A Memory: Whitehall, London, Earth 09:30 Zulu, 2980CE.
‘And the Signatories will supply personnel to defend the Commonwealth from all threats, foreign and domestic.’
Articles of Commonwealth 2376
SAT ALL ALONE in a small and scarcely furnished office, apart from the overtly ornate chair on which he was sitting, was Colonel Macgregor.
Dressed in his well-cared for Number One uniform, made up of dark rifle-green woollen tunic and black trousers. Wide brass buttons, which were engraved with the royal monogram and painted black, pulled tight his tunic across his chest. His rankless epaulettes had his metal Royal Army Medical Corps titles, and on his arms were his purple stitched mud-guards. The creases in his black trousers were so sharp they could cut skin, and the thin rifle-green strip on the outside of the leg merged into his tunic and his office carpet, as his jet-black ammo boots reflected the bottom of his portable metal camp desk. Along with his three medals: GC, DSM, and MM the overall image was that of an extraordinarily experienced officer.
His lightly tanned, but heavily scarred, arms were resting on his chair’s armrests, his fingers interlaced with his hands steepled together. He was staring at the door and the life-sized photo of his wife and daughter, taken whilst on a holiday to the Swiss Alps for skiing, just before he left for Kenya, their happy faces just poking out of their heavy hoods.
Although 16 in that picture, his daughter, Elizabeth, was now 18 and had just left home, having left to go to the University of Glasgow’s Medical School. This was the same place her mother had studied, before she joined the RAMC, 26 years earlier. Both women were super smart and could run rings around Alastair. He couldn’t get enough of them doing so. His wife was the chief medical officer of the Queen’s Own Anti-Revolutionary Company, of which he was the CO, and the Commonwealth’s first line of defence against insurrections, insurgency, and revolution.
At that moment, Alexandra was in the building three floors below, giving a lecture to a group of Army-level staff officers, Colonels and above, on the logistics of medical care in a modern, frontline army. She was the most experienced RAMC officer on Earth, armed with many years of recent experience of medical practice within the Tarquin theatre. This was true, despite her boss, the Major-General in charge of the Royal Army Medical Corps, nearing an astonishing 200 years old.
Alexandra’s initial army posting had been to the same regiment as himself: The Royal Gloucestershire Light Infantry. Having been shot at the end of the Battle of Helm’s Dyke, by, what looked to everyone, like a KM-9, they first met when she was rounding. She had been checking up on him after the surgery to repair his destroyed shoulder.
Technically, it was the first time he’d met her. A few weeks after their first meeting, he was told that she had been the second surgeon for the procedure. The elegant sutures holding his skin together were her handiwork. The two, now both lieutenants, had enjoyed a passionate argument about post-op infections and their treatment for an hour. He won, of course. Though, the fact he had a PhD in immunology helped. It was to be the first-and-only time he would win an argument against his wife, but it didn’t matter. He had won himself a date with her.
He thought about being an army doctor in his youth, but somehow had done a biomedical science degree instead. Macgregor had enjoyed the degree and the insanity of academia so much; he had done a PhD as well. Having spent seven years in this dalliance, he then remembered his plan for life. And so, he joined the British Army as a private in the post of Combat Medical Technician, aged twenty-five. His speciality meant
he found himself in his home subsector’s light infantry regiment, the Royal Gloucestershire.
Being surprisingly good at the soldiering thing, he worked himself up the ranks, becoming an officer in 2959. Looking around one day, he found he was a Lieutenant Colonel and the commanding officer of the regiment. His service record suggests he had fought around, on, and indeed even in, about 200 planets; though he suspects the number is closer to 350. As most of his career had been fighting the Tarquin, he had plenty of opportunities to show valour. As such, he was amongst the most decorated officers in the British Army. Though, his last decade-or-so of service was radically different.
In the nearly ten years as the commander of the Queen’s Own Anti-Revolution Company, he had upped his frequent flyer miles by a significant amount. With just five hundred-orso personnel, they had prevented, dampened and decapitated revolutions and rebellions across the Commonwealth. By Intel gathering and long-range sniper fire, their existence prevented many millions of civilian and military deaths.
The MOD had authorised the unit’s creation in 2970, after the disaster that was the third Indian War of Independence. Macgregor shifted uneasily in his plush leather chair as he remembered that bloody mess.
The population of the planet of Lucknow had picked up so much steam in their revolution that regular tactics would not have stopped them. Not without a long dragout fight that would’ve decimated the subsector, anyway. So, in a bit of a Hail Mary, the commanding officer of the theatre, Lieutenant General Ted Treskow, decided they should use irregular forces to gather intelligence and dismantle the cells.
The then brevet, Lieutenant-Colonel Macgregor, and Regimental Quartermaster Sergeant Major Patrick Ironsides were, along with one of his battalions, seconded to fight in largescale special forces operations. In practice, this meant they had to run around in cities and towns waiting for enemy commanders to assassinate. Nominally attached to members of the 22nd Herefordshire regiment, they found themselves alone after a botched ambush killed all but three of them. They then spent the next six months in enemy territory, unsupported and impossible to extract, travelling between planets within the Lucknow subsector, using loyal locals to shuttle them and hide them, as they hunted for General Sethi, the leader of the rebellion.
