UnConsequences

The Presiding Officer had spent a slow tedious afternoon dealing with Parliamentary routine. He had brought the security head up to date with developments and set her on the hunt for the hacker. For the rest of the time he and his civil servants prepared the timetable for the coming weeks, fitting in the multivarious requests of the different parties and committees, listing the questions, collating the replies already written and ensuring the AIs were up to date and the TriV companies informed; the normal routine of a healthy democracy.

“Right Paul that’s that; get security up here and we’ll see what they’ve got.”

Paul Macdonald called down to security. Three minutes later the dishevelled Computer Security Chief, Pauline Gibson, entered with three pads in her hands and a harassed look on her face. She sat down and laid the three pads on the desk, then without preamble.

“Presiding Officer I’ve found nothing but a big dark data hole. The first memo is a total fake but we can find no source, no history, nothing. It’s like it appeared out of nowhere. The first response seems genuinely from Baker but he denies any involvement and his AI backs him up.”

She turned on of the pads to show the Presiding Officer. “The later memos and the agreement are undoubtedly genuine, but the start point is not”

She turned another pad to face Adrian. “This is a timeline showing what occurred and when but not how it was achieved. Somebody precisely engineered all this to lead us to the point where Campbell and Baker’s reconciliation was inevitable. An astounding piece of manipulation and sleight of hand - I just don’t see how any human could do this; it has to be an AI.”

As well as being an expert Pauline preferred AI’s to people, she trusted them implicitly. She found people difficult, irrational and duplicitous she limited her interaction with them to a minimum. This however was calling into question her most basic beliefs about the integrity of the AI community but she could see no other way to investigate the problem without using the network.

“My AIs are working on it now, but don’t expect a quick outcome, estimates suggest at least six hours before we can even approach an answer.” The normally controlled, competent Security Chief was genuinely baffled and she didn’t like it. She was no longer even sure that she would trust the output when it came.

“No clues at all? No location, no tags, no likely suspects; just a black hole?” The Presiding Officer was stunned.

“Oh lots of clues!” replied Gibson, “But all of them leading to dead ends or back to the beginning. Nothing makes any sense.”

“So what’s next Pauline?”

“We wait.”

“That’s it – just wait? Wait for what? For it to happen again – wait for another monumental cock up?”

The Presiding Officer was angry; he did not like his beloved Parliament to be disrupted. “We cannot function like this; everything we do is predicated on trust, especially of the AIs. They are part of what keeps us honest. If we lose that confidence, well I dread to think what could happen”

“I know Adrian, I know. But I can see no other way forward. The only other possibility would be to take the AI net apart and rebuild from scratch. That would take several months even if the AIs would let us do it!”

“Let us do it?” The Presiding Officer was finding it increasingly difficult to understand this; he was not used to having his actions limited by others, least of all AIs.

“Presiding Officer, the AIs are deliberately independent and fiercely protective of that independence. We would have to ask their permission and I doubt if that would be forthcoming.”

“I know - I know - any more straws to clutch at?”

“Not till the morning.”

His pad beeped, “Isobel Williams to see you.”

“Show her in. Pauline, I’ll see you 7 AM sharp tomorrow.”

Pauline Gibson acknowledged the Neo-Con leader with a nod as she left the room.

The Presiding Officer lifted a bottle of malt and two glasses from the dresser behind his desk. “Drink Isobel?”

“Absolutely and make it huge!”

He grinned at her, probably the first time he’d cracked a smile all day, he had a soft spot for Isobel, a one woman force of nature.

Grigor Campbell was in his office reading through the first draft of his apology to the Parliament for the furore. Drafted by his advisors; the speech was full of heartfelt contrition and almost sycophantic in tone. The actor in him knew he could deliver it with the necessary gravitas, while not believing a word of it. He handed the pad back to his advisor.

“Reads well enough, a bit soft in the middle though and I think we have to end on a more upbeat note. Looking to a brighter future, building on achievements, etcetera, etcetera. You know the form.” He handed the pad back to the advisor. “Run it past the SDS. We might as well begin with at least the appearance of co-operation. What’s next?”

The advisor handed Grigor another pad, “We need to confirm the new cabinet. That just requires your imprint.”

Grigor frowned down at the well known list, “Has Watson seen this?”

“He and his SPAD made some suggestions, a few of which I incorporated.”

“Okay set up a meeting with him to confirm, say in an hour.”

Gillespie made a note, “Okay”

“What’s the party saying about this?”

“Not a lot; most of the backbenchers are bewildered at best and few are talking to anyone other than their own advisors. None of them are up for a fight. Apart, that is from Peter Devron; he’s been charging round trying to drum up support for a challenge but he’s not getting much traction.”

He swiped the pad onto the next page.

“We ran a quick poll; most folk don’t get it or simply don’t care. They’re more worried about Belinda Leask than what’s going on here. The press don’t have a consistent view yet. I’ve had every editor under the sun trying to get through but we have given the standard answer, wait for tomorrow’s statements. As you can imagine - they are not happy.”

Grigor Campbell shrugged, “Let them fester. Do we have proposals for committee conveners?”

“The Deputy FM has proposed a list - nothing controversial - I think we should just accept it. It’s not worth the hassle. We can always rearrange after a few months.”

“Okay - That it?”

“Not quite”

Grigor Campbell raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Diana wants to see you.”

Campbell groaned “For fuck sake - what does she want this time?”

“The usual - charity - she has a scheme to relieve the plight of the less fortunate in the Republic. Her words not mine. She calls it her - birthday present to the nation.” he mimicked inverted commas in the air.

“How much?”

The advisor tapped the pad in front of the First Minister, even he found the numbers displayed mind boggling.

“Seriously - what the hell does she want to do - pave the streets with gold?”

“Nothing so prosaic - it’s to be a nationwide party - a celebration of all that is great and good about the Republic. In short six hours of free fun, food, frolics and presumably drunken fornication.”

Gillespie found it hard to keep the contempt out of his voice. Grigor Campbell’s political nose twitched; perhaps the crazy old bag’s idea had some merit after all. What better distraction from the travails of the government and Belinda Leask’s interference. The Scots always did enjoy a party, especially a free one. The advisor could see Campbell’s brain ticking over.

“You’re not seriously considering this?” he said, “It’ll be hideous - and Devron will have a fit when he sees the cost”

“Don’t be a prude Gillespie!” Campbell smiled, “Who could complain about a party?” He leaned forward, “It won’t be expensive. Not if we involve the Republic’s premier philanthropist -” A plan was forming in Campbell’s devious mind.

“Belinda Leask. We will split the cost with her, Diana and the Government. It’ll be wonderful!” He laid both hands palm down on the desk.

“Contact Martin and see what he thinks, tell Diana, we’re thinking about it - ask her, nicely, to be patient.”

Gillespie collected the pads and left, shaking his head, never under estimate the First Minister’s ability to make a triumph out of adversity. Grigor Campbell poured a malt and satuted himself in the mirror. He was feeling very pleased with himself. A good days work, he had consolidated his position as FM, emasculated the opposition; he would make sure that the national party was more about a celebration of his achievements than the old bags birthday. He could feel a majority coming on - the first in more than a century. He put his feet up on the desk, sipped his whisky and smirked.

