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That was meant to be a segment longer but I have a headache so fuck it.
Happy PoW-a-Palooza to one and all.
Happy PoW-a-Palooza to one and all.
Whitehall, London
Fraser Campbell slept soundly in his Downing Street bed with his wife beside him. Joyce had crept home a little past midnight. The thoughts had gnawed at the Prime Minister the whole evening and he’d afforded himself an early night to keep them at bay. It was three o’clock in the morning and for the second time in as many weeks the shrill ring of a phone interrupted the Prime Minister’s sleep. A groan left Fraser’s throat and his eyes opened slowly as he lifted himself from his bed and reached for the phone. It was Hobbs. At this time of night it was only ever going to be Hobbs. If the Director of Communications was calling in the dead of the night it meant one thing and one thing only: bad news. The last thing Fraser Campbell needed was more bad news.
Campbell’s gruff voice slunk down the receiver. “What do you want? It’s late.”
The response from the other side of the phone elicited a heavy sigh and one of Fraser’s chubby hands reached for the bridge of his nose.
“How many are dead?”
It was South Africa. That mess that the Palace had insisted upon dragging Britain into had caused Fraser headache after headache. Tonight’s headache sounded particularly gruesome. A platoon had stumbled upon some murdered British ex-pats in Cape Town. They’d been trussed up like animals, hung from the ceiling of a shack, with some warning smeared beside them. On the end of the line Hobbs hesitated to recount the dead and Fraser’s temper wore thin.
“How many, Hobbs?”
Nineteen. Six in the first shack, four more in the next, and then nine crammed into the last one. It was too many to ignore and definitely too many to sweep under the carpet. It would need a response. Beside him Joyce stirred from her sleep by her husband’s conversation.
“What’s wrong?”
She was beautiful, even in the dead of the night, though Fraser could barely look at her knowing where he’d been earlier in the night. He placed a comforting hand on her side and smiled at his wife curtly as he directed his mouth away from the receiver of the phone.
“Go back to sleep, Joyce.”
Hobbs continued to regale Fraser with the details and the Prime Minister lifted the phone from the bedside table. He pulled on a robe and sat in an armchair on the opposite side of the room with the phone resting on his lap.
“This is the last thing we fucking need,” Fraser sighed. “Fine, call round the cabinet and tell them I’ll be holding an emergency meeting in the Cabinet Office in the morning. I expect all of them there and I expect them all there on time. Now that whole business with Oldfield is behind us this week is to be about the passage of the Repatriation Bill and nothing else. So we need to nip this mess in Cape Town in the bud before it’s even started.”
The Prime Minister’s Director of Communications mumbled in agreement on the other side of the phone. Without his glasses Fraser couldn’t make out the hands on the clock face on the wall beside him and squinted hard at them. Slowly the blurred clock face came into focus and Fraser realised it was half three. He stood up from the armchair and took one last glance at his wife before he muttered down the phone.
“Meet me in an hour in my office.”
It had been one thing after another this past month. Oldfield, Clarke, that mess with Hewitt and the Police Commissioner, and now he had this situation in South Africa to contend with. Fraser’s grip on power was tenuous enough, it would be even more so if he couldn’t pass the Voluntary Repatriations Bill tomorrow afternoon, and Moore would no doubt make the most of British ex-pats being murdered on Fraser’s watch. As much as he was ashamed to admit it facing Moore this morning worried him the most of all. Moore had cuckolded him his entire life in every way but one and now Fraser’s humiliation was complete. Moore had taken that which Campbell loved the most. It would take all the Prime Minister had to look him in his smug face tomorrow morning.
But he would. He would look them all in the face, all those that had doubted him to this point, and continue to prove them wrong. He’d lead the country to a better future or die trying.
Or it would have all been for nothing.
Guildford, Surrey
Fraser Campbell’s voice sounded in the living room of Dominic Hewitt’s childhood home. Hewitt had come back to Guildford for a few days to visit his parents now that he had some time on his hands. He didn’t come home often, in large part because of his father, but his mother had been asking after him for so long it felt rude to put his visit off for much longer. With Hewitt losing his job at Downing Street his mother was particularly concerned about him. Everyone seemed concerned about him. He’d studied his entire life to make it to Downing Street and now all of that was gone. He couldn’t blame them for being concerned. Though having been at the heart of government and see it for the viper’s nest that it was the former Press Officer felt relieved at having made it out. Hobbs would have eaten him alive eventually – better that it happened when he was young and could still make something of himself than when he was past it. That’s what he’d been telling himself since Campbell had let him go. He’d told himself it so much he’d almost started to believe it.
There had been a slew of murders in Cape Town. The Prime Minister had announced that he’d be sending more ground troops to South Africa. It was a good call, one Hewitt would have argued for in Downing Street, and it would put the matter to bed for a time. Only for a time though. South Africa was a ticking time bomb. Britain needed to win and win decisively or people were going to turn against the campaign.
“What’s wrong, Dominic?”
From behind him Hewitt noticed his mother stood at the kitchen counter looking at him with a sympathetic smile. Diane Hewitt was a curvaceous woman in her late fifties with blonde hair that was rapidly greying over the past few years. She was Dominic’s rock in hard times. She’d notice the frown on her son’s face before he’d even realised it was there.
“Nothing’s wrong, mother, I guess it just hasn’t really sunk in yet that… that I’m on the outside looking in. You know? This time last week I would have been in the room drafting the PM’s statement and now I’m watching it on the television like everyone else. I’m a nobody all over again.”
Diane shook her head at her son’s pessimism. “You are not a nobody, Dominic.”
The grating laugh of Nigel Hewitt sounded from beside Dominic. Nigel was a heavy man with a full head of blonde-grey hair and a craggy face. There was an uncanny resemblance between Dominic in his father that people often remarked upon. Had his father not let himself go in his twilight years they would have been hard to tell apart if not for the wrinkles. Like Dominic he was always incredibly well turned out. He was wearing a light blue jumper with a white shirt underneath, some chinos, and a pair of light brown brogues. In his hand was a glass of brandy that he sipped at from time to time. Nigel was a very different kind of rock to his son. In fact, he was his son’s rock and his hard place at times. The past few days had proved to be one of those times.
“Stop molly-coddling the child. He very much is a bloody nobody, Diane. Hundreds of thousands of pounds pissed down the drain all because someone decided to play the big shot whilst his boss was out.”
Diane sighed at her husband’s unpleasantness. “Please, Nigel, there’s no need for that.”
The whole family had endured Nigel Hewitt’s complete lack of regard for their feelings for decades. Four decades working for British Petroleum had made the once soft-spoken and gentle Nigel into an unforgiving man. Hewitt wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his father smile. He’d long since become used to his father’s antics.
“It’s fine, mother.”
“See?” Nigel said as he took a sip of brandy. “You heard the child.”
