose power to its servos, its arm and the assault rifle falling to the ground.
Ashley stared for a moment, checking for signs of movement but saw none and breathed a sigh of relief. He got up from his knees and looked up towards the exit steps. He looked down and navigated around the dead robot then initiated a jog. He was five paces from the bottom step when he felt the volley of automatic rounds impact his body armour like hammer blows, throwing him to the ground. Shaken, but still alive, he turned to see another Centurion bounding towards him, assault rifle to its shoulder. With no time to get up, Ashley rolled into the prone firing position and took aim at the bot. He had fourteen rounds left and intended to use every last one. An image of his children and wife flashed somewhere in a deeper part of his mind milliseconds before he squeezed the trigger. He fired, aiming at the bot’s face, hoping to penetrate its head casing through the eye like before. A long shot given it was moving apace and nowhere near point-blank range. He kept on firing, becoming less accurate with every round. The Centurion kept coming. A flurry of fire erupted from the bot’s rifle. It was the last thing Dean Ashley ever saw.
***
Alan led them across the gloomy concrete landing towards a galvanised metal door with an entry device next to it. Old-fashioned door, modern locking technology. He placed one hand in the RFID chip reader and used the other to type in an entry PIN. The light blinked green and the locked clicked open.
Sophie said, “Glad someone knows what they’re do—”
She was cut short by the frighteningly close crack of gunfire—single shots, one, two, three—and it kept on going until joined by the rat-tat-tat of automatic rounds.
She looked to Faraday and said, “Let’s go. They’re close.”
They bundled through the metal door and into a dark space, with just the barest of luminance spilling in from the gloomy landing. Last through the door, Sophie held it ajar and listened for Ashley’s approach. The scenario she’d constructed from the sound of gunfire below was not a hopeful one. After the closer single shot reports—presumed to be Ashley—had ended following the automatic gunfire, she assumed the worst. Her fears were confirmed when the whir of the Centurion’s servos climbing the steps was accompanied by the lifeless glare of its metal face. It looked up at the door and seemed to make eye contact with her as it raised its rifle. She slammed the door shut and rolled away from it. Inside, with the door shut, it really was pitch black, but she could tell from the sound that the rounds hadn’t managed to penetrate the door. That was a good sign that meant it was bullet-resistant whether through design, over-engineering or happenstance.
She said, “Ashley’s gone.” She was too pumped up on adrenaline for her loss to sink in and needed to find a way out for them. She just hoped Alan—a man who, until they’d entered the tunnel system, seemed like a soft, if intelligent, pen-pusher—was right about the escape car.
“There should be a light switch somewhere...” Alan said, absently.
“Well, let’s hope so,” came the familiar voice of Faraday.
“There,” said Alan and the LED light strips—one on each wall—flicked on, illuminating the aero-car in the centre of the double-garage-sized concrete bay.
The matte-black six-seater was boxier than the latest models of commercial aero-cars. It had four regular doors—not the gullwings that some flashy models sported. Function over style. Stubby delta wings protruded from the back third, level with the bottom of the doors. Set just above the wings—where they met the fuselage—were the compact yet powerful turbofan engines. Four manoeuvring ducts—two fore and two aft—bestowed a VTOL capability. Unlike most modern aero-cars, this one used old-school aviation fuel so did not rely on the possibly non-existent grid electricity supply that could a
ccompany a wider societal breakdown. It could also travel significantly faster than an electrically powered aero-car.
Sophie ran to the driver’s side and opened the door. She said, “I’ll drive. You guys work out how to get the bay roof doors open.”
A loud banging started coming from the galvanised metal door. The robot sounded like it was trying to punch its way in. Sophie looked over and saw the door bulging where what she thought was probably just the robot’s fist was pummelling the other side.
She said, “Hurry up, we don’t have long!”
She sat down and started up the aero-car’s electrical systems then initiated an engine start. She’d calculated that they’d need to risk being consumed in fumes or exhaust heat if they were to outrun the Centurions.