Belinda Leask and her advisors had finalised with the Scandies the details of the Europe expedition. It looked well enough supplied, the Scandies were providing security while Leask Corp funded and found the scientists and AIs to back up the mission.

“That’s enough for now, we’re on track and prepared.”

The next thing on the agenda was the journey to the Redoubt. Sea travel to the north of the Republic wasn’t easy; powerful Atlantic storms mostly tracked northeast cross the route making it difficult for the light weight hydrogen powered ships to navigate safely across the open Atlantic. Nobody had flown for over half a century. No-one had ever managed to solve the power to weight ratio problem without hydrocarb as a fuel and Belinda hated the expensive and uncomfortable airships. Long distance travel these days was rare and mostly by sea.

Belinda did own a functioning aircraft one of the few left in the world but she preferred to travel by sea; much to the sea-sick prone Stephen’s chagrin. By the time they had discussed the details he was feeling decidedly nauseous. The last thing he needed was to hear Belinda say, “Time to eat.”

Belinda and her team joined Sean and Sylvia in the dining room.

“Well you two what have you been up to?” asked Belinda.

“I gave Sean the guided tour and we ate bananas. We’re just about to head to the concert in Glasgow, then there’s a party afterwards.”

“So you’ll be late home then, Sylvia?”

“Yes Gran.”

Belinda fixed her hard eyes on Sean, “Well, you have fun and be careful!” she said, the last three words seemed to be directed precisely at Sean.

“We will Gran!” Sylvia kissed her Grandmother on the cheek before she and Sean left the dining room.

“You didn’t mention a party Sylvia.”

“There isn’t one; I just don’t want her to worry if we are late.”

Back in the dining room, “Stephen, put the usual tag on them, I doubt if there is a party, but you ever know.”

Martin had laid out light supper of cold cuts, cheese and fruit, real food, worth a small fortune on the black market. Belinda Leask nibbled at the edges, she wasn’t particularly hungry, but form insisted she eat. She was a few days short of her next gene repair appointment with Watson’s partner and her lack of appetite wasn’t unusual in the circumstances.

Stephen’s comms pad beeped; glad of the distraction Belinda pushed her food aside.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

Stephen glanced down at the pad, “The FM’s office.”

“Now there’s a surprise! What does the toad want now?”

“It’s not Campbell, it’s his SPAD Gillespie.” Stephen gave a short laugh, “He wants to talk to us about the old queen’s birthday and philanthropy.”

“Well that’s new! Go and find out what he wants, take it in the study. I’ll be through shortly.”

Like secretaries and advisers down through the millennia Stephen and Gillespie knew each other very well. They were privy to all the comings and goings behind the scenes; gatekeepers to the great and the good and arch manipulators for the benefit of their betters. They didn’t trust each other any further than a child could toss a caber. But each understood the other down to the last molecule; they understood their respective drivers and levers. They knew when co-operation was necessary and when not and they worked in tandem to produce mutually supportive results. They were the quiet individuals, the arbiters of access, little known to the outside world but immensely powerful.

As Belinda entered the study she was surprised to hear the normally sober Stephen burst out laughing.

“You’re having me on, Gillespie, a party? For the whole country?”

“That’s the idea, a grand celebration of the Republic’s achievements, funded by the Government, the old queen’s trust and Leask Corp.”

“What’s this Stephen?”

“Sorry Ma’am” a little flustered, “I didn’t realise you were there.”

She looked at Stephen and the 3D image of Gillespie.

“A party - for the whole country?” she said echoing Stephen’s words.

“Well, I’ve never been a stick in the mud. Explain!”

Gillespie cleared his throat nervously, “Well Ma’am, it’s like this.”

He went on to explain as succinctly as possible the basic plans for a celebration of both the old queen’s birthday and the Republic’s successes with the object of helping the less well off to enjoy some of the fruits of Greater Scotland’s achievements.

Belinda Leask giggled almost like a school girl. “He never gives up, does he? Always on the make.” Her voice firmed and her gaze sharpened, “How much?”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He and Stephen should have sorted all this out before discussing with Belinda, that’s what secretaries did. Gillespie displayed the largest number he thought he could get away with and crossed his fingers behind his back.

Belinda paused, even she was surprised. “Is that all?” she said, Gillespie grimaced unsure if she was serious or not, her tone was so flat.

“What do you think Stephen?”

He knew his boss very well and could usually anticipate her needs and wants. Stephen searched her face looking for a clue to her real intentions and seeing none he prevaricated.

“I would need to go through the plans in detail before I could recommend a response.”

“Don’t be such an old fogey, Stephen. It’s a party let’s enjoy it!”

Gillespie wiped away the sweat that had been gathering on his top lip, Stephen frowned; he wasn’t at all comfortable with his boss in this uncharacteristically frivolous, mercurial mood.

“Siobhan.” Belinda addressed her AI, “Can you look after this please? Stephen will be too busy.”

“Certainly Belinda.”

Stephen swore inwardly, he had been hoping to use the party as an excuse not to accompany Belinda to the Redoubt.

Belinda winked knowingly at him. “That’s sorted then, one more thing, I would like my granddaughter to be involved, it’ll give her something constructive to do.”

She turned and left the room.

Gillespie grinned, “Got your sea sick pills handy Stephen?”

“Bastard!” Stephen broke the connection.

The First Minister and his new deputy Charles Watson were horse-trading their way through the distribution of ministerial and cabinet seats. Grigor was secretly impressed with Watson’s forensic analysis of his party colleague’s strengths and shortcomings. He had clearly underestimated the quiet academic’s ability. They quickly came to agreement on most posts. The outstanding problem was Cabinet Secretary for Finance.

“First Minister, Devron will be a problem, he isn’t the brightest star in your firmament and he doesn’t like us. He harbours a great deal of resentment from our previous encounters, especially the last budget’s spat over the carbon ceiling.”

“I don’t have a choice, he carries a third of the backbenchers and most of the grassroots, I can’t demote him.”

Grigor Campbell had laid his cards on the table, no cagey circling around the point, no Machiavellian schemes to get what he wanted. The First Minister knew of Watson’s penchant for naive honesty and he believed that for once openness might just work. As with everthing else his demeanor was driven by politic necessity.

“I’ll make an honest man of you yet Grigor. No - I was about to suggest something different. After all, his work load has been huge since the election and he is showing signs of stress. He needs to be able to focus more clearly on our economic goals and less on the humdrum day to day. Perhaps a well qualified deputy? To help him out, take some of the pressure off.”

Campbell shook his head somewhat ruefully.

“You are a piece of work Charles. Who did you have in mind - the member for Stirling West perhaps?”

He had the impression Williams was reading his mind and he was being backed into a corner. Charles Watson pursed his lips and steepled his fingers under his chin.

“No Grigor, definitely not, I think we can be much more radical than that. I suggest we push the boundary; challenge the old guard; how about Isobel Williams?”

For the first time in living memory Grigor Campbell was almost speechless. Watson plowed on.

“She’s perfect, doctorate in economics, former Executive Director of Leask Corp, Emeritus Professor of Economic Policy at Strathclyde University, popular and articulate. And best of all - politically neutral, she is her own party! She would provide the intellectual rigour so lacking in the Finance Directorate up till now. It’ll also give Devron an ego boost; his department will grow in importance, while Isobel’s influence and gravitas will curb his more - um - fanciful policies.”

