UnConsequences

The most recent incarnation of the Scottish Parliament Building crouched under the glowering mass of Arthurs Seat. The twenty first century modern building had been destroyed by anti-nationalists during the crash and the parliament rebuilt as a security conscious utilitarian block of granite. Its windows were small and disguised and like much of the surrounding architecture it was a dark and forbidding building.

The nearby Palace of Holyrood was where the former monarch Diana had set up home and in an egalitarian frenzy threw open the doors to anyone and everyone who needed a bed and a bite to eat. The constant queue of refugees outside the gates never seemed to diminish and neither did her enthusiasm for her “good works”.

Central Edinburgh was like a city in aspic, barely changed for three centuries, the ancient buildings evidence of a continuity you would not find almost anywhere else in the western world. The iconic Waverley Maglev Station still bisected the city centre and the now crumbling castle loomed over the city as it had done since its construction.

Edinburgh had always been a schizophrenic city. On the one hand a prim and proper mistress, scolding and severe, often cold and unfriendly. On the other; a hot-bed of sin and scandal, ripe with challenge and innovation, home of Burke and Hare and Adam Smith, a city of contrasts. As the home of the Parliament it was the beating heart of Republic politics. However the Republics’ economic powerhouse and its success stories were elsewhere, in the huge wind energy farms, hydro power in the Highlands and hydrogen plants in the North Sea. The genetically engineered foodcrop designed in Dundee fed millions in the Republic and elsewhere while the engineering expertise in Glasgow and Aberdeen provided the industrial muscle.

The First Minister saw none of this; his entire focus was concentrated on controlling the argumentative members of his coalition cabinet. He had laid out Belinda’s plan in as positive light as possible. He appealed to their better instincts but to little avail; many of the Cabinet remained overtly hostile. There was an inherent caution, conservatism with a small “c” in a significant proportion of the smaller of the coalition parties and opposition seemed to coalesce around the Minister for Finance. There had been half an hour of petty bickering over who had responsibility for the response to Belinda’s plan without a clear resolution and the First Minister was becoming increasingly exasperated.

“Ladies and gentlemen in less than two hours I have to stand before the Parliament, on behalf of this new coalition government and deliver a speech that will hold our administration together while at the same time quelling the opposition. You would think that given the situation we could at least attempt to present a united front.”

He ran his hands through his hair before slamming them down on the table, the First Minister had only one card left to play and it was a desperate gamble. “Now, unless you want my resignation and an election within three months, here’s what I expect you to agree to.”

The faces round the table displayed a mixture of shock, indignation and calculation. Those in his own party were clearly afraid that his bluff would be called while those in smaller coalition partners wondered if an election would better their standing in the Parliament. The Deputy First Minister, Jennifer Bryce, from the minority Green Alliance was the first to break the silence.

“First Minister, you know none of us has an appetite for an election at this point in time, especially you.” There was bitterness in her tone stemming from the bruising election battle eighteen months ago and she was not for compromise at this point..

“You are holding a gun to our heads. Belinda Leask is a wonderful woman, but she should not be allowed to dictate to Parliament. By placing the leader of the opposition in charge of the largest company in the Republic she is openly challenging our sovereignty and I for one will not have it.”

She stood, lifting her pad from the table.

“I will be tendering my resignation forthwith and my party will be formally withdrawing from the coalition. By my calculation that leaves you twelve short of a majority. If I were you I would be speaking to Norman Baker.”

She turned and left and her party colleague the health minister shrugged his shoulders and followed her. Those remaining let out a collective groan.

“Well - that’s just fucking wonderful!” the Finance Minister through his hands in the air, “Just fucking perfect, now we’re all screwed.”

He glanced across at Grigor Campbell and was astounded to see him smiling! “Grigor?”

The First Minister turned to his aide, “Bring him in.” he said.

The aide opened the rear entrance to the cabinet room and in walked Norman Baker. The First Minister stood and shook Norman’s hand.

“Welcome Norman - come in - sit down.”

Norman Baker sat in Jennifer Bryce’s still warm seat.

“What’s going on Grigor?” the Finance Minister, Peter Devron, was never very fond of Baker at the best of times.

“Norman and I met earlier today and we have agreed the basis of a new coalition. He will be resigning his seat to take up his role as CE of Leask Corp. His deputy Charles Watson will become leader of the SDS and the new Deputy FM. There are a few departmental details to be sorted out but essentially as of my speech to Parliament at 12:30 today the Republic will have a new and more stable coalition government with an overall majority of fourteen.”

