Report on the interrogation of prisoners of war carried out by the Special Operations Executive (SOE).

All the interrogations were carried out by Lieutenant Violet Stark, a bio-mechanical synthetic being chosen chiefly for her disease-resistance, endurance and data-recording abilities.  The early phases of the operation were characterised by prisoners in very poor states of health, many showing symptoms of diarrhoea and vomiting.  During most of the interviews, the prisoner was naked.  This was not primarily intended to weaken or humiliate, but to cut down on laundry.  The interrogation area was kept at a temperature between 18 and 24 centigrade.  No artificial stimuli (bright lights, loud noises, beatings) were employed. 

            All the prisoners are male.  The oldest appear to be in their early 30s. 

            In order to carry out the interrogation with the minimum of assumptions, it was decided to interview the prisoners in ascending order of rank.  They were divided according to the colour of their uniform and hence their status within the enemy organisation.  Black uniforms were worn by the members of a group known as the ‘Racial Guardians’, who assumed superiority.  Khaki uniforms were worn by the rest, most or all of whom appear to have been members of a political party which changed its name after their spaceship left earth but before it arrived on Achird-gamma.  It had been called Britain For The British, but became, by order of Richard Spalding, The National Socialist English Workers’ Party.  The prisoners consistently reported that this caused discontent among a handful of men of non-English heritage.  One of these, who happened to be a speaker of the Welsh language, was shot as an example to silence dissent. 

            Most of the interviews with the lower-ranked prisoners revealed next to nothing.  They appear to have been imbued with an ideology characterised by racism, nationalism, the subjugation of women, propensity to violence, and obedience to the party leadership.  However, most of these prisoners seemed to have little or no idea why they travelled 19.4 light years to come to this planet.  The most vivid accounts they gave concerned day-to-day existence on board their ship, which was over-crowded and Spartan (in both the un-luxurious and sexual sense of the word).  The three activities that seemed to fill the time were queuing for food, queuing for the toilet, and cadging illicit vodka. 

            Two senior prisoners were identified for longer and more considered treatment.  They were Paul Brunton and Richard Spalding.  Both of these referred to Richard Spalding as Wolf, though Spalding did not consistently refer to himself in the third person. 

            Brunton is intellectually and politically a zombie under the control of the party of which he is a member.  He claims to be educated to degree level.  Secret observation of his interaction with other prisoners confirms that he is competent to exercise authority over his subordinates, but is utterly subservient towards Spalding.  Brunton seems to have spent most of his time aboard the spaceship acting as Spalding’s scribe, and taking dictation for a book he has written (and claims still to be working on).  This is a work of political philosophy.  Both Brunton and Spalding claim this had grown to about 1,500 pages by the time of the Battle of Hardboard City, most of which were lost in the conflagration.  The following is a quotation from one of the surviving pages.  This is indicative of what survives of the rest of the work.

            And so it is the task of the Political Leadership and most especially of the Leader himself to establish a regime in which the overriding emotions felt by the People are love of the Fatherland and hatred for everything – culturally, geographically and genetically – outside the Fatherland.  The chief manifestations of this love should be the desire to obey, to work and to fight, and an increase in the population.  The manifestation of this hatred should be the ability to absorb and internalise propaganda from the Party leadership and an increased capacity to wage total war. 

            The establishment of this harsh regime begins with the actions of the Leader and the Party leadership in giving direction to the life of the Nation.  It becomes gradually the duty of every good National Socialist to inculcate this both as a principle and as a way of life in both himself and his comrades.  It is the historic task of successive generations and of the Nation as it aspires to true Nationhood to pursue this to the point that it purifies and strengthens the blood of every member of the National Community. 

            Once National Socialism has drawn towards itself all the valuable bloodlines available to the Nation, either from the Nation itself or from racially salvageable fragments of other white-skinned nations, the rest of the global population will rapidly become so racially inferior that they will be unable to carry out any activity beyond mere subsistence or manual labour under direct Aryan supervision.  Under the new, racially purified and invigorated Nationhood, antiquated ideas such as liberalism, feminism and racial equality will become unsupportable, because the degenerated structures within the human brain required to support these polluted doctrines will cease to exist.  Some of my fellow racial theorists have suggested that surgery or drugs might be used to accelerate this process, but it is the author’s view that the establishment of a true National Socialist regime will make this unnecessary.

            In case any reader is still in any doubt, it is of the utmost importance that the agents of the new National Socialist state including the army, the police, and most of the civil service  are fully imbued with the Spirit of National Socialism before they can be called upon fully to carry out the task of subduing and, where necessary, annihilating politically subversive, economically useless, or racially hostile elements.  As the Party Leadership perfects itself in this regard, it is of paramount importance for it to carry the Party membership and the Nation with it. 

            The only time that questions put to Richard Spalding elicited responses longer than a single word was when this document was put in front of him, and he was asked to expand upon it.  What follows is a transcript of the very end of that conversation.  The opening remark is from Spalding.

            ‘You do have a chance to save yourself.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘It isn’t too late.  You have done nothing but carry out the orders of a corrupt and racially mongrel government.  If you help me and my comrades to escape and re-arm, you could be free.  You could even join us, after the necessary political re-education.’