Macgregor and Ironsides eventually tracked him down to a summer palace and killed him, after which any armed resistance completely stopped. The assault of the government buildings on Lucknow lead by Lieutenant-General Treskow cleaned up his followers in short order. For this action, the Queen awarded Macgregor the George Cross. The citation read: For gallantry in the face of unshakable resistance and surviving whilst living on colonies entirely held by the enemy.
Learning from this, the very first rebellion for the five-hundred-year Commonwealth, and in typically British fashion, the MoD decided to create a new Special Forces. Its remit was to implement the ideas and ideals that Macgregor and Ironsides showed; and so, they thought who better to lead them than Macgregor himself? The General Staff removed him from his role as commanding officer of the Royal Gloucestershire Light Infantry Regiment and appointed him as Commanding Officer, the Queen’s Own Anti-Revolutionary Company. This brought him to Whitehall and this office.
The news of the Indian War of Independence had fuelled smouldering rebellious thoughts everywhere, spreading the company so thin that one section, a unit of 20 fighting personnel, were assigned to a supersector sometimes. Management of the unit was a nightmare as at 4000 light-years across, the Commonwealth was too big to quickly transit. This made getting reinforcements to hotspots was a logistical headache. Newer naval vessels such as the Crown Colony class cruisers and Cepheid fleet destroyers made this easier due to their high FTL speed; but even they took a month to get across the Commonwealth.
Because of this, His civil service staff was three-hundred-strong, with help from a large Adjutant General Corps, Royal Engineers, and Royal Logistic Corps contingent. Together, they made up nearly a bigger force than his actual fighting strength. In addition, they had their own fleet, ranging from little destroyer escorts to a brand-new battleship, the HMS Victoria Regina. The first of the Royalty class, whose FTL speed matched the cruisers and destroyers, and the mere presence of which often caused capitulation, even if it never actually fired its main guns.
Back in the present, Colonel Alastair Macgregor was terribly bored. He was waiting for his RSM, Patrick Ironsides, and His 2i/C, Lieutenant-Colonel Richard Bartlett, to arrive so they could go to their meeting with her Royal Majesty, Elizabeth XX, the Queen of the United Commonwealth. He hated waiting and was getting worried about time, as the meeting was at 10:30.
“Come on in, Guys. We are going to be late.” He said to a hesitant knock at the door.
The two men walked in, both also in the dark green jacket and black trousers dress uniform, but with subtle differences, such as Richard’s brass buttons being in groups of three instead of singles, a prescribed nod at his former regiment, the Scots Guard. Bartlett halted just inside the door, throwing a fast salute with his right hand; the bionics of his hand spinning and yawing in response. Macgregor had a pang of anguish fill his chest at the sight. He had always felt deeply about any injury to his troops, cursed with the thought that he had failed them. Most of the time, it was a stupid feeling, but with Richard, he had failed. Failed to arrive on time to stop a madman from cutting off his arm. A madman who thought Richard was himself.
Waving Bartlett down, he stood up, and picked up his peak, in one hand. He smoothed out his tunic with the other. He walked around the desk towards the door whilst he placed the gold braided peak on his head. The standard cap, such as Richard’s was also rifle green, with monogrammed chin strap buttons, with an embroidered cap badge that was a stylised version of the galaxy. A metallic thread was used as stylised stars, threaded through a black spiral galaxy, on top of a purple field. However, Macgregor’s was just slightly different. The badge was the standard QOARC badge, but the chinstrap buttons were Royal Army Medical Corps. Behind Richard, there was a slight chuckle marking the presence of Ironsides.
As they left his office, all three men’s strides were in exact step, a motion born from habit. They got to the carpool in two minutes and slipped into a black Aston Martin DS12, an electric hover car that had a top speed of four hundred miles an hour. As soon as they stepped into the car, Ironsides pulled out his Mk-34 Personal Defence Weapon and laid it on his lap. Macgregor mentally face-palmed and ignored it.
“Computer, take us to the Palace,” Bartlett said, slipping into the car last. “Jesus Christ, Patrick, do you ever not carry that? I mean, soon you’re going to be having babies with the thing.” Macgregor tried to hold back a laugh as the car pulled smoothly away from the garage.
“Oh, I am sorry, just because I can have babies.” The rolling voice of Patrick filled the car in response.
Macgregor was fairly sure that Bartlett had a comeback, but he had stopped listening. He slipped his peak forward over his eyes and was already asleep. Half an hour later, much to the surprise and happiness of Alastair, they had arrived at Windsor Castle. The oldest and grandest of the Royal Residences on Earth, found just outside the capital city of three-quarters of the local galaxy arm, London.
It was a two-thousand-year-old castle, the last occupied one in existence, its mighty tower sat atop of a hill, the hill surrounded by a twenty-foot thick, fifty-foot-high concrete curtain wall with towers every hundred yards. It made for an imposing sight, with the gigantic royal standard flying free on the flagpole. Palatial as it was, it ended being at odds with the modern-day industrial and civil buildings built around the outside of the curtain. The Castle was the primary residence of Queen Elizabeth XX and her fiancée, Princess Helen, as it had been for royalty for the last 2000 years.
Soon the car glided to stop in front of the main gatehouse, an archway with reinforced double concrete solid gate. These were so massive two Hercules main battle tanks side by side would fit between them.
