The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)
Some explaination first. Yeomen was written with the permission of John Ringo and has not been revised for various reasons. Technically, it's probably fanfic. Comments would be welcome, but please don't judge it by my current work.

Cover Blurb

When the Galactic Federation makes contact with humanity, warning of the danger from the Posleen, every nation on Earth is thrown back on its own resources. For the United Kingdom of Great Britain – facing the first invasion for years – every resource must be tapped to defeat the Posleen. As the social structure of Britain warps under the preparation for war, every part of British society prepares for the war.

As the Posleen land, rampaging over England and heading for Scotland, only the courage of the Yeomen of England stands between the British people and the Posleen stew pots…

Author’s Note And Dedication

As a book set largely in England and written by a British author, The Yeomen of England uses British sayings and expressions, most of which have been footnoted for the benefit of American readers. If there is any confusion, please don’t hesitate to enquire.

Dedicated to John Ringo and Tom Kratman, for designing the Posleen Universe and proving that someone else could write successfully in the Universe.
Prologue

The classroom was less noisy than a watcher might have expected, but when their favourite teacher was reading to them, silence was a requirement. Even the noisy students quietened; their reading hour was special to all of them. The boys listened; the girls listened, as Mrs Crandall read the storybook to them.

“No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water ,” she read.

The story, The War of the Worlds, had been a request. One of the children had read an excerpt from the book in a storybook of adventures, and he had asked for the full story. Mrs Crandall, who was a firm believer in encouraging children to develop their interests in reading, had agreed; the story would be their latest classroom read. They would do projects on it…they would draw pictures of the Martians, the boys competing for the honour of drawing the most disgusting image of the Martians feeding; the girls writing romantic stories of love and ponies under the Martian heel. In Mrs Crandall’s world, boys were boys and girls were girls…already, she was planning a field trip to Woking and…

“And strangest of all is it to hold my wife's hand again, and to think that I have counted her, and that she has counted me, among the dead,” she concluded, finishing the story after several weeks. The rapt attention didn’t fade, even after three weeks of reading the story. The walls of the classroom had images of Martians, painting in gruesome red and gold.

Tom Anderson held up his hand. “Mrs, did that ever happen?” He asked. “Did London ever get ruined?”

Mrs Crandall smiled. Children – young children – were often incapable of distinguishing between fact and fiction; only last week she’d been asked if the Space Shuttle could travel faster than light. She believed in answering their questions; the more they knew, the more they would be able to use for their own development.

“No, Tom,” she said. “Britain has never been invaded…”

“What about William the Conqueror?” Polly Perks asked. She was a small slight girl with two long ponytails. The boys enjoyed pulling them from time to time; she was a know-it-all who should have been called Matilda. “He invaded Britain…”

“England,” Mrs Crandall said firmly. “William the Conqueror had a claim to the throne. Since then…”

She described a vast history, trying to catch their imagination. The Dutch and the endless wars during Cromwell’s time, allowing herself to feel a flicker of naughtiness at the time, as discussing Cromwell wasn’t done . The Spanish Amanda and Francis Drake. And finally…Hitler, and the German invasion that never was.

“If they had succeeded, we would no longer live in a green and pleasant land,” she concluded. “Why not write a story about it?”

The class groaned, but they were good-natured groans, except for Tom’s. “Mrs, what would happen in the future, if Britain was invaded?”

Mrs Crandall paused. Young Tom’s father was known to be a profound hater of the French, a man who had been wounded during the Battle of Oran. On the other hand, the Government was very keen that schools promote European unity; the Soviet Union remained a threat and that didn’t seem as if it would go away anything soon.

“Britain will not be invaded in the future,” Mrs Crandall said finally. “We have nuclear missiles and no power on Earth could invade us without being struck by nuclear weapons.”

Tom’s face twisted, his mind trying to grasp concepts normally alien to a young child. “But…what if someone did?” He said finally. “Could someone not manage to launch an invasion anyway?”

Mrs Crandall snorted. “No one has successfully invaded Britain and no one ever will,” she said, and changed the subject.

***
Tom Anderson was not reassured. Growing up in the seventies, while his peers were discovering the joys of the ecological movement and the opposite sex, he worried endlessly about a possible invasion. Writing stories only developed his fears further; it surprised no one that the Falklands War made him ultra-patriotic and concerned about the constant reduction in Britain’s military. It surprised no one that he joined the British Army, nor that he would be rapidly promoted after seeing service in the Gulf War.

And yet, the senior personnel didn’t know what to do with him. On the one hand, he was the officer who drew up plans for all eventualities, but on the other hand his…blunt expressions on the subject of British defence earned him enemies. Politicians from all political parties respected his ability to explain the military world – a closed book to many of them – but they resented his single-mindedness on the subject. It was the 1990s; war was out, it would never happen again. The international community would punish aggressors…had that not been proven by the Gulf War?

As the 1990s grew to a close, few men even considered the possibilities of a global war, nor did they look to the stars. There had been no trace of any life existing outside the Earth; the world assumed that peace was the constant throughout the universe. Britain was part of NATO, a global organisation dedicated to keeping a powerful military alliance in being. Britain would remain safe under the NATO wing, backed up by the might of American military power, and that state of affairs would continue forever.

Or so they thought…

Chapter One: The Oncoming Storm

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
12th March 2001

The room was cold and grey, a fitting scene for the discussion at hand. They entered the room, in groups or on their own, the military leaders of Great Britain and the politicians who controlled her destiny. The senior MPs of the majority party; the representatives from the backbenches, chosen by lot, and finally the Leader of the Opposition. It was a grim atmosphere; few men understood the purposes of such a gathering, and those who suspected didn’t quite believe it.

After all, the Threat Board was clear; there were no international problems waiting for the attention of the helmsmen of Great Britain, and why would the Leader of the Opposition be invited to a simple Party meeting? No cabinet meeting – except one – would have the Leader of the Opposition present, for many different reasons. The MPs twitched and muttered to themselves; there had been no earthshaking change in the British political situation, no sudden formation of a coalition government. They would have noticed, wouldn’t they? They would have heard about it on the grapevine, long before it made the News At Ten.

They looked around the room. The Prime Minister was standing with his back to them, staring out of the window at the cold dank weather. The military personnel were a mixture of grim resignation or shock, or confusion; the…incident, whatever it was, hadn’t been explained to them. Puzzlement grew, and so did the silence, as all cast their eyes upon the Prime Minister’s famous back.

For his part, the Prime Minister was wondering, his thoughts straying all over the room. Who would agree to support the government in the sudden crisis? Who would refuse to believe, even unto the invasion itself? Who would insist that it was somehow all his fault? The Prime Minister’s famous lips twitched, but he couldn’t summon his famous smile. Deep inside, he wondered; was he fit for the task at hand?

The silence lengthened, broken only by a cough from the Leader of the Opposition. Along in the room, he was immune to the Prime Minister’s wrath, safe from any political pressure that could be brought to bear. The Prime Minister smiled wryly, the expression a flickering horror against the window, and took his seat at the head of the table.

“You may as well show yourself now,” he called. A section of the wall seemed to flicker, changing colour even as they watched, and an alien being appeared from the wall. The assembled movers and shakers stared at it, all those who hadn’t been in the know. The alien’s skin was almost like a chameleons; it pushed back against the wall, flicking in and out of visibility.

“What the fuck?” One of the uninformed military men gasped. “What is that thing?”

At the sound of his voice, its tone harsh with fear and horror, the alien merged completely with the wall and vanished. The assembled politicians stared at the wall, trying to track the invisible entity as it moved around the room, hiding from their view.

“Silence,” the Prime Minister said, keeping his voice calm. “I apologise for the little showmanship I employed…”

“You had better be sorry,” one of the backbenchers snapped, interrupting the Prime Minister. “When I think about the effort involved in creating the Party out of the fragments…”

“I believe that I was talking,” the Prime Minister said. He reminded himself to give the assembled group some slack; he’d had a few days to get used to the concept of extraterrestrial intelligence. He’d watched Independence Day and Invasion Earth, but the Himmit made a mockery of such human conceits - and as for the Darhel…

“Himmit Alarlas, please show yourself again,” he said, abandoning his muses. The Himmit faded back into existence, giving an impression of cowering behind the Prime Minister’s chair. Up close, standing still, the Himmit seemed frog-like, with four eyes and two mouths. There was a complex honeycomb formation above the mouths and between wide-set eyes; it could have been an ear or a nose.

“It is always a pleasure to meet such distinguished guests,” the alien piped. Its voice was a high tenor. “I hope that we will be working together through the dark days to come.”

The Prime Minister took a breath. “Five days ago, we were contacted by an alien…well, the Yanks are calling it a Federation,” he began. “For various reasons, the Federation quarantined Earth and refused contact…until now.”

“You are dangerous carnivores,” Himmit Alarlas said. It’s mouths opened and closed in quick succession, revealing strange misshapen flat teeth. “Dangerous, dangerous…”

“Thank you,” the Prime Minister said. The expression on some of the senior MPs’ faces made the aggravation worthwhile. Some of them, peaceniks to a man or woman, found the alien’s judgement offensive. “You may go to the recovery room if you wish.”

He waited until the Himmit was out of the room before continuing. “As I said, I must apologise for introducing you to an alien life form this way,” he said. “There simply is no time for disbelief. We have a serious crisis on our hands.”

“Doubtless the Yanks will sort it all out,” the Foreign Secretary muttered. “I’m surprised they even let that…creature come here.”

“The Americans are in trouble, along with the rest of us,” the Prime Minister said. He gazed around the room. “I won’t go into too many details, as they are included in the briefing folders prepared by the Federation, but the short version of the story is that the Earth is about to be attacked by an alien race.”

There was a sudden silence. The Prime Minister found that more worrying than argument. “They seem to be Mongols in space,” he said. “For reasons unknown, they have been moving across space in an unstoppable mass, taking whatever worlds are in their path. They have been attacking the Federation for the past one hundred years and now they’re coming our way.”

***
The silence grew and lengthened. Finally, Margent Hammond, one of the backbench MPs, broke the silence. The Prime Minister sighed inwardly; Hammond was a firm peacenik, one of the older members of the party, and one of those who had never reconciled themselves to the compromises that had been required to make the party a genuine competitor for the leadership of Britain.

“I do not believe a word of this,” she said. She was an MP whose reputation had never been sullied by being offered a post in Government. “All people know that all people want peace. By the time that a race reaches the stars, they will have achieved a united peaceful state and an ability to empathise with other beings, allowing them to co-exist with the other races in the universe, all of whom will have reached a similar state.”

The Prime Minister wanted to cut her off sharply, but this was no time for a split within the party. “The Federation believes that all races that are…irredeemably hostile destroy themselves before reaching the stars,” he said. “The Posleen, however, seem to have managed to reach the stars – and they’re coming our way.”

He spoke over Hammond’s protests. “The Federation believes that we have as little as four years to prepare for the defence of Earth,” he said. “Worse, they have…certain requirements of their own. They want – need – us to send some of our soldiers to fight on two of their worlds, ones that we might be able to save from the Posleen.”

“And so we will be weakened,” the Secretary of State for Defence commented. “Why can they not hold their own worlds?”

It said something about the seriousness of the situation that he hadn’t been in the loop beforehand. The Prime Minister hoped that he wouldn’t hold it against him; Hammond alone would cause problems for Britain. This was too important for party politics to play a decisive role.

“The Federation…is composed of races like Margent suggests,” he said. “In effect, one race – the Himmit, which you’ve seen – are cowards, two more cannot fight even to save their own lives, and the final race can launch one attack – and then the person launching the attack goes cationic. They have been hoping for the best, and the best hasn’t happened. What little resistance they have been able to offer in space has not slowed the Posleen at all – and their resistance on the ground, to all intents and purposes, may as well not exist.

“We can go into further detail later,” he said. “Suffice it to say that the Federation would like to trade. They will hire some thousands of our soldiers – ours, the Americans, the other NATO nations, the Russians, the Chinese and whatever other nations have the capability to contribute – to fight on two not-quite-fallen worlds, and perhaps later to defend other Federation worlds. In exchange, they will contribute Federation technology to assist us in preparing for the coming invasion, including a small fleet of ships converted for military use.” He held up a hand. “For the moment, as per the agreement made between the five permanent members of the United Nations Security Council, the Fleet will be a global project, recruiting men and resources from all over the world.”

He nodded at the First Sea Lord. “I expect that several thousand of our RAF and Royal Navy personnel will be slated for serving in Fleet,” he said. “It’s going to be a nightmare, but with the Posleen on their way, perhaps we can make some clear decisions. Unfortunately, Fleet will almost certainly not be ready in time to hold off the first wave of invading Posleen, and it may not be able to stand the second or third waves off from the planet.” He sighed. “So much of this, you understand, is speculation, but its informed speculation. We have to proceed on the worst case…and that means a Posleen invasion on the ground.”

There was a diffident cough from the Chief of the Air Staff, General Mathews. “Prime Minister, with all due respect, how can we hope to hold the ground when the…ah, Posleen will control space?”

The Prime Minister smiled. The Chief of the Air Staff had been involved, right from the start. The Permanent Joint Headquarters, the PJHQ, would spearhead Britain’s military response to the oncoming storm. The question had been planted; the Prime Minister hoped that it would focus a few minds on the problems of survival.

“The Posleen…do not seem to place as much reliance on space installations as we do in our science-fiction,” he said. “In effect, they seem to concentrate on landing and setting up an impregnable position on the ground – impregnable to Federation soldiers, such as they are. They seem to concentrate on seizing the cities, and then eating the population and taking all of their wealth.”

He was dimly aware of Hammond nearly being sick. “We seem to have very little choice,” he said. “We have to prepare for a land war that will make World War Two look like a tea party. This one...it will be fought on the beaches, on the hedgerows and on the streets…and we have to win it, just to keep enough of the population safe.”

He nodded to General Mathews. “My office has already begun to consider our best way to meet the massive task ahead,” he said. “However, I must warn you that the cost will be enormous and it will require total focus with no guarantee of success.”

“God, you’re fun to have around,” someone muttered from the rear.

The Prime Minister smiled ruefully. “Which brings us to the purpose of this meeting,” he said. “We will have to declare a state of emergency when the news breaks out, which it will, sooner or later.”

“People will start leaking,” the First Sea Lord commented. “When are we going to tell the public the truth?”

The Prime Minister smiled. At least they had accepted it as truth, but then, Himmit Alarlas made a convincing argument. He suspected that many others would refuse to believe in the threat, but the men and women in the room had to believe. Between them, they were the directors of Britain.

“The Americans and the French insisted upon a two-month period of secrecy,” the Prime Minister said. “Personally, I believe that that is…unlikely to last that long, as we’re going to be preparing for military operations on a massive scale, but…needs must when the devil vomits on your toenails.”

As he had hoped, the comment drew some chuckles. “We have to form a War Cabinet,” he said, nodding to the Leader of the Opposition. “The normal democratic process will have to be suspended for a while, until we can get a handle on the problem and confront it.”

“That’s why you wanted me here,” the Leader of the Opposition said. For the first time, the Prime Minister wished that his opponents had been able to come up with a more inspiring man; the Leader of the Opposition was a grey man with a grey soul. “You want me to take on the role of Deputy Prime Minister.”

The Prime Minister nodded. The entire Cabinet would have to be reshuffled to meet the new threat. “I need you on the team,” he said. “Three Cabinet posts would be yours, should your party require them as a sign of good faith.”

The Leader of the Opposition smiled. “If you’re willing to go that far, it must be real,” he said. He held out a hand. “Very well; I accept.”

The Prime Minister shook his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “Margent?”

“This is a complete and total fallacy,” Hammond snapped. “This is nothing more than an attempt to distract attention from the economic disasters you are causing by…”

“Margent, don’t be a fool,” one of the backbenchers snapped. “You saw that thing; it was an alien, all right!”

“Shut up,” Hammond snapped. “This is nothing more than a cheap power grab. Now you’ve gotten into power on our backs, you want to throw us true believers out of the party! Well, I won’t go without a fight, you…”

The Prime Minister sighed. “Margent, can I at least ask you to remain quiet about this until the two-month period is over?”

“When you try to force this lie down the throats of the people, they will reject you,” Hammond snapped. “I will watch and wait.”

She left the room. “Well, that went well,” the Prime Minister muttered. Several people chuckled. “If there is anyone else who does not believe, speak now or forever hold your tongues…”

“I saw the aliens,” the Leader of the Opposition said. “On the condition that I have access to the entire process, count me in.”

The Prime Minister sighed inwardly at the man’s need to play politics, even though he understood it, but nodded. He watched as several other people, then the entire room, made their final agreements and commitments. The process of drawing up a War Cabinet didn’t take long; the process was well-understood, even though it hadn’t been used for nearly four decades.

“For the moment, this will be an unofficial gathering,” he said finally. “Once we make the announcement, we can form the cabinet properly.” He scowled; all the British forces overseas would have to be brought home and prepared to defend their own homes. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming.”

“I wish I could thank you for inviting us,” the Leader of the Opposition said wryly. The Prime Minister chuckled. It would be the last bit of levity they would have for many strange and terrible days.

***
The Prime Minister and the Chief of the Air Staff, General Mathews, hadn’t moved in the same circles before the last election. In their first meetings, when the Prime Minister had ordered RAF units to take part in Operation Desert Fox and British Army units to deploy into several hotspots across the world, both men had come to respect the other, if not outright liking.

“You handled that well,” Mathews said, after the meeting had ended. “Using the Himmit was a stoke of genius.”

The Prime Minister shrugged, “I shall have to make many fulsome apologies to Himmit Alarlas afterwards,” he said. “Still, it was the only way to convince them all quickly, even Margent.”

“A shame about her,” Mathews said. “Should she not be taken into protective custody?”

“No,” the Prime Minister said. “We have other problems at the moment; preparing for war. We have study teams active already, and it’s only going to get worse.”

Mathews nodded. “I think we have to bring Tom Anderson in on this,” he said. “He is the only person who has been thinking about threats to Britain itself.”

The Prime Minister laughed bitterly. His honest belief in the essential benevolence of the universe had taken a severe beating. “We should have listened to him,” he said. “Brief him in, my authority. Have him come up with an overall plan for a campaign within Britain itself, one that preserves the lives of as much of the population as possible.”

He sighed. “Have the teams now working with the Americans copy all of their data over to him and vice versa,” he said. “The Americans, at least, are our allies; God only knows which way the French are going to go.” He scowled, his mind racing everywhere. “Coming to think of it, we’d better stockpile oil as well. The oil suppliers are going to be up shit creek.”

“And it couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch,” Mathews said. The Prime Minister laughed. “Sir, we can stop them.”

The Prime Minister looked up at him. “I hope that you’re right,” he said. “The hell of it, General, is that Margent was right; I don’t see how such a species evolved.”

“Perhaps a evolutionary specialist will be able to provide you with an answer,” Mathews suggested. “Or perhaps…”

The Prime Minister completed the thought. “Or perhaps the Darhel are lying to us,” he said. “They seem to have made contact with us very easily.” He paused. “The Tir reminded me too much of a used car salesman.”

Chapter Two: Believer

Rusholme, Manchester
United Kingdom
12th March 2001

The girl they wanted him to marry was ugly.

Sarfraz Ahmed, an eighteen-year-old student, sat between his parents and his sister, trying to avoid showing any trace of his feelings on his face. It wasn’t that Noreen Ullah was actually bad, at least in the physical sense; it was that he didn’t find her attractive. She sat there, a tentative nervous smile on her brown face, and he knew that they would never get along.

His parents and her parents were taking away in Gujarati; he could follow about one word in five. She followed them, of course; she was a new immigrant from India. If he refused to marry her, she would have to return at the end of her school year; her visa didn’t last for much longer . She sat there, her eyes decently lowered, and he felt sick. She would go along with what her parents wanted and she wouldn’t care what she wanted for herself.

“Well, are you coming?” His sister asked. Sameena, a girl who wanted to make a life for herself, much to their parents annoyance, smiled at him. “Come on brother, you have to talk to the girl.”

Sarfraz muttered under his breath. He’d never developed the habit of bossing his sister around; he would never have dared. One of her more ‘unsuitable’ friends had introduced her to self-defence, and of course she knew as much about him as he did about her. Mutually assured destruction was alive and well in their family, a mixture of secrecy and hypocrisy that kept them going.

“Come on,” Sameena said, pulling him towards the door. He made a show of resisting, just to keep things proper, and the parents nodded in approval. Sameena had to stay with them, just to guard their honour. Sarfraz snorted; he would sooner swear on the Qur’an to a lifetime of celibacy than spend time with Noreen.

Sameena closed the door behind them; Noreen waved them both to a sofa, every inch the hostess. Sarfraz winced; her mother had already begun to teach her what she needed to be a wife, even one in an extended family. Her demeanour was perfectly shy, the perfect opposite to Sameena, and she took her own seat, folding her legs decently under her skirt. The silence grew and lengthened.

“Well, big brother, say something,” Sameena hinting, elbowing him. The sudden furrowing on Noreen’s forehead was proof enough; she hardly spoke English. “Like; hello, how are you?”

Sarfraz would have blushed, if his skin colour would have allowed it. “Salaam,” he said. “How are you?”

Noreen looked puzzled. She spoke in soft, rapid-fire Gujarati. Sarfraz cursed mentally; he couldn’t understand any of it, even the words he should have understood in a different accent.

“I can’t marry her,” he muttered. Sameena looked understanding. “Noreen” – she looked up at the mention of her name – “do you want to marry me?”

It took a long moment for her to understand; clearly she spoke some English. He was puzzled; just how much English did she speak, after all? She shook her head softly, slowly, allowing her hair to slip out of her headscarf.

“She wasted my time,” he muttered angrily. Sameena looked reprovingly at him. “I don’t want to marry her.”

Without another word, he stood up and left the room, passing through the living room without pausing. The front door was open and he stepped through, nodding politely to her brother as he left. The darkness of the streets swallowed him up.

***
Sameena found him, half an hour later. He was seated in the mosque, staring at the walls. He’d been taught here, by a kindly old Iman who’d later died in a traffic accident. The mosque had always been comforting, far more comforting than one of the newer mosques, the ones built with Saudi oil money in a desperate attempt to buy the love of Allah.

“They’re pretty upset,” Sameena said, sitting down beside him. He smiled; if the mosque hadn’t been empty, someone would have made a fuss. A boy and a girl sitting together? Horror of horrors!

“How’s she taking it?” He asked. His parents could wait and hers could go to hell for all he cared. “What did she say?”

“Oh, we had a short talk,” Sameena said. “She was very shy, but she didn’t want you either.”

Sarfraz smiled wryly. “Anisa would have killed her anyway,” he said. “I wish that I could introduce her to my parents.”

“Try talking to mum,” Sameena advised. Anisa was his girlfriend; something that would have made her automatically suspect in his parents’ eyes. “She’s more understanding than you think.”

“I’m sure that she gave you the talk on things us men aren’t supposed to know about,” Sarfraz said dryly. “Dad, well dad…”

He shook his head, unwilling to recount the entire episode. Both men had found it a trial; his father’s attempt to explain the birds and the bees had been a minor disaster. It wasn’t something that could be passed onto the local Iman; they always made a mess of anything that didn’t involve prayers.

“I can’t marry someone who doesn’t want to marry me,” he said firmly. “So, what happened in the end?”

“Oh, mum was upset and her mum was upset, so they clung to each other and sobbed about how horrible men are,” Sameena said. “Naturally, I agreed with them, of course.”

Sarfraz snorted. “Of course,” he said.

“And the fathers had a talk and decided that naturally you were not suitable for her, and vice versa, and its off,” Sameena continued. “You’re a free man again, brother.”

“Up yours,” Sarfraz said. “They said they would give us loads of duas.”

“I dare say that we’ll survive without them,” Sameena said. Thousands of prayers had seemed like such a small price for Sarfraz being married to someone he hardly knew. It was an unpalatable truth of the Asian marriage market; boys and girls had their marriages arranged to pay off favours, in some cases for simple financial gain. “So, you coming for dinner?”

“I have been thinking about my future,” Sarfraz said seriously. “I don’t have a very promising future ahead of me, do I?”

“I won’t deny that it could be improved,” Sameena admitted. He scowled at her. “You really need to do something with yourself.”

Sarfraz nodded. “I’m thinking of joining the army,” he said. Sameena gaped at him. “They’re looking for young recruits.”

“You might die,” Sameena said. “Are you certain that this is a good idea?”

Sarfraz shook his head. “No, but how many other options do I have?” He asked. “I could go on the dole, except I still have my pride. I can’t really go to university with my qualifications, but the Army will take me.”

“Young and dumb,” Sameena said. “I don’t want to lose you, you know.”

“I’m rather attached to my life myself,” Sarfraz said. “Will you come with me?”

“You want me to join the army?” Sameena asked, astonished. “I don’t think they’ll want me, you know.”

“I meant will you come with me to the recruitment centre,” Sarfraz said. “I think that you can read all of the papers and make certain that I don’t sign away my soul as well.”

Sameena hesitated. “I trust that you will at least agree to informing our family,” she said finally. “Once you’re committed, at least.”

“Very well,” Sarfraz said. He stood up, dusting imaginary flecks of dust off his trousers. “Come on, sister; let’s go get something to eat.”

***
Two miles nearer to the centre of Manchester, late in the night, BBC reporter and investigator Charlene Jackson entered the office of the Head of Programming, Manchester Section. Edmund Robertson, Head of Programming, smiled up at her as she entered, admiring her as always. For her part, Charlene was wondering why she’d been summoned to his office so late. She hadn’t done anything really…disastrous lately, which meant that he wasn’t going to be angry with her, and she hadn’t had any new scoops recently, which meant that he wasn’t going to be pleased with her.

“Thank you for coming,” Robertson said, without preliminaries. His deep tenor voice sounded…off, as if he was deeply worried. “You’re my best reporter, presenter and researcher, all rolled into one.”

Charlene smiled at the flattery, her mind working as fast as it could. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and she meant it. Whatever else one could say about Robertson – and his detractors said a lot – he had never used his position to get her into bed, or to force young naive interns into compromising positions. He was a decent man in a world where decency was almost non-existent.

“I apologise for calling you here at this time,” he said. His face creased with worry. “I have been…requested to offer you an…extremely unusual position, a place on a classified governmental project, which will be declassified soon.”

Charlene blinked. “That’s odd?” She asked. “What is this project?”

Robertson scowled at her. He didn’t suffer fools gladly; in fact he didn’t suffer them at all. “I just told you that it was classified,” he snapped. “You will be taken to a government centre somewhere, I think it would be Hack Green, and there you will be briefed.” He paused. “Something odd is going on, Charlene; a lot of late night sittings at the House and a lot of people have been quietly informed that they will be called back to the colours, mainly army people.”

“Perhaps it’s a drill,” Charlene said. “Perhaps we’re about to go to war with Russia.”

Robertson made a face. “Perish the thought,” he said. “Now, I cannot force you to accept this position, but are you interested? Do you want the post?”

Charlene thought for a moment. “I won’t say no,” she said. “However, I would like to know more about it first.”

Robertson tapped the intercom. “Colonel Gore, you may come in now,” he said. Charlene lifted a single eyebrow as a well-dressed military man in civilian clothes entered the office. “Charlene, this is Colonel Gore, who will brief you.”

“I must warn you that disclosure of any information I give you will be regarded as a breach of a verbal agreement to keep it classified,” Colonel Gore said. Charlene smiled inwardly; he should have been called Colonel Bore. His voice was as dry as dust. “If you do not want to accept that obligation, you must clearly say so now.”

“I accept,” Charlene said crossly. “Now, what is this all about?”

“I can’t tell you everything,” Colonel Gore said dryly. Charlene realised with a shock that Robertson was out of the loop. “What I can tell you is simple; you will be working with a classified military-civilian team at an undisclosed location, and you will be sealed in for the duration of two months, perhaps less. While you will be permitted to write to friends and relatives, your letters will be read and censored if necessary.”

Charlene started to object. Colonel Gore held up his hand and continued. “You will be given full access to everything within the project, which will place you in the forefront of reporting when the lid comes off and the world sees everything. In addition, you will be granted interviews with the majority of the scientists involved, and you will be offered the chance to write the official history, later on.”