            ‘I don’t think you would want me in your – how shall I put it – movement.’

            ‘But I can see just by looking at you that you are racially salvageable.  You have magnificent white skin.  You don’t have brown eyes.  You seem fit and strong.  You could be an excellent mother of fine, Aryan children.’ 

            The interrogator admits that what she did next, while it did have a genuine motive in seeing how the prisoner would react to having his ideas contradicted, was chosen partly for her own amusement. 

            ‘I don’t have brown eyes?  What do you mean?  Of course I have brown eyes.’ 

            ‘No, I – oh.  Oh.  That is very odd.  I looked at them several times after you came into the room, and I could have sworn you had either grey or blue eyes.  Now I see that they are quite clearly brown.  That is disappointing.’ 

            ‘And I don’t have white skin, either.’

            ‘Don’t be absurd.  Aaaaah!  Aaaaaaaaaah!  What’s happening to you?  What is happening?  Do you have a disease?  Oh, god!  Is it infectious?   Let me out!  Let me out!  I demand that you let me out of here!’

            The interrogator confirms that she reverted to her normal appearance before the next person entered the room.  She also reports that the image she used her bio-mechanics to present to the prisoner was based on a twentieth-century singer called Grace Jones.

Apart from Le Roi himself, I am the only commander on the field of battle who has men and women in every unit on our side.  I am the commander of the “Wall of Noise”.  Soon it begins.  I have all my forces in readiness.  The preparation has been arduous, but the discipline and devotion to duty has moved me to tears.  It has been such a change from the shambolic behaviour of the members of the company when we were on our journey here.   I told them to breathe more deeply and they breathed.  I told them to make their foot-movements neater and more geometric and they did.  I told them to stand up and perform as if their lives depended on it.  This drama we will only get to perform once, but whatever happens will be recorded in history.

            The heart of the orchestra is a classical ensemble who are playing the Leningrad Symphony.  They are accompanied by African drummers, blues bands, punk bands, ska bands, Scottish pipers, South American pan-pipes, West Mongolian throat-music, a kazoo band, a ukulele band, an accordion band, and an unaccompanied choir singing mainly heavy metal songs. 

*

Name: Sunil Chandra.  Rank: Lance Naik.  Serial number: 2981.  I am the King’s batman.  I polish his boots, iron his uniform, maintain his kit, cut his hair, and drive his car.  The only military tasks I do not perform for him are to clean his rifle and sharpen his bayonet and his kukri.  He does these for himself, as you would expect any soldier to do. 

            Since the fighting started, I have been seconded to the Gurkhas, even though I am Indian, not Nepali.  That is why I have the Gurkha rank of Lance Naik rather than Lance Corporal.  During this battle, I am acting as a runner, delivering orders to the units.  My unit is being led by Colonel Gurung, and is on our left.  The other Gurkha detachment is on the right, and is being led by the recently-promoted Major McCann. 

            I was brought up as a Hindu, and I am still true to my religion.  I believe that our King is an incarnation of Lord Vishnu.  I know that sounds ridiculous.  I thought it was ridiculous myself when the thought first occurred to me, but the evidence is mounting.

            He had us doing weapons training and target-practice when we were still on the spaceship, before any of us even knew that we were going to land here alive.  Why?  He knew that this war would happen.  He saw it all.  He has the capacity to see the future.  I have asked him many times how he can predict things, but I have never understood the explanation, because I am mortal. 

            Before we started opening the crates full of old rifles, he said to us that the bayonets would say, “Made in Sheffield” on them, and they did.  He had never opened any of the crates, and never seen any of the bayonets, and yet he knew what it would say on them.  Either he had seen one in a previous life, or he can see through walls. 

            His blood cured us all of the disease which afflicted us a few months after we landed.  His blood is healing. 

            I know he is going to lead us to victory.  Bullets will bounce off him.  He is immortal.  When he impales an enemy with his bayonet, it will not just kill: it will cut the enemy’s soul to ribbons. 

*

I am well-chuffed to have been chosen by Kelvin – King Kelvin – to be on his staff for the big battle.  “Waverley,” he said, “Waverley, I want you to be one of my staff officers.  What rank are you?”  I told him I was a corporal.  He promoted me to captain on the spot. 

            We are in a trench, over-looking Hardboard City.  The parapet has been reinforced with concrete.  Kelvin is looking at his watch, and looking through the periscope, working out when to give the order.  He keeps listening to his walkie-talkie. 

            He is listening to something that none of us can hear. 

            ‘Commence Operation Vesta,’ I hear him say.  That is the signal for the artillery to begin firing.  I have seen the orders for this operation, and they read like this. 

            A creeping barrage is to be put down, beginning at the far side of Hardboard City, and moving towards our position at the rate of 100 yards per minute.   This barrage will use only high explosive shells, and will stop as soon as the whole built-up area of Hardboard City has been shelled.

            Another barrage will then commence, this time using only incendiary shells.  This may be aimed at any targets that the artillery officer deems appropriate, and should continue until the ammunition is exhausted.

            Another barrage will then commence, this time using shells containing poison gas.  This should continue until the ammunition is exhausted.

