The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Chapter Eleven: Recap

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

2 December 2001
The Prime Minister rubbed his weary eyes. The events in Manchester, and the similar riots all across the country, had shocked thousands of civilians, many of whom were asking questions through their MPs. It didn’t do any good to say that right-wingers had attacked the marchers, as in Manchester, or that the marches were led by people intent on causing trouble, such as had happened in Brixton. The seventeen riots, on the same day, had been nightmarish; the Prime Minister could remember nothing like them.
“So,” he said coldly. “What the hell happened?”
“Nearly seventeen hundred people dead, more than twice that injured, and almost five hundred people in jail,” the Home Secretary said. He sounded as tired as the Prime Minister felt. “Property damage in excess of two million pounds…”
“I don’t give a fuck about that,” the Prime Minister snapped. He controlled his temper with an effort. “We have a dangerous situation on our hands – and what the hell caused it?”
“It was inevitable,” the new Minister for War Production said. He sighed. “We haven’t had National Service for years, I think it ended in 1960 or thereabouts. We’re just not used to fighting a war on our own soil. To add insult to injury, some elements believe that we’re stamping on their traditions.”
“Fuck them,” General Mathews said. “If the Posleen are as bad as the Darhel suggest” – and the Prime Minister thought coldly about the Darhel – “then they might be the last surviving Muslims on the planet.”
“Many people don’t believe in the Posleen,” the Minister for War Production said. “They don’t see the Darhel reports, or the information picked up by that French General, but only the collapse of the global economy and the shortages of supplies.” He sighed again. “And, of course, we cannot afford to keep the Social Security network running for much longer, and in fact we’re using it to pick out the first class of conscripts.”
“When did we breed such stupid children?” The Prime Minister asked. “We know that the Posleen are real.”
“Yes, Prime Minister, but they don’t,” the Minister for War Production said grimly. “Many people are suffering because of the war preparations.”
The Prime Minister nodded. “Is there anything that we can do about it?”
“Not much,” General Mathews said, before anyone else could speak. “We could start expanding the conscription classes now, or we could reduce the number of conscripted females.”
The Prime Minister shook his head. “I think that we have to recruit everyone,” he said. “We cannot show any favours to any single group, not now. Those who are essential in their current roles won’t be conscripted anyway.”
He watched as General Mathews struggled to find a way to explain how few Asian women were in essential roles. “For the moment, I think that we can ban further demonstrations under DORA,” he said. “While that might have the effect of heightening distrust of us, we really don’t have much choice.”
The Leader of the Opposition nodded. “We should also round up the ultra-nationalist groups and the Asian” – he avoided the word ‘Muslim’ – “trouble causers,” he said. “Putting them in the army, or in prison, would make life simpler.”
“I suppose,” the Prime Minister said. He suddenly felt very tired. “What about the food situation?”
“We’re planning a massive growing season for the next four years,” the Minister for the Environment said. He’d been appalled at the prospects for global climate change if the Posleen started bombarding Earth. At best, the results would be like a mild nuclear war – as if there were such a thing – with dust in the atmosphere and total climate change across the world. At worst…humanity could be condemned to eternal darkness.
He tapped the papers he’d spread out on the table. “We’re supposed to have Galactic food producers for the Sub-Urbs, but we’re going to be stockpiling food anyway, using the genetic techniques to make them last longer and longer. Rather like the guy with the technocolour dreamcoat. If we abandon all of the limits on the farms, we’ll have around enough food stockpiled for five years by the time the first Posleen attack begins, stockpiled in Scotland and Wales.”
“As long as we have the Sub-Urbs ready,” the Prime Minister said. He stared up at the map. “The Scottish Parliament wasn’t happy at their sudden loss of…importance.”
“Politicians,” General Mathews commented. The Prime Minister snorted. “They wanted to keep control over Scotland.”
“It hardly matters now,” the Prime Minister said. “What about the Sub-Urbs?”
“We’re preparing to start digging soon,” the Minister for War Production said. He grinned hopefully. “We’ll have some Galactic tools and a lot more of our own, digging away into the mountains. Given some years, we’ll have both the underground living spaces and the planetary defence centre at John O’Groats ready in time for most of the population to be moved there.”
“There are some minor problems,” General Mathews said grimly. “For a start, we really need to expand the rail network, simply because we can expect the Posleen to hammer it from space before they land.”
“They haven’t taken out the transportation networks on Galactic worlds,” the Minister for War Production pointed out. “I read the reports.”
“They knew perfectly well that the Galactics couldn’t stop them,” General Mathews said. “We have two lines between Scotland and the south; what happens if they cut them both?”
The Minister for War Production scowled. “We’re going to have to expand the rail lines anyway, just for the evacuation,” the Prime Minister said. “Yet another problem we have to handle.”
“Damn it,” General Mathews said. “This would be a hell of a lot easier if we knew where the bastards were going to land.”
“If they land in Scotland, we’re fucked,” the Prime Minister said dryly. “If they land in Wales, we’re slightly less fucked.” A sense of gallows humour came over him. “If they land in the midlands, we’re going to have to throw everything at them, just to ensure that we can move most of the population out, so we’re fucked again.”
General Mathews smiled. “Colonel Anderson is always talking about the War of the Worlds computer game,” he said. “It’s the same problem on a large scale.”
“And a real scale,” the Prime Minister snapped. “Does the game offer any insights?”
“Not enough to be useful,” General Mathews admitted. “The aliens land in Scotland, and if we knew that the Posleen were going to land there…”
***