Peter Devron was in no mood to trust the First Minister, “So it’s a bloodless coup then Grigor We go from one unholy alliance to another in the blink of an eye and no-one will notice. Is that it? Is that what our much vaunted democracy delivers? It’ll be unelected puppet dictatorship run by you and Watson while Baker here and Belinda Leask pull the strings.”

The First Minister was unmoved, “If that is truly the way you feel Peter, then you can join Ms Bryce on the back benches, I will not try to dissuade you. However note this-”

He stared at his old adversary.

“I have delivered stable a coalition for the past eighteen months when no-one thought it possible. Today I have fashioned an alliance that twenty four hours ago no-one would have thought possible. By uniting in common cause - two long standing political adversaries will continue to deliver stable and thoughtful government for the good of the Republic of Greater Scotland and our citizens.”

He sat back, “You can either be part of this or not - it is entirely your decision. And that goes for any other member of this cabinet.”

He looked into the eyes of each individual cabinet member. “We are embarking on a new journey, launching the Republic towards unknown horizons full of new challenges, new -”

Norman Baker snorted, “Grigor, you’re speechifying, save it for later, you’ll need it.”

Brought up short the First Minister glared at Baker.

" Perhaps you’re right Norman. Members of the cabinet, I propose we take a short break, say 30 minutes and reconvene at,” he looked up at the clock, “11:30.”

Murmurs of agreement all round and the meeting broke up in some disarray.

Grigor Campbell and Norman Baker were left on their own.

“Well that was a triumph!”

“Shut up Norman!”

Rumours spread through the parliament faster than a wildfire after a drought Knots of MSPs were gathering in the meeting rooms and canteens, civil servants were striding from room to room delivery statements and policy papers individually to each member of the parliament, making no comment other than.

“This is the text of the First Minister’s statement.”

Jennifer Bryce strode through the corridors ignoring greetings from friends and foes alike, she went directly to the TriV studio and buttonholed the news producer.

“Caroline, you’ve seen this?” she held out the text of the FMs speech.

“It’s just come through, what do you want Jennifer?”

Caroline Harrison’s reluctance was obvious in her tone, the last thing she needed was to get caught in the crossfire between Bryce and Campbell.

“I want on first as soon as he sits down!”

“In other words you want to spin this for your own ends. Not a chance, my editor has made it plain already - it’s all the party leaders at the same time or none at all. She is already putting a package together to fill if you don’t all agree.”

Realisation dawned on Jennifer Bryce; the FM had played her like a virtuoso, manipulating her into a position from where resignation was her only option, while simultaneously cementing his position as FM and opening up all sorts of opportunities.

“You were warned, weren’t you? He told you what was going to happen.”

Caroline refused to rise to the bait, “We have news gatherers ready to prepare vox pops as soon as the FM sits down.”

She paused and with some sympathy said, “Go speak with the other party leaders, at least have some collective response ready, it’s going to be a long and tough afternoon.”

Belinda Leask and her closest advisors were having a light lunch.

“Time for Campbell’s statement.” she said, “Switch on the TriV.” The debating chamber of the Parliament appeared in a corner of the room.

“Order, order, the chamber will come to order.” The Presiding Officer was obviously having troubles calming the atmosphere, he banged his gavel again.

“Order! The member for Glasgow West will resume his seat!”

Several MSPs were on their feet shouting for points of order.

“I will deal with points of order after the First Ministers statement which will be heard without interruption. First Minister!”

Cheers erupted from the government benches when Grigor stood and acknowledged his party with his usual self deprecating smile and nod.

“Order! First Minister!”

“Thank you Presiding Officer.”

He glanced round the chamber.

“The Chinese used to say ironically perhaps - ‘may you live in interesting times’. Well I think I can say without fear of contradiction that these are interesting times!”

The First Minister was heard in silence for fifteen minutes as he described the recent events. The rising tension in the chamber finally exploded when he reached the section describing the dissolving of the coalition. Noise erupted from the Green Alliance benches.

“Resign! Resign!” was yelled out by several members.

“Order Order! I will suspend the sitting if the members do not come to order.” The Presiding Officer banged the gavel yet again, “First Minister!”

“Liar!” the chamber fell silent; the Presiding Officer consulted his aide sitting next to him.

“The member for Dumbarton East will withdraw that remark.”

Brian Barber, the gruff no nonsense MSP from the Clyde coast, stood.

“Presiding Officer, I have evidence that the First Minister is deceiving this Parliament, therefore I will not withdraw the remark.”