Diane Hewitt shook her head once more and disappeared into the kitchen. Once Nigel was certain she was out of earshot he leant in closer to his son. Dominic could smell the brandy on his father’s breath as his lips parted.
“At least you’re not thin-skinned, boy, I’ll give you that. You’re going to need a tough hide on you if you’re going to make it after that cock-up of yours, I’ll tell you that much for free. I’ll be damned if the Hewitt name is going to be pissed down the river because of you. You know, generations ago the Hewitts were revered. The Troubles damn near ruined us, ruined everything the Hewitts worked at for generations, and through sweat and blood I managed to claw back every inch of respect we were owed. Your father did that, boy, your father made this family great again. Never forget that.”
There was some truth to his father’s tale. Once upon a time the Hewitts had been as close to royalty as one could be without actually being royalty in Britain. If his late grandfather was to be believed they had been royalty once. The Troubles hadn’t “ruined” the family though. The family fortune had reduced from the hundreds of millions to the tens of millions. That’s what passed for ruin in Nigel Hewitt’s book. British Petroleum had gone from strength to strength over the past few decades. North Sea oil and expansion into Africa and the Middle East had saw to that. Yet still Nigel Hewitt took every opportunity to remind his son he single-handedly saved the Hewitt name.
This one time Dominic refused to humour his father and instead smiled wryly at him. “How could I? You tell the same story every time I see you.”
His father’s face turned purple with rage.
“You don’t take that tone with me, you ungrateful little sh-”
Before the words had left his mouth Diane Hewitt appeared from within the kitchen. She snatched the remote from the arm of Nigel Hewitt’s armchair and took the glass of brandy from between his fingers. On her soft round face sat a deep frown.
“It’s been one day and already the pair of you are arguing. I will not have it, not from either of you, especially not after the year this family has had. You’re going to have to learn to peacefully coexist. Do you hear me?”
Dominic nodded in his mother’s direction. Nigel sat deadly still and stared at his wife in silence. After several seconds he extended his hand towards his wife and spoke in a voice that was as menacing as it was gentle.
“The remote, Diane.”
Diane Hewitt handed the remote over to her husband without a word and disappeared off into the house without another word. Nigel pointed the remote at the television and turned the volume up a few bars. Once he was satisfied he set the remote back down on the side of the armchair and sat back into his seat.
After several seconds he looked to his son with a smirk. “Look on the bright side, boy, you won’t have to see that quisling bastard’s face every morning anymore.”
“Fraser was always nice to me,” Hewitt muttered as he spotted the pale man passing a Downing Street windows. “Hobbs was the problem.”
Chelmsley Wood, Birmingham
Opposite from Honor Clarke an elderly man with thinning white hair slurped from a cup of tea. Iain Blaney was the closest thing that Honor had to a father figure since losing contact with her father other a decade ago. Blaney had nurtured Honor will to learn, her desire for change, and moulded her into the firebrand she had become. Blaney had once been the Director of The Putney Society at which Honor now worked. The Society argued for greater legal and political representation for ordinary people and making the legal system and the trappings of government more transparent. It had over the years transformed into an anti-war pressure group that nibbled at the fringes of republicanism. Never was its support for a republic stated outright or the group would have long since been shut down and those arrested. Yet with Clarke at the forefront of its work it had come closer than ever before. It was something that concerned Blaney but Clarke had assured him she knew what she was doing. Honor always knew what she was doing.
The old man peered up from his tea at the television in the corner of the café. The Prime Minister was on screen and on the ticker at the bottom there were details about the attack in South Africa that Blaney’s old eyes could not make out. Clarke looked over her shoulder at the screen and scowled.
“How many dead this time?”
Honor squinted towards the screen to make out the numbers. “Nineteen.”
Blaney sighed.
“This is what happens. We told them at the time that they would regret invading South Africa, that there would be trouble, but did they listen? No, they did not. The King wanted his Empire back and Campbell rolled over for him and let him scratch his stomach. Now we’re all less safe as a result.”
Honor glanced around at the café’s other patrons and then towards Iain. “You should be careful with that kind of talk.”
A shocked look appeared on the old man’s face. “Careful? Who are you and what have you done with Honor Clarke? I didn’t realise that mess with your flat had shaken you so much.”
“It’s not that. Conrad and I aren’t on good terms at the moment.”
Conrad Murray had been another of Blaney’s endless protégés. He wasn’t quite the intellect that Clarke was but there was something to him. Blaney had been disappointed when he’d chosen to pursue teaching instead of following in Iain and Honor footsteps. Though Honor was a once in a lifetime orator and as good a polemicist as Blaney had ever met – she was still coloured. That wasn’t an issue for the old man, far from it, but it did make it somewhat harder to change people’s minds. Oftentimes they would harden at the very sight of Clarke. Murray could have been The Putney Society’s acceptable face. Instead he opted to become an irrelevancy.
To that end Blaney had little nice to say of the boy and shrugged his shoulders casually by way of an answer. “I’m sure he’ll come round.”
“How are the preparations for the march going?”
The march. It was the reason Blaney was here this morning. The Putney Society and what remnants of an anti-war movement remained in Britain had planned a march against British involvement in South Africa next week.
“Things are coming on very nicely,” Blaney said with a smile. “We’re expecting a thousand people, maybe a little more, and that’s just from Birmingham. If Manchester and Liverpool are good to their word we might manage to break five thousand.”
Clarke stared off into the distance, her thoughts centered on her argument with Conrad, and the accusation he’d leveled at her the other night. Posturing. Was it all posturing? Was she wasting her time? She had been asking herself that ever since. Usually Clarke’s resolve was unshakeable but to hear that from the man she loved had made her question herself for the first time in a long time. What good would some march do? Campbell had no intention of pulling out of South Africa.
Blaney sensed a doubt in her and stared hard at Clarke. “What’s wrong? You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
She wanted to put word to her doubts but met with the glassy eyes of her mentor she crumpled.
“No, of course not.”
It couldn’t be posturing. If the march they had planned was posturing, if the protest at the police station the other day was posturing, then everything Honor did had been a waste of time. She would have wasted years of her life. No, the march would go ahead and she would show Conrad that he was wrong. It wasn’t posturing. It was real change. They were going to make their voices heard even if Fraser Campbell and his government didn’t want them to.
Brixton, London
Simone Gayle watched as the heavy-set man in the Harrington jacket stared down at the flowers gathered on the ground of Angell Town estate. Her father had tried to hide her from what had happened here but Simone had heard all about it at school. A policeman had been shot. She wasn’t sure whether the fat man knew the policeman or was just here to lay flowers like the other people that had passed through this morning. She glanced over towards her father lifting boxes up and down the estate’s stairway and then wandered over to the fat man. Simone stopped beside him and looked down at the flowers before turning towards the man.