Charlene Jackson was bored of being the official reporting liaison from the BBC to the Oversight Group handling the preparations for war. It wasn’t a bad job, but it was tiring, and it kept her name out in front of the public. She’d been pulled out of Hack Green to report on what should have been a peaceful protest, and then she’d been sent all the way back up to London for an interview with the Prime Minister himself.

“They should have sent someone else,” she muttered. The Prime Minister had a habit of open-air press conferences, but rarely gave face-to-face conferences with an individual reporter. If Charlene hadn’t been so cooperative, she would not have had the BBC’s request for an interview accepted.
“Good evening, Miss Jackson,” the Prime Minister said. His trademark smile brightened his face, but she was too tired to respond properly. The entire interview was being recorded by a tape-recorder; she’d put in a request for an AID, but there were only a handful of them in Britain. Everyone wanted one.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said. She’d half-hoped that the Prime Minister would have agreed to have talked to her on Spotlight or another TV show, but with her tiredness, she was grateful that he had refused that request. Yawning on TV would have ruined her career faster than a Darhel ship could travel.
“You’re welcome,” the Prime Minister said. “So…what do you want to ask me?”
Charlene forced down a yawn by sheer force of will. “Following the tragedy in Manchester and several other cities, do you intend to make any chances to the disputed conscription policy?”
“We can’t,” the Prime Minister said. His very expression radiated firmness, mixed with regret. “We all know that we might have to fight to serve our country and now…now, we have no choice, but to prepare for a major land war in Britain itself. We are all required to fight, Miss Jackson, even me.”
Charlene smiled, too tired to risk interrupting the Prime Minister and starting an argument. You needed to be fast on your wits to do that, and she wasn’t at the moment. “Some of the communities in Britain feel little…liking for Britain as a whole,” she said. “Should their views not be respected?”
The Prime Minister hesitated for a long moment. “No,” he said finally. “Quite frankly, we have to put everyone on the same footing. They can fight, or they can get out now.”
“And if some of the strategic pictures are even remotely correct, the Far East is doomed,” Charlene said. “They’d be dead anyway.”
“Perhaps,” the Prime Minister said. “The first forces intended for Diess are intended to leave in a fortnight, perhaps less.”
“They’ll miss Christmas with their families,” Charlene said sharply.
The Prime Minister bowed his head. “I know,” he said. “Once they reach Diess and engage the Posleen, we should get a better idea of what they’re capable of, and then we can make more accurate projections. As for the ethnic communities, they have chosen to become our citizens when the going was good; now they can fight for Britain or get out.”
Charlene nodded. After the riots, she found it hard to care. “What about the economy?” She asked. “As you know, the global economy has collapsed, pretty much.”
“Actually, we’re working on building a temporary framework of global trade, just to keep some of the skills we need employed,” the Prime Minister said. “We’ll be trading some food and oil for some equipment, but as you point out, global trade has gone down.”
He sighed. “For the moment, the economy will hold up as we’ll be contracting for every manner of product that can be used for defence within Britain itself,” he said. “It’s uncharted waters, Miss Jackson; we might end up going all the way back to barter, or even a form of quasi-communism.”
“The right-wingers will love that,” Charlene said. The Prime Minister laughed. “Another point; certain people in Parliament have been proposing new criminal bills. What do you think of those?”
The Prime Minister shrugged. “They’re backbencher bills,” he said. “I have no official position.”
Charlene smiled, forgetting her tiredness. “But do you have a personal position?”
The Prime Minister looked at her. “I agree that we can hardly afford to coddle prisoners and criminals now,” he said. “I also do not agree with some of the punishments they have in mind; I have always been against the death penalty, and simply shooting child molesters seems extreme. On the other hand, I don’t want them on the streets, and I certainly don’t want them getting in the way.” He smiled. “It’s up to Parliament.”
“That’s good to hear,” Charlene said. “A final question, then; how will we handle elections in 2004?”
“The Leader of the Opposition and myself have agreed on a coalition government, which should allow continuity, whatever the outcome of the election,” the Prime Minister said. “We’ll hold the elections in March 2004, and then hold a second set of elections, having a shadow Parliament, in a manner of speaking.”
“So if some MPs die, they’ll have replacements,” Charlene said.
The Prime Minister nodded. “It has already been decided that the Government will stay in London up to the final moment,” he said. “If something happens to Parliament, the shadow Parliament will be able to take over.”