            Finally, the artillery officer may fire as he sees fit, by using iron balls. 

            The idea is to get the enemy’s troops to move forward, behind a dune that they are supposed to think will provide them with cover.   I don’t understand it, but some kind of trick seems to have gone into producing what looks like earth, but in fact will not stop our bullets.    

            And then we are going to massacre them. 

            I can hear the guns.  The creeping barrage has started. 

*

I have just ordered the artillery barrage to begin.  I can hear Shostakovich’s Leningrad symphony through the PA.  The idea is to deafen them as well as blow them to fuck. 

            The only thing to do now is to wait, and to see if they behave the way we expected them to behave. 

            The poison gas is only chlorine.  We do have reserves of sarin, but it requires an executive order from me to release it.  The chlorine is only because it is very easy for us to make, and I thought it would frighten them. 

            The wind has changed slightly, and I can hear the music better now.  I can hear both the barrage and the music.  I am glad.  I had given specific orders that they should be executed at the same time.   The cacophony within the music reinforces the dissonance with the sound of the barrage.  I don’t just want to kill them: I want to drive the survivors insane. 

            I won’t even begin to think about relaxing until the incendiary barrage begins.  Hardboard City will go up like a roman candle.  Even so, I will feel easier when the poison gas barrage is finished, and I can lead the infantry in. 

*

This should not be happening.  I was given misleading information.  Before I came here, I was told that the colonists were degenerate and embarked on a downward spiral resulting from their own racial inferiority.  We are now being bombarded.  I am not sure what sort of weapon is being used against us but, whatever it is, it is quite potent.  I have a white, Anglo-Saxon army, equipped with support weapons and assault rifles.  I should be able to defeat any racially-inferior force which attempts to get in my way.  This should not be happening.  

In the teeth of strong opposition, Kelvin succeeded in arranging for the construction of a small harbour near Hardboard city complete with crane.  Most of our settlements are coastal, and a crane to a coastal town is like a cathedral was in mediaeval times: both a status symbol and a great stimulant to the economy.  When asked to account for this act of lunacy, he calmly explained that it was of paramount importance to make Spalding and his followers believe that they were in a real town, with a real past and a real future.  Once they got the idea that the whole place was a trap, they would be gone.  Hence, not only was Kelvin prepared to allow Spalding to transport his remaining tank and helicopter to I-3, but he would oblige him by providing the means to unload them as well.  The harbour was the finishing touch. 

            The invaders first set eyes on their new home on a breezy afternoon at what was the coldest time of the year for that part of the planet.  After they had landed on the new quayside (spied on by cams concealed inside a row of bollards) the first thing they saw was an old-fashioned telephone box.   Most of them were cramped from the over-crowding imposed on them after picking up the survivors from their main vessel, thirsty, hungry, and tired.  Most of them did not know what a telephone box was but, for those who did, it was the last thing they had been expecting to see.  They peered at it and circled it and looked through the glass sides.  They saw that, inside, it was plastered with stickers.  The stickers had pictures, writing and numbers printed on them.  The numbers looked like phone numbers.  The words were mainly women’s names.  The pictures showed women: bare-breasted or naked women; women in stockings and suspenders; women in thigh-boots and corsets holding whips; women in various kinds of uniform; women who smiled, beckoned, pouted, sneered, or sucked their fingers. 

            I watched and listened to them: nearly everywhere in Hardboard City was under surveillance.  I was partly on the look out for names or other identifiers.  I wanted if possible to build up a dossier which contained a photograph of every invader, a sample of his voice, and his name. 

            Eventually, one of them opened the door of the phone box, and went in.  He picked up the receiver.  It was an old-fashioned one: large and black and connected to the rest of the telephone apparatus by a cable.  The invader listened to the dialling tone.  It was loud and clear.  I could see his whole face and its perplexed expression as he regarded and then fingered the coin slots.  There were two: one labelled “1d”, and the other labelled “1s”.   He pushed the door open, and spoke to the onlookers huddled just outside.

            ‘It needs coins.’

            ‘What sort of coins?’

            ‘You know – coins.  One D or one S.’

            ‘What’s a one D or a one S?’

            ‘I don’t know.  We need to find one of the locals.’ 

            This was the cue for an appearance by Layla.  She was conservatively dressed, in a long, rustic skirt, blouse buttoned up to the neck, and long shawl.  In one hand, she held a small, leather, draw-string bag.

            ‘Quick!  There’s one of them.  Get her!’  shouted one of the invaders.

            ‘Stop!’  commanded Layla.  She was operating independently, but I was still watching and listening intently, including to what Layla herself was seeing and hearing.  The invaders did stop for a moment, mostly out of surprise that a lone, unarmed woman would attempt to give them an order.  Layla walked slowly towards them, right along the edge of the quayside nearest the water.  One of the men still had his automatic rifle levelled at her, but she seemed not to notice.  Layla stopped about ten yards from the men.  One of them took a stride towards her: she took a stride back.  She held her arm out so that the bag was suspended over the water.  ‘Do you want some money for the phone box?’  No-one replied.  ‘Do you want some money for the phone-box, or don’t you?’

            ‘Er, yes we do.’

