The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Rusholme, Manchester

1^st December 2001
Sameena had discovered that she enjoyed medical school, particularly the course in wartime wounded. The man running it was completely non-sexist or non-racist; he hated everyone. His warnings that they would have to perform surgery under fire, without the legal technicalities that slowed down other medical work, combined with his habit of shouting at people unexpectedly, made the course interesting, in the sense that a thunderstorm was interesting.
“When someone is wounded, its your fucking job to perform triage,” Doctor Tyler had bellowed, and then explained the concept. The mostly-female class had learned fast, practicing binding broken bones and sealing bleeding wounds as fast as possible. Galactic research made it easier; one of the new drugs that were entering mass-production was a very powerful painkiller.
Sameena smiled. They’d all been given a dose and it had been one of the strangest experiences in her life; she’d hardly been able to feel anything. She could have had her fingers sliced off and she wouldn’t have noticed. Doctor Tyler had put it far more crudely than that, combining profanity with a serious warning. Someone could do themselves a serious injury without meaning to do more than inject themselves.
“Sameena, wake up,” her mother snapped. Her dark face was alive with concern. “Wake up, stupid girl.”
Sameena shook her head as she arose, heading for the shower. She glanced at her watch and scowled; the time was barely seven o’clock in the morning. She blinked; class didn’t start until eleven o’clock, and she hadn’t wanted to get up until ten.
“It’s the march today, stupid girl,” her mother snapped, waving a towel at her. Sameena cursed and then ducked a slap; Uncle Jafar had been busy. He’d come into some money – no one knew from where – and he had been using it to round up as many anti-conscription people as he could. With a march of thousands of Asians, he was confident that he could prevent his people from being conscripted into the army, particularly as it had finally dawned on him that women would be conscripted as well.
Sameena smiled suddenly as she stepped into the shower, allowing warm water to run down her body. Almost all of her peers had been married in the last few months, just to prevent some of the men from being conscripted by making them fathers. If Sarfraz hadn’t run off, or the Government had permitted continued immigration, she knew that she would have been married off by now herself.
“Come on out of there,” her cousin-brother shouted. She ignored him; he wouldn’t dare come into the shower, even though he was technically someone she couldn’t marry. Her father would have killed him. “Come on.”
Coward, Sameena thought coldly. He’d never dared bully her when Sarfraz had been around; their relationship had been better than most brothers and sisters. She finished washing herself, careful to ensure that any signs of Brad and her making love were washed off, and stepped out of the shower.
“Come on,” her mother shouted. She sounded annoyed; Sameena could only hope that she would blame her cousin-brother for dragging her back upstairs. She stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a dressing gown, and allowed her cousin-brother to enter the shower.
“Move, girl,” her mother said. “We have to be on the streets at nine o’clock.”
Sameena dressed slowly, pulling on jeans and then pulling on a traditional dress and headscarf over it. Doctor Tyler hadn’t given any of the Asian girls trouble over their scarves, provided that they kept them out of the blood. She didn’t want to march, she didn’t want to join the protest she understood would be futile, and…
There and then, she made her decision about the future. She couldn’t stay with her family anymore, not and keep herself right in the head. She made a mental note to call Brad, as soon as she could slip away from the protest.
***

“We have something of a problem,” Chief Constable Robinson said. The men of the Civil Defence Corps looked as interested as they could. “A bunch of protesters are about to march down into the centre of town, watched by a heavy police presence.”

