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

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

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.  

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?

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.  

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. 

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.  

 

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

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

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

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

            ‘It needs coins.’

            ‘What sort of coins?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

            ‘Er, yes we do.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

             ‘Show me.’ 

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

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

            ‘Where is that man?’

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

            ‘What have you found, my Leader?’   

            ‘Shine the torch down here, quick.’

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

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

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

            ‘What cost?’

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

            ‘We haven’t got any gold coins.’

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

            ‘Sell what?’

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

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

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

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

            ‘Mm.  I’ll think about it.’

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

WARNING - GRAPHIC VIOLENCE WHICH SOME READERS MAY FIND DISTURBING.

I’m crying in the toilet cubicle.  I’m not making a noise, but tears are streaming down my face.  I put a bit of make-up on this morning, which I have had to take off, to avoid having panda-eyes when I go into the cabinet-meeting.  I have just seen something that I wish I had not.

            Some months ago, I was on a business trip to I-2, and I released Rosalind.  I was too busy to look after her, and I thought it was time she was given the chance to reproduce.  We already have plenty of rabbits on I-11, and I thought the climate on I-2 would suit her better.  I did something which I now think was very stupid.  I wirelessly programmed the sensory transducers that I had implanted in her so that they would only register in my internal eyes and ears if the signal was above a certain intensity – if she was in big trouble, in other words.

            When the data stream from Rosalind’s eyes cuts in, it is bewildering at first.  She has all-round vision, from the sky almost to the ground underneath her.  Her vision of colour is poor, but she can tell the difference between blue and green.  She had been lifted off the floor by a man wearing a black uniform (evidently a member of one of the invader’s foot patrols, from the garrison left on I-2).  One of her back legs had been caught in a snare.  I could hear his breathing.  That was the only sound I could hear.  Rosalind herself was silent.  The last thing I saw before the signal cut out was the invader’s wrists and hands, which were briefly rendered visible as Rosalind’s eyes popped out of their orbits.  He had squeezed her to death.

            I have a digital image of his face.  When I find him, I am going to do the same to him, only it will last longer, and before his eyeballs pop out, other parts of his body will already have done so. 

            I must think about the war.  I must stop crying and think about the war.  I must stop crying and think about how to prevent this from happening to other animals, or to more people. 

            I think I am just about to make the same mistake again.  I have just realised that the main vessel in the enemy convoy is one of the ships that was originally part of The Irish Rover, which was liberally sprinkled with my surveillance devices.  The signal should be easy to pick up, because I had them all connected to the ship’s own network, to boost the signals.  I have looked at the array, and I can see one set of mikes from the ship in question which is showing some amplitude.  The cams in the same room are not showing anything, indicating either a malfunction or (more probably) that the cabin is in darkness.  This is what I can hear.

            ‘Jessica.  Jessica.  Are you awake?  Jessica?’

            ‘Huh?’

            ‘Are you awake?’

            ‘I don’t know.  Are they coming back?’

            ‘No, they have left us alone.’

            ‘When are they coming back?’

            ‘I don’t know.  Try not to think about it.’

            ‘Are they going to kill us?’

            ‘I don’t know, but we aren’t dead yet.’

            ‘I wish I was dead.’

            ‘Jessica, you’ve got to be strong.  We are going to get through this.’

            ‘Get into the real world, Sam.  We’re prisoners, and when they have finished raping us, they are going to shoot us or chuck us over the side.  Oh, god – I feel seasick again.  We haven’t even got a bucket to throw up in.  I can’t take any more of this.’

            ‘Jess, don’t cry.  Don’t cry.  Come here, babe.’

            ‘What’s going to happen to us?  What are they going to do to us?’

            ‘I don’t know, Jess.  Probably more of the same, but we are still alive.  We are going to get through this.’

            ‘No, we’re not.’

            ‘Yes, we are.  We are.  I know we are.’

            ‘You’re a fool.  You don’t know what you are talking about.’

            ‘I may be a fool, but I do know that we are going to get through this, somehow.’

            ‘What do you think about when they are doing it to you?’

            ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’

            ‘Tell me.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘It might help me.  I just can’t take it at all.  It is worse than torture, worse than death.  I wish they would just kill me instead. You seem to be able to cope with this ordeal.  I don’t know how you do it.’

            ‘I’m a survivor.’

            ‘But what do you think about?’

            ‘I think you remind me of Mr Richardson.’

            ‘Who the hell is Mr Richardson?’

            ‘He was a really dweebie, pathetic saddo teacher at my school who wore a tank top and a bow tie and had really bad BO and got done for forcing himself on the first year girls in the audio-visual stockroom.’  

            ‘Yes, there was a teacher like that at my school, but I never heard he did anything like that.’

            ‘I bet he did.’

            ‘Where’s Cheryl?’

            ‘She’s in the corner.  Don’t touch her.’

            ‘Why not?  Is she all right?’

            ‘Leave her alone.’

            ‘Why?  What’s wrong with her.’

            ‘They killed her.’

            ‘Let me just see if she’s – eeeuuuurrrgggghhhh! What’s she covered in?’

            ‘I told you not to touch her.’

            ‘She’s got something sticky all over her hair.’

            ‘It’s blood.’

            ‘Whose blood?’

            ‘Hers.’

            ‘What did they do to her?’

            ‘That psycho bloke said that she was racially inferior, because she was thick, and so they raped her, and then he told them to kill her.  They did it by holding her upside down, and slamming her face into the floor again and again, until she died.  They did it in front of her husband.  When she was dead, they covered her head with a sack, and carried on raping her in front of him.  And then they shot him.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘Because they’re mad.’

            ‘I think I’m going mad.’

            ‘We are going to get through this, Jess.  We are.’  I stopped listening at that point, but I redirected the feed to the archive.

