The BUREAU of EXTRATERRESTRIAL AND UNEXPLAINED TECHNOLOGY
One. The Interview
Whitehall, Lundeinjon, UK – Geola 12th, 9 BAI.[1]
It was a grand club once. Now it smelled, to Colin, of ancient soldiers dwelling on their historical conflicts; of cigar smoke infused into the panelled oak walls, the heavy Regency furniture and the men themselves; of gin spilt onto the maroon carpet with its pile trodden in places to an ice-rink shine; and of centuries of boiled cabbage and beef gravy, port and potatoes, semolina and suppressed sexuality.
Portraits of men who ignored death only to find it had not, after all, ignored them, stared down with disdain, wearing not just that sneer, beloved of the descendants of Norman invaders, but also a bewildering variety of colourful salutes to their bravery, uniforms du jour, and ceremonial weaponry.
In a corner, a slope-shouldered barman, sporting a courageously avant-garde moustache and sideburns—the sort of pretentiousness Colin would never dare attempt—polished the same glass continuously with the patience of a Christmas sale retail assistant on the eve of festivities.
Outside the sash windows, Whitehall muttered through its day with a sullen grey face accompanied by the hum of traffic arriving nowhere soon.
Colin checked his watch. It was five minutes to his appointment. He’d planned on being a quarter of an hour early, but the Tube had conspired to eat into that with delays, overcrowding, and misinformation. He was pretty sure this was a calculated affront.
At twenty-three years old, wearing a too-new tie, his shoes scuffed at the instep, and a Daily Announcer press card in his pocket, he felt like he had an entry pass into stratospheres he had no business visiting. So, he took his place in the visitor’s lounge and waited, shifting in his seat.
His notebook lay open on a decorative coffee table; its surface carved with a dragon entwining a naked woman—probably the spoils of war—that perfectly bisected the space between the deeply cushioned chairs. On the page, he’d boxed the headline: GENERAL SIR JAMES LINKTON ON DEFENCE CUTS. Beneath this, he jotted phrases with an authoritative ring for later use: “force multiplier”, “procurement pipeline”, and “doctrine drift”, each prefixed with a hastily scrawled eight-point asterisk. He’d copied them from a briefing pamphlet issued by the MoD, most of which was a defence cuts apologia, but there were a few nuggets he could use.
The request that he cover such an important story came as a surprise to Colin and drew some looks from old hands across the newsroom. Even more unexpectedly, his editor told him Sir James had asked for him by name.
When the general arrived, Colin rose to his feet and extended a hand. Sir James moved to reciprocate with measured certainty; a self-assurance that seemed to come from within. He was tall and rangy, with silver hair trimmed to Queen’s regulation standards. Although his face was lined, no worry was evident. An easy smile seemed to say, “I’m here now, but if you want to see the steel, it’s waiting inside.”
Two aides drifted behind him, bodyguards, Colin assumed, as he watched their eyes doing a quick geometry of the room.
“Mr Shrikeman,” Sir James said, taking the offered hand with a surprisingly easy-going grip. “You’re prompt. That’s unfashionable in Fleet Street. Shall we?”
They settled opposite each other by the window, and the general ordered a jug of water and a plate of mixed sandwiches from the hovering waiter.
The general outlined his brief with thoroughness: the Ministry’s numbers, the efficiencies found in technology, and the way high-precision, targeted weaponry made boots less necessary and budgets less pressing. He spoke of drones, satellites, and integrated systems; words that hovered over the table like raptors eyeing prey. Colin wrote them down and felt a pull in his stomach he recognised as repugnance at the idea that you could replace a person with a machine and call it progress, while acknowledging the unwelcome flicker of admiration he felt for the polished arithmetic of it all. He wondered if, one day, that would be his fate too: machines writing copy. Perhaps it would happen to everyone, all automated into redundancy. What will be… he thought.
“The Daily Announcer,” Sir James went on, “takes a particular line.”