            ‘Well one of you come here, and I’ll give it to you.’  Four of them started walking.  ‘One of you one of you one of you,’ corrected Layla, like a drill-sergeant.  They looked at each other.  One only of them moved forward hesitantly.  He took the bag from Layla as if it were a suspect package. 

            Three of the men tried to fit inside the phone box to witness the experiment with the new coins.  They dialled one of the numbers.  It was from a label which said, “Starlight Escorts.  200m from quayside.  All tastes catered for.  Rooms available overnight.  Satisfaction guaranteed.  Call Anna on 172169’.  The phone had just started ringing when their leader appeared, and demanded to know what they were doing. 

            ‘Hello.  Starlight Escorts.  What can I do for you?’  Anna said, at just the point when the man holding the receiver was dragged from the box and cuffed on the chin.  The line went dead shortly afterwards: the invaders were about to discover that the telephone system in Hardboard City was expensive. 

            Wolf, as he calls himself, wanted them to go back to their ships and help to unload the tank, the helicopter, and the guns.  The men were halfway through these tasks when, in a cold and overcast afternoon, the proprietor of The Blue Sky Taverna turned on the neon sign and the sound system.  The invaders looked through the windows of the pub into the warm, yellow glow of the interior, where the barman was testing the pumps and polishing the glasses. 

            The sun had gone down and a cold night was descending by the time the ships were unloaded.  Wolf seemed to be looking around for other work for his men to do.  Despite two breaks for food and hot drinks which Wolf  had grudgingly allowed them, they wanted to go off duty and see what the town had to offer. 

            At that moment, I signalled to Sergeant Stewart, who was hiding near the quayside in civilian clothes.  He emerged, and interrupted a conversation between Wolf and his side-kick about the organising of patrols.  I would not have blamed Stewart for wishing that his mission was a double-assassination.  He was carrying a wooden box painted khaki, with rope handles.  Wolf saw the box in the lamplight which now illuminated the quay. 

            ‘You, there.  Stop.  Show me what you have got there.’

            ‘Er, it’s nothing, sir.  Nothing.’

            Never mind nothing.  Bring that box here and open it.’  The box contained six hand grenades.  ‘Where did you get these?  Tell the truth, now, or I’ll have you shot!’ 

            ‘Over there,’ indicated Stewart, pointing to a small warehouse further down the quay. 

             ‘Show me.’ 

            Stewart took them to the door.  Wolf un-holstered his automatic pistol and, pointing it at Stewart, gestured for him to open the place up.  It was dark inside.  Stewart stepped into the deep shadow, knocked something over which sent metallic clatterings echoing all around, and disappeared.  I was still watching them, on infra red.  The side-kick shone a torch.

            ‘Brunton, over here!’  The side-kick’s name was Brunton. 

            ‘Where is that man?’

            ‘No idea.  Never mind about him: look at these.’ 

            ‘What have you found, my Leader?’   

            ‘Shine the torch down here, quick.’

            It was another row of khaki-painted wooden boxes.  Two of them were labelled “120 MM CANNON SHELLS”.  Each box contained six shells (and was very heavy).  Each shell had a small red dot near its base. 

            Meanwhile, in the Blue Sky Taverna, Kyla and Angel were handing out business cards.

            ‘But, remember, my darlings, pleasure in this town is intense, and available night and day, but it comes at a financial cost.’

            ‘What cost?’

            ‘4 gold coins for a full, unhurried fuck.  Prices for other services available on request.’

            ‘We haven’t got any gold coins.’

            ‘Well in that case you need to talk to Anna and sell something.’

            ‘Sell what?’

            Two minutes later, the man who had asked was in the phone box talking to Anna.

            ‘I’ll give you ten sovereigns for any machine gun – light, medium or heavy, plus at least fifty rounds of ammo.’

            ‘How I am supposed to manage that without Spalding shooting me?’

            ‘Get the sections who are usually furthest from the action to sell theirs first, and I guarantee that in return I’ll give you convincing replicas which make the right noise when you pull the trigger.’

            ‘Mm.  I’ll think about it.’

            He thought about it for all of five minutes.  Stewart took delivery of the first batch of light machine guns and ammunition belts.  The invaders were grudgingly impressed with the quality of the replicas. 

Name: Andrew Jonathan Downing.  Rank: Major.  I have been captured.  The main objective of my mission has failed.  The mission has now moved into phase two, which I will describe later.  I came here with 39 men, most of whom are dead or wounded, and some of whom, like me, have been captured. 

            We began on I-11 in the Northern Hemisphere, and were transported at great expense by means of light aircraft to a beach on the north coast of I-13, in the tropics of the Southern Hemisphere.  This was the island where satellite surveillance had detected the enemy, after he moved from I-2.  We then travelled through the jungle on foot, taking four days to reach the settlement where the enemy was believed to be, and in fact was, billeted.  The jungle was of native, rather than imported, plant-life and was a hostile environment.  There are no native animals on this planet, but the local flora has some large and very bizarre plants which throw seeds with considerable force.  Three of my men were injured by these as we traversed the jungle, but none of them seriously.  The effect on morale was noticeable, but anxiety lifted as soon as we left the forest and came to clearer and more cultivated ground. 