            I composed myself, and decided to join the meeting without receiving the summons from Kelvin, and went into the cabinet room.  I still have not got used to him in uniform.  He looks like he has stepped out of a black and white film: beret with badge, khaki shirt, khaki tie, battledress, khaki trousers, gaiters, boots.  Lance Naik Chandra polishes his boots for him, and you can literally see your face in them (though you would have to get down on your knees to do this if he was wearing them).   I asked Kelvin recently if he expects me to wear a uniform, which, as soon as I had uttered the words, sounded like a strange question.  The word “uniform” in our house has not usually meant a military uniform.  Kelvin said that my role was concerned with deception and concealment, and so I could wear whatever I thought was appropriate.  I have just carried on wearing my normal clothes.  Recently, I seem to be affecting a 1940s style in hair and dress.  Maybe next I will learn to do the jitterbug.

            The other people around the cabinet table were Captain McCann, James Holt, Professor Gonzales, Kerr McLean, Prude,  and Doctor Condon-Douglas.  Also in the room was a side-table with a computer workstation on it.  I knew I would be needing this. 

            Kelvin assumed that everybody knew who I was and did not seem surprised to see me nor annoyed that I had barged into his meeting.  He did not introduce me: he just let me get straight on with my report.

            ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but there is something that I need to tell you about straight away.  I  believe that the enemy has been for some time preparing and loading a convoy of vessels in a port on I-13.  They set sail several hours ago.  I don’t know where they intend to go, but I am told that I-3 is the likeliest destination.  Further satellite images will easily confirm or deny this.  They will probably have left another garrison on I-13.

            ‘If you will permit me to log on via this workstation, I will use the monitor to display what the satellites are currently tracking.’ 

            I must admit that I felt excited.  I had promised them nothing, apart from an outline I had sketched to Kelvin.  Kelvin knew better than to give anything of what I had told him away to the cabinet before my demonstration. 

            I sat down at the computer, and the government of Achird-gamma stood up and crowded round my back.  Kelvin was standing directly behind me, to get the best view of the screen. 

            ‘What you are now seeing is an image, in real time, of the enemy convoy.  As you can see, it has indeed set sail.’  I opened another window on the screen, and in this one I zoomed out, got the port they had set off from and the convoy in the same image, and measured the distance between them.  ‘They are just over 28 miles from their starting point.  If they continue to stay in convoy, and to go at the speed of the slowest vessel, they will continue to travel at just over 6 miles per hour, and they have to travel 2500 miles, which will take about 17 days. 

            ‘They are already traversing the deep ocean.  I-13 is an oceanic island, which means that the beaches slope down to the ocean floor quite rapidly.  The average depth of the ocean here is very similar to Earth: about 5000 metres.’  I was interrupted. 

            ‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Kerr McLean.

            ‘I must admit, I was beginning to wonder that as well,’ said Prude.

            ‘The mission I was charged with was to deprive the enemy of as much material as possible by non-military means.  I think I can destroy four of his tanks and one of his helicopters, plus an unknown quantity of other material, at no cost whatsoever.’

            ‘How?’ asked several people, of whom Kerr McLean was the loudest. 

            ‘And when?’ asked Kelvin, trying hard to sound as if he did not know what to expect.

            ‘I considered Major Downing’s mission.  I do not wish to diminish in any way the effort and bravery that he and his men put into that operation, but it struck me that there must be an easier way.

            ‘I looked at what information I had about the ports on I-2 and I-13, and I discovered one important fact which appeared to have been overlooked.  On I-2, the vessel on which the colonists first arrived onshore (the one which had come from  the Irish Rover) had been broken up for scrap.  On I-13, the vessel was still intact.’

            ‘Why is that important?’ asked Timothy Gonzales. 

            ‘That is what I hope to demonstrate.  The convoy contains two kinds of vessel: wooden boats, which are primitive vessels with no computer controls, and the ship which is ex-Irish Rover.  This ship is designed to be capable of sailing unmanned.  In other words, I believe I can hack into its systems and take control of it.’

            I was typing while I was talking.  I brought up the control panel, and told the onboard computer that there were no crew and no passengers.  I also told it that it was stationary, in port.  I intercepted all the streams from the ship’s transducers, and set them to constant values.  By that point, the ship was mine. 

            With some compunction for Jessica, Samantha, and the other prisoners, I then issued the signal to open the ship’s cargo doors, which was duly executed.  The ship, which was heavily loaded, sank within a matter of minutes.  The convoy stopped moving for a while, presumably to pick up survivors.  

            ‘Kelvin, this is Violet.  Kelvin, this is Violet.’

            ‘What?’  I could hear his voice through his own ears.  The satellite link imposed a delay of just over a second. 

            ‘This is Violet.  You are not going mad.  I’m communicating with you via satellite.  You have implants in your head which mean that you can hear what I am saying.  Do you understand?’

            ‘No.  It does feel as if I am going mad.’

            ‘Can you hear me?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘Can you not hear me?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘Can you say anything other than “no”?’

            ‘Yes.  But I still think I’m going mad. How do I know this is Violet?  Where have you been?’

            ‘I was Pamela.’

            ‘Ah.  That explains a great deal.’

            ‘We are wasting time.  Kelvin, I need you to do what you do best.  I need you to absorb a lot of confusing information in a very short time.  I am tuned in to the satellite network and I know that our planet has been invaded by some kind of terrorist agency.  We are under attack.  Do you understand?’

            ‘I understand.  Execute Plan K-13.’

            ‘Plan K-13?’

            ‘Yes, definitely.  This is exactly the event it is designed to deal with.  Do you know if they are American?’

            ‘We know next to nothing about them at the moment, other than they have no compuction about killing innocent people.  We will initiate Plan K-13.  Kelvin?’

            ‘What?’

            ‘This is Violet.’

            ‘I know.’

            ‘I’m here.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘I followed you.’

            ‘I knew you would.’

            ‘How?’

            ‘Love.  Do you love me?’

            ‘You know I do.  Do you love me?’

            ‘Yes.  Yes, I do.  I always have.’

            ‘You tried to leave me.’

            ‘I know.  It was a terrible mistake.’

            ‘But you did it again.  You’re doing it now.  You always leave me.’

