Police idled onscreen in a grid of lagging webcams, sharing the sense that doing the job would be better than discussing it. Morgan, the meeting’s host, was of the old guard - a superintendent who hadn’t been parachuted in from the corporate world. But since old policing had been spreadsheeted to death, he evolved to survive the new order, ruling with slideshows, charts, and managerialism.
And so, despite calling an emergency briefing, he made everyone wait for his arrival.
Luis sat in his office, fuming over the terrorists for taking his kill. But then he saw Gemma log in. Late. Most out of character. She appeared panicked and dishevelled, and it gave her away. Floozy Scarlett - with her unholy union of good looks and personality disorder - must have been tribbing Gemma senseless when Morgan called. The thought of his partner fumbling to log in made Luis smirk behind his hand. Her face became mortified. She knew he knew. He spluttered a laugh through his breath and checked he was on mute.
Morgan logged in, spent a minute fighting his microphone, and began.
“Thank you for being here on short notice. I’ve just got back from a COBRA about the recent hostilities. Whilst the President didn’t declare a state of emergency, we're essentially acting behind the media’s back as if he did. The Met have been approved some state funding while our shareholders remain jittery. And the Home Secretary is petitioning Buckingham to relax the arms prohibition for the rest of the year, if nothing else.”
The attendees eased. If the revolution marched on Westminster, they would be guaranteed a meat grinder. A blind eye from China could put enough firepower in their hands to scare the invaders off.
“However, the Secretary wants us applying more pressure on O-V,” Morgan paused, apparently bracing himself, “…given their recent activity in our jurisdiction, I have nominated our station to lead.”
O-V. The Blacks. The cases that got police officers beheaded and skinned. The attendees went stiff. Morgan had to check his internet hadn’t cut him off. He pushed on with his rehearsed excuse.
“These terrorists have been given free reign long enough. We’re fighting on too many fronts and a rattled public swings to those projecting the most power. We need a victory in the headlines, fast. I want detectives on counter-terrorism starting now, and I want to see tangible steps taken by tomorrow. Questions?”
“Schulz here,” Luis seized the opportunity before anyone else could, speaking up before Morgan had finished.
“Assistant Detective… did I not send you home earlier?”
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“I’ll be requesting ownership of the vagrant executions. They were my call and if we’d dealt with it properly this could have been avoided. Let me be the one to close it off.”
“Alright. Put something together and we’ll take a look tomorrow, but be aware the identified individual is to be left alone until MoI are done with him.”
“The identified individual?”
Gemma's eyes narrowed at her partner's flub. Half of the attendees laughed. Morgan joined them.
“Schulz!? You’re supposed to have the sharpest eye in the station. Watch the video again, you’ll find our first lead.”
He ended the meeting. The grid of colleagues fragmented away. Luis swiped his screen clear and loaded the video of the massacred vagrants.
Sure enough, there he was. A brief second in the camera’s frame. A sick smile as a line of writhing victims belched flames. The Vedic spy in the vagrants midst.
And now the police had his profile.
Luis pushed his chair from the desk, sprawled backwards, and blew through his mouth.
“Fucking serves you right.”
The execution's video spread globally. Opus Veda, with their potent symbols and their arrogant way of sauntering through chaos, were easily romanticised in distant, developed nations. Their newest lesson - entitled simply ‘don’t traffic children’ - scaled the trending list and took everything else out piecemeal, dethroning the swimmer devoured by sharks, and the teenager maimed by the Caliphate for masturbating. At last General Byron fell; his triumphant speech snuffed out as the public hid indoors. The terrorist’s human face caused them even more fear than the masks. It made Opus Veda more real. Harder to deny. And if Opus Veda placed spies amongst the lowest of society, where else did they have them?
Revolution Britannia decided against responding. They and the Republic dodged hostility as both watched over their shoulder. Captain Varma paced around Kensington Palace with nothing to do. The image of his predecessor, quartered over a club turntable hand in hand with London's mayor, would not leave him alone.
He paced into the cupola room, now encrusted with monitors and server racks, and searched the camera feeds for reassurance. His company barely filled the hundreds of rooms they would need to defend. Most quarters remained powerless and decrepit; overrun with mould and pests. The priority remained the palace exterior, where his few sappers continued to brave the dark, barricading the entrances from attack.
Or escape. He cursed himself for thinking it and returned to his royal apartment, surveying Hyde Park park from the window. It was vast and black. Full of hiding places. An army of terrorists could be standing in it, waving at him from open fields, and still be invisible.
He whipped the curtains shut.
Kasia ran back to Imany’s, feeling a Black path of revenge closing in - she who meddled with their vagrant prey, but not well enough. Would they let her off for trying, or kill her for failing? And now Sermon had confirmed her meeting with the Revolution. It was on, and too late to back out. She made it indoors heavily out of breath. Imany watched her from the wicker chair with a cautionary glare.
She lay on the ground beside Eva and tried to join her in sleep, telling herself she was insignificant. She had to be safe.