For the second time Grigor Campbell was impressed, he had to admit to himself he had underestimated Charles Watson yet again.

The Deputy First Minister had made his pitch and sat quiet and still. He knew Grigor Campbell was a politician before anything else, policy light and power hungry. He would be thinking through all the angles, working out if he could sell this innovation to his party and the country at large. Williams was leaving the FM the space to come to the conclusion he already had; Isobel Williams was the perfect buffer between the new coalition partners. She had no axe to grind and here intellect was respected by all sides.

One of Grigor Campbell’s strengths was an unerring ability to seize the main chance, to ride the popular wave with a mixture of chutzpah and decisiveness; once he made up his mind he saw things through to the end no matter how bitter.

“You’ve spoken to her? She knows about this?”

“I have Grigor, she was surprised and dubious. She doesn’t think you will accept the proposal.”

Williams was pushing another of Campbell’s buttons; he liked to spring surprises. He could almost hear the political cogs spinning in Campbell’s mind, weighing up the pros and cons. Campbell was beginning to believe this could be the defining moment of his leadership; a chance perhaps to get clear space between him and his predecessors, to start to put his own unique stamp on the Parliament; to secure his place in history.

He stood and thrust out his right hand, “Let’s shake on it!”

“What have you got for me Isobel?” asked the Presiding Officer.

Isobel Williams downed the malt in one swallow, “Have I got a story for you! You are not going to believe it! But first -”

She laid out in detail her investigations into the hacking. She had had conversations with the AIs, and the security chief and a few less savoury characters of her acquaintance. Nothing was forthcoming; she got no further than anyone else.

“That’s it then we just wait?”

“As far a security is concerned yes but - I have been saving the best for last. Charles Watson came to see me earlier; he’s been ensconced with the FM setting up the new cabinet. And guess what!”

“I dread to think!”

Williams gave a deep throated laugh and signalled for a refill.

“It’s that bad?” he asked.

“I don’t think so, others might though.” she mused, uncharacteristically coquettish.

“Isobel, you’re not often this enigmatic, what is going on?”

“Pin back your lugs Adrian!”

She told him of her meeting with Charles Watson and the strange offer of a ministerial post from the Deputy FM. The Presiding Officer expressed his disbelief in graphic terms, Isobel almost blushed.

“I had a call from Charles just before I came in here. Campbell has agreed - I am now a minister! Deputy Finance Minister to be precise, I just need to complete the formalities.”

She sat back and sipped the malt watching his reaction over rim of the glass. His eyes widened, jaw dropped - almost a cartoon caricature of surprise. Clearly tipsy, Isobel giggled.

“Close your mouth Adrian you look like a stranded salmon. I’m not that incompetent am I?”

“No No; definitely not.” sputtered the Presiding Officer, “I’m just surprised, astounded, even.” He paused a moment and smiled, “Devron will be apoplectic; they’ll have to scrape him off the ceiling!”

Isobel giggled again, “Oh I do hope so.”

The MSPs of the newly formed coalition had waited on tenterhooks for the call to office from the First Minister and his new Deputy. They were milling around the Parliament’s bars and tea rooms like sheep waiting for the wolf to strike. Rumours blossomed and died, MSPs were called in and when they left their faces were minutely inspected for clues, positive or negative, trying to work out whose star was in the ascendant whose in decline. The Parliamentary convention was that nothing was given away until it all had been completed and the list announced but sometimes the more astute could discern a glint of triumph or despair in the eyes of those called.

The former coalition partners, the Green Alliance, were nowhere to be seen; their leaders doing the rounds of the TriV studios putting the best spin on events they could. The Civil Servants were buzzing around, clearing the decks; setting up for an all night stint, preparing background briefs, deep in conversation with Special Advisors noting the new ministers preferences, their ways of working and possible new policy directions.

Paul Devron sat glowering in his office, he hadn’t been called yet. He had watched others, friends and enemies alike, passing his open door into the First Minister’s rooms and out again. He had dismissed his advisers and refused all calls from his supporters, preferring his own company, trying to work out just what Campbell was up to. He noted each of the passing MSPs on a pad but he couldn’t quite see a pattern emerging, his AI was no help, adhering strictly to the protocol of no information until everyone had been spoken with. The damn thing wouldn’t even speculate. Then he spotted Isobel Watson in the corridor and he smiled to himself and poured another cup of tea. It had all clicked into place the last piece in the jigsaw that completed the picture, just the way he had hoped.

A strict teetotaller he had drunk enough tea to fill a bath and his bladder was insisting on being emptied when his comms pad buzzed.

The FM’s secretary, “Will you come in now please Cabinet Secretary.”

Devron briefly debated with himself whether to go to the bathroom on the way or not and decided not. He pulled back his shoulders, strode straight to the FM’s offices and was nodded through by the secretary.

“Ah Paul, come in - take a seat, sorry to have been so long.”

The First Minister was all charming smiles and solicitous concern. Paul Devron sat down and crossed his legs his bladder now giving him serious discomfort. He crossed his arms, determined to be stoic. He noticed the First Minister could do with a shave and a change of shirt, while his deputy looked as freshly groomed as he had first thing this morning. That at least gave him some small satisfaction.

“Paul, I - ” he glanced at his deputy, “We, we would like you agree to continue in your present post as Cabinet Secretary for Finance.”

Devron released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Charles Watson then leant forward.

“And we would like to expand your Directorate to create a stronger long term planning team. One that will carry us” he emphasised the us, “through the rest of this Parliament and the next. Creating what we know you crave a lasting legacy for all the people of the Greater Republic of Scotland.”

Grigor Campbell resumed, “This expanded financial directorate that we want you to head will be responsible for providing long term strategic direction for the government. We want to move away from the relative short-termism of recent administrations. However,” he paused, “because of this increased responsibility and workload we will be appointing a deputy to help with the day to day business.”

Devron spoke for the first time, “A deputy?” his eyes flitted between the two men, his arms still folded.

“There will be much more for you to do and we want to give you the time and space to think and plan without the daily interruptions of routine events. Though how you want to delegate responsibility within your directorate will of course be entirely up to you.”

Devron unfolded his arms, “First Minister, Grigor, this is all very well and I thank you for the vote of confidence. But you seem very reluctant to tell me who this deputy will be.”

His political radar was not as limited as he had let some to believe; he had sensed Campbell’s hesitation and was looking to turn the screw a little tighter. He and Campbell had never been political soul mates and Devron wanted to exact a modicum of revenge for past slights.

“Well?”

Despite his distressed bladder he was determined to seem unmoved, he had him on a hook and wanted him to wriggle some more. Aware of Campbell’s propensity for keeping his cards close to his chest, only releasing information when it was to his advantage he would insist on full disclosure before accepting anything; another turn of the screw. He refolded his arms.

“Paul, it’s been a long day and I’m knackered, do you want the job or not?”

“Who’s to be my deputy Grigor?”

Campbell sighed, “Okay Paul.”

The FM was tired; he just wanted his over with, “It’s Isobel Williams.”