            ‘No, I don’t.  I have not left you: I’m coming home.  I’ll be home as soon as possible.’

            ‘If you try to leave me again, I’ll kill you.’

            ‘I know.’

            ‘Very slowly.’ 

            ‘I know.  I don’t want us to be separated again.  I want us to be together.’

            ‘Kelvin, where are  you?’  I was only taking the sound stream, not the visual, to save bandwidth. 

            ‘I am on I-2.’

            ‘Kelvin, that means you are on the same island as the site of the attack.  Just let me work out exactly where you are.’   I worked out Kelvin’s position by using the global positioning system.  ‘Do you know if they have any aircraft on I-13?’

            ‘A few, I think.’

            ‘Who runs the place?’

            ‘Kerr McLean.  It’s Kerr McLean’s personal fiefdom.’

            ‘OK.  I’ll see if I can get him to send a plane.  Are you somewhere on the side of a mountain?  GPS is telling me that you’re about 2000 metres above sea level.’

            ‘Yes, I’m inspecting a zinc mine.’

            ‘A zinc mine?’

            ‘Yes, a zinc mine.  That’s a deep hole in the ground from which we obtain zinc.  The ore is very rich.’

            ‘Is a zinc mine important?  More important than me?’

            ‘Important, yes.  Zinc is a strategic raw material.’

            ‘Kelvin, will you kindly get yourself to a location suitable for a light aircraft to make a landing, preferably where I can still find you by GPS, without revealing yourself to the enemy, and without getting killed or captured.’

            ‘Yes, of course. Er, Violet?’

            ‘Yes, what is it you stupid, unreliable, gallivanting, truant, tosser?’

            ‘I’m sorry.’  I cut the broadcast. 

            Plan K-13 meant total war.    The name was thought up by Kelvin himself.  Plans A-1 to K-12 don’t exist: he devised it deliberately to sound silly. 

*

Wolf and I took a platoon of men on a patrol, and left the rest to forage for food and fuel in the settlement that we had attacked. 

            We walked up the path to a two-storey wooden house, painted white, with a green front door.  Wolf said that he might make the building into his headquarters.  The door was unlocked.  We walked along a passage and into a kitchen.  An old man with white hair and spectacles was sitting, reading a book.  He looked up at us in alarm.

            ‘Name,’ said Wolf.  The man did not answer.  He just jabbered incoherently.  ‘Name!’ he demanded.

            ‘Arthur Cresswell,’ the man stammered eventually, in a whisper.  His speech was as quiet as the rustling of dry leaves. 

            ‘I am taking over this house as my headquarters.  Who else used to live here?’

            ‘My wife.’

            ‘Where is she?’

            ‘She’s out.’

            ‘Where is she and what is she doing?’

            ‘She went to the pub to give out some leaflets.’

            ‘The pub.  Was that a ramshackle building with a sign over it which said O’Mally’s.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Aha.  I have some sad news for you, Arthur Cresswell.  One of my helicopters fired a rocket into that building and blew it to smithereens.  Your wife is dead.’  The prisoner started crying.  ‘Are there any other settlements on this island?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘Where is the nearest other inhabited island?’

            ‘About 300 kilometres to the north.’

            ‘What is its name.’

            ‘It doesn’t have a name.’

            ‘What?  You’re lying.  Why are you trying to conceal information from me?’  Wolf slapped the man across the face.  His spectacles flew off, and landed on the tiled floor. 

            ‘It’s true.  It’s true.’  Wolf grabbed the man’s hair and looked into his eyes.  He was satisfied.  The interrogation over, Wolf pulled the man’s chair out from the table and punched him twice in the chest as he sat.  He seemed pleased by the contortions of the man’s reddening face. 

            ‘Take him outside and hang him, in as prominent a location as possible,’ he ordered.  I told one of the men to look around for some rope. 

*

It took me three days to get home, by making island hops in a two-seater aircraft of colonial manufacture. 

            We held a meeting.  We asked for as many people as possible to appear in person, and the meeting was broadcast via satellite to the other colonies.  We did not have a building big enough to hold everybody, and so we held the meeting outdoors.  Near the town is a limestone scar where there is some shelter from the wind and we thought the acoustics would be better.  We set up a stage and a microphone. 

            Despite the threat of conflict and the news of the deaths of some of my fellow colonists,  I could not help feeling pleasure at seeing so many of my fellow colonists, in all their eccentric variety.  Children with braided hair and hand-knitted jumpers ran around and played at the back of the crowd.  People sat on blankets, took food out of capacious hampers, and swigged bottles of beer or drank from flasks of tea.  Except for the cold weather, the atmosphere was more like a music festival than a political meeting. 

            I opened the meeting.  Prudence Tadlow was the chairwoman.  She had on her work clothes: overalls, boots and utility-belt. 

            ‘The news from I-2 is that we have been invaded, and it is now our task to organise ourselves for the defence of our selves, our children, and our way of life.  That defence must not fail.

            ‘We have been taken by surprise, but I should impress upon you that the enemy is only entitled to expect surprise to confer a momentary advantage.  Our actions now must demonstrate that that momentary advantage is over.

            ‘We have no excuse for not winning this conflict.  We control every economic asset on the planet.  We do not know how many men the invaders have, but I expect to beat them, and I expect that victory to be won quite quickly.  In man and womanpower, food and supplies, in intelligence and, I believe, in military organisation and the will to win – we outclass the enemy. 

            ‘Our stated aim is the total destruction of the enemy’s capacity for armed resistance, to the point where he can no longer do harm to any one of us, ever again.  Our strategy will be based on three principles:

            ‘One.  The enemy must be deprived of food, water and sustenance at every opportunity.  We will continue to eat and drink but he must starve and thirst.

            ‘Two.  Every engagement must inflict more casualties on the enemy than ourselves.  We must emerge from this ordeal with the generative power of our community still intact.  We will take no prisoners and will attempt swiftly to rescue any of ourselves who are taken prisoner if it is possible to do so.  Members of the community who cannot fight must be kept as far from the enemy as possible.