“Are you lost?”
The man jumped as if unaware of Simone’s presence. “Lost? No, I’m not lost. I’m here to visit a friend.”
“Me too,” Simone said with a point towards Keenan Gayle struggling up the stairs with their possession in hand. “Dad says we’re going to stay with one of his friends until we can find somewhere else to live.”
The fat man smiled uncomfortably and looked towards Simone’s father as if trying to catch the man’s attention. His gestured went unnoticed and instead he tucked his hands into his pockets and decided to humour the girl.
“What happened to your old place?”
“The tall man from the council took it from us,” Simone said with a kick to the ground. “He said that now that Uncle Errol is dead we have to find someplace else.”
There in the man’s eyes was a flicker or something. Simone was too young to recognise it but had she been a few years older she would have. The fat man had heard the name before.
“Errol Clarke?”
As the young girl opened her mouth to answer she heard her father’s voice shouting in her direction. “Simone? Simone? What are you doing? You leave that man alone.”
Keenan Gayle handed a box to his friend and cantered towards his daughter and the man. There were flickers of paint along his clothing and his boots were thick with dust. He was strong, taller than the fat man by several inches, but clearly still young. He took his daughter by the arm as he reached her and pulled her behind him with a nervous smile.
“I’m sorry about Simone. She’s too nosy for her own good sometimes,” Gayle said with a chuckle. “Do you live round here?”
The fat man smiled and gestured down towards the flowers beside them. “No, no, I just came to pay my respects.”
A pained expression crossed Keenan’s face as he considered what had happened to James Oldfield. His daughter watched on, curious to see how her father interacted with a white man, and looked to the picture of the murdered policeman at the center of the makeshift mural.
“It’s a damn shame. Don’t get me wrong I’m no friend of the police but what they did to that boy was awful. No one deserves to die like that.”
The fat man nodded in agreement as he too looked down the picture. “You can say that again.”
There was a sadness in the fat man’s eyes. Even at Simone’s tender age she could see it. He looked at the picture as if the slain man were a relative of some sort. Keenan and the man stood in silence for several seconds before eventually Gayle cleared his throat to cut through it.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“It’s Ray,” muttered the fat man as he extended his hand towards Keenan. “Ray Newman.”
Keenan and smiled and shook the Newman’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Ray, my name’s Keenan. You’ve already met Simone. We used to live over on Moorlands Estate but we’re between houses at the moment and a friend offered us a place to stay for a little while. Just until we’re back on our feet again.”
“Yeah, Simone mentioned something about an Uncle Errol.”
This time it was Simone’s father that fell silent.
“She… she did?” Keenan said as he looked down at his daughter with a disapproving frown. “Well, she should have known better than to talk out of turn like that but as I said the girl’s too nosy for her own good sometimes. It’s going to get her in trouble one of these days.”
A sympathetic smile appeared on Newman’s face. “What happened?”
“Same thing that happened to your friend,” Keenan said with a shrug. “God had another purpose for him in mind and called him up to heaven earlier than we expected.”
“It wasn’t God,” Simone muttered from behind her father’s arm. “They killed him.”
“Simone,” Keenan barked as he commanded his daughter into silence.
It was clear that talk of Clarke’s murder had made Gayle uncomfortable and he gestured towards the boxes that awaited him.
“Listen, Ray, it was nice to meet you but we need to get back to unpacking our things. We’re up at 12D, okay? Stop by sometime for a cup of tea or something.”
Newman’s round face grew red with embarrassment and he removed a hand from his pockets to scratch at his neck. “Ah, well that’s very nice of you but I don’t actually live around here.”
Keenan shrugged his shoulders. His awkwardness seemed to have passed somewhat and he smiled at Newman encouragingly as muttered to his daughter to make her way towards the boxes.
“Yeah, well, you seem to know the area well enough and Simone seems to like you so consider the offer open-ended.”
As Simone wandered over to the boxes she waved towards Ray with a smile. “Goodbye, Mr. Newman.”
Keenan and Ray shook hands again and Gayle followed after his daughter to resume their task. Ray Newman stood alone, staring at the flowers that had been laid in memory of James Oldfield, and considered the advice that Alice Oldfield had given him at Oldfield’s memorial service. He could still help people even when he wasn’t in the uniform. People like Keenan and Simone. Even if they were… coloureds they were still people and they needed help too. James would have helped them in a heartbeat and Ray could still help them. He could go to Paul and tell them to work the case properly or even better he could work it himself for them. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do with himself at the moment. He looked towards the father and daughter struggling with their boxes and made a silent promise. Not to them but to James Oldfield. He was going to help them.
Ray was going to bring Errol Clarke’s murderer to justice.
Fraser Campbell slept soundly in his Downing Street bed with his wife beside him. Joyce had crept home a little past midnight. The thoughts had gnawed at the Prime Minister the whole evening and he’d afforded himself an early night to keep them at bay. It was three o’clock in the morning and for the second time in as many weeks the shrill ring of a phone interrupted the Prime Minister’s sleep. A groan left Fraser’s throat and his eyes opened slowly as he lifted himself from his bed and reached for the phone. It was Hobbs. At this time of night it was only ever going to be Hobbs. If the Director of Communications was calling in the dead of the night it meant one thing and one thing only: bad news. The last thing Fraser Campbell needed was more bad news.
Campbell’s gruff voice slunk down the receiver. “What do you want? It’s late.”
The response from the other side of the phone elicited a heavy sigh and one of Fraser’s chubby hands reached for the bridge of his nose.
“How many are dead?”
It was South Africa. That mess that the Palace had insisted upon dragging Britain into had caused Fraser headache after headache. Tonight’s headache sounded particularly gruesome. A platoon had stumbled upon some murdered British ex-pats in Cape Town. They’d been trussed up like animals, hung from the ceiling of a shack, with some warning smeared beside them. On the end of the line Hobbs hesitated to recount the dead and Fraser’s temper wore thin.
“How many, Hobbs?”
Nineteen. Six in the first shack, four more in the next, and then nine crammed into the last one. It was too many to ignore and definitely too many to sweep under the carpet. It would need a response. Beside him Joyce stirred from her sleep by her husband’s conversation.
“What’s wrong?”
She was beautiful, even in the dead of the night, though Fraser could barely look at her knowing where he’d been earlier in the night. He placed a comforting hand on her side and smiled at his wife curtly as he directed his mouth away from the receiver of the phone.
“Go back to sleep, Joyce.”
Hobbs continued to regale Fraser with the details and the Prime Minister lifted the phone from the bedside table. He pulled on a robe and sat in an armchair on the opposite side of the room with the phone resting on his lap.
