Konsk: The Great Takeover of the Place.

33. Snatch Party.

From the Alt-Tech Centre Dome Trueman left for the departure site in a far more curvaceous electric vehicle than the one he had arrived in, one that provided a much smoother, more comfortable drive, having four wheels. It was piloted automatically by a chauffeur program or perhaps a remote operator, for all Trueman could tell. He settled back in the comfy seat that fitted his over large frame. This is more like it, he thought.

He was relieved to find that he was not to be accompanied. Presumably then he was trusted to be who he appeared to be. A cold blooded, murderous bastard; the thought, arose, unbidden and immediately he felt glum. Probably no one else had the nerve to travel with him anyway.

Images of the patients on the ward began to appear in his mind, particularly that young girl with the one eye. Those poor people, he thought, the Vollies, volunteers. He couldn't quite believe it; was that surgery really elective? Did they want to link up to computers, networks, so desperately? Had they been bribed with the prospect of immortality? They looked more like victims.

He tried to distract himself from such thoughts by consulting Laurence’s portable, which he had kept. He was impressed, not so much by the device as to what it connected to; the network had grown somewhat since his work with ARPANET back in the 1970's.

To begin with his enquiries related to his own immediate future and from what he could find it appeared he was to be transported by a heavily armed military unit which, while operating under the flag and auspices of a remnant UN, was in fact largely made up of a private militia controlled by a billionaire with the unlikely name of Standish Manson. Manson was the very same creator and owner of the Alt-Tech Centre and a variety of other enterprises, including the World Enhanced Games Stadium on the sub-continent peninsula and was also probably his employer, or rather the employer of whoever this new body had belonged to.

Trueman was initially stunned; a millionaire he was familiar with from his own time, but a billionaire? Not even just that but a multi-billionaire! How could anyone amass such vast personal wealth? It turned out Manson wasn't even the only one! They all seemed involved in the expenditure of vast sums on pet projects, mostly to do with space travel. Trueman shook his head in disbelief; they seemed to be pursuing personal fantasies with little relation to what was really happening on the planet.

If only, he thought, he'd had such resources! He considered his own critical events mapping, on that roll of wallpaper. It seemed so crude and simple in comparison to the huge display in the dome as to be laughable now but he had been on right track. He consoled himself further, yes, he had been right all along- events which might appear to be random and insignificant if seen in isolation, when combined produced emergent phenomena that could not be foreseen in advance. The minor disasters rolling in on top of each other led to a critical instability that at some unpredictable point in time, provoked rapid, unstoppable collapse.

That the sub-continent peninsula was not going to last much longer was inevitable, a perfect example of the patterns of collapse he had predicted; he had been right all along! Pity really, he sighed; it all looked a bit bleak. And by the look of the unfolding environmental challenges, most countries were going to be so caught up trying to manage there own problems there wouldn't be any spare capacity to deal with anyone else’s.

Other than those old country folk, he thought, though he couldn't see how such a disorganised lot would be able to solve anything. He decided to use Laurence's hand-held to have a look at the forthcoming intervention Rhia had mentioned, drawn partly by a desire to find out what she might be up to. He couldn't quite grasp why he wanted to know about her but was aware of a vague sense of longing.

On Rhia specifically, Laurence's hand-held proved unhelpful but it did inform him that the Last Resort cantref routinely operated as co-ordination for the old country in overseas interventions, especially in situations where the probability of violence was high.

He also learned that the cantrefi were regarded variously as dangerous anarchists, degenerate sensualists, backward looking conservatives, models of environmental excellence, threats to civilisation or the heralds of the great liberation, depending on the evolutionary position of the governments, transnational corporations and other organisations, conglomerates and individuals who made the observation.

Not that the cantrefi took any notice of all this; they just seemed to get on with whatever they did, which seemed to be so broad, including education, poverty reduction, health, well-being, food production, environmental restoration and a whole range of other activities, seemingly focussed on supporting communities to create more cantrefi and getting people involved in gardening, for food.