Alan the aide ran over to the far right corner and a simple two-button control panel. He put his finger into the recessed button surround and pressed. The two overhead panels stayed horizontal but seemed to drop a foot then start parting in the middle, withdrawing into recesses. Daylight spilled in from the widening gap casting the white, diffused light of the overcast day outside.
Sophie looked up from inside the aero-car through the overhead canopy glass and could make out the tops of the leafless trees of St James’s Park. The twin jet engines started whining to life, the cacophony building to an infernal racket inside the semi-enclosed space. It was drowning out the continuing attack on the metal door. She thought it a miracle the lock or jamb hadn’t given way. She gave it a minute longer at most, such was the buckling it had sustained.
Shawcross ushered in Faraday, Khan and Douglas-Smith. He waved in the four aides. They were short of three seats in the six-seater, but they had no choice but to bundle in. Shawcross and Douglas-Smith allowed the two female aides to take their seats, while they joined Alan and the other male aide on the floor, filling the floor space between the seats. They shut the doors, insulating them from most of the noise outside.
Sophie blew some stray hair out of her face and tapped the touch panel as if confirming a final command. She strapped herself in and two seconds later the engine pitch increased and the aero-car rose steadily above ground level. As it did so, the Centurion came barrelling through the door as if it had barged it down with a running start. It stopped, looked up, and then took aim with its assault rifle. The muffled pitter-patter of rounds hitting the armour filled the cabin and impelled Sophie to point it nose-up and engage forward thrust. It quickly put ground between them and the Centurion. The aero-car shot forwards and upwards clipping the branches of a tree, deflecting its course. It wobbled then regained cruising stability as it climbed away from the green park and grey buildings of London town. It reached the airlane and Sophie engaged the autopilot, which promptly swung the aero-car eastwards, towards the Thames.
She said, “We need to get over water ASAP in case they have MANPADS.”
Admiral Shawcross nodded in agreement. “Good call, Sophie—we’ve had reports of them using MANPADS and they don’t have air units as far as we know. Not that they need them now the air force is gone. And doesn’t help us if they have more potent SAMs ... but then again, I doubt this aero-car could climb above all threats.”
“We’re better to stick to the regular aero-car lanes,” she said. “They’ve left civilian vehicles alone for the most part. Hopefully they’ll leave us alone too.”
“I think I speak on behalf of all of us,” started Faraday, “when I say good work Alan and good work Sophie. Thank you, you saved our skins back there.”
“We’re sorry about Dean,” added Khan respectfully.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. She said nothing for a while and stared ahead while they flew eastwards.
The Thames estuary opened out in the distance; the light mist seemed to blend together the grey sky and dark water at the horizon. Dozens of palls of smoke were rising all over London. She looked down at the charred Parliament building and destroyed ministries, of which there were many. And patrolling the streets were the silvery figures of robots. The streets contained a handful of people and a few autonomous cabs. A menacing Sentinel stood guard either end of the Westminster Bridge. She kept a close eye on the southern Sentinel, looking for any sign it may engage them with its Gatling gun or rockets. It didn’t, and they continued flying eastwards towards the river mouth.
The packed cabin was silent until they were well on their way to the North Sea. Sophie looked around and saw the others staring in shock at what had befallen the country in just one day. To say it had been an intelligence failure was a massive understatement. Stopping plots against the British state was MI5’s primary objective and it looked like they’d failed. But she knew that thwarting past attempts had usually relied on knowing about them in advance. Although the plotters’ initial objective was becoming increasingly clear—the full-scale neutralisation of the instruments of state power—what was to come next was not clear. Everyone assumed it was a coup d’état and she thought they were probably right—nothing else made sense. But what would come after that? What sort of country would Britain become? So many questions and she suspected they would only be answered after the plotters were unmasked or, more likely, unmasked themselves.
