How to get ‘The Companion’, a novel by William Thirsk-Gaskill, free of charge:

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All the material covered by these instructions is copyright © William Thirsk-Gaskill 2011.  Each file so supplied is for the personal use of the named recipient only, and may not be traded, sold, reverse-engineered, amended, emailed, posted on an intranet or Internet, displayed on an overhead projector or similar equipment, broadcast wirelessly, or processed by any means other than being read by the natural person who is the recipient, except with the advance written permission of the author.  If the material is printed, then these conditions apply to all printout thus produced.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-15146053

They have a very long way to go before they get to Violet.

I have nearly finished the first edit of 'The Companion'.  As the manuscript stands, there will be no detailed description of the wedding of Kelvin Stark and Violet.  This corresponds to Part 51 of 'The Companion' in this blog (which you can find easily by entering 51 as a search string). 

If you, as a reader, have your heart set on a state wedding with doves and carriages and page boys and all the rest of it, now is the time to say so. 

Similar considerations apply to the details about Kelvin's cross-dressing which occur around Part 20. 

If anybody is still reading it, or has read it and has any pent-up feelings that they have not felt able to express, now is the time to say something. 

I am re-examing every single comment made by readers on this blog and paying as much heed to them as I can.  All comments are read and appreciated. 

If you don't want to comment in this blog, feel free to email me directly.  My email address is in my OU profile (just click on my name). 

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.  

The headline in the special edition of Royal Flush was ‘CAN KING KELVIN SAVE US AGAIN?’  In The Gen, it was ‘MORE ARMED INVADERS – IS ANYWHERE SAFE?’  In The Rover, ‘LET PEACE TALKS COMMENCE’.  Augustus Blandshott, the editor of The Notebook, was carrying out maintenance on his press when the shock was inflicted and so could not print anything.  The Digger, well-known for the editor’s succinct turn of phrase, had ‘FUCK OFF AND LEAVE US ALONE’. 

            I put selected columns from all these in my scrapbook. 

            I was the first person to speak to the new invaders.  

            Their vessel was the most sophisticated of the three that had travelled to Achird-gamma.  It did not release capsules which had to crash-land in the sea, as the previous two had done.  It sent down a re-usable craft which landed on solid ground.  This landed on a moor a few miles from my house.  I don’t know if that was deliberate or accidental.  Its impending arrival had been detected by both radio- and optical astronomy. 

            Chandra and I met the newcomers on the bank of the river.   The island with my house on it was in the background.  The guns which  guard the approaches to the island were visible, but not manned and not trained on anything in particular.

            ‘Good morning, and who are you?’ I asked.  I offered my hand in greeting.  The person I was speaking to was obviously human and obviously British.

            ‘I am Adrian Greenwood, Special Envoy of His Majesty’s Diplomatic Service.  I represent the Government of the United Kingdom .’

            ‘Of course.  I am Kelvin, the King of Achird-gamma.’  Secretary Greenwood appeared momentarily surprised.  He recovered his composure, and bowed solemnly from the waist.

            ‘At your service, Your Majesty,’ he murmured.  Chandra looked pleased to hear some-one other than himself address me as “Your Majesty”.  

            ‘What can we do for you?’ I enquired.    

            ‘We are part of a commission appointed by His Majesty’s Government to investigate acts committed under the dictatorship which replaced the civil administration a few years ago.  That dictatorship is now, thankfully, at an end, but the Government is concerned to detect as many of the crimes that it perpetrated as possible.’

            ‘You have come a long way for this, haven’t you?’

            ‘We have, to be sure, come a long way.  Happily, it did not take us as long to get here as it would have taken you, and we can travel back anytime we need to.’

            ‘I see.  It is fortunate that it won’t inconvenience you to travel back, because I think you have come here for nothing.’

            ‘I beg your pardon?’

            ‘The invaders who came here two years ago, and who were sent by the dictatorship that you mentioned, have been dealt with.  We dealt with them.’

            ‘Where are they?’

            ‘Most of them are dead, including about fifty-seven that I killed myself.  A few remain in prison.’  I did not mention that these prisoners’ lives continued in the teeth of opposition from me.

            ‘Can we see them?’

            ‘If you like.’

