This post was inspired by the Scholar and Scribe Christmas Invitational
It's set in the same dystopian near-future world as some of my other stories. Enjoy !
Image created by AI in NightCafe Studio
"Unknown contact ! Bearing south-southeast, range 2000 kilometres, altitude 12,000 metres. Bloody hell, it's moving at Mach 3.5 !"
Sergeant Spiller tried to stay professional, but failed when he saw the velocity the contact was moving at. His voice betrayed a mix of excitement and slight panic.
Captain Adams, the duty officer and his supervisor tutted slightly. "Now, now sergeant, no need to get carried away. Let's stay calm, and start by checking it's not a glitch. You know the budget doesn't allow us as much maintenance time as we'd like"
After spending a couple of minutes checking his instruments, Spiller responded. "It's no glitch, sir. The equipment checks out fine. Menwith Hill just confirmed they're seeing it as well."
"Very well. It's a single contact, let's scramble some interceptors and get a look at it."
A few minutes later, two Raven FD Mk.3 drone fighters roared up the runway at PRAF Lossiemouth, turbines whining at full power as they flung themselves into the sky at an acceleration no human pilot could have withstood. Within seconds they'd disappeared into the black night sky, leaving behind nothing but a pair of sonic booms as they broke the sound barrier.
At Lossiemouth Control, they had Fylingdales on open datalink.
"This is Lossiemouth, interceptors should converge in around eighteen minutes. I take it we've checked with the Poles and Chinese that it's not one of their routine threat simulation flights ?"
"Roger that, not the Poles or Chinese, and even the French came up and voluntarily confirmed it wasn't one of theirs. Could be Russian or even a rogue launch from Alaska Free State."
"No problem. Interceptors have been programmed to challenge it and if there's no response and it doesn't turn away will assume it's hostile and proceed accordingly."
The flight controller's voice was professional, but Captain Adams could tell even through the datalink that he relished the idea of his drones taking out something that could be accused of being hostile.
"Convergence in fifteen minutes." Spiller had returned to his usual calm demeanour.
Then...
"Sir... it's not ... I... the contact has accelerated to Mach 10. It's blown straight past the interceptors. We've lost them, they're down... some kind of interference, a rapidly repeating high-pitched polyphonic tone of some kind. They're heading straight for us !"
He was anything but calm. Over the datalink, the Lossiemouth controller could be heard shouting a stream of profanities, his tone a mix of frustration and panic as he ordered every interceptor to emergency scramble. No-one in the nearby town was going to get much sleep tonight as drones and manned fighters alike screamed skyward.
"Dammit Spiller, where's it headed ? How long have we got until impact ?"
"On a ballistic course, sir. We can't intercept in time. It'll hit London within six minutes."
"Shit. I'm going to have to wake the Party Chairman. Keep me updated as soon as you know more precisely where it'll hit."
"Roger that, Sir. It looks like it's going to be somewhere in Croydon."
Image created by AI in NightCafe Studio
Lieutenant Amjad of the People's Civil Defence Strike Force sat by the rear door of his armoured carrier as it raced through the darkened streets of Croydon. He got a thrill from the sound of the siren, and an even bigger one from knowing it was waking up all the lazy doles and ruining their night's sleep.
Of course, he wasn't actually in control of the carrier. It was a self-driving vehicle, a Fairfax-CD 6-wheeled machine with powerful electric motors driving each wheel independently. His squad of ten men were pedalling hard in the cabin around him. Not to propel the machine, just to keep the batteries topped up to extend it's range.
Amjad still didn't know exactly what was going on, but he knew he was the man in charge, so it's not as if he could ask and look like a fool in front of his men.
To avoid this ignominy, he pressed his wristchip with the code needed to initiate a private screen. It appeared like a flat shadow anchored to his lower arm. He waved his hand across it to select headquarters, then typed a single word. "Briefing ?"
A minute or two later, a buzz inside his wrist told him he'd received a response. "Hostile impact, Central Croydon. No detonation detected, suspect air assault. Investigate and liquidate."
He nodded to himself grimly. Handle this right, and he'd be up for a promotion. It was the least he deserved for working on the night of Praesidium Day, or "Prezzie Day" as his children insisted on calling it.
The transport screeched to a halt outside the Whitgift Communal Residence. A low-lying tatty block in the middle of town. The faded sign on the outside read "Whitgift Shopping Centre", but it hadn't been that since before the Revolution.
Amjad and his men piled out of the transport, visors down, guns up and ready. As they headed into the rubbish-strewn central plaza, they heard noises. Strange noises.
Rounding the corner, they saw a strange sight. The noises were some kind of large beast. A whole bunch of them, hooves stamping viciously on the floor. Fearsome looking things with steaming brown fur and great horns on their heads. Terrifying. The lead one was a thing of nightmare, with a bright red light like a laser beam sweeping back and forth from the front of it's face.
Behind the monstrous beasts was a contraption of some kind, like a tachanka but with skis instead of wheels.
Within it was another terrifying sight. A huge man dressed all in red, with a booming great voice, laughing manically as he hurled golden boxes at a crowd of local doles. The doles had idiot grins on their faces, but that was to be expected from the underclass of those left permanently unemployed by the advance of AI work units.
Amjad drew himself up to his full five foot seven and fired a shot in the air to attract attention.
The noise boomed around the open square, echoing off concrete walls. Everyone went silent.
"Whoever you are, you are under arrest !" shouted Amjad at the red-clad intruder.
"You are in breach of the Livestock Removal Regulations of 2029, the Public Order Act of 2035 banning unsanctioned gatherings of more than five people, the Air Flight Plan submission rules, of giving free produce to doles outside the State Benefits system and without checking their Social Credit eligibility, and on suspicion of being a Polish spy. Come quietly right now or we will shoot !"
The crowd of doles murmured with barely-suppressed anger and discontent, but the CDF troopers waved guns in their direction to make sure they didn't start trouble.
The big man turned ponderously, revealing a face almost invisible between a huge bushy white beard and a fur-lined cap.
"Faisal Amjad, have you been naughty, or have you been nice ?" he growled.
Amjad didn't have time for this nonsense. He raised his gun to fire.
Suddenly there was a harsh, high-pitched screaming all around him, joined seconds later by shouts and screaming from his men.
He felt an excruciating sharp pain behind his left knee, and his leg gave way beneath him.
As he fell, he was jumped on by a horde of small green-clad creatures, all screaming manically at him. They were the size of children, but had wizened pale faces and pointed ears. They were armed with a strange mix of what looked like large needles, scissors and garottes made of red ribbon. One was laughing hysterically and waving a Stanley knife, it's blade covered in blood. His blood.
Amjad found himself pinned down by the small creatures, three of them sitting on his chest, making it impossible for him to move.
The crimson robed man loomed over him. There was no humour in his face.
"You've taken Christmas from these people. Made them forget about it's very existence. I'm giving it back to them. Worst of all, you forgot about me, Saint Nicholas. Father Christmas. Santa Claus. I have many names. But what you forgot above all else is that my role is more than just giving out gifts. I am also a judge."
He glared down at Amjad with a ferocious glint in his eye. There was no mercy there.
"I asked you if you've been naughty or if you've been nice. Nice children get presents. Naughty ones get coal. But you've gone beyond naughty. You are the worst."
Amjad squirmed beneath the mass of elves, struggling to get free but without success.
"I'm not giving you a gift of coal. I'm giving you the gift of lead."
And with that, Santa Claus pulled a comically massive Magnum revolver from under his robe and blew Amjad's head clean off as the elves and doles alike cheered.