“There isn’t really a line as such. Staffers have a range of views,” Colin said, wishing his voice sounded less rehearsed. Quoting a coached statement felt uncomfortable, but decisions on policy were way above his pay grade. While some of the old timers took liberties, he was still wet behind the ears, and he wasn’t quite ready to arouse editorial censure. Not yet, anyway.
A smile played over Sir James’ lips, and he levelled his gaze at Colin as he wrote, regarding him with interest. “And you, Mr Shrikeman? What do you think about headcounts reduced by bits of clever kit?”
Colin’s pen hovered mid-word, and he decided to abandon caution. Maybe he could elicit a response. He met the General’s gaze.
“It depends on what you think a country is, and what the function of the armed forces might be,” Colin said. He took a sip of water to relieve his dry mouth. “To me, it’s more than a piece of land; a country is its people.”
“And the armed forces?”
“Well, its primary function is to protect the people, obviously,” he started. He put his pen down and momentarily wondered how their roles had reversed.
“Obviously, but I sense a ‘but’ arriving.”
“Yes, well, the other purpose of the armed forces is to give a channel for the people to defend the country personally. It provides a sense of resolve you can’t get from a computerised system,” he said, feeling slightly defensive. “I don’t want to give the impression I’m some sort of Luddite, far from it. Technology has its place.”
“And what is that place, Mr Shrikeman?”
“It should be a tool. Something that serves us, not the other way around,” Colin said, surprising himself with a level of perspicacity unwarranted by his previously scant attention to the matter.
Sir James coughed politely, and a broad smile fleetingly visited his face.
“People are always the problem,” he said. “And also, the solution. Did you ever consider joining up? After Oxford, I mean.”
“Not really. I was too relieved at not making a hash of my exams to consider anything other than Plan-A.” Colin pushed on before he could retreat. “I wanted to write. Or I thought I did.”
“But now you’re not so sure?” Sir James prompted.
“Being sure about things is something of an unfamiliar concept to me, sir,” Colin confessed. He looked up at the ceiling, giving him time to order his thoughts. “I approach everything with a spirit of enquiry, although throughout university, I didn’t really want to do anything else, other than join a Fleet Street newspaper and write the very fabric of our national discourse.”
“And now, you’re stuck with me?” The General’s eyes twinkled.
Colin returned the smile, “I’m sure you realise this is an uncommon pleasure, Sir James. My usual beat is listening to thrusting Westminster aides, who think the papers owe them for the pleasure of hearing their titbits.”
Sir James leaned back, the light from the window streaking his silver hair with highlights. He twisted in his chair and raised a stubby and scarred finger.
“Colin Shrikeman…” he said, drawing out the syllables, his eyes narrowing, as if he were remembering a faint echo of a memory. “You’re the lad who stood up for Gordon, aren’t you?”
Colin blinked. “At school? I, yes. We were… friends.”
“So he said.” The general’s tone warmed by a half-degree. Gordon, his son, was being bullied at school by a gang of sixth formers led by “Corky” Jenkins, the nouveau-riche scion of a supermarket magnate. “Told me you were a stubborn little bugger with a good right hook and a questionable sense of your own safety. Said it was a pity you’d lost touch. I agreed.”
Colin felt chords of pride, embarrassment, and loss. In his mind’s eye, he saw the muddy pitch, the boy with the loosened tie and the smashed nose, Corky’s cackling laugh, and Gordon’s sorrowful eyes, but ultimately his abiding image was the way they’d stopped seeing each other after matriculation, as if some door had been quietly locked and the key misplaced. Gordon just melted into a group of his social class peers, with whom Colin never felt he had any common ground. They didn’t rebuff him, but he remembered them going quiet when he was around. It was awkward, so he drifted away, recognising that the son of a military hero and the offspring of a former middleweight turned promoter were oil and water, especially at Oxford.
“Is journalism what you thought?” Sir James asked. He leaned forward until Colin could smell the mint on his breath.
“No,” Colin said, the word escaping before he’d thought it through. He looked up and caught the general’s eyes. “Not really. The stories feel smaller than I expected.”