            Our primary mission was to neutralise as many as possible of the enemy’s tanks and helicopters, thereby removing the tactical and material advantages that he held over us.  We conducted surveillance on the settlement and the enemy’s movements.  We found that most of the vehicles were being kept in a large garage, which I decided we would assault at dawn the next morning.  I committed my entire force, in two equal groups: the building had two doors.  The two groups would be attacking in opposite directions, but my men were all battle-hardened troops and could operate without shooting each other.  We had no weapons other than small arms, and so we intended to destroy the vehicles simply by dousing them in petrol and setting fire to it.

            The tanks were old Conqueror Mark IVs, about fifty years old.  I don’t know where they came from, but they seemed to be in full working order – as we found to our cost.  This vehicle has two machine-guns: a 12.7 mm gun at the front, and a 7.62 mm at the rear.  We opened both sets of doors, at the same moment.  We saw no-one inside the building, only the tanks themselves, four of them, and one helicopter, all in a row.  We were then immediately fired upon by one of the tanks: the one nearest the doors.  We were sitting ducks.  Virtually all the casualties we suffered we took in those few moments.  It had simply not entered my head that any of the vehicles should be manned at that time. 

            Superior enemy forces were summoned by the noise, and we were immediately forced to surrender.  I would have fought to the death, had it not been for the secondary objective.

            Before we set off from I-11, my Commander-in-Chief had a word with me, and told me that, if I were captured, he wanted me to do whatever I could to convince the enemy to make for a certain location.  It is a place near the mouth of a river on the east coast of I-3.  He showed me how to draw a map of the area.  It is on a very distinctive, jagged coastline and had been deliberately chosen so that even an idiot could find it.  It has been prepared as a killing zone. 

            I am currently stark naked, and tied to a metal chair with bare metal wire.  I have been alone in here for an hour or so, after the second of what I expect will be a series of beatings.  I have lost four teeth, and am somewhat bruised.  Also, I think my left wrist may be broken. 

            I think I can hear some-one outside the door.  They are coming back. 

            I am going to try to hold out for at least two days, to make it more convincing.  I hope I will still be able to remember the back story. 

*

My name’s Ryan Bartlett, and that’s my little brother, Rod.  We must be the jammiest fuckers on the whole planet.  We went out, right, last night, with a few other blokes, and we were in this like pub place where we’ve been going for a few days now.   We’ve found a barrel of rum and a barrel of this  stuff which is a bit like whisky – really, really, really rough whisky.  Like meths, only it’s the same colour as whisky.  We can drink as much as we like for nothing, except that we have to be on parade at oh-seven-thirty.  We are supposed to be back in our barracks by ten, but nobody bothers about that.  Rod and me worked out that the best way not to get done for being late back to barracks was not to go back at all, and that was when we thought of the idea of sleeping in the tank.  It is cramped, but there’s just enough room on the floor for two bed rolls, if you move the seats out of the way. 

            We’d been doing this for a few days, and Rod had been saying that we were sure to get found out sooner or later, when something happened.  We were in the tank, wide awake – still a bit drunk, actually – and we were talking, quiet like, when we heard some noise.  We looked out of the ports, me in the front and Rod in the back, and we both could see the doors opening.  It was just getting light.  We couldn’t see very well.  Whoever it was had torches with them.  They wouldn’t have known we were there, see. 

            ‘What the fuck are we going to do?’ whispered Rod.

            ‘I don’t know.  I don’t know.’

            ‘Shoot the fuckers.  Shoot ‘em!’  So we did.  We could tell by the uniforms that they weren’t our men.  We mowed ‘em down.  We just mowed ‘em all down.  Well, most of ‘em.  A few of them hit the deck, and we couldn’t hit them then, because they were too close and the guns wouldn’t go down that far.  One of our patrols came, and we stopped firing then.  I think we had finished a whole belt by then, anyway.  I kept shouting to Rod, ‘Fire in bursts!  Remember the training, you daft sod!’  I think he must have damaged the barrel.  He just pulled the trigger and went dakka-dakka-dakka-dakka-dakka, like that. 

            Anyway, it doesn’t matter about that, because we are now heroes.  Spalding gave us some bollocks at first about how he wasn’t going to do us for not going back to barracks on time, and he wasn’t going to do us for being drunk, and he wasn’t going to do us for this and that and the other, but then he stopped being an awkward sod and he changed his tune.  He said he was going to call a parade to honour us, and give us both a medal, and stuff.  We’re his golden boys now.   He’s got a place where he keeps some women, and he said he’d let us go there.  He said we could have a woman each.  Loads of blokes have been asking what they have to do to get a shag.  Well, now we know, me and Rod.  “Comfort women”, he called them.  “Shagging” – that’s what I call it.

            Spalding said the best thing was that we’d managed to take some of the enemy alive.  Fuck knows what he’s going to do with them, but I bet it’ll sting.  Cut their bollocks off, probably.  I bet he’ll do it himself.  He’s a weird fuck.  His eyes are funny.  Better not say that to any-one else, though. 

*

I had taken half a day off from training in order to convene a cabinet meeting, when we were interrupted by Chandra, who looked very distressed.  He told me there was a message for me on the video link. 

