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The Companion: Part 58

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I have just sworn the oath, on the Bible.  I don’t consider myself to be religious, but I could not be bothered to enter into a discussion about it.  I want this to be over as quickly as possible.  Here comes the first question.  At least, I think it does.  I wish he would stop rambling and get to the point.  What has been the nature of my relationship with Kelvin?  I am talking now.  I am saying something.  I don’t really know what I am saying.  The nature of my relationship with him is that I agreed to join his mission to colonise a new planet.  Don’t ask me why I did that, because I did not previously know him, but I did agree to it.  We were then lovers, briefly, for a period of six weeks while we in transit from Earth.  Our time together was physically passionate and I thought I was falling in love with him, but it was very difficult to know whether I did love him because he was so difficult to get to know.  Once I heard about his so-called “companion”, I experienced a feeling of repulsion and did not want to be with him anymore.    This seemed to wear off eventually, probably because I foolishly allowed myself to forget what a big part this “companion” had played in his life.  I simply assumed that he would want his partner in life to be a flesh-and-blood woman rather than a machine manufactured to look like a woman. 

            Here comes another question.  I suppose I should be paying attention, instead of scanning the public gallery to see how many people I can recognise.  There is that awful Vallance woman.  She has been told off by the usher for taking notes.  Every time there is a recess, she goes outside and scribbles frantically.  I am looking for The Machine, to see if she will still glower at me, but she is not there for some reason.  Kelvin seems remarkably composed in the dock (is that what it is called?)   I wonder if they will actually put him in prison, if he is found guilty.   The next question is: do I think that Kelvin was glad when news of the invasion arrived, because he knew it would mean conflict?  Yes, I am convinced he was.  For a start, he was the only person who wasn’t surprised.  He reacted as if being invaded was an ordinary, everyday occurrence.  In other words, he didn’t react at all.  He just started talking about something called “Plan K-13”.  I asked him what “Plan K-13” was, and he said that it would be revealed on a need-to-know basis.  I asked him why it was called “K-13”, and he said it had to be called something.  I told him it sounded like something out of an unpublished novel by John Le Carré,  and he thanked me.  I didn’t tell him that the reason why the hypothetical novel would remain unpublished is because it was crap.   

            Now he is asking me if I knew anything about Operation Meat-grinder.  No, I didn’t.  My duties had nothing to do with the fighting.  Oh, that’s the end.  That didn’t last as long as I feared.  I can’t go home, however.  I have to hang around in case I am wanted again. 

*

            ‘How should I address you?’

            ‘Most politely.’

            ‘I mean, by what form of address?  What title?’

            ‘How about “Mrs Stark”?’

            ‘Very well.  Mrs Stark, what was your…’

            ‘Before you proceed with your examination in chief, Mr Greenwood, I wish to raise a point of order.’

            ‘I beg your pardon?’

            ‘I wish to question your right to examine me as a witness.’  The judges lean forward and listen more attentively.  Greenwood looks surprised and annoyed.  Those people in the public gallery who have been paying attention start muttering to each other.  Judge Lansakaranayake intervenes.

            ‘Mrs Stark, could you explain to the court what it is to wish to question?’

            ‘Your Honour, it occurs to me that, under the legal system in Mr Greenwood’s country, he could not ask me any questions, even if he wanted to.’

            ‘Why not?’

            ‘Because I am an android.  I am not a natural person, in the eyes of the law of England and Wales.  According to Mr Greenwood’s legal system, I am merely a machine.  If he wants to know anything about me, if he wants disclosure of anything that my data acquisitions systems may have recorded, he can serve a court order against my legal owner.  But he can’t question me.’  Greenwood’s face falls.  He knows I’m right.  Lansakaranayake looks puzzled.  Gonzales looks amused.  The two judges exchange a words which no-one else can hear. 

            ‘Will Mr Greenwood and Miss Johnson please join us in our chambers, please?  Mr and Mrs Stark are each dismissed until further notice.’

*

Violet’s point was upheld.  We are making the law governing this trial up as we go along, but the assumption is that, where no law has been codified by the colonists, we will fall back on English Law.  Greenwood had already committed himself to that principle and, in this regard, English law is very clear: androids are not legal entities, except inasmuch as they incur liability for their legal owners.  Greenwood tried to argue that Violet was capable of being treated as an independent person, but the judges said that he could only appeal to the written law of this colony if he wanted things done differently from the way they are in England.  No law on this subject has been passed in the colony.  In desperation, Greenwood asked if Kelvin could produce his certificate of ownership of Violet.  This was duly produced.  Greenwood then observed that Kelvin and Violet are married, and asked how he could marry something that wasn’t a person.  The judges asked what relevance the validity of Kelvin’s marriage had to the matter in hand.  Greenwood could not answer that question.  The judges conferred for about two minutes, and came back with a joint decision that Greenwood did not have a leg to stand on.  He could apply to the court (subject to various exemptions) for orders to obtain from Kelvin the disclosure of Violet’s data, but he could not put Violet back in the witness box.  I asked if Violet would be allowed back in the public gallery, and received permission for her to continue watching the trial. 

            There is still some time left today, and so we are re-convening after lunch. 

*

Greenwood’s next witness is a prisoner called Darren Cartwright.  He looks well-nourished and healthy enough, apart from a rather appalling case of acne.  Greenwood starts questioning him about what he saw and heard of his fellow invaders being scalded in the concrete tank that Kelvin ordered to be built.  I interrupt, and read a pre-prepared statement which concedes all the factual  points that Greenwood has been trying to make and adds that they are not in dispute.  It includes everything about the poisoned food,  the drinks that had been adulterated with methanol, the booby-traps, and the cutting off of the water supply.   When I finish, Greenwood thanks me unconvincingly, and closes with a few questions to Cartwright about how he is being treated.  He says that the prison is boring but comfortable enough and the food is to his liking. 

            We are getting close to the point I have been dreading.  I just hope we have done enough preparation.  I hope Kelvin remembers my instructions and does as he has been told. 

*

Kelvin gives his evidence from the dock.

            Kelvin’s atheism re-opens the question of what he will swear on.  After dismissing all the religious books on the usher’s shelf, Kelvin asks if there are any secular titles.  The usher peers at each spine in turn.

            ‘There is just one,’ he reports, with resignation.

            ‘What is it?’ Kelvin asks.

            ‘It is a copy of Whitaker’s Almanac for the year 2125.’

            ‘That’ll do.’

            ‘What?’ Greenwood exclaims.  For once, I agree with him.

            ‘What did you say earlier, Professor Gonzales?’ Kelvin asks, addressing the bench.  ‘It has to be a book the contents of which you are broadly familiar with, in the truth of which you have a strong conviction, and whose principles you believe should be upheld.’

            ‘Yes, Dr Stark, I did say that.  Are you sure that Whitaker’s Almanac satisfies all those criteria in your case?’

            ‘I am certain of it.’

            ‘What principles does Whitaker’s Almanac set out?’

            ‘Democracy, for a start, and accountability.  It gives you the address of every member of parliament and holder of public office in the United Kingdom – in Mr Greenwood’s country.  I will swear on a book that attests to the accountability of Mr Greenwood’s employer.’  Gonzales and Lansakaranayake look doubtful, but they hold a brief conference which is inaudible to the rest of the court. 

            ‘Very well,’ indicates Gonzales to the usher, with deadly seriousness, ‘You may proceed with the taking of the oath.’

            ‘You are Kelvin Stark,” asserts Greenwood, after this (in his opinion) travesty has been played out. 

            ‘That is my name,’ confirms Kelvin, with a slight emphasis on the word name.  Oh, no.  The examination in chief is just starting, and he is already forgetting his lines.   Come on, Kelvin: pull yourself together.  

            ‘What office do you claim to occupy in the administration of this community?’  The question is obviously framed to be as offensive as possible without breaching the decorum of the courtroom.

            ‘The title of King was conferred upon me by the parliament which we refer to as the Assembly.  I attempted to abdicate from that position after the war was over.  This had been my stated intention when I accepted the title and the office of Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces.  That abdication was not accepted by the Assembly.  It therefore seems that I am still King.’  Kelvin speaks more quietly than he usually does.  He must remember some of what I told him.

            ‘You must have been very gratified to find that you were still regarded as King.’

            ‘No. In fact, it was a pain in the arse.’  A ripple of laughter moves round the courtroom.  Greenwood is annoyed to see that even some of the jurors he selected himself are laughing.  He glances expectantly at the judges, hoping that they will reprimand the accused for having used the word arse in court, but they say nothing.  I am wondering whether Greenwood knows that it was Judge Gonzales himself who suggested that Kelvin be King and not simply Commander-in-Chief.

            ‘I believe, Mr Stark, that…’

            ‘Doctor Stark.’  Greenwood pauses for a moment and looks at the ceiling, but he has not started gripping the table-top yet.  I suppose he is wondering how many of these blasted colonists have doctorates.

            ‘Dr Stark,’ he resumes, ‘I believe that, after this assembly, you affected the title of Field Marshal.’

            ‘If you really insist on putting it as offensively as that, then yes, I did.’

            ‘Did you have any previous military experience?’

            ‘None.’