Sir James studied him for a moment, as if he were weighing up his potential.
“It’s a good living—clean, even—but something is missing,” Colin concluded.
“Yes,” Sir James said, and nodded. “I know what you mean. Some people are put on this Earth to watch events unfold, others to report on them. There are only a few who make things happen. You strike me as one of the latter.”
They returned to the brief, but after an hour of intense discussions, almost to the minute, they finished the interview. The aides glided away to clear a path for their charge, and Sir James buttoned his jacket, extending a hand. “Thank you, Mr Shrikeman. I imagine we’ll speak again.”
Politeness, Colin told himself as he took the hand. Well-bred wind. As the general walked out, he opened his notebook, wrote LINKTON: FIND OUT MORE! in the corner, and underlined it twice.
The general broke stride and turned as if remembering something. “Gordon always said you had a nose for what mattered, Mr Shrikeman. Don’t let anyone train that out of you.”
Then he was gone, leaving a space in the room that didn’t fill immediately. Colin felt like he’d been interrogated.
As he sat there, something long-dormant stirred, and Colin realised he yearned for a challenge. It wasn’t the pressure of a deadline or the fear of missing a story. It was a feeling he’d forgotten—the satisfaction of standing up for something he believed in—of acting rather than hesitating. The interview with Sir James had rekindled a forgotten desire within him.
As the portraits watched in silence and cigar smoke drifted through the air, a waiter approached and asked if Mr Shrikeman would be staying for luncheon. He declined, rose from his seat, and sauntered out onto the street. Lundeinjon was as gloomy and noisy as always.
Catching the bus, he half-composed the piece en route. Deciding to use “Announcer Standard Copy Plan-B”, Colin imagined a measured, reassuring piece, one that would help his readers feel informed, while not challenging their beliefs.
As he stepped from the bus outside Peterborough Court, he felt an unfamiliar tug in his stomach. Sir James had said, “We’ll speak again.” Though Colin tried to dismiss the remark, he couldn’t ignore the lingering sense of anticipation with which it left him.
§
Two. Shadows
The Daily Announcer Offices, Peterborough Court, Lundeinjon, UK – Geola 12th, 9 BAI.
Above the flapping swing doors of the Peterborough Court newsroom was a giant clock. Its white face, embossed with Roman numerals, ticked away the day’s diminishing seconds, as if urging the frenetic pismires below its lofty position never to let up from their strivings.
Almost a perfect square, the newsroom was an uncomfortable juxtaposition of contemporary functionality and classical eloquence. Flickering screens vied with oak partner desks for dominance, as if two eras were jousting for the soul of the paper. Serious-faced Oxbridge graduates moved briskly around the floor, exuding the confidence of people unaccustomed to hearing “no,” as they weaved between florid-cheeked veterans who hadn’t said “no” often enough. Framed front pages celebrating the newspaper’s most triumphant moments lined three beechwood-panelled walls. The fourth wall, a neoteric façade of panoramic double-glazed windows, looked out onto a bustling Fleet Street; a silent movie of self-absorbed diligence. The room smelled of cold coffee and the sweat of old men who took their alcohol seriously, of beeswax and overheating photocopiers, and of those companionable frenemies, hope and despair.
Editorial management prowled like big cats, eyes dancing accusatively, their wet lips muttering imprecations, as they waved sheaves of copy destined for the large spikes in the corners of their goldfish bowl offices.
Jasper Haines, the paper’s news editor, hovered near Colin’s desk as he came in. A waft of expensive aftershave hit Colin as he brushed past him. “Ah, Shrikeman, get any filth from Sir James?”
“I have enough for a good character piece and a frank appraisal of where the government is going wrong with its budget cuts,” Colin said, pulling out his chair and dropping his notebook on the desk. He felt tired after battling the lunchtime bus commute across central Lundeinjon. A tiredness compounded by his escalating stress at trying to keep Haines happy enough to let him retain the defence beat. Colin wondered, as he eyed the man’s beech-veneer complexion, if Haines slept in a tanning bed. It was either that or a coffin.