            ‘Where from?’ I asked.

            ‘From Major Downing, Sir.’

            ‘From Major Downing?  He has missed four reports now, hasn’t he.’  Chandra nodded.  There was a monitor in the meeting-room and so we had a look.

            Downing was naked, tied to a chair, with his head down and bruises and streaks of dried blood all over his body.  A hooded figure stood next to him on each side.

            ‘Downing?’ I said into the microphone.  One of the hooded figures grabbed Downing by the ears, and lifted his head up.  His speech was slurred and indistinct.  His lips were swollen, and he’d lost a lot of teeth.

            ‘This is Major Downing.’ It sounded like Downing, and yet unlike him at the same time.

            ‘Downing, can you tell me…’ I continued, for the want of anything better to say, but Downing either was not listening or could not hear me.  He seemed to be reading from a prepared statement. 

            ‘My men and I have been forced to surrender.  We have been forced to surrender to a superior force – both superior in number, in armaments, and in racial purity. [An enterprising use of the word “both” I thought.] Most of my men are dead, and the rest have been captured.   I am about to hand you over to the leader of…’ Downing’s voice gave way to another.  Whoever was speaking was out of camera-shot.

            ‘I am the leader of the new government of this planet.  In the name of our National Spirit I order you to surrender.  In the name of Wolf, the Leader, I order you to lay down your arms and surrender.’

            ‘What is your name?’ asked Kelvin.

            ‘My name is Wolf.  Are you going to surrender?’

            ‘That’s not a name: it’s a recipe for indigestion.  What is your name?’

            ‘ARE YOU GOING TO SURRENDER?’

            ‘Never.’

            ‘I have all your men you sent here; I have captured them, and I can do anything with them I like.  If you don’t surrender they will be tortured.’

            ‘You mean, they will be tortured some more.’

            ‘WHAT?’

            ‘You have already tortured them.’  I spoke very nonchalantly.  I did not raise my voice, or hurry.  I spoke just the way I normally do.

            ‘ARE YOU TRYING TO ARGUE WITH ME?’

            ‘No, I am telling you that I refuse to surrender.  My cabinet refuses to surrender.  My Army refuses to surrender.  My steel helmet, battledress, my boots and my webbing refuse to surrender.  My dogs, my cats, my chickens and the worms in my garden refuse to surrender.  My vest, pants, socks, handkerchief, and the multiplicity of things I wipe my pert but hairy little arse on refuse to surrender.  My knife, fork and spoon, my egg-cup and my matching condiment set refuse to surrender.  My toast-rack, my teapot and my cafetière  refuse to surrender.  One may go so far as to say that, refusal-to-surrender-wise, a pattern is emerging.  I wouldn’t surrender to you if you were the last Nazi invader left in the universe.’ 

            My interlocutor (still off-screen) did not interrupt me, which is one reason why I blathered on for so long.   

            ‘Well.  Well, then.  Then I suggest you listen to this.’  They attached some kind of mechanical device to Downing’s right hand, which one of the hooded figures proceeded to operate.  There was an agonising grinding noise, followed by the sound of stifled and desperate breathing, while Downing raised his head, and all the vessels in his face and neck stood out as if they would burst.  Eventually,  Downing screamed in pain.  He was obviously trying not to cry out, and so he screamed in short, staccato bursts, until the point where whatever was being done to him overcame him, and he screamed continuously, until a dreadful kind of diminuendo terminated by gurgling and his head falling back down to his chest indicated that the Major had either died or lost consciousness.  Holt, who was sitting next to me, opened his mouth to call out to Downing, but Kelvin sternly and silently signalled to him, and the others, not to utter a word.

            ‘Did you see all that?’ asked the voice on the other end, with apparent glee.

            ‘This conversation is over,’ I announced, and cut the link.

            There was a stunned silence, which was broken when I spoke again. 

            ‘We will now stand and reflect for a moment on the bravery of Major Downing and his men.’ Holt and the other cabinet-members all stood.  I did not know what the others were thinking, but Holt for one looked extremely upset.  I allowed them a short time to consider what had happened – no more than two minutes, and then I signalled for them all to sit down again, and get back to business.

            ‘I know this is a stupid question,’ said Holt, ‘But shouldn’t we have…’  I looked at him for an instant and managed to convey quite clearly, ‘Yes, that is a very stupid question.’

            ‘What was in Downing’s last report before he was captured?’ I asked of  Captain McCann (I was promoting him in stages).  I had already read the report, naturally, but I wanted to refresh my memory.  McCann read it out loud to the meeting.  

            ‘It is impossible to tell whether the enemy has divided his forces between I-13 and I-2.  We have counted approximately one thousand three hundred enemy soldiers and are still counting.  Each man is equipped with an automatic rifle.  There are also units which have rocket-propelled grenades, and light, medium, and heavy machine guns.  All their motorised transport seems to have been stolen from our us.  In other words, they are using some of the old Land Rovers which we brought with us from Earth.  We have counted four tanks, which appear to be Conqueror Mark IIIs or IVs and hence obsolete by Earth standards.  These armoured vehicles seem nevertheless to be mechanically sound.  We have not seen them fire either the 120mm cannon which is the vehicle’s main armament or any of the machine guns which are the secondary armament.  These tanks have been used to bulldoze or demolish many small buildings for no apparent tactical or strategic purpose.  