            ‘Then how could you do it?’  With an air of wearied resignation, Kelvin picks up the copy of Whitaker’s Almanac that the usher has absent-mindedly left on the partition next to his chair, and turns to the page described in the index under Royal Family, Military Titles.

            ‘The King,’ he reads aloud, by which he means Henry IX.  ‘Lord High Admiral of the United Kingdom, Field Marshal, Marshal of the Royal Air Force. Admiral of the Fleet, Royal Australian Navy. Field Marshal, Australian Military Forces, Marshal of the Royal Australian Air Force.  Admiral of the Fleet, Royal New Zealand…’

            ‘Yes, yes, thank you, Dr Stark,’ Greenwood interrupts.  ‘What, precisely, is your point?’

            ‘Yes, I was wondering that,’ adds Gonzales, and so am I.  

            ‘It is the role of a leader to give his or her followers something to look up to and admire – something that inspires confidence.  If I was to give orders to soldiers, then clearly I had to outrank them, and the easiest way to ensure that was to take the rank of Field Marshal.’

            ‘But on what basis did you expect to give the orders?  I understand that some of the men you commanded had military experience, whereas you had none.’

            ‘Some of the women I commanded had military experience as well.  I accept that.  There were three reasons why I was in command and they were not.  Firstly, it was my idea for us to travel to this planet in the first place.  That, I felt, burdened me with a certain amount of responsibility.  Secondly, although I had no previous military experience, I did have considerable experience of fighting fascists and Nazis.  What we were up against was not just a military force: it was a political and psychological one, and in this I do claim to speak as an expert.  Lastly, I believed that the conflict  had the potential to last a long time and to involve the entire colony.  The economic and strategic implications of this are something else on which I claim to speak as an expert.  Adolf Hitler said precisely one thing with which I agree.’  Oh shit damn hell bugger.  This is not going well.  This is not what we rehearsed.

            ‘And what, may I ask, is that?’

            ‘People believe in that which is seen to be strongly believed by others.  For this reason, and because I believed in our eventual victory, I found it necessary and desirable to behave like a victor, even when we encountered set-backs.’

            ‘Set-backs?  Would you describe what happened to Major Downing and his men as a set-back?’

            ‘In military terms, yes.  In human terms, it was an appalling tragedy, and a waste of life.’

            ‘Would you have conducted this operation differently if you had had the chance?’

            ‘That is a hypothetical question and I do not propose to waste the court’s time by answering it.’  Greenwood puts down the paper he is holding and looks angry. 

            ‘Dr Stark, I am trying to give you the opportunity to show the court that you are a human being after all, and not the unbalanced despot whose character one infers from the accounts we have heard of recent activities on this planet.  This chance is one that you seem determined to throw away.’

            ‘Well let me reciprocate, Mr Greenwood, by offering you the chance to spell out what it is that I am supposed to have done which is so heinous.  I landed on this planet with the knowledge and permission of a civil, constitutional, democratic government.  My peaceful existence here and that of my fellow colonists was rudely interrupted by invaders who were trying to rape, kill, maim and torture us.  Some of those invaders were shot.  Some of them were poisoned.  Some of them were bayonetted.  Some of them were burned alive.  Some of them were drowned.  Some of these actions, I deeply regret to say, incurred collateral damage.  In other words, in order to prevent the loss of innocent civilian lives, I had to kill some innocent civilians.  I have never made a secret of that.  It makes me desperately sad, but not criminally culpable.

            ‘I am the King.  This is the most unexpected thing that has ever happened to me in my life, and I must admit that I still find it impossible to comprehend sometimes.  However, when I attempted to stand down, the people would not let me.  It was my application to the Alpha Project that got us all here, and I suppose some of them see me as a symbol of their hope for peace and security in the future. In spite of unfavourable odds, every major undertaking that this colony has embarked on has succeeded, and that makes me very proud.

            ‘If I am a King (which I am) then I belong to the least violent royal dynasty in the history of the human race.  Monarchy on this planet was constitutional from the outset.  My position was conferred upon me by a popular assembly – a point which it took the United Kingdom many centuries to reach.

            ‘If the worst thing that you can accuse me of is that I shot a known and dedicated fascist when he did not have his machine-gun in his hands, or that I ordered the sinking of a ship that killed some of my own people, then I challenge you to go to the rulers of any state back on your planet and insist that they govern in the same just and pacific way you seem to be espousing here.

            ‘The people of this planet, though they sincerely wish to remain on good terms with your government, are not subordinate to that government.  Even considering recent advances in technology, you are too far away for your wishes to be taken into account here on a daily basis, and your troops were absent when we were in our hour of need.  Your presence here now is wearisome, obstructive and superfluous.  We will go our own way and, though I cannot promise that we won’t make mistakes, we will attempt to learn from yours, of which there have been a great many.  I daresay the agents of your government committed more errors in one day of the First Battle of the Somme than I have in my entire time as Commander.

            ‘Do you have any more questions for me?  If you do, I beseech you to be as brief as possible.’        Kelvin stops speaking, and the public gallery breaks into loud applause.  Some of them are on their feet.

            The disturbance is only slightly shortened by the two Judges calling for order.  When order is finally restored, there is a pause in which nobody says anything, and then Judge Gonzales asks Greenwood if he has anything further.  I can see indecision in Greenwood’s face.  On one hand, he has succeeded sooner than he expected in getting Kelvin to stand on his dignity but, on the other, Kelvin seems to have endeared himself to most of those present.  Gonzales presses him and he reluctantly admits that he has finished.  The judges turn to me.

            ‘The defence rests, Your Honours.’  

            Now it is all up to the jury.

*

The jury has been deliberating for four days, and the foreman (one of the colonists) has asked for them to be released.  The jury is split, eight to four in favour of “not guilty”.   How the hell are we going to sort this out?  The only person who seems gratified by this situation is Greenwood.  

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The Companion: Part 54

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Edited by William Justin Thirsk-Gaskill, Wednesday, 31 Aug 2011, 00:37

Katya and Liliya have found the man who killed Rosalind, on I-13.  I have signalled to them to put him in a crate and bring him home, alive, with all speed.   I need to ask Kelvin if he can get me some acid - about two hundred litres.

            Horace will be born soon.  Kelvin is being supportive.  This may be his way of shielding himself from aspects of public life that he now finds unpleasant, but I don't mind.  He seems to be with us in mind as well as body.  We have nearly finished building a proper house, above ground.  I don't want my baby to be born in a bunker.  Kelvin has even painted the baby's room, with paint manufactured by a new concern that he and James Holt have started.   I asked him if it was non-toxic but he just rolled his eyes heavenward.  The colour scheme is in lots of stripes because Kelvin wanted to try out every colour they had come up with.  It looks insane but I am sure the baby will find it interesting.  He is now working on a wooden mobile, with stars, planets, comets, space rockets and aliens.  One of the aliens' faces reminds me of Prude.

*

Violet will soon give birth to our baby, who is still known as Horace.  Violet refuses to tell me what sex the child is, and I have not pressed her about this.  She assured me that the baby is healthy and, as she puts it, 'doesn't have two heads or eleven fingers'.   I wonder if Horace will be the first creature ever to be conceived in one solar system and born in another.  He (I call him 'he' for convenience) must surely be the first human child born of an android mother. 

            I hope Violet got the DNA right.  I don't care what he looks like, or how he grows up, but he'll be such a disappointment to Violet if he is weak, ugly or stupid.  Perhaps weakness or ugliness she could tolerate, but not stupidity. 

            We have had something of a disagreement about the birth.  She said that she wanted me to see the baby as soon immediately after he has been born, but she did not want me at the birth itself. 

            'Can't I help?' I asked.

            'I won't need any help. You can help by doing as I tell you.'

            'I thought labour was very traumatic and sometimes dangerous.'

            'Labour.  It's redundant.  There won't be any labour: just parturition and delivery, which I will oversee myself.'

            'Don't you think my being present at the birth will help to make the three of us feel closer together?'

            'Why the hell do you have to go all gooey every time I am trying to do something practical and scientific?  This is the conclusion of a ground-breaking research project: one which is, by the way, arguably one of the most significant events in modern human history, and I want to manage my experiment in my own way.  Can't you understand that?  Or is it now too long since you did any proper science for you to remember how it is done?'

            'In the first place, fuck you, and, in the second, I refuse to have my child referred to as merely the product of a scientific experiment.'

            'Well it is the product of a scientific experiment.  "I Married An Android" - remember?'

            'No, you're not an android.'

            'Yes, I am an android.'

            'You're a fucking android when it bloody well suits you.'

            'Yes, Kelvin, and so are you.'

            And then we both started crying.  She looked at me with the strangest mixture of venom and longing that I have ever seen.  I may be making this up, but I thought at that moment that I knew what she was silently trying to convey: remember that if it weren't for my own efforts, we would not be here together, and so I held my peace.  The tacit agreement is that I will be outside the room when the baby comes into the world, but I will be able to hear it cry and to see it and hold it immediately afterwards.  And I won't be able to sleep with Violet or see her naked until after she has repaired herself. 

