Chapter 1: Bedford

Responding to its ring, Richard fished his vid-phone out of his pocket. "Hello Terry," he said, recognising the face in front of him, "what can I do for you today?"

"I have a problem that needs solving, Richard, and you're the one I need to help me solve it."

"That's what we're here for in Her Majesty's Forces Media Relations, helping the media with their problems. Captain Richard Moretti at your service."

"Bullshit, Richard. We both know you're just here to cut out all the interesting bits."

"Loose talk costs lives, you know that, Terry. Can't have the Swarm listening in to all our secrets now, can we."

"Yeah, I know it but I don't have to like it. We don't even know if they can understand what we're saying." The two of them had been over this ground between themselves many times before. By now it was not so much an argument as a way to re-establish their relationship.

Terry paused before continuing, "Anyway, I'm sorry for this Richard. My boss dumped it on me and now I'm going to dump it on you. To quote her verbatim, 'You've shown things that go bang. You've shown the soldiers that make them go bang. What I want is something different.' The boss wants something different."

"How about trained captive Sa'arm units dancing the Can-Can?"

"That would certainly be different, Richard, but a little difficult to organise I suspect. I've thought about it and I have the outline of an idea, but I don't have enough details to fill it in. I need you to supply the missing parts."

"OK Terry, give me the outline and we'll see."

"Right. So far we've shown what happens before the fight, and a bit of what happens during."

"All those bangs, right?"

"Got it in one, Richard. All we've shown up to now has been leading up to the sharp end. What I want to do is to show what happens afterwards. Not dead bodies, of course." Terry knew that pictures of soldiers' corpses would never get past the censors. "I want to show how well we can repair and rehabilitate our wounded. The audience isn't stupid, they know we're taking casualties. If we can show them that we can repair even serious casualties, then that should boost morale."

Richard replied, "I'll have to think about it, and check with our medical people to see what we have that would fit the bill. We might need to involve the Confederacy as well. Some of the medical technology we're using really belongs to them. We just have it on loan."

"Yeah, I'd pretty much sussed that. When someone grows a whole new arm, then it has to involve some piece of Confederacy kit."

"Good point, Terry. Can I get back to you in a couple of days? By then I should have something for you, and we can set up a date to meet. All under the usual terms and conditions of course."

"Of course. Just please don't cut out too many of the good bits."

Richard laughed. "I'll make sure to bring my blunt scissors. One last thing before you ring off, Terry. Do you mind if I ask where this idea of yours sprang from?"

Terry checked himself in the bathroom mirror. Not too bad for someone approaching forty. Blue eyes and very light brown hair, not quite pale enough for blond. No grey yet, though that was just a matter of time. Average height, but he was beginning to put on a bit of weight. He couldn't keep on like he had when he was younger. Back then he'd stayed thin, no matter how much he ate or drank. These days his metabolism was slowing down. In future he would need to take more care. A ring on the doorbell cut short his contemplation of a future of salad and low-cal beer.

He opened the door to his flat to see Monica, his neighbour from across the hall, standing there with a letter in her hand. One of those letters. The ones that read, "Dear Mrs Rickards, We regret to inform you..." He could see that she'd been crying.

"Come in Monica, do you want some tea, or perhaps something stronger?"

"Stronger, definitely. Gin please, if you have any."

He led her into the kitchen, and dug into a cupboard while she sat down. She placed the letter on the table in front of her, still unopened.

"No Gin, only Vodka I'm afraid," he told her. He might have had Gin before his divorce, since his former wife liked it. Five good years and two bad was enough of marriage for him. At least there weren't any children to complicate things when they separated.

"Vodka's fine thanks, Terry."

He handed her a well filled glass, and glanced at the envelope lying on the table. He'd seen others like it before. When the British Army had joined the African Union Assistance Force, fighting the Swarm after their first landing near Lake Victoria, these letters had started to appear. The first few had been newsworthy. Nowadays the fighting was a lot closer than Africa, and the letters were far too common to make much of a news impact any more. The impact on the families was still as devastating as it had always been, of course.

"Terry," Monica asked, indicating the unopened letter, "you've seen some of these before. Is he dead? I'm afraid to open it."

He examined the letter. There was a red coloured flash in the corner of the envelope. Red meant that her husband, Pete, was wounded, probably seriously, but was alive. "He's not dead, Monica. Wounded, maybe badly wounded, but he'll be alive. You can open it."

She quickly downed the rest of her Vodka and tore open the envelope. "He's alive, but I don't understand all this medical jargon. What does it mean, Terry?"

Terry took the letter as she passed it to him. Why couldn't the bureaucrats in the Ministry of Defence send out letters in plain English? "I'm not completely sure, Monica, but it looks like Pete's lost both legs and one arm." She broke down in tears as he refilled her glass. "They'll have him back home in a few weeks."