            Secretary Greenwood’s party looked upon the ancient Land Rover with nervous wonder as they climbed into it.  Chandra drove us to the prison at the sedate pace which was typical of motor transport on Achird-gamma. 

            ‘You and your staff will need to be vaccinated against space flu,’ I explained during the journey.

            ‘What’s that?’

            ‘It’s an influenza-like illness with an incubation period of about six months.  It appears to strike once, and we have found that it is fatal in about ten per cent of cases.  Otherwise, there is a complete recovery, which seems to confer immunity for life.’  The Secretary looked worried.  ‘The vaccine is completely effective,’ I reassured him. ‘The disease happens to be the only harmful agent we have discovered on what is otherwise an amazingly hospitable planet.’  The Secretary was still not convinced, but there was nothing more I could say.

            We arrived at the prison, which is a single-storey, grey concrete blockhouse.  I am politically and morally opposed to the presence of this building, and so I asked Chandra to conduct the visitors round it, which he was content to do.  I waited outside.  The tour lasted about thirty minutes.

            When Chandra and the Secretary returned,  I surmised from their expressions they had had some kind of disagreement.  The Secretary took his entourage to a spot just out of my earshot, while Chandra approached me.

            ‘I think we may have here a problem, Your Majesty,’ said Chandra.

            ‘What sort of problem?’

            ‘These people seem to disapprove of the way we conducted the war against the invaders.  In fact…”  Chandra could hardly bring himself to utter the words.

            ‘Yes?  Spit it out, man.’

            ‘They say that some of the things we did were…’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘Illegal.’

            ‘Oh?  Is that all?  I thought for a minute you were going to say something terrible.  Yes, I expect they would say that.  Taken from a certain point of view, quite a few of the things that we did might be considered illegal.’ 

            I had a brief discussion with our visitors about how they were going to subsist and what their likely movements would be.  I obtained from Greenwood an agreement that they would live at their own expense and would not do anything that might include force of arms without prior notice to me in writing.  Greenwood asked for permission to “gather evidence”.  I told him he would need the owner’s permission to go inside a building or a fenced enclosure, but he could go anywhere else as he pleased.  I also said he could interview people as long as they gave their consent.  In return, I promised to keep Greenwood informed of my movements.  We exchanged a few technical details about radio and email communication and how he could get in touch with me through intermediaries. 

            I then went home and sent out orders to re-convene the War Cabinet – as many of them as I could get hold of, as quickly as possible – and also to call for a session of the Assembly.

            In the middle of all this, Chandra asked me a question.

            ‘Your Majesty?’

            ‘Yes, Chandra?’

            ‘Haven’t we been invaded again?’

            ‘Not like last time.  Violence was necessary last time.  We must avoid violence this time.  This lot may be a nuisance, but they aren’t Nazis: not by any means.  There has just been a colossal misunderstanding.’

            In the absence of the Assembly, I issued a temporary ordinance forbidding anybody from carrying firearms out of doors or carrying out military exercises without express permission from me or a member of the Cabinet.

            I needed a lawyer. 

*

My name is Cecily Johnson, attorney-at-law.  I returned home after the war, and reluctantly took the position of Acting Mayor after the death of my dear friend and colleague, Patrick Fitzgerald.  I told the council and the electors that I was taking this only as a temporary position, while a more suitable candidate was found.  After a few months, I realised that nobody was lifting a finger to find this “more suitable candidate” and that the people had played a trick on me.  I had found by then that immersing myself in work was the only effective palliative for grief over the loss of Paddy, and so I went along with the arrangement.  I had just got back into a satisfying routine when I was interrupted by a message from Kelvin Stark to say that he needed me to travel to I-11 for an unspecified period in order to defend him against a charge related to alleged war crimes.  This was a very great and stressful distraction, and I tried at first to refuse.  I asked him why he wanted me – a prosecution specialist – to   defend him.  I suggested John Mallard as his representative instead.  Kelvin seemed adamant that he wanted me rather than Mallard.  When I told the council, they were very supportive, and told me that I could accept Kelvin’s open-ended summons as long as I promised to return when the case was over.   

            My transportation to I-11 was, so I am told, provided by the other party in the dispute, namely the government of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.  I had hardly had time to disembark from their craft into the cool and misty climate of I-11 before I was entangled in the business of the trial.