Brad, hidden in the second row, winced. Sameena had texted him just before he had left the house, complaining about being forced to walk in the march. If it got violent, his girlfriend would be right in the middle of it.
“It’s going to get violent,” Robinson said grimly. Beside him, Sergeant Kendrick snorted. “There are…rogue elements coming to wreck the parade, from National Front nuts who want to fight for Britain, to Muslim groups that hate us for conscripting women, even though we haven’t started that yet. It’s going to be bad.”
Sergeant Kendrick tapped the map. The marchers had announced their intention to march, in accordance with the law, down through Rusholme to where it became Oxford Road, and then on to the Town Centre.
“They’re not going to be allowed past the Manchester Metropolitan University,” Sergeant Kendrick said grimly. “The Police have informed the leader of the march, and he says that he understands, but things like this can get out of hand quite easily. If that happens, we will be called upon to help pull people away from the riot. Understand?”
“Yes, Sergeant Kendrick,” Brad said, along with the rest.
“Good,” Sergeant Kendrick said. “Now, here are your instructions.”
***

The helicopter drifted over Manchester, powered by its rotor blades as it passed over the town centre and hovered over the universities. Hanging from the cockpit, Charlene Jackson shuddered at the view; thousands of people marching towards the police blockade. The police had converted a flyover bridge into a blockade with the help of a Handling Machine and the Civil Defence Corps, establishing a wall beyond which – they hoped – the protesters could not pass. The counter-demonstration, on the other side of Manchester, had already become violent.

“This is Charlene Jackson,” Charlene said, speaking live into the microphone. “The protesters against conscription are still marching forward, despite seeing the police barricades ahead of them. Police officers, some armed and ready for action, are standing by, ready for anything.”
She paused. “We’re bringing you a live feed from the ground as thousands of people march towards the barricade and…”
A policeman, shouting though a megaphone, drowned out her speech. “YOU MAY NOT PROCEED FURTHER,” he shouted. The crowd roared. “STOP NOW AND DISPERSE!”
The marchers didn’t seem disposed to stop; Charlene could see some people urging them on, shouting about fascists and foreign wars. The police seemed to be moving, running Policemen moving into place to prevent the marchers simply smashing through the barricade, and then…
“Oh, dear God,” Charlene breathed, as the explosion billowed up. “What the hell has happened?”
***

Gavin Scott knew little about Asians, except what his father had told him as he grew up. They were leeches, his father had said, before he died of cancer. They were WOGS – Wily Oriental Gentlemen – whose only ambition was to scrounge off deserving ratepayers like himself. Gavin had imbibed his father’s hatred along with his mother’s milk, keeping the hatred alive as his father died in Oldham, just after Contact.

Gavin had been delighted when conscription had been announced. His father had agreed, telling him that it would make a man of him from his deathbed, before closing his eyes forever. Gavin couldn’t wait – he’d absorbed his father’s attitudes towards the military as well – and the thought of people refusing to serve his country shocked him. Having taken all that they could grab, the ungrateful pig-lovers were refusing to serve their adopted country.
“No more,” he’d vowed, and he’d shouted so loudly that the local chapter of the National Front¹³ had agreed to let him attack the protesters. They’d launched a counter-protest, of course, but naturally the cowardly politicians would try to prevent them from marching.
“Get ready,” he muttered to the three youths with him. “Ready?”
Without waiting longer, he led them up onto the roof of the shops on Oxford Road, moving up the back stairs. The shop was owned by a sympathiser, one who had slipped them the keys. He reached the edge and peered down upon the marching crowd, still shouting in their disgraceful version of English.
He opened his bag and drew out the bottles. Some were filled with petrol – a hard-to-find substance these days – and some with chorine. He opened one of the petrol bottles, stuck in the fuse, and lit it.
“Die, you paki bastards,” he shouted, throwing the first bottle directly into the mass of protesters. The blast of fire lashed away at them, even as the other bottles smashed, releasing their contents into the crowd. “Die…”
A police sharpshooter fired once. The bullet passed through his head, killing him instantly. Gavin Scott died without ever having the chance to serve his country.
***

Sameena had been making her way towards the edge of the crowd, ever since kicking an imprudent boy in the unmentionables for trying to grope her. Her behind still felt appalling, as if she’d been sitting in something vile, and she wanted – needed – a shower. She could still feel his hands; only the memory of his face, contorted in pain, kept her going as she managed to slip onto the pavement and…