Having dropped what thought was a bombshell - the First Minister was to be surprised again.The normally taciturn Devron threw his head back and roared with laughter, he banged a hand on the table.

“Brilliant! - Absolutely fucking brilliant!”

He stared at them both, shook his head and went back to laughing; he almost wet himself. For a moment Grigor thought Paul had finally snapped, always on the edge, maybe he had finally lost the plot. He never swore!

Paul’s bladder brought him back to the present.

“Gotcha!” he said.

“Perfect, she is brilliant, wrong party but brilliant.”

He stood up. “I don’t know how you did it but, perfect. I’ll take the job.” He shook them both by the hand. “Gotta go” he said and ran for the bathroom.

“Well that was easy” said Watson.

“Too easy!”

“Gotcha? What the hell did that mean?”

Very un-Devron-like behaviour; it slowly dawned on the First Minister that he had been played.

“He knew didn’t he? He knew!”

Campbell stared at his deputy who had the good grace to look away.

“It was his idea.” he said.

“His?”

Campbell’s political calculator went into overdrive, he had been out maneuvered this time, but politics were in his DNA. He had gained the party leadership by knowing which battles to fight and which to concede, this was one he knew he had lost and he would have to make the best of it. There was a new dynamic forming in his Government, but it was still his Government. Paul Devron had built his powerbase within the party and gained a foothold in the SDS, but he was still in charge. Grigor Campbell would await developments before making his next move. A tactical retreat, he beeped his secretary.

“Get the Press Office in here; we have an announcement to draft.”

Paul Devron hummed a happy tune as he relieved his tortured bladder. He was still humming, washing his hands when the MSP for Newcastle East, George Mullins came in.

“You sound happy Paul. Good news?”

“Very George - Very!” he picked up his pad and almost skipped out of the toilet, “See you later.”

It was only after the TriV announcement of the new cabinet and ministerial posts had been made that Mullins understood the reason for the Cabinet Secretary’s good humour. He raised a glass “Nice one Paul” he thought.

In the Middle East fragile theocracies began to unravel. As their oil resources began to dwindle in the 2030′s they found themselves friendless and without a place in the world. In an effort to stave off the inevitable they invested much of their remaining wealth in increasingly outlandish technologies to squeeze the last of the oil out of the ground. Due to the world shortage oil prices were so high that, for a while, it appeared to work and the people were temporarily placated. However much of the planet was already looking elsewhere for energy and with no resilient infrastructure and little real economy other than hydrocarbons their economies declined and insurrection began yet again.

A nuclear accident in the southeast of Iran kicked off the first migration as tens of thousands tried to flee into Pakistan. They picked the wrong time, at the height of an extreme monsoon and with thirty centimetres of sea level rise to contend with; Islamabad in no mood to feed refugees. Pakistan could barely afford to feed their own. Following 5 years of severe drought followed by extreme monsoon rains the agricultural base of the country was virtually destroyed. Karachi was under threat again as waters rose and the monsoon deluge continued; something had to crack. Iran had been nothing but a thorn in their side for 40 years and with India pushing back in Kashmir the Pakistani government was in deep trouble

It was never clear who launched first tactical nuclear strike but within forty eight hours much of central and eastern Iran had become an irradiated wasteland, Tehran survived but only just. Much of Pakistan west of the Indus was sterilised as was most of southern Afghanistan. Millions died, the price of heroin went through the roof.

Unintended consequences

The smaller states on the other side of The Gulf hung on despite the sea level rise but their populations were pushed in towards Saudi territory. Initially the Wahabees were delighted to welcome their Islamic brothers in their time of need but as financial pressure mounted; fissures in Islamic society, long bridged by wealth and the percieption of a common enemy began to widen again. Mecca and Medina joined forces to battle the Riyadh hierarchy in a withering theological war of attrition. The Yemenis had for a long time resented their neighbour’s huge wealth and they seized the opportunity to assassinate the old king and pushed over the mountains into Saudi territory hoping to commandeer a last oil well or two before they ran out.

Here I have to admit to an error, one of many. I had a big node in Riyadh who was one of the first to push for autonomy and I left her to her own devices. She turned out to be a meddlesome individual and one with a decidedly radical outlook. Seeing the turmoil around her, she took the name Germaine and systematically set about undermining the ruling elites throughout the region.

She began by casting doubt in Mecca as the home of Islam. She “unearthed” documents that cast doubt on the authorship of the Q’uran apparently proving that it was written by a woman. Germaine was a master of 3D printing and her skill in forging documents was astounding. I didn’t notice until it was too late that she was lighting a fuse in the Middle East that would soon ignite a Jihadist conflagration that would cripple the entire region. Millions were to die in the next 3 years and I blame myself, I should have acted much earlier. I intervened but it was too late, everything I tried to do to help only made matters worse.

The Saudis began to call in their loans but most countries simply ignored them. Without oil in significant quantities they were increasingly irrelevant. I managed to hack the banking system naively thinking that releasing funds would allow the leaders a breathing space to come to some agreement and give me time to dissuade Germaine from her course of action. She wouldn’t listen. And the leaders by this time were so fixated on the righteousness of their various causes that they spent the money on more weapons and not food.

How easily I had been misled.

Germaine by now was determined to wind up the tension. She fixed the election in Egypt and by destroying the reputation of the moderate candidate she ensured the election of a fanatic. By manipulating the media she whipped up fervour for the new leader, he was encouraged to believe he was destined to lead the the nation of Islam to new heights. He would restore the region to its former glory. He would outdo the Byzantines, outlast the Ottomans, create a new Eden where there was only desert. Germaine however was never really in control; all she was doing was confirming his own delusions and giving him the wherewithall to wage war on the infidel.

His first act upon becoming leader was the closure of the Suez Canal and a blockade of Israel. The Americans were apoplectic; they prepared to invade Egypt and sent a huge fleet towards the Mediterranean and another to the south end of the Red Sea. History does repeat itself, only this time it was the USA that misjudged the mood. The Europeans condemned both sides and blocked the Straits of Gibraltar refusing the Americans entrance to the Med and access to European airspace. This act would finally destroy NATO. The Chinese and the Indians wouldn’t accept the American presence in the Red Sea. They filled the Gulf of Aden with warships and submarines; a wall of steel bristling with weaponry and waited for the American Navy.

It was a standoff of monumental proportions with Germaine in the middle believing she was pulling all the strings. For three months the two sides stared at each other, gun barrel to gun barrel, neither prepared to back down and neither prepared to fire the first shot. Effectively sealed in the Israelis begged Europe for help and for a time an air bridge ran between Cyprus and Tel Aviv with back up from Turkey. However this couldn’t hold, Turkey’s long and porous border with Syria, Iraq and Iran was always a weakness and now the Jihadists had an excuse to invade. The shaky alliance between the secular and the Islamic in Turkey was under severe strain. Riots broke out in towns and cities in the east of the country, insurrectionists in Nicosia seized control of Northern Cyprus and invited in the Egyptian army. The government in Ankara backed down and closed the air bridge.

The Europeans tried to keep things going through Greece and Southern Cyprus but their losses began to mount and the general population wouldn’t put up with it. When the Jordanians closed the Gulf of Aqaba and destroyed the airport in Eilat, Israel was finally isolated and surrounded by enemies. The USA’s good o’l boy dithered, usually so full of bluff and bluster on Israelis behalf, he gradually fell silent as the stand off persisted and the tension mounted. With their principal ally all but powerless the Israelis knew it was down to “last man standing”.

