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'General, may I talk with you?'

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

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

'We need to mount as assault.  Yes.'

'Well I have here.  We are ready.  '

'How many personnel are in your squad?'

'Eight, including squad leader: me.'

'Eight?'

'Yes, eight.'

'Exactly what operation do you have in mind?'

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

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

'We die.'

'And?'

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

'Why that name?'

'Because we only live one day.'

'Are you serious?'

'Do I look as if not serious?'

'No.  You look perfectly serious.'

'Well then.  We good to go, General?'

'What weapons do you have?'

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

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

'Do I have to answer?'

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

'We get order advance?'

'Are you prepared to die?'

'Most of us already dead.'

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

'No problem.  We get on with it now?'

'Carry on, squad leader.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told Pamela that I was thinking of going on a tour of the other colonies.  She asked when I was expecting us to leave, and I told her I was thinking of going on my own, so that she could stay behind and look after business.  She went mad.  She said, ‘No, no, no.  Not again, you bastard.’  I asked her what she meant by “again”.  She said, ‘You are not going to leave me the same way that you left Violet.’  I said, ‘I have no intention of leaving you.  I am planning to go on a tour and then come back.’  She doesn’t believe me. 

            I’m still going. 

*

You can still call me Paddy, even though I’m the Mayor.  The town doesn’t have a name, yet, but it is growing.  We have got a harbour, a crane, three warehouses (one for food, one for livestock, and one for imperishables), a town hall (of sorts), various shops and houses, and a pub.  The pub has the same name and management as the bar on The Irish Rover called O’Mally’s.  It is popular even with non-drinkers, because it is very well insulated and usually cool, even in our hot climate.  I come here nearly ever day after work.  My more sober-minded clerk, Cecily Johnson, joins me only occasionally.  She is still working at the moment.  Some-one has discovered a new mineral deposit and she is looking over the application for the mine workings.  I think she’s coming over later. 

            The speciality drink here is lager brewed from unrefined sugar-cane juice and served in a glass tankard frosted with ice.  It is the most thirst-quenching drink around. 

            I can hear a strange noise.   It sounds like a helicopter.  There are no helicopters on this planet that I know of.  Yes, it definitely is a

*

I had just finished work for the day, and was walking from the office over to O’Mally’s to have a drink with Paddy, when I heard a helicopter flying low over the town.  I looked up and saw it.  It was dark green and looked like a military helicopter.  Without any warning or apparent cause, the helicopter fired a missile which scored a direct hit on O’Mally’s, and blew the building to pieces in a fireball.  I did not bother to approach the wreckage: nobody could have survived that attack.  I was hit by flying debris.    

            I turned on my heels and ran back to the town hall, where I knew I could communicate with the other colonies.  Just as I got to the front door, I heard an engine.  I looked round and saw a tank driving past the wreckage of O’Mally’s.  I ran upstairs, and got as many of the other town clerks as I could on a video chat session.  This is what I said to them.

            ‘This is Counsellor Cecily Johnson.  I am the town clerk from the main settlement in I-2.  This is an emergency.  This is a life-or-death emergency.  I want to give you some details of what has happened, and I need you to pass them to as many of the other colonies as you can.  Do you understand?’  The faces on the screen all nodded.  ‘Our colony has been invaded.  We are under attack.  I repeat: we are under attack – we are under threat of our lives.  This is not an exercise.  Have you got that?’  They nodded again.

‘The invaders are men in uniforms.  They have armoured vehicles.  They have a helicopter which fires deadly missiles.  They arrived earlier today.  They fired a rocket at a public house in our town called O'Mally's and killed many innocent people, including the Mayor.  Mayor Patrick Fitzgerald is dead.  I repeat –.’  I had to stop for a moment.  ‘Paddy’s dead.  I think about thirty people might have been killed so far.’

            ‘Counsellor Johnson,’ said one of the faces on the screen, a very young chap on I-13 whose name I think is Waverley Diggle, ‘Are you hurt?’ 