“This is the last thing we fucking need,” Fraser sighed. “Fine, call round the cabinet and tell them I’ll be holding an emergency meeting in the Cabinet Office in the morning. I expect all of them there and I expect them all there on time. Now that whole business with Oldfield is behind us this week is to be about the passage of the Repatriation Bill and nothing else. So we need to nip this mess in Cape Town in the bud before it’s even started.”
The Prime Minister’s Director of Communications mumbled in agreement on the other side of the phone. Without his glasses Fraser couldn’t make out the hands on the clock face on the wall beside him and squinted hard at them. Slowly the blurred clock face came into focus and Fraser realised it was half three. He stood up from the armchair and took one last glance at his wife before he muttered down the phone.
“Meet me in an hour in my office.”
It had been one thing after another this past month. Oldfield, Clarke, that mess with Hewitt and the Police Commissioner, and now he had this situation in South Africa to contend with. Fraser’s grip on power was tenuous enough, it would be even more so if he couldn’t pass the Voluntary Repatriations Bill tomorrow afternoon, and Moore would no doubt make the most of British ex-pats being murdered on Fraser’s watch. As much as he was ashamed to admit it facing Moore this morning worried him the most of all. Moore had cuckolded him his entire life in every way but one and now Fraser’s humiliation was complete. Moore had taken that which Campbell loved the most. It would take all the Prime Minister had to look him in his smug face tomorrow morning.
But he would. He would look them all in the face, all those that had doubted him to this point, and continue to prove them wrong. He’d lead the country to a better future or die trying.
Or it would have all been for nothing.
*****
Guildford, Surrey
Fraser Campbell’s voice sounded in the living room of Dominic Hewitt’s childhood home. Hewitt had come back to Guildford for a few days to visit his parents now that he had some time on his hands. He didn’t come home often, in large part because of his father, but his mother had been asking after him for so long it felt rude to put his visit off for much longer. With Hewitt losing his job at Downing Street his mother was particularly concerned about him. Everyone seemed concerned about him. He’d studied his entire life to make it to Downing Street and now all of that was gone. He couldn’t blame them for being concerned. Though having been at the heart of government and see it for the viper’s nest that it was the former Press Officer felt relieved at having made it out. Hobbs would have eaten him alive eventually – better that it happened when he was young and could still make something of himself than when he was past it. That’s what he’d been telling himself since Campbell had let him go. He’d told himself it so much he’d almost started to believe it.
There had been a slew of murders in Cape Town. The Prime Minister had announced that he’d be sending more ground troops to South Africa. It was a good call, one Hewitt would have argued for in Downing Street, and it would put the matter to bed for a time. Only for a time though. South Africa was a ticking time bomb. Britain needed to win and win decisively or people were going to turn against the campaign.
“What’s wrong, Dominic?”
From behind him Hewitt noticed his mother stood at the kitchen counter looking at him with a sympathetic smile. Diane Hewitt was a curvaceous woman in her late fifties with blonde hair that was rapidly greying over the past few years. She was Dominic’s rock in hard times. She’d notice the frown on her son’s face before he’d even realised it was there.
“Nothing’s wrong, mother, I guess it just hasn’t really sunk in yet that… that I’m on the outside looking in. You know? This time last week I would have been in the room drafting the PM’s statement and now I’m watching it on the television like everyone else. I’m a nobody all over again.”
Diane shook her head at her son’s pessimism. “You are not a nobody, Dominic.”
The grating laugh of Nigel Hewitt sounded from beside Dominic. Nigel was a heavy man with a full head of blonde-grey hair and a craggy face. There was an uncanny resemblance between Dominic in his father that people often remarked upon. Had his father not let himself go in his twilight years they would have been hard to tell apart if not for the wrinkles. Like Dominic he was always incredibly well turned out. He was wearing a light blue jumper with a white shirt underneath, some chinos, and a pair of light brown brogues. In his hand was a glass of brandy that he sipped at from time to time. Nigel was a very different kind of rock to his son. In fact, he was his son’s rock and his hard place at times. The past few days had proved to be one of those times.
“Stop molly-coddling the child. He very much is a bloody nobody, Diane. Hundreds of thousands of pounds pissed down the drain all because someone decided to play the big shot whilst his boss was out.”
Diane sighed at her husband’s unpleasantness. “Please, Nigel, there’s no need for that.”
The whole family had endured Nigel Hewitt’s complete lack of regard for their feelings for decades. Four decades working for British Petroleum had made the once soft-spoken and gentle Nigel into an unforgiving man. Hewitt wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his father smile. He’d long since become used to his father’s antics.
“It’s fine, mother.”
“See?” Nigel said as he took a sip of brandy. “You heard the child.”
Diane Hewitt shook her head once more and disappeared into the kitchen. Once Nigel was certain she was out of earshot he leant in closer to his son. Dominic could smell the brandy on his father’s breath as his lips parted.
“At least you’re not thin-skinned, boy, I’ll give you that. You’re going to need a tough hide on you if you’re going to make it after that cock-up of yours, I’ll tell you that much for free. I’ll be damned if the Hewitt name is going to be pissed down the river because of you. You know, generations ago the Hewitts were revered. The Troubles damn near ruined us, ruined everything the Hewitts worked at for generations, and through sweat and blood I managed to claw back every inch of respect we were owed. Your father did that, boy, your father made this family great again. Never forget that.”
There was some truth to his father’s tale. Once upon a time the Hewitts had been as close to royalty as one could be without actually being royalty in Britain. If his late grandfather was to be believed they had been royalty once. The Troubles hadn’t “ruined” the family though. The family fortune had reduced from the hundreds of millions to the tens of millions. That’s what passed for ruin in Nigel Hewitt’s book. British Petroleum had gone from strength to strength over the past few decades. North Sea oil and expansion into Africa and the Middle East had saw to that. Yet still Nigel Hewitt took every opportunity to remind his son he single-handedly saved the Hewitt name.
This one time Dominic refused to humour his father and instead smiled wryly at him. “How could I? You tell the same story every time I see you.”
His father’s face turned purple with rage.
“You don’t take that tone with me, you ungrateful little sh-”
Before the words had left his mouth Diane Hewitt appeared from within the kitchen. She snatched the remote from the arm of Nigel Hewitt’s armchair and took the glass of brandy from between his fingers. On her soft round face sat a deep frown.
“It’s been one day and already the pair of you are arguing. I will not have it, not from either of you, especially not after the year this family has had. You’re going to have to learn to peacefully coexist. Do you hear me?”
Dominic nodded in his mother’s direction. Nigel sat deadly still and stared at his wife in silence. After several seconds he extended his hand towards his wife and spoke in a voice that was as menacing as it was gentle.
“The remote, Diane.”
Diane Hewitt handed the remote over to her husband without a word and disappeared off into the house without another word. Nigel pointed the remote at the television and turned the volume up a few bars. Once he was satisfied he set the remote back down on the side of the armchair and sat back into his seat.