The three climbed out of the car and straightened their uniforms. Macgregor slapped the roof of the car, hitting the return home button. The three were looking at each other as the car left. Macgregor stepped towards the gate as the others formed up in a column. They just did things like that.
“Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike guardsmen?” Ironsides whined, causing Bartlett to cough, just loud enough for Macgregor to hear over the sound of their feet. Macgregor rolled his eyes.
“Shut up Paddy or I’ll post you to 4th section, and then you’ll never be free of them.” He snapped back as they halted at the Gate, all three left foots stamped down in one swift movement. Ironsides groaned at his boss again. For 4th section was the most boring and pointless of the sections; the one that dealt with the English supersector. Even worse for Ironsides, it was run by Bartlett. They broke their little formation as they walked the last 10 feet to the gate-guard booth.
The guard looked up and over the three. His eyes settled on their empty epaulettes and arms, their lack of rank throwing him. He gazed over the rack of medals on their breasts, but didn’t pay attention to what they meant. A thoroughly disbelieving and sneering face flashed across him as his eyes moved onto the scarred and drawn faces. Bartlett could see the young man was internally laughing at him and Macgregor, though he lingered on Macgregor especially. Most likely because Macgregor was the most well put-together, and yet totally dishevelled man that Bartlett knew. Macgregor smiled amiably back. It was at times like this that Bartlett understood Ironside’s general distaste for the Household Division. Time away from them allowed a bit of perspective.
“Yes, Gentlemen?” The guard squeaked, his urge to be as difficult as possible to these misfits being overridden by the fear that Patrick Ironsides’s general demeanour inspired, especially up close.
They say the only person who orders a Regimental Sergeant Major around is God. But, even he has to think about it. Ironsides embodied that principle, to the point when a lowly JNCO ended up in his presence, they tended to quiver in fear without really knowing why.
Macgregor nodded to his 2i/C, who, because of his misfortune to be a former guardsman, still knew the secret handshakes. Bartlett closed the distance to the booth, before he leaned, somewhat languidly, on the outside of the box.
“Lance-Corporal, at least 1 Sir should have been said there.” Bartlett chastised, in his thickest Earth accent, before continuing, “We’ve been summoned to see her royal majesty, Queen Elizabeth at ten-thirty, on matters of great import to Her and country.” The guard sat up straighter, in response to Bartlett’s tone, letting Macgregor get a good look at the guard.
A member of the Scots Guards by his TRF with thistle and a Lance-Corporal by the tab attached his red webbing, overlaying the remarkably heavy glass body armour. The man wasn’t much older than 22; but he had the arrogance of the Household division etched into his face already. Bartlett handed him his ID and held small talk as the computer chunked through Bartlett’s biometrics, including retinal scanning.
Ironsides went next. He spoke in monosyllables to the man causing the LCpl to fidget in his chair. It was soon Macgregor’s go. He walked up to the booth and could see the ongoing war within the boy to make a snarky comment which came to a violent stop as Macgregor held out his ID. The picture was about 3 years old, taken after a long operation when he had out-of-regs length hair, but was clearly Alastair.
“Colonel Alastair Macgregor,” he said aloud, typing into the computer before an audible gasp left his lips. He rushed to add “as in the Macgregor? Sir.” The Lance-Corporal looked at the ID again, then at Macgregor’s face, and then down again. This happened twice more. This double take was the response Macgregor had become used to over. All secrets were open ones in the Army apparently, and so although the QOARC was nominally secret, it basically wasn’t. “I assumed you would be bigger.”
Macgregor laughed, that was a new response to him, he was 6’2” after all.
“Yes, I am, Lance-Corporal,” Macgregor said, placing his eye in front of the camera as instructed, leaning back when the computer dinged.
“I heard a rumour that you were responsible for stopping the Irish rebellion.” The man asked, leaning closer to the Colonel, his voice low and conspiratorial as he could be, whilst handing him his pass.
“That’s classified, young man,” Macgregor replied, rather flatly and stiffly. He was indeed responsible for the successful prevention of the civil war that had been brewing in Ireland from becoming hot. Despite it being a relatively bloodless victory, he was not proud of it. 4th section’s, and therefore Bartlett’s, Section Sergeant Major, was Irish, and Macgregor had forced her into a horrible situation. Alice Locke would never forgive him. “Now, could you please allow us access into the Castle?” he added, much brighter, as the man’s eyes became as wide as saucers.
“Yes Sir, right away Sir. Sorry, Sir,” He pressed the button to allow them through the gate in the curtain wall. The gate crawled open, slowly revealing the Castle itself. “The weapons cache is in the original gatehouse, straight up the hill. Be sure to check in there first.”
The three men nodded. Macgregor and Ironsides had been to the castle plenty over the years. But Bartlett, Macgregor realised, hadn’t. He had briefings with the Queen and Macgregor, but they ordinarily occurred on the Victoria Regina, as it transported the Queen to various sectors. Macgregor enjoyed the look of wonder on his face as the small personnel gate opened. The door, its imposing size filling in their vision, framed the castles’s tower.
A quiet click was heard as they stepped across the threshold. They stopped when they became bathed in dark purple light that came from a hole in the lintel. Associated with this was a loud clunk. All three looked quizzically back at the Lance Corporal.
“Oh that, sirs, is a new device for disarming laser weapons automatically until you walk back through it.”