They left the Thames estuary and continued over the North Sea. The cruising time to the Netherlands was thirty minutes and they’d not even had time to tell the Dutch they were coming. With any luck, their biometrics would be enough when they landed, but first they needed to check they could enter Dutch airspace. Sophie went to the Dutch air traffic control website and applied for permission. The automated response would be dependent on whether the aero-car was registered in their database or not. She hoped it would be, given its emergency role and that it was an official British Government vehicle. But who knows what special measures they’ve put in place with news of the coup attempt? she thought.
The message instruction came back, Divert to Valkenburg Naval Air Base, along with a set of coordinates.
She selected the air base—to the west of the city of Leiden—and set it as their destination. She explained the destination to her fellow evacuees. They understood—probably expected as much.
“Right, we’re on our way now,” she said. “Be there in twenty-five minutes or so.”
She hadn’t realised how tense she’d become and she lay back in her seat and tried to relax.
“We need to contact the Americans as soon as possible,” said Faraday.
“That’ll be once we’re on the ground—no encrypted comms on board I’m afraid,” said Alan.
“Very well.”
Shawcross said, “You know, it’s all very well getting American help and getting HMS Intrepid involved, but we really need to work out where we need them. A prioritised list.”
Faraday said, “Agreed, but we also need to understand what level of commitment we’re getting too.”
They discussed this for a while, but started going in circles. Eventually, they concluded that they didn’t yet have the requisite information.
“So if it is Hardcastle and co. that’s behind the coup,” said Khan, “what on Earth could their motive be?” He looked from Faraday to Sophie as the two most likely candidates to answer.
Sophie said, “I have to admit, we struggled with that ourselves. In fact, it was one of the reasons Maison pretty much instructed us to drop the investigation. We didn’t understand them then and we still don’t, I’m afraid.”
Faraday said, “Indeed, but we can hazard a few theories perhaps...”
She could tell he wanted to talk about his own theory first. She said, “Please ... go ahead.”
“Well,” he continued, “I think we need to revisit why I asked John Hardcastle to resign his Cabinet position. There were two disturbing pieces of information that I received two years ago. The first was the Chief Whip telling me he was planning a party rebellion and would call for a vote of no confidence in me and a leadership contest. The second was from Sir Anthony Rose—the same person who was just assassinate
d outside of the Cabinet Offices—accusing Hardcastle of plotting a coup.”
The second part had never been made public. Sophie’s jaw dropped at this revelation. Faraday saw her reaction.
“You must understand,” he said, “at the time the coup allegation was simply not credible. I mean ... a coup d’état in modern Britain? Unthinkable! Or so my thinking went—and probably most other people’s too. But the party rebellion allegation stuck and that was what put him on the backbenches. I can’t help thinking that perhaps both the rebellion and the coup were different means to the same end.”
She said, “How so?”
“Well, we need to understand a bit of history for my theory to make sense. It wasn’t so long ago—at least not to an old chap like me—that there was terrible inequality in this country and many others. It’s eased somewhat over the last decade or so, but it was a hard-fought struggle to get where we are today. By the mid-twenties, the UK and many other countries had shown that trickle-down economics simply doesn’t work.”
Sophie said, “What’s trickle-down economics?”
“Yes, the term has fallen out of the lexicon these days... Essentially, it was a theory that if the rich took the lion’s share of the economic pie then that was okay because they’d spend their wealth on job-creating goods and services. The trouble was it was wrong. The middle class was shrinking year-on-year with a polarisation in the job market. As automation and particularly computer learning—AI in other words—advanced it took away an increasing number of jobs. No more truck drivers, pilots, anaesthetists, phone operators and so on. Millions of jobs were lost. Only low paid jobs too non-routine for machines to do cheaply remained for most. A lucky few held on to high-paying, non-routine jobs that were beyond the reach of even AI machines. The Right and many super-rich called people like me Luddites and anti-capitalists. But with the levels of inequality we were running at it would have ended one of two ways if we didn’t act: revolution or a police state. So we chose the third way—”
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