After several seconds he looked to his son with a smirk. “Look on the bright side, boy, you won’t have to see that quisling bastard’s face every morning anymore.”
“Fraser was always nice to me,” Hewitt muttered as he spotted the pale man passing a Downing Street windows. “Hobbs was the problem.”
*****
Chelmsley Wood, Birmingham
Opposite from Honor Clarke an elderly man with thinning white hair slurped from a cup of tea. Iain Blaney was the closest thing that Honor had to a father figure since losing contact with her father other a decade ago. Blaney had nurtured Honor will to learn, her desire for change, and moulded her into the firebrand she had become. Blaney had once been the Director of The Putney Society at which Honor now worked. The Society argued for greater legal and political representation for ordinary people and making the legal system and the trappings of government more transparent. It had over the years transformed into an anti-war pressure group that nibbled at the fringes of republicanism. Never was its support for a republic stated outright or the group would have long since been shut down and those arrested. Yet with Clarke at the forefront of its work it had come closer than ever before. It was something that concerned Blaney but Clarke had assured him she knew what she was doing. Honor always knew what she was doing.
The old man peered up from his tea at the television in the corner of the café. The Prime Minister was on screen and on the ticker at the bottom there were details about the attack in South Africa that Blaney’s old eyes could not make out. Clarke looked over her shoulder at the screen and scowled.
“How many dead this time?”
Honor squinted towards the screen to make out the numbers. “Nineteen.”
Blaney sighed.
“This is what happens. We told them at the time that they would regret invading South Africa, that there would be trouble, but did they listen? No, they did not. The King wanted his Empire back and Campbell rolled over for him and let him scratch his stomach. Now we’re all less safe as a result.”
Honor glanced around at the café’s other patrons and then towards Iain. “You should be careful with that kind of talk.”
A shocked look appeared on the old man’s face. “Careful? Who are you and what have you done with Honor Clarke? I didn’t realise that mess with your flat had shaken you so much.”
“It’s not that. Conrad and I aren’t on good terms at the moment.”
Conrad Murray had been another of Blaney’s endless protégés. He wasn’t quite the intellect that Clarke was but there was something to him. Blaney had been disappointed when he’d chosen to pursue teaching instead of following in Iain and Honor footsteps. Though Honor was a once in a lifetime orator and as good a polemicist as Blaney had ever met – she was still coloured. That wasn’t an issue for the old man, far from it, but it did make it somewhat harder to change people’s minds. Oftentimes they would harden at the very sight of Clarke. Murray could have been The Putney Society’s acceptable face. Instead he opted to become an irrelevancy.
To that end Blaney had little nice to say of the boy and shrugged his shoulders casually by way of an answer. “I’m sure he’ll come round.”
“How are the preparations for the march going?”
The march. It was the reason Blaney was here this morning. The Putney Society and what remnants of an anti-war movement remained in Britain had planned a march against British involvement in South Africa next week.
“Things are coming on very nicely,” Blaney said with a smile. “We’re expecting a thousand people, maybe a little more, and that’s just from Birmingham. If Manchester and Liverpool are good to their word we might manage to break five thousand.”
Clarke stared off into the distance, her thoughts centered on her argument with Conrad, and the accusation he’d leveled at her the other night. Posturing. Was it all posturing? Was she wasting her time? She had been asking herself that ever since. Usually Clarke’s resolve was unshakeable but to hear that from the man she loved had made her question herself for the first time in a long time. What good would some march do? Campbell had no intention of pulling out of South Africa.
Blaney sensed a doubt in her and stared hard at Clarke. “What’s wrong? You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
She wanted to put word to her doubts but met with the glassy eyes of her mentor she crumpled.
“No, of course not.”
It couldn’t be posturing. If the march they had planned was posturing, if the protest at the police station the other day was posturing, then everything Honor did had been a waste of time. She would have wasted years of her life. No, the march would go ahead and she would show Conrad that he was wrong. It wasn’t posturing. It was real change. They were going to make their voices heard even if Fraser Campbell and his government didn’t want them to.
*****
Brixton, London
Simone Gayle watched as the heavy-set man in the Harrington jacket stared down at the flowers gathered on the ground of Angell Town estate. Her father had tried to hide her from what had happened here but Simone had heard all about it at school. A policeman had been shot. She wasn’t sure whether the fat man knew the policeman or was just here to lay flowers like the other people that had passed through this morning. She glanced over towards her father lifting boxes up and down the estate’s stairway and then wandered over to the fat man. Simone stopped beside him and looked down at the flowers before turning towards the man.
“Are you lost?”
The man jumped as if unaware of Simone’s presence. “Lost? No, I’m not lost. I’m here to visit a friend.”
“Me too,” Simone said with a point towards Keenan Gayle struggling up the stairs with their possession in hand. “Dad says we’re going to stay with one of his friends until we can find somewhere else to live.”
The fat man smiled uncomfortably and looked towards Simone’s father as if trying to catch the man’s attention. His gestured went unnoticed and instead he tucked his hands into his pockets and decided to humour the girl.
“What happened to your old place?”
“The tall man from the council took it from us,” Simone said with a kick to the ground. “He said that now that Uncle Errol is dead we have to find someplace else.”
There in the man’s eyes was a flicker or something. Simone was too young to recognise it but had she been a few years older she would have. The fat man had heard the name before.
“Errol Clarke?”
As the young girl opened her mouth to answer she heard her father’s voice shouting in her direction. “Simone? Simone? What are you doing? You leave that man alone.”
Keenan Gayle handed a box to his friend and cantered towards his daughter and the man. There were flickers of paint along his clothing and his boots were thick with dust. He was strong, taller than the fat man by several inches, but clearly still young. He took his daughter by the arm as he reached her and pulled her behind him with a nervous smile.
“I’m sorry about Simone. She’s too nosy for her own good sometimes,” Gayle said with a chuckle. “Do you live round here?”
The fat man smiled and gestured down towards the flowers beside them. “No, no, I just came to pay my respects.”
A pained expression crossed Keenan’s face as he considered what had happened to James Oldfield. His daughter watched on, curious to see how her father interacted with a white man, and looked to the picture of the murdered policeman at the center of the makeshift mural.
“It’s a damn shame. Don’t get me wrong I’m no friend of the police but what they did to that boy was awful. No one deserves to die like that.”
The fat man nodded in agreement as he too looked down the picture. “You can say that again.”
There was a sadness in the fat man’s eyes. Even at Simone’s tender age she could see it. He looked at the picture as if the slain man were a relative of some sort. Keenan and the man stood in silence for several seconds before eventually Gayle cleared his throat to cut through it.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“It’s Ray,” muttered the fat man as he extended his hand towards Keenan. “Ray Newman.”