            The main point put forward by the prosecution was that the Alpha Project was an undertaking of the British Government.  It had been paid for by the British Government, and its participants were therefore expected to conduct themselves at all times in accordance with the law of England and Wales .  Hence, the prosecution argued, the sinking of the ship with Spalding’s equipment on it had been illegal.  Any associated loss of life had been unlawful killing, and practically everything done in the build-up to, and during, the Battle of Hardboard City, had been illegal.  Most, if not all, of the casualties that Kelvin’s army had inflicted, were, they believed, victims of murder.  The expeditionary force sent to I-13 had been a reckless venture from an unqualified and ill-informed administration, from which injury and loss of life had been inevitable, and for which the administration which sent it was to blame.  The refusal to negotiate after Major Downing had been taken prisoner was evidence of a dictatorial presence within the administration whose malign influence had run rough-shod over many matters of public interest and civilised governance. The prisoners executed by Kelvin had all been murdered.  The prisoners who were currently being held had not been processed in a manner that was recognised by His Majesty’s Government and should be freed immediately, pending further investigation.

            This last point was the one that was most hotly contested (on the grounds of public interest) by the defence, and it lead inescapably into an argument about vires – in other words, who had the right to do what to whom, and on what legal basis.  It was the defence’s position that, far from being a continuing emanation of the British state, the so-called Alpha Project as it had been originally conceived was now effectively over.  It was, at the very least, well into its second stage, which was the regeneration of an entire civilisation from a very tiny seed.  But this seed was an independent entity.  In short, the colonists believed that the prosecution had no more rights on Achird-gamma than it did in the United States of America – a place, indeed, where it had no jurisdiction at all.

            Somebody put forward the idea that the position of the colonists and of the British Government should be examined by a higher authority.  The question was – what higher authority?  Secretary Greenwood then happened to mention that he had brought with him an expert on jurisprudence from the United Nations.  This man turned out to be a very welled-dressed Sri Lankan called Dr Sanjaya Lansakaranayake.  Dr Lansakaranayake’s presence turned out not to be a beneficial one.  The fact that he had been produced by the prosecution, and the fact that he was a citizen of a developing country that was in a position to benefit from co-operation with the United Kingdom prompted the defence to argue that he was biased.  This argument, which boiled down to our word against theirs, rumbled on for days.

            I can’t remember who suggested it first, but the appointment of a panel of judges was the next compromise that was sought, with an even number from each side.  The problem would then be transformed from that of two sets of advocates trying to persuade each other, each from an entrenched position, to that of two sets of advocates trying to persuade a panel of (in theory) open-minded jurists.  Secretary Greenwood immediately announced that he supported this option, and nominated Dr Lansakaranayake as his preferred candidate.  This was even before it had been agreed that the juridical panel would sit, or how many members it would have.  It seemed that the eminent Mr Greenwood’s feet were getting too big for his “Church’s of Northampton” shoes. 

*

My name is Adrian Greenwood.  I am the official emissary of the government of the United Kingdom.  I have been on this planet for six weeks now, and I think I can now see how the hierarchy of this primitive society works.  Information has been rather difficult to obtain, but I have just learnt the name of what I believe they refer to as “The Speaker of the Assembly” – in other words, the person charged with lending a semblance of dignity to the public brawl these apes call a parliament.  Her name is Prudence Tadlow.  She is in some remote location at the moment, which is inconvenient, but I gather that the reason for this is that she is, of all things, a geologist.  She has, as far as I can gather, absolutely no knowledge of any branch of law, or public administration, or politics.  She is perfect.  I am about to lend my full weight to her selection as the juridical representative for the colonists.  Lansakaranayake will run rings round her.  I just hope that they can get hold of her before she falls into a ravine.   Ah.  My mobile phone is ringing.  I don’t know why I brought it here but, to my considerable surprise, it works.  That is the defence calling.  The leading council looks like a mere slip of a thing but I understand that she has been to Cambridge and Harvard. 