For this particular project, as in the past, the UN had labelled them an NGO and delegated certain responsibilities. Reading on he found that again, as in the past, the Last Resort had proffered thanks for the recognition of their status, largely ignored the directives and presented the design for their intervention which provoked grumbling and some outbursts before being somewhat grudgingly accepted. Apparently even this design would be subject to rapid and radical change, depending on the circumstance and how events unfurled, it being based on strategy, rather than a crude plan.

And then the vehicle stopped, rather abruptly, throwing the new body against the restraint harness. Trueman had a good look out in front but no recalcitrant youths were involved this time nor a windblown bag or any other obstacle for that matter. Then all the lights on the dash went off and the gentle whine of the motor died. Now what, he wondered?

After a pause, a few lights reappeared on the dash, blinked, more came on and the quiet whine restarted. Almost as if its been rebooted, he thought.

The vehicle then reversed for several hundred yards, rather more rapidly than he would have liked and next, once more going forward, took a left turn and set off at a much brisker pace than previously along what felt like an older road, having considerably more bends and bumps. Trueman was glad of the seat belt as he swung and bounced from side to side and up and down. At this speed, consulting the hand-held was impossible and instead he clutched the small and ineffectual steering wheel and contented himself with pretending to drive the thing.

After an hour he had lost track of the number of turns the vehicle had made. The road narrowed further and the speed slowed somewhat as the surface degenerated to that of a rough track with trees arching overhead. On either side, openings in the hedges now revealed a succession of small clearings and a great variety of what he took to be temporary accommodation comprising tents, tepees, benders, wigwams, yurts, geodesics, trailers and other structures which he was unable to categorise.

Finally, after a long rise it came to a stop on the brow, looking down into a larger clearing, a natural hollow, bustling with human activity. The door seals cracked open and a sudden influx of sound confronted him, a blend of chatter, orders, shouts, screams and a wide variety of music including folk, rock, jazz, several choirs and at least one small orchestra, as well as other noises and mysterious, deep vibrations. He could smell wood smoke mingled with the aroma of assorted foods that set his saliva glands fair squirting.

He got out rather shakily and wondered what to do next, unable to see anything resembling a military unit. His arrival had obviously been expected though, for, as the car did a rapid reverse and disappeared off back down the track, three female characters detached themselves from the crowd and strode confidently towards him, their richly colourful clothes hardly defining them against the confusion beyond. They stopped several paces from him. The woman on the left, with extremely short, black hair, as if sprayed on, leaned forward, smiling broadly and spoke first.

“Hi, you. And welcome to the old country intervention party. We’re all delighted that you chose to attend.”

Trueman thought that last statement sounded a bit ironic. She indicated her two companions and flashed him such an open, warm and welcoming look that Trueman fell into a now familiar dichotomy, as he had experienced with Rhia, arising from the juxtaposition of the comforting, blatant affability of the woman and his own sudden surge of emotion, as though he might break down and burst into tears at any moment. Unsettled he stepped back a pace, remaining silent.

“I’m Nonna,” she announced more huskily, flickering long lashed lids at him.

“And I’m Annest,” spoke up the one on the right, tossing her head, though her blonde hair was equally short and could not possibly have been in her eyes. She had a band about her forehead and stepped right up to Trueman, presenting him with her right hand at which he stared blankly for a moment before finally clasping it.

Standing awkwardly silent, his attention turned to the taller woman in the centre, broad shoulders, muscled arms, hair almost red and hanging in loose tangles, mouth slightly lopsided, her lips drawn upwards to the left by the faint trail of a scar running across her cheek.

“And this,” Annest stated, retaining her grip, “Is Jodi.”

Trueman couldn't help staring into the dark eyes. They appeared completely expressionless. Of course he recognised her; it was the woman who had retrieved him from the wilderness, the guard, the one with the whip.

Trueman gulped and managed a nod.

Thanks for reading. Another episode to follow very shortly then back to forestry with the commonest conifer in Britain and the most tenacious- fated to take over the world! Well, perhaps not quite but certainly a major challenge to our native species, unless the plague gets it first.

As always, comments and all the rest most welcome. Hwyl! Chris.