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Three Generations of the English Union
1852, Coventry
(first draft)
“Conscience is the inner voice which warns you that someone may be looking. – H. L. Mencken”
Andrew Baker twisted his face into a satisfied smile as he looked up towards the construction work at the top of the building, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand. The last minute alterations to the reinforced dark glass structure of the Coventry Biosciences Research Labs had been proceeding well, despite the breakneck speed that they’d been taking place in. The construction industry had been enjoying good times lately, with the wave of building that was travelling the country, fuelled by a strong economy.
“Hey, Andrew, how’s it going?” asked a worried voice from behind him. It was Paul Archer, the research labs director, taking one of his usual anxious inspections of the building sites. Andrew let out a small sigh, gazing up towards the almost completed building, then turned around.
“It’s going great. The exterior work is pretty much done now, and we’re just tidying up inside; the servers and STEM facilities will be brought in on Thursday. Getting the electron microscope in won’t be easy, I just hope they don’t bang the damn thing against the walls…” he said. Andrew nodded confidently. “Anyway, don’t worry. It’ll all be done in time for the visit next week.”
Paul unconsciously bobbed his head along, brightening up. “Wonderful. Well, anyway, I’m off home now, and I hope you are too, you’ve made great progress today and I wouldn’t want you to tire yourself out.”
Mumbling some words of agreement, Andrew made his farewell and moved to turn away back to his offices.
“Ah, you’ve just reminded me, I should get hold of a poppy for next week. Could cause a dreadful embarrassment if I forget. See you tomorrow!” said Paul, already striding away.
Andrew was convinced that while Paul was undoubtedly one of the smartest people he knew, he could be a complete idiot, socially speaking, sometimes. How on Earth Paul had managed to not realise that he didn’t like talking about the war was beyond him. Practically everyone else knew well enough not to bring the subject up.
Over one hundred and fifty years ago, Andrew’s direct ancestor, Colonel Baker, more popularly known as Field Marshal Sir John Baker, had personally led the final cavalry charge of the English army on Tenochtitlan, ending the Second Aztec War. Predictably, ‘the old man’ as he was known to the family, had received a whole array of awards and promotions and was whisked away to a life that was as far away from real combat as was possible, overseeing the modernisation of the armed forces. Since then, there had been a grand military tradition within the Baker family, stretching for four generations. And ending with him.
He opened the door to his prefab office, grabbed his coat and laptop case from the desk, locked up and got into his car, still thinking about his family. When he’d decided, against his father’s wishes, not to enrol in military school and instead take an engineering degree at Canterbury University, he’d practically been disowned. His mother was a little more sympathetic and various other family members offered some support, but as the direct male descendant of the old man, as far as his father and grandparents were concerned, he was dishonouring the memory of Field Marshal Sir John Baker, a cardinal sin. Matters didn’t improve much when his brother entered the Royal Air Force, flying the new Harrier Jumpjets.
It was unfortunate, to say the least. Andrew didn’t really exist to his father, but his brother certainly did. As Andrew built up his own successful life and construction business, independent of the rest of the extended family, he felt justifiably proud.
Stopping his car at some traffic close to the cathedral, he idly drummed his fingers on the wheel and spotted a group of American tourists, walking around wide-eyed in their laughably quaint clothes and snapping pictures with their always-ready cameras. Andrew tried to suppress a smile as a few stragglers rushed to keep up with their tour guide, who was vigorously walking towards the entrance with her striped blue umbrella held high. Grinning, Andrew watched on until a young American man glared directly at him, and he looked away, embarrassed. In an effort to distract himself, he switched on the radio.
“…think it’s perfectly fine! I’ve had it up to here with those American troops carrying out ‘military exercises’ on our borders. Why, my sister lives in Texcoco and she was frightened near to death about the news, it was only happening a few dozen miles away.”
A more measured and infinitely patient voice interjected into the conversation; probably the host of the phone-in show, Andrew surmised.
“Yes, but do you really believe that a military cordon is really the best solution to all of this? After all, the English troops on the border consume real resources and, we know, have been perceived as a threat by the American and French governments. Granted, diplomatic negotiations have not successful so far but there’s no reason to give up on them.”
Andrew laughed out loud, shaking his head. England had been negotiating with France before he was born about the ever-shifting border agreements. As England’s western borders extended inexorably outwards, eating up the territory once held by the French cities of New Salamanca and Tlacopan, French troops incursions had increased concomitantly. It wasn’t too surprising; France had pretty much neglected the cities they’d taken back in 1715 during the Second Aztec War, allowing to remain as backwater provinces. England, on the other hand, had promoted the expansion and improvement of the city infrastructures of Tenochtitlan, Texcoco and Xochicalco; the ‘New Territories’; three of the cities on England’s western border that had been liberated during the two wars. Now, they were thriving metropolises with over a million citizens apiece and intensively irrigated and mined surrounding land. France’s nearby cities could only offer less than a fifth of that population.
Yet still they complained at each result of the border discussion conferences, although they grudgingly accepted the outcomes. In a show of defiance, they had lately begun to conduct military exercises close to, and sometimes within, England’s borders on the hills and mountains that straddled them. Despite the overwhelming superiority of the English armed forces, if not numerically then technologically, the English were quite worried. And it appeared, as Andrew listened to the show with interest, that the President had decided to do something about it.
“…of you just joining our show, here’s a recap of today’s latest news that we’ve just been discussing. In an unprecedented address to the nation, President Tudor announced the formation of a military cordon to enforce border security in the New Territories.” The distinctive voice of the President came on.