“Frank doesn’t sell ads, Shrikeman,” Haines barked, hard eyes below spiky eyebrows. “Did he give you any dirt? Scandal? A misplaced comma? Christ, I’ll take a suspiciously large stationery order at this point. Especially if it’s about that uppity little buffoon, Dominic Stewart.”
Dominic Stewart was the minister for defence, responsible for procurement. The Announcer, torn between supporting defence improvements and, hence, the UK’s position in the world, and preserving editorial sinecures—most staff had officer siblings—was conflicted. Stewart, with his Manchester accent and workerist views, wasn’t “one of us,” as Haines liked to say. Once he had labelled Stewart as such, the decision on policy was made. In the paper’s view, Stewart had to go.
“Sir James didn’t even mention the minister,” Colin said. He eyed the glowering editor steadily; backing down now would be a show of weakness. He didn’t like the man, and the feeling was likely mutual. In his estimation, Haines’s methods were holding The Announcer back, but he held the whip hand, and he used it frequently to flagellate juniors and interns alike. While getting fired was rare, the newsroom was a bear pit, and being reassigned to a lesser position was common for those who incurred Haines’s ire.
Colin thought of the defence beat as the plum job; anything else was second best. He considered himself lucky to get it, and he would do his utmost to ensure he didn’t squander the opportunity. Losing it meant he’d be back covering village fetes in Woking, or worse, one of Haines’s ‘special’ projects.
“Did you even ask?” Haines growled. Colin hadn’t, and there was no point lying; Haines could smell it on a reporter. He paused for a moment, listening to the clack of the keyboards, and composed his thoughts.
“Linkton has an agenda. You know what he’s like; he’s a force of nature,” Colin replied.
“Oh, excuse me, there I was thinking a reporter’s job was to ask the hard questions.” Haines put his fists on the desk, lowering his face until Colin could sense the acrid presence of his last cigarette. “You should have got something; an intern can get a slip-up after two glasses of Vinho Verde. Look, Shrikeman, I’m going for a piss and a cigarette. I might pop across the road to number forty-seven for five. When I come back, I want three angles that hover the sword of Damocles over that polytechnic student’s noggin. Got me?”
Haines strode through the newsroom’s swinging doors, allowing them to slam behind him. Colin exhaled a long sigh and scanned the room. No one met his gaze. The silence pressed in; not hostile, just wary, as if they were already running a sweepstake on his demotion.
Liam Corbett, the Announcer’s senior news reporter, sat at the desk opposite Colin, tapping away on his keyboard with a smile. Colin imagined he was putting the finishing touches on another insightful article and couldn’t help but feel envious. With decades of frontline reporting behind him, Liam’s instincts allowed him to spot a story everywhere. Colin wanted—no, needed—to emulate those skills.
Corbett looked up from his desk and raised a bushy eyebrow. “Yer man sounds upset an’ all. Can’t say I blame him, son.”
Corbett had been a fixture in the newsroom for longer than Colin had been out of short pants. A three-time recipient of the Society of Editors Journalist of the Year award, he was something of a legend in the newsroom. Only his fondness for going on benders kept him from being elevated to an editorship, while lesser mortals passed him by. Conversely, his unerring eye for a story bullet-proofed his position.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right, Liam,” Colin said. He pursed his lips ruefully and smacked a hand down on the desk. “I screwed up. Any suggestions?”
“I might have something, kiddo. Let me have a look at me book,” he said as he pulled a well-used pocketbook from his jacket. He scribbled a number on a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. “Ring this fellah. He’s a bit of a dandy an’ all, if yer know what I mean, but his word is good. Tell him I told yer to buzz him.”
Colin retrieved the piece of paper and glanced at the number. “Thanks, Liam, I owe you.”
He dialled the number. After three rings, a cultured voice answered, punctuated by a clipped cough. “Procurement. Michael Bindman speaking.”
“Mister Bindman, my name is Colin Shrikeman. I’m a reporter at The Announcer. Liam Corbett suggested I call you.”