The Presiding Officer was indignant, “Mr Barber you know we do not allow that kind of language in the chamber. You will either withdraw the remark, or leave the chamber.”

Brian Barber picked his pad up from the desk. “Then I will leave” and to a slow handclap from the government benches he left the chamber.

“I will not tolerate any more of this; it is a tradition in this chamber that we listen respectfully with speeches.” The Presiding Officer raked his gaze across the MSPs - “First Minister, continue.”

Belinda Leask sighed, “They don’t make it easy do they?” It was not a question she expected an answer to. “Stephen, do we know what Barber thinks he’s got?”

“We think it’s the usual mixture of rumour, innuendo, and disinformation, with just enough of a kernel of truth to give it a hint of veracity.”

Stephen handed a pad to Belinda. “Details are here, it’s nothing serious.”

Belinda scanned the screen and handed the pad back. The TriV muttered on in the background.

Grigor Campbell concluded his speech and sat down. The parliament sat in silence for a few moments before pandemonium broke out.

“Switch it off.” the TriV fell into darkness and silence. “Let’s get on.”

The Presiding Officer was not in the mood for anymore nonsense. He banged the gavel for what felt like the hundredth time.

“The parliament is suspended for one hour!” He stood and stormed out of the chamber leaving the noise behind. The First Minister was smugly satisfied with his morning’s work. He leaned across to the Energy Secretary and whispered in his ear.

“Job done, Frank, job done.”

The Presiding Officer dropped into his chair and glared at the civil servants, “Get them all in here as soon as possible. I want each of the party leaders in here before I reopen the session.” He looked round the room “Well, what are standing around here for?” he yelled, “Get on with it!”

The civil servants glanced at each other, the Senior Clerk, Paul Macdonald, cleared his throat and took half a pace ahead of his colleagues.

“Sir, before we do that, standing orders insist we deal with Mr Barber before any other business. He is waiting in the lobby, shall I invite him in?”

The Presiding Officer laid both of his palms flat on the desk and pushed himself upright, he knew Macdonald was right. “Bugger! What’s the standard punishment for misusing privilege?”

“It may be more than that Sir; if there is prima facea evidence to support his accusations then we have a duty to investigate.”

The Presiding Officer through his hands in the air, “Alright bring him in.”

Brian Barber walked in; he looked very sure of himself.

“I hope you’ve got something robust to back up your comments, Mr Barber!”

Brian handed over a pad, “Read that!” he said and sat down and folding his arms across his sizeable paunch.

Adrian Robertson scanned through the document on the pad. He sucked his breath in through his teeth and started again reading this time with more concentration. He passed the pad to his senior clerk, leant his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his interlocked fingers. Looking straight into Brian Barber’s eyes searching for any signs of deception he asked.“Where did you get this from Brian?”

“Does that really matter? Surely this is evidence enough that the FM deliberately mislead the parliament?”

“Oh it matters, how do we verify that this is not a fake? How can we be sure of the reliability of the sender? Unless we can trace its providence it is useless. It’s merely another rumour, another groundless accusation; yet another piece of mischief by a disaffected citizen. You need to back this up with something a lot harder than a memo with his letter head on it. It’s not even signed!”

Paul Macdonald handed the pad back to the presiding officer.

“Well Paul?”

The clerk clasped his hands behind his back; he knew how precarious his position was at this point. The memo effectively accused him of being the go between for today’s palace coup. Too defensive and others may sense a weakness, too strong and an investigation may uncover any small part he played in the reorganisation of the coalition either knowingly or not.

“Presiding Officer since I am specifically mentioned in the memo and therefore accused of misusing my position I do not believe it is appropriate for me to be comment at this time and I should withdraw.”

“No Paul, I want your reaction to the contents not you hiding behind protocol. It says quite categorically that you were intimately involved early this morning in the dissolution of the old coalition and the set up of the new! That you, in breach of the code of conduct acted as a go between for the First Minister and the leader of the opposition! Played the honest broker in this charade! I want to know how much, if any of this is true! I will not accept silence as an answer.”

Paul could almost hear his colleagues smirking beside him, they were ambitious individuals and both were after his job.

Brian Barber unfolded his arms and leant forward. “If you will permit me Presiding Officer, - Adrian, before we go on I think you should read the second file.”

“There’s more?”

Brian Barber leaned across the desk, swiped the pad and handed it back to the Presiding Officer. A second memo appeared, this time from Norman Baker.

“Note the time stamp.”