Keenan and smiled and shook the Newman’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Ray, my name’s Keenan. You’ve already met Simone. We used to live over on Moorlands Estate but we’re between houses at the moment and a friend offered us a place to stay for a little while. Just until we’re back on our feet again.”
“Yeah, Simone mentioned something about an Uncle Errol.”
This time it was Simone’s father that fell silent.
“She… she did?” Keenan said as he looked down at his daughter with a disapproving frown. “Well, she should have known better than to talk out of turn like that but as I said the girl’s too nosy for her own good sometimes. It’s going to get her in trouble one of these days.”
A sympathetic smile appeared on Newman’s face. “What happened?”
“Same thing that happened to your friend,” Keenan said with a shrug. “God had another purpose for him in mind and called him up to heaven earlier than we expected.”
“It wasn’t God,” Simone muttered from behind her father’s arm. “They killed him.”
“Simone,” Keenan barked as he commanded his daughter into silence.
It was clear that talk of Clarke’s murder had made Gayle uncomfortable and he gestured towards the boxes that awaited him.
“Listen, Ray, it was nice to meet you but we need to get back to unpacking our things. We’re up at 12D, okay? Stop by sometime for a cup of tea or something.”
Newman’s round face grew red with embarrassment and he removed a hand from his pockets to scratch at his neck. “Ah, well that’s very nice of you but I don’t actually live around here.”
Keenan shrugged his shoulders. His awkwardness seemed to have passed somewhat and he smiled at Newman encouragingly as muttered to his daughter to make her way towards the boxes.
“Yeah, well, you seem to know the area well enough and Simone seems to like you so consider the offer open-ended.”
As Simone wandered over to the boxes she waved towards Ray with a smile. “Goodbye, Mr. Newman.”
Keenan and Ray shook hands again and Gayle followed after his daughter to resume their task. Ray Newman stood alone, staring at the flowers that had been laid in memory of James Oldfield, and considered the advice that Alice Oldfield had given him at Oldfield’s memorial service. He could still help people even when he wasn’t in the uniform. People like Keenan and Simone. Even if they were… coloureds they were still people and they needed help too. James would have helped them in a heartbeat and Ray could still help them. He could go to Paul and tell them to work the case properly or even better he could work it himself for them. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do with himself at the moment. He looked towards the father and daughter struggling with their boxes and made a silent promise. Not to them but to James Oldfield. He was going to help them.
Ray was going to bring Errol Clarke’s murderer to justice.
Many years ago
London, England
G. H. Russell smiled as an uncharacteristic flicker of nerves showed on Malachi Brown’s face. The boy was something of a stoic and the past year of intense training had only hardened that. This morning was the day all that hard work came to fruition. Malachi Brown was leaving for the Starfleet Academy in less than five minutes. It brought a smile to Russell’s face to know that despite everything that had happened Malachi was still felt overwhelmed by the occasion. Russell had felt overwhelmed by it too when he had first left for the Academy all those years ago. It was good to feel overwhelmed by it. Anyone that didn’t feel overwhelmed by that kind of thing probably no place at the Academy to begin with. A little bit of caution was always a good thing. What Russell saw on Malachi’s face was more than a little bit of caution.
The old man smiled wryly at his ward. “Nervous?”
The second the word left his mouth the nervousness on Brown’s face disappeared.
“No, sir.”
It only broadened Russell’s smile. The retired Starfleet Lieutenant remembered when Malachi arrived in his home as if it were yesterday. The young man that showed up on his doorstep then was equal parts angry at the world and listless. He didn’t care less about Russell’s approval then but it was clear from his denial that had changed. A lot had changed. Russell found himself tearing up a little as he thought about how far they’d come. Far enough that Malachi calling him “sir” at a moment like this seemed out of place.
“Come on, kid, there’s no need for that anymore.”
Malachi nodded dutifully. “Sorry, sir.”
The young man caught himself and smiled at Russell. If Malachi were able to blush the old man was sure he would have been.
“Sorry, George.”
In the distance Russell spotted Brown’s ride approaching and he felt the tears welling in his eyes fall from his eyelids and onto his cheeks. He thrust his skinny arms over Malachi’s broad shoulders and pulled him in close for a hug.
“Listen, things are going to be a little overwhelming up there to begin with but you’ll be fine as long as you keep your head down and work hard. You hear me?”
Brown patted him on the back gently and nodded in recognition. The young man’s drive pulled up in front of the pair of them and Russell felt his ward move to pull away from him. He clung on to him for a few seconds more.
“I’m proud of you, kid.” Russell muttered to Brown. “Your mother would have been proud of you.”
He let go of Malachi and saw the touched look on the boy’s face. He saw him search for an adequate response for several seconds before opting for two words. They said more to the old man than a thousand words might have.
“Thank you,” Malachi said with a nod.
Brown bent down and lifted his carry bag from the ground and hoisted it over his shoulder with a grunt. He turned to his ride and hoisted the bag inside and climbed inside. As the door shut behind him he saw the driver turn to him and mutter something,
“You ready?”
Now
Aboard the USS Orion
A siren cutting the din of the security deck and Malachi Brown’s brow furrowed. He had been lost in thought, daydreaming about the day he’d left for the Academy, but that sound had jolted him back into life. It was a red alert. Captain Vash’s voice sounded through the comm and Malachi and his men listened in silence as she recounted the Dominion threat. Finally the captain’s orders for Security came through and Malachi leapt into action as the captain spoke.
The security officers looked to Malachi for instruction and the Chief Security Officer simply pointed upwards towards the bridge with a satisfied smile.
“You heard the captain.”
The security officers burst into life, each scrambling towards the armoury for weapons and armour, and Brown began to formulate a boarding plan in his head. Though the USS Orion had been ordered away from the fighting he had long since been preparing for this day and was determined that the Orion would succeed where other ships had faltered. Out of the corner of his eye Brown spotted a blue-skinned security officer frozen in place. Where the others were fiddling with weapons or putting on armour he seemed glued to the spot.
“What’s wrong?” Brown said with a hearty slap to the young man’s side. “Are you deaf or something? Mount up, kid.”
The blue-skinned security officer looked up at Malachi with eyes filled with fright. “I… I’m… I just…”
“Nervous?”
Brown remembered the terror he’d felt the day he’d left for the Academy and the way he’d hidden it from G. H. Russell. The old man had seen through his terror that day and Brown could see in this young man’s eyes that the moment was too big for him. He seemed afraid to admit it, ashamed even, but finally he met the Lieutenant’s gaze and nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Malachi looked around at his other men, all busy preparing themselves for battle, and then leant towards the young man. For the first time in a long time Brown’s taskmaster act slipped and he channeled his foster father. His voice was soft and reassuring.
“You can do this,” he muttered.