Bartlett and Macgregor rolled their eyes after the penny drop of remembrance occurred. The gate definitively shut behind them, leaving them to trudge up the Long Walk to the ancient gateway.
Their walk through the space between the two curtain walls was pleasant enough, and soon they found themselves at the old gatehouse. Here the guards were milling about, not wearing armour like their colleague outside the wall, but in their bright red Number 1s. There was a bit of a kerfuffle happening beyond the gate as 4 guardsmen were talking to a hidden figure.
A Lieutenant halted them, gave a salute, and directed them into a little office in the gateway. Bartlett entered first, and found a chair in amongst the screens, desktops, and rifles. Ironsides and Macgregor blagged a cheeky cigarette from the tired-looking Garrison Sergeant Major, London District Claude Savage. He and his entourage were just leaving the Castle, after an early morning Changing of the Guard practice, but was more than happy to have a smoke with Paddy.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Bartlett, I presume.” The lieutenant asked Bartlett, who nodded, fighting the urge to put his feet on the desk. “Welcome Home, Sir.” Bartlett had ended his Guards career as the brevet commander of the Scots Guards for 6 months before he transferred the QOARC. He had also been the R-3, and held several battalion level staff and command billets.
“Thank you, Lieutenant?” Bartlett left space, ready for the lieutenant to fill with his name.
“Lieutenant Hargraeves, Sir. 3rd Company Operations officer, 6th Battalion, and Officer of the Watch for the garrison today.” He said, in one breath. “May I say, Sir, that the regiment is in good health. I hadn’t joined before you left, but my Company Sergeant Major says you were the best damn company commander he ever had.” The lieutenant couldn’t hold the awe out of his voice due to having a living legend in his CP.
“Who is your CSM, Lieutenant?”
“Company Sergeant Major Scott Bailey. Tall fellow, dark skin, built like a rapier. And about as mean.” He mimed the height of the man, throwing his hand at full extension above his head.
“Ah, yes. A good man, and a better Corporal. Say hello from me. Tell him his discipline is being found wanting and needs to be sharpened. The company being Earthbound is no excuse for lax standards.” Bartlett found his voice doing that thing that all senior officers did when talking to subalterns. Become just a bit snotty, dismissive, and yet somehow caring. Hargraeves couldn’t not nod in assent.
“Of course, Sir, I will Sir.”
Macgregor suddenly appeared beside Bartlett, causing the Lieutenant to snap to attention, as did all the men who stood by him. Macgregor just grinned and returned the given salute. He held out his hand for the Lieutenant to shake.
“What a wonderful place for a posting.” Macgregor said sarcastically. He gestured out the door towards the rolling, sweeping, tasteful gardens of the Castle. “There is no shooty-shooty, nice and dry accommodation, fresh air with no ozone, or steel filings in it. It’s all a bit disconcerting, really. I dislike being on Earth sometimes. It’s too fucking quiet.” Macgregor added, when the Lieutenant said nothing. “Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant...?”
“Hargraeves, Sir.” Bartlett whispered in Macgregor’s ear.
“Lieutenant Hargraeves.”
“Well yes Sir. You certainly could say that Sir. But for some in the Household Division, it has just become the best posting in the galaxy.”
Confused, Macgregor was about to speak when the lieutenant continued.
“The Queen and Her Royal Highness, Sir. Princess Helen keeps asking for people’s advice about the wedding, Sir, seeing as most of the officers are married.” He rolled his eyes and Macgregor laughed a deep, hearty laugh. Oh, to be young again, he thought.
“Ah yes, the wedding. I remember all the fuss before mine. My wife loved preparing for it because it was a distinct change of pace from the day job.”
“You break that, I’ll skin you alive.” Ironsides’s voice filled the small room, his face pulled into a grimace in acute distaste that a guardsman, who looked about four, was handling his beloved PDW. An heirloom and present from his grandfather, the esteemed Colonel Lysander Ironsides, the victor of the Fury high anchorage, it given to Patrick for his promotion to Warrant Officer II. It had seen many battles and a handful of Ironsides’ ancestors. It was three centuries old, an antique, indeed it was practically a relic.
He was determined to give it to his eldest daughter, who was already modelling herself after him. Patrick was overjoyed at this, but his wife, Jessica; well, that is a whole different battlefield. One Macgregor was glad he wasn’t a part of. The 18-year-old guardsman, whom Ironsides gave the gun to, looked like shitting a fucking house, not only a brick.
Macgregor stepped back outside the room and walked a short distance into the Castle courtyard, where he stopped. Pulling a lighter from a pocket, he lit the cigarette he’d blagged. Taking a deep drag, he looked down at his watch with a sense of trepidation, but it was only ten past ten. The anxiety that had been building lifted off his chest, helped along by the nicotine, when he heard someone walk up behind him. He started to turn to look when the person started speaking.
“Ah, good morning, my dear Colonel Macgregor. Pleasure to see you once again.” The voice drawled. Macgregor instantly recognised that upper-class accent of the twat who had once compared the QOARC to a bunch of raving hooligans, with as much tactical sense as a duck-billed platypus.
That man was Brigadier Sir Arthur James Henry Thompson-LeRoy, the Bastard; Macgregor felt that applied in both meanings. The youngest of the illegitimate children of the late Prince of America, Prince Luke, the uncle to the Queen, brother of her mother, Queen Victoria XIV.