Adrian Robertson read through the memo twice, he then went back to the first memo comparing the time stamps, a picture was beginning to emerge. It was a palace coup but it had been set up long before this, Grigor Campbell had been aware for months that his party’s relationship with the GA had gone sour and they were looking for a chance to usurp him and set up with SDS. Campbell had already agreed with the SDS what the outcome would be and he had gotten his retaliation in first.

Paul Macdonald had been the unwitting dupe in this. Campbell and Baker under the guise of negotiating for parliamentary time had in fact used Paul and his team to communicate in secret. Essentially because no-one inside or outside the parliament would suspect the scrupulously impartial Presiding Officer’s staff they were confident that their communications could travel under the radar of even the most cynical MSP or inquisitive hack. He passed the pad to Paul Macdonald.

“It seems you were conned Paul.” he turned back to Barber, “You on the other hand, when and how did you discover this?”

“The two memos arrived on my pad just as the FM got up to speak. I read them straight away.”

“Ok, this is now a security matter, how was this office hacked and by whom is the first thing we need to know?”

Having made up his mind Adrian Robertson was in no mood for compromise.

“I doubt if either party has the technical sophistication to do this so there must be another player. Paul, as soon as I am finished with the party leaders, get security in here and contact the AIs. Mr Barber, you will apologise to the Parliament in writing. You were carried away and in the heat of the moment over reacted and you are now contrite. Paul will draft something. You will be suspended for one day to allow you to ponder your misdemeanour.”

Barber tried to interject, but Robertson ploughed on, “None of this will become public knowledge until we are in full possession of the facts. If even a hint of this gets outside this office then we will know immediately who security will to talk to. Am I clear?” He didn’t wait for an answer, “Good!”

Apart from once early in the 21st century the ruling government in the Scottish Parliament had always been a coalition of two or more parties and on occasions all seven parties had been together though that only lasted a few months. There were three small eco-parties operating together under the Green Alliance banner then, Norman Baker’s Socialist Democrats of Scotland, SDS, and Campbell’s Scotland First were the two largest groups, the last two small parties, the Liberals and the Neo Cons, had occasionally held the balance of power in the early days after the crash but had dwindled in number rapidly thereafter, especially as the Republic expanded south towards York.

All seven leaders, like naughty schoolkids, entered the in strict order of MSP numbers, Campbell first, followed by Baker then down the line to the Neo Con, Isobel Williams, not just the leader of the party but it’s only MSP. She was a tall muscular woman who made up for her solitary status by being well liked by all and apparently the only MSP with a sense of humour. She was however an inveterate gossip; delighting in scandalous tales of other members of which she had many.

They all sat down looking suitably contrite, the Presiding Officer glared across “As you all know, I am a patient man, but this morning’s shambles has tried even my legendary aplomb. I am seriously considering censuring the whole damn lot of you.”

Norman Baker spoke up first. “I think I can say on behalf of us all that we regret that things got so out of hand earlier. These momentous changes in the government at very short notice have -”

“Do be quiet Norman, I haven’t finished!” Adrian Robertson was not to be so easily sidetracked.

“I have dealt with Mr Barber. That was simple, but your atrocious behaviour in the chamber this morning is an altogether different matter. I am suspending business for the rest of the day. The parliament will reconvene tomorrow at 9am and you can all make your public apologies then. Now get out of here!” Robertson hoped that a break in proceedings would allow cooler heads to prevail and the Parliament would settle down.

Grigor Campbell tried to say something but was silenced by a look from the Presiding Officer. They rose to leave. The party leaders shuffled out embarrassed like kids caught stealing from a sweetie jar.

“Ms Williams please stay.” He paused until the room cleared and the door closed.

“Isobel, you alone seemed to be unaffected by this morning’s fracas. Can I assume you had some prior knowledge, or were you just indifferent?”

“I knew something was up, the look on Jennifer’s face was enough, but I never imagined those two insects Campbell and Baker would become bed fellows. But now that Baker is going and Charles Watson is taking over the dynamic has changed in the coalition. I think things will settle down in time. Though I’m pretty sure Jennifer Bryce will resign as leader of the GA and that will be a real bun fight.”

“As perceptive as ever Isobel - I don’t know Charles Watson that well - he has always been a dark horse. I would welcome your input.” Adrian knew Isobel could be relied upon to be discreet and for a politician relatively non partisan. And as one of the deputy presiding officers the two were natural allies, especially as she had no other real influence in the Parliament.