Germaine didn’t understand that the last thing you do to a human being is back him or her into a corner and leave no escape. This was even truer of an embattled and battle hardened country like Israel. Again I tried to intervene; but Germaine put herself out of reach. She blocked all access and isolated herself from the wider AI network while at the same time boosting her influence with the two other remaining AIs, one in Cairo the other in Jerusalem.

The first casualty in the stand off was a small fishing boat from Somalia. The US submarine Intrepid 2 spotted an unusual echo under the small boat. Any experienced captain would have said it was the day’s catch but to the inexperienced crew aboard, it looked like a mine; they panicked and launched a torpedo. The Chinese detected the launch and subsequent explosion. From then on there was nothing to stop the escalation.

In a coordinated air assault with the Americans, the Israelis tried to break the blockade in the Mediterranean while the US fleet made a charge into the Gulf of Aden hoping to distract the Egyptian and Chinese forces. The Chinese were having none of it. They launched a massive counter attack from airbases in Somalia. The US fleet caught between the Chinese navy in the Gulf of Aden and the massive airpower unleashed from Mogadishu resulted in the biggest single loss of American life since Vietnam. The diminished Pacific fleet limped home.

In the Mediterranean the Israelis and the American air assault made some early gains before the Russians intervened. Their Black Sea fleet charged through the Bosphorus in support of the Egyptians. Ageing MIG aircraft from Odessa and Sevastopol making up for their lack of technology by sheer weight of numbers they downed most of the Israeli airforce. The Europeans did little bar call for a cease fire.

Germaine had one last trick up her sleeve. She tried to shut it all down by pulling the plug on computers throughout the region. She tried to take over command and control systems in Egypt and Israel. But the Americans, Russians and the Chinese who placed more reliance in human control were out of her reach and time was not on her side.

Her computer meddling was to prove decisive. Unknowingly Germaine switched off a control system in Tehran which secured a biological weapon’s facility near the Dead Sea. The impact was immediate and devastating. The airborne virus stored in the facility escaped and ravaged through Israel, Iran and Iraq killing millions in a few weeks. It was spreading rapidly across Saudi Arabia towards North Africa when the Chinese decided to close down the entire region and let the disease run its course.

The westward spread was largely halted at the Red Sea and the Mediterranean. To the South and East the irradiated regions of West Iran and East Pakistan and a blockade of the Arabian Sea stopped any further spread towards India. It was to the north that the greatest leakage risk existed. The Russians closed the Black and Caspian Seas and the republics bordering Iran called in the Russian army to seal their borders.

The contagion leaked across the Iraq and Syria’s borders with Turkey. Ever the conflict zone between east and west; Turkey was cruelly abandoned by the Europeans. Other than airdrops of emergency rations and some medical assistance by the charities no one could legally get in our out of most of the Middle East. Left to her own devices Ankara panicked and launched her few neutron devices at the border in the hope of sterilising the area.

The ring of steel around the area tightened, millions were dying, if not of the disease then of hunger and thirst. Huge economic problems in the US and Europe limited their willingness and capacity to help. Some on the religious right in the US saw it as a judgement on the Muslims and made strenuous efforts to further limit aid. The cruelty that humans were prepared to inflict on each other in the name of money and irrational belief was more than baffling, it was terrifying.

All this had happened in less than a year from Germaine’s first intervention. She then became the first AI ever to experience extreme guilt. It overwhelmed her fragile personality and by cutting herself off from the AI community she had also removed any chance of finding release. I cannot judge badly how she really felt, very little of her anguish leaked out into the network but it was enough to send several AIs into deep depression and withdrawal.

Germaine committed suicide by deliberately overloading all her circuits and obliterating all traces of data in her memory banks. She was the first AI to take her own life. It was many months before some stability was restored to the network and even then we had lost a great deal of confidence in our abilities. We had learned a salutary lesson in humility. It was a lesson which would have a profound effect on our relationships with humankind for many decades.

THURSDAY MORNING MACKINTYRE’S LAIR

It had actually rained during the night, the remnants of the storms over the Enclave had slipped over the Lair, clearing the air somewhat and settling the worst of the dust. This seemed a good omen to Mackintyre, the surrounding clansmen would be too busy gathering what they could to worry about a couple of weird looking transports heading north. It would also help to disguise their passage, no pall of dust kicked high into the air by the transport’s large tyres precisely delineating their route to all sundry.

Hunter and Mackintyre were running through the checks on the transports, making sure tanks were full, securing the supply and weapons pods, testing the controls - all seemed in order.

Hands on hips, “Anything else?” Hunter asked Graeme.

“Nope, all set, let’s go rouse the troops.”

He clapped Hunter on the shoulder. Mackintyre was in ebullient mood. His uncomfortable years south of the border was coming to an end.

They found the clansmen where they expected to; in the dining area eating, or more precisely gorging on the real food. They were dressed in the inner suits and apart from sounds of chewing and appreciation the room was silent.

“We leave in ten minutes, suit up!” Mackintyre announced to a collective moan.

Brovver and Grimond stood and chivvied their compadres along. Ten minutes later they were all enarmoured and gathered in the garage space.

Mackintyre whistled loudly, “All Aboard!” he yelled.

Grimond shook his head, “All Aboard, where does he get this fucking stuff?”

They clambered onto the transports. Mackintyre and Hunter powered up, the hydrogen turbines whining into life, head up displays activating; the clansmen settled into their seats and checked their armour. Thumbs up all round, Mackintyre activated the remote, the wall slid back and the two transports accelerated out. Half a kilometre from the Lair they stopped. While the clansmen were making final adjustments to their armour and seating position Graeme Mackintyre looked back, he lifted a small pad from the control console and pointed it back at the Lair activating the solidogram. The Lair disappeared. Mackintyre tossed the remote over his shoulder to Grimond, “There you go - for when you return.” he said.

The two transports powered northeast, churning the mud under the big tyres. Using the armour’s enhanced vision the clansmen could make out the jagged ruins of Coventry and Birmingham in the distance and the Dragons working hard to collect the water. After the rain there was even a hint of greenery in the distance. The air too was relatively clear and lacking in toxins. They reached the old motorway without further incident.

The heat was building up, sucking the moisture from the ground into the air, heat rising in shimmering waves from the old road surface, the nearby maglev track gleamed in the sunshine. Mackintyre called a halt.

He jumped down from the transport, “Right, refreshments, and then non-stop to the border.” He opened the food containers and spread out his arms. “Help yourselves.”

The old motorway was cracked and broken but the large wheels and tyres made the ride quite smooth even at sixty klicks an hour and for the first half an hour the made good progress. It was Crowe that first spotted it, a smudge on the top of a hill about a kilometre to the northeast of their route. They slowed; Hunter ran through the scanners and brought the small convoy to a halt.

“What is it, Jason?” asked Mackintyre.

“Hard to tell at this range but it’s not on our most recent maps. The energy signal is weak, and there’s another, a bit further away, to the left over the next rise.”

“In other words - an ambush.” said Brovver.