            That was one of Counsellor Johnson’s clerks to tell me that they have managed to locate Miss Tadlow, and that they are inclined to look favourably on the idea of her examination for the panel.  They want to convene a tribunal at which the prosecution and defence can send anybody they like to ask her questions.  That seems quite reasonable.   I could not disagree.   They asked if they could borrow our shuttle to pick her up.  I assented.  They asked when I would be ready to examine her.  We have agreed tomorrow at 11am. 

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?

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. 

'General, may I talk with you?'

'Yes, of course.'  I did not recognise this severe-looking woman, and neither could I make out whether she was referring to me by an incorrect rank deliberately, but I decided to let it pass. 

'I have squad here, ready to assault enemy position.  You want unit to make assault, yes?'

'We need to mount as assault.  Yes.'

'Well I have here.  We are ready.  '

'How many personnel are in your squad?'

'Eight, including squad leader: me.'

'Eight?'

'Yes, eight.'

'Exactly what operation do you have in mind?'

'It very simple.  Me and girls run up ramp: run towards enemy position: attack enemy position: kill as many as possible.  If we still alive at end, we get medal, yes?'

'And what happens if you get shot before you reach the enemy line?'

'We die.'

'And?'

'We not afraid to die.  We call squad "Butterflies".'

'Why that name?'

'Because we only live one day.'

'Are you serious?'

'Do I look as if not serious?'

'No.  You look perfectly serious.'

'Well then.  We good to go, General?'

'What weapons do you have?'

'Four have light machine-gun.  Rest have Lee Enfield rifle with bayonet.'

'And where did the light machine-guns come from?'

'Do I have to answer?'

'No, you don't have to answer that.'

'We get order advance?'

'Are you prepared to die?'

'Most of us already dead.'

'I don't understand why you are saying that but, under the circumstances, if you are volunteering, I accept.  I need to know if the enemy has any substantial reserves of ammunition left.  I think he has run out, but I also think that he is trying to make me think that he has run out.  If you can settle that one way or the other, it would be doing me and my army, and this planet, a great service, for which we would be grateful.'

'No problem.  We get on with it now?'

'Carry on, squad leader.'

            There then followed one of the most nit-picking and Draconian military inspections I have ever seen.  This woman, who was wearing the antique insignia of a captain in the Soviet army, glowered at a row of eight petrified women, and slapped across the face any whose uniform, weapon, or kit failed the inspection.  When this formality had been observed, they equipped themselves and attacked.  As they made themselves ready, it occurred to me that I did not know any of their names. 

            They did not run up the same ramp.  There were six ramps, and they ran up two of them singly, and three of them in pairs.  They ran very fast.  They spread out as they ran.  They covered a semi-circular arc of attack which encompassed the whole of the front line of the enemy's position.  I tried to follow them all through the magnifying periscope, but I lost track of most of them, and decided to remain looking at the squad leader.  She advanced, in a zig-zag line.  She ordered her squad to lie down.  The squad fired on the enemy, mainly with their light machine-guns.  They got up.  They advanced, in a zig-zag line.  They lay down.  They got closer and closer to the enemy front line.  The enemy shot at them.  They continued to advance.  The men at the left and right extremes of the enemy's front line started to get up from their positions and run away.  I observed this through my magnifying periscope, but it did not please me, because I realised that we would have to organise a mopping-up operation later, which might be particularly inconvenient if any of them were still armed.

            I am quite certain that I saw the squad leader take a burst of rounds to her body.  Her advance was slowed for a split-second, but she carried on, from which I surmised that she was wearing body armour. 

            I could see a ripple of disorder going through the first and second enemy line.  The Butterflies stuck to their task.  Rather than attempt to inflict maximum casualties on these two forward lines, they cut through them, and closed with the third line.  More of the enemy starting running to the flanks, most of them infuriatingly forward of either Colonel Gurung's or Major McCann's detachments.  I issued an order for the marksmen from my flanks to try to pick off any of the enemy that could, without endangering the Butterflies. 