“Well, he’s ideologically to the left of Campbell, but with less savvy. As you know he was an academic before entering Parliament. A PhD in the History of Philosophy; he can be very theoretical, tortuously so at times, obsessively picking over the details. In many ways an unlikely leader, but he’ll be a thorn in Campbell’s side and curb some of his more outrageous inclinations. He might push hard for curbs on AIs - he just doesn’t trust them. Other than that he is a moderate on most issues, no real skeletons in his cupboard though there was a rumour that he had a fling with a fellow academic just before he got married. His wife, Marion, is a geneticist specialising in gene repair and a good friend of Belinda Leask whom she has treated. She is very expensive and very wealthy, so Watson has no money worries.”

“In other words it will be difficult for Grigor to pull his strings. Thank you Isobel. Now there is one more thing I wish to discuss.”

Adrian laid out the background to the morning’s events laying particular emphasis on the hacking of the systems and urging caution when using them. He would prefer to limit discussion to verbal only for the moment until security had completed their investigations.

Isobel agreed, “I shall make a few careful enquiries myself. I may have an idea who’s behind this but I want to confirm before telling security.”

“Ok, Isobel but be very careful. Let me know this evening if you have made any progress.”

Isobel nodded, picked up her pad and left. Paul Macdonald came in as Isobel left, Adrian waited until the door closed.

“Well did you get all that?”

“Yes Sir, recorded and stored.”

“Good now let’s speak to security.”

THE ENCLAVE MIDDAY WEDNESDAY

Thunder crashed over the Enclave and rain in huge glutinous drops battered the roofs and streets. The citizens, some of them naked ran outside with every container imaginable to collect this rare largesse from the heavens. The precious water gushed and gurgled through dry drains and pipes, puddles collecting in streets were quickly siphoned off into any handy container. For a normal citizen of the Enclave this was like winning the lottery. A few gallons of fresh water were worth, for some, a weeks’ salary. In the heat the city steamed. Underground taps were opened, leaks in the water system exploited to their full. Stark naked under a stream of cold water actually washed.

Resource Manager, Martin Short, could barely contain himself. As soon as his team had picked up the possibility of a rainstorm he was busy organising collection squads throughout the Enclave. This was the first measureable rainfall in the Enclave for fourteen months. At last some water they didn’t have to import, water they didn’t have to pay for from dwindling funds, some respite from the seemingly endless drought. Perhaps this would be just enough to delay the expected hike in rationing.

The rain cleared the air and for a while at least people could walk the city streets without masks. They greeted each other with a smile rather than a growl, the streets were washed clean. The litter swirled in corners, covering the drains and slowing the seepage into the vast underground storage tanks. Martin Short’s teams of operatives cleared the drains as much as possible trying to keep the citizenry away from the collection sites. They opened hatches in the streets allowing more water to enter the system. Pumps were running at full tilt gathering the precious fluid in bowsers throughout the Enclave. The storm moved north out of the city, the bowsers followed the rain, continuing to collect and filter as much of the water as possible. The area outside the wall qickly became a sea of mud making travelling difficult and the bowsers didn’t get very far before the storm outran them. They returned to the Enclave full of gritty water which would need further processing before being released into the reservoirs. But it was water.

As the storm moved away the Mayor called Martin, “How did we do?”

Looking at the screens behind the resource manager, BoJo could see the operatives still frantically working to collect the last drops.

“Ah, BoJo, very well I think, so far we have filled 65% of the reservoirs and we still have some of the bowsers to come in. It’s looking very good.”

“Damn it, why couldn’t this have happened a few days ago? Then we could have told the Leasks where to stick their precious water!”

“Well, I spoke to the meteorologists and they reckon this is a one off and they don’t think there’ll be a repeat for the foreseeable future.”

“Useless fucking shower, they nearly missed this one!”

“It was petty short notice, but even the AIs didn’t spot it coming. Still we made the best of it and with the Leask’s water we are unlikely to need further rationing for a month or two and we can relax the restrictions a little.”

“No Martin, we keep the restrictions, the citizens collected plenty of water for themselves - let them use that first.”

A little frostily Martin replied “As you wish. There is one other thing, the Undergrounders have opened a tap somewhere and are siphoning off considerable amounts. Please get Connely to find the leak and plug it, I am not sending my folk down there.” He broke the connection without saying goodbye.