He seemed to find that very funny. Charlene didn’t know why. “In essence,” she said carefully, “you want me to work with your people on this…project, and report on it afterwards.”

“You will be involved in presenting it to the public,” Colonel Gore said. “It reflects considerable interest in your career at the highest levels. You have a high public-trust rating, certainly the highest for any media reporter. You have worked with military units before. You have some common sense, which is rarer than you might suppose.”

Robertson coughed. “Oh, you have no idea,” he said dryly.

Colonel Gore snorted. “I think I do,” he said, grinning. It was the first spark of character the man had shown. “If you are still interested, please say so now.”

Charlene nodded. “Very well,” she said. “What now?”

“You are unmarried and currently not involved with anyone,” Colonel Gore said. The way he said it convinced Charlene that he wasn’t guessing; he had researched her life thoroughly. “You will write a letter to your parents, your friends, and anyone else who might be concerned, explaining that you have been offered a post at short notice abroad. Once that is done, you will join me for a short car trip to the base.”

Charlene blinked. “I thought that the government could never do anything fast,” she said. “I thought that…”

“Tonight, yes,” Colonel Gore said. “We simply don’t have time for leisure.”

Robertson smiled. “Good luck,” he said. “I’ll reassure everyone here.”

“I’ll write to you as well,” Charlene assured him. “Colonel Bore – ah, Colonel Gore – I…”

Robertson laughed. It broke the spell. “Everyone makes that mistake,” Colonel Gore said. “I can’t think why.”

Charlene blushed. “I’ll just get my overnight bag packed,” she said. “How much will I need?”

“Enough for a week’s wear,” Colonel Gore said. “Everything else you could possibly need will be provided on the base.”

“Then let’s go,” Charlene said. “I can’t wait to find out what the hells going on.”

***
An Asian extended family could consist of hundreds of members, spread over an entire city. Everyone was related to everyone else, and everyone knew their place. To Sarfraz, it was at once both a source of strength and a major problem; every member of the family saw it as their duty to police the behaviour of everyone else. This applied even more to the men than the girls, contrary to popular impression.

When Sarfraz and Sameena arrived home, they were unsurprised to see several of their aunts and uncles gathered in the parlour, discussing the same old issue time and time again. Sarfraz felt a flicker of envy for the English; they didn’t have to face such interrogations.

“She didn’t want to marry me,” he said, hoping to get that on the table before anyone could start accusing him of anything. Several aunts began chatting away, commenting upon him, Noreen, and what a pity it was that his parents hadn’t raised him properly.

“Allah commanded us not to marry anyone against his or her will,” he said, demonstrating his piety. One thing that any Muslim learnt quickly was that belief was nothing, compared to the pressure to conform, no matter how un-Islamic it was . “She did not want to marry me, and I will not marry her.”

“But she will have to return to the motherland,” an aunt said. Some people hid their smiles; Auntie Ji spent most of her time complaining about the English weather, an English habit she’d picked up upon within one week of her arrival, normally mixed in with demands that she return to India. “She will…”

“Doubtless find someone else,” Sarfraz said. He allowed himself a brief flicker of humour; his harsh comment had shut the entire room up. “I have a career in mind.”

There was a burst of comment, mainly about how ill brought up he was. The hypocrisy shocked him, seeing it clearly for the first time. All of them had their sins, but as long as they remained hidden, they acted as pure as the newly-fallen snow. Three different languages echoed around the room, a confusing cacophony designed by the aunts to confuse anyone else, anyone who didn’t know them.

He took a breath. “I have to build a career,” he said. “I’m going to join the army.”

The reaction was immediate. “I forbid it,” his uncle Ackbar snapped. Sarfraz’s father, who wasn’t fond of his brother in law, glared at him. “No man of my family is going to…”

“And who are you to forbid him anything?” Sarfraz’s father asked sharply. “I do the forbidding here.”

Sarfraz shook his head and left the room, knowing that the chatter would follow him up the stairs and into his room. He smiled suddenly as he passed Sameena, who was talking to her boyfriend, and winked at her, imaging the reaction of the cackling hens downstairs to that news. Girls had to remain pure for marriage – and Sameena was anything but.

“It went about as expected,” he muttered to her. He rather approved of Brad – his sister’s boyfriend – even though he did question his sanity. “Tell him to make a honest woman of you before its too late.”

“At least they haven’t disowned you,” Sameena said. “Brad says that you can stay with him if they do.”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Sarfraz said. “Tell him I said thank you.” He sighed. “I’m off to bed, sister; wake me up for morning prayers.”

Chapter Three: Cassandra

Permanent Joint Headquarters
Northwood, London
United Kingdom
13th March 2001

As he had done for the past three years, Colonel Tom Anderson pulled himself out of bed with an effort, cursing the politicians who had placed him in the spot he held. His small flat, near London, was a mess; all the signs of a bachelor on the way downhill. Even as he showered and shaved, he knew that going into work was pointless; no one would care if he took the entire day off. He cursed as he shaved the stubble off, cutting the side of his cheek, and wiped the blood off with a paper towel. He didn’t look in the mirror; it was too depressing.

His ablutions done, he paused long enough to grab the sandwiches he had prepared earlier, and headed out of the door to the train station. The only good thing about his hours what that he missed the local rush hour; he left for work just after it had finished. The trains were still packed, but they were not packed to bursting. A nasty look, a man who still knew how to fight, kept the young toughs away from him, which he felt was a pity. Some extreme violence would have lightened his mood.

He wasn’t important enough to deserve a private car, something he was privately grateful for. His extreme views on the use of the army made him unpopular; each man who drove an important officer around, he felt, could have been in a better position fighting for God, Queen and Country. He reached the Permanent Joint headquarters a little after ten, stamping inside with his usual disdain for formalities.

“Morning, Colonel,” the guard said. He was the only visible sign of any defences around the most vital military command base in the United Kingdom. “I need to see your card today, sir.”

Anderson was puzzled. It was a change in routine, and he was old enough to understand that any change in routine was dangerous. It might have been something that he had been urging for years – and he had a sneaking suspicion that the guard paid more attention to him than anyone else – but it was odd, unexpected.

“Here it is,” he said, wishing that he’d shaved better. His identification photograph made him look like a serial killer, and at the moment he probably looked very much like his photograph. “Any wise comments and I’ll belt you.”

“Threatening the guard is a bad move,” the guard said, giving the ID a very careful check indeed. “Yes, Colonel; it looks like you.”

Anderson scowled at him. “What the hell is going on?” He snapped. “Has someone finally been reading my memos?”

“I honestly don’t know,” the guard said. “All I know is that the Chief ordered a major security alert and I obeyed orders. There’s an entire SAS squad on alert, even now.”

“Must be a terrorist alert,” Anderson muttered, and passed through the security gate. The various clerks and officers who ran Britain’s peacetime military ignored him, talking together in hushed voices. Anderson ignored them back, making his way through the vast building, decorated with pictures of Britain’s great military history, until he reached his office.

“Well, at least nothing’s different here,” he said. It was false comfort; he took his seat and started to read the folders the secretary had brought for him last night. It was busywork, and he was smart enough to admit that to himself; busywork meant to keep the army’s dirty little secret busy. He looked up from a folder describing the postings to the Falklands Islands to look around his room; it wasn’t one that the politicians were ever shown.

He scowled. A single bookshelf, a single table with a coffee cup and a kettle, both needing washed, a fridge and a telephone that never rang. He’d once dared to hope that he would be called back into service, but instead he was trapped in his half-life. Not quite employed, unable to give anything, but the best…and never appreciated for his own work and the skills he brought to the military.

The telephone rang.

Anderson gaped at it, feeling his mouth drop open. It rang again, insistently, pounding against the beginnings of a headache. He jumped to his feet and lifted the telephone from the hook, suspecting that it was a joke; a cruel practical joke played by one of his many enemies.

“Colonel Anderson, Strategic Planning,” he said, and knew the words were…not quite a lie, but certainly not exactly the truth. War plans were not considered important in the era of peace and love; the most important piece of work he’d done had been the plans for a second deployment to Iraq in 1999, when Saddam had rattled his cage again. He’d warned them at the time that leaving the bastard in power would have led to an endless commitment, but the current American President was feckless and…

“This is General Mathews,” the voice on the end said. “You sound like shit.”

Anderson felt a hot flash of anger that burned away the headache. General Mathews had believed in him, if not enough to ensure that his reports and work were considered with the respect they deserved. General Mathews had also been responsible for keeping him in his half-employment, never certain if he was going to be employed tomorrow or not.

“I feel like shit too, sir,” he said. General Mathews rated some politeness, but not much. “What can I do for you?”

General Mathews hardened his tone. “You can get your ass to my office, at once,” he snapped. “Now!”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Anderson snapped, coming to attention at once. He put down the phone and jumped into his small toilet, checking his appearance with practiced skill. A quick comb, passed through his hair, ensured that he looked reasonably presentable; he put his cap on his head and headed out the door at walking pace. It didn’t do to keep generals waiting, but at the same time, it didn’t do to arrive sweating. It was one of the reasons why military bureaucrats became so important during peacetime; they were better at keeping the balance between looking good and punctuality.

***
In person, General Mathews made an impressive figure. His craggy face, lined with worry lines, hid under a peaked cap, his grey hair cut into a neat military hairstyle. He inspired confidence in the men he had commanded, before being passed on into the heights of the British establishment. A knighthood had been offered to him, but he’d declined it.

“Tom,” he said, as Anderson entered. “How are you feeling?”

Anderson blinked. “About as well as can be expected,” he said. “The latest round of busywork should be finished by the end of next week.”

He didn’t bother to hide his bitterness. Mathews nodded in understanding; he had been one of those who’d arranged Anderson’s post in PJHQ; one of endless work that would never serve a practical purpose.

“It’s been cancelled,” Mathews said. Anderson gaped at him. “You may have noticed that something is up.”

Anderson nodded, feeling a glimmer of resentment at being left out of whatever it was. The entire base was on full alert, but he wasn’t being asked to do anything. He knew that it was stupid, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Yes, I have,” he said. “Are we about to be attacked by the IRA?”

Mathews shook his head. “I wish,” he said. “I would sooner return to Belfast then face the sudden new menace.”

“We’re finally about to kick the European Union in the unmentionables?” Anderson guessed hopefully. “Sir, what’s happened?”

“You are still a serving officer in the British Army,” Mathews said. He held up a hand to forestall comment. “Yes, I know; the government and the senior military establishment has treated you like shit, for reasons that seemed good at the time.”

“I’m sure they did,” Anderson sneered.

“Yes,” Mathews said flatly. “You are being recalled – reassigned, I should say – to active duty as part of a special task force. In addition, we will be recalling everyone who has ever worn a uniform for Britain in a war.”

Anderson blinked. Part of his job was to keep track of every former serving military officer. “Sir, with all due respect, anyone from before the Falklands will not be suitable for service. That was eighteen years ago, sir; anyone from before then will have been out of uniform for over twenty years. They won’t be healthy.”

Mathews grinned at him. “Yes, they will be,” he said. “They’re going to be recalling veterans from Korea, even World War Two.”

Anderson ran out of patience. “Sir, just what in the name of hell is going on here?”

“I was waiting for you to ask that,” Mathews said. “Read this.”

He passed a small folder across the table. Anderson took it and examined it thoughtfully; it was small, but fairly well detailed, broken down into its component sections. He skipped forward to the THREAT section...and swore.

“Sir; is this some kind of joke?” He asked. “Sir, aliens don’t exist!”

Mathews chuckled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I would have expected you, of all people, to have drawn up a plan for fighting extraterrestrials.”

Anderson returned to the front pages of the document and read quickly. The Galactic Federation had warned of the oncoming Posleen, which would land on Earth in…five years. The humans had that long to get ready to hold them off, or the human race would be eaten alive – literally.

He shook his head. “I have plans for an invasion by Europeans,” he said. “It’s not quite the same, sir.” He paused. “What’s to stop them just hammering us from orbit?”

“They don’t seem to build space stations,” Mathews said seriously. “Read the THREAT ASSESSMENT section.”

Anderson read though it three times; once to get the general idea, once to read all of the details, and once to re-assess the high points. It was grim; the Posleen seemed to concentrate on landing a powerful force on the surface of the planet, and then advancing against the areas they were particularly interested in. He shuddered; the Posleen were interested in cities, industrial centres and other centres of population.

“I’m surprised you didn’t reference my paper on the subject for O-Level exams,” he muttered.

“We would have if we’d known about it,” Mathews said seriously.

Anderson snorted. “I really hope that that was a joke,” he said.

“It’s not quite as bad as it seems,” Mathews said, changing the subject. Anderson looked at him. “We will have access to some Galactic technologies, including rejuvenation and medical technology that will allow us to bring back people who have served as far back as World War Two; perhaps even earlier. In exchange, some of our units are going to serve off-planet.”

“That’s worse than sending troops to Singapore,” Anderson snapped. “If I’m reading this correctly, once the Posleen arrive the surface of the planet will be sealed off from space…”

“We’re going to be building planetary defence centres,” Mathews injected. “A lot of the Earth-wide defence measures are going to be agreed through NATO, and we’ll be contributing through a complex network of shared information. Naturally, politics will be playing a role.”

“And no one had any idea about this since Roswell?” Anderson asked dryly. “It would be just like the Yanks to keep something like this to themselves.”

“Roswell never happened,” Mathews said. “The Federation apparently was asked about that by the French.”

Anderson laughed. “They really don’t like the Americans, do they?” He said dryly. “How many ships do we get?”

“Fleet – the unified organisation – will control the ships,” Anderson said. “Don’t ask me to explain Federation budgets; they make balancing our budget look easy and simple. In essence, we will be paid by the Federation for the services of our men, which will be used for paying for Federation goods and supplies to build defences.” He paused. “The deployment of new technology will be handled through Fleet and a series of collective groups; I expect that we’ll be working with the Americans and the Europeans.”

He coughed significantly. “You’re the Cassandra,” he said. “You’re the one who said that we should keep our plans and drills updated. I want you – Tom – to come up with the war-fighting plans we need to hold Britain.”

Anderson snorted. “General, how long has it been since we fought a real war?” He asked. “We haven’t bothered with civil defence since 1960, sir; the population will run around like headless sheep. Apart from the IRA, I don’t think we’ve had a real armed attack on our soil for a very long time indeed.”

“That’s why you are going to plan our response,” Mathews said firmly. He waved a hand at a collection of other folders. “This is Most Secret, by the way, so don’t tell anyone.” Anderson nodded. “Meet me back here at 1400hrs; we have a war to plan.”

Anderson blinked; surely the plans couldn’t be worked out that fast. “Sir, what is the legal situation?” He asked. “When are we going to tell the people?”

“You can’t tell the people,” Mathews said wryly. “The current plan is to go public in around two months, so we have that long to make preparations. Once we go public, the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition have made certain agreements and the Defence of the Realm Act will be invoked. In effect, we will have total authority.”

Anderson smiled. “I’ll be back to you in three hours,” he said.

***
Three hours later, Anderson faced Mathews across the main table in the room, feeling dread and a strange sick excitement; the excitement of a man who has seen his dream and his nightmare come true. He spread hastily-marked maps out on the table, marked with red and green lines in pen and pencil.

“We’re in serious trouble,” he said flatly. “The smallest enemy landing craft, the globe, carries around four million Posleen, all of whom will be combat soldiers. If we take the worse case scenario – so far – and conclude that the Posleen will send seventy globes in the first wave, which is the maximum the Federation has observed so far, they will drop seventy times four million Posleen on the planet, which is…two hundred and eighty million Posleen. That two hundred and eighty million Posleen, in the first wave alone, will be reinforced by further waves, around five if we don’t count the scattered showers, which means that in three or so years there will be one thousand and four hundred million Posleen on the surface of Earth.

“Now, we would be very unlikely to face all of them on British terrain,” he continued. “By the law of averages alone, I would expect most of them to land in Europe, Russia and China, as well as America. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to operate along the same lines as we do, so predicting exactly where they would land is impossible.”

“We might have to hire fortune tellers,” Mathews said.

“I do hope that that’s a joke,” Anderson said. “Sir, with all due respect, we might end up clinging to islands like Britain, and the Posleen holding all of the rest.”

“I hope not,” Mathews said grimly. “Options?”

“The Americans and our liaison personnel will be discussing the use of Galactic technology in a meeting in a week,” Anderson said. “For the moment…we’re in serious trouble. For a start, the RAF will be grounded.”

“Most of the pilots are slated for transfer to Fleet,” Mathews said. “However, we were hoping to use helicopters…”

“Nowhere near the Posleen,” Anderson said grimly. He tapped a red circle on the map, centred between Edinburgh and Glasgow. “If the Posleen land here, sir, they will utterly interdict air travel and aircraft between the Highlands and the Midlands. Hell, sir; some of their weapons are capable of taking out targets in orbit from the ground.” He sighed. “Point is, sir, all the money we spent on the Eurofighter was wasted.”

“Bother,” Mathews said mildly. The famous combat jet hadn’t even taken one flight off the ground before it had been cancelled forever. “I suppose the same goes for the aircraft carriers?”

Anderson nodded. “They at least will come in handy for sea work,” he said. “I have a few ideas along those lines; they just need time to develop. However, we cannot rely on anything, but the army, and not as much of it as we dared hope.” He scowled. “Those weapons they have will punch through a Challenger or a Chieftain with ease, so we can forget a manoeuvre war.”

Mathews scowled. “The commander of 1st Armoured, which is slated for Barwhon, is confident that his forces can rip the Posleen to bits.”

“Not a chance,” Anderson said grimly. “Tanks are not going to help us in this situation, sir. We might come up with something that will have Galactic technology, or even some tougher armour that will make up the difference, but sir; I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Mathews shook his head. “Don’t underestimate ingenuity,” he said. “Have you a solution?”

“We need two things; infantry and artillery,” Anderson said. “We may come up with a silver bullet – and we should look for a bioweapon that can kill Posleen – but we have to go back to the basics. We need thousands of cannons and millions of shells; weapons from the First World War, although perhaps with improved aiming. We need to have infantry dug in, preventing the Posleen from moving – and the only way to do that is to kill all of them – and we have to shell them into the ground.”

Mathews considered. “Can they not spread out to avoid the artillery?”

Anderson shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “The Posleen seem to move in companies; one God King to several hundred…I’m tempted to call them slaves, but I’m not sure if that fits. Kill the God King; the slaves begin to move out of control.” He shrugged. “Snipers are going to be at a premium,” he said grimly.

“I assume that you’ve drawn up a basic plan,” Mathews said. “I’ll present it to the War Cabinet tomorrow, but for the moment; what are the important points?”

Anderson sighed. “Sir, we need three things; we need conscription, we need a massive industrial effort, and we need to start finding places to put our population.” He looked up at Mathews for a long moment. “Sir, if the Posleen run true to form, they’ll come down in the south of England…which is our most populated region.” He tapped the map. “When they land, our mission is simple; we have to kill each and every one of them before they break out and kill us instead.”

Chapter Four: In the Army

Rusholme, Manchester
16th March 2001

The room was messy and untidy, a typical teenager’s bedroom. A small television, connected to a Sega Mega Drive, sat on one table; they’d spent the last two days trying to forget about their lives. Sarfraz sat up slowly, shaking his head. After everything, after deciding he wasn’t going to marry the girl, his family had rejected him.

He shook his head slowly. The Army had accepted his application and ordered him to report in four days – today. His family had had several different kinds of fit, which had ended with him deciding to leave – a decision helped by his father holding the door open and waiting for him to choose. He regretted it at time, even though Brad had been as good as his word.

“You could still marry her,” his mother had said. “They’re a very important family.”

Sarfraz felt a tear trickling down his cheek. The Ullah family wasn’t important at all; they merely had a girl they wanted to live in the country permanently. It was better, he supposed, than marrying someone like Sameena to someone from the old country, but not by much. Their only strength came from their size; they hadn’t been happy at all.

“What did they expect?” He asked himself silently, and knew the truth. They’d expected him to agree to marry her at once, and they’d expected their daughter to open her legs for him, without any concern for what the young couple wanted for themselves. It was the age-old compromise between faith and culture; between family and individuality.

“Rise and shine, solider,” Brad said cheerfully. His sister’s boyfriend was English, something that would have shocked his family even more than his refusal to marry Noreen. Traditionally, he supposed he was supposed to start a fight with Brad for his sister’s honour, but she would have killed him for it. Besides, it was difficult not to like Brad; he was a decent man in a world of evil people.

“Fuck off,” he said. Brad ignored him, placing a small tray on the table. The smell of scrambled eggs rose up, reminding him that he was hungry. “Thanks.”

“So the fucking can wait,” Brad said wryly. “How are you feeling?”

Sarfraz laughed bitterly. “I’ve felt better,” he said. “What time is it?”

“Nearly ten o’clock,” Brad said. “You’re supposed to report to the recruiting station at eleven.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” Sarfraz said sardonically, taking a plate. The scrambled eggs were tasty, even though the toast was burned. “Nice toast.”

Brad cocked an eyebrow at him. “You can laugh when you learn to make toast yourself,” he said. As a student, he had his own house, which had been purchased by his father.

“I can make toast,” Sarfraz protested. “Why, only five days ago I made an entire plateful of toast.”

“That’s not the way Sameena tells it,” Brad said. He chuckled. “According to her you went through an entire packet of bread, just to get it right finally.”

“My loving sister,” Sarfraz said wryly. He sobered, putting down the plate. “You will take care of her, won’t you?”

Brad nodded, suddenly serious. “Yes, I will,” he promised.

“And make a honest woman of her before someone else tries to make a dishonest woman of her,” Sarfraz said. “Marry her, take her somewhere else if she’ll go with you.”

“Pity the poor bastard who tries to take her anywhere against her will,” Brad said. “Damn it; I hate long goodbyes.”

Sarfraz smiled despite himself. “I suppose I should get dressed,” he said, jumping into the shower. Five minutes later, he stuck his head out. “Does it ever run hot in here?”

Brad laughed. “You really don’t want to know,” he said. “I think it was one of my father’s little jokes.”

Sarfraz shook his head. “Your father won’t be trying to marry you off to someone,” he said. “Pass me a towel, and then I can be on my way.”

***
Brad came with him as they walked through Rusholme, passing shops from the Far East and China. Twenty years or so ago, the immigrant community had been placed in Rusholme – and they’d made it their own. The occasional burst of racial tension aside, Rusholme was surprisingly peaceful – and there was nowhere else to match its curries.

“I’m going to miss this,” Sarfraz said, as they passed gaudily dressed Hindu women, chattering away about nothing. Someone with a sick sense of humour had planted Hindus and Muslims next to one another, and the two religions stared at each other with a dignified silence.

“You’ll come back,” Brad said, as they reached the recruitment centre. “You’ll be back before we know it.”

“Up yours,” Sarfraz said. He stuck out a hand. “You’ve been a good friend,” he said. “Take care of her.”

“You know I will,” Brad said. They shook hands. “Good luck.”

Sarfraz nodded and stepped inside the recruitment centre. The officer on the desk smiled at him; recruits were few and far between in Rusholme. Some of the citizens had army experience, but not British Army experience, and few of the children wanted an army career.

“So, you came back,” he said. He stuck out a hand. “You just won me a kebab.”

Sarfraz gaped at him. “You had a bet on me?” He asked. “What’s happening?”

“Oh, we had a kid here who wanted to join the SAS,” the officer said, as they shook hands. “I’m Sergeant Adder, by the way. Stupid kid had done it on a bet and was horrified to discover that there was a five-year training course and service as a grunt first. That’s why we have a short period for you to reconsider.”

Sarfraz laughed dutifully. “I considered. I reconsidered. I had second thoughts, third thoughts, and then I rather lost count. And I’m still here.”

“Welcome to hell, kid,” Adder said. His tone was friendly. “I have a lot of paperwork for you to sign, I’m afraid, and then you have to be on the bus.”

Sarfraz blinked. “I’m that important?”

Adder cackled. “Of course not, son,” he said. “Normally, we would expect recruits to report to their barracks, but we have special orders for the moment. They were just issued two days ago. We’re to bus you lot to a reactivated barracks.”

“I see,” Sarfraz said. “When do we leave?”

“Sign here,” Adder said. He looked up, meeting Sarfraz’s eyes. “This is pretty much your last chance to back out.”

“Pass me the papers,” Sarfraz said. He examined them quickly; a medical form, a liability form – he chucked at that one – a signed declaration of loyalty to the Queen and half a dozen others, from pensions to next of kin. He wrote Sameena in as his next of kin; she’d know what to do if he died.

“Welcome to the Army,” Kettle said. “Do you know how to salute?”

Sarfraz struck a saluting pose. “Ridiculous,” Kettle snapped. “It needs improvement.”

He demonstrated, talking all the time. “It’s not as simple as the television makes it look, kid; it needs proper pose.”

“Yes,” Sarfraz said, copying him.

“That’s yes sir,” Kettle snapped. “Sir everyone; a new cadet has no one to look down upon.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarfraz snapped. He came to attention. “How was that?”

Kettle grinned. “For God’s sake, don’t ask the commanding general how well you did,” he said. “Again.” Sarfraz snapped to attention. “At…ease!”

Sarfraz relaxed slightly. “Sir, what do we do now?”

“You don’t ask questions either,” Kettle said. “You have thirty minutes until the bus leaves, son; you may remain here or you may take your last look around this godforsaken city.”

Sarfraz grinned, and then a plaque on the wall caught his attention. He read it quickly; it didn’t seem to be in the right spirit for a recruiting office. Puzzled, he read it again and then stepped out for a quick walk. There was someone he wanted to see for the last time.

N: Dear faithful old hairy English Tommy! Ten years you waited here rather than disobey that last order I gave you. Stay here till I came back, I said to him. He waited alone in the desert. He never wavered from his duty. He kept the name of servitude shining bright. Eccles - Eccles - you upheld the flag. You never questioned the order. You stayed out here alone. You, without food or water. You, without money. You, without anything to stop you walking away. You! You IDIOT!"

***
The kebab house was closed, it not being lunchtime yet, but Sarfraz tapped on the door. A young brown-skinned girl opened it, her eyes wet with tears. He reached out and gave her a hug, heedless for once of who might be watching.

“Are you alright?” He asked finally. “I’m sorry…”

“So you should be,” she said. Her voice was a curious blend of Lancashire and India, like many third-generation immigrants. “You go and leave me…”

He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be back,” he promised. “I’ll keep in touch…”

“That won’t be easy with dad opening my letters,” Anisa said. His girlfriend stared at him. “You’ll come back with a lot of foreign girls and…”

Sarfraz laughed at her, not unkindly. “I’m just going for the training,” he said. “Once I’m a proper soldier, we can get married…”

“It’s all around the town that your father has disowned you,” Anisa said. “Will my parents agree?”

Sarfraz felt rebellion flowering deep within him. “Does it matter?” He asked. “Love, I have to be back in” – he checked his watch – “twenty minutes. Please – I don’t want my last memory of you to be you in tears.”

Anisa shook her head slowly. “Me neither,” she said. “Sarfraz; come back to me.”

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

***
The bus was surprisingly civilian; there was no suggestion that it was carrying nearly twenty would-be soldiers, or even their small bag of personal belongings. Sarfraz saluted Sergeant Kettle, then the driver of the bus, before taking his seat. His bag, which he’d left at the station, had already been placed inside the bus.

“Not a bad salute,” the driver said, starting the engine. “You’re the last person for this bus, so we’ll be on our way directly to the training centre. All very hush-hush; you guys are in for some surprises.”

“Thank you,” one of the recruits said. He stuck out a hand to Sarfraz. “I’m John McLachlan,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Sarfraz Ahmed,” Sarfraz said. “What are you in for?”

John chuckled. “Oh, I knocked down an old lady,” he said. Only the grin on his face kept Sarfraz from believing him. “The judge gave me a choice between jail, the army, or apologising to the old lady.” He snickered. “Of course, if I’d known that there was a war on, I would have apologised.”

“You stole that from the Simpsons,” one of the other recruits said, challenging him. “Hi, I’m Derek.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Sarfraz said. They passed a happy hour on the bus, exchanging names and trivia, before they arrived at a camp. The sign on the gate was rather unwelcoming, warning of armed guards and hungry dogs.