            All four of the Butterfly light machine-gunners were lying down again and firing.  Their mission had succeeded.  Tumultuous volleys of enemy fire confirmed that they still had plenty of ammunition.  I put my titanium sniper's mask on, showing it first to Diggle so that he would not have a heart attack if he saw me turn towards him with a white face, almost featureless apart from two eye-holes.  I put my head above the parapet and scanned the battlefield with ordinary binoculars.  The other four members of the squad, including the leader, were still moving forward, but also to the extreme flanks, two on each side.  It seemed incredible that they were all still alive, let alone still carrying out their offensive action.  It was evident that the enemy commander had concentrated his material in his third line.  This the Butterflies had clearly revealed, and this line they now proposed to try to break.  The runners were dodging bullets, apparently being hit from time-to-time, but with no ill-effects.  They closed.  They started screaming.  They charged, bayonets at the ready.  Enemy men, including some of those wearing black uniforms, attempted to disengage.  A handful also fixed bayonets, and a few old-fashioned fencing-matches broke out, which the Butterflies seemed to win every time.  The two "detachments" (each of two women) then turned inwards, towards each other, and began to move along the enemy line.  I saw the squad leader toss one grenade and then another towards the enemy centre.  Their explosions caused considerable disorder and dislocation.  The enemy fired a few rocket-propelled grenades in response, but they just detonated in empty space. 

            I decided that we were never going to get another opportunity as good as the one that now presented itself.  In that instant, I decided we needed to charge, immediately.  I told Diggle to pick up my standard and follow me in the charge.  The whole army had been warned beforehand that if they saw my standard charging, they were to charge as well.  I blew my whistle, and our one bugler responded.  I heard other whistles up and down the line answering me and the bugler.  Men began shouting and screaming.  Bagpipes sounded and drums beat. 

            I fixed my bayonet.  Still wearing my blank, white sniper's mask, I lifted myself over the parapet while Diggle, burdened as he was by the standard, ran up the ramp.  I gripped my Lee Enfield in my hands, and ran for all I was worth.  It was not long before some of my own men were over-taking me.  I heard bursts of fire from Gurung's and McCann's men, who themselves charged as we began to close with the enemy. 

            My original objective of charging an enemy who was a sitting duck had been lost, but I had the next best thing.  Even though the enemy still had some ammunition left, his line was now in a state of disorder verging on chaos.  I could see and hear officers shouting orders in desperation, and admonishing their men to stand and fight, but most of these commands were neither carried out nor even heard.  The enemy army had dissolved into an assortment of individuals: hungry, thirsty, shit-scared, gripped by pain and sickness, and now realising that they had no idea why they had come to this planet. 

            I cannot articulate how the final phase of the battle went, because I don't remember it as a sequence of events: only as a state of mind.  I don't know how many men I bayonetted, but it was at least three, and I managed to extricate my bayonet cleanly each time.  Some of the enemy troops tried to surrender, but no-one was listening.  The Gurkhas arrived from both left and right flanks, and attacked the enemy at close quarters, mostly with the kukri.  I found myself fighting quite close to McCann, who was one of the only men on our side who was still firing rather than engaging in hand-to-hand combat: his confidence in his own marksmanship was unshakeable, even under those chaotic conditions.  At the same moment, both McCann and I thought we recognised the enemy leader, and we charged towards him from two different angles.  McCann took the leader and me over in the same rugby-tackle.  Once we had him on the floor, we searched him thoroughly and taped his hands and his feet together.  As soon as we had done that, I ordered a disengagement and we took the enemy surrender.  I took my mask off.  

            'Surrender must be unconditional,' I broadcast to the stunned men of both sides who stood and lay around me. 

            We lined the enemy up and surrounded them.  Both sides had taken casualties, but I did not know how many.  All I knew was that we had won the battle. 

            Diggle was still alive.  McCann was still alive.  Colonel Gurung had been shot in the left shoulder but was expected to live.  Chandra was unaccounted for but there was no reason to believe that anything was wrong with him.  All eight of the Butterflies had outlived their expected span. 

Today I finished a draft of a second poem for TMA 03 which means that I only have another 7 lines (minimum) left to write to complete it.

As soon as I have finished, I expect normal service to 'The Companion' to be resumed until the first novel is finished. 

I hope everybody can hang on until then. 

This part contains references to physical suffering which some readers may find disturbing. 