BoJo pondered Short’s parting words. Perhaps he should send Connely down into the tunnels, he could arrange for him not to return. The Mayor’s political antenna had been twitching for weeks; he knew Connely was plotting something but couldn’t quite work out what. He thought about discussing it with the security AIs but then thought better of it; their loyalties would tend to be with the Police Chief. For once BoJo was in a quandary and he couldn’t see an easy way out. The Undergrounders would continue to steal water and the Police Chief would continue to plot and he felt unusually powerless.

The Mayor’s office and apartment were at the top of the oddly named Cucumber Building. Two hundred metres above the ground, he stared out the window and over his domain. The Enclave was still glistening from the recent downpour; he watched tendrils of steam rise from the roofs and streets and pondered his unusual confusion. Perhaps it was just the unexpected rain that had unsettled him, or his brutish disposal of M.T. either way he was not functioning at his best. The normally focussed, decisive mayor felt strangely unsettled, as if he had an itch that he couldn’t place or quite reach.

He called the lab, “Is it ready yet?” he asked.

“Very nearly Sir, just the final memory implantation to complete then she’ll be ready. We’ll be finished in about an hour.”

“Send it up as soon as you can.”

He could never bring himself to give an M.T. a personal pronoun until he had spoken with it. They all had their oddities and he liked to discover these for himself before recognising the clone as a person. One had been so bad that he had it destroyed the instant it came to him. The last thing he needed was a megalomaniac lesbian ball breaker as an assistant. Cloning and memory implanting was not an exact science.

The Police Chief was also pondering. The unexpected rain storm had reduced the tension amongst the citizens. He had planned his coup for a few days time when the next tightening of water restrictions was due to take effect. He was sure that the rain would placate the disgruntled population for a while. He also knew his Underground allies would be too busy enjoying themselves to be interested in insurrection. He had put everything on hold. However the longer he delayed the more likely it was that BoJo would unearth his plotting. He needed a diversion, nothing too subtle but something that would allow him to get is forces in the right places ready to act.

Connely contacted Drog over a secure line. “Where are you Drog?” he asked.

Drog looked tired and strung out. “I’m in Hampstead again, Boss. I left Stark and the rest celebrating the rain. I couldn’t take any more of their dreadful beer. I want to go home get a proper wash and sleep.”

“Go home and get cleaned up, but I want you in here in two hours, I have another job for you.”

Connely broke the connection before Drog could object. He flagged down an auto cab, at least it wasn’t too far to his flat. He watched the city drying out after the storm as the cab crawled through the streets, its elderly electric motors whining at a teeth shuddering pitch every time it had to climb even the shallowest hill. Drog was glad to get out and walk the last fifty yards or so to his building.

The lift wasn’t working, again, so Drog wearily climbed to the fourth floor, the temperature in the building was soaring after the storm and he was sweating profusely when he entered his small three roomed flat. He threw off his filthy Underground clothing and stood in the shower for as long as he dared letting the hot water stream across his body cleaning the dirt and stench of the Underground from his skin. He dried himself quickly and slipped into a freshly laundered police uniform. Still feeling tired but refreshed he hailed another cab and headed for police headquarters.

After the humid heat of the streets the dry coolness of the Police Hq was a welcome relief to Drog. He took the elevator to the 5th floor and Connely’s office. The Police Chief with his customary cup of vile chicory coffee in his hand offered Drog a cup which was politely refused.

“Bring me up to date with the Undergrounders situation.”

“Stark is ready to go but the rain will have slowed things down. Hussan is still cautious but he’ll go along with it albeit less enthusiastically. There is no way he will allow Stark to get one up on him. At the last count between them they had about five hundred and twenty five warriors tooled up but with only rudimentary armour. It would help if we could beef up that side of things at least for the leaders. They will need masks; this brief respite won’t keep the pollution levels down for long. ”

“Ok, I’ll release some kit from the emergency store. I should be able to do that under the radar. What about mobility?”

“Now that they have the hydrocarb their vehicles should be able to get out of the tunnels and provide transport and limited artillery, they have some elderly heavy duty projectile weapons that’ll punch through most light police armour and may even damage our tanks. The main problem remains getting BoJo out of his apartment. He hasn’t left it in months, it’s still protected and no one gets in our out without the AIs permission.”

The Police Chief was frustrated, he knew all the pieces were falling into place but this last one remained the sticking point. While he was still in his office and apartment, BoJo with the help of the AIs effectively controlled the Enclave; ran its power and water systems, its transport and auto-defence mechanisms. He could shut the city down in a few minutes from his eyrie and mop up the rebellion in slow time. He still needed his diversion to get the mayor where he wanted him, out of office and in a prison cell.

