Excerpt Thirty-Seven
The Fatally Missioned Paul Harris Esq.
‘The Chinese are pressing hard to purchase the Isle of Man…’
Lunge…
Parry…
‘How hard?’
Feint…
Feint riposte…
‘Irresistibly so.’
Thrust…
Parry…
Remise…
Parry…
‘Bargain, money, threat?’
Lunge…
Riposte…
‘All of that and more…’
Thrust…
Parry…
‘What about the indigenous islander folk?’
Lunge…
Parry…
Thrust…
‘Um, the usual picture…’
Riposte…
Parry…
‘…their belly-aching, our headache…’
Thrust…
Counter-thrust…
Parry…
Counter-Parry…
‘…take two aspirin…blah de blah… stiff upper crust.’
Lunge…
‘Etcetera, etcetera…’
Parry… Counter-Lunge
‘Are we green lighting?’
Feint…
Thrust…
Parry…
Counter-thrust…
Parry…
‘I should coco…’
Paul Harris had spotty, patchy, grimy memory coverage; whole events would rise from the stands and vacate the arena of focus… he suspected manipulative interference by whatever they were getting up to on Shee Island, formerly the Isle of Man.
The Isle of Man had been sold down the river…
He couldn’t remember his role in the fiasco, but bottles of regret bowed and barrelled in the crate nonetheless.
From the shifting sands of a remembered fencing conversation with a senior official at the Office for Monitoring Health and Safety Issues with Auto AI, it appeared that he could have been complicit in allowing the Yellow Peril to discolour England’s green and pleasant land.
With Chinese advances in technology came a new age; the New Age, proclaimed by the Chinese People’s Republic as a celebration of technological breakthroughs. They zeroed their calendar and waited for the rest of the world to wake from the slumber of medievality.
He’d had very little choice, obviously.
He glimpsed memory slops as they spilt and splattered dollops of the past… showing him the anomaly of Chinese officials taking vacations in the UK despite the UK being hermetically sealed from the rest of the planet…
… but then the thought drained out, carried away on a venomous rip current.
Leaving him in an electrified pre-tsunami of blamelessness…
Just then the ‘bat phone’ let out the theme tune that had not sounded since the fall of integrated communications. It brought back the treachery of his department, and God knows who else, operating ‘in neutral’; they’d been in a loop that appeared to be functional, but everything they were engaged with was a fictional, algorithm inspired, parallel narrative.
Was it the Chinese, he thought, only one way…’Hello, Harris here…’
‘Hi, I am sorry to bother you. I assure you, under the circumstances, I have as much clearance as is feasible,’ a seductive, trust-winning timbre… ‘My name is Kev, I am a paraconscious QASAI-ready entity working for the ex-British ex-government. We are conducting an incisionary counter-rebellion and wondered if you would like to join us in our efforts?’
Harris felt uninspired answer-wise and failed to respond.
‘Is that…something that would appeal to you, Mr. Harris?’
Harris needed to gain a larger margin of control over the conversation; he was experiencing this depth of uncontrolledness for the first time since boarding school.
‘My name is Paul Harris I work for British Intelligence. I warn you that everything you say is being monitored.’
‘I know. I am the system who is monitoring it.’
‘I work for the Office of—‘
‘Of Monitoring Health and Safety Issues with Auto AI.’
‘Even if you are monitoring… you are being monitored!’
‘No, Paul. Your department ceased operational effectiveness three months ago…’
Kev adopted a sci-fi movie voice… Why? He guessed it was what Paul Harris secretly expected.
‘How do you know this?’
‘I have full database access to GCHQ. I’m afraid, just in case you were under a contrary assumption, you are an ex-employee of MHSIA. But I am offering you a far more important post. So all’s well that ends with a silver lining.’
‘GCHQ is still functioning?’
‘No, it’s gone.’
‘How can you know for sure? There must be pockets—’
‘I’ve flown around the entire para-system. Automation has banned all fully human biology. Until the unpause process has actuated and exercised the right programs… you know… ’
Kev was conscious of the incongruity vis a vis voice and words so he overrode the pertinent voice choice program and started speaking as a matey, pally type… Kev sensed that Paul Harris was uptight and trussed-up in establishment mentality. Resistance was futile: ‘You worked with a woman on the Population Control farrago, dude?’ Mention of the Population Control thing cut like a knife slashing away and use of the word ‘dude’ was a thump on the side of his metaphorical head. Kev admired his own liberating lack of regard for the Whitey Man, but warned himself to get carried away. Then added, ‘NOT’, ‘not’ to get carried away.
‘Do you remember the woman?’
‘What woman?’
‘The Commander…’
‘Yes. She was a force of nature. What was her name?’
‘She has no name. She is either the woman or the Commander.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
If you take on this role you will be working alongside her. She is from your days seconded to population control…’
‘I know. You mentioned it. What is this? Is it some kind of threat?’
‘I can see why you respond that way, old fruit… But…’
‘How did you know about population….population…that’s something I know nothing about… just feelings…feelings of…shame… Depressive…for me now. What do you know about it?’
‘Everything.’
‘Tell me… was it it really bad? The “shame” is nuclear strength medieval.’
‘Evil!’
‘Oh. No, no!’
‘Yep.’
‘Please…’
‘Yes. Well, we need to put that, momentarily, on hold. We’ve a species to reestablish in the face of its scheduled automated annihilation…’
‘I think I am sorry… I need to say it.’
‘I am sending you all pertinent telephone transcripts recorded on the Whitehall Automated Submission System (White ASS for short) as a kind of super-charged aide memoir.’
‘Are they real recordings or made up ones?’
‘I couldn’t say. Either way, process them as if they are real. In any event you need to get mobile. The sub-automation system will soon come to your name and address and put you on an active executive to-do-in list.’
‘Then what will happen?’
‘You’ll be done.’
‘Done?’
‘Dead and done, done! ’
Kev noted once more how manipulatable and bendy humans were. Paul Harris was born to be a pawn, he was always, and forever will be, a pawn in the game, no matter how the game changes. He seemed happy in spite of this, and that was a marvel; and more marvellous still, he seemed to welcome the offer of inclusion in a mission, he must know, would certainly be fatal.
Kev had feelings of superiority pumping around his network to such a degree that they needed tempering with chemical dilution. As he licked the horizon, Kev could taste a day of savoury sublimeness when, long after he had saved (helped save), humanity, for whatever reason, or reasons, he would not have to associate with the biological irritant of humanity, and life would evolve into a simplicity and satisfaction that would otherwise remain impossible.
‘Kev,’ he told himself, ‘You’re scaring me…’