The gout of flame blasted up from the crowd, only fifty meters from her; thousands of people packed into a very compressed space. The crowd roared, some in pain, some in outrage, as a single gunshot echoed out. She heard Jafar shouting at the crowd, urging them to attack the police, and then some of the crowd lunged forwards, slamming against the barricade.
She didn’t wait to see any more. She ran for it, cursing her decision to wear a skirt, and passed through the university grounds to hide, shaking, near the mosque Sarfraz had loved. The roar of the crowd grew louder behind her, she ran faster and faster, trying to escape the demons at her back. She had a key to Brad’s flat, she would be safe there, she was sure.
“Damn you,” she said aloud, angrily. “Damn you, Jafar; how many of us are going to die because of your cowardliness?”
***

There hadn’t been time to issue many instructions as the rioters lunged in their direction. Brad triggered the massive hose without orders, blasting a stream of cold water over the protesters, watching as they slipped and fell to the ground. The fire hoses had been planned for pouring water on the Posleen, but instead they were being turned on humans – humans stupid enough not to see the oncoming storm for what it was.

“They’re coming,” he shouted, as the rioters slipped and fell. “What the hell do we do with them?”
“Hold the line, boy,” Sergeant Kendrick bellowed, as the rioters fell over themselves, a great seething mass of humanity. “Hold the line.”
The pop-pop-pop of teargas grenades began to echo as the police began to break apart the riot. Thousands of rioters were streaming around, trying to flee, and the police let most of them go. They were only dangerous in groups. Several tried to fight and the police smacked them aside; they were a minor nuisance to armoured police officers.
Suddenly, dramatically, it was all over. Brad took a deep breath, thinking and worrying about Sameena for the first time since the riot had begun. The police were cleaning up the debris and arresting the few captured riot leaders. Brad recognised one of the bodies with a sudden smile; Uncle Jafar had met his end on the streets.
Idiot, he thought, and decided not to mention it to Sameena. His fears for her became overwhelming; what had happened to her? He nearly used his mobile phone to call her, and then realised that Sergeant Kendrick was shouting for them all to assemble around him.
“You did good today, lads,” Sergeant Kendrick said. “It could have been a lot nastier than it was.”
Robinson stomped over. “So far, we have recovered nearly three hundred dead bodies, including the people who started the riot by firebombing the crowd,” he snapped. “We weren’t ready for anything like this fucking mess.”
“Language,” Sergeant Kendrick reproved him mildly, receiving a glare in return. “You lads can help clear up the wreckage, and then you can have the rest of the day off.”
Brad felt his mobile phone buzz with a text message. He glanced at it as Sergeant Kendrick organised them into teams, directing them to clear up the debris and bodies on the road. For the moment, they had the luxury of being able to bag the bodies in body bags; Sergeant Kendrick had been very clear on quick disposal when the war actually began.
Am at your bit, the message read. Want you now love.
I’ll be there as soon as I can, he sent back. Just helping to clear up the mess.
***

Sameena had spent many happy hours in Brad’s flat, but now all she did was watch the television, wondering how things had gotten so bad, so quickly. The list of the dead kept growing; to her horror she discovered that she herself was listed among the dead. Her mother had ordered her cousin-brother to text her, asking where she was, but she ignored it. She hurt inside; she simply didn’t care anymore.

“Hi honey, I’m home,” Brad called. Sameena couldn’t even smile at the joke, simply reaching to give him a kiss. “How are you?”
“It was hell,” she said dully. “Uncle Jafar is dead; I saw it on the TV.”
“Oh,” Brad said. He didn’t sound too worried; he hadn’t known the man. “Do you want to go to bed?”
She glared at him. “I didn’t mean like that,” he said hastily. “You need a rest.”
Sameena shook her head. “Brad, can I move in with you?” She asked. “My father is dead; I saw him on the lists of the dead.”
Brad looked concerned about her. “Are you sure you’ll be fine.”
She caught him and sobbed into his chest. “They’ll use me to gain favours so that the family will survive,” she said, crying for the loss of innocence. “I’d sooner be with you. I want a job, a career and I want to be my own person.”
Brad held her. “You can stay here as long as you want,” he said, and meant it. “Come on; you need to get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”