To prepare for the start of Operation Meat-grinder, we needed to get all of our people out of Hardboard City.  Some of Anna’s girls had already left.  I tuned into what Layla could see and hear.  She was walking down one of the streets in the early morning, and two invaders with automatic rifles were coming to towards her.  They told her to accompany them.  I didn’t want her to do anything that would arouse suspicion.  They headed for the edge of the town.  I could not work out what was going on at first, but then I saw the tank, and it began to dawn on me.  Spalding and Brunton were there.  Layla asked what they wanted her for, but they ignored her.  Just then, Ben Stewart appeared and spoke to Spalding.

            ‘Sir, what do you want with this woman?’

            ‘I am going to put her inside this tank when the captured shell is test-fired.’

            ‘Sir, could I respectfully ask why you want to do that?’

            ‘Insurance in case anything goes wrong.’

            ‘Sir, is your army not a man’s army?  A tank is no place for a female.’

            ‘Are you contradicting me?’

            ‘Not at all, sir.  What I am suggesting, sir, is that I should go inside instead of her.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘I used to be a tank-gunner.  I could help your tank crew to assess the firing and give you a technical report on how the ammunition behaves.’

            ‘Mm.  It is true that the crew are rather raw and inexperienced.  All right.  I accept your suggestion.’  Layla watched as Ben mounted the tank, opened the hatch on top of the turret, and climbed inside.  He was still in civilian clothes, but his practised movements silhouetted in the half-light picked him out as a soldier. 

            The tank’s engine roared as it manoeuvred so that it was pointing in the direction of a hillock about 500 metres away.  There was a muffled whirring of electric motors and the turret moved to exactly the right angle, and the gun slightly increased its elevation.  And then came the explosion, which ripped the turret off, and sent it flying through the air.  All the onlookers, including Spalding, Brunton, a few of their troops and Layla , ran.  In the furious moment of the disaster, it was impossible to judge whether the hulk of spinning metal was heading in one’s own direction.  A few seconds later, there was another explosion as the fire spread to the fuel tank.  I sent Layla an instruction to just keep running.  I heard a few bullets whine past her as she left the town.

            Ben’s last act before he went to his death had been to wipe with meticulous care the grains of sugar from around the nozzles of the cans of kerosene he had just adulterated. 

            He had sacrificed himself to save Layla, a moderately-sophisticated android whose entire set of data, software and hardware I could have rebuilt.

            Ben had explained to me how the booby-trapped shells would work.  They were designed by Holt.  They had no propellant, and no firing-ring (that is the part that contains the expanding gases and makes the shell fly out of the gun-barrel).  The outside of the shell had a concealed gadget on it to lock it in place inside the firing mechanism.  Inside the shell-casing was just a detonator, and a charge.  The charge in this case was high explosive plus depleted uranium.  When the gun was fired, the cylindrically-shaped explosive would have gone off inside the chamber, and shock waves spread, both outwards and inwards.  The outward one would have started to crack the firing mechanism of the gun to pieces.  The inward one would have encountered the depleted uranium core, and driven it like a bullet backwards, towards the inside of the crew compartment.  The depleted uranium would be starting to liquefy as the metal was driven through a hole that, under normal conditions, would have been far too small for it to travel though.  Hundreds of beads of uranium would then have flown and bounced around the interior, like lead shot inside a washing machine.  Any soft object in their way (such as a person) would have been penetrated.  A few milliseconds after that, the depleted uranium would have burst into flames. 

            I sent Kelvin a message to say that the tank had been destroyed.  This was the trigger to start Operation Meat-grinder.

            While Spalding strutted and shouted and looked for some-one to lash out at, his men were getting ready for a parade and inspection.  They climbed down the metal rungs into the Kettle, to immerse themselves in the warm, mist-shrouded water.  I counted them in.  When I got to eighty, I sent Kelvin another signal, ‘You can put the Kettle on.’  The aluminium rungs, both inside and outside, received a jolt of electricity which made them so hot that they melted and fell from their fastenings.  The temperature of the water also began to rise.  The water was too shallow, and the sides of the pool too high for the invaders to climb out.  The cries of horseplay soon turned to panic and then to agony, as the bathers’ naked flesh began to cook.  The screams attracted other invaders to climb onto the lip of the Kettle to see what was going on, but they were delayed until they could find something to substitute for the metal rungs.  The first few stood and gawped helplessly.  Eventually they shouted for some-one to fetch rope or more things to serve as makeshift ladders.  The men were all brought out alive, exactly as we had planned. 