            ‘We have spotted one helicopter, which is currently being used to search for refugees or resisters in the jungle behind the coastal capital.  This machine also seems to be in good mechanical repair.  It has been observed to fire its machine guns, but we could not discern what the target was and this volley of fire did not seem to inflict any casualties.  Primates from Earth and other animals have been introduced into the jungle and so they may have been the target.

            ‘The standard of uniform appearance and drill of the invader seems to be very poor indeed.  NCOs seem to enforce discipline by physical threats rather than by respect for their authority, and most of the enemy soldiers seem to have an insatiable appetite for alcohol, both night and day.  They waste a good deal of ammunition by firing into the air while they are on patrol, despite repeated warnings not to do so from their superiors.  This seems to be an enemy whose morale will break easily under sustained pressure from a more determined or numerically superior opponent.

            ‘The commanding officer seems to be a man who is about six feet tall, with short, dark hair, who wears a Nazi Swastika armband.  The better presented and more disciplined members of the invading force are evidently members of some kind of political organisation, of which this man is also the leader.  Intelligence suggests that his name is Richard Spalding.’  McCann stopped reading and looked up.  ‘The rest is a lot of stuff about what these bastards have done to the civilian population.’

            ‘I’ll read that later,’ I told him, and I did.  ‘Now, can somebody go and find Violet, please?  I need to speak to her urgently.’

After Kelvin had been asleep for a few hours, I decided to go to the bathroom.  I don’t have to pee if I don’t want to, but it is easier for me if I do.  I extricated myself from him without waking him up.  I didn’t turn the light on.  It was so dark that light-intensification wouldn’t work.  The toilet doesn’t have a heat signature, unless some-one has just been sitting on it, and so infra red was also no good.  I was using microwave reflection (essentially a very short-range form of radar).  When I went to rinse my hands, I noticed some kind of weird pattern around the frame of the mirror above the sink.  Pattern is not really the word, because it seemed rather irregular. 

            I touched it with my fingertips.  The frame of the mirror was wooden (there are a lot of ‘natural’ surfaces around the ship – they are supposed to make it seem less of an alien environment) and each border was about two inches across.  The marks on the frame were letters.  I traced them with my finger, and ‘looked’ at them with higher-resolution microwaves.  The message spelt CARVE HER NAME WITH PRIDE – VIOLET. 

            I cried again, and was still crying when I got back into bed beside him.  I put my arms round him, hugged him to me, and let the tears run down my face and onto his naked shoulder. 

            Look it up if you don’t know what it means.

*

I’m putting together the front page of the next issue of Cosmography.  Everybody knows what is going to be on it.  What has Kelvin done now?  Has he gone out of his tiny mind?  What has that hideous woman done to him?  Is it witchcraft?  Possession? Drugs?  Hypnotism?  Blackmail?  I bet it’s blackmail.  Pamela Collins has some pictures of Kelvin doing something perverted, yucky, and humiliating, and has threatened to publish unless he pretends to be going out with her.  And I bet she is after his money. 

            They have started going to this disgusting bar on Deck 6 called O’Mally’s.  I don’t know if I can describe it properly.  It is dark, dingy, has no décor; the music is really old-fashioned, and all the drinks seems to have froth on them.  Pam the Tram drinks pints (plural).  She must be a dyke.  I must admit, though, to do the poor creature justice, the last time I saw her, she was in heels.  She walked as if it wasn’t the first time she had worn them, as well.  I know this sounds incredible, but I think she even had make-up on.  I got a few not-very-interesting pictures of them.  I was afraid at first that Pam the Tram would crack the lens, if not with her ugly countenance, then with her fist. 

            If there is something to this affair (if that is really what it is) then I wish I could find out what Kelvin sees in her. 

            Oh, my god – I have just realised something.  I bet she’s pregnant.  They must have gone to the Temperate Zone, had a roll among the dry leaves, and now she’s up the duff.  I wonder if the pharmacy has any testing kits?  How would I get hold of some of Pam the Tram’s wee?

*

Pamela and I are not only having a relationship, we are also about to start a joint business venture.  We were talking recently about our work and our plans for the remainder of the journey, and I happened to mention that I have spare capacity in my factory: spare space, and spare energy, mainly in the form of hot water.  Pamela asked me if I could spare any of my growing-space in the farm for a few herbs and things, to which I said that I could.  She said that she was thinking of starting her own range of bath and skincare products.  Most of the women on board had stockpiled their favourite products before embarking on the ship, but many of them are now running out and a sustainable solution is required.  At exactly the same moment, we both had the idea of putting the two ventures together and opening a spa. 

            Kerr McLean’s men are building most of it, and my brewery team will do the plumbing.  Pamela is going to do all the wiring: she is an electrical engineer after all.  We are going to have a big, society opening when it is finished.  Pamela and I will have to test all the facilities first, of course.  Pamela, who is very efficient and well-organised, has started writing a guest-list.  She thinks we ought to invite Cerise Vallance and her harpies.  I am wondering if I ought to invite Anna.  I have a feeling that Anna would not come, but some of the ladies might.  And I should invite Prudence. 