“I cannot stress highly enough that the new border security division of the armed forces has merely been formed to ensure that trade is properly regulated between England and France. We enjoy a fruitful relationship with the French and I would hope that they do not perceive this action by the English government to be at all threatening.”
The presenter’s voice returned. “So far, we have not had any response from the Cabinet about the disposition of the forces being deployed, as they cite matters of national security, but eyewitnesses claim that the entire north-western border, encompassing the cities of Tenochtitlan, Texcoco and Xochicalco, is now being patrolled by tanks and mechanised infantry of the Fifth and Sixth Armoured Divisions of the English Army. Three jet fighter squadrons from York have also been rebased into the Duxford airfields situated at Tenochtitlan.”
Andrew’s throat tightened. His brother’s squadron had been based in York. It didn’t come as too much of a surprise to him, though; this wasn’t a new tactic being deployed by the English. A decade ago, to prevent repeated border infractions by the Americans, who were shipping unauthorised supplies and workforces to Phoenix through English territory on the far eastern borders, the entire American territory surrounding Phoenix had been ring-fenced by mechanised infantry, effectively cutting it off from the rest of the world. He was sure that the government’s decision had been swayed by the fact that Phoenix was fairly close to London, along with Tula and New Berlin.
There was a new caller who was arguing with the presented. Andrew listened in.
“Look, I don’t think you understand. It’s hardly surprising that France and America are annoyed with us, we’ve been withholding at least a hundred years’ worth of technology from them; the quality of life over there is pitiful; just look at the recent demographics report released by, uh, the, uh…”
“The Institute of Population Studies in London?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. England came out top in practically every ranking. I think we can afford to share some of our good fortune with other countries, for humanitarian reasons, and also to improve relations.”
“Oh, by all means. So let me get this straight, you’re suggesting that we should subsidise one hundred years’ worth of scientific research and development for both the French and Americans?” responded the presenter in an infuriatingly reasonable tone. She reminded Andrew of the point of view his daughter took.
“Now, hold on a second, that’s not what I meant at all. You’re just trying…” said the caller aggressively.
Andrew stopped paying attention to the radio at that point, knowing well that it was well on its way to becoming a good old mud slinging match; this prediction was borne out by long years of experience of arguing with his parents and lately his daughter. He wasn’t eager to see what she made of these latest developments as he pulled into the driveway of his house and parked the car.
He could hear the strains of the BBC News coming on as he opened the front door and hung up his coat. Mentally steeling himself, Andrew feigned casualness as he sauntered into the living room.
“Hi dad! Did you see the news?” said his daugher Sarah excitedly.
“Hmm, well, uh…” Andrew desperately tried to think of something light and witty to say, but failed miserably.
“Uh, right,” she said, shooting him a strange look. “They’ve gone and set up this huge military cordon in the New Territories. I don’t think Uncle Richard was one of the guys who got sent to Duxford, his squadron wasn’t on the list, but still, it’s pretty cool.”
Andrew wondered what exactly was ‘cool’ about a drastic escalation in hostilities between the French and English; it was bad enough last time with the Americans. He let her go on, as she muted the sound on the television.
“So do you think that I could join the CCF at school? It’s not just about learning how to shoot and all the rest, they also do lots of orienteering and leadership skills; all my friends have signed up, and all the older girls say that’s it’s good fun. It won’t cost anything, and the barracks aren’t too far from here,” she said hopefully, the words rushing out before he could get a word in.
He looked steadily at her. She was only 14 years old, but she was looking more and more like her mother, with long brown hair and a slender build. Like her father, he supposed, with the famous Baker nose – and the even more famous Baker determination. Already, she wanted to join the Combined Cadet Force. He closed his eyes and slumped down onto his armchair.
“Sarah. You know how I feel about this sort of thing,” he said wearily. Hopefully they could get the argument over by dinner.
“I know you do. And you know how I feel about it. And whatever either of us says, we’re not going to convince the other one.”
He opened his mouth, preparing to speak, and then stopped himself. She was absolutely right. “You’ve got me,” he admitted with a rueful grin. “You’ve been thinking about this for longer than today, haven’t you?”
Sarah looked at her feet, blushing. “A while. Dad, I’m serious. It’s not as if I haven’t taken in what you’ve taught me about joining the military. I don’t want to do it because I have some kind of idea of glory and honour, I want to do it because I think it’s the right thing for me. England’s not a perfect place –” Andrew barked out a laugh, and she glared at him. “But, still, I think it’s worth protecting and the other countries just won’t listen to us. They’ve completely ignored the Tenochtitlan Accords.”
Andrew looked suitably impressed. “Okay. Let me think about this,” he pronounced.
“Dad!” she complained loudly, ready to burst into another tirade, probably just as well prepared as the last but likely much more profane. He held up a warning hand.
“I’m serious.”
Andrew thought back over thirty years to the last time he’d been in the position of his daughter, arguing with his damned stubborn father. His father had told him that he had a responsibility to live up to his name, and that he should have more respect for his elders, a point he’d pressed home on more arguments than Andrew was willing to recall. When he decided to leave home, though, he did it silently, travelling to Canterbury and renting a flat with some of the money lent to him by a sympathetic family member. He got a job, worked hard and kept to himself, desperately alone.
He didn’t want that to happen to Sarah. It would be even harder for her than it had been for him, with no mother. And as much as he hated the thought of his daughter being in the military, being in harm’s way, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
“Okay,” he said reluctantly, knowing that he would regret this later, but feeling peaceful in the knowledge that it was the right thing to do. “You can join.”
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