“Friendly place,” John muttered. The recruits fell silent as the car drew up outside a large manor house.

“Welcome to Churchill Training Centre,” the driver said. “Get out, form up!”

The recruits hurried to obey. A burly sergeant looked them up and down before ordering them to stand at ease. The recruits relaxed slightly, trying to look around without moving their heads.

“Welcome to Churchill Training Centre,” a voice said. A young man dressed in the uniform of a captain saluted them. They tried to salute him back, to the obvious dismay of the sergeant.

“Normally, you would have gone to Deepcut or Aldershot or one of the other training centres,” the captain said. “This base, Churchill Training Centre, has been newly reactivated for the training of new recruits, while the more…formal training centres are being used for the reactivation of old recruits.”

For some reason, he seemed to find that very funny. “Naturally, we don’t intend to slack on your training,” he said. “For various reasons I am not at liberty to disclose to you, we are expecting several hundred recruits here in the next couple of months, and then thousands more.” He grinned, showing teeth. “Seeing you lot volunteered for this, I think I can tell you that we expect you to be the leaders in your class.”

Sarfraz was puzzled. Was there a war on? “I’m Captain Yates,” the Captain said. “This is Sergeant Benton. We will begin your proper training when the rest of you arrive, in a few days, but for the moment I will leave you in his capable hands.”

He saluted them, and then left, leaving Sergeant Benton studying them. “Right, you lot,” he said. His voice became sticky-sweet. “You may have heard of sergeants who are nice and kind to the recruits, who generally kiss them to make it better, and who fluff up the pillows on the four-poster beds in the barracks, right?”

The recruits, too inexperienced to sense the trap, nodded. Some even spoke aloud. “I am not one of those sergeants,” Sergeant Benton thundered. “My job is to make you soldiers, not the little shits they have outside Buckingham Palace, nor the shits they have looking good on guard duty, but the real deal – combat soldiers who will never give up! I am going to put you though hell so that you can put the enemy though hell, understand?”

There was an incoherent murmur. “That’s ‘sir, yes, sir,’” Sergeant Benton thundered. “Do you understand?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Sarfraz shouted, along with the other recruits.

“So, maybe you’re not entirely hopeless,” Sergeant Benton snapped. “Now drop and give me fifty!”

Some of the recruits fell to the ground at once, doing push-ups, and the others took their lead from them. “Faster,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “Move it; your life depends on how fast you can do the press-ups!”

Sarfraz finished his fifty with a sigh of relief. “Another fifty,” Sergeant Benton snapped. “Move it; do you think the enemy is going to give you a rest? They’ll chase you over hills and dales until you’re fucking tired, you bunch of pansies!”

The small group finished the press-ups and stood to attention, careful not to show any signs of weakness. Sergeant Benton examined them thoughtfully, studying them all carefully, looking for signs of…something. Sarfraz, his every muscle aching, didn’t have the energy to puzzle it out.

“Very good,” he said finally. “Follow me!”

He led them around the manor, commenting on one small barracks after another, and finally led them up to a barrack house. “This will be your home for the next few months,” he snapped. Sarfraz wondered if Sergeant Benton could do anything without shouting. “Enter!”

Sarfraz stepped inside the dark rooms, his hands fumbling for a light switch. “It’s here,” John said, the usual humour gone from his voice. The lights came on, revealing row after row of bunk beds, stretching off towards a dark series of showers at the end.

“You use the cupboard under the bunks to store your stuff,” Sergeant Benton snapped. His voice echoed though the room, it was that large. “It’s 1700hrs now, so you have half an hour to get used to these barracks. Choose your bunks, decide where you want to sleep; take a shower if you want. Food will be served at 1730 precisely; anyone who isn’t there will go hungry.”

His voice darkened. “We have had problems, beforehand, with people bringing drugs and alcohol into the barracks,” he said. “This is the one warning you get; if you have brought anything like that, dump it into those bins and we won’t ask any questions.”

He swept out, leaving the recruits looking at each other. “I hurt,” John said finally. Sarfraz nodded. He ached too, all over. “That bastard…”

“That bastard is trying to keep you alive,” Derek said. He looked up and down the room, and then picked a single bunk bed, right at the back. “I think we should sleep together.”

The group chuckled. “I don’t swing that way,” John said. “Count me out.”

“Sinful,” Sarfraz agreed. Islam had very clear rules on homosexuality. They boiled down to don’t. “I think we should sleep in separate beds, it’s not safe here.”

Derek turned an interesting colour. “That’s not quite what I meant,” he said. “We’re a group and we should stay together as a group.”

Sarfraz thought about it, and then dumped his bag on the bed next to Derek’s. “I agree,” he said. “I have a grim thought that they will want us to work together.”

John nodded. “If any of you try to grope me in the night,” he threatened, but no one was listening. He took the bed at the end. “Wake me up when its tea time.”

***
On reflection, Sarfraz decided that he had enjoyed his first day in the army. The food had been plain and monotonous – even though the Army had been more than willing to accommodate his dietary requirements – but there had been plenty of it. Afterwards, Derek and John had organised a football match while Sergeant Benton showed the stream of newcomers around, establishing his dominance over them with ease.

“Attention,” Sergeant Benton bellowed, blowing a whistle for effect. The entire group, now nearly two hundred recruits, gathered in around him. In the steadily falling twilight, it was still easy to see in the floodlights around the base. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow and I expect you to be in your bunks in thirty minutes.”

Some of the newcomers made the mistake of groaning. Sergeant Benton gave them push-ups to do. “You have a long day ahead of you,” he repeated. “After all, you’re in the army now.”

Chapter Five: Politics

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
19th March 2001

The Prime Minister studied the room as the War Cabinet filed into the meeting room. The Press, so far, hadn’t managed to put all of the pieces together, but there had been questions, less than two weeks since First Contact. There were only three hundred or thereabouts Britons in the know, but the number of people who knew that something was up was far larger. Secrecy had to be maintained, at least until the military of the world powers was ready, and yet…cracks had appeared within the secrecy already.

He smiled to himself. Their inability to declare a state of emergency meant that the War Cabinet had very limited authority. Technically speaking, it shouldn’t exist, but the support of the Leader of the Opposition and a handful of his MPs was vital, just to prevent the secret from breaking out before they were ready to handle it. He grinned; could anyone handle it? The predictions had ranged from calm acceptance – which the Prime Minister thought unlikely – to outright panic. Most likely, it would be somewhere in between.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said, as soon as the doors were sealed. London was as calm as ever and he shuddered to think of what it might look like, five years hence. “I concede that this is…somewhat irregular, but given a month or so, we’ll formalise the arrangements.”

“One would hope so,” the Leader of the Opposition said. “My Party already has suspicions that I’m being unfaithful to them.”

The Prime Minister smiled, feeling the room relax briefly at the comment. “I suspect that we’d better let them keep their impression for a while,” he said. “However, time is running out, so we had better press on while the iron is hot. General Mathews?”

General Mathews stood up and walked to the end of the room, activating a PowerPoint projector, which displayed a map of Britain. “I have been very involved with constructing plans to repel the invasion and certain facts have become clear. First, we will almost certainly be unable to prevent the Posleen from gaining a foothold on Earth, most likely in South America and Europe. Even if every man and woman on Earth was under arms, we just don’t have the manpower.”

“Wonderful,” the Leader of the Opposition muttered. “Not only do we have to worry about UFOs landing and dumping alien soldiers onto our lawns, but we have to fight a land war as well.”

“Effectively, yes,” General Mathews said. The Prime Minister smiled; there would be time to correct the misunderstandings later. “That said, sir, we are an island. If we can destroy the Posleen that land on our shores, we have an excellent chance of holding them off from the rest of the world.” He coughed. “We can prevent them from crossing the channel, if necessary, and we can blow up the Channel Tunnel.”

He adjusted the map. Great circles of red appeared on it. “Unfortunately, we cannot guarantee keeping the land free of Posleen. While the conference in America, which was attended by some of our own people, was very creative indeed – I’ll get onto the specific details later – we may not be able to prevent a Posleen craft from landing. Once they land, they will each disgorge around four million Posleen, each armed to the teeth.”

“You can’t simply send in the RAF and bomb them?” The Foreign Secretary said. The Prime Minister frowned; the all-powerful weight of NATO’s air arm had been too important too long.

“No,” General Mathews said, and explained. “Aircraft cannot fly anywhere near them,” he concluded. “We will be forced to fight them on the ground, and that will be…difficult.”

He pointed with his stick at the map. “We have only the barest hints of intelligence on where the Posleen will land, assuming that they do indeed land in Britain. Based on the Federation’s past experience, we can expect them to land near cities and march on them almost at once.” He indicated the red circles. “They could land anywhere within Britain, gentlemen, but they are most likely to land there.”

The Prime Minister watched as the room went deadly cold. London to Oxford, Manchester to Liverpool, Cardiff to Southampton, the men and women in the room knew them all. The concept of a bitter land war fought all across the mainland was chilling; it was more than any of them were prepared to handle.

“There is only one thing that we can do,” General Mathews said, into the deathly silence. “We can – we must – destroy them while they are concentrated. That task can only be accomplished by the army. Even tactical nuclear weapons are not…certain.”

The Prime Minister frowned. He’d hoped to avoid mention of the nuclear option. He watched their faces change, knowing their thoughts. Disgusting. Our own people. Our own soil. Poisoning the land for evermore.

“We therefore have a number of problems,” General Mathews said. “We have to build up our own army as fast as possible, concentrating on infantry and artillery. In the five years we have, we must prepare for a land war across the mainland, one that could start at any time and any place.” He tapped the map again, changing it to France as it had been in 1917. “We cannot rely on having secure land borders, or the Posleen having to attack across a narrow front, although naturally we will work towards that happy outcome.”

He spoke over a babble of sudden comment. “We have to reintroduce conscription,” he said.

“Out of the question,” the Home Secretary said. The Prime Minister, who would have expected such a comment from Margent Hammond rather than his stable Home Secretary, lifted an eyebrow. “We cannot ask our young men to go fight for us against their will.”

“And our young women,” General Mathews said remorselessly. “We need – we must have – total mobilisation.”

There was another uncomfortable silence. The Prime Minister was getting sick of them. “We have very little choice,” he said, suddenly very tired. “If we are not armed to the teeth, they will eat us alive, literally.”

The Home Secretary spoke with quiet deliberation, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. “In the long run, no state deserves to survive through conscription, and none ever has,” he said.

“If we’re tossing quotes around, what about this one?” A backbencher asked. “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

The Prime Minister snorted gently. “I do not see that we have a choice,” he said. “Carry on, General.”

“We have to meet the Posleen on the ground as soon as they land,” General Mathews said flatly. “Once we do that, we have to shell them relentlessly, hammering them even as they come on against our trenches. The Galactics have never been able to make the Posleen run, but we might be able to; we might be able to kill them all quickly enough to save some parts of Britain. In order to do that, we will have to spread out our own forces.”

The Secretary of State for Defence had spent some time in the army himself. “General Mathews, I don’t wish to question your competence, but is it not true that dividing our forces is asking for a defeat in detail?”

“Unfortunately, you’re right,” General Mathews admitted. “That’s one of the reasons we need conscription; we have to be able to meet them at any point with sufficient firepower to make sure they know that they’ve been kissed. Once the landing sites have been identified, we can move forces towards them and crush them, relaying on the forces onsite to hold them.”

He frowned. “Quite frankly, once they break out, we’ll be forced to fight them in the cities, and that would destroy them.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Conscription,” he said. “General Mathews, am I correct in assuming that there are plans to implement conscription if necessary?”

“Most of them were drawn up by our old friend, Prime Minister,” General Mathews confirmed. “They’re basically simple; we just have to work out what constitutes an essential job or not.”

“I cannot say that I approve of this,” the Home Secretary said. “However, what do you envision as the timescale, should Parliament grant its approval?”

The Prime Minister winced. The last thing they needed was a long drawn-out fight with Parliament over the issue of conscription. He scowled; there was also the danger that facing such a large threat to Britain, Parliament would try to assert its supremacy over the defence of the realm. Under normal circumstances, a good political catfight would clear the air a little, but with the Posleen breathing down their necks…

General Mathews seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “We cannot simply conscript everyone at once,” he said. “For the first six months, we will be rejuvenating combat veterans and soldiers from the previous wars; soldiers, sailors and airmen, and then policemen and the other services. We’re already making preparations for that, along with devising a faster training program for the recruits we already had in the pipeline.” He frowned. “That part of the program is difficult, but most of the reservists were delighted with the offer of new youth.”

The Prime Minister smiled. He’d thought about using rejuvenation as a way of enticing some older non-military people to come fight, before realising that supplies of the rejuvenation equipment would be limited. He shuddered; Parliament would be likely to press for rejuvenating therapies for all, which would only weaken the effects.

“After that, we would begin conscription of the unemployed, eighteen to thirty,” General Mathews continued. “That should take us time, but we have five years, and then we move on to the rest. The only serious problem is simple; given how deadly the Posleen are, what about the rest of the population?”

The Prime Minister coughed. Again, the question had been carefully planted, to concentrate a few minds. “The population of Britain is around fifty-six million,” he said. “That population has to go somewhere, and that somewhere is Scotland.”

“The Scottish Parliament is going to love that,” one of the backbenchers observed. “What did the First Minister say?”

“He wasn’t too happy,” the Prime Minister observed. He nodded to General Mathews, ordering him to change the map. “Working with the Americans and the Europeans, we have decided that the only way to safeguard a large percentage of our population is to build sub-Urbs, massive housing complexes under the ground. These will be constructed with Galactic technology, at least to some extent, and they will be in mountainous territory.”

“Where the Posleen will be at a disadvantage,” General Mathews injected.

The Home Secretary snorted. “General, it seems that you are planning for defeat,” he said.

“It’s a wise precaution,” General Mathews said, without showing any annoyance. “No one would be more delighted that me if the Posleen landed away from us, or if the ground forces on the spot managed to destroy a landing before it managed to deploy, or even if the Fleet was ready before the Posleen arrive – which it won’t be. However…”

He flipped the map back to the original map, red circles covering the land. “I wish I could promise you a victory, but, dealing with so many unknowns…”

He allowed his voice to trail off, making the point for him. “I trust that the point is understood,” the Prime Minister said. “Now, what about our overseas commitments?”

“I still think that this is a very bad situation,” the Foreign Secretary said. “We are talking about giving up a large percentage of our influence in the world.”

“What price the jewel in the crown if the crown itself is lost?” The Prime Minister quoted. “Quite frankly, we can no longer afford to worry endlessly about Saddam and his threat to Kuwait. Under the circumstances, the Americans can handle it, or they can use a nuclear stick to force him to play nice.”

“We have commitments to the Americans and the Irish,” the Foreign Secretary said.

“All of which are irrelevant compared to bare survival,” the Home Secretary said. “If the Posleen land in Ireland…so what? It’s not our problem, not any longer.”

“We do train besides the Irish from time to time,” General Mathews said. His voice was grey, detached. “Still, we need the troops in Ireland for home defence. Without Irish cooperation, holding Ireland becomes impossible.”

And the Irish are one of the governments not involved with the Secret, the Prime Minister thought.

“On the other hand, we have to hold on to the Falklands,” the Foreign Secretary said. “If I understand correctly, the Posleen will not be interested in them.”

“All of the evidence suggests that,” General Mathews said. The Prime Minister lifted an eyebrow; General Mathews sounded tired and worn. “I have to remind you – again – that we’re dealing with aliens here. The Darhel might have misinterpreted the signs, and as for the Himmit, they don’t stick around long enough to be useful.”

“There are teams going out to the stars,” the Prime Minister reminded him. “We will have enough evidence of our own soon enough.”

He caught the signs of tiredness on their faces and made a decision. “We will adjourn,” he said, and knew from their looks of relief that it had been the right decision. “Tomorrow, God willing, we’ll continue making political contingency plans.”

He watched as they left the room, too tired to be insulted by the speed of their departure. There were so many problems to handle, so many matters that had to be decided before the entire secret became public, so much that had to be done to convince the public that the government knew what it was doing.

He shook his head slowly. The government had had an easy time so far. Their majority had been powerful enough to allow for internal dissent and still maintain control. That wouldn’t last, he knew; the trick was to maintain the balance between centre-left and centre. Extreme-left would oppose him for good and decent reasons; extreme-right would oppose him for dark and dangerous reasons.

Can I gainsay them? He asked himself. Can I say that they are wrong?

Deep inside, the Prime Minister knew that he was not Pitt, or Churchill, both men who had led Britain through dangerous wars and faced down sheer threats to the survival of Britain. He felt the weight of the world settling around his shoulders and knew that he couldn’t bear it…and yet, who else was there?

Standing up, knowing that he needed his own lunch, the Prime Minister pulled his authority and position around him like a shroud. Standing tall, he marched out of the room, trying to project an impression of endless power and confidence. Perhaps, if he held it long enough, it would become reality.

***
Although it was rarely acknowledged, Margent Hammond’s commitment to democracy was absolute. Naturally, the failure of the people to elect a sensible government was a result of propaganda by the moneyed classes designed to lead them away from their interests, but it was their decision. Hammond, who knew more than most about the effects of subversion from the former Soviet Union, would never have dreamed of tampering with their decision; she fully supported the results of the trial that had exposed it for the first time.

Like many other MPs, she kept a small office in London, near the Houses of Parliament. Some of her supporters were the people who happily branded as class enemies those who sat in the House, an exercise in doublethink that would have amused Orwell. It wasn’t a particularly good office, but that was part of its charm; it looked very working class.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Miss Hammond,” the man said. He’d introduced himself simply as John Griffin. “I come on behalf of my sponsors.”

“I see,” Hammond said. “Might I ask who your sponsors are?”

“Concerned citizens,” Griffin said. “You are aware of a secret your leaders are concealing.”

Hammond felt her mouth drop open. “Ah, you know what I’m talking about,” Griffin said. “While there are many peaceful civilisations out there in the galaxy, your leaders have plans to disrupt the peace of the universe.”

Hammond narrowed her eyes. “If the tale of the Posleen is true,” she said, “then the peace of Earth will be disrupted anyway.”

“Of course,” Griffin said, as if to ask how she could ever have doubted. “Are you aware, however, that some of your leaders are already dividing Posleen-occupied works up between them?”

Hammond shrugged. “I’m surprised that you are aware of such issues,” she said carefully, her mind racing fast. What was he? Someone genuine? A plot by MI5 to discredit her? “Might I enquire as to the source of your knowledge?”

“We’re fairly well-connected in America,” Griffin said. Hammond scowled; the latent anti-Americanism of the left didn’t blind her to America’s strengths. If the secret had gotten out in America, the entire world would know by now. “However, we have only limited connections here and we would like your assistance.” He smiled. “A mutually beneficial agreement, you might say.”

Hammond considered. Griffin was classically handsome, with short dark hair and bright eyes, but he smiled too much. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “How do I contact you?”

Griffin passed over a card. “Just call this number,” he said. “Good day.”

He left the office, walking briskly down towards the Thames. Hammond watched him go, thinking fast. She’d had enough experience of inner-power politics to sense a trap, but whose trap was it? The Government could have simply locked her up somewhere; under DORA any person suspected of impeding the war effort could be locked up. Which suggested…what?

The old firm is out of business, she thought wryly, and yet the approach had all the hallmarks of an attempt by Russian agents to worm their way into the organisation. It had happened before. Which meant…

Hammond came to a decision and picked up the phone, dialling a number from memory. “Hello,” she said, as soon as the phone was answered. “Prime Minister, I need to see you as soon as possible.”

Chapter Six: Working in Groups

Hack Green Military Command Bunker
Cheshire, United Kingdom
21st March 2001

The room was big and large, and yet it wasn’t big enough to hold the two hundred and thirty people comfortably. Some of them knew what was happening; others had been recruited over the last week without a clue as to what was happening. They ranged from military experts, newly rejuvenated, to civilian specialists, many of whom had once worn the uniform of Britain and served in the military.

Colonel Tom Anderson stepped up to the podium, smiling down at the innocents gathered below. He knew that it was wrong, but he felt galvanised by the chance to finally put some of his research into action. No one had seriously predicted fighting a World War One-like battle, not even him, and the few such battles fought since World War One had always been in faraway places; Iran, Ethiopia…never the West. Never in civilised lands, not even the Balkans.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. They’d already had a few incidents of culture shock; rejuvenated veterans were not used to women in the military. He knew that it would only grow worse as they recruited more and more…and that it would explode when they went on to conscription. Some of the men had served in the Indian Army, before India became independent; they hadn’t quite expected to have to deal with Asians and Chinese as equals.

“Some of you have been briefed on this already,” he continued, watching their reactions. “Others…have not been briefed.” He spoke rapidly, running through the Posleen threat and the short time span. “We have only five years to prepare,” he concluded. “What we do here, ladies and gentlemen, will determine the survival of Britain.”

The BBC reporter coughed. “This isn’t a joke, is it?” She asked. There were some chuckles. “You really are serious?”

“I was at death’s door,” a young man said, in an accent that hadn’t been in use since the Second World War. “Now…look at me.” He pivoted on one foot. “I haven’t felt this good since they put my second heart in. I was on death’s door and…”

“Why didn’t you knock?” Anderson asked dryly. The young man had been one of the officers who’d made the most fuss over seniority. “Gentlemen, ladies, we have very little time. Before a month is over, we have to have a working plan for the complete and total mobilisation of British resources, one that will allow us to do that without simply destroying the economy and panicking people. You people are the finest we have in your fields.” He grinned. “Not a single one of you is a rear-echelon type, or a planner who doesn’t implement your plans.”

There were some chuckles from the people who understood the joke. “There is good news and bad news,” he continued. “The good news is that the Prime Minister and the informal formal War Cabinet – don’t ask – have pretty much given us a blank check. All the systems we want that we think would be useful – we can have them. We can do anything, as long as it’s helpful; requisition anything, order anything.” He paused to allow that to sink in. “The good news is that we have only five years to get ready – so we’d better get it fucking right the first time!”

He took a long breath. “You have all, pretty much, agreed to be working on this project for two months,” he said. “At the end of that time, we expect that the entire problem will have become public knowledge, and to prevent panic…we have to have a clear plan to handle the Posleen when they land. This base is at your disposal; work on it and come up with plans we can use. We’ll meet again at the end of the week, long enough to hopefully come up with a complete plan.”

He looked around the room. “You’re going to think that that is awfully fast,” he said. “I’ve had some experience drawing up plans myself” – there were chuckles from those who remembered his reputation – “and normally it takes months to draw up workable plans.” He paused significantly. “We don’t have months, people, so we have to move as fast as we can.”

***
Captain April Weston knew, without false modesty, that she was one of the best captains in the Royal Navy, one of the only women to ever have stood for admiral rank who had come out of surface warfare. Her relations – she was distantly related to Lord Mountbatten and the Royal Family – had stood her in good stead, but few would have denied that she had earned her rank.

“We have to assume that a large percentage of our people will be going to Fleet, April,” Admiral Bledspeth said. Inter-service politics had already reared its ugly head. “I imagine that you will be one of them.”

“I confess that that would be…different,” Weston said. The Royal Navy had never sent a spaceman into space, to her certain knowledge. “Why exactly did you want me here?”

Admiral Bledspeth laughed. He’d known her since she’d been a baby; she was one of his favourite nieces. “You have a different take on affairs,” he said. “How can we use the Royal Navy for defending Britain?”

Weston allowed herself a moment of thought. “According to this report, the Americans are reactivating their old battleships,” she said. “We can’t do that, of course, as we don’t have any battleships, but if we were to arm the frigates and destroyers with heavy weapons and heavier armour, we might be able to harass them from the shore.”

She glared down at the reports. One of the problems that had been repeated at length – as if they wouldn’t have understood the first time – was that they didn’t have the slightest idea where the Posleen would land. If they landed in Southampton, the Royal Navy could engage them with gunfire and missiles. If they landed near Oxford, the Royal Navy would be helpless.”

“That would depend on how long our ships could stand up to Posleen weapons,” Marine Captain Ward said. Weston scowled at him; she’d never liked him. There had been the nagging questions surrounding his career in the Falklands War. Still, it was a valid question. “Can we put enough armour on them without sinking them ourselves and scoring an own goal?”

“The Galactics are supposed to be showing us how to make extra armour,” Weston said, flicking through the shamefully thin briefing. They’d been assured that everything that the British Government knew was being shared. Given how thin the folder was, she found that depressing. “Perhaps the frigates will be able to stand up to them for longer.”

Admiral Bledspeth frowned. “If that doesn’t work, or isn’t possible, then we have to commit the Royal Navy as an evacuation force and nothing else,” he said. “Could we land Marines behind Posleen lines?”

Marine Captain Ward hesitated. His service in the Falklands had been under such circumstances, but the Posleen were very different from the Argentineans. “Do the Posleen have lines as we understand them?” He asked. The information wasn’t clear. “The bastards just seem to mill around, half of the time.”

“They’re slaves to their leaders, the so-called God Kings,” Weston said. “I guess they’re not good at caring for them.”

“Perhaps,” Admiral Bledspeth said. “Now, about calling up the naval reserves; we’ll need to rejuvenate the entire reserves and everyone who has sailed in a warship. That should be…interesting.”

“Do we have time for new construction?” Weston asked. She stared down at the charts. “If we start work now, could we build a battleship? Would we get the resources to build one?”

“I would not expect them to give us the resources,” Ward said. “A battleship takes up a lot of resources and the Posleen could sink it quite easily.”

***
“The Americans – some guy called O’Neal – have come up with the idea of powered combat armour,” Anderson said, briefing some infantry officers. He smiled to himself; all of the military and civilian personnel had formed themselves into little groups, sharing ideas and plans. Over in the corner, a handful of civilians were working on evacuation plans for cities, talking about the need to maintain calm at all costs.

“I won’t go into details – they’re covered in the briefing packets – but they’re basically MASK or Voltron-type suits, built using Galactic technology. If we can get enough of them, we’ll be using the suits as a rapid reaction force, intended to plug holes in the defences.”

“I see,” Captain Tyneside said. “How many suits can we expect?”

Anderson shook his head grimly. “It depends on Galactic production capability, of which we know fuck-all,” he said. “To add insult to injury, some of the units will be slated for deep-space deployment, and we may or may not have them for deployment in the UK. The Americans are working on the Darhel, and we’ll be contributing to a joint fund, but for the moment we’re looking at a ceiling of a thousand such suits, perhaps more.”

“That’s…not very many,” Captain Tyneside said. They’d passed ‘sir’ some time ago. “The Posleen might just land in a city.”

Anderson nodded. “If we have time, we’ll have the entire non-military population safely in the Highlands,” he said. “The odds are highly likely, however, that we’ll have to fight to hold open escape routes. Any thoughts?”

“Other than nuclear demolition weapons for the cities?” Captain Tyneside asked dryly. “We’re going to have to fort up everywhere, preparing trenches all over the country. We really need more manpower than we have.”

Anderson nodded and waved a hand at one of the groups. “That lot is working on a conscription plan,” he said. “Unfortunately, we’ll have something like half of the entire currently-active army slated for deployment to the threatened worlds, which will limit our ability to absorb the new recruits.”

“I don’t like that at all,” Captain Tyneside admitted. “We might be cut off from our forces abroad. What would have happened if we’d been cut off from the BEF and the Germans had invaded?”

“We would still have won the war,” Anderson said, who had researched such scenarios thoroughly. “Still, I take your point, but we have to earn Galactic funds, and this is the only way we can do it.”

Captain Tyneside nodded sadly. “I cannot say that I approve,” he said, “but I understand.” He changed the subject. “We would have to spend the rest of this year rejuvenating NCOs and officers from the past, and then start using them to train up the newcomers. Christ, what a problem.”

Anderson nodded. “We have planners working on mass production of heavy guns, machine guns and other weapons, ones that might just be working in time. We can’t rely on the Galactics, not with all of the demands on their equipment, so we have to make do with what we have. We’re working on mass expansion of our industries, and at the same time building weapons we haven’t used for years.”

“Sounds like you should rejuvenate some of the people who really know about building these things,” Captain Tyneside commented. “You know, the people who built weapons for the Second World War.”