*

I know that I swore I never would, but I have reluctantly decided to publish another edition of Royal Flush.  It would be silly not to:  people are clamouring for news about the royal baby.  It's a he, and he weighs ten pounds - what a pork-ball.  That's not a baby: it's an oven-ready turkey.  His name is an absolute hoot: Edgar Pascal Democritus Stark.  I can hardly get it out without cracking up. 

            I have to admit that the photo shoots (plural) have been a triumph.  The royal couple have been disgustingly good about the publicity.  And the baby is without doubt a little celeb in the making.  He chuckles and smiles in all the right places.  He does look adorable (as much as one with no teeth and who suffers from the combined effects of baldness, obesity and double-incontinence can do).  And, just as things are getting a bit boring and predictable, he pukes up, right in front of camera.  Marvellous.  I could not have trained him better myself.  There is nothing like a bit of well-aimed projectile vomiting to get people's attention.  I just hope he can sustain this for the next twenty-five years or so.  I hope the little chap isn't taking too much out of himself.

            I wonder what age he will hit puberty.

            The special issue is four shillings, by the way.  Yes, I know that is twice the cover price of the previous print-run, but this is a collector's edition.  I'd prefer it in silver, if you don't mind.  My girls will end up with shoulders like rugby league players if they have to carry all that copper around in their satchels.

*

I keep volunteering for geological expeditions to more and more remote parts of the planet, but still I can't help hearing news about Kelvin.  I just want to shut it all out, but even on this sparsely-populated world, there are still satellites and radios.  It is difficult to work in a professional manner and still escape the flow of information.  

            I hear that he has had a child.  I'm not much of a biologist - or an expert on androids - and so I still don't really grasp how this was possible.  How can it possibly be in the interests of the child to have a machine for a mother?  Is there any way back from this?  I can't see one.  Even if Kelvin came to his senses now, and annulled his so-called marriage to this thing he calls "Violet", what future would there be for us?  Would he expect me to look after the baby?  Would I be able to face the baby?  Even if I could, how would I feel about it later after we had had a child of our own: a proper child, with a human mother.  

            One of the articles I read said that she is going to breast-feed.  I suppose that just goes to show that you should not believe everything you read.  Is that possible?  How does it work?  What would it taste like?  Would it be like UHT?

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The Companion: Part 52

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The assembly met in the same place it had met before, on I-11.  The weather was better than last time.  There was a slightly increased attendance, including all the people who were watching via satellite.  Kelvin had ordered a plaque with all the names of the dead colonists on it.  He wanted it to be carved in stone, and this was being worked on, but all we had in the meantime was rolls of paper with the names written in pen.  I had uploaded the list.  It occupied about 17 kilobytes, uncompressed.  Kelvin is in the process of trying to memorise it.  He is about 20 per cent of the way through it, and finds that he can’t do much work on it without crying.  He is depressed.  His anger against the invaders, while the war was in progress, could be converted by his own efforts and the efforts of others, into relief, in the form of slaughter.  Now, it can’t.  There are still invaders on the planet, but they are protected by their own defeat and (as Kelvin would see it) the squeamishness of public opinion.

            Kelvin asked me to stay somewhere near the stage.  On the stage were Kelvin himself and Prude.  Prude was sitting on a stool, with the microphone in her hand, looking as if she were about to sing a song.  Kelvin was at the edge of the stage, pacing up-and-down with his hands behind his back.  Prude called the meeting to order.  It appeared as if a lot of people had not realised that Kelvin was there.  People began to gravitate towards the stage.  Some spontaneous cheering and clapping broke out, which Kelvin resolutely ignored.   He pressed on with his address, even though it should have been obvious that many people could not hear him.  

            ‘I said at the beginning of the recent struggle that I wanted you to invest me with the powers I needed to prosecute the war against the invader.  That war is now over.  I relinquish that power, and I resign as Commander-in-Chief.’

            ‘We need to take a vote on whether to accept your resignation,’  Prude said to Kelvin, off-mike, so that only a few people heard it.  It was then that I noticed that Professor Gonzales was standing at the front, near me and the steps of the stage. 

            ‘Do you have to have a vote?’ asked Kelvin, but Prude’s suggestion had already taken hold.  There was a delay while stewards were selected to do the counting.  Prude repeated the wording of the motion.

            ‘This assembly accepts the abdication of King Kelvin, without succession, and his resignation as Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, and withdraws from him all powers with which he was previously vested.’

            Somebody from the middle of the crowd proposed an amendment.  Kelvin wandered back to the side of the stage and looked at the sky.  He was mouthing something, which I could not lip-read because he was partly turned away from me.  I hope he was not reciting the periodic table: he does that at moments of extreme stress.  

            The gist of the amendment was that its proposer wanted two votes to be taken: one to accept Kelvin’s resignation as Commander-in-Chief, and a separate one to deal with his abdication as King.  A long debate then ensued, which most people found difficult to follow, because not all those who spoke had microphones.  The proposer of the amendment turned out to be Augustus Blandshott.  Soon it also became clear that he was not alone.  Mr Blandshott was beckoned to move nearer to the front, and his supporters prodded him forward.  The debate centred on him and Professor Gonzales.  Both of them walked up onto the stage and were given microphones.

            ‘But what would the King do if he were no longer in charge of the armed forces?’ the Professor asked.

            ‘He wouldn’t have to do anything.  He would just be there in case of another crisis.’

            ‘And what would be the point of that?’

            ‘What is the point of any constitutional monarchy?  When was the last time the King of England did anything that required the exercise of power?’

            ‘The King of England does all kinds of things – dissolving Parliament, and so forth.’

            ‘Yes, but all that stuff is purely ceremonial really.  We don’t go in for all that because we are a much smaller community and we lead much simpler lives.  What I am saying is supposed to be practical.  We were facing the worst crisis that most of us have ever faced in our lives, and Kelvin lead us out of it.  Now the crisis is over, and he can go back to doing whatever he was doing before, but we want him to be ready in case we need him again.’  Mr Blandshott stopped speaking.  After a moment, to his and Kelvin’s mutual embarrassment, there was a round of applause from the Assembly.

            Prude read out the motion again, incorporating the Blandshott changes, and the Assembly voted.  It took the stewards longer to count the ballot papers of those present than it did the computer system to count the votes of those who were voting electronically via the satellite link.

            The result of the first ballot, the motion to accept Kelvin’s resignation as Commander-in-Chief and divest him of his powers was: 40947 in favour, 4392 against, and 74 abstentions.  The result of the second ballot, whether to accept his abdication, was: 7043 in favour, 38313 against, and 9 abstentions.

            ‘You are still King, I am afraid, Kelvin,’ said Prude, when the result had been read out.  Kelvin was about to protest, and then seemed to realise that we had other business to get through, and he did not want to be there all day.

            The next item was a debate about what to do with the prisoners, which began with a very dry speech from Dr Condon-Douglas about their medical condition and state of nutrition.  They had recovered from the gastric problems which we had deliberately infected them with, but had since started to show symptoms of space flu.  A motion to give them the space flu vaccine was defeated.  A motion to massacre all of them was proposed by Kelvin but also defeated, as Kelvin expected it would be.  The discussion about what to do with them dragged on for hours, but only Professor Gonzales and a handful of other people seemed to have any appetite for it.  The upshot was that they would each be tried, with evidence being taken from my interrogation transcripts.  For each individual, one of three possible sentences would be given: imprisonment pending possible rehabilitation, life imprisonment, or death.  The death penalty would be reserved for those who had participated directly in violence against unarmed civilians.  People began to leave soon after this debate started.  Kelvin sat on a stool at the edge of the stage, saying nothing.  I suppose, as head of state and head of government, he could not go home while the Assembly was still in session, but he certainly looked as if he wanted to.  He was in normal clothes, not in uniform, and he seemed somehow smaller, more slouched and round-shouldered than I remembered him at the earlier assembly. 

            The next speaker was Professor Gonzales.

            ‘If Kelvin is still the King, then we need to discuss the succession.  I am lead to believe that Kelvin has recently got married, for which I congratulate him.  I move that the King’s spouse should be brought in front of the Assembly, so that she can be recognised, and accorded official status within the body of the state.’  To cut a long story short, this motion was voted-on and carried.  I climbed the stage in my capacity as wife of the King of Achird-gamma.  My appearance was greeted by complete silence, except from Kelvin.

            ‘Hello, Violet,’ he said, ‘Fancy meeting you here.’  And then he did the last thing I could have guessed he would do.  He slipped one hand behind my knees, and the other behind my shoulders, and he lifted me up in his arms.  Without needing to grit his teeth, he carried me up to the microphone and, stooping slightly to make sure it picked up his words, he said, ‘I carry this woman across the threshold of the State.  I, the King, commend to you, the People, the qualities of Violet Stark, and I urge you to accept Our issue as the heir to the throne.’  He glanced at me.  I started sampling his breath to see if he had been drinking, and then he put me down. 

            I glanced over to Prude.  I expected her just to announce a vote on what Kelvin had proposed, in that irritating, plummy voice of hers, but she had stood up from her stool, turned her back on the assembly, and appeared to be doing something with a handkerchief. 

            ‘What issue?’ asked a few people in the assembly.  Prude turned round.  She was still crying.