Corporal Peter Rickards had indeed lost most of his right leg, his lower left leg and much of his right arm. Luckily the lift that served the block of flats was big enough for his motorised wheelchair. The flat itself was all on one level, which simplified things. The only work needed was to rearrange the bathroom, and the Army paid for that. The military budget was flush with money. With the Swarm steadily advancing across mainland Europe, it wasn't as if long-term economic planning was a high priority.

Pete wasn't given an immediate discharge from the Army, which puzzled Terry. There were a few Confederacy medical tubes around the UK, but not many. Understandably so, given the attitude of the former Earth First government towards anything related to the Confederacy. By the time the government had changed, the Confederacy was getting wary about leaving too much advanced technology on Earth for the Swarm to find. The result was that there was a very long waiting list to get into the few facilities available. From what Terry had seen in his media work, those treated were mostly experienced sergeants and senior officers. A corporal wouldn't normally have had a high enough priority. As far as he could tell, Pete should have been medically discharged on a pension, not held in the Army for later repair.

Repair was what happened though. Pete got orders to report to Camp Mercury, up near Catterick, and returned two months later with all four limbs intact. Monica was glad for a time, until she realised that it just meant he would be going back into the front line at some point. Pete was initially assigned to training new conscripts, but they both knew that wouldn't last forever.

One comment that Pete made on his return did tickle Terry's journalistic antennae. Some of his fellow patients at the hospital had been veterans of Afghanistan, and had been long retired from the Army before being recalled, repaired and rejuvenated. That felt like it could be a story.

Terry pulled up by the gatehouse and lowered the driver's window to talk to the guard on duty. "Terry Goddard of STZ Media. I have an appointment with Captain Moretti." He handed over his ID card.

The guard scanned his ID and handed it back. "That's fine, sir. Reception is expecting you. Straight ahead and park on the left, sir. Then through the main doors and the desk is in front of you."

Terry knew his way of course, but the guards always gave him the instructions anyway. He wouldn't be surprised if Richard got exactly the same speech when he arrived for work every day. The military could be very insistent on routine.

With his ID checked again at Reception and his temporary visitor's pass issued, Terry finally arrived at Richard's office.

"Hello Terry. Tea or coffee?" Richard greeted him.

"Tea please. Black, no sugar." Terry was trying to cut back on his sugar intake.

Richard nodded to the private who had shown Terry in, who duly disappeared to brew the required mug full.

Terry observed Richard sitting behind his desk in his Army Captain's uniform. He was in his late fifties, overweight and balding. Definitely not a front line soldier. However, he was very good at his job of keeping the media entertained, while making sure they didn't show the stuff they shouldn't. Neither of them actually used the word 'censor', but they were both aware that part of Richard's job was precisely that.

"Right, Terry. I've arranged for you to visit Camp Mercury for a week to film your report", Richard informed him. "You mentioned it in the story of your neighbour, so I thought you might as well work from there. You can take one cameraman, and I'll loan you a liaison officer for the week to help smooth your way though military protocol. The Army can get just a little bureaucratic at times, you know."

Terry smiled and nodded to acknowledge Richard's joke. What Richard hadn't mentioned, of course, was that the liaison officer would also be closely controlling what Terry would, and would not, be allowed to see and film. "Who have you picked for the liaison person, Richard?"

"You may know her, and you've definitely heard of her, Sally Erlam. She's a Second Lieutenant now."

"Yes, I know Sally," Terry confirmed. "I ran into her at the odd media bash before she resigned, so we've talked once or twice." Sally had worked as an on-screen face for the BBC. Terry was aware of her work, and had met her briefly a few times. A year ago she'd resigned and joined the Army. He'd seen her working as a Forces spokesperson at Press Conferences since then. Putting her in the Media Relations Unit was a good idea; she already knew the job well from the other side. He had seen enough of her to know that she was not just a stereotypical blonde bimbo. She was hard-working and had a very good brain as well.

"That's good," Richard said. "How long do you need to prepare before you start filming?"

"There's a bit of research to do first. I'll need three or four weeks before I'm ready."

Richard typed something into his computer. "I've booked you in for four weeks ahead. Do you want to stay in Army accommodation, or will you arrange your own?"

"I'll arrange my own, thanks, Richard. I assume that Sally will be staying in the barracks?"

"Yes, no need to trouble yourself about that."

As soon as he returned to his car, Terry phoned the office to start the ball rolling. There were four weeks to organise all the background research, and he wanted everything properly prepared before he went north.

It was a long drive up to Camp Mercury, so Terry made an early start on Sunday, picking up Vince at the crack of dawn. He'd cashed in a few favours to get him assigned to this report. Vince Cook was one of the company's best cameramen for this sort of work. Completely professional, he had the knack of fading into the background so he didn't distract the subjects. With only a week to do the bulk of the filming, Terry didn't want to waste time doing retakes because the interviewees didn't have their minds on answering the questions.

The downside of Vince's ability to fade into the background was that he didn't make the most exciting travelling companion, so most of the journey passed in silence. They shared the driving so, while Vince was taking his turn at the wheel, Terry had time to think about how this programme was going to pan out.