Anderson blinked. “Good thought,” he said, scribbling a note down on a piece of paper. “This is going to be trickier; many of them are in retirement homes. We have to catch those who might snuff it before we can make a public announcement, the ones who might just be useful.”

He glanced across the room. “Excuse me a moment,” he said. “I think I need to speak to the representative of the world’s greatest broadcasting company.”

***
Charlene Jackson was reeling against the wall, wondering absently if it was all a nightmare. She’d expected a war, but she’d never expected this, never expected men and women clinically discussing schemes like poisoning humans for aliens to eat. The images from the alien worlds, of small alien beings crunched like tiny mice and eaten by the monstrous semi-centaurs…

It felt almost like a betrayal. She’d always loved the pictures of the centaur creatures, from their existence in the Narnia books to fairy tales. It had been part of her childhood…then the dream had betrayed her by coming true. She’d been sick, twice, when she’d seen the recordings; even some of the military men had reacted the same way. She forgot everything except her disgust and her horror.

“Are you all right?” The Colonel asked. She was certain that he hadn’t been sick; he seemed to be enjoying himself. “Come with me.”

He led her into a private room. Charlene was too upset to care about being alone with him. She gasped once and gratefully accepted the tissue he passed her. “Thanks,” she muttered, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry about the mess.”

“It hits us all that way,” the Colonel admitted. His name was Anderson; she remembered now. “Every time we see those images.”

“You’re lucky,” Charlene said. “This is no joke, is it? Not one of those American tricks to see how people will react in a stressful situation?”

“I’m afraid not,” Anderson said grimly. “I’ve checked it out as best as I can, but everything adds up, from the American involvement to the aliens. I’ve seen one of the friendly ones, one of the Himmit.”

“What about the other fighting race, the Darhel?” Charlene asked. “What are they like?”

“I’ve never met one,” Anderson said. “There aren’t any pictures either, they’re careful about them. Why? I have no idea; there are teams researching them as well, but information is so limited.”

“I see,” Charlene said. “Why am I here?”

Anderson smiled at her, a grim smile that flickered briefly on his face. “In two months, perhaps earlier, perhaps later, we will have to inform everyone what’s happening,” he said.

“There’ll be panic,” Charlene protested. “That’s far too soon.”

“So I have advised the Prime Minister, and so someone called General Horner has informed the United States of America’s President,” Anderson said. “We’re hoping for longer, particularly since that would give us time to rejuvenate the really essential people without anyone noticing or demanding that they themselves get priority. We’re planning for two months.”

“It will be like the War of the Worlds broadcast,” Charlene protested. “Didn’t you hear about the panic?”

Anderson grinned. “That’s why you’re here,” he said. “We want you to write articles, present TV shows…presenting our efforts in the best possible light.”

Charlene glared at him. “You want me to do propaganda for the military,” she said. She grinned suddenly. “You just want me for my body.”

Anderson shook his head slowly. “The Posleen give the saying about eating someone out a whole new meaning,” he said. He sighed. “I won’t lie to you, Miss Jackson; we will take ghastly losses, perhaps even large parts of the country. Preventing a panic is essential, and propaganda, as you put it, is part of that.”

Charlene sighed. “It’s at times like these I wish I’d listened to what my mother had told me,” she said. “It was something about never volunteering for anything.”

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
21st March 2001

“Thank you for seeing me,” Margent Hammond said, shaking the hand of the Prime Minister. “I’m sorry to have insisted on such a meeting.”

The Prime Minister nodded grimly. He’d been expecting the meeting, the demand for a private meeting, and he’d put it off as long as he could. “You do understand that I am very busy,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Might we move to the chase at once?”

Hammond nodded. “I had a visitor a few days ago,” she said, and outlined the meeting. The Prime Minister felt his jaw drop open. “Sir, what do you think it could be?”

The prime Minister thought as fast as he ever had in his life. “I don’t suppose that you recorded the conversation?” He asked. Hammond shook her head. “Any thoughts yourself?”

“The telephone number he gave me is American,” she said. “Other than that…it could be a Russian attempt to gain access to Galactic technology.”

“They’ll get a lot of access of their own,” the Prime Minister pointed out. He felt his heart racing in his chest; the information had been a nasty shock. For a long moment, he considered the possibility of deceit, but he dismissed the thought. It wasn’t likely; it would destroy Hammond’s career forever if she lied to him.

“Then who?” Hammond asked. “The Americans? It is an American number, after all.”

The Prime Minister privately disbelieved it. The CIA had its problems, but it would hardly be insane enough to allow its operatives to launch an operation against a friendly power, not during the greatest crisis the world had ever known. Even if common sense had deserted them, they would have known better than to leave an American number. Unless, of course, it was a cunning double-bluff…

The Prime Minister massaged his temples. There was a reason he hated intelligence work. “It could be the Russians attempting to gain more access,” Hammond said. “The contact was purely the same as the KGB used to make, back before the Soviet Union paid the price for hubris.”

She spoke on, discussing how the USSR had failed in its duty to its own people, rotting away from the inside, and the Prime Minister tuned her out. The important bit was simple; Hammond’s loyalties lay with Britain and British Democracy. After all, as a True Believer, she would be second against the wall when the revolution came.

He smiled. “Margent, I’m going to discuss the matter with Sir Robert,” he said. Hammond nodded at the mention of Sir Robert Darter, the Director of MI5. “Would you be willing to open communications with your new friend?”

Hammond nodded grimly. “You want me to see if I can find out who they are,” she said. “I dare say that I can try.”

Chapter Seven: The World At Arms

Houses of Parliament
London, United Kingdom
16th August 2001

The secret had lasted longer than the Prime Minister had dared to hope. They’d planned on two months, which would have had the announcement made in May, but the Chinese and the French had insisted on delaying matters. The Chinese, at least, had a good excuse; they were trying to prepare their country for war, which was an almost impossible task. The French, meanwhile, were having political difficulties over the preparations for war; not all of the French government was keen on fighting.

Finally, enough Americans and British had pierced together enough of the secret to make further delay counter-productive. An American newspaper researcher had actually managed to fathom out the entire secret – without the benefits of an insider leak – and published. Fortunately, perhaps, his competitors had rubbished the theory. In Britain, the newspapers had been quieter, very aware that jumping too soon could utterly destroy their credibility.

The Prime Minister smiled. It would be a relief to finally be able to announce the truth to an increasingly-nervous Parliament. Enough of the details of military preparations had leaked out to raise hackles and some suspicions; it had been only through the unwavering support of the Leader of the Opposition that a constitutional crisis had been prevented.

He shook his head as his car swept into the parking space, thousands of reporters flashing their cameras at him as he stepped out. He waved cheerfully, grimly aware that many of them had speculated that he – or, worse, someone completely outside the mainstream – was plotting a coup against Parliament. Someone in MI5 – he didn’t want to know who – had leaked all sorts of fake stories into the ether, just to confuse the issue.

“Prime Minister, this way,” a well-known reporter shouted. “Is it true that you’re having an affair with Big Boobs Horton?”

The Prime Minister actually laughed. His wife would have been less than happy about that comment; Big Boobs Horton was a pop star with a dubious reputation. The questions came thick and fast, but none of them had anything to do with aliens, or space invaders. The Prime Minister was almost disappointed.

“Welcome back, Prime Minister,” the doorman said, holding it open for him. The Prime Minister, in his younger days, had once fulminated against the inherent weakness of only one guard in plain sight. Older and wiser, he knew that quick response teams remained vigilant, hiding from the public eye.

“Thank you, John,” he said, nodding politely. The halls of the House of Commons were busier than he’d ever seen them; the Party Whips had been busy. Some of the MPs – believing the stranger rumours – had been reluctant to come, or so he’d heard.

“Perhaps I should have had Big Boobs Horton come and sing for them,” he muttered to himself, and chuckled. It would have amused the public and horrified the House. He nodded once to the Home Secretary and stepped inside the debating chamber, watching as the benches filled out with the MPs. The public viewing galleries were packed, but with members of the press, instead of members of the public.

Leeches, the Prime Minister thought coldly. It hadn’t been long since Princess Diana had been driven to her death by the press reporters, chased along the dark streets of Paris to a fatal accident. The press delighted in rumours and innuendo; they would be shocked by the news that the Prime Minister was about to present.

He checked his watch. It was time to begin. The Speaker tapped for attention. “Honourable members, members of the public, we have been gathered for a momentous announcement,” she said. Her old voice filled the chamber; for once there was relative quiet. “The Prime Minister has the floor.”

Taking a breath, the Prime Minister stood up. He had no notes; his memory alone would suffice. His speech-writers had worked for hours, trying to devise an acceptable speech that would convoy the information, but at the same time convoy firm resolve, command of the situation, and the government’s certainty that the Posleen…problem could be resolved with a minimum of hassle. It didn’t help that everyone who knew about the Posleen knew that it certainly would not be bloodless.

He spoke quietly, but firmly, knowing that the entire speech was being broadcast live to the entire world. Of course, the American announcement would have priority in America and the French in France, but the nations of the world that were unaware of the oncoming storm would be taking their cue from the BBC, and Sky and the French broadcasting services.

“Members of the public, members of the House, we face today a situation that is totally unprecedented in the long history of our nation,” he said. “Five months ago, we – the five permanent members of the United Nations Security Council – were contacted by an alien race, a federation of planets out among the stars.”

He paused to allow that to sink in. Some of the backbenchers would be working out the implications – such as no other nation being aware of the situation until now – and building up a head of steam to be outraged. Others would be putting two and two – or the military build-up and alien contact – together and coming up with a simple answer; alien invasion.

“The aliens brought us a warning,” he continued, wishing that he’d been able to install a video screen in the house. The images of the Posleen crunching their way through alien forms would have really concentrated a few minds. “There is an invasion force of unparalleled scope, coming towards Earth. In five years, perhaps less, the alien Posleen will land on Earth.”

He listened to the gasps of shock and horror. Few of the house truly believed, not yet, but they knew enough not to dismiss it as a trick or as a joke. He’d made the cold hard decision to use five years as a hard line, even though the first scattered landings might ignore Britain altogether. They had to act on the assumption that Britain would be the first target for the Posleen, even though cold logic suggested otherwise.

“We have those five years to prepare for that invasion,” he said. “Some units of our military will be deployed off-world, fighting the Posleen on other worlds, while we will be undertaking the largest military build-up in the history of Britain. The strategic situation is grim; we could be attacked at any moment, anywhere within Britain. We require a large army, the largest that Britain has ever produced, simply to defend ourselves.

“The stakes are higher than they’ve ever been before,” he concluded. “This is not a war against a human foe, but a foe from space, with alien logic and behaviour. Not even the Nazis stooped to eating human flesh, the Posleen can and will. This is a war that will not be settled by a quick duel, like the Falklands, but one that can only end with victory – or defeat.”

He paused. Seeing the chamber struck dumb was something new. “I would like to conclude by reminding everyone of the worlds of Sir Winston Churchill,” he concluded. “He spoke about the fact that Britain stood alone – and we will be standing alone in this new war – and he was defiant. He said that we would fight them on the beaches, that we would fight them on the hills and that we would fight them in the streets and the cities.

“The Germans never came, but the Posleen will,” he said. “I have faith that each and every one of us will stand shoulder to shoulder against the alien menace, fighting to defeat the oncoming storm that threatens to break against our world.”

He sat down and nodded to the Leader of the Opposition, who stood up. He spoke quickly, confirming the existence of the Posleen and informing the house that the Opposition – being the loyal opposition – had agreed to take part in a War Cabinet. The Opposition would be delighted to work with the Government, in order to meet the Posleen threat fully, while reserving its right to act in the interests of Britain.

The Prime Minister smiled. The doublethink was not unexpected; the Opposition would want the chance to back out if the government really made a serious blunder, just to ensure that they – and thus continuity in government – were not shattered along with the original government. It was curious; unlike America, the British governing system didn’t allow for two parties ripping one another to shreds, but for some cooperation. It was very rare that one party could rule by fiat.

“We have a great deal to do and very little time to do it in,” he said, when the Leader of the Opposition had finished. “Towards this, I ask for Parliament to activate the Defence of the Realm Act, and authorise the formation of a War Cabinet, so that the Posleen threat can be met.”

“I second that motion,” the Leader of the Opposition said. He would become Deputy Prime Minister under a War Cabinet. “I also propose that we move directly on to voting.”

“Seconded,” an Opposition MP said quickly.

The Speaker hesitated. The Prime Minister understood; these were mucky waters and he understood her reluctance to dive into them. Unlike him, she held her position by consent of the House at large; annoying too many MPs would be fatal to her position – and almost certainly to her career.

“Is there anyone against the motion?” She asked finally. There was an immediate hubbub. “I call upon the MP for Blackburn, Lancashire.”

Luaky Commer, the MP for Blackburn, Lancashire, stood up, adjusting his suit as he stood. “Would the Prime Minister please be so kind as to give me the details on what he has been drinking?” He asked finally. There was a general round of chuckles. “Aliens. An invading army. Exactly how much of that are we supposed to believe?” He looked around the room, inviting the MPs to share the joke. “Should we not be worrying about committing the Prime Minister to an insane asylum, rather than an imaginary army? I’ve not heard such a load of rubbish since I left the Green Party.”

The Prime Minister waited patiently for the sniggers to subside. “Himmit Alarlas, if you would show yourself, please…”

The little alien materialised near the centre of the room. Instantly, it was the centre of attention, silencing the entire house for the first time in living memory. The Himmit moved forward slowly, its body moving and flexing in a way that no CGI or man in a suit could duplicate. It was clearly not human; no man could have fitted inside and operated the suit.

When it spoke, it spoke with two mouths speaking at once, blending into a single inhuman voice, high and piping. “We are quite real,” Himmit Alarlas said. The alien performed a complicated dance movement, remaining on the same space of ground. The security guards smiled to themselves; the Prime Minister had let them in on the joke. No one would have laughed if the Himmit had been shot down by the guards, even though the Prime Minister suspected that the Himmit have managed to slip though the defences.

I will have to have that fixed, I suppose, he thought, as the news sank into the house’s collective mind, no matter how many people might have denied that such a thing might exist. The deathly silence grew and lengthened as the Himmit looked around, its sets of eyes blinking and clicking as it peered around the room.

“This is not a joke,” the Prime Minister said quietly. “The aliens are real.”

***
The recordings of the death of the first contact team at the hands of the Posleen – assuming that Posleen had hands – stunned the House, and through them the public. The BBC, grateful for its near-total access to the defence planning, had spared no effort at convincing the public of the seriousness of the situation. Detailed defence planning, they assured the public, was already underway and would be continued; nothing would be overlooked by Parliament.

The Prime Minister shook his head. It was politics, politics at their worst, rousing thousands of humans to the defence of health and home. It was disgusting; to think that the survival of Britain depended upon Parliament’s approval for the defence measures, but it was the source of their strength. A democracy, in the long-term, was almost unbeatable; it had a feedback system built in.

He watched as the results of the first polls came back. There had been only a few incidents of panic, directed against the police and some of the ethnic minority communities, or from the ethnic minority communities. Some community leaders – the people who said things like ‘don’t use the weapons in the cupboard to which the key is there on the table, no, not that table; that table’ – were loudly proclaiming their loyalty to Britain; others decrying it as a government plot.

He grinned. Dozens of retired generals – mainly paper-pushers who hadn’t been called back already – were pontificating on the need for deep shelters and civil defence drills. He supposed that they were right about the drills, but shelters would be useless against the Posleen. They had avoided the word ‘conscription’ so far, even though the information made it clear that it would be required.

“Give it a couple of days for it to really sink in, and then there’ll be trouble,” he muttered, and turned to face his guest. “Any progress?”

Sir Robert Darter shook his head. He was a holdover from the last government and the Prime Minister had never really trusted his loyalty to him, although no one doubted his competence and loyalty to Britain. His grey hair was going silver; the Prime Minister would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so serious.

“Not enough to have any idea who John Griffin works for,” he said. “Nick Fury and James Bond aside, the real spymasters rarely show themselves to the public eye, let alone go to foreign countries. The odds are very likely that Griffin is working for someone, but who?”

He drew in a breath. “We traced the number back with some difficulty,” he said. “It goes directly into a telephone centre in Arkansas, and then vanishes somewhere in their computers. That suggests that someone in the centre is aware of it, and seeing it goes through American satellites, we can’t tap into the communications. We’re poking away at it – it would be a lot easier if we could ask the Americans for help.”

The Prime Minister shook his head. “We’ve been over that before,” he said, even though he was disappointed. “We have to learn what we can before we ask the Americans, or anyone else for that matter.”

Sir Robert Darter nodded grimly. It was a constant among intelligence personnel that all countries carried out operations on other nations’ soil. MI6 had carried out intelligence operations against IRA supporters in America. The French Secret Service had carried out operations against Greenpeace, one that had exploded in their face once. Basically unrepentant, as hypocritical as always, the French hadn’t cared about the global reaction.

“And our contact at this end?” The Prime Minister asked. “How is Margent handling it?”

“Surprisingly well,” Sir Robert admitted. “I would have expected hand-wringing and much sobbing.”

The Prime Minister nodded. Hammond, whatever else could be said about her, was practical and devoted to democracy. In the long run, any support from ‘unnamed elements’ could – no, would – weaken her party considerably, particularly since no one knew who was behind it.

“And what has Griffin said?” He asked finally, placing his worries aside. “Anything that might be helpful in identifying him?”

“He’s slipped Margent some money,” Sir Robert said. He met the Prime Minister’s eyes. “He’s slipped her nearly five million dollars.”

“We must be able to track that amount of money,” the Prime Minister snapped. “What does he want her to do with it?”

“Concentrate on building up a coalition,” Sir Robert said. “Five millions dollars – that works out to over three million pounds – and we can’t track it through a complex web of banks and building societies covering half the world.”

“We might get a better look in when the economic shock hits,” the Prime Minister commented. “All of the banks are suddenly going to get hit; we’re going to have to bring back rationing, for God’s sake.”

“Will the nations that send us food still do it under the Posleen foot?” Sir Robert asked. “Can we store enough to survive?”

“That’s none of your business,” the Prime Minister snapped, knowing that it was one of the larger problems that the coping teams faced. “Now…who’s behind it?”

“Suspicion is starting to fall on the aliens, or on the Americans,” Sir Robert admitted. “Do the alien embassies that are about to be set up have diplomatic immunity?”

The Prime Minister nodded grimly. “How would they know how to contact Hammond?” He asked. “If it is them, how many others might they have contacted?”

Sir Robert shrugged. “It’s impossible to be certain,” he admitted. “However, those AID devices of theirs are clearly capable of moving through our best firewalls, and I never believed that they just stumbled across us six months ago. They never had any problems learning English, did they?”

“Watch this very carefully,” the Prime Minister snapped. “Nothing is to go on any computers, anywhere.” He scowled. “We might as well let Margent build up anyway; always a good idea to know where the enemies are.”

“That’s what we think they’re for,” Sir Robert said. “Subversion; an attempt to provide themselves with a way to pressure us into doing what they want.”

“But why?” The Prime Minister asked. “What do they have to gain?”

“Why do the Posleen invest, invade and eat entire planets?” Sir Robert asked dryly. “They’re aliens. They don’t have the same basic…conceptions as we do about how the universe works. Whatever reason the Darhel have for what we think they’re doing, its almost certainly not one that we could understand.”

Chapter Eight: Civil Defence

Rusholme, Manchester
21st August 2001

Sameena lay beside Brad, his hand gently stroking her back. Like many other people around the country, she’d taken the news of the impending war hard; even through her brother had assured her that the Posleen existed. Sarfraz’s emails and letters had grown less frequent as he became more and more part of the army, but his tone had been grim.

“I’m going to continue my training as a doctor,” she said, and Brad nodded. She sensed his unwillingness to let her work for herself – as if she doubted his ability to provide for her – and his understanding of the position. If the conscription program went ahead – and the C-word had been used by the talking heads on the BBC – Brad would probably have to join the army. She knew that thousands of young men had applied for Fleet, but the BBC hadn’t been encouraging; there was too little time to train new recruits up from scratch.

“I am almost tempted to join you,” Brad admitted. “I…I don’t want to fight.”

“Me neither,” Sameena said. The announced conscription plans, by her calculation, would have Brad conscripted in a year or two, unless he became indispensable or fled the country. She’d read a report on draft dodgers fleeing to Canada and – the paper had taken on an amused tone – promptly being conscripted into the Canadian Army. The Irish, on the other hand, seemed to disbelieve in the threat altogether.

“I don’t seem to have much choice, however,” Brad continued, and she recognised the sheer determination that had attracted her in the first place. “I wonder if your brother’s regiment would be interested in me.”

“They don’t want people to enlist at the moment,” Sameena said. It was odd; the BBC had asked for people to give their names, but not to actually enlist. The explanation had been the need to expand the recruiting for the rejuvenated soldiers. She shuddered; Uncle Ackbar had been very clear on the subject. He wanted to be rejuvenated, and so did many of the Asian population.

“I’ll give in my name before I have a sudden attack of brains to the head and realise how dangerous this is,” Brad said. “Will you wait for me?”

She kissed him, suddenly, passionately. She’d refused his gentle invitations to take their relationship to an all-new level, just because it would have been dreadful to have been found out by her parents. Virginity tests – something that couldn’t be done to a boy – were not uncommon, even though they were about as fallible as Iman Ahmed’s voice box.

She smiled. The old Iman had been kind, even to the girls, but his voice had been very weak indeed. Every time he led prayers, his voice had stumbled, causing the children some giggles. It hadn’t been until much later that she’d realised that he did it on purpose, just to keep them at their ease.

“You know I will,” she said, feeling his hand slip under her shirt. “You know I will.”

***
She returned late to the house – having told them that she had university work to do with friends – to step into the middle of an argument. Almost the entire extended family – but only the male members – were gathered in the big room, packing it tight. Her mother didn’t ask her any questions, perhaps not wanting to draw attention to her daughter’s behaviour; she merely ordered her to take in some food. They didn’t thank her for it, even though some of the younger men smiled at her.

She shuddered. She was marriageable age by now – by some standards she would have been marriageable age when she started her menses – and she knew that her parents had discussed her wedding at length. Sarfraz’s…desertion, as they phased it, had put such plans on hold. Their silly pride wouldn’t allow them to run the risk of a second failure to marry off their children, nor – she suspected – did they want to lose her services in the home.

“I do not believe in the alien threat,” Jafar said. She’d seen Aladdin and had thought that they’d actually used her uncle, several times removed, as the model for the evil vizier. Her father had laughed at it; he wasn’t so keen on Jafar himself. “It is a plot to keep us down forever, or to force us to fight for them.”

Sameena slipped into a corner, wishing that she were a man. Sarfraz would have pointed out that if they were forced to fight, then there would be someone to fight. A woman couldn’t say things like that. Jafar…wasn’t quite right in the head, a man who believed so passionately in the rightness of his own soul that he couldn’t see any rightness in anyone who disagreed with him.

“We will be among the first conscription wave,” he said. Sameena understood; a disproportionate percentage of young Asian men – and women – were unemployed, and so would be rounded up into the army first. “We have also been denied access to our families.”

That wasn’t quite accurate, Sameena knew. The government, understanding that rationing would have to be instituted, had ordered a flat ban on further immigration, along with the other European governments. Illegal immigrants had been returned to their countries of origin; their rights were no longer a pressing concern with the Posleen breathing down their necks.

“We have to stand up for our rights,” Jafar snapped. He was no Iman, but his group murmured with understanding. “We have to protest at being dragged into the military.”

“Bed, now,” her mother muttered. The men ignored them. Sameena left quickly, followed by her mother. “Sayresh says that you were talking to a man.”

“One of my fellow students,” Sameena said. Sayresh was one of her mother’s closest friends, a woman with a sharp tongue and sharper eyes, a terror to anyone who sought to do anything not quite right. She sighed. “What’s it any of her business anyway?”

Her mother replied in their language, just to clarify the point. “She is a woman of great renown.”

“She’s a danger to shipping,” Sameena snapped, feeling all of her frustration breaking out of her. “I’m going to start my enhanced training tomorrow.”

“You cannot,” her mother said. “I need you to help prepare food for the…”

“Why?” Sameena asked. “What’s in life for me? I’m going to become a doctor because that’s what we need!”

She stormed up the stairs, shaking inside. She’d never snapped at her mother before; her mother had always been willing to use a hairbrush if necessary. As soon as she was home, she composed an email to Sarfraz, and then went to sleep. Whatever her mother said, she had a busy day tomorrow.

Civil Defence Centre
Rusholme, Manchester
25th August 2001

Brad hadn’t even known that there was a civil defence infrastructure in Manchester; he’d been born long after the last nuclear drill had been conducted. The Civil Defence Centre he’d been asked to attend had been newly constructed; it was really a building that had been taken over by the Territorial Army. Even only a fortnight after the official announcement, Britain had already begun fuel rationing while the massive oil supplies were filled with oil from the Middle East.

“Thank you all for coming,” the leader said. “For the record, my name is Sergeant Kendrick and I was last in action during the Korean War.”

Brad stared at him. Kendrick was young, almost as young as he was, with a full head of chestnut hair. His body was fit and toned, rather than muscular, but he held himself in a manner he’d seen from other army personnel. He wondered if Sarfraz would carry the same bearing, or if he himself would in a few years.

“Yes, that was a long time ago,” Kendrick said, breaking into his thoughts. “Many of you volunteered to serve the Queen, and I suspect that you have been astonished to be invited here, rather than being ordered to the local regiment, the King’s Regiment.” He smiled. “Perhaps you found it insulting, however, there is a reason for it.” He peered down at them. “We have been giving certain people new leases on life,” he said. “Myself included.

“What that means, from a practical point of view, is that the installations that would normally begin your training are currently working on rejuvenating the old soldiers and bringing them up to speed on the weapons we’ll be using in this conflict. Your training…has been deferred, and yet you wanted to serve your country.”

He smiled. “In this camp, we’re going to cover the basics of evacuating the population, laying down covering fire…and if necessary dying with our backs to the wall. The population has to be preserved, lads, and if you do your job right, many thousands of them will remain alive. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” they shouted.

Kendrick scowled at them. “Unless things have changed a lot since my day, you don’t address a sergeant as ‘sir’,” he said. “Only officers are sir; we sergeants work for a living.” He chuckled at his own joke. “You can laugh, you know; I’m not that much of a bastard.”

There were some scattered chuckles. “I won’t lie to you,” Kendrick said. “This is not going to be an easy task. We’re going to be holding drills right in the middle of streets, and the people are going to be very unappreciative of the services until the invasion begins, at which point they’ll be begging you for help. Now” – he pointed a long finger at a girl in the front row – “which way will the enemy come from?”

The girl shivered at his suddenly hard tone. “From the sea, sir,” she said.

“I work for a living,” Kendrick said mildly. His voice hardened. “No, young lady; the enemy can come from anywhere. If they land right on top of us, we’re fucked.”

He pulled at a curtain, exposing a map. “The Posleen can pretty much land where they like,” he said. “There’s a ton of crap about this in the papers we will be expecting you to study, so we won’t go into details.” He grinned evilly. “There will be a test later, lads and lassies.” He tapped a red circle, drawn over the centre of Manchester. “If the Posleen land there, lads, we’re fucked and the only thing to do is take as many of them down with us. Do you know why?”

He pointed a long finger at Brad. “Because they’ll smash us when they land?” He hazarded. “They’ll come down on top of us?”

“Because they’ll spread out and massacre the population before we can get them the hell out of here,” Kendrick bellowed. He thumped the map. “Ten minutes after the Posleen spill out, anyone within this region is D-E-A-D, pronounced dead.” He waited for them to finish gasping in shock. “If they land outside the city, or if they start marching on the city, we have a chance.”

He adjusted the map. A large red arrow moved across the land, pointing directly at Manchester. “The Posleen are five hours away,” he said. “The army cannot stop them. What do we do?”

He glared at a black man in the second row. “Well?”

The man seemed to hesitate. “Get out of there?”

“Get everyone in the city out of there,” Kendrick snapped. He sighed. “If everything goes to plan, most of the population of the city will be out of there. As it won’t go to plan…how do we move people that fast out of the city?”

He looked around, and then his gaze fixed on a young girl. “Umm, they could take the train, or the airport?”