*

My name is Wayne Moxon.  I work for Mr McLean.  Mr McLean’s Scottish.  That means he is from Scotland.  I’m not from Scotland.  I’m from Garforth.  It’s my birthday soon.  I’m twenty-three now, but soon I’ll be twenty-four. 

            I couldn’t come here at first when Mr Stark asked me to come, because I had to look after my mum, but my mum died.  I had to look after my mum because my dad had died, and I don’t have any brothers or sisters.  Cheryl has two sisters and a brother, but I don’t.  Cheryl is my friend.  She’s nineteen.  She works in the kitchens.  I work for Mr McLean.  I work in his sorting office, sorting parcels and sometimes letters.  I don’t know why people are bothered about sending letters, because you can send messages on your computer.  It’s like sending a letter, but it’s on your computer.  You can send any message you like.  I tried to send a message to Cheryl once which had some rude words in it, because I didn’t think it would work, but it did.  Cheryl read the message, and she said there were some words in it she didn’t understand.  I tried to say to her what the words meant, but she told me to go away.  I don’t like it when she tells me to go away, so I stopped.  We had a cuddle after that, and it was nice.  I like Cheryl.  Cheryl’s nice.  Cheryl’s really, really nice.

            When we get to where we are going, me and Cheryl are going to get married.  I asked Cheryl to marry me and she said yes, but she wanted us to wait until we get to where we are going, and have a proper house to live in.  Cheryl lets me go to her cabin and sleep over sometimes, but she says her cabin is too small for us to live in.  And my cabin is too small for us to live in, too.  None of the cabins are as big as a house.  That is why we need a house. 

            I have to go back to work soon.  It is ten past ten.  It is time to go back to work at a quarter past ten.  My break finishes then.  My lunchtime starts at one o’clock.  I get one hour for lunch.  Then I have to go back to work at two o’clock.  I finish work at five o’clock, and then I can go and see Cheryl.  I mustn’t think about that,  because I’ll get too excited.  I’ve got letters and parcels to sort.  Look – this one is addressed to Mr Stark.  It’s got some labels on it.  This one says THIS WAY UP.  This  one says FRAGILE.  I had better be careful with this one.  It’s fragile and  it’s for Mr Stark.  I quite like Mr Stark.  I helped to move some stuff for him the other day, and he gave me five shillings.  I put them in my Leeds United piggy bank.  Mr McLean pays me five shillings per hour, and I work six hours per day.  That means I get thirty shillings per day.  Cheryl gets more than me, but I don’t mind.  We share our money.  We’ve got some saved up.  

*

My name is Darren Cartwright.  I’m an apprentice machinist.  I hope to be fully-trained soon.  I like anything to do with metalwork.

            I’ve been working at an industrial museum recently, in the workshop.  We make parts for the old machines in the museum.  We learn how to use the lathes, saws, drills, and all the other stuff.  It’s really good.  We learn about safety.  That sounds really boring, but it’s important.  I was using the circular saw the other day, and I nearly had my thumb off.  The supervisor went mad.  He told me I wasn’t listening to him and I was thick.  I don’t like that supervisor.  He’s a nigger.  I hate niggers.  It doesn’t seem right to me that a nigger works at a museum about British industrial heritage.  We didn’t have no niggers here in the Industrial Age.  There were only whites.  And there were jobs and homes for all.  No immigration: no unemployment.  You know there are loads more immigrants in this country than there are unemployed.  Stands to reason: if we got rid of all the niggers, Pakis, and all the rest, we’d have full employment. 

            The BFTB is committed to full employment for white, British workers.  That is why I joined.  I go to branch meetings once a week, and regional meetings once a month.  I prefer the regional meetings, because they have really good speakers, and we usually have an action afterwards.  The actions are brilliant.  We get to kick shit out of queers and Pakis and other scum.  Lefties and stuff.  We burn loads of books and sometimes we even set fire to buildings.  The Regional Organiser is called Richard Spalding.  He holds special meetings where only a few Party members are invited.  I got permission come to them a few months ago.  He said I was good racial stock.  He said I was “im-something” with the Spirit of National Socialism. 

            At the last meeting, Richard Spalding said he had been selected to lead a special mission, and he was picking us to be members of his special task force.  He said we would have the chance to fulfil our racial destiny.   He said we would be building a new nation on the ashes of the old order.  If we are going to build a new nation, I’m guessing there will be machinists required.  I wonder what kind of alloys we’ll be working with.

*

My mission of racial purification is about to begin.  My men will be going into suspended animation for the duration of the voyage.  The crew of the ship and I will remain active.  The voyage itself will take four years.  That is four times the length of time that Hitler spent imprisoned in Landsberg Castle.  I think I will take a secretary with me, and dictate my great work on racial politics and political destiny.   I must remember to ask for volunteers at the next regional Party meeting.  I have recently been reading an interesting pamphlet about Aktion T4.  I must include some of its ideas in my book.  

            I have decided what my name is now that I am the Führer.  I am called Wolf.  Those who address me must give the National Socialist salute, and say Hail Wolf!

            There is absolutely no place for women on this mission.