            ‘I think I have something lodged in my right shoulder.’

            ‘Well, we need to come and find you: give you some medical treatment.’

            ‘Don’t worry about me, you idiot!  I want you to do something to save this planet and this population.  I can’t talk more now.  I have to escape.’ 

            I grabbed the keys to the safe and ran all the way home.  I threw some things into a rucksack, changed my clothes, and put a lead on Junc’s collar.  Junc is my Labrador (his name is short for injunction).  We headed for the hills.  My shoulder was killing me.

*

As soon as I heard what that lady said, I went straight to see Mr McLean.  He is not the mayor, but he still runs the island.  The mayor is usually drunk at that time of day, anyway, and pretty useless for anything.  The last time I woke him up after he had passed out, he threatened to cut my penis off, the stupid sod. 

            Mr McLean was in his office, as usual.  I don’t think he ever eats or sleeps.  Even when he has a drink he has it while sitting in his office. 

            It was night-time, and the moon was shining.  I could see it reflected in the harbour.  It seemed very peaceful and calm.  It seemed crazy that there was fighting happening on another island. 

            Mr McLean’s “office” is a set of pre-fabs which keeps growing and growing.  It isn’t very nice to look at.  Part of it is a shop, where you can buy just about anything – bananas, carpets, knives, live chickens – all kinds of stuff.  Another part of it always has men in it who are drinking.  I don’t know if it is a pub or a club or what, but they are always there.  When I got there, Mr McLean was writing figures down in a ledger-book by the light of an oil-lamp.  As usual, he was wearing a dirty tracksuit with dog hairs all over it.  For a man who is one of the richest on this planet, he dresses like a tramp. 

            ‘Hello, stranger,’ he said when I went in. ‘What brings you here?  Have you run out of gin?’

            ‘Mr McLean, sir, we’ve got a very serious kind of, er, um, problem.’

            ‘I’m intrigued, my boy.  What kind of problem, and why do you say “we”?’

            ‘It’s a situation, er - it looks like a problem that will be very bad for business.’  I said that because I thought he was not listening properly and I wanted to grab his attention.

            ‘Go on.  What is it?’

            ‘A few minutes ago, I got a call on the video phone from a woman on the next island called Cecily Johnson.’

            ‘Aye, I’ve met her a couple of times.  She’s the lassie you have to deal with if you want to get anything done there.  She’s true to her word, if a wee bit obstructive now and again.’

            ‘Yes, well.  She phoned a few minutes ago to say that her town was under attack by men in uniform, who had gone mad and started firing missiles.  She said they’d blown up a place called O’Mally’s and killed the mayor.’

            ‘They’ve WHAT!’  He sounded so pissed off that I moved two steps backwards without thinking.  I knew that would upset him.  In Mr McLean’s world, the only reason you ever demolish a building is to re-use the materials and put up an even bigger one in its place.  

            Mr McLean took a couple of his men and me into another room, where he had his computer terminal.  Mr McLean never uses the computer unless he has to.  We tried to get in touch with some of Mr McLean’s contacts.  When I left, I think he was still talking to some-one on I-11.  I hope it was Kelvin Stark.  

*

I am more angry with Kelvin than I have ever been since he first mentioned this fucking Alpha Project.  He has pissed off on some “tour” of the other colonies.  He was last heard of heading for I-2, which is on the other side of the world.  He goes away, and we get a message to say that we have been attacked by an unknown force.  We don’t know if the attack on O’Mally’s was perpetrated by terrorists, or gangsters, or a commercial organisation, or a government.  The one time when we need the originator of this charade to provide some leadership, and he isn’t here.  He has no computer or mobile communication device with him, other than the ones I implanted without his knowledge

            I am going to have to contact him via satellite and these devices.  Kelvin is about to hear voices.

            My name is Violet, and I’m back.