“You think that we can run that many trains, even if the lines remain uncut?” Kendrick asked dryly. “Not a bad thought, but impractical; there won’t be time to do it. As for aircraft, aircraft don’t survive near the Posleen. Full stop.”

“What about cars and buses?” Brad asked, forgetting himself. “Could they not drive out?”

“They’re going to have to,” Kendrick said. “Good thinking, young man.” He tapped the map again. “At the moment, there are only a handful of cars on the road,” he said. “By the time the Posleen come, we expect that there will be fewer and fewer of them, but we will have buses ready to evacuate the civilians.” He suddenly looked very old. “I won’t lie to you,” he said, seeming to forget that he’d said that before. “The odds are very likely that we’ll lose thousands of people, or that we’ll die bravely in their defence.”

He looked at them all. “We’re not the Army,” he said. “Some of you, those who show the most military promise, will go to the Army, but our mission is to help save lives. We will learn how to fight, but that’s a last resort; do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” they said.

“I’ll let the sir pass, this time,” Kendrick said. “Now, the fun bit first, ladies and gentlemen; the crash course in Urban Terrorism, with which to terrorise some yellow monsters.”

RAF Coningsby
Lincolnshire, United Kingdom
31st August 2001

General Mathews smiled at Colonel Anderson as the helicopter settled in to land on the RAF base, which was already assuming an impression of disuse. It wasn’t so much physical – the base seemed as active as always – but spiritual; the atmosphere of a base that knew that it was running out of time. Once the Posleen got on the ground and deployed their interdiction systems, the RAF would only be useful for fast courier efforts across the Atlantic.

“Pleased to see you, sir,” Anderson said, shaking his hand. “What’s London like?”

“Panicking,” Mathews said wryly. “The economy has finally gone crash, even with the united global action.”

“It’s nice to know that we can work together on something,” Anderson said wryly. “I would have thought that the arms trade alone would have done something useful for the economy.”

“Not when every nation needs everything its got,” Mathews said. He snorted. “You’ll be delighted to know that the Darhel refusal to deal with anyone, except the major powers and those who were willing to send troops into space, has really pissed off the UN. Some of the minor countries are making a stink about it.”

“Screw them,” Anderson said, a very politically incorrect viewpoint. “I’m surprised that the UN has survived the first month after Contact was announced.”

“It still has its uses,” Mathews assured him. “Even Saddam is offering troops to the Darhel.”

“And they’ll return to a Posleen-infested ruin,” Anderson said. “Deserts and hardly any natural features, particularly against such a ruthless opponents. They won’t be slowed down by the Kabala Gap.”

“It’s been pointed out to Saddam, I think, from a safe distance,” Mathews said. He smiled. “The Darhel won’t be getting their money’s worth, I fear.”

Anderson shrugged. “Speaking of the Galactics and GalTech, I want to introduce you to something interesting,” he said, leading the way over to a hanger. “One of our major problems is that we may not be able to get a working tank that can stand against the Galactics, even the modified Challenger-II tanks. We have plans, sir, but the production is going to be a real bitch, if you’ll pardon my French.”

“Duly pardoned,” Mathews said. Anderson tapped the hanger door key. “What do you have for me?”

The hanger door started to open, widening to a point where a heavy bomber could pass into the hanger. The hum of an unfamiliar engine began as Anderson shouted instructions, giving orders in a voice that would have befitted a drill sergeant. And, slowly, something began to emerge from the hanger.

Mathews’ first thought was that it was a gigantic spider. It crawled along the ground on eight legs, four on each side, and it was studded with mechanical tools and strange objects. Four heavy machine guns, clearly controlled by computer, were mounted on the top, and it moved with a strange ambling motion that was curiously hypnotic. A small hatch in the side showed where the human operator would sit, directing the machine to do…what?

“What the hell is that thing?” Mathews asked. “I thought that we had discarded the concept of a walker.”

“Meet the GalTech answer to some of our prayers,” Anderson said, his voice serious. “It’s a massive trench and fortification builder, capable of constructing an entire series of trenches and walls within hours. It sucks in dirt and mashes it into building material, powered by an energy source that can be adapted to power the suits, when we finally get them.”

He grinned. “It’s not designed as an offensive weapon,” he said, “but it has some offensive capability. Not only does it have some limited fabrication capability for bullets, but it can hurl dirt and rocks at the Posleen, making them very miserable indeed.” He smiled. “They’re very good indeed at tracking incoming projectiles, but can they handle thousands of small compressed boulders?”

Mathews smiled. “I don’t know,” he said. The machine certainly looked deadly enough, with the equipment folded up on its top. “Can they?”

“In a few months, we should have enough of these to begin the construction of basic fortifications around the cities,” Anderson said. “That’s not what they’re really meant for, though; think of them as instant defences for the holding line.” He waved a hand at the machine. “The machine can build fortifications that will provide some defence for an infantry force, suits or no suits.”

“And, when we’re on the retreat, one of them can build us a new line of defence posts,” Anderson said. “The Posleen are going to hate the machines.”

Mathews nodded. “I like them already,” he said. “Now, what are you going to call them?” A thought struck him. “Oh, God; please don’t tell me…”

Anderson grinned mischievously. “They’re the Handling Machines , of course,” he said. “What else could we call them?”

Chapter Nine: Gathering Pace

Churchill Training Centre
United Kingdom
14th September 2001

Once he’d gotten used to army life, Sarfraz was starting to enjoy it, at least to some degree. Sergeant Benton – they’d learnt on the second day never to call him ‘sir’ – was a good teacher, even though it was easy to hate him. Once the recruits had gotten used to him, they discovered that they didn’t hate him; after all, he was trying to keep them alive.

The first few weeks had been pretty uneventful, even though they had been hard. The first thing that they’d gone though, on the second day, had been a major medical check-up, with some very embarrassing questions and medical procedures, following a compulsory donation of their own blood. Once that had been perfected, they’d begun physical training, working out the last fat from their bodies and building up their strength. Quite apart from football matches, which were apparently intended to develop their teamwork, they’d marched over the countryside, carrying heavy packs and weapon-shaped objects.

He grinned. Derek had asked when they would develop their own weapon training, and the answer had been in the second month. Their training was moving ahead fast; they were expected to learn driving and shooting very quickly. Sergeant Benton was insistent that they learned to take care of their weapons, giving them horror stories about what happened to people who didn’t take care of their guns.

“You have to keep the weapons empty and cleaned when you’re not using them,” he’d bellowed. “When the weapon is unchecked, Mr Rifle is not your friend.”

They’d chuckled, but the seriousness of the situation had not escaped them. Sergeant Benton had taken them through an entire catalogue of weapons, explaining how they worked, enough to ensure that they were familiar with the weapons. Now, however, they were going to be introduced to something new, something…alien.

Sarfraz smiled to himself. He hadn’t believed in the aliens at first, but meeting one of the little Indowy had convinced him. The tiny alien had brought in something called a Handling Machine, which they were expected to learn to use. The massive spider-like machine had promptly dug up the front lawn, making a defence line that they could use in their drills.

“Attention,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “Stand to attention!”

The men formed up, far more briskly than they had done before being introduced to the army. The regiment – for they would form a new regiment when they were declared ready for service – saluted as one when Captain Yates appeared, moving briskly to stand on the small stand.

“At ease,” Sergeant Benton bellowed, at a nod from Yates. “Stand…at ease!”

The regiment relaxed, minutely. Sergeant Benton had explained, often enough, that there were varying values of ‘at ease’ and when dealing with senior officers, it was wise to stand to semi-attention, rather than relaxing completely. If the senior officer ordered a soldier to relax, the soldier could do so, but only if directly ordered.

“We have a special treat for you today,” Yates said. The regiment didn’t quite wince; Sergeant Benton’s idea of treats included midnight marches and low rations from time to time. “Observe.”

He waved a hand at the main door. From the darkness, an armoured form moved out, moving gracefully towards the stand. Sarfraz stared, his attention forgotten, just captivated by the armoured suit. His eyes swept over it; it was rock-grey, with weapons and equipment studded all over it’s form. Despite its size, it moved smoothly and almost silently.

“This is a training suit,” Yates said. “It’s one of the first hundred made for us. Sergeant Stark, if you please?”

The suit suddenly moved rapidly, heading over the training field. The trench that the Handling Machine had dug was vaulted over in seconds, the suit was moving faster and faster. One arm lifted…and a hail of gunfire shattered the training display. The soldiers gasped as the suit flipped over in a back flip that Batman could only dream of, before canting back to them.

“Impressed?” Yates asked. The men knew better then to answer. “You may be wondering why the suit is here, instead of one of the other training grounds, or with the forces heading to one of the alien worlds. Basically, we expect to be able to form three to four regiments of armoured combat suits, but none of them will be ready in time for anything beyond the actual invasion itself.”

He grinned. “I am telling you this because you need to understand what’s at stake,” he continued. “The Armoured Combat Suits are very different from Challenger tanks, different enough to make such experience worthless. In the next couple of years, we hope to turn you lot into ACS troopers, the elite of the force. Quite frankly, you have less to unlearn.”

He nodded at the ACS, which opened up neatly, disgorging a man. Sarfraz noted with some amusement that he wasn’t even breathing hard. Sergeant Stark was tall and dark haired, with a small moustache that seemed to dominate his entire face somehow.

“You had better take care of my baby,” Sergeant Stark said. His voice was faintly upper class. “That is a Mark-I combat suit, capable of lifting tons of weapons and equipment, capable of moving at nearly seventy miles per hour and capable of running for hours without needing a recharge.” He chuckled. “It takes time and effort to learn how to use it – are any of you claustrophobic?”

He went on without waiting for a reply. “You have to be careful because the suit amplifies what you do,” he said. “Try to shake someone’s hand and you’ll take their arm off. Jump…and you’ll jump further than you believed possible, thanks to the antigravity system inside the suit. Any questions?”

There was a long pause. “When do we get to try it?” Derek asked.

Stark laughed. “How about right now?” He asked. “We’re moving in American-designed simulators now, so that you learn the ropes without having an individual suit to practice on, because an individual suit…configures itself to a permanent user.” He sniggered. “You also have to be naked to use it, or nearly naked in our designs. Now, who is going to volunteer to be first?”

Captain Yates looked at Sergeant Benton. “Johnston, step forward,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “As the first to complete the March of Death , you will have the honour of trying the armour first.”

“Lucky bastard,” Derek muttered. Sarfraz grinned. “Look at him go.”

***
Half an hour later, it was finally Sarfraz’s turn. Sergeant Benton had gone through the list in the order of the people who had completed the march of death, which Sarfraz dearly hoped was one of the Sergeant’s little jokes. The suit had been moved forward into position, leaving Sarfraz wondering how to get in.

“You have to climb into the suit, then hold your breath for thirty seconds,” Sergeant Stark said. Sarfraz was glad that his face couldn’t pale. “I’d shave too, if I was you,” Stark continued. “It’ll scratch inside.”

Sarfraz climbed inside, feeling the jelly-like material rippling around him. “Remember to hold your breath,” Stark said again, and placed the helmet over his head. Sarfraz nearly screamed as his head was enveloped in the strange material, pouring over his head and down over his face. The darkness was oppressive; he couldn’t feel anything. Suddenly, just as he was about to start thrashing around, the material moved back, giving him something to breath.

“How are you in there?” Stark’s voice asked. Through the suit, it sounded perfect, much to Sarfraz’s surprise. The suit was projecting a view into his eyes, a nearly perfect view. He looked at the training site and was astonished to see that a window appeared in the suit’s vision, zooming in on the training site, helping him to calculate distance and speed.

“You could have warned me,” he said, and distantly heard his own voice, relayed by the speakers in the suit. “That was fucking terrifying.”

Stark laughed, ignoring the insubordination implicit in Sarfraz’s tone. “You lot have done fine so far,” he said. The vision of the suit flickered, revealing that Stark was moving back, out of the way. “Do you want to try to move?”

“Yes, please,” Sarfraz said. “Do I just move normally?”

“Yes,” Stark said. “Go slowly at first, then speed up. You’ll have plenty of time to practice on your own suit later.”

“Inshallah,” Sarfraz said. He already knew that he wanted a suit, that he would sell his soul for one. He moved a leg forward slowly, having to think about walking for the first time in ages, and was astonished by how…capable the suit was. It moved with him; if there hadn’t been a slight feeling of his body in the suit, he might have been fooled into believing that the suit wasn’t on.

“Man of steel, woman of Kleenex,” he muttered, forgetting that the suit was relaying his words.

“Exactly,” Stark said. “You’ll make a good ACS officer. Now, move.”

The tone of command was so absolute that Sarfraz ran, heading across the field. The end of the field came at him so fast that he didn’t have time to react; he smashed straight into the hedge at the end of the field. He winced, expecting to be torn by thorns, but the suit crashed through them and fell tumbling over as if they weren’t even there.

“Get back here, slowly,” Stark bellowed. “They’ll take that out of your wages.”

Sarfraz staggered to his feet slowly, carefully, and surveyed the damage. The hedge looked as if a car had hit it, smashing through it as if it weren’t even there. He carefully walked back towards Stark, feeling the suit rippling around him.

“Now, the target,” Stark said. He waved a hand at a cardboard Posleen. “Target and fire.”

The suit seemed to recognise the Posleen, classing it as an ENEMY COMBATANT. Humans and several birds were classed as HARMLESS (MOSTLY), making Sarfraz chuckle. Whoever had programmed the suit’s weapons had a sense of humour. He lifted his hand and a targeting indicator appeared, coming to a crosshair on top of the Posleen. The targeting, he suspected, would be precise, but given what they were facing, would it have to be precise?

Fire, he thought, and the suit fired. A hail of plasma fire cannoned out and destroyed the Posleen, blasting it into thousands of tiny cardboard bits. Three more Posleen popped up and Sarfraz moved onto them without even thinking, sweeping the weapon across them.

“So, what do you think?” Stark asked.

“I think we just wasted a lot of cardboard,” Sarfraz said, soberly. The real Posleen would be shooting back. “How do you get this thing off?”

Stark rattled off the instructions and Sarfraz followed them. It wasn’t quite as unpleasant as putting the suit on, but it was unpleasant enough. “I think I want one,” he said. “How much do they cost?”

Stark sobered. “A lot of British soldiers are going to die for your suit,” he said grimly. “We’ll get you yours as soon as we can.”

Sarfraz looked up at the suit as Sergeant Benton bellowed for the next recruit. “These things could be bloody terrifying if they’re used in enough strength,” he said. “How many do you think we’ll be able to deploy?”

Stark shrugged. “The plan is for around two to three thousand,” he said. “Don’t overestimate them; the Posleen have weapons which can make them defunct quicker than you can say Allah Ackbar.”

“That would be bad,” Sarfraz said dryly. “Dying with those words uncompleted.”

“The trick is not to die for your country, but to make the other poor bastard die for his God King,” Stark said. The next recruit stepped up. “Now, hop in,” Stark said. Sarfraz saluted Sergeant Benton and headed back to the barracks; they’d been told that they could have the rest of the day off while everyone was watching the suit.

“Man, that was cool, the way you went through that hedge,” Derek said. “That was bloody fantastic.”

“Didn’t like putting it on,” John admitted. “It felt like I was sticking my head into a vat of jam.”

“I think we get used to it,” Sarfraz said. He grinned. “It was great, wasn’t it?”

“No fucking argument,” Derek said. “When do you think that we’ll get to play with the simulators?”

“I think, from what Stark was saying, that we’ll be simulating pretty often,” John said. He lay down on his bunk. “I guess we might even start that tomorrow.” He grinned. “Just like playing a video game.”

Pyramid Heights
London, United Kingdom
14th September 2001

Margent Hammond’s life had changed remarkably in the space of a few months. In many ways, she was seen as the leader of the real opposition, the force that opposed conscription and the steady process of preparing for a war to be fought within Britain itself. She knew better; the Posleen were real and they were on their way, heading towards Earth with bad intentions.

And they had to be fought. Margent Hammond understood the feelings of organisations like Mothers Against The Bomb and other groups, ones that didn’t want to risk going to war over nothing, like 1914, or Vietnam. She understood the feelings of those who had proposed that British students should resist the draft before 1939; they had lived through terrible bloodletting on the Western Front.

Finally, of course, there was the dreadful fear of dying for a cause that few believed in, or for a bad cause. Many would fight for Britain, to protect their families, but few wanted to fight and die for foreign dictators. The newspapers had revealed the evils of Kuwait, or of Saudi Arabia, and the British troops had fought on their side against yet another tyrant. Who had wanted to die for white supremacy in Rhodesia? Who had wanted to die so yet another tin-pot dictator could purge democracy from their people? After Vietnam, Iraq and Algeria, the West – safe and well behind its professional armies – had developed a horror of fighting a long war.

She shook her head. Griffin’s money had come in very handy, building a political network that she would have been very proud of under normal circumstances, but these were hardly normal circumstances. Griffin’s motives – even his true identity – remained a secret, at least from her. Cold logic suggested that MI5 was also ignorant; irrational hope prayed that they did know who he was and whom he was working for.

The man himself sat across the room from her, smiling faintly. His face was handsome, she saw, and yet it was faintly sinister. He seemed quite prepared to wait for her to speak, and apart from an exchange of pleasantries they’d said nothing to one another. Hammond smiled faintly to herself, and broke the silence.

“I trust that you had a pleasant journey,” she said, hoping that he would reveal something of his origins in his reply. Griffin smiled and said nothing. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m merely here for a progress report,” Griffin said. Whoever had taught him English had been very precise indeed; his vowels and pronunciation were too good to be a native speaker. “You have spent a great deal of my associates money, Miss Hammond.”

“Mrs,” Hammond corrected him. She spoke bluntly. “Who are your associates?”

Griffin shrugged. “Merely people concerned about Earth’s future impact on the galaxy,” he said. “Humans are so good at fighting that dealing with the Posleen won’t take long at all, and then you will have interstellar ships and the desire to colonise.”

Hammond considered. “That would make sense,” she agreed. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“We wish to avert Earth becoming heavily armed and well…warlike,” Griffin said. “Humanity must not become devoted to war, or it will devastate the galaxy.”

“That’s not an answer,” Hammond said, suddenly tired of the game. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“Two separate things,” Griffin said. “First, we want you to discuss, in general terms only, your government’s long-term plans for the war. Second, we wish you to use the influence you’ve spent our money on building to prevent your culture from becoming dominated by your military.”

Hammond thought quickly. The odds were very likely that Griffin was American; he spoke of Britain as if it were a foreign country. While some peaceniks did act like that, she didn’t see Griffin as that stupid. She smiled to herself; this was also a chance to gain some information.

“I would be more than willing to use my influence,” she lied smoothly, “but I cannot possibly consider sharing information without some guarantee that we’re on the same side.”

Griffin lifted one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “I was under the impression that we were on the same side,” he said. “We are interested in limiting the military build-up; you are interested in limiting the military build-up. We are allied.”

“And the enemy of my enemy is my friend?” Hammond asked dryly. “Mr Griffin…”

“John, please,” Griffin injected.

“John, the simple fact of the matter is that I know nothing about you,” Hammond said. “You could be anyone.”

“I – we – have invested nearly six million pounds in you by now,” Griffin said mildly. “Is that not a sign of our commitment?”

“Pocket change,” Hammond said bluntly. “Ranting and raving aside, such funds are pocket change to anyone with your organisation’s goals. I don’t know who you work for, Mr Griffin; you could be from one of my enemies in government.”

Griffin seemed amused. “I thought they didn’t like you there,” he said.

“They don’t,” Hammond said. “Under these circumstances, the British Government would think nothing of spending six million pounds to get into a position to round up all of my supporters. If you want me to share information that could get me cooling my heels in a jail cell, Mr Griffin, I want to know whom you work for. I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

Griffin seemed to hesitate. “For the moment, you would have no problems acting against the build-up,” he said. Hammond nodded; whatever happened, she didn’t want Griffin breaking contact with her. “I will communicate with my superiors; perhaps a meeting could be set up with them. I assure you, however, that they only have your best interests at heart.”

Chapter Ten: The Sleeping Policemen

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
21st November 2001

I knew things were going too well, the Prime Minister thought, skimming through the Chinese paper again. They had been going surprisingly well; the first industries for heavy guns were producing their weapons, primitive, but effective against the Posleen. The Armoured Combat Suit units were in training, and the first supply of suits was expected soon, unless…

“Explain it to me,” he said. “The Darhel are doing what?”

“They don’t have an industry as we understand the term,” General Mathews said. “Instead, they build modern technology like we used to build…well, chairs, or Spinning Jennies, rather than mass-production.”

“I see,” the Prime Minister said. Discovering that the Federation was based partly on sweatshops had not endeared the Darhel to him. The Chinese, curiously enough, had been very detailed in the information they’d shared with the rest of the UNSC; the Darhel were stalling slightly, deliberately. “What implications does this have for us?”

“For the defence of Earth?” General Mathews asked. “We are mainly relaying on GalTech in space, so the Fleet may not be ready in time. If they decide that they will suffer further…delays, then the Earth itself might fall to the Posleen.”

“But why?” The Prime Minister demanded. “We’re their only hope.”

“If the Darhel are the ones who have contacted Hammond, then we might as well take the reason they’ve given her; that they’re scared of our effect on the Federation at large,” Mathews said. “The Federation is based on slavery and the Indowy cannot revolt, but we can. They can’t even think about crushing a Darhel neck; we can and we would even enjoy it.”

“Balls,” the Prime Minister muttered. “We don’t have time for this. Insure that the Foreign Office gives our full support to withholding troops until the Darhel pay up; our priority has to be to our own defence. The fewer items of GalTech we have around, the harder it will be to hold them off the surface.”

Mathews smiled. “It’s good to know that you read my briefing papers,” he said. “The alien scientists, such as they are” – he smiled; Earth had had none until the Darhel arrived – “are studying the problem as we speak, but it suggests that they will want as much of our population on Earth reduced as possible, just to prevent us from breeding out from under their control.”

“And we’re going to be sending children to safety in the Federation,” the Prime Minister said grimly. “I wonder if we should stop that.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Mathews said. “The Posleen will eat them if the British Isles fall.”

“True,” the Prime Minister said. “Keep me informed, particularly on the Hammond situation.”

“Yes, sir,” Mathews said, and left the room. The Prime Minister remained behind, thinking furiously. Was there a way to force the issue somehow? Hammond’s little network was growing – its size and scope well known to MI5 – and of course she was sharing everything with them anyway. Still, by its very nature, there were some people who would slip through the cracks, such as the Manchester Against Conscription group. The group was planning a series of marches against conscription, ones that were attracting known troublemakers.

“Bastards,” the Prime Minister said, and placed a call to MI5. The prospect of a riot in the centre of Manchester was not to be tolerated. The problem was that everything was legal, even though DORA did allow them to ban the march. Stamp on it…and the opposition would go underground. Don’t stamp on it and…

Rusholme, Manchester
1st December 2001

Sameena had discovered that she enjoyed medical school, particularly the course in wartime wounded. The man running it was completely non-sexist or non-racist; he hated everyone. His warnings that they would have to perform surgery under fire, without the legal technicalities that slowed down other medical work, combined with his habit of shouting at people unexpectedly, made the course interesting, in the sense that a thunderstorm was interesting.

“When someone is wounded, its your fucking job to perform triage,” Doctor Tyler had bellowed, and then explained the concept. The mostly-female class had learned fast, practicing binding broken bones and sealing bleeding wounds as fast as possible. Galactic research made it easier; one of the new drugs that were entering mass-production was a very powerful painkiller.

Sameena smiled. They’d all been given a dose and it had been one of the strangest experiences in her life; she’d hardly been able to feel anything. She could have had her fingers sliced off and she wouldn’t have noticed. Doctor Tyler had put it far more crudely than that, combining profanity with a serious warning. Someone could do themselves a serious injury without meaning to do more than inject themselves.

“Sameena, wake up,” her mother snapped. Her dark face was alive with concern. “Wake up, stupid girl.”

Sameena shook her head as she arose, heading for the shower. She glanced at her watch and scowled; the time was barely seven o’clock in the morning. She blinked; class didn’t start until eleven o’clock, and she hadn’t wanted to get up until ten.

“It’s the march today, stupid girl,” her mother snapped, waving a towel at her. Sameena cursed and then ducked a slap; Uncle Jafar had been busy. He’d come into some money – no one knew from where – and he had been using it to round up as many anti-conscription people as he could. With a march of thousands of Asians, he was confident that he could prevent his people from being conscripted into the army, particularly as it had finally dawned on him that women would be conscripted as well.

Sameena smiled suddenly as she stepped into the shower, allowing warm water to run down her body. Almost all of her peers had been married in the last few months, just to prevent some of the men from being conscripted by making them fathers. If Sarfraz hadn’t run off, or the Government had permitted continued immigration, she knew that she would have been married off by now herself.

“Come on out of there,” her cousin-brother shouted. She ignored him; he wouldn’t dare come into the shower, even though he was technically someone she couldn’t marry. Her father would have killed him. “Come on.”

Coward, Sameena thought coldly. He’d never dared bully her when Sarfraz had been around; their relationship had been better than most brothers and sisters. She finished washing herself, careful to ensure that any signs of Brad and her making love were washed off, and stepped out of the shower.

“Come on,” her mother shouted. She sounded annoyed; Sameena could only hope that she would blame her cousin-brother for dragging her back upstairs. She stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a dressing gown, and allowed her cousin-brother to enter the shower.

“Move, girl,” her mother said. “We have to be on the streets at nine o’clock.”

Sameena dressed slowly, pulling on jeans and then pulling on a traditional dress and headscarf over it. Doctor Tyler hadn’t given any of the Asian girls trouble over their scarves, provided that they kept them out of the blood. She didn’t want to march, she didn’t want to join the protest she understood would be futile, and…

There and then, she made her decision about the future. She couldn’t stay with her family anymore, not and keep herself right in the head. She made a mental note to call Brad, as soon as she could slip away from the protest.

***
“We have something of a problem,” Chief Constable Robinson said. The men of the Civil Defence Corps looked as interested as they could. “A bunch of protesters are about to march down into the centre of town, watched by a heavy police presence.”

Brad, hidden in the second row, winced. Sameena had texted him just before he had left the house, complaining about being forced to walk in the march. If it got violent, his girlfriend would be right in the middle of it.

“It’s going to get violent,” Robinson said grimly. Beside him, Sergeant Kendrick snorted. “There are…rogue elements coming to wreck the parade, from National Front nuts who want to fight for Britain, to Muslim groups that hate us for conscripting women, even though we haven’t started that yet. It’s going to be bad.”

Sergeant Kendrick tapped the map. The marchers had announced their intention to march, in accordance with the law, down through Rusholme to where it became Oxford Road, and then on to the Town Centre.

“They’re not going to be allowed past the Manchester Metropolitan University,” Sergeant Kendrick said grimly. “The Police have informed the leader of the march, and he says that he understands, but things like this can get out of hand quite easily. If that happens, we will be called upon to help pull people away from the riot. Understand?”

“Yes, Sergeant Kendrick,” Brad said, along with the rest.

“Good,” Sergeant Kendrick said. “Now, here are your instructions.”

***
The helicopter drifted over Manchester, powered by its rotor blades as it passed over the town centre and hovered over the universities. Hanging from the cockpit, Charlene Jackson shuddered at the view; thousands of people marching towards the police blockade. The police had converted a flyover bridge into a blockade with the help of a Handling Machine and the Civil Defence Corps, establishing a wall beyond which – they hoped – the protesters could not pass. The counter-demonstration, on the other side of Manchester, had already become violent.

“This is Charlene Jackson,” Charlene said, speaking live into the microphone. “The protesters against conscription are still marching forward, despite seeing the police barricades ahead of them. Police officers, some armed and ready for action, are standing by, ready for anything.”

She paused. “We’re bringing you a live feed from the ground as thousands of people march towards the barricade and…”

A policeman, shouting though a megaphone, drowned out her speech. “YOU MAY NOT PROCEED FURTHER,” he shouted. The crowd roared. “STOP NOW AND DISPERSE!”

The marchers didn’t seem disposed to stop; Charlene could see some people urging them on, shouting about fascists and foreign wars. The police seemed to be moving, running Policemen moving into place to prevent the marchers simply smashing through the barricade, and then…

“Oh, dear God,” Charlene breathed, as the explosion billowed up. “What the hell has happened?”