“Oh, did he now? How is the old bugger? Still banging that…”
“I wouldn’t know about that, Mister Bindman,” Colin interrupted. The last thing he wanted to hear about was Corbett’s sex life; he felt bad enough digging for ministerial dirt.
“Please call me Michael, and if we’re to be friends, I’ll call you Colin,” Bindman said. Again, the habitual cough. His tones were those of someone who benefitted from a British public school education, not as clipped as Linkton’s, but equally self-assured.
“I’m looking for some background on Dominic Stewart,” Colin said. There was a faint but audible click on the phone line. Immediately, Colin was alert. He had heard tales of reporters being bugged, but surely, no one would bother with him? Maybe, he thought, they were monitoring for quality and training purposes. “Liam said you might be able to help.”
“The Minister? I see,” Bindman replied. He paused for a beat, then said in careful, measured tones. “Why would you want background on him?”
“I’m doing a piece on defence modernisation. I thought it would be useful to get some info on the man behind it all.”
There was another moment’s silence, as if Bindman was triangulating the outcomes of the conversation. Then in a flat voice, he said, “I can’t imagine I’d be able to help you with that, I’m…”
“Really? But…”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you with that.” More emphatic this time. “Now, unless there’s anything else, I really have to… I’m a busy man.”
“Can I leave you my number? In case you think of something.”
“Well… if you really must.”
Colin recited his mobile number, and the line went dead. Just as he was about to put the receiver down, he heard another click. That sounded suspicious, Colin thought, as he rested the handset in its cradle. He looked at the phone, head cocked to one side, and a spike of worry grew inside as he sat there, fingers frozen over his keyboard.
Feeling as though he should type something, Colin couldn’t help but wonder what? He looked up at Liam, who was smiling impishly. Colin shrugged, swallowing involuntarily as he did so. “A bit of a dead end, I’m afraid.”
“Wait. Just a minute,” the older man said, and as Colin’s mobile phone pinged, he winked. “Bingo.”
Colin fished his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. A text message said, “Catterick’s. Nine p.m. Table booked for Burke and Hare.”
“Did he book the table for Burke and Hare?” Liam asked, craning his neck to look at the screen in Colin’s hand. Colin nodded. “Paydirt, as our yank friends might say. That’s his code for ‘Have I got something for you!’ He likes his drama, does Michael. You pay the bill, claim it on exes. Don’t let him mess you about. Get the goods and get out. You’ll have Haines kissing your ring by lunchtime tomorrow.”
“Burke and Hare?” Colin asked. “That’s his code?”
“For ‘bodies to dig up’, kiddo. Secrets. Corpses of careers.”
“But Haines is expecting something today,” Colin protested.
“Don’tcha worry about that,” Liam said. He winked. “I’ll cover for yer and tell him yer on to something. Now get down to the bookies and put this bet on for me. Then go to this address and ask for Allie; she might have something.”
Colin took the two slips of paper Liam was holding out to him and headed for the door. As he left, he gave the older reporter a salute and smiled.
“Don’t mix them up,” Liam shouted after him. “There’s an Allie in the two-thirty. The worst nag ever to get dressed up in a bridle. Not even worth putting in a can, to be fair.”
He winked again at Colin and waved a hand, ushering him through the door. Colin didn’t need another invitation. For the first time that afternoon, he felt the ground shifting. The story wasn’t up and running yet, but it was finally digging its way out.
[1] BAI / PAI – Before AI / Post AI. The standard date notation adopted at the realignment conference in New Cambridge, two years after The Event, when the entire planet was hoisted, by the Hermit AI, from its orbit around Sol, and deposited some four hundred light years away in the Pleiades system. Scientists and philosophers have endlessly debated the Hermit AI’s motivation for this, but, in the absence of concrete evidence, have failed to reach a conclusion. Bob Sinkenson, a milkman from Milton Keynes came closest when he opined to his mate, “Jinky” Smith, at the Dog and Duck, one Friday night, that “Maybe it just wants company.”
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