To Macgregor, Thompson-LeRoy was the epitome of the bad upper classes. He insisted he should be the senior officer in any room, simply because he was cousin to the Queen. This was despite being a poor fucking soldier. Of course, the irony was, is that to Thompson-LeRoy, Macgregor was everything wrong with the lower classes.
The Brigadier thought Macgregor was a petulant upstart, not worth the earth he stood on. Certainly shouldn’t be allowed to command a regiment. Only rich, powerful people should have that right. It was like Thompson-LeRoy was stuck in the 1800s.
On multiple occasions, the QOARC had fought on more planets simultaneously than the Brigadier had slept with women. A notoriously challenging task as the man was a prolific womaniser, like his father. Albeit an utter bastard of one, unlike his father. Yet, no matter the victories they had, they could not get the arsehole off their back.
“Ah, Good Morning, Sir, I wasn’t aware the Castle had a bar full of beautiful ladies to entice you here. Or is it just that the local ones have stopped hiring women? Because what else would make you do your fucking job?” Asked Macgregor, avoiding eye contact with the man as he finished his cigarette. Macgregor had to jab the Brigadier about the young waitress, as the then forty-five-year-old Brigadier, raped one evening in a pub on Poole Colony, ten years earlier. He was found, and stopped, by none other than
Macgregor. Having time for a quiet drink as during a layover between his home on Cheltenham and Earth before taking up this job, he had needed a piss and interrupted the assault. Macgregor just rued the fact he hadn’t been armed. This was the source of the loathing they shared, and it was the start of the excellent working relationship that he and his uncle, the current Chief of the Defence Staff, had with the Royal Family. The incident resulted in the receipt of his MVO.
Starting at Thompson-LaRoy’s feet, Macgregor swept his eyes over the man. He took in the short, barely 5’9”, lean but pompous frame, the dark blue number 2s of the Tank regiments, the jet-black peak, the gold braided aiguillettes were arranged to hide Thompson-LeRoy’s lack of medals. The Brigadier was as Macgregor had last seen; but something was different.
When he spotted the change, he immediately regretted his sarcasm. On the lapels of his Thompson-LeRoy had the red gorget patches of a general staff officer, and the crossed batons of a Major-General. No longer was his thorn a Brigadier of a tank brigade, which he had been expecting. (Because Macgregor was an infantry officer, he would be effectively equal to Thompson-LeRoy, even though the most senior regiment of the Commonwealth was the Household Cavalry, a tank regiment).
Worse, there was a symbol he had never seen before on Thompson-LeRoy’s gorget patches. This was a sign that Macgregor’s gut felt didn’t bode well, as it looked like the Ministry of Governmental Excellence’s insignia.
“Uh-huh, temper Colonel. Better not let the Queen hear you use words like that. Nor should you throw such accusations about against a superior officer. Especially not with that level of familiarity.” Thompson-LeRoy wagged his stubby fingers at Macgregor. “I believe we will meet her Royal Majesty in a minute, old chap. Let’s not be late by fighting. Believe me, we’ll have plenty of reason to afterwards. Well, your lapdog, Warrant Officer Ironsides,” he sneered at the rank, “will have a reason to be let off his leash anyway, but let’s play nice. For now.”
At that moment Ironsides appeared behind Thompson-LeRoy, making little dog barks at the General. He had heard the conversation.
“I have an appointment, Major-General. I’d be obliged if y’all used it.” Ironsides said. He had laid his not normally obvious Southern drawl thickly on.
“Oh, I am terribly sorry. Regimental Sergeant Major Lapdog.” sneered Thompson-Leroy. Ironsides, not a man with any patience, merely nodded.
“Bless your heart, Major-General, we may make a Gentle-man out of you, yet.” Ironsides could not help but do his best impression of a southern slaveholding gentleman, his hand fluttering to his face, mocking Thompson-LeRoy to within an inch of his life. Macgregor almost choked, trying not to laugh.
Thompson-LeRoy was about to retort when the Lieutenant, flanked by Bartlett, interrupted.
“Sirs, if you would like to follow me to the Queen’s Office, I’d be glad to lead the way.” The six men, including General Thompson-LeRoy’s Adjutant, who was a Major none of the QOARC officers had ever met before; and a well-dressed, but corpulent and ancient
MP, who Macgregor vaguely remembered as being the deputy minister for Governmental Excellence, had joined the group. They all nodded, and they followed the Lieutenant, up the hill into the Castle. At the door, an Equerry, a man who was nearing 90 and was almost as thin as the MP was fat, guided them through the regal corridors to the Queen’s office.
When they got there, the QOARC officers, Thompson-LeRoy and his adjutant, sat on opposite sides of the small room. Busy glaring at each other, the minutes ticked by slowly. Macgregor felt like it was an eternity. The mood was so dark that the MP standing in between them, looking not unlike an overfed rat, paced with nervous energy, an act unusual in a man of 130.
When the Queen’s Personal Equerry called them into the office, everyone, bar Thompson-LeRoy’s Adjutant, walked into the grand room.
“Your Majesty, your ten-thirty has arrived.” The Equerry announced to the Queen. The Queen was standing behind her broad, exquisite wooden desk, facing away from them, looking out of an ornate bay window. She lingered in the windows as the group shuffled in. Her dark brown hair was tied into a tight bun that exposed her cream-coloured neck above her white blouse’s collar.