***
Gavin Scott knew little about Asians, except what his father had told him as he grew up. They were leeches, his father had said, before he died of cancer. They were WOGS – Wily Oriental Gentlemen – whose only ambition was to scrounge off deserving ratepayers like himself. Gavin had imbibed his father’s hatred along with his mother’s milk, keeping the hatred alive as his father died in Oldham, just after Contact.

Gavin had been delighted when conscription had been announced. His father had agreed, telling him that it would make a man of him from his deathbed, before closing his eyes forever. Gavin couldn’t wait – he’d absorbed his father’s attitudes towards the military as well – and the thought of people refusing to serve his country shocked him. Having taken all that they could grab, the ungrateful pig-lovers were refusing to serve their adopted country.

“No more,” he’d vowed, and he’d shouted so loudly that the local chapter of the National Front had agreed to let him attack the protesters. They’d launched a counter-protest, of course, but naturally the cowardly politicians would try to prevent them from marching.

“Get ready,” he muttered to the three youths with him. “Ready?”

Without waiting longer, he led them up onto the roof of the shops on Oxford Road, moving up the back stairs. The shop was owned by a sympathiser, one who had slipped them the keys. He reached the edge and peered down upon the marching crowd, still shouting in their disgraceful version of English.

He opened his bag and drew out the bottles. Some were filled with petrol – a hard-to-find substance these days – and some with chorine. He opened one of the petrol bottles, stuck in the fuse, and lit it.

“Die, you paki bastards,” he shouted, throwing the first bottle directly into the mass of protesters. The blast of fire lashed away at them, even as the other bottles smashed, releasing their contents into the crowd. “Die…”

A police sharpshooter fired once. The bullet passed through his head, killing him instantly. Gavin Scott died without ever having the chance to serve his country.

***
Sameena had been making her way towards the edge of the crowd, ever since kicking an imprudent boy in the unmentionables for trying to grope her. Her behind still felt appalling, as if she’d been sitting in something vile, and she wanted – needed – a shower. She could still feel his hands; only the memory of his face, contorted in pain, kept her going as she managed to slip onto the pavement and…

The gout of flame blasted up from the crowd, only fifty meters from her; thousands of people packed into a very compressed space. The crowd roared, some in pain, some in outrage, as a single gunshot echoed out. She heard Jafar shouting at the crowd, urging them to attack the police, and then some of the crowd lunged forwards, slamming against the barricade.

She didn’t wait to see any more. She ran for it, cursing her decision to wear a skirt, and passed through the university grounds to hide, shaking, near the mosque Sarfraz had loved. The roar of the crowd grew louder behind her, she ran faster and faster, trying to escape the demons at her back. She had a key to Brad’s flat, she would be safe there, she was sure.

“Damn you,” she said aloud, angrily. “Damn you, Jafar; how many of us are going to die because of your cowardliness?”

***
There hadn’t been time to issue many instructions as the rioters lunged in their direction. Brad triggered the massive hose without orders, blasting a stream of cold water over the protesters, watching as they slipped and fell to the ground. The fire hoses had been planned for pouring water on the Posleen, but instead they were being turned on humans – humans stupid enough not to see the oncoming storm for what it was.

“They’re coming,” he shouted, as the rioters slipped and fell. “What the hell do we do with them?”

“Hold the line, boy,” Sergeant Kendrick bellowed, as the rioters fell over themselves, a great seething mass of humanity. “Hold the line.”

The pop-pop-pop of teargas grenades began to echo as the police began to break apart the riot. Thousands of rioters were streaming around, trying to flee, and the police let most of them go. They were only dangerous in groups. Several tried to fight and the police smacked them aside; they were a minor nuisance to armoured police officers.

Suddenly, dramatically, it was all over. Brad took a deep breath, thinking and worrying about Sameena for the first time since the riot had begun. The police were cleaning up the debris and arresting the few captured riot leaders. Brad recognised one of the bodies with a sudden smile; Uncle Jafar had met his end on the streets.

Idiot, he thought, and decided not to mention it to Sameena. His fears for her became overwhelming; what had happened to her? He nearly used his mobile phone to call her, and then realised that Sergeant Kendrick was shouting for them all to assemble around him.

“You did good today, lads,” Sergeant Kendrick said. “It could have been a lot nastier than it was.”

Robinson stomped over. “So far, we have recovered nearly three hundred dead bodies, including the people who started the riot by firebombing the crowd,” he snapped. “We weren’t ready for anything like this fucking mess.”

“Language,” Sergeant Kendrick reproved him mildly, receiving a glare in return. “You lads can help clear up the wreckage, and then you can have the rest of the day off.”

Brad felt his mobile phone buzz with a text message. He glanced at it as Sergeant Kendrick organised them into teams, directing them to clear up the debris and bodies on the road. For the moment, they had the luxury of being able to bag the bodies in body bags; Sergeant Kendrick had been very clear on quick disposal when the war actually began.

Am at your bit, the message read. Want you now love.

I’ll be there as soon as I can, he sent back. Just helping to clear up the mess.

***
Sameena had spent many happy hours in Brad’s flat, but now all she did was watch the television, wondering how things had gotten so bad, so quickly. The list of the dead kept growing; to her horror she discovered that she herself was listed among the dead. Her mother had ordered her cousin-brother to text her, asking where she was, but she ignored it. She hurt inside; she simply didn’t care anymore.

“Hi honey, I’m home,” Brad called. Sameena couldn’t even smile at the joke, simply reaching to give him a kiss. “How are you?”

“It was hell,” she said dully. “Uncle Jafar is dead; I saw it on the TV.”

“Oh,” Brad said. He didn’t sound too worried; he hadn’t known the man. “Do you want to go to bed?”

She glared at him. “I didn’t mean like that,” he said hastily. “You need a rest.”

Sameena shook her head. “Brad, can I move in with you?” She asked. “My father is dead; I saw him on the lists of the dead.”

Brad looked concerned about her. “Are you sure you’ll be fine.”

She caught him and sobbed into his chest. “They’ll use me to gain favours so that the family will survive,” she said, crying for the loss of innocence. “I’d sooner be with you. I want a job, a career and I want to be my own person.”

Brad held her. “You can stay here as long as you want,” he said, and meant it. “Come on; you need to get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Chapter Eleven: Recap

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
2nd December 2001

The Prime Minister rubbed his weary eyes. The events in Manchester, and the similar riots all across the country, had shocked thousands of civilians, many of whom were asking questions through their MPs. It didn’t do any good to say that right-wingers had attacked the marchers, as in Manchester, or that the marches were led by people intent on causing trouble, such as had happened in Brixton. The seventeen riots, on the same day, had been nightmarish; the Prime Minister could remember nothing like them.

“So,” he said coldly. “What the hell happened?”

“Nearly seventeen hundred people dead, more than twice that injured, and almost five hundred people in jail,” the Home Secretary said. He sounded as tired as the Prime Minister felt. “Property damage in excess of two million pounds…”

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” the Prime Minister snapped. He controlled his temper with an effort. “We have a dangerous situation on our hands – and what the hell caused it?”

“It was inevitable,” the new Minister for War Production said. He sighed. “We haven’t had National Service for years, I think it ended in 1960 or thereabouts. We’re just not used to fighting a war on our own soil. To add insult to injury, some elements believe that we’re stamping on their traditions.”

“Fuck them,” General Mathews said. “If the Posleen are as bad as the Darhel suggest” – and the Prime Minister thought coldly about the Darhel – “then they might be the last surviving Muslims on the planet.”

“Many people don’t believe in the Posleen,” the Minister for War Production said. “They don’t see the Darhel reports, or the information picked up by that French General, but only the collapse of the global economy and the shortages of supplies.” He sighed again. “And, of course, we cannot afford to keep the Social Security network running for much longer, and in fact we’re using it to pick out the first class of conscripts.”

“When did we breed such stupid children?” The Prime Minister asked. “We know that the Posleen are real.”

“Yes, Prime Minister, but they don’t,” the Minister for War Production said grimly. “Many people are suffering because of the war preparations.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Is there anything that we can do about it?”

“Not much,” General Mathews said, before anyone else could speak. “We could start expanding the conscription classes now, or we could reduce the number of conscripted females.”

The Prime Minister shook his head. “I think that we have to recruit everyone,” he said. “We cannot show any favours to any single group, not now. Those who are essential in their current roles won’t be conscripted anyway.”

He watched as General Mathews struggled to find a way to explain how few Asian women were in essential roles. “For the moment, I think that we can ban further demonstrations under DORA,” he said. “While that might have the effect of heightening distrust of us, we really don’t have much choice.”

The Leader of the Opposition nodded. “We should also round up the ultra-nationalist groups and the Asian” – he avoided the word ‘Muslim’ – “trouble causers,” he said. “Putting them in the army, or in prison, would make life simpler.”

“I suppose,” the Prime Minister said. He suddenly felt very tired. “What about the food situation?”

“We’re planning a massive growing season for the next four years,” the Minister for the Environment said. He’d been appalled at the prospects for global climate change if the Posleen started bombarding Earth. At best, the results would be like a mild nuclear war – as if there were such a thing – with dust in the atmosphere and total climate change across the world. At worst…humanity could be condemned to eternal darkness.

He tapped the papers he’d spread out on the table. “We’re supposed to have Galactic food producers for the Sub-Urbs, but we’re going to be stockpiling food anyway, using the genetic techniques to make them last longer and longer. Rather like the guy with the technocolour dreamcoat. If we abandon all of the limits on the farms, we’ll have around enough food stockpiled for five years by the time the first Posleen attack begins, stockpiled in Scotland and Wales.”

“As long as we have the Sub-Urbs ready,” the Prime Minister said. He stared up at the map. “The Scottish Parliament wasn’t happy at their sudden loss of…importance.”

“Politicians,” General Mathews commented. The Prime Minister snorted. “They wanted to keep control over Scotland.”

“It hardly matters now,” the Prime Minister said. “What about the Sub-Urbs?”

“We’re preparing to start digging soon,” the Minister for War Production said. He grinned hopefully. “We’ll have some Galactic tools and a lot more of our own, digging away into the mountains. Given some years, we’ll have both the underground living spaces and the planetary defence centre at John O’Groats ready in time for most of the population to be moved there.”

“There are some minor problems,” General Mathews said grimly. “For a start, we really need to expand the rail network, simply because we can expect the Posleen to hammer it from space before they land.”

“They haven’t taken out the transportation networks on Galactic worlds,” the Minister for War Production pointed out. “I read the reports.”

“They knew perfectly well that the Galactics couldn’t stop them,” General Mathews said. “We have two lines between Scotland and the south; what happens if they cut them both?”

The Minister for War Production scowled. “We’re going to have to expand the rail lines anyway, just for the evacuation,” the Prime Minister said. “Yet another problem we have to handle.”

“Damn it,” General Mathews said. “This would be a hell of a lot easier if we knew where the bastards were going to land.”

“If they land in Scotland, we’re fucked,” the Prime Minister said dryly. “If they land in Wales, we’re slightly less fucked.” A sense of gallows humour came over him. “If they land in the midlands, we’re going to have to throw everything at them, just to ensure that we can move most of the population out, so we’re fucked again.”

General Mathews smiled. “Colonel Anderson is always talking about the War of the Worlds computer game,” he said. “It’s the same problem on a large scale.”

“And a real scale,” the Prime Minister snapped. “Does the game offer any insights?”

“Not enough to be useful,” General Mathews admitted. “The aliens land in Scotland, and if we knew that the Posleen were going to land there…”

***
Charlene Jackson was bored of being the official reporting liaison from the BBC to the Oversight Group handling the preparations for war. It wasn’t a bad job, but it was tiring, and it kept her name out in front of the public. She’d been pulled out of Hack Green to report on what should have been a peaceful protest, and then she’d been sent all the way back up to London for an interview with the Prime Minister himself.

“They should have sent someone else,” she muttered. The Prime Minister had a habit of open-air press conferences, but rarely gave face-to-face conferences with an individual reporter. If Charlene hadn’t been so cooperative, she would not have had the BBC’s request for an interview accepted.

“Good evening, Miss Jackson,” the Prime Minister said. His trademark smile brightened his face, but she was too tired to respond properly. The entire interview was being recorded by a tape-recorder; she’d put in a request for an AID, but there were only a handful of them in Britain. Everyone wanted one.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said. She’d half-hoped that the Prime Minister would have agreed to have talked to her on Spotlight or another TV show, but with her tiredness, she was grateful that he had refused that request. Yawning on TV would have ruined her career faster than a Darhel ship could travel.

“You’re welcome,” the Prime Minister said. “So…what do you want to ask me?”

Charlene forced down a yawn by sheer force of will. “Following the tragedy in Manchester and several other cities, do you intend to make any chances to the disputed conscription policy?”

“We can’t,” the Prime Minister said. His very expression radiated firmness, mixed with regret. “We all know that we might have to fight to serve our country and now…now, we have no choice, but to prepare for a major land war in Britain itself. We are all required to fight, Miss Jackson, even me.”

Charlene smiled, too tired to risk interrupting the Prime Minister and starting an argument. You needed to be fast on your wits to do that, and she wasn’t at the moment. “Some of the communities in Britain feel little…liking for Britain as a whole,” she said. “Should their views not be respected?”

The Prime Minister hesitated for a long moment. “No,” he said finally. “Quite frankly, we have to put everyone on the same footing. They can fight, or they can get out now.”

“And if some of the strategic pictures are even remotely correct, the Far East is doomed,” Charlene said. “They’d be dead anyway.”

“Perhaps,” the Prime Minister said. “The first forces intended for Diess are intended to leave in a fortnight, perhaps less.”

“They’ll miss Christmas with their families,” Charlene said sharply.

The Prime Minister bowed his head. “I know,” he said. “Once they reach Diess and engage the Posleen, we should get a better idea of what they’re capable of, and then we can make more accurate projections. As for the ethnic communities, they have chosen to become our citizens when the going was good; now they can fight for Britain or get out.”

Charlene nodded. After the riots, she found it hard to care. “What about the economy?” She asked. “As you know, the global economy has collapsed, pretty much.”

“Actually, we’re working on building a temporary framework of global trade, just to keep some of the skills we need employed,” the Prime Minister said. “We’ll be trading some food and oil for some equipment, but as you point out, global trade has gone down.”

He sighed. “For the moment, the economy will hold up as we’ll be contracting for every manner of product that can be used for defence within Britain itself,” he said. “It’s uncharted waters, Miss Jackson; we might end up going all the way back to barter, or even a form of quasi-communism.”

“The right-wingers will love that,” Charlene said. The Prime Minister laughed. “Another point; certain people in Parliament have been proposing new criminal bills. What do you think of those?”

The Prime Minister shrugged. “They’re backbencher bills,” he said. “I have no official position.”

Charlene smiled, forgetting her tiredness. “But do you have a personal position?”

The Prime Minister looked at her. “I agree that we can hardly afford to coddle prisoners and criminals now,” he said. “I also do not agree with some of the punishments they have in mind; I have always been against the death penalty, and simply shooting child molesters seems extreme. On the other hand, I don’t want them on the streets, and I certainly don’t want them getting in the way.” He smiled. “It’s up to Parliament.”

“That’s good to hear,” Charlene said. “A final question, then; how will we handle elections in 2004?”

“The Leader of the Opposition and myself have agreed on a coalition government, which should allow continuity, whatever the outcome of the election,” the Prime Minister said. “We’ll hold the elections in March 2004, and then hold a second set of elections, having a shadow Parliament, in a manner of speaking.”

“So if some MPs die, they’ll have replacements,” Charlene said.

The Prime Minister nodded. “It has already been decided that the Government will stay in London up to the final moment,” he said. “If something happens to Parliament, the shadow Parliament will be able to take over.”

RAF Coningsby
Lincolnshire, United Kingdom
16th December 2001

The massive Galactic shuttles were lined up on the runways, drawing the attention of the press cameras and the soldiers who were on duty, even as the men and women of the 1st Armoured Division and three infantry divisions saluted the Queen as she stood on the edge of the podium. The band was pumping out God Save the Queen and Rule Britannia, and they could have been playing both at once for all the attention they were getting. Everyone’s eyes were on the shuttles.

“They came to use and requested our help,” the Queen said. There wasn’t silence – respect for the Monarchy had gone downhill sharply following the death of Princess Diana – but the soldiers were attentive. The thousands of watching civilians weren’t so attentive; they had come to see the aliens. Even a few months after contact, aliens were hardly a common sight.

Watching from his seat on the podium, wishing that it weren’t so cold, the Prime Minister smiled. The Duchess Boildespudswell would have made a better speech, even if the Prime Minister had made common cause with the Monarch. Mentally kicking himself for not having had the foresight to have arranged for Peter Sellers to have been rejuvenated, the Prime Minister listened as the Queen finished her speech.

“They need our help out there,” the Queen said. She’d said the same thing several times in different words. “In the name of interstellar harmony, go forth and defeat the aliens who threaten galactic peace.”

Ouch, the Prime Minister thought. The Queen clearly still believed that the Darhel were benevolent. He had his doubts; the Darhel were clearly playing a double game, seemingly working at cross-purposes with themselves. Still, the Queen had finally finished, and it was his turn to speak.

“We all know what’s coming our way,” he said, hoping that that was in fact true. “The Posleen will destroy us, unless we can delay them on the Federation worlds and learn enough about them to have a chance of defeating them on Earth.” He looked across the rows of trained soldiers, professional killers, and knew that most of them would be dead before 2002 was finished. “For your country, you have been asked to take on the longest assistance mission ever, to an alien world. Remember, when you go, you fight for Britain, carrying part of Britain with you.”

He spoke on, keeping the speech as short as possible, before concluding. The Galactic shuttles opened and the soldiers filed onboard; their equipment had been moved to orbit beforehand. As the band played Will You No Come Back Again, the shuttles slowly lifted off and headed into the darkening sky.

“Most of them will die,” Colonel Anderson said. The Prime Minister nearly jumped; he hadn’t heard the officer coming up behind him. “They’re not ready for the Posleen.”

“None of us are,” the Prime Minister said. “This is not going to be a very merry Christmas.”

Business Complex
Central London, United Kingdom
31st December 2001

There was a curious air to the revellers thronging through Trafalgar Square, dancing under the fireworks as the New Year came on and on. Margent Hammond would have preferred to have joined the dancers, even though she was really too old to enjoy the experience, but Griffin had been insistent. She followed him into the complex, one of countless anonymous office blocks, and they entered a darkened room.

“So, what happened in Manchester?” Griffin asked. Hammond shrugged; she hadn’t given any orders at all for the march, or for what happened afterwards. “We paid you money…”

“You donated money,” Hammond said. “I was under the impression that we were going to meet your employers.”

“You will,” Griffin said. He frowned; it was a remarkably handsome frown. Hammond was old enough to recognise that it was faked. “We gave you money in exchange for you rallying opposition against the military gaining a position of prominence…”

It was an odd way to put it, Hammond realised. It was almost as if he was reluctant to talk about war. “We made no agreement,” she said sharply. “I am working for my own reasons, for the good of Britain, rather than your good.”

“Galactic society cannot stand under a sudden explosion of humans from Earth,” Griffin said. “If we burst out into space, we will ruin the Federation with an endless demand for newer and newer planets. Thousands of races will be absorbed or wiped out by human fighting, just like we did to the Native Americans.”

Hammond, who knew perfectly well that the myth of the noble savage was just that, a myth, was careful not to smile. “Galactic society seems to be inviting us up to fight for them,” she said. “Only two weeks ago, nearly a hundred thousand British men joined nearly a million soldiers in a multinational force, heading towards a planet with an unpronounceable name.”

“Diess,” Griffin said. “It’s hardly unpronounceable.”

Hammond shrugged. “As I said, why bother with attempting to repeat your mistake of prohibition” – she smiled at the confirmation that Griffin was American – “when the Posleen will be devouring thousands of millions of…Indowy?”

A new voice spoke from out of the darkness. Hammond shivered; the voice was strange, almost…alien. It was strangely hypnotic, in fact, calm and reassuring. It made her want to trust the speaker implicitly, and she felt a flicker of alarm as she realised what the speaker really was.

“The Posleen are a regrettable problem,” it said. “It is so rare for a species capable of mindless violence, such as your own kind in the past, to develop the technology permitting it to escape gravity, let alone the lightspeed barrier. Your species, however, must learn to develop socially before you can fit into the delicate balance of galactic society.”

Hammond collected her thoughts with an effort. “You have introduced technologies that will forever free humans from Earth,” she said. She peered into the darkness, trying to see the other speaker. “You should know that we wouldn’t stay here.”

“Ah, but that is what we want you for,” the speaker said. It’s voice shifted, becoming sadder. “If you can help us prevent your race from converting each and every member of its people into soldiers, then there won’t be…”

The voice sounded actively distressed as it trailed off. Hammond realised that speaking of war, even in such roundabout terms, was actively distressing to the being. “Tell me something,” she said. “I insist on knowing whom I’m working with. Who – what – are you?”

“I have been remiss in my hospitality,” the voice said. “Mr Griffin, if you would please activate the lights?”

Hammond shielded her eyes as the lights rose sharply. She stared at the figure, seated neatly behind a desk. Even in the half-light, she could make out its small slight form, and the strange greenish tint to its skin. Its oddly-shaped head was elfin, with two slightly pointed ears. In the darkness, it might have passed for human, but not in the dim light pervading the room.

The Darhel smiled at her, revealing very sharp teeth indeed. She remembered that they were vegetarians and was not reassured. “A pleasure doing business with you, Miss Hammond,” it said. “I hope you are now reassured of our interest in the safety and well-being of the galaxy?”

Interlude

And so it began…

Human forces went out to confront the Posleen on two worlds. On one of them, the Posleen were defeated by a man named Michael O’Neal, who used a crazy manoeuvre involving an antimatter bomb and a Posleen lander to buy time for the human forces to adapt . As the novelty of the enemy wore off, the human forces grew better at fighting the Posleen, even at defeating them in open battle.

On the side of the enemy, that strange race that had been modified so long ago, they became aware of the existence of humanity. The Posleen had only the bare bones of an organisation, but news of the shattering defeat spread through their Net, shared with all of their God Kings. The effort to reach Earth was forced forward, but interstellar war was a tricky proposition, even for the Galactics. Though a method they never understood – not even the more intelligent God Kings – information on Earth and its various races began to spread through the Posleen Net, information on the Americans, the Germans, the Russians…and the British.

On Earth, the armies prepared for the coming storm. Even as the battles on Barwhon raged on, the Armoured Combat Suits entered the armouries of many nations, those who could afford them. Not all nations adopted Galactic technology; the Germans in particular worked to develop their own anti-lander and anti-Posleen vehicle. In the mind of the German leader, a grim thought developed slowly, hiding in the darkest recesses of his mind.

The world held its breath. All across the world, nations made their own preparations for war, from calling up every able-bodied young man (and sometimes every woman) for military service, to leaders running from nations that were sure to be overrun. Politics played a role; the French Government wasn’t able to raise as large an army as it had wished, torn apart by internal dissent and Darhel manipulations. Iraq denied its Shia population arms, forcing them to work to feed the Sunnis who would be armed, while the Saudis refused to arm more than a handful of their population. In the mountains of Afghanistan, a man called Osama Bin Ladin made his preparations to defend Mecca with his organisation, one that few humans had chosen to believe existed.

In Britain, the preparations for war continued. The Armoured Combat Suit unit were prepared and slowly – oh so slowly – equipped with their weapons and suits. Thousands and then millions of British men and women went to the colours, preparing to fight for Britain, armed and trained by developing industries, fed by a rationing program that gave priority to the military. Even as Britain dug deep within the mountains of Scotland and Wales, even as thousands of civilians moved north to the Sub-Urbs, the tension only grew.

And as for the Darhel? The strange elfin aliens watched and waited, steering a minor decision one way, pushing a larger decision another way, convincing humans to move towards the goals of the Darhel. Never moving in the open, remaining shadowy and indistinct, the Darhel were watched in their turn by various intelligence agencies, even as the mass of humanity hailed them as saviours.

A year passed. Another. Two more years passed. The time was steadily ticking down, and Earth was getting tense. The military, the national units and Fleet, prepared as best as they could, waiting for the axe to fall. The Posleen were on their way…and the humans waited…

And waited…

Chapter Twelve: Gust Front

Rusholme, Manchester
9th October 2004

Rusholme wasn’t what it had used to be, Sarfraz realised, as Brad and he walked along the centre of the road. The occasional car passed them, the drivers often making a rude gesture, but the two men ignored them. They were too busy examining the suburb, which had changed remarkably.

Gone were the shops stocking goods from India and Pakistan; the two nations had better things to do then produce goods for British markets. The shops had gone out of business quickly; British industries didn’t produce what they wanted or needed. Gone were the thousands of cars, dangerously double-parked; they had been dumped or sold for scrap when the oil ran out. Gone were the fancy restaurants, their staff having gone to the army, or in hiding fleeing the draft.

“This place is still open,” Brad said, pulling Sarfraz towards a simple kebab house. It was nearly lunchtime and the tables covered the entire street, leaving only a small place for passing cars. A Handling Machine had constructed a small barricade, which was rated good for withstanding Posleen attacks, preventing cars from slamming into the diners.

Sarfraz studied the shop with some amusement. “How many arms did they have to grease?” He asked. He meant arms; the sheer problems involved with keeping a restaurant running would mean greasing more than just a few palms with silver, or Federation Credits. “This place has everything.”

“Not quite everything,” Brad admitted, nodding to a waiter who came out to take their order. The waiter limped along on a crutch; it fooled neither man. “Coke is not quite what it used to be, and nor is the Iron Bru.”

“What? They’ve started using real iron?” Sarfraz asked. “How is the meat?”

He meant; is it Halal? Brad nodded. “That was how they convinced the Civil Defence Corps that they were needed,” he said. “Lot of Muslims in the Corps, and fewer Muslim restaurants. And some of the recruits were complaining, so my superiors fast-tracked some extra food vouchers for the place, provided they did their slaughtering themselves.”

Sarfraz grinned. “I heard that you’re now number-two for Manchester,” he said. “How did they get an idiot like you in that slot?”

Brad stuck out his tongue. “I found out that I was good at it,” he said. “You really should come see the tunnels, bro; we’ve been adapting the sewers into a miniature labyrinth. Some of them, you can even move one of your suits along the tunnels, just to hide from bad-tempered Posleen.”

Sarfraz pulled his AID from his belt and set it on the table. “Anisa, display the tunnel map,” he said. A holographic display appeared in front of them. “Is that what you mean?”

Brad studied the display. “Impressive,” he said. “No, you’re missing some of the tunnels,” he said finally. “We just kept adding to it and adding to it…and then some of the seniors went into the TA, and then Captain Radcliff asked me to accept a permanent CDC commission, and so…here I stand.”

“Those poor bastards,” Sarfraz said. Their kebabs arrived and for five minutes both men devoted themselves to eating. Brad broke the silence first.

“So, what was it like?” He asked. “What was being in the wars like?”

Sarfraz shook his head slowly. “It wasn’t the wars,” he said. He paused; how to explain to Brad about Bhutan and Bangladesh? How to explain that the leaders of Bangladesh had decided that Bhutan would make a good spot for them to hide out from the invasion? How to explain the massive poverty in Bangladesh, or the almost defenceless region? How to explain that the Posleen would regard Bangladesh as a banquet?

“It was ghastly,” he said finally. “They had nothing that could touch us; Bangladesh had almost no GalTech at all. They had these dinky tanks from the 1960s and we smashed them with our hands, crushing them without any effort at all. Their hearts weren’t in it; they knew that they would be left down in the plains when the Posleen came and ate them, while their leaders fled.”

Brad nodded. “It’s bad here too,” he said. “Everyone is scared, even with the timetabled movement plans. They think that the entire system will fall apart when the Posleen arrive, and they might be right.”

Sarfraz nodded. “I went on the hajji,” he said. “Did she tell you?”

Brad shook his head. “She’s been becoming one of the CDC’s doctors,” he said. “She’ll be ready when they come.”

Sarfraz looked at him. “You’ve been living together for over three years,” he said. “Why haven’t you married her?”