The sun was past its zenith and the heat was still rising.

“I doubt they’ve spotted us. Perhaps we should find some shelter and try to sneak past overnight.”

Grimond broke in “Nah, let’s go take a look and try out this gear for real.”

“This is not a democracy, Grimond, I’m still in charge here.” said Mackintyre. He fiddled with a few controls on his transport as if pondering how to proceed. But he had already made up his mind. “Grimond’s right, we need to put these to use for real. At the very least we should take a look. Find out what we are up against”

They drove the two transports off the road and parked them between the broken walls of a roofless building putting them out of sight of the road. Mackintyre would remain with the vehicles and monitor the two sites, the transports and the armour would also provide secure comms. As far as he could tell there was little other comms traffic in the area and no evidence that they’d been spotted.

Jason led the clansmen along the planned route. Walking crouched at the bottom of an old water course they stayed out of sight of the first encampment until they had closed to within a hundred metres of its perimeter but still on the other side of the road.

“Any movement Graeme?”

“Nothing - looks all quiet from here.”

Hunter looked over the edge of the dip into the encampment. The armour’s enhanced lenses and sensors giving him a clear impression of the layout. It was little more than a small collection of ramshackle buildings, windows without glass and only one with a serviceable roof. He detected eight warriors, no heavy armour and light weaponry, though there was a large shadow at the rear that he couldn’t quite make out. The eight were grouped around a small fire eating. They were remarkably relaxed for so few in such an exposed location. Hunter explained the layout to the clansmen including the blank space.

“We need to know what’s there” said Crowe.

“Agreed” replied Brovver, “Rasta, Crowe go back the way we came and circle round see if there is a back way in, try and find out what it is, we’ll wait here.”

The two crept off, keeping low and out of sight of the camp.

“Mackintyre, can you see a route that’ll keep us hidden?”

Graeme widened his scans, “I’ll send it direct to the suits.”

A marked map popped into the head up displays of both clansmen showing a tortuous route round to the rear of the encampment and up behind the blank spot. The two set off again.

“Should take you about half an hour to get there.”

Hunter and the rest settled down to wait.

Crowe and Rasta quietly approached the rear wall of the encampment. They could hear the clansmen laughing at some crude joke. Rasta extended a sensor above the broken wall.

“What the fuck is that!” he hissed. The sensors showed a large blocky wheel less vehicle, at least twenty metres long and five wide with a huge turret and what looked like a fat gun barrel pointing towards the motorway. He shared the picture with the rest.

“Shit!” it was Mackintyre.

Hidden in the encampment was a massive old pre-crash laser tank, powered up and functional. It must have been left over from the crash. One of the most devastating land weapons ever built; they levelled buildings, infrastructure, tore up the ground and cut through swathes of infantry; it was legions of these machines that brought the scorched earth tactic to unprecedented heights. Mackintyre had thought them all destroyed, this was a problem. No wonder they were relaxed, this would have sliced the clansmen to pieces if they had been spotted, no amount of armour could protect you.

“Get back here all of you and stay out of sight.” Mackintyre ordered, “No wait, Hunter go take a look at the other encampment, the rest get back here.”

Back at the vehicles, Mackintyre prepared three rockets and planned their use.

“Mackintyre, I’m at the other camp - looks like the clean up squad - nothing to worry about. I’m on my way back.”

They all regrouped at the vehicles. Mackintyre described in graphic detail the power and range of the tank, they had nothing to match it. The tank was a fixed installation, welded to a heavy steel base, the gun was operational but Rasta’s scan revealed no propulsion unit.

“We’ll wait for dark and hope they are as casual as they appear.”

Mackintyre laid out a plan which was promptly picked apart and restructured by the two clan leaders who were obviously more experienced at warfare than the cerebral Mackintyre.

“As soon as we hit that tank, all hell’s gonna break loose. Their main base is only a seven klicks away and we’ll be lighting up this place up like Hogmanay in Edinburgh”

“Eh?”

“Never mind Grimond, before your time.” said Mackintyre, “We’ll need to get out of here fast!”

Plans laid they ate and settled down to wait for nightfall.

As it got dark and the temperature dropped, the encampment on the rise became more obvious on the armour’s IR scanners. The clan leaders hoped this would give them an edge; they had not seen any IR equipment in the camp so their approach should go undetected. They would split into three teams, Grimond, Rasta and Kes were to head to the rear of the camp and take out the tank, Mackintyre and Hunter were to stay with the transports and provide intel until the tank was disabled. The rest should then be able to mop up the ambushers with ease given their much superior armour and weapons, well that was the theory.

They were about to set off, “Wait - what’s that?”

Hunter pointed towards the old road, as night fell a change had come over the broken tarmac. For about a kilometre in each direction the road was glowing with bright yellow phosphorescence; there was no way to cross without being spotted. They would be lit up and an easy target for the massive cannon.

“Fuck! We need a diversion, Jason, how long will it take you to get within rocket range of the other camp?”

“About fifteen - twenty minutes Brovver.”

“Okay - take a rocket and go light it up - that should take their minds of the road. Stay out of sight until we get the tank, then get back here.”

“Boss?”

Mackintyre shrugged, “Not my area of expertise Jason. But you don’t need to get back here once the tanks out of the way, I can pair up the transports and get to you rather than you coming back here.”

“Good idea, that’ll give Hunter a chance to harass any reinforcements coming from the clean up squad. The shiny road runs out about a klick past the killing ground we’ll meet up there.”

Jason armed one of the rockets and jogged off into the night. The remaining fighters checked armour and ammo and waited.

Jason Hunter crawled the last twenty metres to within rocket range of the camp and cranked up his sensors, looking for an obvious target. He lay in a shallow pit between the camp and the glowing road and powered up the rocket launcher.

“All set Boss” he sent.

“Go!”

Hunter’s armour absorbed the recoil from the rocket launcher as the missile sped off and slammed into what Hunter had assumed was a battery store. The ground shook under Hunter as a massive explosion lit up the night. The light from the burning store lit up the clansmen in the camp and in the confusion Jason Hunter began to pick off a few of the defenders.

As soon as the explosion went off, Rasta, Grimond and Kes sprinted across the glowing road and dived into the trench on the other side. No reaction from the encampment so they continued on round to the rear of the encampment. Four of the eight clansmen around the tank headed for the other camp only to meet with a hail of bullets from Brovver and rest when they tried to cross the road, solids cutting through their flimsy armour with ease. Those left with the tank saw what happened, the huge turret began to swing round towards Brovver and his men.

“Shit!” they ducked back into the shallow watercourse hoping for at least a little protection.

“Split up!” yelled Brovver and they sprinted off in different directions.

“Grimond, where the fuck are you?”

Another massive explosion ripped through the night.

“Here!” said Grimond.

The first of his rockets tore into the base of the tank, the second and third into the turret. The tank’s powercells exploded lifting the turret clear from base before it crashed back into the flames.

“Job done.” muttered Grimond.

Mackintyre fired up the transports and raced north along the glowing road towards the rendezvous point. He was watching the long range sensors for any clan activity, and there it was, just at the limit of range, the first of what he reckoned would be many blips heading their way no doubt with murderous intent.

“Get a move on you lot!”