Macgregor felt panic rise, as he realised the Queen must have seen the argument with Thompson-LeRoy.
He stopped just inside the door. His arm snapped up as he and the three other soldiers saluted, whilst the MP bowed. After a second or two, the five men stepped further into the room, towards her desk. Behind them, the armoured office door made a loud pop by air squeezed between it and the frame.
He glanced around the room, whilst the Queen moved forward to talk to him. He couldn’t remember it being so large, with its crystal chandelier hanging from a vaulted ceiling. On this ceiling were paintings from the age of spiritual darkness, scenes of God and angels living high above them, bringing judgement upon all humanity. It seemed rather fitting for the woman with absolute symbolic power.
“Ah Colonel Macgregor, how wonderful to see you again! How is your darling wife? I’ve not seen her in months. I am so very jealous of you. Getting to see her every day.” The Queen said happily, after crossing the room and offering her hand to Macgregor.
This level of formality had always felt weird to him. It had only been 7 years ago, when he and Alexandra had hugged the new Queen tightly at their kitchen table as she sobbed for hours over the death of her parents. Realising he hadn’t moved for an awkwardly long moment, he took the tiny, white, and perfect hand in his own darker, scarred, and calloused hand. He stared into her big, dark blue eyes, so strangely like his own, and wondered if her position had started to toll.
“I remember last time you came here. You had a huge beard and fewer scars on your hands. You look much better without it.” With her free hand, she mimes stroking a beard. He was about to respond when she pulled in and whispered in his ear, “I have a duty I would love my dearest Alexandra and Elizabeth to do. Inform them my private secretary will email soon.” She beamed at her surrogate father, winking.
“Alex is well, your majesty. They are looking forward to watching your big day. And of course, the pleasure is all mine, Ma’am, as always. I preferred the beard, but Alex and army regulations agree with you, so, unfortunately, it had to go.”
Macgregor let go of the Queen’s hand, bringing it back to his side.
“As I have frequently said, I just wish the matter of our meetings was happier.” She sighed and once again leaned in against Macgregor’s ear. “If I get my way, she’ll be doing more than that. Someone needs to give me away.” Macgregor looked confused as the Queen beamed and turned away.
The Queen made her way up the line, greeting the others. Like Macgregor, Elizabeth knew something about everyone she dealt. It was something that she, although he didn’t know it, learnt from Macgregor, having watched him in Commonwealth staff meetings. And so, Elizabeth spent five minutes speaking in depth to Bartlett and Ironsides, nor they couldn’t help smile as she whispered in their ears. The Queen and the Minister then spent a few moments talking. The man was gracious about her inquiries into his great-grandchildren, and she left him smiling as well.
When the Queen reached her cousin, however, she turned back to face the window after giving him a mere distasteful look. She stopped and lent on her desk facing away from them all, taking a moment of calm. This amused Macgregor, for Thompson-LeRoy’s face looked livid for the slight against him, both personally, as her cousin, and professionally, as the highest-ranking officer. He watched as the Major-General glared a hole into her back. Macgregor openly shrugged at him, making the glare worse.
She turned around, her fingers of her left hand pinching the bridge of her nose and motioned to the chairs arranged in a semi-circle. The five men sat down, facing her. Macgregor took the chair closest to the desk, and Thompson-LeRoy took the one on the other side. The Queen leant back against her desk, legs crossed, and fingers laced together. She took a deep breath, tapping her fingers against her lips.
“I have asked you all here today because the Minister for Governmental Excellence wanted to describe to me what she calls a ‘new way of maintaining peace across the Commonwealth.’” The Queen started, resting her hands on her hips. “I believe it was prudent to rearrange the planned meeting to take place here rather than the Major-general’s office, what with your history.” She pointed her slender fingers at Thompson-LeRoy and Macgregor, in turn. “The Minister isn’t here to disclose this ‘new way’.” There was a slight pause. “Deputy Minister Koch, please explain to us how this new plan will work.”
The ancient man moved into the middle of the group. He looked tired. Nevertheless, his elderly face displayed a distinct and weaselly personality. Macgregor didn’t like him and the fact that when he spoke his voice was nasal and spineless did not help this feeling. From over one of his shoulders came a hurried whisper.
“Sir, I just realised, isn’t that the guy who counter-signed the formation documents?”
“As we know, the Queen’s Own Anti-Revolutionary Company has protected the Commonwealth for the last ten years from internal threats to federal peace, a job which they have done with amazing success, with no failures in any of their operations.” The Deputy Minister continued over the whispering of Macgregor’s staff. His voice had an annoying droning quality on top of the nasality, and Macgregor was fighting the urge to slap him.
“Not without substantial loss, however.” He jumped in during the minister’s deep breath. The unit had suffered a 50% wounded and KIA rate.
“Yes, of course, Colonel.” He said, not looking at Macgregor. “That being said, it has always been a source of great consternation to the MoGE that the QOARC is a regular Army unit, which works for the MOD. The previous Government allowed the MOD plenty of leeway, in light of the continuing Tarquin threat.” Macgregor did not like the sound of where this was going. From their fidgeting, neither did the two men to the side of him, as they stared at the MP. Thompson-LeRoy, who had shuffled into Macgregor’s eye line, was looking gleeful. He clearly already knew what was going to happen, and it made Macgregor wish he had shot him all those years ago. “However, the current Government is no longer prepared to compromise the Articles of Commonwealth in that way. As part of a discussion in Parliament held yesterday, between the Ministers for Defence, and Governmental Excellence, it was decided that control of militant actions against wayward Commonwealth governments should be given back to the sole hands of the MoGE, effective as soon as the government returns from holiday.”.