Drog was surprised, “I thought M.T. was looking after that?”

“Sorry, Drog, you were underground when it happened. The bastard realised there was something up and handed her over to Security. She suicided as soon as they put the memory scanner on her, they got nothing. But he’s got a new M.T. on the way and we have not had a chance interfere with her development. So we need a different route in.”

M.T. had been a key player in the takeover bid; she was to provide safe and easy access to BoJo’s office and apartment complex at the top of the Cucumber, assuming the security AIs could be fooled by Drog.

“We’re screwed then boss. He’s gonna root around and find out what we’ve been up to. Then we’re dead.”

“Maybe not, he suspects there’s something going on but we don’t think he knows about the AI link or the Underground clan’s involvement. It’s gonna be harder for you - once you’ve bypassed the AI you are going to have to keep the new M.T. isolated within the system and open the locks.”

“Why not just kick the doors in; we’ve got the fire power?”

“The AIs have run through a few scenarios to test that out - we just don’t have enough time. By the time we burned through the defences BoJo’s guys would have detected our interference and his security AIs would go ballistic. We’d have no chance.”

Drog was tired and dispirited; he just didn’t think he had the skills and stamina to pull this off. It would require him to effectively “become” an AI and maintain the fiction for more than just a few minutes and that with only a rudimentary knowledge of the AI’s personality. He would have to effectively mimic the AIs normal communications with the M.T. it would have to appear as if nothing had changed. The only thing in his favour was that a new M.T. would be less familiar with the AIs.

“I don’t know boss - I just don’t think my interface skills are good enough. In fact there’s probably only one or two folk capable of this and none of them are in the Enclave.”

“I know this is hard, Drog.” The Police Chief struggled to keep an even tone, he needed even more from Drog. “But I think I may have found you some help.”

He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out what looked like a cable with plugs on both ends and a small oblong connector.

Drog gave his boss a puzzled look. “What’s that?” he asked.

“This is a direct interface from the Republic. It works exactly the same way as M.T,’s no more nets for you.” He didn’t want to give Drog a chance to interrupt and he rushed on. “Once you’ve had the implants this will allow you direct access to the deeper programming of the AI giving you more scope to manipulate the personality and make more amenable to our wishes. With this you’ll be like an overlord in the security AIs systems. I know you can do this!”

He was trying to appeal to the geekish side of Drog’s character, the bit that always wanted bigger and better toys to play with.

Drog was astounded, he knew how the Republic’s AIs were managed but had no idea just how more sophisticated they had become up north than the Enclave’s more primitive technology.

“I can’t do this boss - the M.T’s are bred for it. The folk that do this have the genes for it, they’re different and specialised, ‘talents’ they call them in the Republic - the training alone could take months and even if I have the ability we don’t have the time. It can’t be done boss. I’m sorry.” This all came out in a rush, truth be told Drog was very nervous about this. He had seen too many addicts die though interfacing like this

“Drog, please wait a minute. I’ve had your DNA checked; you’ve got the talent - in spades! You CAN do this, think of the opportunity - a chance to get right into the heart of an AI. I can get the implants done here in the Enclave - and I’ve got a contact that can take you through the basics in no time. Drog we need this and you’re the only one that can do it.” He was relying on Drog to be the virtual scalpel that would lance the Mayoral boil.

Drog sat back down his mind racing; he knew it was a tremendous opportunity, but a huge risk. He also knew how desperate Connely was. The Police Chief was willing to risk anything to see the success of his plans, including Drog. He picked up the cable and the implant and looked closely at them frowning. On the one hand the technocrat in his head said YES! Go for it! The more cautious side of his nature, drummed into him by years on the Police Force said hold on - find out more.

“What’s the catch Chief?” He looked across at his boss who looked away then down, Connely knew he was asking a lot. “C’mon Boss what is the catch? It’s my neck not yours; if I’m to do this then at least I should know what could go wrong!”

Connelly took a deep breath and looked up. “It’s not your neck I am worried about, Drog. One out of fifty implants goes wrong leaving behind a vegetable. This type of contact with an AI can wipe out the person. It effectively leaves a blank human behind. We can restore some of you but nothing like all. That’s why the MTs were designed and why there are only a few legal users of this tech; they either were designed for it or were suitable genetically.”

“Well at least you’re honest.” Drog sighed still unsure how to respond. “One in fifty - not great odds.”

“Better than the odds of us surviving if BoJo finds out what we’ve been up to!”