            ‘Three.  We must make the best possible use of all resources, including any material we can capture from the enemy, to increase the effectiveness of our attacks.

            ‘We have just a few hours in which to organise all this.  I understand that there are many things that you will want to discuss but, I urge you, please be brief and swift.  Right now, I expect that the invaders are ransacking another town and, if any-one is unfortunate enough not to have been able to flee, they will be raped, tortured and murdered.  This is not an intellectual exercise: what we are trying to arrange for is the systematic ending of rape, torture, and murder – not any abstract ideal.

            ‘Have we all got that?’  No-one spoke.  A few people nodded.  Most of them looked blank.  I started to feel worried, but did my utmost not to show it.

            I offered for a series of three-minute speeches by people from the floor of the meeting, on the basis that the meeting could vote after each one on whether to allow the last speaker an extension.  Most of these speeches were tedious, poorly-expressed, incoherent and without incident.  The last person to speak was a woman who gave her name as Moonflower.  Towards the end of her three minutes, she uttered the words I had been dreading.

            ‘When the conflict is over, we will still have to live on the same planet as these people.’  I had to interrupt.

            ‘No, we won’t.  This is our planet, not theirs.  Make no mistake – there are only two possible outcomes of this war: the extinction of the invaders, or the extinction of our way of life.  If I could make it less unpleasant, I would, but I can’t.’   Moonflower looked at me with shocked bewilderment.  I had felt vulnerable.  I looked round the assembly with a questioning gaze.  There was an uneasy silence.  Some people looked at me.  Others looked at Moonflower.  Most of them looked at the ground.

            ‘The invaders must be defeated,’ I pronounced, slightly too loudly, so that the word be thumped out of the loudspeakers like the sound of a bass drum.  ‘The only thing that can bring about that defeat is ourselves.  What is it to be?’

            ‘Shall we take a vote on it?’ asked Prudence, off-microphone, so that only those on or near the stage heard her.  I handed the microphone to Prudence and was relieved that Moonflower did not protest.

            ‘What is the actual motion we are voting on?’ somebody shouted at Prudence from near the front of the assembly.  A hubbub  then began.  People began climbing onto the stage and bombarding me with questions.  I tried to answer them as pleasantly and politely as I could.  I was trying to move towards Prudence so that between us we could call the meeting back to order.  A sudden wall of bodies impeded me.

            ‘Call a recess!’ I shouted to her.  ‘Call a recess and then I’ll present the motion.’

            ‘We will have a recess for one hour, after which Kelvin Stark will put forward the motion, and then we’ll vote.  Can we clear the stage please?’

            People went into the tent which had been pitched nearby and emerged with bowls of soup and hunks of bread.  A brief shower of rain fell, but never looked like disrupting the meeting.  I wandered to a quiet spot under the shelter of an over-hanging rock and sat down with a notebook and a pen to prepare my speech.

            I had stopped writing, but was still deep in thought when Prudence sent somebody to fetch me. 

            I had entitled the motion The Defence of Civil Society Bill.  It contained the following clauses.

1.                            A position of Commander-in-Chief will be established for the duration of the war.  The holder of this position will stay in post until incapacitated or dead.  The first holder of the position will be Kelvin Stark. 

2.                            The C-in-C will have the power to:

a.       Arrange the economy for the war effort including the requisitioning of labour and the supply of food;

b.      Recruit and disband troop formations; promote and demote officers; train, equip, deploy and command forces;

c.       Control the broadcasting of information and the use of propaganda;

d.      Nominate a list of successors to be approved by the Assembly;

e.       Select and dismiss members of the Cabinet without approval (see clause 3).

3.                            A Cabinet will be selected by the C-in-C to manage the departments of government for the duration of the war.  The Cabinet will advise the C-in-C but he will have the final say in all things, including military and economic strategy and tactics, the formulation of surrender terms, and the definition of what constitutes victory.

4.                            The C-in-C will himself be a member of the armed forces and will, at such times as he considers necessary, take part in training exercises and offensive operations.

 

            I stood up to the microphone and prepared to have myself declared the military ruler of Achird-gamma.

            The ensuing debate lasted for over two hours, and a windy afternoon was beginning to turn into a chilly evening by the time we had finished.  Most of the questions directed at me were along the lines of “How will we be able to get rid of you when the war is over?”  This was exactly the one that I would have asked myself, and I was glad to discuss it.  My principal interlocutor was Professor Timothy Gonzales. 

            ‘Dr Stark, are you familiar with the quotation that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely?’

            ‘I am indeed, Professor.’

            ‘And how do you propose to prevent yourself from being corrupted?’

            ‘By not being in power for long enough.  We have a job to do.  My job is not to oppress you.’  I motioned in a wide arc to indicate those assembled.  ‘My job is to organise our defence and to remove the menace that now threatens us.  Every ounce of our resources will be directed against that menace; not against our own people.’

            ‘I see.  And how transparent will your government be?’

            ‘Transparency will be something that I will use where I think it will help to instil confidence, but not something that I will employ generally. ’

            ‘Not?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘How can you justify that?’

            ‘Napoleon Bonaparte said that the moral is to the material as three is to one.  Many of our people have no military training or experience of what it is like to be in the heat of a life-or-death battle.  The best available information that we have so far suggests that, although the enemy is numerous, we outnumber him at least four or five to one.  Since we also control the economy of virtually the entire planet, we have – or should have – overwhelming strategic advantages.  The one area in which we remain to be tested is resolve.  I hope that there are men and women among us who can equal me in that resolve, but I guarantee you that nobody can surpass me in it.  The enemy cannot win this war: we can only lose it for him, if we allow our fear of his violence and vindictiveness to weaken our resolve.  In the cause of maintaining and strengthening that resolve, I will let people know what I think it is in their interests to know.  This is one of the essential features of war.’

            ‘Mm.  Reluctantly, I think I am forced to agree with you. So how would we get rid of you in the end?’