At this point, there was a small pause. The Queen coughed subtly, but distinctly, causing the Minister to jump, his fat jiggling disturbingly far, as if he had forgotten there was anyone in the room with him.
“Yes, your Majesty?”
“What does this entail?” The Queen said, attuned to the maniacal grin on Thompson-LeRoy’s face and was clearly as disturbed by it as Macgregor.
“I was getting to that, but practically, Ma’am, it means that the QOARC is to be disbanded, its soldiers returned to their original units.” He said with a note of finality. So that was the game. Macgregor’s world felt like it had been hit by a depth charge and imploded.
His ire rose as the Queen stopped leaning against her desk and moved towards him. She sat down on the floor between Macgregor and Bartlett. as she didn’t want to sit so she could see her cousin, but wanted to face the Minister. Trying not to whince as Macgregor felt her well-manicured fingernails dig into his calf, warning him not to detonate. It was too late. The broadside had landed and set off an explosion deep in one of his magazines.
“Disbanded? And be replaced with what? A bevvy of fucking upper-class civil servants who want to cosplay as soldiers? The Agents of the MoGE cannot do their fucking jobs right, let alone do mine. That’s why we bloody well exist. You lot ignored the warnings that MI5 pumped out of India about the general planning a coup for two whole years. And do not give me fucking shit about it wasn’t under our government that the coup happened. It was you and your colleagues whilst prattling about the fucking Articles of Confederation, this Federal fucking overreach that, as opposition that allowed him to attain that much support that he nearly took down a supersector. I know it was you. I looked at the intelligence report and you had signed them as shadow Minister.” Macgregor spat. His neck muscles strained against his mandarin collar and his face was red with frustration, anger, and disappointment. A full of ten years of bottled rage he felt towards politicians was releasing. “Does Chief of the Defence Staff know about, and what does he think of, this?” When he got back to Whitehall, he needed to have words with his uncle. Macgregor did not appreciate being blindsided.
“Sorry for the swearing, ma’am.” He added, in sudden sheepishness, looking down at her. The Queen may be only twenty-five, and basically family, but she was still the Queen. Swearing was a definite no-no, and so naturally, that made Macgregor more likely to do it. A smirk played on her lips as the MP took a sharp intake of breath, who couldn’t believe his ears. She just shrugged.
“That was my sentiment exactly, Colonel. Don’t worry about it. I take it this isn’t the
Government’s idea? It sounds like the scheming plotting of a newly appointed Major-General who will go nameless. Is that right Arthur?” She leaned over to glower at the man sitting almost opposite her.
“No, it isn’t. We made the final decision yesterday, but it was in the works since the 2978 election. And in answer to your question, Colonel, your uncle, has no say in this. It is a political, not a military, issue. He follows policy. He does not dictate it.” The Minister butted in, ignoring Macgregor’s outburst. As he bloviated, his prim accent slipped. This rough northern growl betrayed his more common roots.
Patrick was about to argue back. The words ‘two years’ had formed on his lips when Thompson-LeRoy cut straight across him.
“With the planned disbandment of the QOARC, the 1st MoGE heavy infantry regiment has begun recruiting, and training will start in a month. It will be two thousand men strong, with a thirty-five-strong tank detachment from the 8th armoured brigade. It will commanded by Major, should I say, Lieutenant-Colonel Roger Schmit, of the 8th Armoured Brigade staff.” He explained quickly, to not give space for an interruption.
“Isn’t that your old adjutant, Sir? The man who misplaced an entire tank regiment, twice?” Ironsides replied, finally getting a word in edge-wise, jumping in before Macgregor could, His voice loaded with disbelief. Macgregor’s brain remembered the rumours and stories circulating about 8th armoured, and their usefulness. Allegedly, they had avoided every major engagement with the Tarquin for the past 4 years, by always being out of position or requiring excessive maintenance time.
Macgregor’s arm hair stood on end, and he shivered, like someone had just walked over his grave. Did the Minister for Governmental Excellence understand what she had done? There was subtly in how the QOARC acted. Before receiving approval for arrests or assassinations, they spent most of their time gathering intelligence, uncovering rebellious agents, and removing assets. But now, instead of taking the scalpel that the nurse held out for them, the minister had pulled out a petrol-powered chainsaw to remove an ingrown hair with thought, no leg, no problem.
“Yes, yes he is, old boy, just like you’re his,” pointing at Macgregor, “pit bull.” The Queen nearly died from fake coughing. Ironsides started yipping at Thompson-LeRoy again. “But that doesn’t stop him being fully qualified for this command.”
“No, his general incompetence does that.” Either Macgregor or Ironsides said. No one was ever quite sure.
“Minister, let’s talk practicalities. When is the disbandment of the QOARC going to occur?” Bartlett returned the conversation to the point. It was a useful trait, one that Macgregor greatly appreciated. It was part of why he was a great ops officer.