Drog continued to fiddle nervously with the implant and the cable. The silence stretched to one then two minutes. Drog chewed the inside of his cheek thinking, thinking, weighing up his options. Connely sat silent and tense with his hands clasped tightly in his lap trying to hold his peace. Much depended on the next thing out of Drog’s mouth. Drog gripped the implants more firmly and took a deep breath. “Okay then; let’s do it.”

Connely expelled a long held breath.

BoJo waited, he was expecting his new M.T. and he was filling his time scanning through some of the security AIs files on the Undergrounders recent activities. He and the AI were both seeking a pattern within what seemed to be random movements of men and materials through the crumbling tunnels under the Enclave. Unusual collections of men and transports seemed to be appearing and disappearing. The sensor’s coverage underground was at best patchy so clarity was hard to come by and this wasn’t helped by the recent rain interfering with the network. The Mayor’s irritation was clear, M.T. would normally be the link to the AIs and BoJo didn’t really have the skills to interrogate them. He paced his office gritting his teeth while trying to come to grips with what the scans were trying to tell him.

“What the hell does this mean, all I can see is a jumble of pipes and dots?”

“Mister Mayor, what you are seeing is a 3D rendering of the Underground with the most recent data showing the movements of people and transports.”

“But it makes no sense to me! Can’t we limit the inclusions just to the major elements?”

“Define major elements. Scale, danger level, people numbers, mechanics.”

“How the fuck would I know? Can’t we use M.T.’s settings?”

“That is what you are looking at.”

BoJo threw his hands up. “I give up! Where’s that M.T.?”

He slumped down in the chair and stabbed the button connecting him to the labs. “Where’s that M.T.” he yelled.

“In the lift”, came the happy reply. BoJo huffed and disconnected without reply. A few moments later the heavy security lift door hissed back to reveal a man in a white coat and an M.T.

“Here she is boss.” the lab tech handed over the activation card. All the Mayor was required to do was speak the words on the card and that would activate its programming.

The M.T. was physically identical to the previous one, five feet seven inches tall; slightly disproportionately long legs, largish breasts and thick blonde hair. The face many would describe as beautiful, oval, high cheek boned, broad pouting lips and large blue eyes. Others however would suggest that it was a little too perfect, too straight nosed, too evenly featured and an unnaturally flawless skin. It lacked any evidence of human frailty and many found this disconcerting, but not BoJo. To him she was the perfect physical specimen and allied with her programmed intellect she was a perfect tool for his purposes; always assuming that the programming hadn’t been interfered with. This you could never be sure of until it was fully activated and tested with BoJo the only individual who could do that. If all was well then this M.T. would be fully committed to him, taking orders only from him, working only for his benefit, unlike the previous model.

“Leave us.” BoJo waved the technician out and stood up.

He walked round the M.T. Apart from slow breathing you would not be able to tell the difference between what was standing in the middle of the room and a plastic mannequin, even the eyes staring straight ahead looked dead and glassy. BoJo sucked in his cheeks and played with the activation card in his right hand as he walked round. He tapped his lips with the edge of the card looking into its face trying to see if he could find any clue to what he was getting for his money.

He activated the card and carefully enunciated the displayed wake up code. A slight shudder ran through M.T.’s frame, its hands opened and closed, the eyes shut and opened again.

“I am M.T.” it said.

“You are indeed.” replied BoJo completing the activation sequence.

There was less rigidity in the body, the eyes had lost their blankness and its breathing deepened. BoJo spent the next hour running through the standard tests and could find no real problems. He was still dubious; his previous experience had made him ultra cautious.

“One last set of tests.”

He handed over a direct AI link which she plugged in. BoJo watched the readouts from the AI looking intently for any anomalies particularly in the emotion graphs. The security AI was running a series of images through M.T’s cerebral cortex looking for unnatural reactions and comparing them with the expected norms. Nothing, nothing out of the ordinary for such an extraordinary creature, BoJo sighed. He was almost hoping he would find something at least then he could be sure. Finding nothing merely left him with doubts about the testing procedure. He leant back in his chair and stared. He took the link back from M.T.

“Remove your clothes!” he ordered.

Without embarrassment she stripped. BoJo rose and walked around the naked M.T. He ran his hand lightly down her back and cupped a perfect buttock. M.T. bent forward putting her hands on the desk exposing her sex. BoJo released his straining penis and slid it inside her, one, two, three, four quick thrusts and he released his seed with a groan. He had made up his mind, she was now fully operational.

“Okay M.T. - get dressed and let’s get to work!”