            ‘If we are victorious?’

            ‘If we are victorious.’

            ‘We will have another Assembly, and I will step down.’

            ‘What if you decided not to?’

            ‘The Assembly can repeal the law by which the position of Commander-in-Chief was created.’

            ‘And what if you still refuse to go?’

            ‘You can shoot me.’

            Everybody laughed.  They laughed so hard, in fact, that order was lost for some minutes and I was annoyed.  I was annoyed because I had been in deadly earnest when I had said You can shoot me.

When everybody did stop laughing, and Prudence finally managed to re-unite the score of small meetings that had broken out among those assembled, Professor Gonzales spoke again.

            ‘I have one final comment.’

            ‘And that is?’ I asked.

            ‘There is a special name for the kind of government that you are proposing.’

            ‘What would you call it?’

            ‘Monarchy.’  I was momentarily stunned.  It was the last word that I had been expecting the Professor to utter.  I had feared rather that he would say military dictatorship or fascist junta.

            ‘Long live King Kelvin the First!’ shouted somebody from further back, in a refined public-school accent. There was laughter again, less raucous and long-lasting than before.

            ‘Madam Chairman, I propose an amendment to the Bill, to replace the title Commander-in-Chief with King.’

            ‘Are there any other amendments?’ asked Prudence, after taking the microphone.  There was a buzz of conversation, but nobody raised a hand or spoke up.

            ‘Doctor Stark, do you accept the amendment from Professor Gonzales?’  I did not know what to say.  I just shrugged.  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Prudence.  Prudence, who was now holding the paper that I had written during the recess, read it out in its entirety, substituting King for every instance of Commander-in-Chief. 

            The Assembly moved to the vote.  Once those case via the satellite link had been added to the votes of those present at the Assembly, there were 46401 votes in favour, 282 against, and 196 abstentions.  I had the overwhelming support of the Assembly and was now the King of Achird-gamma.

            The meeting broke up.  Prudence, the only other person left on the stage, came over to me and, taking me completely by surprise kissed me lingeringly on the lips.    

            ‘I’ve never met a real, live King before,’ she observed, and then curtsied (very gracefully and competently) and giggled.  I had never seen some-one attempt a curtsy while wearing a utility belt.

*

Kelvin is king.  The Cerise Vallance stable of magazines is about to get a new title.  It will be called Royal Flush.  The banner will feature an image of Kelvin as a playing card: the King of Hearts.

 

We have been here on I-11 for about six months, and have started to build three settlements.  Kelvin and Pamela are living in a rather unusual house, which I will describe later.  Kelvin, along with hundreds of the other colonists, both here and on other islands, is acutely ill.  I fear he may die.  I have been frantically working on a cure, twenty-four hours a day, for some time now.  I have shut down Starlight Escorts and am using some of my simulacra to operate my lab machinery, to speed up the analysis. 

            The story started at the very moment we landed, and Kelvin took his first breath of the air of Achird-gamma (an account he repeats often).  I myself noticed that a foreign genome had entered my biological system.  I did not attach any importance to it at the time: I just waited for my immune system to destroy it, which it did quickly.  My immune system is based on yours, but it can adapt much more rapidly, and I can exercise a certain amount of voluntary control over what it does, based on information it sends to my brain. 

            This foreign genome turned out to belong to a virus, which I succeeded in isolating a few days ago.  I am now trying to find a vaccine, which in practice means finding a member of the colony who has natural immunity.  The way I prevented the virus from replicating itself inside me is not transferable to animals or humans, mainly because so little of me is cellular.  The crisis crept up and surprised us partly because the disease has such a long incubation period. 

            For a while after we landed, people kept repeating how remarkably hospitable this planet is.  Kelvin said that we should expect the unexpected.  He said that we should continue to study our surroundings as diligently as possible, because something was about to surprise us.  He was right.  He might be hailed as a prophet, if he lives.

            The number of reported cases is growing daily.  We considered shutting down all travel between colonies, but that soon seemed to be counter-productive.  The virus is believed to be airborne and evidence suggests it is present everywhere.  It is the planet itself which is infectious.  Horace is perfectly safe, because “he” is in a hermetically-sealed container, but now I won’t be able to let him gestate until after we have found a vaccine. 

            The symptoms resemble those of influenza.  It starts with a feeling of dryness and tenderness in the sinuses, sometimes accompanied by dizziness and severe earache or headache.  A few hours later, the patient experiences pains in the joints and muscle weakness, sometimes accompanied by nausea and vomiting.  Fever rapidly follows, at which point most patients collapse and have to be confined to bed.  Some have gone into a coma and some have died.  Kelvin is currently at the fever stage.  He is conscious, but is having fits of delirium.  He is in our  hospital, being looked after by a fat, bald, bespectacled consultant called Dr Condon-Douglas.  Dr Condon-Douglas is rather pompous and distant in his manner, and he thinks I am an interfering busybody, but I’ll teach him to take me seriously.  I’ve got a laboratory which would be the envy of some universities, and a tunnelling electron-microscope.  He hasn’t even got a magnifying-glass. 

            I have contacted all the other colonies via satellite, and have arranged to collect blood samples from most of them.  Ideally, I want a sample of blood from every man, woman and child on the planet.  There is no evidence yet that the virus affects animals other than humans, but I will take blood from animals as well if I have to.  I have a plentiful supply of the virus, and I am checking the samples for signs of natural immunity.  Once the samples are in the lab, most of the process is automated.  I have just set another batch going, and so I might as well go and visit Kelvin.  I have got him a bunch of black grapes imported from I-2 (which happens to be where the infection first broke out).  I don’t think he will be eating them any time soon.  He has not eaten anything for three days and is on intravenous fluids.  He is lying on his back and is quite still, with his eyes closed.  There are two nurses by his bed who are bitching about one of the other nurses.  Kelvin probably can’t hear that at the moment. 