            ‘Yes.  What issue?’ she asked.  She still had the microphone in her hand, and spoke into it, but she was looking at Kelvin.  Kelvin spoke into his microphone.

            ‘Violet is pregnant with my child.  I am going to be a father.’ 

            ‘I thought Violet was an android,’ said Prude.

            ‘Violet is an android,’ I said, and Kelvin said, at the same moment.

            ‘Well how can an android possibly be pregnant?’

            ‘That’s none of your business,’ I said, and Kelvin said, again at the same moment.  We looked at each other, trying to decide who was going to be the spokesperson.  Kelvin decided it would be Kelvin.  He spoke deliberately into the microphone.

            ‘My wife is a human being.  I will thank you to treat my wife as a human being, and to accord to her the same dignity and courtesy that you would to any expectant mother.’  Kelvin wept.  I wept.  It was horrendous.  

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The Companion: Part 51

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Edited by William Justin Thirsk-Gaskill, Wednesday, 13 Apr 2011, 22:59

Another Assembly has been arranged, to take place in two weeks.   I will abdicate, relinquish the position of Commander-in-Chief, and the monarchy can be abolished.  If every-one sticks to the point, the whole thing should be over in about ten minutes.  

            Violet has been acting very strangely.  She has really started bothering me about building what she insists on calling “a house for normal people rather than troglodytes”.  She goes on about this for hours.  It is driving me to drink, which is something she seems increasingly to disapprove of.  Violet herself has virtually given up alcohol.  She has also started eating like a horse.  She has taken over one of the poly-tunnels on the farm, and is growing avocadoes, peppers and tomatoes.  Until they are mature enough to harvest, she is in communication with various farmers and merchants on I-3, and is importing them by the crate, at colossal expense.  She takes the avocadoes out of the box, one-by-one, and she cries if any of them are bruised.  She eats them with raw onions, tomato-bread, olive oil, yoghurt, herbs, and all the fish she can lay her hands on.  I have told her not to bother cooking my meals any more, because she has taken to over-cooking meat until it is like leather.  I have always preferred mine rare on the inside. 

            She says she has something she needs to tell me.  I am really worried.  I think I have been unsettled by the change of identity from Pamela to Violet.  I thought I had lost Violet.  Let me re-phrase that more accurately: I thought I had allowed myself to make the mistake of leaving Violet behind, and then Pamela turned into Violet, and I suppose I still cannot believe that I have been given another chance, even though I know that Violet is the real Violet. 

            I will not say that we could not have won the war without Violet, but I will say this: as soon as I heard her speaking to me, seemingly out of nowhere, for no apparent reason, I knew that it meant conflict, but I knew that we would win. 

*

            ‘Kelvin, there is something I need to tell you.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘It is something very important.  Are you listening?’

            ‘Yes.  What is it?’

            ‘Are you here?  Are you with me?  Where are you?’

            ‘I’m here, for fuck’s sake.  What is it?’

            ‘I’m pregnant.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘I’m pregnant.’

            ‘Do you mean that you are going to give birth to a baby?’

            ‘That is what being pregnant usually means, you idiot.  Bloody hell, you are hard work, sometimes.’

            ‘And to whom will the baby be genetically related?  Who is the baby’s mother?’

            ‘Me.’

            ‘And who is the baby’s father?’

            ‘Kelvin Stark.’

            ‘And so it is our baby.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘How is this possible?’

            ‘It is a long story, but it is happening.  Kelvin…’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘You are going to be a father.  Are you up to this?’

            ‘What?’

            ‘Being a father?’

            ‘No, probably not.’

            ‘I see.  And so what are we going to do?’

            ‘We will just have to do the best we can.’

            ‘That is not good enough.’

            ‘Well, what do you think we should do?’

            ‘I want you to wake up to your responsibilities.  I want you to think sensibly and act to prepare yourself for fatherhood.  I need your support.  I need you to face up to this.  Do you know how to do that?’

            ‘Of course.’

            ‘I don’t think you do.’

            ‘Why not?’

            ‘Because you never have in the past.’

            ‘Yes, I have.’

            ‘No, you haven’t.  You face up to boys’ things, like wars, and bayonet-charges, and running a brewery, and colonising new planets, but you are bloody useless at relationships, and communication, and being honest about your own feelings, and families, and children.  You are good at things that are transient and trivial and dangerous, and bad at things that are lasting and important and safe.’  She started poking me and slapping me.

            ‘Less of the domestic violence, please.  Ouch!  That bloody hurt.’

            ‘Poof.  Wuss.  Cissy.’

            ‘Violet, do you mind if I ask you a question?’

            ‘You just have done.’

            ‘Do you like me?’

            ‘No, I fucking hate you, you self-absorbed, dysfunctional, cowardly, useless little bastard.’

            ‘Well why do you stay with me?’

            ‘For two reasons.  First, I like to keep an eye on you.  Second, I like to be on hand to exploit any opportunity to watch you suffer.’

            ‘As a basis for a relationship, that seems to me to lack resilience and warmth.’

            ‘And what would you know about resilience and warmth?’  There was a long pause. 

            ‘How many weeks are you?’

            ‘Two.’

            ‘When did we conceive then?’

            ‘Back on earth.’

            ‘When?’

            ‘Do you remember the night I wore that white lingerie?’

            ‘The first time I saw you cry?’

            ‘Oh.  You noticed that.  I did not realise you had made that observation.’

            ‘Well, I did.’

            ‘Why didn’t you say something?  No – don’t bother to answer that.’

            ‘Why are you only two weeks pregnant if we conceived years ago?’

            ‘I froze the embryo.’

            ‘Where did you keep it?’

            ‘Inside me.’

            ‘Do you know if it is a boy or a girl?’

            ‘Yes, I am certain that it is either a boy or a girl.’

            ‘No, I mean which is it?’

            ‘We don’t know yet.  I’ll generate some sonograms later on.’

            ‘How is this possible?’

            ‘I did some research.  I invented an artificial uterus and a vascular system.  I have generated a genome for myself.’

            ‘And so the child will look like you?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Fantastic. Will it be as intelligent as you?’

            ‘That is much less certain.  I can only say that I hope so.’

            ‘The vascular system – did you menstruate a few times?’

            ‘Once, yes.’

            ‘That explains the tampons.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘I’ve still got them.’

            ‘What the hell for?’

            ‘I took them to remind me of you.’

            ‘Kelvin, I do wonder why you didn’t take me to remind you of me.’

            ‘What are we going to call it?’

            ‘I have not made up my mind yet.  At the moment, I call him or her Horace.’

            ‘I like that.  Horace.’

*

After I got back from my last geological survey, on C-2, I went back to I-11 and paid a visit to Kelvin’s estate.  He lives in the nuttiest house you have ever seen.  There is a little building, big enough for about two rooms, behind a huge gun emplacement.  It is on an island in the middle of a river.  You have to get across on a boat.  I had been fore-warned about this in the village, and rowed across the river on a coracle which I borrowed from the place where I was staying.   I walked most of the distance, with the coracle on my back, and then rowed across. 

            I had butterflies in my stomach for most of the journey.  I could not stop thinking about Kelvin.  There was so much I wanted to talk to him about.  I had been rehearsing conversations for weeks.  I had been trying to anticipate every possible thing he could say as a reply.  In my imagination, I kept asking him if he loved me. 

            By the time I got to the jetty on Kelvin’s island, I was shaking all over.  I walked up the steps, and peered over the parapet.  Kelvin and what I took to be a woman were standing about a hundred metres away.  They were looking at the ground and pointing, as if discussing an extension to the house.  They seemed too deeply absorbed to notice me.  I watched them for a few minutes.  When they had finished gesticulating, they moved towards each other, and seemed to be talking more confidentially.  And then they kissed.  I don’t mean a quick peck on the cheek.  I mean a huge snog with tongues and, when you finally come up for air, finding you have got one of the other person’s fillings in your mouth.  I felt sick.  I could not get a very good view of the other person, and then I realised who it was.  It was Violet.  Kelvin was kissing an android.  He didn’t just kiss her, either.  When they had finished licking the back of each other’s throats, they nuzzled and cuddled each other.  It was nauseating.  It was all I could do not to throw up.  I dropped back below the parapet, crept back down the steps, got back into my coracle, and rowed silently off down-stream.  When I got back to the village, I just went up to my room, and sat on my bed until it got dark.  I didn’t go down for dinner.  I just went to sleep.

            Oh, god, I hope they don’t ask me to be the Speaker at the Assembly.  I don’t think I could stand on a stage with Kelvin now.  I don’t know what I am going to do.

*

If I can stop crying for a few minutes, I am about to start putting together another edition of Royal Flush.  This edition will be the last.  I had thought it would come to an end when my Earth-manufactured printer broke down, or I ran out of ink, but in fact I am about to run out of things to say.  The paper’s newsworthiness comes from the excitement the female  readership – bless them all – gets from speculation about the King’s future marriage prospects, and he has just announced that he has got married.  Not engaged, you understand, but married.  I will never forgive him for this – never.  I know that he never considered Royal Flush to be a respectable periodical, but he was at least polite to me when I used to ask him for interviews.  He never just cut me off.  But this – this is a calculated insult.