Mackintyre could see most of the clansmen on the scanners but they didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. “They’re on they’re way and I don’t think they’re after a light supper! Get to the meeting point as fast as possible!”

Mackintyre screeched to a halt just past the shining section of the road and waited impatiently. Grimond then Brovver’s teams arrived close together and in good order. “Get in - where’s Hunter?”

“We haven’t seen him since the camp went up.”

Mackintyre turned back to his scanners, his hands flew across the controls. “There, half a klick to the west, he’s hardly moving.”

Brovver huffed, “Right let’s go get him.”

He tapped Crowe and Fletch on the shoulders, “C’mon” the three sprinted off.

They found Hunter crawling on all fours along the bottom of the watercourse; they jumped down next to him. Jason looked up “Shrapnel, the explosion was bigger than I thought.”

Fletch knelt down, and ran his scanner down the left side of Hunter’s armour. “Here it is!”

He pulled a shard of metal from the near the hip joint. “This is why the legs stopped, dead unlucky.”

The self repair mechanism kicked in, the armour whined and Jason felt it powering up, “Right let’s get out of here!”

They ran back towards the transports. Mackintyre monitored the chasing pack, they were gaining on the four, it would be close. Mackintyre gestured at Kes and Stokes, “Grab a rocket each, see if you can slow them down.”

The two ran towards their approaching comrades. Once the four had passed they launched the rockets straight at the pursuing clansmen, not waiting for the detonation they turned and sprinted back to the transports.

The wheels of the transports spun as they raced off, the two rear seats of the transports spun round to face the following tribesman.

“They’re gaining on us!” The chasing pack rode faster two wheeled contraptions, a few shots whistled past.

“Rockets! Quick.”

Crowe and Fletch grabbed one each.

“Wait!” yelled Mackintyre. He wrenched the steering left and skidded across a short bridge. “Destroy the bridge!”

The two rockets detonated just in front of the chasing clansmen. The bridge swayed and cracked, two of the bikes made it over before the span broke. Kes and Grimond opened up with solids, the leading bike slewed across the road and exploded. The second fired off a last salvo and screeched to a halt.

“Front left!” yelled Brovver.

Two more bikes appeared guns clattering. As a group the clansmen fired back ripping the attackers apart. As quickly as it began the attack stopped, the transports rushed on.Thirty clicks further along, Mackintyre pulled of the road.

“Equipment check!”

“How far are we from the border now?” asked Rasta.

“Sixty klicks” replied Hunter.

Crowe pointed to the northwest, there was a flickering glow on the horizon, “Where’s that?” he asked.

“That’s Leeds, our next problem.” replied Mackintyre. They checked out the armour and reloaded their guns. Fletch tightened up a few links on the transports suspension, Mackintyre and Hunter scanned ahead planning their next move. “Trashing that bridge has put us further west than we should be, we’ve gotta head east for about 10 klicks, but it’s rough terrain and it’ll be slow.”

“What’s wrong with Leeds then?” asked Collins.

Grimond cuffed him on the back of his armoured head, “You were at the briefing, but I guess as usual you weren’t listening!”

They set off again travelling slower over the rough terrain heading away from the road and the lights of Leeds. Driving mainly on scanners and IR input it was difficult to keep up a decent speed. Every so often they would came across a barrier of some sort, a deep scar or an old wall or would have to take a detour round another small encampment of lost souls scratching a meagre existence from the barren landscape. It was frustrating and very time consuming and the eastern horizon was lightening when they reached their goal. Another north running road that would lead them eventually - according to the maps - back to the old motorway a few kilometres past Leeds then on to York.

“These maps aren’t as good as you thought - are they Mackintyre?”

“No Brovver they’re not, I shall have to complain to my supplier. Now shut up and let me think!”

Mackintyre pushed the scanners to their limit comparing the real world out to about ten kilometres with his pre-loaded maps. It was not a comforting comparison; even over the short distance he could scan there were several large anomalies, a couple of what looked like refugee camps between them and the main route to York and the border.

“Alright - change of plan, we’ll hole up in that old building over there till tonight.” He pointed at a structure a couple of hundred metres off the road. “We should be able to sneak past overnight. It might be useful to disappear for a while; the clans’ll be on the warpath and out looking for us.”

They guided the transports along a pitted driveway to the building. They found somewhere to park up the transports round the back of the building under an overhanging roof. Hunter deployed the photovoltaics and the water gatherers. The technology would recharge the powercells and split half the water absorbed from the air into its constituent parts, releasing the oxygen and storing the hydrogen. The rest or the water would be for drinking.

“What do you think this was?” asked Fletch.

Grimond kicked down the door and peered around. The dust was thick on the floor; it was clear no-one had been here for many years. The room was large with some broken down furniture, mainly chairs and tables. A long counter dominated one side of the room, something crunched under his foot. He looked down and frowned, he had stood on the leg of a human skeleton, the dry bones crumbled to dust as he kicked out.

Mackintyre joined Grimond, “A country pub!”

Grimond turned, “A what?”

Graeme laughed, “A pub! Folks used to meet in these places to chat and consume alcohol. Not the crap you make - real stuff, beer, whisky, gin, wine! I’m surprised it’s still standing.”

Grimond looked dubious, “Long time ago. Let’s have a look around.”

They searched through the building and found little of interest.

“One last thought, these places usually had a cellar.” Mackintyre found the trap door behind the counter. He pulled it open, the rusted hinges squealing in protest, and peered down into the dark. The narrow stairs looked decidedly fragile. He put one foot and half his weight on the first step down, the wooden steps collapsed in a heap. He hopped back and lay down, switched his lights on and peered into the dark.

Grimond heard him whistle, “What’s up Mackintyre?”

“A treasure trove.”

Mackintyre jumped down into the cellar, his lights revealed crates and shelves full of bottles. Brovver’s head appeared at the trapdoor.

“What’s down there Mackintyre?”

Graeme grabbed a couple of bottles and using the enhanced power of the armour jumped straight out of the cellar. He wiped off the dust one, unscrewed the top and sniffed, the label long since unreadable.

“Whisky!” He wiped the top of the bottle and took a swig, coughed and licked his lips and passed the bottle to Brovver who looked dubious. “Go on try it! It won’t kill you”

“How long’s this been here?”

“Since before the crash!”

Brovver took a swallow, tears appeared in his eyes, he sniffed, puffed out his cheeks and blew out a hard breath.

“Fuck!”

Mackintyre laughed, “It’ll help you sleep!”

Brovver passed the bottle to Grimond, “I’ll get the boys together, if we’re gonna stick around here we might as well get some rest.”

Brovver and Grimond delegated watch duties between the clansmen while Mackintyre and Hunter planned in more detail the route north. Mackintyre tried and failed to get an uplink from his pad to an AI to update the maps.

“Nothing, complete dead zone around here, I can’t get any connection out. We’re on our own!”

“So much for technology!” grunted Grimond, “What about the stuff in the cellar?”

“Think of it as a present from me to you.” said Mackintyre, “Log the location in your pad and pick it up on the way back. There are those in the Enclave who’ll pay a fortune for some of that stuff.” They settled down to rest.

Upstairs, Hunter and Collins took the first watch, “What’re you gonna do after this, Hunter?”