The words seemed to sooth the blue-skinned young man somewhat and he smiled back at Brown. Malachi patted him on the arm reassuringly and then stared down the sights of his phaser to make sure his weapon was good and ready for what lay ahead. He looked to the men and woman, weapons in hand, and muttered a phrase they had all heard dozens of times before. It was one that was particularly poignant given what had happened to the last crew Malachi had been on.
“You know the rule,” Brown smiled. “No one dies.”
London, England
G. H. Russell smiled as an uncharacteristic flicker of nerves showed on Malachi Brown’s face. The boy was something of a stoic and the past year of intense training had only hardened that. This morning was the day all that hard work came to fruition. Malachi Brown was leaving for the Starfleet Academy in less than five minutes. It brought a smile to Russell’s face to know that despite everything that had happened Malachi was still felt overwhelmed by the occasion. Russell had felt overwhelmed by it too when he had first left for the Academy all those years ago. It was good to feel overwhelmed by it. Anyone that didn’t feel overwhelmed by that kind of thing probably no place at the Academy to begin with. A little bit of caution was always a good thing. What Russell saw on Malachi’s face was more than a little bit of caution.
The old man smiled wryly at his ward. “Nervous?”
The second the word left his mouth the nervousness on Brown’s face disappeared.
“No, sir.”
It only broadened Russell’s smile. The retired Starfleet Lieutenant remembered when Malachi arrived in his home as if it were yesterday. The young man that showed up on his doorstep then was equal parts angry at the world and listless. He didn’t care less about Russell’s approval then but it was clear from his denial that had changed. A lot had changed. Russell found himself tearing up a little as he thought about how far they’d come. Far enough that Malachi calling him “sir” at a moment like this seemed out of place.
“Come on, kid, there’s no need for that anymore.”
Malachi nodded dutifully. “Sorry, sir.”
The young man caught himself and smiled at Russell. If Malachi were able to blush the old man was sure he would have been.
“Sorry, George.”
In the distance Russell spotted Brown’s ride approaching and he felt the tears welling in his eyes fall from his eyelids and onto his cheeks. He thrust his skinny arms over Malachi’s broad shoulders and pulled him in close for a hug.
“Listen, things are going to be a little overwhelming up there to begin with but you’ll be fine as long as you keep your head down and work hard. You hear me?”
Brown patted him on the back gently and nodded in recognition. The young man’s drive pulled up in front of the pair of them and Russell felt his ward move to pull away from him. He clung on to him for a few seconds more.
“I’m proud of you, kid.” Russell muttered to Brown. “Your mother would have been proud of you.”
He let go of Malachi and saw the touched look on the boy’s face. He saw him search for an adequate response for several seconds before opting for two words. They said more to the old man than a thousand words might have.
“Thank you,” Malachi said with a nod.
Brown bent down and lifted his carry bag from the ground and hoisted it over his shoulder with a grunt. He turned to his ride and hoisted the bag inside and climbed inside. As the door shut behind him he saw the driver turn to him and mutter something,
“You ready?”
*****
Now
Aboard the USS Orion
A siren cutting the din of the security deck and Malachi Brown’s brow furrowed. He had been lost in thought, daydreaming about the day he’d left for the Academy, but that sound had jolted him back into life. It was a red alert. Captain Vash’s voice sounded through the comm and Malachi and his men listened in silence as she recounted the Dominion threat. Finally the captain’s orders for Security came through and Malachi leapt into action as the captain spoke.
“Security, ready a boarding party, as armed and armored as you can get them.”
The security officers looked to Malachi for instruction and the Chief Security Officer simply pointed upwards towards the bridge with a satisfied smile.
“You heard the captain.”
The security officers burst into life, each scrambling towards the armoury for weapons and armour, and Brown began to formulate a boarding plan in his head. Though the USS Orion had been ordered away from the fighting he had long since been preparing for this day and was determined that the Orion would succeed where other ships had faltered. Out of the corner of his eye Brown spotted a blue-skinned security officer frozen in place. Where the others were fiddling with weapons or putting on armour he seemed glued to the spot.
“What’s wrong?” Brown said with a hearty slap to the young man’s side. “Are you deaf or something? Mount up, kid.”
The blue-skinned security officer looked up at Malachi with eyes filled with fright. “I… I’m… I just…”
“Nervous?”
Brown remembered the terror he’d felt the day he’d left for the Academy and the way he’d hidden it from G. H. Russell. The old man had seen through his terror that day and Brown could see in this young man’s eyes that the moment was too big for him. He seemed afraid to admit it, ashamed even, but finally he met the Lieutenant’s gaze and nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Malachi looked around at his other men, all busy preparing themselves for battle, and then leant towards the young man. For the first time in a long time Brown’s taskmaster act slipped and he channeled his foster father. His voice was soft and reassuring.
“You can do this,” he muttered.
The words seemed to sooth the blue-skinned young man somewhat and he smiled back at Brown. Malachi patted him on the arm reassuringly and then stared down the sights of his phaser to make sure his weapon was good and ready for what lay ahead. He looked to the men and woman, weapons in hand, and muttered a phrase they had all heard dozens of times before. It was one that was particularly poignant given what had happened to the last crew Malachi had been on.
“You know the rule,” Brown smiled. “No one dies.”
@Morden Man
Just one thing...pretty sure, due to the state of Earth at this point in time, that there wouldn't be any South London Estates left. Everything's supposed to be all utopian and happy, that's the Federations goal anyway.
Everything is... relative...? That's my explanation and I'm sticking to it.
Awesome! Let the poking begin!
Name
Malachi Brown
Age
43
Rank/Position
Lieutenant – Chief Security Officer
Race
Human
Personality
“Controlling” is the word I would use to describe Brown. Malachi values discipline above all. That is not to say that he doesn’t have a sense of humour or that he’s highly strung, much the opposite, but due to the nature of his work Brown has a propensity to micro-manage. Malachi has a strong sense of right and wrong and sees the world in black and white. His own actions however seem exempt from this and Brown does not see the hypocrisy in sometimes compromising his principles to his own end. He is ambitious, driven, and demanding which over long periods can wear those under his command down. Brown considers those that can withstand his approach to be worthy of his respect. Once someone has earned Malachi's respect and trust he is fiercely loyal to them. Earning it however is something of a Herculean undertaking.
History
Brown grew up on a council estate in London, England. His father died before he was born and his mother spent much of Malachi’s childhood trying and failing to keep him out of trouble. With no strong male role model in his life Malachi looked to the criminal element on his estate for recognition. He fell in with a wrong crowd at a very young age and took to pretty crime for entertainment. After several brushes with the law Malachi’s mother was deemed an unfit mother and Brown became a ward of the state.