            There was no pomp and circumstance; no doves; no cathedral; no organ music; no page boys or bridesmaids.  No cheering crowds; no hats in the air.  There was a dress, I am told.  I have seen a picture of it, and it looks like something that would have been worn at the wedding of the Princess of Frumpland to the Prince of Chavaria.

            I hope it all goes wrong.  I wish him an eternity of rows, thrown crockery, infidelity, and stillborn babies.  I hate him.  I hate him.  I hate him. 

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The Companion: Part 50

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We counted the casualties.  We had 138 dead and 249 wounded.  The enemy had 407 dead and virtually all the rest sick or wounded, not including those who had fled the battlefield (many of whom would be among the sick) and those whose bodies had been pulverised during the bombardment of Hardboard City.

            We let Hardboard City burn out, after the wind had dispersed the chlorine gas, and the following morning we searched through the debris.  The only thing of note we found, in a patch of ashen remains including a number of fire-corroded tools and pieces of metalworking equipment, was a piece of what appears to be work-in-progress wrought iron.  It was quite heavy, with two parallel curved rails of quarter-inch iron rod, with letters cut out of iron plate and welded on.  The letters showed the legend, “WIRK MEKS”.  We also found a loose letter F among the ruins.  The members of the set of squads which was searching the ruins contained a few linguists and scholars of English, who gravitated towards this exhibit.  They speculated wildly on what the legend might mean, but it is quite plain to me: the smith who made it just could not spell.  I have decided to keep it, but I have not decided what will be done with it. 

            We took about 1500 prisoners.  We are still processing them.  We have not discovered much so far that can be relied on, but we do know what happened to the burns victims who came out of “The Kettle”: their leader (who is called Spalding) left them in Hardboard City and they were blown to bits during the bombardment. 

            Accommodating these prisoners is not easy.  I did consider issuing the order to massacre all of them, but it was so obvious to me that this would be rejected that I kept my peace.  They are now being kept in two large pits lined with duckboards, one containing the sick and wounded, and the other containing the very sick.  Twice a day, they file out up a ramp, and are held at gunpoint while the inside of each pit is sprayed with bleach.  The stench of chlorine is evocative of the recent battle.  They get soup and bread at 08:00,  13:00 and 18:00, and water at 10:00, 15:00 and 20:00.  We have given them each a blanket, which I have told them will have to last them a week before it is changed, and we cover the pits with canvas at night.

            I have put Violet in charge of cataloguing and interrogating the prisoners. 

            Some of the army has already started to demobilise, but there is still work to be done in mopping-up around Hardboard City and on I-2 and I-13.  A detachment of Gurkhas has been sent to both the other islands.  The remaining regulars are still on I-3, and are being split between the mopping-up and looking after the prisoners. 

            There will be another meeting of the Assembly when the war is finally over, which I hope will be within three months at the very outside.

*

One of the Butterflies (a heavily re-modelled Cindy with a savage haircut) came back with the skin on her face and her arm cut down to the carbon-fibre frame.  I think it was due to shrapnel from a rocket-propelled grenade.  I managed to conceal the damage with bandages before any-one on our side had seen it.  It would not have been the end of the world if people had found out she was an android, but it suited me to keep it secret a bit longer. 

            I have sent the remodelled Kyla (Katya) and Layla (Liliya) to accompany each of the Gurkha detachments who are going to the previously-occupied islands.  I have given both of them the image of the man who killed Rosalind. 

            I am staying here to finish processing the prisoners.  I am singularly well-suited to do it, because they can throw up and piss and shit themselves as many times as they like, but I don’t get infected.  I can also scan their insides with ultrasound to find out how much up-chuck they have the potential to spew.

            If the prisoner has severe sickness and diarrhoea, I strip him, chuck his clothes in the incinerator, and stand him on a thing that looks like a cattle grid which is over a pit full of quicklime.  I photograph him and interrogate him from there.  Most of them have been co-operative up to now, but I have not processed the leaders yet.  They are being held separately and are under physical restraint to prevent them from harming themselves.  They have all been searched, very thoroughly.  I need to build up more of a general intelligence picture before I start on the ones who are likely to lie the most. 

            I have moved Horace out of his little fridge, and he is now implanted in my uterus and gestating.  I have not yet decided when to tell Kelvin that he is going to be a father. 

*

I had to take a very long route back to headquarters after being sent back by Colonel Gurung with a report for His Majesty.  This was because of a number of enemy soldiers who were leaving the battle area in small groups.  By the time I did get back, I found that the order to advance had already been given, and so I chased after the advancing line.  By the time I re-joined them, it was almost over.  I was very upset at first, but then I discovered what His Majesty might call “an isolated pocket of resistance”, and I killed two enemy men, one with my rifle and one with my kukri. 

            I was very happy to be once again in the vicinity of His Majesty, who seemed tired after the battle, but in complete good health.    I wish I had been with him when he ordered the advance.  Perhaps there will be other engagements.

*

I have just heard that the fighting on I-3 is over, and Kelvin has come through it alive.  I can’t wait to see him again.  Thank goodness all this horrible violence is nearly over.  I just want life to get back to normal.  I want to tell Kelvin how I feel about him.  I think he and I should go away somewhere together, and be on our own for a while.  I know he is difficult to communicate with, but I am sure I can get through to him this time.  Long walks, meals eaten when ravenous, drinks drunk when parched, a tent, a starry sky, no distractions – these are the things we need.  

*

I have just heard that the battle is over, and Kelvin is unscathed.  I had hoped for a little flesh-wound or something, possibly with a tiny scar on his forehead.  That would have made a fantastic spread of pictures.  Nothing life-threatening or disfiguring – god forbid – but just enough to need bandages and possibly two or three stitches.  Anyway, he is alive and that is just what we need.  I will try to get another interview with him straight away.  I hear they are in the process of closing down the army, but I want to get a few more shots of him in uniform.  Circulation has never been higher.  The upsurge must be because of the war, of course.  I must find out what he is planning to do next, and try to make it sound as mysterious and as exciting as possible. 

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The Companion: Part 42

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I had all the crew on the bridge arrested once we had got everybody on board the other vessels in the convoy.  I interrogated them, but they told me nothing about what had caused the malfunction.  I was sure that there had been an act of sabotage, but I could not work out who had carried it out.  There were eight crew-members, and I ordered one of them to be hanged. 

            I have lost four tanks and a helicopter, plus a lot of other material, including food, fuel and ammunition.  I have issued an ordinance saying that any man caught firing off ammunition without an explicit order or justifiable cause to do so will be flogged. 

            I think the main problem will be shells for the remaining tank gun.  There had been space in the large vessel for all the tanks and helicopters, but I decided to divide them between vessels, as a precaution.  My decision to do this has been vindicated.  That is further proof that I have been chosen by Providence.  I cannot at the moment see what the solution to the shortage of shells is, but I am certain that I will find one. 

            We picked up nearly all the prisoners.  I did not issue any special order to save them but, inexplicably, all cabin doors came unlocked, and there was an announcement over the ship’s public address system to say that the ship was sinking and passengers should take to the  life-boats.  A few of them tried to row away to freedom, but we caught up with them. 

            One of the things I had to leave behind when I left the ship was the manuscript of my book on racial politics.  I will have to dictate it to Brunton all over again.  It was 800 pages long.

            This is a set-back, but I will still succeed in conquering this planet.  The Spirit of National Socialism will prevail. 

*

I am Kelvin Stark’s rifle.  I am a Lee Enfield No 4 Mk I.  I was made in 1947 at a Royal Ordnance factory at Maltby in Yorkshire.  Kelvin has told his soldiers that all the rifles they have been issued with were used in World War Two, but that is just propaganda.  I was first used in real fighting during the Malayan Emergency in the late 1940s and 1950s.  When that was over, I was moved back to England, and used for training conscripts who were doing their national service.  After that, I was packed in a crate in rifle grease and put into storage somewhere.  

            I was eventually woken by Kelvin.  He scraped all the solidified grease off me with the blade of a penknife, stripped me down, cleaned me, lubricated me, and put me back together.  He adores me.  He keeps me constantly within reach.  He has a special name for me, but I’m not telling you what it is.  It is our secret. 

            Kelvin is a very good marksman.  I admire him for his concentration.  When he takes aim, he is not thinking about whether he might be in danger, or what he is going to eat for his dinner, or sex, or whether his cause is just: all he thinks about is the target.  I love the way he squeezes my trigger.  He is very gentle, and he has very strong fingers. 

*

I am preparing to depart for I-3, to lead my army into battle.  Today I made a last inspection of the industrial war effort.  I had a look round some factories near Carbonapolis which have become known as “Chemical Alley”.  I saw two things which touched me to the point of tears.