---

I’m back from the hospital.  I stayed there about three hours.  I went into a dormant state for a while (the first rest I have had for days) and read a bit of The Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith.  Kelvin was asleep the whole time.  They were giving him saline and glucose (like I do when he is drunk).  I was glad to note that he was actually asleep and not comatose.  His temperature is still very high.  I made sure that the nurses are changing his sheets and washing him regularly. 

            Prudence visited him a couple of times when he first got ill, but she has gone down with it herself now.  I wonder what this disease will eventually be called.  I might as well go back to the lab.

            I am checking regularly for bulletins from other colonies.  The death toll has now risen to 396, including several newborns and infants.  We can’t afford this.  The colonisation will become unsustainable unless we stop the epidemic soon.  I am almost glad that Kelvin is not himself: he would be going mad.

---

At last, a breakthrough.  The sample tube I have in my hand shows evidence of natural immunity.  I’ll just read the bar code on it, and look up the name of the patient it was taken from.  I will need to get another sample, if possible, to make sure it was not a fluke.  I’ll try to get a much bigger one next time, preferably a hundred millilitres or so. 

            It’s Kelvin.  The sample that is showing promise came from Kelvin Philip Alexander Stark. Where’s my doctor’s bag?  Kelvin, I am about to stick another needle into you. 

            I must stop thinking about whether or not he is going to die, and concentrate on the research.

---

Doctor Condon-Douglas tried to obstruct me in the act of taking the larger blood sample from Kelvin, but he agreed to let me continue after I had lifted him off the floor by the lapels of his white coat.  I am back in the lab again, and have re-run the test.  The answer is consistently that Kelvin has made anti-bodies.  His symptoms are not getting any worse.  I hope for improvement soon.  I am virtually at the point where I can report this to the other colonies, and put the vaccine into production. 

*

My name is Cheryl Moxon.  I’m married to Wayne.  We have both been poorly recently.  Really poorly.  A nurse came and gave us a jab, and we are both getting better now.  It is important for us to get better so that we can go back to work on the farm.  It is hard work, working on the farm.  We have both had a fever.  We couldn’t work with the fever.  We couldn’t even get out of bed for a while, we were so poorly.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so bad.  I don’t think Wayne has, either. 

            The animals are all right.  One of the neighbours came and fed them and watered them while we were ill.  That was kind.  We’ve got pigs and chickens and a cow and a dog.  Our dog is called Derek.  Our cow is called Mildred.  I don’t know if we have names for the pigs: Wayne looks after them.  We used to have names for the chickens, but we don’t anymore because there are too many of them, and it would be too many to remember.  When the nurse came to give us our jabs, she had a letter from the hospital which asked if we would let the nurse take some of our eggs.  The people at the hospital needed the eggs to make people better.  The nurse said that they weren’t going to cook the eggs, or eat them.  They were going to use them for making more stuff for other people’s jabs.

            We live on I-2.  Most of the people who live round us are foreign, but they’re very nice.  They talk in foreign.  They call us Lez Ong-glay, or sometimes Lay Porvruh Ong-glay.  I don’t think that means anything rude.  I think it just means “not foreign”.   It is lovely and warm here: much warmer than it was where we lived before.  We have some greenhouses, but we have to keep the windows open most of the time, otherwise it would get too hot.  We grow loads of stuff.  The soil was funny to start with: not like proper soil.  A man came and brought us some worms – loads and loads of worms.  After a while, the soil changed.  It was much better for growing things. 

            We were doing so well before we got ill.  I hope things will get back to usual soon.  We had finished all the outbuildings, and the new water tank, and the new slurry tank, and we had finished building the farmhouse.  We’ve got a proper bed and everything now: sofa, chairs, kitchen table, gas cooker, fridge.  The gas comes from a machine in the farmyard, and so we don’t have to pay any bills on it.  Wayne has to remember to keep filling it with slurry.  I remind him, because he’s very forgetful.  He’s a bit slow, is Wayne, but he’s a good man.  Just a bit slow.   

            As soon as we’re well again, we’ll have to slaughter a pig and take some stuff to the market.  We like going to the market.  Most people there talk in foreign, but we can usually make them understand.  They even understand Wayne, and he’s a bit slow. 

*

Kelvin’s temperature went back to normal and he stopped being delirious.  I stayed with him and changed his sheets and kept him clean.  I could tell he was better when he suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, and demanded a rare steak, chips, spinach, a bottle of claret and two bottles of oatmeal stout.  I cried when he said that.  I took him home shortly afterwards.  

            Within a few weeks, we had immunised the entire population.   

I fear for Kelvin’s sanity.  The pressure and excitement at the prospect of our landing are making him behave strangely.  He is working increasingly long hours, sleeping less, and eating less.  At least I now always know where he is and what he is seeing and hearing. 

            Because we spend such little time together now, I think it is very important for us to share things before we go to sleep.  I have worked out a two-course meal that is very quick to prepare and very nourishing.  The main course is carp in spicy batter with chips and peas.  The first course is a Thai-style soup with herbs, ginger and chillies and a very concentrated and flavoursome stock that Kelvin doesn’t know is made out of fish-guts.  It is really nourishing, and Kelvin likes it.  I know if he is in a good mood when he eats it, because he tells me about all the things that the undertones in the flavour remind him of, that he is looking forward to eating again when we have established the new colony.  These are moments of reprieve, but they do not stop me from worrying about Kelvin’s state of mind. 

            I need to think of something to absorb his energy and, at the same time, bring us closer together.  It needs to be something completely unrelated to work.  We have been running our businesses at maximum capacity for months now, and have plenty of cash in reserve.  Kerr McLean has been talking to Kelvin about starting a bank, but I hope they will leave that until after we land.  James Holt keeps bothering him with more and more ideas for engineering projects, but those as well need to wait until after we land.  The filling-in activity I have in mind needs to be something crazy but not harmful to Kelvin’s health.  Something sensual, not intellectual; something not physically or mentally arduous.  Ideally, it needs to be something that would be sustainable over several weeks, to take us right up to the landing preparations. 