Brad seemed to flinch at the question. “She refused to marry me when I asked her,” he said. “She…she wants to have a stable life first, and…”

“This isn’t very stable,” Sarfraz agreed. “Anisa is pretty much the same; she’s still working for the CDC herself, but she won’t consider marriage.”

“She could lose you at any moment,” Brad said. “Statistically, you are far more likely to die than I.”

“I know,” Sarfraz said dryly. “Have there been any more peaceniks?”

He was dodging the real issue. Brad, Allah bless him, understood. “She’s fine, as far as we can tell,” he said. “Your mother is living with one of your endless supply of uncles…Mumtaz, I think.”

Sarfraz smiled. “He’s decent, if narrow-minded,” he said. “Her brother from the old country.”

Brad smiled. “What’s it like in the army?” He asked. “Would I fit in?”

“Obvious coward,” Sarfraz said. “We ought to call you Major Bloodnok. ”

“Please meet my sister,” Brad said. He snorted. “No one would mistake Sameena for my sister.”

“A blind man might,” Sarfraz said. “One so fair, the other…disgusting.”

“Up yours,” Brad said. “She said that she would meet us soon, once her latest drill is finished.”

Sarfraz frowned. One of the other things that Sergeant Benton had hammered into their heads was that drills were fine, except that they missed out one thing; the emergency. They’d been forced to practice getting into the suits in the dark, just in case the Posleen took out the lights, and they’d been forced to practice fighting without half of the suit’s systems, just in case. The old sadist had done his job well, so well that half of the 1st Armoured Combat Suit Regiment jumped for their suits in the morning.

“It’s…regimented,” he said, and smiled at the bad pun. “We get up in the morning, exercise, practice unarmed combat – which is certain death against a Posleen – and then we practice with the suits and artillery coordination until we’re asleep on our feet. Then we wake up and do it all over again.”

Brad nodded. “We’ve been putting a lot of people though hell here,” he said. “Constant drills, getting everyone to the shelters or the railways, just to get them out of here. We’ve been reduced to praying that they won’t land here, it’s that fucked-up.”

“That bad, huh?” Sarfraz asked. A running brown form caught his attention. “Sister!”

Sameena ran up and gave him a hug. “Long time no see,” she said. “How’s your leave?”

“Just hit the crapper,” Sarfraz said. She mock-slapped him. “How’ve you been?”

“Giving basic medical attention,” Sameena said. She was stronger and more confident than he remembered. “Do you know that we’re a hell of a lot healthier, as a whole, than we were a few years ago?”

“Less fat bastards eating all the pie,” Brad said. He grinned; Rowan Atkinson had put on a performance for the CDC, dressed as Blackadder from Blackadder Goes Forth. His statement about how the British Army should invade France had been warmly received by almost all of the watching CDC.

“A lot of people have made money from the invasion,” Sameena said. “People in the armaments business, mainly.”

Sarfraz shrugged. “What are you going to do about it?” He asked. “It’s none of our business.”

“I always tried to care, ever since Jafar died,” Sameena said. Sarfraz shrugged; he had never liked Jafar. She spoke in Arabic for a moment. “How was the Holy City?”

“Unprepared for war,” Sarfraz said, in English. “The army offered us a chance to go on the pilgrimage, and the Saudis haven’t bothered to do anything to defend the city. All the defence of the city is in the hands of that nutter Bin Ladin and his goons.” He shook his head. “Allah, but they give us a bad name.”

“Perhaps I should have gone,” Sameena mused. “Perhaps it would have been my last chance.”

“You’re unmarried,” Sarfraz pointed out. “You have no obligation to go.” He leered at her. “When are you going to get married?”

Sameena glared at him. “When we’re stable,” she said. “I mean it, you know, so don’t go all nutty on me.”

“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,” Sarfraz said. “Take care of yourself, sis.”

“I will,” Sameena promised. “Now, how long is your leave?”

Sarfraz’s AID started to buzz. Seconds later, the alarms started to ring. “Anisa?” Sarfraz asked. “What’s up?”

“A number of Posleen ships have emerged from hyperspace,” the AID said. “All military personnel are ordered to return to their units at once.”

“Acknowledge for me,” Sarfraz ordered, returning the AID to his belt. “Brad, take care of her.” He grinned. “You did have to open your mouth, didn’t you?”

Sameena kissed him once on the cheek. “You’d better come back so I can kick you for that,” she said. Sarfraz nodded once, then started to run back towards the military station. The only way to return to Fort Churchill would be by aircraft, and no one knew how long they would last.

Permanent Joint Headquarters
London, United Kingdom
9th October 2004

The procedure for dealing with the invasion had been extensively war-gamed, time and time again; just to make certain that everyone knew what they were doing. Even as Lieutenant Mike Stinson and Captain Takao Takagi fought their brief hopeless battle in near-Earth orbit, the British military was going on full alert. Planetary Defence Centres, linked into the global command network, activated, their weapons tracking across the sky.

“The Prime Minister is heading for the bunker,” Colonel Jaffrey snapped. “The civil defence network is coming to full alertness.”

“Where’s Anderson?” General Mathews snapped. Anderson entered at a run, his AID already linking into the growing landline network that had been extended around Britain. “Tom, get working; where are they going to land?”

“All civil aircraft are heading for the nearest airport,” Colonel Jaffrey said, ignoring the byplay. Part of Mathews’ mind noted that without concern. “All civilian transmitters have gone down, as per the plan.”

“The BBC is reporting now,” the Press Liaison said. “They’re giving everyone the pre-recorded message, with a promise of more information as soon as we have it.”

“Good,” Mathews said. The live feed from Fleet appeared on the display; a number of glowing red icons were settling into orbit, spinning around the Earth. “Where are they going to land?”

“Unknown,” Anderson said. He seemed calm; perhaps the promotion to General had calmed his fears and vindicated him at last. “Previous experience suggests that they’ll take a few hours to decide.”

Mathews watched as one of the Space Falcons vanished from the display. “Fleet can’t take them out, can it?” He asked. “They’re going to land somewhere, aren’t they?”

“I’m afraid so,” Anderson said. “The Fleet will do the best it can, but…”

“They’re firing,” Admiral Bledspeth’s voice said, though the Internet. The Terrain System Fleet Commander – he had won the converted post through a complicated deal that would never have been believed in a thriller novel – sounded grim; a lot of his people were going to die in the next few days.

“Incoming fire, targeted on PDC-UK-1,” Colonel Johnston said. “Impact in ten seconds…PDC destroyed.”

“Fuck,” Mathews snarled. Nearly a third of their ground-to-space capability had just gone. He glanced at his watch; had it really been half an hour since the Posleen had arrived?

“Interesting target selection,” Anderson mused, watching the display. “They ignore the half-completed PDCs that don’t fire on them, but look at some of the other targets. They’ve hit the satellites, and some targets on the surface that…don’t make any sense at all.”

Mathews stared at the display. Satellites flickered and died as laser beams touched their fragile skeletons and vaporised them, causing the global communications network to crash. The landlines, laid at great expense, took over slowly, rebuilding the network and automatically prioritising military communications. The International Space Station was blasted into very tiny pieces by an antimatter missile. Countless pieces of space junk, objects of no military value, were wiped from the skies, and then the Posleen began to bombard Earth in earnest.

“Shit,” he breathed, as light kinetic energy weapons dropped towards the planet below. Anderson was right, he realised; the God Kings had a weird sense of priorities. Some cities were struck – he cursed as he realised that Aberdeen had absorbed a missile for no apparent reason – and more PDC units were hit. And then…the Posleen started hitting stranger targets; the Great Pyramids in Cairo and unknown targets in Central America.

“I wonder if those targets conform to Maya cities or something,” Anderson mused. “Do we have a landing projection yet?”

Mathews shook his head. “They’re here with more force than we expected,” he muttered. “Can we stop them?”

“We have what we need,” Anderson said. “If they land, we can hold them.”

“We need to annihilate them,” Mathews snapped, loud enough to surprise the staff. One of his aides passed him a telephone. “Yes, Prime Minister?” He asked. There was a pause. “No, we don’t have a projection yet, sir; we have to remain at full alert.”

He glared across at Captain Campton. “All regiments are reporting at Green Status, or Amber Status,” the army captain reported.

“All civilian air traffic is gone,” Colonel Jaffrey added. “They hit some planes in transit. They seem to ignore helicopters.”

“We still have to remain on alert,” Mathews said. He glared at the CNN footage, coming direct from the Pentagon. “Sir, we’ve already taken losses and we have five Posleen globes breathing down our necks.”

***
“This is Charlene Jackson, reporting directly from the Ministry of Defence Main Building,” Jackson said. Even in the twilight, flashes of light could be seen from the skies. “In this building, plans are being made to counter the arrival of the Posleen globes from deep space. Here is Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, who will brief us on the current situation.”

Her cameraman pointed the camera at the short stubby Brigadier, who was clearly sweating under his uniform. He wore a sidearm; nearly every military officer did these days. Jackson knew that there had been a major debate within the MOD, and Parliament, over how much the Press should have access to, but the Prime Minister had settled it firmly and decisively.

“We will have to get information out quickly,” he said, and settled the argument. The evidence from the two planets suggested that the Posleen, at least, didn’t listen to human transmissions; some of them had been in the clear. The BBC had set up several transmission towers near London, however; the Posleen knew enough to fire on the sources of any transmissions.

“Ah, good evening,” Lethbridge-Stewart said. He stared down at a PDA he was carrying. “So far, five Posleen globes have emerged from hyperspace and engaged the defences forces orbiting the Earth. Despite brave fighting, the Posleen have not been slowed by the defences and – we assume – have been picking their landing sites.”

He paused. “In addition, one of their weapons came down in Aberdeen, presumably targeted on the PDC nearby. Casualties are believed to be high; the Civil Defence Corps is currently handing the matter.”

Charlene couldn’t resist. “What is the exact death toll?”

“Unknown,” Lethbridge-Stewart said. “It could be very high indeed.” He paused to listen to a transmission through his earpiece. “We have tentative landing zones now,” he said. “One seems to be heading towards the Atlantic, another on the Pacific, a third on somewhere between Southeast Asia to India, one somewhere within Central Asia and one somewhere in Africa.”

Charlene stared at him. For the first time, she felt true horror. “The Atlantic one could land here,” she said. The skies flickered again; blasts of thunder could be almost heard in the sky.

“Yes, it could,” Lethbridge-Stewart said gently. “It could come down in London.”

Reflexively, Charlene glanced at the sky. The flickers and flashes had almost faded, replaced by an ominous quiet. “Is there any update?”

Lethbridge-Stewart shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. He looked up at the camera. “The government requests that all military personnel report to their units as quickly as possible,” he said. “All civilians in non-essential jobs are to remain in their homes, until the landing sites are known.”

Charlene sighed. “Won’t people start running?” She asked. “The cities might not be safe right now.”

***
“Bitch,” Colonel Jaffrey muttered. “That poor man has a job to do.”

“So do we,” Mathews snapped. His attention had focused in on the Atlantic Posleen globe; it seemed to be moving slightly west. As they watched, the projected landing zone slid past Berlin, past Paris…over the English Channel…and headed towards America. A sigh of relief echoed around the room.

“As you were,” Mathews snapped. They had watched for over an hour as the God Kings made up their minds where to land. Now…it seemed as if the Posleen would bypass Britain, and land in America. “Tom?”

Anderson studied the display. “Oh, shit,” he said. “They couldn’t have picked a more annoying place. They’re aimed at the target city, which looks like Fredericksburg, Virginia.”

All eyes switched to CNN. Bob Argent was talking down as the display closed in on Fredericksburg. The image began to flash a malignant red, glowing like an evil eye. Mathews waited, hoping that someone would say that it wasn’t so, but Argent didn’t oblige. He wasn’t a reporter who distorted the truth, something that had earned him both friends and enemies.

“The target,” Argent paused for a moment to compose himself. “The target, ladies and gentlemen, is Fredericksburg, Virginia.”
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Old 02-15-2009, 11:36 AM
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Chapter Thirteen: Star Wars

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
10th October 2004

The Prime Minister entered the room and everyone stood to greet him, a symbol of respect for his decision to turn Britain into a fortress. With the reports from Vietnam, from Turkey, from Iran and – worst of all – America, no one doubted that the Posleen existed any longer. The flashes of light as satellites had died and the signals from CNN, before the relay satellites had vanished, had proven to the world that the aliens were real.

And if that wasn’t enough, Aberdeen is gone, the Prime Minister thought grimly. The Civil Defence Corps were doing what they could, but the Posleen weapon had laid waste to most of the city; the city that had been given the lowest priority for evacuation. God is ironic sometimes, isn’t he?

He surveyed the room as he took his seat. The military personnel looked tired, the politicians looked shell-shocked. He frowned inwardly; if they’re like this when the Posleen are on the other side of the world, what will they be like when the Posleen are marching through Britain?

The thought was amusing despite itself; the Prime Minister smiled. Daniel Morgan, the new Home Secretary, coughed meaningfully. The Prime Minister nodded to him; he’d had to add Morgan to a significant cabinet post, just to keep the Party happy during the time of emergency. A tall grey former soldier, a man who the American President had once compared to Smedley Butler, Morgan was something of a fanatic on British independence.

“It’s been a day since they arrived,” the Prime Minister said. He nodded at General Anderson; he’d promoted him himself. “What’s the current situation?”

Anderson smiled tiredly. The Prime Minister made a mental note to order him to get some sleep after the briefing. “The Posleen are advancing on Washington,” Anderson said. “There’s no indication that they know it’s the capital of the United States, but it’s a distressing development.”

The Prime Minister and Sir Robert Darter exchanged looks. Even after four years of shadowy manoeuvring, they still didn’t know what the Darhel were doing. Could the Darhel have warned the Posleen that Washington would be a centre of resistance? The Prime Minister scowled; if the Darhel could do that, then why not try to reason with the Posleen?

Instead, they were concentrating on building up influence within political systems across the world. No major nation was free from the shadowy manipulations; Germany, France, not even Britain itself. The Prime Minister knew that Hammond was keeping them appraised of everything, but the Darhel would be branching out, he was certain; finding others who were…less loyal to Britain as a whole.

“The Americans are claiming high confidence,” Anderson continued. “Unfortunately, the situation is so confused, it’s impossible to know exactly what’s going on. In Vietnam and Iran, the Posleen are simply smashing their way through all opposition; they’re very hard to stop on the plains. There have also been scattered landings in several places across the world, such as isolated spots in America and the Middle East.”

“Our own defences remain on alert,” General Mathews said. “We took a lot of casualties when the PDCs were hit.”

“Blasted Americans in Fleet,” Morgan muttered. Linking all of the PDCs into a single network, TERDEF, had been designed to coordinate their fire against the Posleen. It also drew Posleen fire against the PDCs, which the Prime Minister knew was worse than Posleen fire striking cities – intellectually. Emotionally, he wanted the Posleen to vanish, along with the Darhel.

“We knew it was dangerous the day we heard about them,” the Prime Minister said mildly. “General?”

“We managed to get teams into Aberdeen,” General Mathews said. “Fortunately, the strike wasn’t radioactive, so we didn’t have any trouble evacuating as many people as we could. If we hadn’t stockpiled food and medicine, if we hadn’t trained so many doctors…”

The Prime Minister nodded. Few had been willing to acknowledge that a single nuclear strike would have utterly overwhelmed the pre-Posleen National Heath Service. If there was one good thing about the DORA, it allowed the government to push more people towards useful careers.

“The army remains on full alert,” General Mathews continued. “All units are reporting themselves at ninety-seven percent readiness or higher; Aberdeen killed a lot of soldiers on leave. We have a small problem with a handful of desertions, but we expect that the majority of the army will hold.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Are we in any danger?” He asked. “Have they finished the landings?”

“There might be a handful of other ships in the wave,” Anderson said. The Prime Minister recognised the reproachful tone; it had been a stupid question. “They could still land here and invade.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Keep the alert status up,” he said. “I have to address the nation.”

***
For once, Charlene Jackson was not the only reporter in the room, even though the BBC had the only camera. The long and complicated negotiations had ended by finally agreeing that all of the reporters would have access, which had annoyed the BBC because they wouldn’t have an exclusive any longer.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Prime Minister said. “It is my solemn duty to report today that the Posleen invasion force has landed in several locations around the world.” Charlene shivered despite herself, wishing that she could remain calm. “For the moment, no Posleen craft has attempted to land on Britain, and there is no immediate danger.”

“Except in Aberdeen,” a reporter shouted. That news had broken very quickly. “People are dying in Aberdeen.”

The Prime Minister ignored him magnificently. “Unfortunately, a Posleen weapon has landed in Aberdeen, destroying a sizeable portion of the city.” He winced visibly. “The weapons was not radioactive, I repeat; it was not a nuclear weapon and the dangers of fallout are non-existent. For the moment, the City of Aberdeen is being evacuated and the wounded will be cared for, so it is vitally important to avoid panic.”

He paused. “Are there any questions?”

There was an immediate scrabble for places. A reporter from Radio Four won. “Are the Posleen going to land here soon?” He shouted. “Might the report be right of more Posleen ships?”

“The short answer is that we don’t know,” the Prime Minister admitted. “The military will remain on full alert until all of the observed Posleen craft had arrived and landed, or been destroyed in orbit.”

“But Fleet took heavy losses,” a reporter from Wales snapped. “Can they stop the Posleen?”

He meant; was Fleet a waste of money? “The Fleet has fought magnificently with the weapons it was able to build in time,” the Prime Minister said firmly. “We…simply didn’t have enough time for building the real warships. By the time of the main invasion, we will have enough ships to make a real dent in the Posleen numbers.”

There was a cough from a reporter. “Will the civil airlines be reopening?” He asked. “When will connections to America be restored?”

The Prime Minister actually laughed at the question. Charlene laughed too, along with most of the other reporters, who sniggered at the poor reporter. With the Posleen having targeted civilian air traffic, it would be a brave person who flew at the moment. Even when the invasion was defeated – if the invasion was defeated, part of her mind whispered – the airlines would be remaining on the ground, simply though lack of funds.

And then she remembered that the reporter had family in America and it didn’t seem so funny. Perhaps the Prime Minister understood, because he gave a serious answer. “We have grounded all civilian air traffic, and non-essential government and military air traffic, for the duration of the battles in space,” the Prime Minister said. “We will attempt to reopen connections, but if the Posleen take the east coast of America, the air traffic will be wiped out.”

Charlene shuddered. America had been so strong, so…free. It had been an annoying nation, from time to time, but in the end…it might have been a clumsy giant, but it had a good heart. Knowing that the Posleen were ravishing America now, even though the Americans had made more preparations with GalTech than anyone else, was a bitter pill to swallow.

She lifted her hand. The Prime Minister nodded in her direction. “Will we be sending any military help to America?” She asked. “Can’t we spare a regiment or two?”

“I don’t think so,” the Prime Minister said grimly. “We have thought about it, and we have considered it, but the shipping is going to be a problem” – Charlene, who knew that the Posleen had hammered shipping pretty badly, nodded – “and by the time they got there, the situation will have stabilised or collapsed.” He paused for a second. “Last question?”

“Prime Minister,” a nasal voice asked, “should the evacuation of people to the Sub-Urbs have moved faster, in light of the death toll in Aberdeen?”

Charlene felt a flash of pure anger. She’d refused to evacuate herself. “The logistics govern how many people we can move,” the Prime Minister said mildly. “Unless people want to walk to the Sub-Urbs, we don’t have the ability to move everyone without a great deal of preparation first.”

***
Despite her constant and considerable curiosity, Margent Hammond had only seen the Darhel Tir occasionally; the Darhel were reluctant to visit humans unless absolutely necessary. Hammond didn’t know how many there were on Earth, but she was confident that there were only a handful on Earth, perhaps a hundred or less. She knew that MI5 attempted to track them within Britain, but success was not always absolute.

“I trust that you had a pleasant week,” Griffin said. She’d dealt more with him, funnelling his money into various worthy causes, while ducking his inane questions. The Darhel agent seemed unflappable, even with the Posleen bearing down on them.

“No, I haven’t,” she snapped. She worked hard to maintain her independence, even though she knew that it was already compromised, one way or the other. In three years, the Darhel had worked and worked at gaining control of the organisation, working through a series of cut-outs and communications that would have had the Soviet agents burning with envy. It helped, she supposed, that they had communications that were utterly undetectable to merely human technology.

“The Posleen are invading our planet,” she said angrily. “I don’t have pleasant weeks, you know?”

Her tone didn’t make any impression on Griffin. “It was a great shame about Aberdeen,” he said. “Some of our people were killed there.”

“I’m glad that you feel that that is a pity,” Hammond snarled. A sudden thought struck her and her blood ran cold. According to some of the information they’d passed on to the Darhel, Aberdeen was a manufacturing centre of great importance, making human-designed weapons.

“Of course it is,” Griffin said. He smiled at her. “A great pity indeed.”

Hammond glared at him. “In case you haven’t noticed, there is a war on,” she said. “How do you plan to pressure the Government now?”

“You will, of course, have millions of people protesting in the streets against aiding the Americans,” Griffin said. “Britain can hardly afford to divert its resources when the Posleen are at the door.”

Hammond laughed rudely. “Mr Griffin, there is a war on,” she said. “Many of my supporters have been drafted. Others have been recruited for Civil Defence or medical. How do you expect me to put a few million people on the streets?”

Griffin sighed. “I understand,” he said. “The Tir, however, did insist that I asked you.” Hammond nodded; the elfin alien had shown little understanding of humans, let alone their governments. The British Government might have done something unpopular with conscription, but they’d prevented mass unrest though military training.

“I trust that you will convey my regrets,” Hammond said coldly.

“I will,” Griffin assured her. “However, we require another service from you.”

Hammond lifted an eyebrow. “We have been allies,” she said. “I am not your slave.”

“You have taken nearly twenty million of your pounds from us,” Griffin snapped. There was suddenly a very hard edge to his voice. “You are bought and paid for.”

Hammond glared at him. “Get out,” she snapped. She’d had enough; she knew that Griffin could not see her bending to his every whim. “Leave this place.”

Griffin learned forward, his mouth almost touching hers. There was no romance in the voice he used. “Your government would be delighted to hear about your services for us,” he breathed. “There’s nothing like a trial for treason to unite people around the flag.”

Hammond, if she had been a traitor, would have wilted. She wilted anyway, hoping it looked convincing. Griffin grinned; apparently it was convincing enough for him, now that the masks were off.

“You have to find out, through the agents you have recruited, the dispositions of your forces on your country,” he said. His face was very close to hers, trying to dominate her by sheer force of will. “You will find them out for us…or you will be hung from the gallows until you are very unhappy indeed.”

Hammond wilted. “I will find out for you,” she said. “And then you will leave me…”

“Oh, no,” Griffin said. “You were bought and paid for, remember?”

Agincourt
Earth Orbit
11th October 2004

Captain April Weston flinched as a Posleen burst of plasma fire skimmed past the converted Galactic fast transport, converted into a warship intended to stand in the defence of Earth. In the month since assuming command, she’d come to realise that the Galactics had an utterly useless construction infrastructure, as far as the needs of the war were concerned.

“Incoming missile,” the boson snapped. Weston had only a moment to clench her fists before the Posleen missile exploded, far too close to the ship for comfort. “Missile detonation; deflector screen handled most of it.”

“I can see that,” Weston muttered. If the missile had been on the other side of the ship, it would have been vaporised without them ever knowing what had hit them. “Engage the enemy.”

“Missiles locked,” the weapons tech snapped.

“Fire,” Weston snapped. Agincourt shuddered as the external Missile/Launch Pod Assembly systems for antimatter armed and driven missiles launched a full spread of missiles. The Posleen ship continued its fall towards Earth, damaged by the attack.

“Target hammered,” the tactical officer said. “Captain, we’re short on missiles.”

Weston closed her eyes and desperately tried to concentrate. She hadn’t slept for nearly two days, all of which had been constant running battles with the Posleen ships. If she’d been in command of the Posleen craft, Earth would have fallen by now, but instead…instead, the Posleen were continuing to fall towards their selected targets on Earth, instead of wiping the human defence forces from the skies.

She giggled suddenly, inanely. It reminded her of nothing less that Independence Day, as the Posleen craft began to break up; the Landers heading for their targets on the surface. I’m too fucking tired, she thought grimly.

“Captain, we have to reload the external Missile/Launch Pod Assembly systems,” her exec said. Weston smiled; no one doubted Sharon O'Neal’s competence, except her last captain, a Russian bigot with wandering hands. The explosion near Archangel suggested that that captain was explaining himself to the Higher Authority right now.

“Local space is clear now, isn’t it,” Weston said grimly.

“For the moment, Madam,” the sensor tech said. Weston studied the display and shuddered; the red icons of the Posleen were drifting down all over the world. “There have been no extra emergences for thirty minutes.”

“Perhaps we’ve seen the last of them,” Weston muttered. “Sharon, I need you to attach the spare box launcher.”

Sharon, bless her, didn’t argue. “Yes, Madam,” she said. “I’m on my way.”

Weston drew in great shuddering breaths as time passed. Onboard sensors worked to track the enemy, and her EVA team, watching carefully for other Posleen ships. She listened as a problem appeared; a warped clamp in the box launcher.

“We need all the launchers, Commander,” she said, when Sharon asked her about changing it. “Sorry.”

She winced at the tiredness in her voice, knowing that the entire crew was equally tired. “That's fine, ma’am,” Sharon answered, without arguing. Weston knew that she was grateful for that alone. “That was my call as well. Bosun?”

“I'll break the clamps out of stores, mum,” the Bosun said. Weston smiled; the crew looked on Sharon O'Neal as a surrogate mother. She grinned, and relaxed, and then…

“Emergence,” the sensor tech yelled, startled out of a fatigued half doze. He rattled of the contact details quickly. “Angle two-nine-four, mark five!” His eyes bulged at the distance reading. “Four thousand meters!”

Weston felt horror pumping through her system as the icon spangled onto the display, right in front of her, a massive Posleen Battle Dodecahedron translating out of hyperspace. It hung there, larger than life and twice as deadly, spinning slowly towards them at knife-range.

“Fire,” she snapped, automatically. Microseconds later, she realised the mistake. “Belay that order!”

It was too late. The weapons tech had been on duty for eighteen straight hours and fire orders were a reaction that bypassed the brain. His thumb had already flipped up the safety cover and depressed the switch. A pyrotechnic gas generator fired as the clamps holding the missile flew open. The gas pushed the eighteen-foot weapon far enough away from the ship that it was safe for it to kick in its inertial thrusters and antimatter conversion rocket. Safe for the ship, perhaps; but not safe for the weapon installation team; Sharon and her team died without knowing what had hit them. Or the pod of antimatter missiles they were installing.

Microseconds later, Agincourt was blotted from the sky by the blinding white flash of an antimatter detonation. The Posleen ship, unaware and uncaring, turned its course towards Earth. There was no longer anything that could prevent it from landing on Earth and unloading the hordes of Posleen within its landers .

Chapter Fourteen: The Cost Of War

Fredericksburg, Virginia
11th November 2004

General Anderson watched as the snow drifted down across a field from hell, hiding the signs of the Posleen invasion that had rampaged across the city, heading for Washington. He shook his head sadly; the war was over for the moment, but he knew that it was only the beginning. The Americans had taken ghastly casualties in the Battle of Fredericksburg, enough to turn even a politician’s hair white.

One such politician and his assistant walked the field. Anderson watched as the German Bundeskanzler and his aide wandered though the field, talking to one another in dazed voices. They were stunned; echoes of their conversation drifted across to his ears.

“I didn't say, my young friend, that we were alone in our guilt,” the Bundeskanzler said, his voice cold as ash. Anderson wandered away, heading towards the space where a memorial would be placed, leaving the Germans to talk. There was so much that had to be done, and none of it could be done quickly, neatly .

He sighed. Humanity hadn’t done badly in the first major clash with the Posleen; some of the invasion forces had been wiped out. The forces that had landed in America had been destroyed, except for a few scattered survivors. The way Posleen bred meant that there would be dangerous hunting for a few years, but that was far better than armed and armoured Posleen. In Iran, a brave commander had made a desperate stand, holding the line long enough to break a Posleen charge.