            When the invaders were having their breakfast, they began to discover that sauce bottles, food cans, and even pieces of food, were starting to explode.  These devices were not enough to kill a man: they would just blow part of his hand off or fire small bits of shrapnel into his face.  Cigarette packets had two behaviours.  Some of them exploded, like the other booby-traps.  Some of them seemed to behave normally, until a few minutes after the first cigarette was lit (the tobacco had been impregnated with cannabis and heroin). 

            Those who decided to wash their food down with liquor, contrary to Wolf’s express orders, experienced severe abdominal pain, blindness and, in a few cases, death, because all the beer, whisky and vodka had been heavily laced with methanol.

            Not long after breakfast, vomiting and diarrhoea began to spread throughout Wolf’s men.  Some of them had collapsed face-first into their porridge, because of the morphine we had put in the milk.  A few of the men discovered by accident that the morphine-laced milk was quite a good medicine for alleviating the stomach cramps caused by the contaminated food and drink. 

            Kelvin by that point was in a forward position, in a trench within sight of Hardboard City.  He wore a small piece of board (one of the off-cuts from the building of Hardboard City) on a strap round his neck.  Clipped to this were the sheets of paper he used to write orders on.  He wrote the orders in pencil, and then rolled the sheet up and put it inside a metal tube, sealed at both ends with cork.  He had the metal tubes and corks and spare pencils in a pouch round his waist.  He also had a walkie-talkie, but he only intended to use this for the orders which had been worked out in advance and given code words. 

            Behind Kelvin was the artillery, with a battery of the 10-kilogram guns which Kelvin had demonstrated to the newspaper people.  Their guns were trained on Hardboard City, but they had not received the order to fire yet.  In front of him in the centre was his main force of infantry,  in concealed positions, and with instructions to repel anything that tried to flee from Hardboard City inland.  A small force had already re-claimed the remainder of the ships in the harbour.  On Kelvin’s left and right were the Gurkhas, whose mission was to hold onto the flanks and make sure that no invaders escaped by finding a way round Kelvin’s army. 

            We started to put methanol into the water supply to Hardboard City, and then a little while later cut the water and the electricity off.  The artillery waited impatiently for the order from Kelvin.

*

I am Kelvin’s bayonet.  I am still in the scabbard on his belt.  He loves his rifle, but that is nothing to the way that he feels about me.  To fire his rifle,  he needs to be calm, composed, and accurate.  As soon as he fixes me, his intellect shuts down and he becomes a machine for expressing anger and hate.  I am a steel spike and he polishes every nick and scratch out of my surface with whetstone, oil, and chamois leather.  This is not just because he cares about my appearance, but because he doesn’t want me to catch on a bone or sinew when he tries to withdraw me from a man’s innards.  He has been practising impaling and withdrawing for months on special dummies with artificial ribs and spinal columns.  Most of his men hate bayonet practice.  They think it is too much like hard work, or they can’t take it seriously and they feel self-conscious when the instructor tells them to scream, or they are appalled by the prospect of impaling another human being with a weapon they hold in both hands.  Kelvin can hardly wait to issue the order.  One evening, after a whole day spent with him in training, he spoke to me.  He looked at me and said, in a very contemplative voice, ‘There are over a million words in the English language, but there may come a time when only three will do: fix bayonets: charge.’ 

*

That foul regime has collapsed.  The constitutional monarchy has been restored.  The Firm is back in business. 

            I invited the new Minister of Culture round for tea at the palace and told her to organise an international cricket tournament as soon as humanly possible.  There are rumours that at least one new nation could be accorded full test status in time for it (Ghana, Singapore and Malaysia are all strong contenders).  I had a speech all prepared, but it turned out that I was preaching to the converted.  She is a season-ticket holder at Edgbaston.  She showed me a programme that had all the Warwickshire players’ autographs on it.  We had great fun.  I got a pomegranate out of the fruit bowl and we discussed the relative merits of a googly versus a doosra to both right- and left-handed batsmen.

            The stock exchange sky-rocketed on the first full day of normal trading after proper government was restored.   If it weren’t for my position, I think I would have had a little flutter myself.  

            We are back.  The United Kingdom has returned to its senses.  Please, God, let us not make the same mistake ever again.