*

My name is Lucian McGonnell.  I was in O’Mally’s last night, having a few pints of stout, and I met a very remarkable woman that I had never seen before.  She was tall.  She had long auburn hair.  Her skin was pale; her eyes grey-green.  Her eyebrows and eyelashes were dark, which made her skin look even paler.  She was wearing a long-sleeved, crimson, silk dress with lace above the bust and tassels round the hem.  It was drawn in at the waist and complemented her figure very well.  She had see-through, lacy crimson silk on her hands, but bare fingers and red nail-polish.  She had red stockings with black seams and shiny black Mary-Jane shoes with high heels.  She had a platinum pendant on a chain around her neck, which she kept playing with.  The pendant was an elongated, slender V-shape with a single diamond in the middle of it.  O’Mally’s was mostly in darkness, except for a few spotlights that moved slowly across the booths and tables.  The diamond kept catching the light and it sparkled.  I could not stop myself from gazing at it.  The woman kept giving me side-long looks as I was talking to her, and putting the chain of the pendant in her mouth.   I asked her what her name was.  She looked at me studiously, as if deciding whether to dignify my question with a reply. 

            ‘Elvira,’ she said, at long last.  She spoke in a really sexy voice.  Quiet and carefully-spoken, but strong in undertone.  It was the sort of voice you could never imagine nagging you or rowing with you.  It was a voice made for long phone calls and pillow-talk. 

            Elvira certainly was a good listener.  She looked at me very intently, as if she was studying my every move.  She kept playing with that pendant and I was worried that her thick,  bright-red lipstick would get in among the fine links of the chain.  Every so often she opened her handbag, took out a powder compact, and studied her face in the mirror.  She flicked her hair around, and once or twice re-applied her lipstick.  It was very sexual, the way she did that.  It made you want to be the lipstick.  Most of the women I’ve known carry all kinds of stuff in their handbags: timetables, textbooks, toilet rolls, takeaways, but Elvira’s handbag was small and feminine.  It was dark green.  Viridian, I would say, and it had little gemstones on it in a lattice-work pattern, and a gold clasp.  All it seemed to contain was her make-up, a small white handkerchief, a fountain-pen and a notebook.  How I wanted my name and cabin number to be written in that notebook. 

            She was with a friend, who was talking to another woman with whom I gather she did not see eye-to-eye.  The friend was a plain-looking woman who had evidently spent a lot on her wardrobe.  She had on a black trouser-suit with big buttons and gold, ‘Sergeant Pepper-style’ edging to the jacket, a Nehru collar, and a black bow in her hair.   The other woman was loud in her appearance as well as her speech.  She was wearing a two-tone magenta and midnight-blue silk cocktail dress with a great big ribbon at the back that looked like a parachute.  She had bright pink, dyed hair, and 1950s-style spectacles with pink plastic frames.  I looked at these three ladies and, being rather drunk as I was, my eyes alighted on their bust region.  I noticed that Elvira was about a ‘D’ cup, and therefore the largest among those present, followed by the magenta woman, with Elvira’s friend last.  I allowed my mind to speculate on what Elvira’s nipples might be like.  I hoped they would be prominent and cylindrical when erect, with a big circle around them, just like my dear Mother’s.  I’m sorry.  Did I say that out loud?  Anyway, I really fancied that woman.  Especially when her friend got up to go to the bar, and she had to shuffle along the seat she was sitting on, and her dress got caught up against her thigh.  I could see the imprint of her suspenders under her dress.   It made me want to trace that imprint with my fingers and my tongue, and to lift up her dress and do the same.  

            Elvira truly had my heart beguiled.   

There are times when I wonder if Anna really exists.  She wants to use the new spa that Pamela and I have opened as a knocking-shop.  I invited her to a meeting so that the three of us could talk about it, but she said that she only wanted to talk about it over the phone.

            We did talk about it over the phone, eventually.  I tried to make a joke about using the art screen in the reception area to display Picasso’s Les Desmoiselles D’Avignon, but she seemed to think I was serious.  She said, ‘I know it is your favourite painting, but I don’t think it would be appropriate in that setting.’  How did she know that?  I can’t remember mentioning it to any-one on the ship.  The last time I had a conversation about Picasso, it was years ago, on a trip to London with Violet.

            For reasons that I am not in a position to discuss at the moment, I have been having detailed discussions with some of the ship’s military people recently.  I have invited some of them to the opening of the spa.  Most of Anna’s ladies will be there, Pamela tells me.  I hope everybody will conduct him or her self in keeping with decorum. 

*

I must admit that I experience a certain frisson whenever Kelvin calls or emails Anna when he and Pamela are in the same room. 

            Kelvin has started a campaign recently, the details of which I can’t divulge at the moment, which means that I find it advantageous to earn as much money as possible.  This is why Anna suggested broadening the range of services on offer at the new spa.  Kelvin does not seem keen on this idea – what a hypocrite. 

            I have also been feverishly busy in my scientific research.  I have been making some enhancements, but not to myself: to Rosalind.  I have been doing experiments for some time now, and have finally had a breakthrough.  I have invented a device for reading the signal from a nerve, reproducing it, and broadcasting it, all without interfering with the original signal.  I made them partly by using my tunnelling electron-microscope.  As well as looking at atoms and molecules, it can also pick them up and manipulate them.  When I receive these signals, I can interpret them to turn them back into images and sound.

            I have planted these devices in both Rosalind’s optic nerves and aural nerves.  I did this in stages, making sure each time that the nerve was still working.  I did not want her to go blind or deaf.

            Rosalind makes quite a good observer, because she belongs to a species which is hunted, and so she has all-round vision (but of course she can only see in black and white).  I can switch on both her eyes and ears and sense internally what she is sensing. 

            This, of course, was not my main objective.  This was vivisection in the cause of reproducing the same procedures on Kelvin.  Kelvin will get a further modification: the devices I am going to implant in him will be two-way: I will be able to make him see and hear things, should I so choose.  I am sure this will come in very handy, one day.

