Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 1

by Malcolm J Wardlaw

  Facts beat wishful thinking, at least in the mind of a rationalist like Donald. The scepticism faded. He no longer had to meet Lawrence to know that the last ten years had indeed transformed him from the rebellious layabout he was at seventeen. Lawrence had somehow been changed into a brutally efficient officer who committed appalling crimes out of sight of decent society. However hard it was to accept that a member of his own family could have become such an individual, it simply was not possible to ignore Turner’s implied meanings and Haighman’s implied meanings and the quite frankly-stated actions in the witness statements.

  Donald then experienced a peculiar sensation of contemplating himself from a distance. To a stranger viewing the evidence, Minister for Trade Donald Aldingford was a traitor who had chosen the wrong side and now was cornered by his own disloyalty. Yet, he had never set out to betray anyone, nor had he ever held much sympathy for the National Party. Quite simply, he was in a bloody mess through no fault of his own. Might the same not be true of Lawrence? By the evidence, Lawrence was a top killer, a mass-murderer. Could it not be that beneath the damning statements there existed a different Lawrence, horrified at his life, well aware he was in a desperate mess and just as aware there was no way out?

  For some minutes, Donald sat amidst jangling phones, bustling postal staff, lofty tones of other cabinet members dictating communiqués to their secretaries and occasional barks of laughter. Complete disorientation paralysed him. His brother was a top killer and Donald himself served a rebellion led by top killers because he had nowhere else to go.

  He slumped at his desk, his head down as exhaustion dragged him towards the floor. This was not how a minister was supposed to appear in public. He screwed up his strength, straightened his back and forced his mind to the rapidly accumulating tasks of his portfolio. It had only taken a few hours for the Party bureaucracy to react to his appointment with an increasing flood of reports, committee minutes and official communiqués. Any notion that a senior post in a rebellion was glamorous rapidly dissipated in this storm of pompous, arse-covering paper. Fortunately his years as a legal counsel had prepared him well for speed-reading inches thick piles and sieving from their scores of thousands of words the essentials. There was no doubt the campaign to confiscate gold and silver would begin in the next few days. Already Yelcho was assigning officers to liaison duties and requesting the minister for trade nominate his own corresponding officials.

  The paralysis returned. Donald knew that if he robbed his fellow professionals of their gold and silver, he was a dead man. It was a crime that would never be forgiven. If he responded to Yelcho’s demands, he would be signing his own death warrant.

  It was time to think for his life. However, at this moment Sarah-Kelly laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  It excited no particular notice when they left the cabinet office together, as their relationship was widely known by now, office chatter being what it is. She led him down the stairs and outside to the front steps, where various other confabs were going on. These steps had become an impromptu venue for public displays of alliances and cliques, which were rapidly forming amongst the ambitious Party functionaries, especially the younger ones. Privately, Donald felt hellish exposed given the innumerable locations amongst the factory gantries and rooftops from which snipers could shoot. Supposedly the whole area was heavily patrolled, rooftops included. He still felt vulnerable knowing that crafty Wingfield was out there somewhere.

  “That letter explains everything,” she said. “Ever since I got back from Oban in the summer I’ve had this feeling about Prentice; that he was sniggering behind my back. Bartram’s right. We were set up. I wonder who Prentice had watching us? I’ll bet it was that smarmy little sod Rackland, the trader. It would be dead easy for a guy like Prentice to reach up there through his trading network... That’s what little people like us don’t really grasp, that for big-shot traders the world is all laid open for them.”

  “Nightminster is a pernicious operator all right,” Donald said. Mention of Nightminster had prompted thoughts of just how dangerous the ruthless bastard really was. He was TK’s intellectual gangster. As an Owner of the Ultramarine Guild, Nightminster could wield a lot of power over Farkas, eager as he was to appease the ultramarines. Nightminster must have a vast network of trading contacts through the Ultramarine Guild; he would make a far better minister for trade than Donald ever could. Farkas would not hesitate to pass Donald over to Nightminster for the right offer—the very thought of lying bound up gagged in the hold of that flying boat at the mercy of the pitiless bastard chilled Donald’s bones. This thinking hardened his intent. He was eyeing the orange light of the evening sun on the concrete blockhouse that formed the ZEEBRI industrial complex. He would have to act tonight. By tomorrow morning, it would be too late.

  “We’ve got to get away from this place,” he said. “Farkas and his mob have no chance. Either the ultramarines will snatch them into the Night and Fog or the glory trusts will flood back and wipe them out.”

  “In the long run, none of us have any chance in this world—haven’t you seen that yet? Lawrence served the system and it flushed him to hell. You served the system and it shunned you. I served the system and it spat in my face. Don’t you see the pattern?

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to do my duty to history; catch every top killer and send them up for trial.”

  “Then you’re done for—you won’t see Christmas.”

  He observed not even a flicker of doubt cross Sarah-Kelly’s face. The Party had her in its spell. She asked in turn:

  “What are you going to do?”

  I’m going inside the Central Enclave to mobilise town society. Once the town professionals grasp they’re about to be robbed, they’ll take up arms, seize all the forts and shut the gates of the Grande Enceinte. There won’t be a damned thing Farkas and his killers can do about it. In the long run, I probably don’t stand much chance either, but a small chance is better than none at all.

  He spoke not a word. In the next couple of hours he would have to leave Sarah-Kelly. Probably they would never see each other again. The bodies neck-shot into the trench by Yelcho’s thugs taunted his hopes. As His Decency TK had said, terrible things happen once the habits of civility are abandoned.