            I went to the factory on my own, and unannounced.  That is the only way that you can really see what is going on.   I was looking at a big, cast-iron digester in a dye-works.  I noticed that it had an improvised blue plaque on it, which bore the following words:  This vessel was used to make the dye for the uniform of King Kelvin the First, enthroned by resolution of the Assembly of Achird-gamma, Commander-in-Chief of Colonial Forces and Field Marshal of the Army.  2143 CE, 3rd year of the colonisation

            I was creeping about, trying to make as little impression as possible, because I did not want people to stop working.  By peeping from behind a row of fume-cupboards, I managed to observe a young man in dye-stained overalls at work without letting him know that he was being watched.  I saw him adding reagents to a large vessel, mixing them, setting the thermostat and starting the stirrer, and making sure the effluents were being extracted correctly.  The man then took his gloves, boots, lab-coat and apron off, made up a small camp bed, with a pillow and a blanket, set his alarm clock for when the process would be complete, and lay down to sleep in the middle of the factory floor.  Nothing else that I have seen has convinced me more of our ultimate victory.

*

This morning I was called to a meeting with the King, Le Roi.  I had no idea what he wanted with me.  What he said was astonishing, but most welcome.  He described his vision of the final confrontation with the enemy.  He told me that he wants cultural diversity to be present at the battle, and to be part of our force.  He said he wanted a wall of noise.  This is not ceremonial: it has a military purpose, which is to strike fear into the enemy. 

            I am now Lieutenant Bourdelle, with a uniform and a rifle.  I wish my father could see me.  I must set to work on my task at once. 

*

Kelvin is getting ready to leave with the army.  He is leaving me in charge of the government.  He said I was the most popular member of the cabinet, which was nice, I suppose.  I hope Violet is going with him.  She hates me, and she gives me the creeps.  Kelvin’s relationship with Violet is the only thing that I don’t like about him.  If I allow myself to dwell on the idea of him having sex with an android, it makes me feel queasy, and so I try not to think about it.  I want to get back with him.  He can’t seriously be having a relationship with that thing.  He must want a relationship with a real, human woman, surely.  I know he is a bit strange, but he’s not a weirdo. 

            Oh, god, I hope he doesn’t get killed.  You can see that he is not taking this conflict seriously.  He is convinced that he is indestructible.  He thinks he is like James Bond.  He thinks that everything that happens on this planet is his story, and therefore, he can’t be killed by anything, because if his life ended, there would be no story.  He’s mad.  I think he has always been like that, but it has got worse since the epidemic.  He thinks that the fact that he had natural immunity to the disease, and the development of the vaccine from his antibodies is some sort of sign that our destiny rests on him.  He won’t admit this, but I am sure it is what he believes.  I hate the very idea of “destiny”.  Stuff happens, that is all.  It doesn’t mean anything.  It isn’t a narrative.  It’s just stuff.  Sometimes people insist on seeing patterns in it, but they aren’t there.  I wish we could just all get on with our lives and stop all this army nonsense.  It is so primitive. 

            If Kelvin does come back alive, I am going to tell him how I feel about him. 

            I have just had another thought.  What if he gets paralysed or brain damaged?  I know what is going to happen.  He will end up with a bullet lodged in his brain or his spinal column, and he will need constant care for the rest of his life as a dribbling imbecile.  

            I’ll hold off on telling him I feel about him until I have assessed what condition he is in.

*

My name is Brian McCann.  I’m a sergeant, and I still think of myself as a sergeant, even though in this army I have been promoted to captain.  Kelvin wants to promote me to colonel, which just doesn’t seem right to me.  His reasoning is that he wants to put me in charge of a regiment (which is our largest unit – we don’t have enough men for divisions). 

            We have a lot of problems.  We have plenty of rifles, and plenty of ammo for them, but we are desperately short of machine-guns and other support weapons.  Holt is working on a kind of Stokes mortar at the moment.  Intelligence suggests that we are going to have to fight tanks and helicopters.  We have no air cover, no anti-aircraft guns, and no anti-tank guns.  Holt, Stark and I had a serious talk about this.  The only gun we have got which can damage a tank is our 10-kilogram field gun.  Holt is working on an armour-penetrating round for this gun.  We are going to mount them on the back of pick-up trucks, to make a primitive kind of tank-destroyer.  Each of these will be instantly knocked out if it gets hit, but they will be very manoeuvrable and, I hope, there will be enough of them for us to outnumber the enemy. 

            The main thing in our favour is the amount of time that the soldiers have spent in training.  Kelvin is a genius for having started the training so long ago, while we were still on The Irish Rover.  The men (and women) aren’t soldiers, because they have had no combat experience, but they can shoot straight, they know how to follow orders, and most of them are reasonably fit. 

            The biggest problem of all is the officers.  Apart from the Gurkhas, who are being kept together as a single unit, any-one with previous military experience has been promoted to Lieutenant or higher, and put in charge of, at least, a platoon.  The superior ones among the raw recruits have been made Lance Corporal or Corporal, and put in charge of sections.  They will probably be all right.  But the ones I am worried about are the inexperienced officers.  I predict a lot of promotions and demotions once we find out what’s what.  Kelvin thinks we can win this war with one big pitch battle.  That is the only really silly thing I have heard him say. 

*

Ben Stewart’s platoon and the girls and I are now established in a set of cosy billets on I-2, near Hardboard City.  We are concealed inside a pine plantation, partly dug-in and camouflaged from the air. 

            I have brought some of my equipment, but I can’t do much research here.  It is time to put to use what I have already come up with.  I have my box of pathogens and toxins, some chemistry apparatus and reagents, a theatre for operating on androids and humans, and a decent optical microscope.  I have had to leave everything else, including my electron microscope, at home. 

            Kelvin is nearby.  He is with the infantry.  They have been digging anti-tank ditches around the perimeter of Hardboard City.  Kelvin’s favourite word at the moment is canalise.  It means to force an enemy attack onto a narrow front in such a way that it can be counter-attacked from the sides.  They are deliberately leaving gaps at certain points between the ditches, to encourage the enemy to attack at those points. 

            The operations centred on Hardboard City will be in a number of stages, and my work will mainly be the first.  I have to convince the enemy, at least for a while, that this wooden town whose tallest structure has three stories is indeed a town, and not a killing zone.  I am allowed to inflict damage on the enemy while I am doing this, but it is only allowed to be in ways that they will not notice straight away, or which have a seemingly innocent explanation.  

            Anna’s ladies will be in the vanguard, but I have a company (three platoons) from the Women’s Regiment and another company from the I-3 Regiment to draw on as well.  That gives me almost a hundred people to use as the “population”.   The story is that the town is new, which is why there is hardly anybody there.  It was built to enable the exploitation of a new goldmine, which is going to be dug nearby.  The gold “ore” is powdered gold bullion which has been fired into the ground with a shotgun.  It is an idea that Kelvin got from an ancient episode of a black and white American serial called Champion the Wonder Horse.  

            I keep looking up where the convoy is.  They are proceeding at a very uniform speed, and are expected to make landfall in three days.  

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The Companion: Part 32 - REFERENCES TO SEXUAL VIOLENCE

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Edited by William Justin Thirsk-Gaskill, Monday, 10 Jan 2011, 20:05

My name is Captain Paul Brunton.  I work for Richard Spalding.  He is my Leader.  He is Wolf.   I am commander of his personal bodyguard and his tactical advisor.  I am also an officer in the Racial Guardians.  I have been appointed by Wolf to join him on his special mission.  This is a very great honour, and one that I intend to discharge to the utmost limit of my ability.

            I have a degree in English Literature from Exeter University.  Wolf  has requested me to act as his personal secretary on the voyage to Achird-gamma, and to assist him in writing his great work on racial politics.  Only once in a millennium does a truly seminal work appear, one which propels civilisation in a new direction.  To participate in the creation of such a work is surely a great calling.

            Wolf has instructed us concerning what he expects on the mission.  He has a truly radical vision for the future of the new world. 

            Once we have achieved victory in war over the degenerate colonists, we will examine each individual thoroughly, and allocate each to a racial category.  Those who are racially inferior will be sterilised, and used as slave labour.  Those of Nordic or kindred blood will undergo thorough political indoctrination.  Women of Nordic or kindred blood will be used for breeding.  Members of the other expedition will be eligible to breed if they are of Nordic or kindred blood and demonstrate that they have become imbued with the Spirit of National Socialism.  First choice of women will be given to members of the Racial Guardians.  How many women each man gets will depend on what we find when we get there, and how much of the population survives the war. 

            Wolf’s instructions about his strategy for the war and after the war are very clear.  He wants as few casualties as possible during the subjugation of the other expedition.  This is not out of any concern other than for the size of the labour pool and the breeding pool.  That apart, Wolf says that we will inflict as much harshcdz treatment as possible on the degenerates.  Many of them will be confined to camps and made to work.  Systematic rape will be used as a terror-tactic.  They will need to be taught a very stern lesson that we are superior to them in every way.  Their political and religious leaders will be put on trial and then executed.  We will use torture to interrogate prisoners and also routinely and arbitrarily as a terror-tactic.  We will succeed where Hitler failed: we will build a new world order based on an expanding population of Aryan warrior-farmers who take and guard their own living-space. 

*

My name is Timothy Gonzales.  Back on Earth, I was a Professor of Modern History and Political Science at Mona University in Jamaica.  At the moment, I am making a living mostly by teaching Spanish, but I hope to be busier again in the future.  I am a member of the very informal council which is the nearest thing that this community has to a government.  Doctor Stark is also a member.  People sometimes ask me what I think of Doctor Stark.  That is quite a delicate question, but I will try to answer it as best I can.