            The problem is to work out how I can perform quite invasive surgery on Kelvin without his realising what it is for.  Among other things, I will have to take both his eyeballs out.  They are beautiful (mostly grey, but the kind that change colour from one day to the next) and I want to put them back properly.  When he comes round from the anaesthetic, he must be completely unsuspecting about what I have done to him. 

            I am thinking this as I look at Kelvin across the reception area of our new spa.  Kelvin and Pamela are here as the hosts, in our brand new, white, towelling dressing gowns and flip-flops.  Kelvin has brought out a very light and fragrant beer in honour of the occasion, which he calls Space Hopper.  Most of the guests are drinking sparkling wine, but Kelvin sticks resolutely to his own produce.  We splashed out for some of the good stuff (brought from Earth rather than made from the ship’s own grapes).  It is eye-wateringly expensive, but we are quite well-off now.  The birch panelling for the changing-rooms and the slate for the wet rooms was also very dear, but worth it – and it will all be re-cycleable after we land.  

            Cerise Vallance is here, with an entourage even bigger than usual.  She was politely instructed to leave her camera and all recording equipment except a notebook and pen in the reception area.  Jessica Springer and Emile Bourdelle are talking to Patrick Fitzgerald and Cecily Johnson.  At least, Emile is talking to them.  Jessica is nodding frantically and trying to keep up with the conversation, which is about freedom, the individual, and the State, and their relationship to artistic expression in a democratic society.

            Partly to bump up the numbers, and partly for a laugh, I have enhanced some of my simulacra so that they can hold a kind of conversation without needing to be under my control.  They still have no real intelligence, but I have programmed them with what is in fact a much more sophisticated version of an antique computer algorithm called Eliza.  Eliza was the first of the line of chat-bots which used to be fashionable, and first appeared in the 1960s.  It ran on an old-fashioned mainframe computer, and you communicated with it by typing on the keyboard.  It analysed what you had said, one sentence at a time, tried to locate the keyword, if possible, and responded with something that sounded vaguely like a Rogerian psychotherapist. 

            To make it more interesting (and remunerative) I have programmed each of Anna’s ladies to prostitute herself to the men at the gathering.  I doubt if any of them have got any money on them, but Anna can always collect later.  

            I am just sidling over to where Kayla is talking to James Holt.  I did not think he would be able to make it, but here he is. 

            ‘Er.  So.  What did you do back on Earth – before we set off?’

            ‘My dad was American.  I was born in Hawaii.’

            ‘Er.  I see.  But what did you do for a living?’

            ‘I was half-American.  Just like I am now.’

            ‘But, surely, you didn’t make a living out of that?’

            ‘Are you saying that I’m not living?’

            ‘Not at all.  You are clearly very much alive.’

            ‘Yes, I am.  I want to live.  I want to live.  I want to live.’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘When I’m twenty-one, I have to decide on my citizenship.’

            ‘I’m beg your pardon?’

            ‘I have to decide whether I want UK or US citizenship.’

            ‘But there won’t be a United Kingdom or a United States on the new planet.’

            ‘Are you challenging my right to citizenship?’

            ‘No, no.  Not at all.  Not a bit of it.’

            ‘You don’t want a bit of it?’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘We could go upstairs if you like.’  She begins gently to stroke  his arm with her index finger.  Poor Doctor Holt.  

            Next is Layla. She is with a short, stocky, red-haired man called Andrew Downing, who on Earth was an officer in the British Army.

            ‘You’re really my type of girl.  Do you know that?’

            ‘It’s four sovereigns.’

            ‘Pardon?’

            ‘For a fuck.  Four sovereigns.  One for a hand-job; two for a blow-job without CIM or face-cream; three for a messy blow-job; four for a fuck.  If you want anal or any extras, you would be better talking to Angel.’

            ‘Please excuse me.  I’m just going for an other drink.’

            Layla can be a little over-zealous sometimes.

            Here we have another soldier.  He is nearly seven feet tall, has muscles like coiled pythons,  and his head looks like a turnip.  His name is Brian McCann.  He looks bored.  Angel is talking to him.  She is blonde, petite, with delicate features, and an intelligent and impish expression.

            ‘Are you big all over?’

            ‘Er.  I suppose so.’

            ‘In every department?’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘What I mean is, are you well-endowed?’

            ‘Do you mean…’

            ‘Yes, your cock.  Do you have a huge cock?’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘Can I measure it when it’s erect?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘For length and girth?  I’ve got a tape measure in my bag.’

            ‘No.’

            ‘No to length, no to girth, or no to both?’

            ‘No to both.’

            ‘You are unreasonable.  Do you know that?’

            That’s my girl.  I was cheating there.  Part of that conversation was authored directly by me.  Now for Olivia.  She is talking to the last of our army men, Ben Stewart.

            ‘What did you used to do, back on Earth?’

            ‘I was a bomb-disposal expert.’

            ‘Oh, you brave, brave boy.  Did you face death every day?’

            ‘Every weekday, yes.  I didn’t have to face death at the weekend unless I was on overtime.’

            ‘What did you used to think of, at the moments when you thought you might be going to die?’

            ‘Shagging, usually.’

            ‘What are you thinking about now?’

            ‘I am thinking that you remind me of a lady I used to know once in Hanover.  She was a gymnast.’

            ‘I’ve got quite flexible joints.  Would you like to see me demonstrate some moves?’

            Kelvin did not quite realise why, but we had spent some considerable time in building some hot tubs on the platform above which were each surrounded by a soundproof and vibration-proof enclosure.  Since we are running a high-class establishment, each tub will be completely emptied, scrubbed, and re-filled with clean water and new aromatics in between clients. 

            I gave one of the hot-tubs to Cerise Vallance and her hangers-on (all female).  You should have seen Cerise’s face at the moment when I told them it was ready.  Her minions all went wild, but she looked utterly repulsed.  I got a very good shot of her.  I don’t know why she did not just come clean and say she did not want to get in it.