Sulemain
Banned
It was the coldest year on record, and it was getting worse with every day. The boffins said everything would return to normal sometime next year, but it was still a year without warmth. The Underground was on strike today, and so the Officer was forced to walk in the cold streets of London. He walked past St Pauls, and startled. Someone had painted, in bold red letters, Father, why have you forsaken us? The Officer could appreciate the sentiment, if not the vandalism. People huddled close together, against the cold, against the wind, against the reality that was screaming at them over the radio, in the headlines, on their TVs. He knew the intimate details of that reality. He had seen it in the mass graves that had been dug in Cambodia for the victims of famine. He had heard it in the killing grounds that surrounded Hong Kong, as the half-army, half-human tsunami that had threatened to engulf one of the last vestiges of civilisation on the mainland had been shattered by the British military. He had heard the screech of the artillery shells, the tearing cloth sound of the machine guns. Worst of all was the smell, as the piled bodies were burned. Civilisation is a child’s doll shredded by shrapnel. It is saving who you can, but in doing so destroying many, many more.
He tore himself away from the memories, and continued his on his path. Fuel was being rationed; the upheaval having disrupted supplies, perhaps permanently. Hard to get the pipes built when their factory is now but a breeding ground for unspeakable horrors. From what he had been able to gather, the government had authorised large amounts of money spent on nuclear fission and other, more esoteric forms of power generation. Someone was clearly planning for the long term, and the Officer approved of that. Seemingly every other building had a Public Nuclear Shelter sign clearly displayed. It just means more will starve when the food distribution network collapses after the end comes.
He noticed less obvious things as well. The seemingly random holes in opposite walls, designed so that study steel barriers could be put in place. The reinforced rooftops for short range surface to air missiles. London, turned into a fortress without anyone noticing. Not that it would help if they decided to attack. All that Londoners could do was hide. Or die. There could be no fighting what would happen if the fateful day arrived.
He arrived, a cold and appropriately miserable time later, at one of the secret entrances to his destination. London was an old city, and the builders of its government infrastructure had taken advantage of that. He punched in his one-time entry code into a concealed keypad, and, with barely a sound, part of the pavement in the alley slid away. He knew that he was being watched by some unseen guardian, but he remained resolute. He knew that if he stumbled upon this entry by accident or with malicious intent, his fate would be, at best, one of temporal uncertainty. And other, more grim and terrible punishments thereafter.
It took him only a few minutes to reach the last barrier, a heavy steel hatch, big enough to fit two equipped Commandos abreast at once. One either side stood an armed solider, each carrying American made shotguns. Perfectly devastating at close quarters, but not enough velocity to do damage to the metal work of the containment structure.
He showed his papers, and was admitted though the hatch, albeit after handing all his clothes through a dual lock system for decontamination. He was bathed in ultraviolet light, x-rayed and no doubt subject to yet stranger examination. The Office knew he was prone to flights of whimsy at times, but considering the events of recent weeks, he no longer really knew or cared what people thought.
Upon regaining his clothes, he was escorted into the depths of the building. Past secret rooms and more secret thoughts, past braided officers no doubt moving battalions into East Prussia, carriers to the North Sea. To them, Armageddon wasn’t a threat. It was a job description.
He at last reached his destination.
“Come in Mr Ashdown”, came the voice from within the office.
And Paddy Ashdown, Officer of the Security Intelligent Service, entered the office of Shirley Williams, to deliver his prepared testimony of what he had witnessed, what he had endured, during his world tour in the aftermath of the Sino-Soviet nuclear exchange of 1978.
He tore himself away from the memories, and continued his on his path. Fuel was being rationed; the upheaval having disrupted supplies, perhaps permanently. Hard to get the pipes built when their factory is now but a breeding ground for unspeakable horrors. From what he had been able to gather, the government had authorised large amounts of money spent on nuclear fission and other, more esoteric forms of power generation. Someone was clearly planning for the long term, and the Officer approved of that. Seemingly every other building had a Public Nuclear Shelter sign clearly displayed. It just means more will starve when the food distribution network collapses after the end comes.
He noticed less obvious things as well. The seemingly random holes in opposite walls, designed so that study steel barriers could be put in place. The reinforced rooftops for short range surface to air missiles. London, turned into a fortress without anyone noticing. Not that it would help if they decided to attack. All that Londoners could do was hide. Or die. There could be no fighting what would happen if the fateful day arrived.
He arrived, a cold and appropriately miserable time later, at one of the secret entrances to his destination. London was an old city, and the builders of its government infrastructure had taken advantage of that. He punched in his one-time entry code into a concealed keypad, and, with barely a sound, part of the pavement in the alley slid away. He knew that he was being watched by some unseen guardian, but he remained resolute. He knew that if he stumbled upon this entry by accident or with malicious intent, his fate would be, at best, one of temporal uncertainty. And other, more grim and terrible punishments thereafter.
It took him only a few minutes to reach the last barrier, a heavy steel hatch, big enough to fit two equipped Commandos abreast at once. One either side stood an armed solider, each carrying American made shotguns. Perfectly devastating at close quarters, but not enough velocity to do damage to the metal work of the containment structure.
He showed his papers, and was admitted though the hatch, albeit after handing all his clothes through a dual lock system for decontamination. He was bathed in ultraviolet light, x-rayed and no doubt subject to yet stranger examination. The Office knew he was prone to flights of whimsy at times, but considering the events of recent weeks, he no longer really knew or cared what people thought.
Upon regaining his clothes, he was escorted into the depths of the building. Past secret rooms and more secret thoughts, past braided officers no doubt moving battalions into East Prussia, carriers to the North Sea. To them, Armageddon wasn’t a threat. It was a job description.
He at last reached his destination.
“Come in Mr Ashdown”, came the voice from within the office.
And Paddy Ashdown, Officer of the Security Intelligent Service, entered the office of Shirley Williams, to deliver his prepared testimony of what he had witnessed, what he had endured, during his world tour in the aftermath of the Sino-Soviet nuclear exchange of 1978.
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But only a Vignette? You tease.