            I am virtually certain that Kelvin Stark does not yet realise the magnitude and complexity of what he is letting himself in for.  This mission began as one of the fruits of his fevered imagination.  It is on his initiative that we are all here.  Most of the prospective colonists seem to have a childlike faith in Stark’s ability to master any situation that we may face.  This is in some ways surprising, considering the average level of educational attainment among us.  I have a feeling that people will eventually realise that Stark is a man, just like any other, but, before they do, I think they will try to elevate him as high as they can.  I cannot see that Stark will lift a finger to prevent this, and he may even encourage it.

            The main thing that concerns me about the man is his morals.  He wants to be a public figure; he wants the fame, the influence, the power, the wealth, but he does not realise that, the more famous a man becomes, the more of his freedom he has to sacrifice.  If he has political ambitions (and Stark definitely does have political ambitions) then he must live as if he has no privacy at all: he must live as if some-one is watching his every move, even when he is bed, even when he is in the bathroom.  Stark does not realise this.  I hope, when he eventually discovers it, it is in circumstances that do not destroy him. 

            At least he is educated and fairly intelligent.  The same cannot be said of many leaders from history.

*

I have so many things to think about, sometimes I think my brain is going to overheat.  It is still some way off, but I find myself dwelling more and more on the prospect of our landing on Achird-gamma.  I find it increasingly difficult to face it coldly and rationally.  Half the time, I am convinced that we are all going to die horribly.  The rest of the time, I just can’t wait for us to get there, and to start building the new colony. 

             I use work to absorb myself.  I run my businesses.  I manage my staff.  I participate in the running of the ship.  I design factories and industrial plant, which will be built after we land.  I study the gazetteer of Achird-gamma, and try to commit as much of it as possible to memory.  I read.  And I talk to Pamela. 

            Pamela and I are having the kind of relationship in which we only see each other at the end of the working day.  We live mostly in my cabin, which is slightly larger than Pamela’s.  We don’t sleep together every night, but we do most nights.  Sometimes, a work-related matter brings us into contact during the day, which is a very strange feeling.  We have a strict rule that we don’t allow ourselves to be distracted by physical affection or sex while we are supposed to be working. 

            I have to go into the sick bay soon for surgery.  I don’t want to talk about what it is for.  It is a damned nuisance, given my current workload, but it can’t be helped.  Pamela offered to delegate the running of her businesses so that she will have time to look after me while I recuperate.  I told her that she did not have to do that, but she insisted, and I am grateful for the offer.  I am falling in love with her.  She cares about me.  I know we don’t spend much time together now but, when we do, she looks after me. 

*

I was called before one of these committees that Kelvin sits on the other day, to talk about water resources on Achird-gamma (about which we have hardly any data).  I was sitting there, listening to and answering the committee’s questions, and I was looking at Kelvin.  ‘Shit,’ I thought.  ‘Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.’  I realised that I still love him.  Whatever was going on with him before, I presume he must be over it, because otherwise he would not be with Pamela.  I can’t believe he really loves her. 

            What the hell am I going to do?  You can hardly even get drunk on this ship without seeing a bottle that has Kelvin’s name on it. 

*

It has taken a very elaborate deception in order to get Kelvin to the point where I can make the enhancements to him.  I have built a new simulacrum called Mr Chakrabarty, who is a surgeon and professor of neurology.  Pamela started giving Kelvin drugs to give him blinding headaches (something which he has hardly ever suffered in his life).  A bit of deception via the ship’s intranet prompted Kelvin to go for a series of consultations with Mr Chakrabarty in a part of the ship which is not the real sick bay, and then go for what he thought was an MRI scan in what was in fact a small cargo bay.  The computer-generated image that I had prepared earlier showed that he had some growths in his head.  Mr Chakrabarty told him that the full extent of the surgery would not be known until after it had begun.  He offered Kelvin a consent form, which Kelvin read and correctly understood to mean that anything might happen, short of decapitation.  He signed it.  He had swallowed the deception with the fake doctor and the MRI scan, and he is a risk-taker.  

            The theatre nurses and anaesthetist were a few of Anna’s ladies, heavily disguised.  The operating theatre was in the same bay that had previously housed the fake MRI machine.  Once Kelvin was under the anaesthetic, Mr Chakrabarty went into a dormant state, and the surgery was carried out by Pamela.  

            It took a long time, but appears to have been a complete success.  As well as the implants in his aural and optic nerves, I have also put fifteen small devices in his body: three along his spine, and three along each limb.  This will mean that, when he is within range, I will be able to tell not just where he is, but in what position, and whether he is moving.  No more clandestine shagging for Kelvin.

            It is forty-eight hours since the operation, and Kelvin is now recuperating in his own cabin, looked after by Pamela.  He should be back on his feet in a couple of days, and back at work a few days after that.  

            The biopsy on the growths will show that they were completely benign.

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The Companion: Part 17

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Edited by William Justin Thirsk-Gaskill, Friday, 10 Dec 2010, 17:35

Mmm.  Nice and warm in here.  Sleep?  No, not sleepy.  Whoa.  What’s happening?  What’s happening?  Being lifted up.  Where am I going?  A bit scared.  This is a long journey.  Where are we going?  I can smell a big pool of water.  Mm.  Nice, clean water.

            Aah, grass.  Eat first?   No, run round first.  Run, run, run, run, run, run.  Nothing chasing me, but just feel like a bit of exercise.  Now eat.  Mm.  This grass is sweet.  Pffft.  Yuck.  That has a bit of twig in it.  Mm.  This is better.  Nice and juicy.  Can I have a carrot?  I said can I have a carrot?  A carrot.  Yes, a carrot.  All I am trying to tell you is that I want a carrot.  Is that too much to ask?  Oh, this is frustrating.  What’s this?  Lettuce?  Ah, Little Gem, and a heck of a lot fresher than it was last time.  Couldn’t we have dried it after washing as well?  What else is coming?  What on earth is that?  Something in round slices.  Spongy.   Green skin round the edge.  Mm.  A bit tasteless, but not unpleasant.  Where is the carrot?  Ah, at last.  That wasn’t so difficult, was it? 

            Yes, I will let you stroke me, as long as you do it gently.  Gently, I said.  Mmm.  A bit lower.  No, higher.  Yes, just there.  Will you kindly stop playing with my ears?  

            Are there any nice, strong bucks round here?  I seem to have been alone for a long time.  It is comfortable here; the food is good, and hardly anything scary happens, but there’s no action.  It is even duller than the last place I lived, most of the time.  

*

My name is Patrick Fitzgerald.  My friends call me Paddy.  When I am sitting in court, of course, I am referred to as “My Lord”, or “Mister Justice Fitzgerald”, since the ship is governed by the law and customs of England and Wales (on which those of my native Australia are also based).  When the administration of the ship was being set up, just before we embarked on our journey, I was nominally granted the same status as a High Court Judge.  Now we are, so to speak, on our own, I suppose I am the most senior legal figure in this community of fifty-thousand souls.  Sooner or later, we are going to have to work out a new constitution, but I am not pushing it on any-one.  What we are doing at the moment works perfectly well.  A constitution in a democratic state to me is like poetry: try to foist it on people and you destroy the whole point of it.  To work properly, it has to be rooted as deeply as possible in the will of the People (assuming that the People can agree on what that is).  

            This ship is the most active and cohesive community I have ever seen.  In some ways, it is the nearest thing to utopia that I would ever desire to get close to.  Nobody begs.  Nobody scrounges.  Nobody sits there and does nothing.  Nobody is hopeless, or broken, or defeated.  Nobody has dropped out, or is trying to wreck the progress of normal life.  We also have a much greater sense of purpose than most human beings ever experience.  Our big objective is to arrive safely at our destination, after which we get down to the real work of founding a new colony.  In the meantime, the crew have to keep the ship running smoothly (to which I would say my own occupation is an adjunct).  The passengers have to stop themselves from going mad with boredom.  Both sets of people are doing a thoroughly good job.

            There certainly is some crime on this ship, and even occasional outbreaks of disorder.  The people here are human beings, just like on Earth, except that they sometimes get giddier and edgier because they are living in such an artificial environment.  They drink alcohol.  They smoke weed.  Some of them chew khat.  So far, I have seen no evidence of heroin or cocaine, but it is probably only a matter of time.  I have seen no evidence either of organised prostitution, but I would be staggered if some-one could prove to me that it were not taking place, here, now, on the ship.  I might even be able to guess who is running it, but it would be most injudicious of me to name any names without evidence.  

            We have an ordinance in place which says that nobody is allowed to give birth before we reach our destination.  The more I think about it, the less I can understand why that was decided.  I would also be interested to hear what sanction we might take against any offender (and if anybody so much as mentions compulsory termination, I’ll have him ejected from the room).  I suppose it was to save the designers of our vessel the problem of having to cater for a growth in population.  You can bet that the population will grow once we disembark: that is the whole point of the exercise.  