At first the research had gone smoothly. They had Monica and Pete Rickards for starters and had quickly found a few other wounded and repaired veterans. There were enough interviews in the can already for the post-hospital part of the programme. There was even one Afghanistan veteran interviewed, though she had been a bit wary of talking too much, so her piece wasn't ideal. Maybe they would be able to find a better subject at the hospital?

Further research had begun to turn up a few mysteries. Wounded soldiers weren't making the national media any more, but they did make local media. Terry had his researchers tracking local papers and websites, looking for possible interviewees. Far too many of them were going missing. There was a record of Private Atkins being wounded, but no further trace of the man himself, or of his family. His wife and children had disappeared along with the private himself. No forwarding address, nothing.

The researchers had traced a few of the missing, often transferred to a new posting by the Army, but there was a residue of between a third and a half of the cases that couldn't be found at all. Any mystery like that was a potential programme. And, if Terry's suspicion about what was happening was right, it would be big.

In his head, Terry was planning two possible programs. The first was just a standard report on wounded, and veterans, being cured to help the Army fight the Swarm. A perfectly usable report, but not really anything exciting. The second program could be a real splash. What was happening to those missing wounded, and their families? There was obviously Confederacy involvement in the medical side, so was this mystery also Confederacy related? Normally, if a man disappeared, together with his wife and children, then the obvious assumption was that the Confederacy had extracted them all. The mystery was that these men were military, and the Confederacy had agreed, right from the start, not to extract serving soldiers. Was this a sign of a significant policy change? The disappearances certainly had the look of Confederacy extractions, and at least one of the missing wives was in the concubine pool at one of their moon bases. The Confederacy had notified her sister, and she in turn told the researchers.

Was the Confederacy changing its policy and extracting serving members of the military? If true that would be something really big. Just as the Swarm get close to Britain, the Confederacy start taking away soldiers. Exactly the sort of big splash to make a reporter's name. However, if his suspicions were true, then Terry knew that it wouldn't be easy to get anyone to confirm them. He wasn't even sure if any Confederacy people would be around to talk on camera at all. From what Pete had told him, the staff at the hospital were all British Army, not Confederacy.

They arrived at their hotel in good time to get settled in for the evening. Sally had arranged to meet them in the lobby tomorrow morning, when they would start work on the programme. Terry still didn't know which programme it would be, the routine report or the big splash.

When they came down in the lift on Monday morning, Sally was waiting in the hotel lobby, wearing her Second Lieutenant's uniform. Terry introduced her to Vince, and commented, "You've had you hair cut shorter, Sally." When she was working with the BBC she had kept her blonde hair about shoulder length. Today she had it in a shorter, almost boyish, cut.

"Yes," she explained. "I wanted to change my look, so people didn't just think of me as that on-screen bimbo. One of the reasons I resigned from the Beeb was that too many of the guys were hitting on me, wanting to take me as their concubine. No problem with that in the Army, as I'm not eligible any more."

"Though with a hairstyle like that, you might get the girls hitting on you instead," Terry joked.

Sally raised an eyebrow, "And why would that be a problem?"

"Ah..." Terry paused, slightly embarrassed. "So the rumours were true then?"

"Some of them," Sally confirmed. "If they'd all been true then I'd have finished off the girls in the BBC and the Army and be working my way through the Air Force by now."

Curious, Terry asked, "Not the Navy?"

"Half the women in the Navy are out at sea. Too difficult to get to them," Sally answered with a smile.

Seeing that Vince was beginning to look a little impatient, Terry suggested a move to the hotel car park.

"Easier to use my car," Sally advised. "Yours will need fingerprinting and a retina scan before they'll let it in. It'll save time to use mine."

As she drove, Sally explained the arrangements at Camp Mercury. "There's a full Army base there, as well as the hospital. The hospital itself comes in three parts: A, B and C. A is the admin block, B is Bedford wing and C is Cavor wing." Terry already knew the general layout from having talked to Pete, his next door neighbour. He was glad that Sally hadn't kept anything back from him. She continued, "You'll mostly be seeing the admin and medical people and a cross-section of the patients in Bedford. Richard said you might want to include a few of the repaired veterans, as well as the more recent casualties."

"If we can, Sally," Terry responded.

"You can certainly see them, but we'd appreciate it if you would play down that aspect of it. We don't want hundreds of ex-servicemen banging on our doors for a simple rejuvenation. Make it clear that these guys have all lost at least one limb as the price of treatment."

"Sure, Sally. I can see a free rejuvenation being very popular if we don't tell them about the cost. You have done it for some people though. I don't remember General Tavener having lost a limb, and he's young again now."

"We do rejuvenate a few who have particular skills we need. General Tavener is an absolute magician with logistics, so we wanted him back in uniform. We're trying to give people the impression that he's his own son. Difficult, without actually lying, but it helps that his father was a general as well -- easier to let people make an incorrect assumption. Anyway, you won't be seeing any cases like that here, as you'll find out.