Malachi was placed in almost half a dozen foster homes before one stuck. Each time he would abscond back to his old estate or wear through his welcome after some run-in with the police. Finally Brown was placed with retired Starfleet Lieutenant G. H. Russell and some semblance of security was achieved. Russell and Brown butted heads to begin with, particularly over Malachi’s refusal to attend school, but finally Brown relented to Russell’s will. For the first time in Brown’s life he became a functioning member of society.
And then his mother died. Brown left Russell’s home and returned to his estate. The old man tracked him there, unmoved by the threats of violence directed towards him by Malachi’s so-called friends, and made one final appeal to Brown. Come back with him, come home, and make something of your life. For the last time Malachi left his estate in South London, the “friends” he had amassed there, and the memories of his mother that were tied to that place. The very next morning Malachi and Russell sat at Russell’s dining room table and wrote his application for the Starfleet Academy together.
Malachi’s first application was rejected and Russell and the boy would spend the next year working tirelessly to hone Brown’s body and mind for the Academy. To Brown’s surprise the structure and discipline seemed to bring the most out of him and he took to it as if it were second nature. He rose each morning, undertook several hours of physical training, and spent his nights being regaled by Russell’s stories from his own Starfleet days or being rigorously tested on Starfleet protocol. Through their year of hard work Brown’s second application to Starfleet was accepted.
At the Academy he would show a natural aptitude for military tactics and strategy as well as proving himself to be almost unnaturally accurate with a phaser in hand. Early on his was earmarked for Starfleet Security and would spend several years as a Security Officer on the USS Hawk before being appointed the Chief Security Officer on the USS Orion.
Skills
Brown is a physical specimen. He was lean prior to meeting Russell and has spent an inordinate amount of time on his body as part of his daily routine ever since his first Academy rejection. He is skilled in hand-to-hand combat though somewhat reliant on brute strength over technique. Against physically superior species this can leave him at a disadvantage.
There are few better shots in all of Starfleet than Brown. Phasers are his forte. A combination of a steady hand and a cool head makes him deadly with a phaser in hand. Brown has an intricate knowledge of the weapons onboard USS Orion and their capabilities. He is meticulous in ensuring their maintenance and upkeep and does not trust others to handle his phaser.
First and foremost though Brown plans ahead. He makes contingencies and contingencies to contingencies. Malachi is always planning, always war gaming, borne out of a fear of coming up short when he’s needed most. The first Academy rejection still weighs heavily on him and though he rarely puts voice to it his doubts as to whether he, a boy from a council estate in South London, ought to be onboard the USS Orion at all motivates much of what he does. He plans for fear of being revealed to not belong in the first place. It is both a blessing and a curse.
Other
Malachi bears a startling resemblance to twenty-first century actor Idris Elba. That fact seems entirely lost on his colleagues but Brown is convinced that Elba is a distant ancestor of his.
Sample Post
@Morden Man, you think Catherine and Malachi could be fencing partners?
Sure thing. Sounds good to me.
Name
Malachi Brown
Age
43
Rank/Position
Lieutenant – Chief Security Officer
Race
Human
Personality
“Controlling” is the word I would use to describe Brown. Malachi values discipline above all. That is not to say that he doesn’t have a sense of humour or that he’s highly strung, much the opposite, but due to the nature of his work Brown has a propensity to micro-manage. Malachi has a strong sense of right and wrong and sees the world in black and white. His own actions however seem exempt from this and Brown does not see the hypocrisy in sometimes compromising his principles to his own end. He is ambitious, driven, and demanding which over long periods can wear those under his command down. Brown considers those that can withstand his approach to be worthy of his respect. Once someone has earned Malachi's respect and trust he is fiercely loyal to them. Earning it however is something of a Herculean undertaking.
History
Brown grew up on a council estate in London, England. His father died before he was born and his mother spent much of Malachi’s childhood trying and failing to keep him out of trouble. With no strong male role model in his life Malachi looked to the criminal element on his estate for recognition. He fell in with a wrong crowd at a very young age and took to pretty crime for entertainment. After several brushes with the law Malachi’s mother was deemed an unfit mother and Brown became a ward of the state.
Malachi was placed in almost half a dozen foster homes before one stuck. Each time he would abscond back to his old estate or wear through his welcome after some run-in with the police. Finally Brown was placed with retired Starfleet Lieutenant G. H. Russell and some semblance of security was achieved. Russell and Brown butted heads to begin with, particularly over Malachi’s refusal to attend school, but finally Brown relented to Russell’s will. For the first time in Brown’s life he became a functioning member of society.
And then his mother died. Brown left Russell’s home and returned to his estate. The old man tracked him there, unmoved by the threats of violence directed towards him by Malachi’s so-called friends, and made one final appeal to Brown. Come back with him, come home, and make something of your life. For the last time Malachi left his estate in South London, the “friends” he had amassed there, and the memories of his mother that were tied to that place. The very next morning Malachi and Russell sat at Russell’s dining room table and wrote his application for the Starfleet Academy together.
Malachi’s first application was rejected and Russell and the boy would spend the next year working tirelessly to hone Brown’s body and mind for the Academy. To Brown’s surprise the structure and discipline seemed to bring the most out of him and he took to it as if it were second nature. He rose each morning, undertook several hours of physical training, and spent his nights being regaled by Russell’s stories from his own Starfleet days or being rigorously tested on Starfleet protocol. Through their year of hard work Brown’s second application to Starfleet was accepted.
At the Academy he would show a natural aptitude for military tactics and strategy as well as proving himself to be almost unnaturally accurate with a phaser in hand. Early on his was earmarked for Starfleet Security and would spend several years as a Security Officer on the USS Hawk before being appointed the Chief Security Officer on the USS Orion.
Skills
Brown is a physical specimen. He was lean prior to meeting Russell and has spent an inordinate amount of time on his body as part of his daily routine ever since his first Academy rejection. He is skilled in hand-to-hand combat though somewhat reliant on brute strength over technique. Against physically superior species this can leave him at a disadvantage.
There are few better shots in all of Starfleet than Brown. Phasers are his forte. A combination of a steady hand and a cool head makes him deadly with a phaser in hand. Brown has an intricate knowledge of the weapons onboard USS Orion and their capabilities. He is meticulous in ensuring their maintenance and upkeep and does not trust others to handle his phaser.
First and foremost though Brown plans ahead. He makes contingencies and contingencies to contingencies. Malachi is always planning, always war gaming, borne out of a fear of coming up short when he’s needed most. The first Academy rejection still weighs heavily on him and though he rarely puts voice to it his doubts as to whether he, a boy from a council estate in South London, ought to be onboard the USS Orion at all motivates much of what he does. He plans for fear of being revealed to not belong in the first place. It is both a blessing and a curse.
Other
Malachi bears a startling resemblance to twenty-first century actor Idris Elba. That fact seems entirely lost on his colleagues but Brown is convinced that Elba is a distant ancestor of his.
Sample Post
I reckon I can have a post finished in time.
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