            I wonder how long it will be before the new world ends up like the old one, with people begging for money in railway stations, and raiding their kids’ piggy-banks to buy drugs.  Everybody is self-funding here.  Everybody works; every job is valuable, and everybody gets paid a reasonable income. We have our own currency, which is intended to form the basis of what we will use in the new colony.  I am not sure who invented it.  It is based on coins rather than notes, and they have genuine noble metal in them.  We have a copper coin, called a penny; a silver coin, called a shilling, and a gold coin, called a sovereign.  Ten pence equals one shilling, and ten shillings equals one sovereign.  A sovereign is also called a pound.  We have machinery for striking more coins, and we have more bullion to make them with.  Both, of course, are kept strictly under lock and key.  Decisions to do with things like the money supply are made by an informal ship’s council, which includes the Captain and four senior members of the crew, plus five members who are elected by the passengers.  These currently include Kelvin Stark, Prudence Tadlow, an English lawyer called John Mallard, a Jamaican academic called Professor Timothy Gonzales, and a Scottish business tycoon called Kerr McLean.  I myself have the honorary position of Chairman, but I only vote if there is a tie.

            I must get back to work now.  I have to read some depositions and pleadings relating to a disturbance which took place at a Hallowe’en party a few days ago.  Kelvin Stark was present, though I am delighted to acknowledge for the sake of his reputation that he was a victim and not a perpetrator.  I notice that all the defendants in the case are female.  Counsellor Johnson is prosecuting.  I hope she gets some-one to sit in with her, because a bunch of women displaying their alcohol-fuelled lubricity and propensity to violence in public is not really her area of expertise.  John Mallard is defending.  He is a bit theatrical for my liking, but an honest and competent lawyer for all that.  I bet the public gallery will be packed, especially if Dr Stark is called as a witness.  

*

I have been charged with causing an affray and criminal damage at the Hallowe’en party.  I don’t care.  I would stamp on that bitch’s camera again if I needed to.  Somebody called Mallard is defending me.  I am told he is quite good.  He certainly charges enough.

            Back on Earth, Kelvin would have been fully liable for any charge brought against me.  It is a new experience for me to be granted full equality before the law with a human being.  

*

I have been charged with causing an affray at the Hallowe’en party.  What an absurd nuisance.  I don’t care.  I hate what that awful Vallance woman was trying to do to Kelvin.  It was so vulgar and tasteless, to say nothing of intimidating and intrusive.  I have been recommended by my lawyer to run a combined defence with the other woman who intervened.  This gave me a bit of a funny feeling, because – of all people – she happens to be the one who I made the complaint about because she was following me.  She was fine with me when we were talking to the lawyer.  There was no awkwardness at all.  She said she did not bear any grudge against me for the complaint, and that she might have done the same in my position.  The only thing I could not get out of her was why she had been following me.  I decided it was best to just let it pass.  

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The Companion: Part 15

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Edited by William Justin Thirsk-Gaskill, Tuesday, 7 Dec 2010, 23:26

My name is Cerise Vallance, and I am in a bad mood at the moment.  I have just had to ditch the name of my online publication.  I had called it My Lips Are Sealed, and I got some-one to do quite a stylish graphic of a Cupid’s bow mouth with a finger raised in front of it.  You know – as if saying ‘Shhh!’  The intention was to associate the product with the idea of secrecy and confidentiality.  I know that seems silly for a gossip-magazine, but the consuming public is like that: irrational.

            Anyway, I recently made an alarming discovery about the name.  I was trying to get an interview with Kelvin Stark.  I have been trying for months, and this time I thought I had cracked it.  I tracked him down to the laundromat, of all places. He had a machine on the go, and in he was in the middle of some ironing, and so I had him cornered.  I started to interview him, and he seemed more co-operative than  usual, but my pleasure quickly wore off because he would not stop sniggering in a way that I thought was surprisingly ill-mannered.  I broke off in the middle of a sentence.

            ‘Is anything the matter?’

            ‘Nothing; nothing; nothing.  Nothing at all.’  But he carried on sniggering.  I gave him a sideways look.  ‘Your e-paper is called My Lips Are Sealed, isn’t it?’

            ‘Yes, it is.  Why?’

            ‘Do you know that it has acquired an alternative title?’

            ‘No, I didn’t know that.  What is it?’

            ‘My Flaps Are Stuck Together.’  I must admit that it was difficult to go on with the interview after that, but I did my best to keep my composure.  I put a note in my diary to launch a competition among the readers to find a new name. 

            ‘Are you seeing any-one at the moment?’

            ‘You mean in the Biblical sense?’

            ‘Yes.’ 

            ‘No.’

            ‘No?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘No what?’

            ‘No, Ma’am.’

            ‘I mean: what you are saying is that you are not seeing any-one at the moment.’

            ‘Yes.  That is what I am saying.’

            ‘What about Prudence Tadlow?’

            ‘What about Prudence Tadlow?’

            ‘Are you seeing her?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘Have you seen her in the past?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘But you aren’t seeing her now.’

            ‘No.’

            ‘What happened?’

            ‘She finished with me.’ 

            ‘Why the hell.  Er.  Why did she do that?’

            ‘She said I had too much on my mind.  She said she believed that I was not serious about a relationship with her, because I was thinking about another woman.’

            ‘Another woman on the spaceship?’

            ‘No.  Another woman back on Earth.’

            ‘Who is she?’

            ‘I’m not telling you.’

            ‘Why not?’

            ‘It’s private.’

            That was all I got out of him.  I did not push him too hard because he seemed to have outgrown his habit of talking complete nonsense every time I asked him a question and I did not want him to revert to his silliness in future interviews.  I charge a small payment for my publication, and if I could get an interview with Kelvin at least once a month, it would double my circulation. 

            I sent Prudence an email summarising what Kelvin had said and asking her if it was true.  Her reply simply said, ‘Yes’, which was rude and uncalled-for but perfectly good for business.  PRUDE DUMPS KELVIN was the next edition’s headline, with a sub-head of She said he had mystery girlfriend back on Earth.  Circulation went up thirty per cent in one week. 

*

I have been Pamela Collins for over a year now, and I feel less comfortable in her skin now than I did when I first created her, back on Earth.  She is serving her purpose well enough, I suppose.  People look past her and through her as if she were one of those machines they had on Earth in railway stations and hospitals to clean the floor.  I think that is one of the reasons I decided to start the language classes: not just to have some kind of controlled contact with Kelvin, but to get some acknowledgment from my fellow passengers that I could do something that they could not do. 

            I am trying to select a science officer among the crew to cultivate.  I have been taking radiation readings since we set off, and they have been rising recently.  I would have taken some gravimetric readings to see what large masses were nearby, but the ship’s compensators would invalidate them.  All I can do is work out the relative intensity of different kinds of particle, to see if it suggests anything about the source.  I just want to make sure that the crew knows as much as I know, but without alerting them to how I found it out.  One idea would be to use my 3D-printer to make an array of particle-detectors, the point being that I would get into less trouble for being a human being who has smuggled a 3D-printer than for being an android.  Even so, this would take quite a long time.  I hope this phenomenon dies down.  It takes a lot more radiation to harm me than it does a human, but I don’t want Kelvin’s balls to lose their potency.  Horace may need a little sister some day. 

            I have seen Kelvin talking to a tall chap who I think is Chief Engineer Holt.  He might be worth getting to know.  

            If the first year we spent in this tin can was one of settling-in, the second year seems set to be one of frivolity and silliness.  According to the ship’s artificial, Earth-based calendar, in two weeks it will be Hallowe’en.  Somebody suggested that we have a party, and the idea has caused mass hysteria.  Pamela has been advertising a costume-making service (I fear for the new colony’s wardrobe: it seems that hardly any-one on this vessel can sew).  I have been cheating by embellishing the costumes with pieces made by the 3D-printer.  These are only made out of dye and plastic beads, and don’t take very long to finish.  So far, I have made ten zombies, eleven Frankenstein’s monsters, six Draculas, five wolf-men, nine demons, four Grim Reapers, three Phantoms of the Opera, and a mad scientist.  The mad scientist is for Kelvin, and is the only one of its kind I will make.  Apart from a lab-coat, which he already owned, and a mask with a wig, there is very little to it.  Most of the part will just be Kelvin acting naturally.

*

I have no idea who thought of this party idea, but I am claiming it was mine.  It is going to be great for my circulation.  I have decided to use it as an opportunity to re-launch the publication, and so I need to have decided on a new name by then.  There has been a trickle of suggestions coming in via the competition, but they have been disappointingly dull.  The name needs to have plenty of pizzazz, and it must be innuendo-proof.  All potential references to unwashed genitalia are strictly off-limits.  

            It is rumoured that Kelvin will be bringing out a Hallowe’en-themed beer for the party.  I must find out if that is true.  If it is, I might ask him if he wants me to promote it for him.  I am hoping for lots of drunken debauchery.  If I am lucky, Kelvin will get off with some-one new, and if I hit the jackpot, it will be some-one really good-looking who knows how to handle publicity.  

*

I wish that ridiculous Vallance woman would stop referring to me as “Prude” on her horrible website.  If she goes much further, I think Judge Fitzgerald may be hearing the ship’s first action for defamation.  

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