  Rather, he said: “It’s twenty to five. Lawrence should be here soon, although I’ll be astounded if he actually turns up. It would be as suicidally foolish as a lamb jumping into a den of hungry wolves.”

  “Oh, he’ll be here all right,” Sarah-Kelly said. “Lawrence isn’t the sort to run away.”

  DEAR READER

  Now read Book 2 The Value System, Lawrence’s descent into the barbaric Value System of Nightminster. Was Lawrence really a top killer? What is the Value System and how did Lawrence escape?

  Will he respond to the call of the Atrocity Commission?

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  Appendix

  South East England in 2106

  (West of London)

  Note that the frontiers of sovereign lands typically follow the routes of public drains (i.e. derelict motorways or trunk roads from the Public Era). Most of the rural road network within sovereign land was destroyed to comply with privacy regulations. Only selected locations and principal drains have been shown.

  South East England in 2106

  (East of London)

  Old Greater London

  Selected features and locations

  Note that the Great Ring Drain was formerly known as the M25 motorway.

  The Central Enclave (Western side)

  Note that most of the bridges over the Thames were demolished to facilitate shipping and flying boat operations. The road system has been omitted from these maps for clarity except for major roads mentioned in the story. Most major routes have not changed much
since the Public Era. Lanes and lesser streets, on the other hand have often changed a great deal as old layouts had to make way for more localised living at much higher densities (for most people) or more grandiose living arrangements (for the few).

  The Central Enclave (Eastern side)

  Ranks of the Glory Trusts

  The three principal glory trusts on the Island of Britain in 2106 are General Wardian, Universal Parrier and Guards to the People.

  Ranks of Enlisted Troops

  Probationary Basic (upon gaining Securitician C certificate)

  Basic

  Leading Basic

  Corporal

  Sergeant (upon gaining Securitician B certificate)

  Section Leader

  First Sergeant

  Ranks of Field Officers

  Countryman (upon gaining Securitician A certificate)

  Grade Lieutenant 2nd Class

  Grade Lieutenant 1st Class

  Team Lieutenant

  Cost-Centre Lieutenant

  Account-Captain 2nd Class

  Account-Captain 1st Class

  Ranks of Senior Staff Officers

  Executive-Colonel

  Executive-General

  Executive-Marshal

  The larger sovereign clans maintain their own marine corps as personal bodyguards and to secure the most intimate clan secrets, such as treasuries. These forces have ranking systems that very from clan to clan.

  Money

  For wealthy people, the basic unit of money worldwide in 2106 is the Troy ounce of gold (31.1035 grams). There are 32.1507 Troy ounces in a kilogram. Sub-units of account are the pennyweight (20 to the ounce) and the grain (24 to the pennyweight).

  Prices in 2106 are subject to seasonal surges and falls, as well as yearly changes due to good harvests and bad harvests. Because of all this variability, it is hard to convert the future buying power of an ounce of gold into our paper money of today, especially as our money is also subject to inflation, changes in purchasing power parity and so forth. As a very rough guide, it may be taken that a Troy ounce of gold in 2106 is comparable to the buying power of between $25 and $75 today (USD).

  This is less than one twentieth of the buying power of an ounce of gold at the time of writing (2020). The large fall in buying power of gold was caused by the collapse of modern industries and consequent dramatic shrinkage of the human population in the Glorious Resolution. Whereas, the amount of gold in human hands stayed constant. With the same amount of gold available but far less people to use it and far fewer things to buy, the purchasing power of gold had to fall (simple economics). This collapse in gold purchasing power is remembered as the Gold Crest.

  Silver, copper and aluminium coins are also used as money by so-called slummies (residents of the industrial asylums), or as we would say, working people.

  About the Author

  Long ago I dived into my writing career by studying aeronautical engineering. I went on to design quite a variety of things, from the turbochargers of racing hydroplanes to industrial plants that process explosive gases at high pressure. Just to expand my literary horizons, I also studied for an MBA at an international business school, from where I joined the masters of the globalised world. Then I bummed around and got another view, this time from below.

  Fiction has to sprout from somewhere. In my case, it’s a fascination with power: how it is cast and how it is accepted, how it must be honest enough to endure, yet will be dishonest enough to serve the avarice of its roots.

  Humanity faces an impossible situation. No government will face up to that fact. How can it? No power structure can stand before its people and admit ‘We’re up against it and we don’t have a clue’. There’s just about enough energy and resources to give about one tenth of the planet what is known as ‘the affluent lifestyle’. That means a house served by public utilities, a car, holidays far away, and plenty of credit to keep things churning. The consequent pollution is already beyond—well beyond—the capacity of our environment. Yet we’re told ‘debt doesn’t matter’ and renewables will come to the rescue. Sorry people, those who live by lies shall die by lies, or to put it another way, education comes to those who wait.

  How nasty will this ‘education’ be? And what will the world be like afterwards? These are questions I explore in my dystopian novels.

  When not foretelling our grim prospects, you’ll find me roaming the Lammermuir Hills of Scotland on my vintage Flying Scot bicycle, prowling Edinburgh’s book shops or else swilling beer in good company (before The Bug hit us, at any rate).

  Regrettably it looks like The Bug is pushing us into dystopia faster than I can write about it.

  Web site: https://www.malcolmjwardlaw.com