“You have six months to recall everyone, then another month to RTU them. That gives Schmit enough time to finish training his regiment.”
“What will happen, Sir, not saying that it will, but what happens if a rebellion arises during this time? Who deals with it? What happens if it takes longer than six months? Are we going to be RTU’d anyway?” Bartlett continued, barraging the minister with questions. “And if that is the case, what do the Colonel and Mr Ironsides do? They don’t have any regiment, seeing as the Royal Gloucestershire was just destroyed, attacking the Tarquin, barely a month ago.”
“Yes, you will be sorting it. Up to about five months, it will be your job. If it has no resolution after six months the regiments will swap and yes, you will still be disbanded.” the Minister explained, Thompson-LeRoy smiled a horrible smile showing far too many teeth.
“Maybe they should retire. They have been doing this for too long.” Bartlett of all people, flipped him the bird.
“Thank you, Deputy Minister, for that expansion.” Bartlett continued, still sticking his middle finger up at the Major-General. “Next time, I recommend you consult the experts in a field before making policy decisions. As it may save you having your arsehole hair being burnt off by pranksters.” He put his finger down. There was a momentary pause as Bartlett’s words sunk in. The Deputy Minister went to reply, but the Queen cut him off.
“I see we have reached an impasse, but the Lieutenant-Colonel does raise a good point. Why didn’t you ask the QOARC their professional advice first, Minister?”
“Because it is a political issue, not a military one, as I said. The MoD has to do as it is told, not as it wants.” He replied, not at all confident in that reply, but sticking to it. There was a hurried walking sound from outside the office as he spoke, and the door swung open silently until it was fully open.
“What are you on about, Minister?” Came the booming voice of a man not used to being cut out of discussions, whose presence filled the doorway. “This is by definition a military issue. And as such, I should have been consulted before this meeting took place.”
The newcomer had stepped into the circle. He was the perfect likeness to Macgregor, if a little-less tired looking, and with fewer scars. However, he wore Number 2s with scarlet crossed sword and baton gorget patches, and carried a peaked cap full of gold braid under his arm. With him was also a group of six-or-so full-bird Colonels that were now milling around in the waiting area. These things marked him out not as a clone of Alastair Macgregor, but as the Chief of the Defence Staff, Field Marshal Eric Macgregor.
“Field Marshal.” stammered the Minister. “I wasn’t expecting you.” He sat back in his chair, rather than be nose to nose, metaphorically, with a man a third of his years, who was furious.
“Yes, I know you weren’t. The Minister of Defence let it slip this morning; so I made best speed to here. I apologise for the intrusion, Ma’am.” He saluted towards the Queen, before going back to shooting daggers at the Minister. “Two years you have been sitting on this policy, and at no point did you think to consult me? It isn’t not like I am the professional head of the armed forces? Are you lot fucking thick?” The younger Macgregor gasped a little. That might have been the first time he had ever heard his uncle swear, as unlike himself, Eric understood decorum. Bartlett and Ironsides looked sideways at Alastair with the same look of shock, and all three shuffled back just a few inches, trying to get away from a Macgregor on the warpath.
“It is not your decision.” Thompson-LeRoy chimed in. This caused Eric to turn on his heel to look at him, and Alastair saw him ball his fist and his arm pull back just slightly.
“Arthur, I thought I told you if I ever saw your face again, I’d have you tried by court martial for extreme misconduct and then shot?”
“That may have been the words used, yes.” Thompson-LeRoy drawled, pretending to be disinterested whilst looking at his fingernails. He didn’t look anyone directly in the eye.
“Then you would do well to shut up.” Field Marshal Macgregor’s rage was visibly worse than even Colonel Macgregor’s, but he kept it in check. His voice softened as he turned back to the other man. “Minister, the Articles of Confederation very clearly states that the MoD handles the overall armed defence of the Commonwealth, and the MoGE is involved in protecting the federal system through civil and judicial means. As such the QOARC has always had a MoGE contingent, allowing for the correct civil and judicial processes to happen as part of the arsenal at its disposal. It was my job to ensure any actions taken by Colonel Macgregor were within the articles’ limitations. We had this discussion when you were the shadow minister. You agreed with me at the time, or did you conveniently forget for votes?”
“I did no such thing. Anyway, they have already set the policy. This is not the time for discussion.”
“Well, if that’s where this meeting has got to, sirs, Ma’am, I believe I have no time to lose. Your Majesty, Uncle, permission to leave and tell my unit to get home as soon as possible?” Colonel Macgregor asked, as he jumped up from his chair. He was followed by the two other men. He elbow-bumped his uncle as Alastair mouthed ‘thank you,’ and ‘good luck’ at him. The Queen also stood up and returned to sit behind her desk.
“Yes, Dad, you may go. Do not forget about my message to Alexandra and Elizabeth. Do try to look after yourself more. Good morning, boys.” She said, with a tone of finality to the three of them. She nodded at Ironsides and Bartlett, as they stepped out of the circle.
She pointed at the Field Marshal, the General, and the Minister as they tried to leave as well, indicating they need to stay. The three men walked out of the room after Macgregor threw another hard salute. As the door slammed shut, they heard the Queen, quietly, but very definitely, lose her temper.
“Well, Old Boy, I haven’t seen the CDS in such a state for years.” One of the Colonels said, his voice grating in Macgregor’s ears. He just kept walking.
