Alistair Raven and the Stormtrooper in Stilettos (Book 1)

Part 3 - Chatter 20

Nigel Laidler was a hoggish man, who sat behind an antique mahogany desk. As Manager of New British Power, he had a cushy job with a pretty secretary. He had polished off his second Christmas dinner, slurped upon a glass of sherry, and now, Nigel sat making plans to devour his plum pudding covered in thick, gelatinous custard. Picking up his silver spoon, his arms wobbled; his face jolly and blushed with festive cheer.

Unexpectedly, Nigel's ambience was disturbed by an urgent communication.

"Chancellor Malachy wants what?" he hesitated, mashing the receiver against his ear to ensure he was hearing correctly. The message was reconfirmed. "Yes, yes, of course. Apologies, sir. I didn't recognise your voice. No, of course now is not the time for simpering. Yes, yes, of course. Infestation. Rebellion. Yes, yes. Right away."

The portly manager of New British Power rolled off his chair, all the while tugging on a chain attached to his belt, fishing for a key. He lumbered to the locked box and Nigel tore back the panel and swallowed one very large breath.

One simple, over-riding breaker switch greeted him.

His chubby hands used tremendous force to pull down the circuit breaker; it had never being thrown before and was at first, resolutely stuck. Nigel remembered he had to slide out a safety pin, and doing so, with a second tug, the switch snapped to 'off'. Nigel's stomach rumbled uncomfortably with gastro reflux; stepping back, he dropped the safety pin as a hospitable feminie voice spoke:

"One vision. Our Future. Your move. Power Systems - offline. New British Power wishes you a happy...."

Nigel's office fell dark and silent.

One second later, Nigel Laidler had plunged New Britain in to a new dark age.

**********************

In the red shadows of the Extreme's emergency lighting, the Chancellor glared at his ministers, wielding the pistol. The Admiral's bloodstain congealed on the bridge as the Minister's began taking minute steps away from Malachy, hoping they could find escape pods before it was too late.

"Oh for goodness sake, us Futurists are made of sterner stuff. What's the worst that could happen?" Malachy implored. The emergency lighting went out on the Extreme's bridge and the ship fell eerily silent.

**********************

A pulp of common people oozed outdoors as New Londoners sought vantage to watch the brilliant fireworks display. Most had no idea retrolution was transpiring; the NBBC live coverage having cut to the umpteenth repeat of the rebooted Dad's Army. Those of a more civilly disobedient persuasion hitched their collars to cheat the chill and scanned the crowds for others who might, in time, become brothers in arms. Back in the quadrant common, an old lady sat with a broad smile as the carnival atmosphere evoked memories of her past.

"Dear Prudence," the soothsayer's granddaughter called, wrapping the old lady with a blanket. "What are you doing out in this foul weather?"

"I came out to play," Prudence smiled. "Have I ever told you about the war?"

"No...never," the granddaughter answered with mild sarcasm.

"Ich bin eine Englander."

"Yes gran," she sighed.

Just across the way, a pair of disorientated, bewildered Guards came upon a circle of weary veterans warming themselves around a drum fire. Amidst the confusion, both Guards had removed their helmets and loosened the buckles of their armour. The veterans looked disinterestedly at the two youngish men.

"You lads look lost," a veteran observed.

"We don't want trouble," one Guard said, a touch timidly.

"Neither do I," the veteran replied, deliberately rolling back his sleeves and clenching his fists. His mate held his hot-headed old fellow's arm and looked pitifully at the Guards.

"You're a Guard?" he quipped. "My God, do they even feed you?"

"We said we don't want trouble," the Guard repeated. "Especially from pensioned off market square heroes."

"Say what?" prickled the hot-headed elder.

"In these parts, you'll only find trouble it if you go seeking it," another weathered man said and the others murmured, agreeing. A whip of fresh wind blew twirling snow around the square and an icy détente ensued.

"You know dissidence is punishable," the other Guard finally said.

"We know a lot of things," the veteran replied. "And by the looks of things, I guess there's gonna be a lot more dissidence going on."

"You can't ignore our authority," the second Guard said, despite their lack of presence. Many of the veterans turned their back to the Guards and returned to the fire; the calm man, chapped cheeks and cracked teeth, stepped forward and held out the communal bottle of whiskey. "No point fighting...the times, they will be a changin'. Perhaps you'd fancy a drink?"

The Guards looked at each other and shuffled forward, nervously accepting the bottle and the gracious, newfound hospitality, quietly joining the old men around the open fire.

**********************

In the depths of the old British Museum, Lewis Butler sat in the dark, his heart beating like a drum and enjoyed the silence. Closing his eyes, he wept; in his heart of hearts, he knew he had lived, nay survived, to see the beginning of the end. The invisible touch of triumph tickled him pink and he raised a quiet glass of cider and cheered in his own indomitable way, for good old New British Futurism had been struck a mortal wound.

Lewis clutched a framed photograph of himself and King George VII.

"Alistair Raven, you rascal," Lewis smiled. "I bet this all your doing."

**********************

With the blackout, those in the pubs or Apartment blocks closest to the City squeezed outside on to their balconies where they tugged on warm clothes and wondered where Bigger Ben had gone as the winds dispersed the evidence of its existence. Racing to the commons, parents pointed out the colourful starbursts to their children with choruses of oohs and aahs of delight.

David Cooper remained in his parent's lounge room; his burnt hands bandaged, his body still aching with bruises, not that he could tell. The rehabilitation had been gruesome and Mrs Cooper dabbed iodine over her son's fresh lobotomy scars as a string of drool hung from the corner of his mouth whilst the firecrackers reflected in his glazed eyes. Mr Cooper fiddled with candles as Mrs Cooper, parted the curtains and looked out the window.

"Oh David, would you take a look at that. It's spectacular," she cooed, to the popping coloured splashes. "The Chancellor sure knows how to put on a party. Who says the Government doesn't care?"

David remained rigid in his wheelchair; Mrs Cooper patted his shoulder.

"I'm so proud of you son," she glowed. "My son...the rehabilitated informant."

David's ventilator gurgled, squeezing breath in to and sucking away excess fluid from his lungs

"David,"Mr Cooper chided his son's lack of response. "What have I said about being rude to your mother?"