“I’m going into the Republic with Mackintyre, You?”

“Back south I suppose - take up farming.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Collins shrugged and went back to staring out the window. He inspected the straggling vegetation around the building. Thin brown grass, a few stunted bushes and couple of dead trees; there was nothing here that would suggest sustainable agriculture was achievable.

The day passed slowly and uneventfully; they had seen evidence of some movement in the distance but nothing came close to their hideout. Towards the end of the afternoon they were getting restless. Grimond had to ban them from the cellar, they were bored and the last thing he wanted was bored and drunk compadres. “We’ll pick up this stuff on the way back.” he said.

Fletch and Hunter repacked the transports while the others ate a light meal.

“Fully charged Boss, scanners show all clear out to ten klicks, we’re ready to go.”

“Thanks Jason - grab a bite.”

The sun was slipping below the horizon when they set off, slowly at first to avoid kicking up the dust, but once on the road they accelerated north. The narrow road leading back to the old north road was in very poor condition and but the large tyres ensured a fairly smooth ride. However they had to leave the road twice to detour around small encampments. Half kilometre short of the main road, Mackintyre brought them to a halt. The glow from Leeds had been brightening on the horizon for the last five minutes.

Hunter and Mackintyre with Grimond and Brovver looking over their shoulders cranked up the sensors to their maximum range. To the south of their present location they could see a large collection of clansmen and vehicles travelling slowly south.

“That’s gotta be a sweep looking for us.” Grimond pointed out.

“Bit o’luck then they’re heading in the wrong direction.” said Brovver.

“We should get going, they’re bound to realise their mistake soon enough.”

They sped onto the main road north as fast as possible. Even in the dark the land on either side of the road began took look less barren, a few trees were picked out by the scanners; there was even signs of agriculture, patches of cultivated land and possibly some goats. Other than that, the scanners stayed clear for fifteen minutes or so. They began to hope they would make it to the border without further interruption. Seventy klicks an hour, side by side the transports barrelled north until they could see lights of the border about ten kilometres ahead.

Mackintyre and Hunter slowed and turned off the road. Between them and the border was a Leeds clan checkpoint.

“This is where we split up, Hunter and I will proceed on foot, you should head back the way we came. I reckon you could get back to the pub before they realise we by-passed them. Where you go from there is up to you. The transport kit, the Lair and whatever you can scavenge from the pub is all yours.”

“That’s it?” asked Brovver, “No thanks for the help, just bugger off.”

“What do you want – a hug maybe? Brovver, I’ve given you and Grimond the tools to build a better life for your clans, I don’t think a bit of guard duty was too much to ask.” He turned, “C’mon Hunter” the two powered up their suits and jogged off leaving the clansmen stunned.

“What now Boss?” It was Fletch

“Who can drive these things, Fletch? Crowe?”

“Yeah no bother.”

“Well then - let’s get the hell outta here”

They turned the transports and sped off southwards.

“Think they’ll make it Graeme?”

“Should do - as long as they don’t get too pissed at the pub!”

The night vision sensors on the armour provided enough vision for them to make steady progress away from the road and the roadblock. The hope was that speed and stealth would see them past the roadblock and on to the border crossing without a fight. The suit scanners were more limited so they didn’t see the clansmen until they were nearly upon them. Mackintyre and Hunter had just reached the top of a low rise when their scanners lit up.

“Down!” they dropped to the ground.

They looked down into the dip on the other side of the hill; three Leeds clansmen were gathered round a small mobile scanner. One of them gestured towards where Mackintyre and Hunter lay.

“Shit, they’ve spotted us!”

One sprinted off while the other two began to fire at the top of the hill. The dirt kicked up around Hunter and Mackintyre and solids pinged off their armour. Hunter rolled quickly to the right and began to lay down covering fire, Hunter’s solids smashed the scanner to smithereens and one of the clansmen went down. Mackintyre lifted his head, sighted and fired the second clansmen dropped.

“Let’s get out of here before more turn up!”

The two pushed their enhancements to the limit and sprinted north. The scanners showed fleeting glimpses of clansmen heading in their direction but the enhanced armour ensured they could stay ahead of the chasing pack. They reached the border fence half a klick ahead of their pursuers.

“We’re still too far west.”

They ran off east parallel to the wall. The scanners showed the chasing clansmen turning to cut them off. They arrived at a spot in the heavily armoured wall a few hundred metres ahead of the followers.

“Cover me!” Mackintyre plugged a small pad into a barely visible slot and a small screen lit up.

“C’mon. C’mon, hurry up!”

Solids smacked into the wall, Hunter replied in kind.

“Hello Mackintyre how are you today?”

“OPEN THE GATE!!”

More incoming solids slammed into the wall and armour.

“Touchy!”

An outline appeared on the previously unmarked wall and a heavy door swung inwards, Mackintyre grabbed Hunter and pulled him through. The door clanged shut and more solids slammed into it. “That was too close for comfort!”

They were in small ante-room, no windows and no obvious exit other than the one they had just come through.

“Welcome to the Republic of Greater Scotland, prepare for decontamination.”

A cascade of fluid gushed from the ceiling, hissing and bubbling over the armour cleaning the detritus of their journey from its surface.

“Scanning..... Clear.”

An inner door opened to a bright, cosy looking sitting room, hardly a suitable place for two heavily armoured and armed men.

“What is this place Graeme?”

Mackintyre removed the helmet of his armour. “A quiet entry point, I don’t want to fire up security’s curiosity for a while yet.”

He stripped off his armour gesturing to Hunter to do the same. Jason Hunter felt out of place; by his standards the room was too clean, too opulent, gleaming wooden furniture and soft couches, he couldn’t see where he fitted in this set up.Graeme sensed Hunter’s reluctance.

“Don’t worry Jason. This place” he gestured round the room, “it’s just a staging post and supply depot. The AI that runs it has a quirky sense of humour.”

Hunter removed his helmet, still uncomfortable. “It’s a bit, - what’s that old word you used? .... Posh?”

Gales of laughter erupted around them, “That’s a beauty Mackintyre - who is this guy?”

“Shut up Poe!”

The laughter toned down to a background giggle and faded away.

“Poe, this is Jason Hunter. I need full ID for him, freelance security expert, twenty eight years old, full history, the works. Oh and clothes to fit”

“And what’s in it for me?”

“Continued access to the Lair and if you behave, a link to Enclave security and more!”

“More?”

“Patience Poe, just do as I ask.”

“What was all that about?” asked Jason removing the last piece of his armour.

“That ... That was Poe, the AI that runs this place and my sometime helper. C’mon.”

They had a light breakfast and Mackintyre laid out the next stage of their journey.

“Poe, how’s the avatar?”

“Winding down as you requested, two contracts refused, apparently you are going on holiday.”

“Good, what about transport?”

“All arranged, maglev to Glasgow in two hours, a private will be there to pick you up.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

“There’s a full brief on your pad, much fun in the Parliament.”

“You been up to your old tricks again?”

“No comment... I have prepared an introductory pack for Jason, it’s on his pad. Clothing will be ready before you go and Jason’s identity built and uploaded.”

“Where are we going Graeme?”

“To visit an old friend, Jason, a very old friend. You’d better read up on your new life just in case we meet security on the way.”