But in India, it was a madhouse; the Posleen were dining on Indian men and women with as much gusto as Anderson had once tucked into a curry. No one knew exactly what was going on there, and Africa was worse, if that was even possible. The Posleen were expanding their territory, crushing the suddenly leaderless humans – the tyrants and kleptomaniacs who had ruled the poor countries having fled to the Caribbean or other nations where they thought that they might be safe, leaving the people to be eaten by the Posleen.

If they’d had the common sense to recognise that Africa’s rulers were the real problem, he thought bitterly. His one and only girlfriend had been one of those who had protested against international debt, and she might have been right, except that the tyrants kept the people down. How could they possibly grow when every little burst of independence was ruthlessly crushed?

He shook his head absently. It didn’t matter; all that mattered was holding off the Posleen. The force that had landed and wrecked so much havoc in America was only the first scattered showers; the real storm was yet to come.

“General?” Anderson turned to see Colonel Yates. The commander of the 1st Armoured Combat Suit Regiment looked pale and worn. “General, will this happen here?”

He meant in the United Kingdom. “Almost certainly,” Anderson said. “We have…less room to evacuate people before the Posleen land. It’s going to be a nightmare.”

“Do we need the BBC along?” Yates asked, waving a hand at the cameras. “Don’t they get enough of their jollies from Aberdeen?”

“They have to convince everyone that the threat is real,” Anderson said. “The films of Posleen dining at Chez Human will be very convincing.” He shrugged. “There are always people who don’t believe in the lightning until it strikes them, but we have to convince enough people to ensure that they’re not dangerous.”

“I see, sir,” Yates said. “I’ve been talking to some of the American ACS units here; they’re instructing us on tactics, including the ones that failed.”

“Learn from their mistakes,” Anderson warned. “We don’t have time to learn from our own.”

“Like that plan to place guns everywhere,” Yates agreed. Anderson winced; the armchair generals occasionally came up with a good idea, but that hadn’t been one of them. One of them had devised the concept of placing small cannon everywhere, armed with antimatter warheads, hoping to break up a Posleen swarm before it could land. Unfortunately, no one in their right mind would permit the use of antimatter warheads so close to the ground.

He smiled suddenly. The tanks were armed with tiny antimatter warheads, intended for use against landers, but the odds were highly against them. The Posleen didn’t have to fear British tanks, not like the Iraqis or the Argentines.

“Or the plan to build thousands of missiles,” Anderson said, discussing a different idea. The Posleen would have very little trouble hacking them out of the sky. “Have the Americans taught you anything about infantry?”

“Don’t let them break,” Yates said. He waved a hand at the various teams; the British had loaned the Americans medical staff in exchange for the tactical information. “If they break and run, the Posleen say yum and have them for lunch. Also, don’t leave bodies piled around, unless we come up with a magical poison for them we can feed to humans.”

“Invasion Earth,” Anderson said absently. He’d consulted for that series. “It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now.”

“Blast,” Yates said mildly. “What about radioactive contamination?”

Anderson swung around to look at him. “If you value your career, don’t mention that to anyone,” he said sharply. “There’s already enough debate over the plans to use nukes as a final resort; don’t add to it.”

Yates nodded reluctantly. “We have the modified tanks,” he said. “We’ll keep refining the design. We might end up with an effective anti-Posleen vehicle.”

“Perhaps,” Anderson said. A group of Americans were digging something up. “What’s that?”

Yates picked up his binoculars and peered across at the Americans. “I think it’s a Posleen body,” he said. “Let’s go see.”

***
The alien’s body lay buried in the ground, its sides already cut and gashed by the American recovery team. No one knew for certain if the Posleen had no viruses that were dangerous to humans, so extreme care was taken, even though the Darhel had scoffed at the thought.

“My God,” Anderson breathed, as the corpse became visible. The Posleen was massive, a centaur-like creature, clutching a weapon to its chest as it had died. Yellow blood – there were no flies on it, even though it was cold and so it proved nothing – had frozen around the alien, even though the blood still seemed to be moving. A trick of the light, or something else?

“The face of the enemy,” Yates said. “How was it killed?”

“Gut shot,” the American doctor said. He rolled the body over, pointing out the massive holes in the Posleen’s chest. “The bullets punched through its natural armour and killed it.”

“I wonder if these things were bred as weapons by someone,” Yates muttered. Anderson looked sharply at him, but said nothing. “Who got this one?”

“Impossible to say,” the American said. “Could have been a civilian; they fired on the aliens with enthusiasm. Could have been the Guard. Could have been someone from Tenth Corps, or Ninth Corps. Could have been one of the shell heads.”

“The Armoured Combat Suit units,” Yates said, his voice carefully neutral. Anderson smiled grimly. “They really did a number on this one.”

“We’re going to face them next,” Anderson said. “I wonder – did the Posleen raid libraries and computer servers?”

“Not that we know about,” the American said, as soon as he realised that the question had been aimed at him. “They seem to have rampaged over the cities, eating their fill, and then we counter-attacked and wiped them out.”

“So they might know stuff about us from the libraries,” Anderson said. “I suspect we’ll never know what they found.”

“If they found anything,” Yates said. “For the moment, all we can do is train, train, train.”

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
13th November 2004

“They’re doing what?” The Prime Minister demanded. The Foreign Secretary wilted under his incredulous gaze. “What are they doing?”

The Foreign Secretary gathered himself. “The French are protesting against the war,” he said. “Apparently, some of them are blaming the war on the Americans.”

“Madness,” the Prime Minister said, shaking his head. “Nearly two hundred thousand of our people dead in Aberdeen, dozens of French and Germans and Spanish dead in the bombardment of the PDC centres, America and Iran invaded…and they claim that they don’t exist.”

Sir Robert met the Prime Minister’s eye for a long moment. “What about the Middle East?” The Prime Minister asked, determinedly changing the subject. “Coming to think of it, what about India?”

“The Iranian Revolutionary Council is proclaiming great success,” the Foreign Secretary said. “It’s the problem of Africa that’s the real problem; the Posleen are moving there like wildfire.”

“Bastards,” the Prime Minister commented. “And India?”

“They’re rather…confused,” the Foreign Secretary admitted. “The Posleen seem to have spread through Vietnam, Burma and Bangladesh, but its all rather confusing really.”

The Prime Minister smiled at the weak joke. “And they’re all screaming for help,” he said. “We can’t help them. Now, what about the German plan?”

The Foreign Secretary hesitated. “They’re going to rejuvenate some of the SS personnel they still have hanging around,” he said. “It sounds like madness.”

“I know,” the Prime Minister said. He shook his head. “Living under Hitler, or a Hitler-type, or being eaten. What sort of choice is that?”

“The German left has made the decision that it’s a very bad choice,” the Foreign Secretary admitted. “It’s just…well, you know what they’re like.”

The Prime Minister nodded. The Europeans weren’t responding well to the crisis; the French soldiers had fought well on the alien worlds, but they were limited from mass conscription, which is what they desperately needed. The Germans, too, were suffering from the same problem, while the Poles and Eastern Europeans simply didn’t have the resources to mount a determined defence.

He sighed. The Germans allowed for consciences objection, on whatever grounds took the person’s fancy, and there were so many possible reasons for a country as devoutly demilitarised as Germany. As for France, with a long tradition of futile bloodletting…

He dismissed his thoughts with an effort. It wasn’t something that he could affect.

“There’s always option zero,” Sir Robert said quietly. The Prime Minister nodded; he supposed that they had to consider it, even though it was far too dangerous to discuss in Parliament.

“I understand,” he said to the Foreign Secretary. “Can you please communicate our concern to the German government over this whole…distasteful SS matter?”

The Foreign Secretary grinned. “It shall be done,” he said. “One other matter; what about the request from Ireland for help?”

“How bloody ironic,” Sir Robert commented. Ireland had suddenly woken up to the realities of the Posleen, and in their panic they had realised that they were practically defenceless. Irony of ironies, some of the population was fleeing for the north, despite the withdrawal of most of the British troops.

“Shut up,” the Prime Minister said, without malice. Impatience was one thing, but it needed to be controlled. “Tell them…we’ll help them as much as we can, but under certain conditions.” He smiled. “We’ll sort those out later.”

The Foreign Secretary nodded and left. “The Darhel,” Sir Robert said, as soon as the room was secured. “They have to be behind this.”

“I saw the report from Margent,” the Prime Minister said. Somewhere along the years, his attitudes to her had changed. “She’s not in an easy position, is she?”

Sir Robert shook his head grimly. “Fortunately, we don’t have to tolerate protests like the French Government, but we don’t have the Darhel agents whispering poison in our ears.”

“You’re that confident that it’s them?” The Prime Minister asked. “What the hell do we do about it?”

Sir Robert shook his head sadly. “I don’t know what we can do,” he admitted. “On one hand, did you read Margent’s note about Aberdeen?”

“I read it,” the Prime Minister said grimly. “Do you think she’s right?”

“The Darhel got the fake bit of information, Aberdeen didn’t have a PDC that close to it and I’m not supposed to believe in coincidence,” Sir Robert said. “I suppose that it could have been coincidence, but the odds are vastly against it. Worse…did you read that ultra-confidential note from the Americans?”

“The Posleen hacked into the AID network,” the Prime Minister said. “I trust that precautions are being taken against them doing the same thing to us?”

“We’re going to be removing the AID units from the main communication centres, according to General Mathews and General Anderson,” Sir Robert said. “You’ll have to ask them for a briefing, but as I understand it we’ll be laying vastly more telephone and Internet links than we have already, just to try to duplicate what the AID network gave us.

“However, we don’t believe that the Posleen managed to hack into the Darhel network,” he continued, after a long moment. “It’s much more likely that the Darhel uploaded the information into whatever the Posleen use.”

The Prime Minister swore vilely. “Why, damn it?” He snapped. “What the hell do they have to gain?”

“A tame force of humans, grown from the children they took?” Sir Robert suggested. “The real question, sir; what do we do about the Darhel and the information they demanded from Hammond?”

“I’m thinking,” the Prime Minister said, after a moment. He considered quickly. “We have all of her ‘sources’ under our control, don’t we?” He asked. He smiled suddenly. “They are the people we selected?”

“They’re as crooked as a fifty-pound note,” Sir Robert assured him. The original fifty-pound notes had been laughably easy to forge. “We arranged for them to join Hammond, and of course to report to us.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” The Prime Minister asked dryly. He chuckled. “You’re just a big kid playing secret agent.”

“Well, you know, if the Posleen hadn’t arrived, we would have continued enjoying this century of peace,” Sir Robert said. “I’m just grateful for the higher budget.”

“Hired gun,” the Prime Minister teased. “So, what exactly do we give them?”

“The news about the hacked AID units is everywhere, so we don’t have to worry about maintaining security on that,” Sir Robert said. “On the other hand, we can take the Darhel assurances that it was a unique incident at face value, at least to their face, and assure them that the communications network we’re building for the defence is intended only as a back-up.”

“You are enjoying this,” the Prime Minister accused. “Carry on.”

“We can lie to some extent about the deployments of our troops,” Sir Robert continued. “In fact, if we keep it honest until the Posleen arrive, we might be able to fool them into believing that they are really getting honest information, and if they do have other sources…”

The Prime Minister scowled. “Would you not know if they have other sources?”

“I can’t swear to it,” Sir Robert admitted. He grinned. “I’ll have to discuss it with General Mathews, but we might just have the beginnings of a plan to trap the Posleen here.” He tapped one of the big war maps. “I think we’d better get some of our industry moved, I think,” he said, more grimly. “If they did target Aberdeen because of our industrial plants there, then they won’t hesitate to target others. In fact…”

***
The news that Annemarie Mai, Green and Socialist representative from Wiesbaden, Germany, had thrown her weight behind the German Kanzler's mad idea to resurrect parts of the dreaded SS disappointed Hammond, even though she understood the logic behind it. Mai…wasn’t particularly smart, but even she understood that survival cancelled out programming.

“Madam, Mr Griffin is here to see you,” her secretary said. Officially, she hired Jane Smart with the money that Griffin had given her; unofficially, MI5 had assigned her to assist her in lying to the aliens.

“Send him in,” she said. In public, Griffin was always careful to remain subordinate to her, even though both of them knew the truth. In private…

“So, how is it going?” Griffin asked. “Have you found out anything useful?”

“I know that the Socialist International is up in arms about the SS,” she said. She understood their concern as well; faking anger and horror was easy. She felt them, after all. “How dare they bring back the bastards who killed thousands of Jews?”

“And to think that Mr Irving’s trial was put off because of the Posleen,” Griffin said. Hammond looked at him with a flicker of respect; few people followed such events so closely. She scowled; or, perhaps, had an AID picked it out?

“There are important matters,” she said, only partly serious. “What do you want?”

“You helping people to protest against a government which has abandoned their home countries and their relatives would be nice,” Griffin said. “And, of course, we want you to…protest against the SS.”

“And exactly what do you expect our government to do, even if they listened?” Hammond asked. “It’s a German matter, you know. What do we have to threaten them with?”

“The point is to encourage the German protesters in Germany,” Griffin said. “The Posleen, after all, will not land in Germany.”

Hammond lifted an eyebrow, thinking fast. Did the Darhel know that for certain, or were they lying? “How do you know that?”

“Well, everyone knows that the Posleen do not exist,” Griffin said. He smiled wryly. “All a Hollywood job, don’t you know?”

Several answers came to Hammond’s tongue. She forced them back down with an effort. “I will do what I can,” she said. “You know that it has become harder to protest recently.” She smiled; it had been though her work that that was so. “What else do you want?”

Griffin leaned closer to her. “You know what I want,” he said.

Hammond reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a wad of papers. “Here,” she said. “I advise you to keep them hidden, for if I have to go down, you’re going down with me.”

“Thinking of blackmail, are we?” Griffin asked. “My…master has diplomatic immunity. You, on the other hand, do not.”

Chapter Fifteen: Drills, Tanks and ACS

Salisbury Plain
England, United Kingdom
12th December 2004

Snow blew across the plain, landing on the Armoured Combat Suit that Sarfraz wore. Visibility was bad, at least to normal human eyes, but the suit’s sensors could see through the gloom, revealing the position of a Handling Machine, working on converting part of the plain into a hasty defensive line, and some un-armoured sappers, working on laying mines in front of the defences.

“Colonel Yates, contact with Posleen force estimated in ten minutes,” the radio stuttered once, a burst transition from the SAS patrol several miles away. “They’re coming at you, armed to the teeth, with those little flying command ships of theirs.”

“Acknowledged,” Yates muttered, into the general communications band. “Sappers, get out of there.”

Sarfraz watched grimly as the Sapper units scrambled back, trying to escape the oncoming enemy force. The AID updated the display automatically, warning him where the mines had been placed, even as Yates led the first group of armoured suits away from the position.

“We’re going to take them from the side, if we can,” Yates said grimly. “That C-Dec makes life difficult.”

Sarfraz nodded inside his suit; batting away the AIDs attempt to produce information from its memory cells. The C-Dec was one of the Posleen forces most powerful weapons, a lander armed to the teeth and – sometimes – carrying other landers, all of which could be deployed against any humans unlucky enough to be in the region.

“Stand down artillery,” Yates ordered. Sarfraz winced; they’d hoped to have the nearby artillery assisting them by hammering the Posleen before they reached the defence line. However, with a C-Dec closing in, perhaps more than one, artillery would be in serious danger.

“Emissions consistent with seven C-Dec units, three Lamprey units,” the AID murmured in his ear. Red icons appeared on one of the suit’s displays. “The Challenger units are moving up.”

Sarfraz moved the suit’s view around to see the reformed Challenger tanks. They had been designed before the Posleen launched the first invasion, and then reformed to accommodate the lessons learnt at such great cost. The bulky tanks were half-shielded by their holographic projectors – which he knew would probably not slow the Posleen down – but they were powered by purely human engines. There would be no emissions for the Posleen to track.

“Tanks moving into position,” a Scottish voice said. “Standing by to engage.”

“Track Posleen landers as soon as they appear,” Yates ordered. “Contact in…two minutes, drone gone.”

“The Posleen have killed the drone,” the AID said. Sarfraz ignored it, concentrating on moving around, away from the position and following the team into striking position. Stay low, he thought grimly. Remember to stay low…

“Contact,” Yates snapped. As one, the unarmoured infantry began to open fire, spraying machine gun bullets and shells into the unseen Posleen mass, lost within the weather. The Challengers fired several times, launching a small antimatter-armed shell at the C-Dec ships, which had begun to pour fire onto the barricade. Streaks of yellow plasma fire, vaporising snow like nothing on earth, slashed their way through the barricade.

“Fall back, fall back,” someone shouted. Sarfraz couldn’t even begin to track whom, even as the Challengers fired again. Three C-Dec ships and a Lamprey fell from the sky, even as the other Posleen craft engaged the tanks. Seconds later…the Challengers were burning debris.

“Hold your positions,” Yates snapped. “Artillery, fire!”

A hail of sound announced the arrival of the 16th Royal Artillery, firing a mass of shells directly into the Posleen force. Sarfraz shuddered as he realised what Yates had done; the Posleen ships would turn to face this new foe…and allow the next tanks a chance to engage them. The C-Decs began to spit fire again…and the next group of tanks fires.

“All lander units down,” the AID said. “The Posleen are closing in on the barricade.”

“Get that goddamned barricade back up,” Yates snapped, driving the unarmoured infantry back into position. Dozens had been killed by the C-Dec attack, but enough survived to take up their position, weakened though it was. The Handling Machine, still trundling away at further defences – hopefully out of range of the Posleen – had built far more than they needed.

“Jesus, what a cluster-fuck,” Derek breathed. “When do we get to move in?”

“Silence in the ranks,” Sergeant Benton snapped. “Here they come!”

The Posleen came into sight for the first time in the weather, racing towards the barricade. Sarfraz drew in a breath as they closed in, firing madly from the hip, and crossing the mines. Explosions shattered them by the thousands, the artillery massacred them, and still they came on, pressing against the human barricade.

“Engage,” Yates snapped, and the two ACS groups opened fire, pouring plasma blasts and shells into the enemy force. Struck from the right and left as well as to the front, the Posleen wavered…and broke. As soon as the God King, hidden to the rear of the force, fell to a sniper, they simply collapsed, smashing around them with no overall tactics. The artillery fired again and again, smashing them into little masses of blood and yellow flesh.

Derek whooped. “Humans one, alien scum nil…”

“Incoming emissions,” the AID snapped. “Reading seven C-Decs and…”

Blasts of yellow fire streaked from the sky, hammering the barricade, wiping out soldiers right and left. “Fall back,” their commander shouted and they left the barricade, some desperately shooting at the Posleen with their rifles, hopelessly trying to damage the C-Dec firing down at them.

“Tanks, engage,” Yates snapped, too late. The Posleen were sweeping the ground with their weapons; two C-Decs exploded, but the Challengers were wiped out in an instant, their deaths buying only a little time for the humans on the ground.

“Posleen incoming,” the AID said, and Sarfraz turned to face a charging mass of the aliens. He lifted his weapons and fired madly, sweeping great gouts of fire across the enemy position…and he never saw the C-Dec that killed him. He lay in the darkness as the Posleen smashed through the defence position, overran the Handling Machine – which killed several dozen Posleen with stones before a C-Dec destroyed it – and headed on towards London.

***
“Well, that was an interesting…fuck-up,” Yates said, as the holographic Posleen vanished. The damage to the barricade, produced by the imaginary Posleen force’s equally imaginary weapons, vanished as well, leaving hundreds of ‘dead’ soldiers standing up and staggering over to the NAAFI van, which had just appeared from the distance.

Sarfraz picked himself off the ground and stumbled over to the group, carefully climbing out of his suit. The cold was shocking – the suit kept his temperature at ideal levels – and he gulped his hot mug of tea gratefully. The Chocolate Chip Cookies might have been prepared for their American guest, but he was grateful for them anyway; they were warm and comforting when dipped in the tea.

“Humans several tens of thousands, alien scum two thousand or thereabouts…and you still lost,” Colonel Tigernuts said, in his Texan accent. Sarfraz had been assured that Tigernuts wasn’t the American’s real name, but as the entire British Army seemed to be going along with the joke…well, he was a low-ranking officer, after all.

Derek coughed. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said.

“Under other circumstances, it would have been,” Tigernuts agreed. The American pulled out an AID of his own and activated the holographic display. “You didn’t do badly – although under normal circumstances the Posleen would probably have put both waves in the first charge – until the final attempt to crush the Posleen force, which put all of you in the sack…and then the Posleen killed you all.”

“That was deliberate,” Yates said. The Colonel didn’t shout or bellow like Sergeant Benton, he went deadly cold. “You put us in an impossible situation.”

Tigernuts nodded. “Why, damn you?” Derek asked. “You had us all slaughtered.”

“You’re dancing with the devil, in the words of my former commander,” Tigernuts said. “Yes, I also fiddled with the signals being sent to the AID; the Posleen wouldn’t be able to act in the manner I suggest. Certainly, they would not get so close without your SAS team seeing them. Any more complaints?”

“That wasn’t fair,” one of the unarmoured infantrymen muttered.

“We fucked up in Washington, which is why we took the losses we did,” Tigernuts snapped. “This is war; get over it and enjoy the fact that you have the fucking chance to work out your mistakes the easy way.”

“Understood,” Yates said, calmly as always. “All right, everyone; thirty minute break for lunch, and then we’ll get on with another drill.”

“I can’t believe that they just…come on like that,” Benton said. For once, the Sergeant seemed shaken. “Don’t they care about their losses?”

“Not as far as we can tell,” Tigernuts said grimly. “They just keep coming, pressing you down under the sheer weight of their numbers. They don’t care about losses; they just want to kill you.”

***
The Challenger moved forward slowly, inching into the driving snow. Sarfraz moved near it, the suit’s sensors probing into the darkness. It should have been daylight, but the snow was growing worse and worse…and the Posleen were lurking somewhere in the darkness.

“Fuck,” Derek snapped, as his suit slipped on the muddy snow. The ACS fell down, heading down the hill into a lake, smashing through the ice.

“Stop arsing about and get up here,” Sarfraz snapped. “Use the anti-gravity units to get out of that fucking water.”

“Umm, Corporal, I think we have worse problems,” Derek said. Sarfraz saw, suddenly on the other side of the lake, alien shapes moving against the cold. “At least seven Posleen, maybe more and…”

The aliens opened fire, pumping bursts of yellow light at the ACS platoon, which returned fire. Sarfraz cursed the staff officer who’d insisted on trying to run the suits without AIDs; managing all of the sensor input was difficult without its help.

“Tank force, engage,” Captain Parkinson snapped. The Challengers opened fire, slipping down the icy slope…and the Posleen noticed them. The aliens looked miserable – as miserable as the humans – but they fought with grim determination.

“Whose fucking idea was it to come this way?” Sarfraz shouted, as a blast struck near his suit, sending him rolling down the hill. The suit smashed through the ice on the lake, falling several meters under the water.

“Yours,” Lance-Corporal John McLachlan snapped. “You’re the fucking corporal.”

“Why does anyone listen to me?” Sarfraz asked absently. A thought had just occupied to him; according to the map, the Posleen were on a peninsula, sticking out into the lake. “Team, lay down covering fire,” he ordered. “I’m going to take them up the butt.”

“Always knew that you had been groping me,” John called. “Understood.”

Deep under the water, only a few meters from the surface, the suit moved slowly, sluggishly. I wonder if Posleen can swim, Sarfraz thought, and wished that he hadn’t. The suit was rated for deep-space work; it wouldn’t have any trouble with the water. Small fish drifted under the water, passing him as he moved around the island.

“Moving into position,” he sent. “Try to keep them occupied.”

Something struck the water not too far away, sending up gouts of superheated stream, even in the cold. Sarfraz flinched, then realised that it was a blast aimed at the Posleen. Quickly, he climbed up the shoreline and smashed through the ice, coming up out of the water and close to the Posleen. Seconds later, it was all over.

“They’re dead,” he said. “Report!”

“Jack and Jim Spriggs are down,” John sent. “One Challenger hammered, but Battle Comp thinks it can still fight.”

“We have to find the other bastards,” Sarfraz said. “Anyone want to bet that they’re up on the other side of the lake?”

“No bet,” Derek sent. “Orders?”

“Team one, over here,” Sarfraz said. “Use anti-gravity; I have a nasty feeling that we’re running out of time. Team two, head left around the lake. Tanks, follow team two.”

“Understood,” Captain Parkinson sent. Sorting out command priorities had been a pain; eventually, the ACS units had been given priority. In this weather, even Challengers were having problems.

“Move out,” Sarfraz said, as soon as the team landed. He allowed himself a sigh of relief; the Posleen detection technology was better than the Federation’s tech, and they might have detected the anti-gravity emissions. He led the team into the snow, cursing their dependence on the radios. Even burst transmissions could be detected and tracked – and thank Allah that the Posleen lacked artillery.

“Incoming,” Derek snapped. A single Posleen burst out from over the ridge, firing madly at the team. A burst of plasma fire cut it down. “Corporal, I’m picking up emissions.”

“What type?” Sarfraz snapped. Without AIDs, collaborating their sensor readings was harder, even with some purely human technology spliced in. “What’s over that ridge?”

“I’m not sure,” Derek admitted. “Flash it back to HQ?”

“Make it so,” Sarfraz said dryly. The ACS regiment was pretty informal. Derek sent the transmission back to HQ, waiting for what they could make of it. “Any luck?”

“Shit,” Derek said. “HQ thinks it’s a grounded lander, perhaps even a C-Dec.”

“Move out,” Sarfraz snapped. A grounded C-Dec was too big a prize to miss. “Captain Parkinson, can you follow us, load for anti-lander operations?”

“Understood,” Captain Parkinson said. The Challengers moved slowly around, following Team Two, and started to make their way up the ridge. Sarfraz smiled in relief; two tanks would follow them, three more would remain lower, hiding from Posleen fire.

He scowled as he brought up the terrain map. The Posleen were on the other side of the ridge, hidden in a drop in the land, presumably hiding from the cold. On the other hand, it could be a trap; the Posleen were supposed to be stupid, but Tigernuts had warned that some Posleen were dangerously smart. There wasn’t anyway to find out – except looking, which was obviously dangerous.

“Who wants to live forever?” He asked, and ignored the flippant replies. “I’m looking now.”

Carefully, he crawled to the edge of the ridgeline and peered over the ridge. He swore, nearly sick inside his suit, as his eyes passed over the sight. Hidden in the dell, protected by the size of the grounded lander, the Posleen were eating, roasting and eating human flesh. Their captives, humans half-frozen to death, lay under the lander, protected by nothing from the elements. They should have been dead, but they weren’t, and with a shudder Sarfraz recognised one of them.

“Sameena?” He whispered. “You bastards!”

“Sir?” Derek sent. “What’s up?”

“They’ve just made it personal,” he said. “There’s around seventy Posleen down there, eating people.” Cold logic suggested that the other ‘captives’ would be friends and relatives of the other soldiers. “Stand by to attack.”

“Yes, sir,” John said. “Orders?”

Sarfraz brought his rage under control. “We get the bastards,” he snapped. “This is suddenly a rescue mission. Team one will attack the Posleen; Team two will stop the C-Dec from taking off. Take out its drives, take out its weapons, and make sure it can’t move.”

“Understood,” Derek said. Sarfraz slipped a microcam out of the suit – cursing himself for having forgotten them – and peered back over the ridge, designating targets.

“Everyone ready?” He asked, quickly sending the information back to HQ. “Then let’s go!”

***
The headquarters of the bridge were warm and cosy, designed to allow the soldiers a chance to relax when not actually training. With the addition of a little GalTech, the progress of a hundred different mock battles could be monitored, looking for important officers and soldiers who needed extra training or promotion.

“That young Corporal, giving orders to a Captain,” Tigernuts said. “Who would have thought it?”

“He’s living the dream,” General Whitehouse said wryly. “Wouldn’t you ever have wanted to give orders to your superiors?”

“The Captain has, back during the battles on that alien world,” Tigernuts said, seriously. “Then, you British improvise more than we do.”

They watched as the ACS units came over the ridge, firing on the suddenly exposed Posleen. The holographic death toll started to rise, heading upwards, as the human forces hammered the Posleen at point blank range. Explosions blasted out time and time again, crippling the Posleen ship before it could take off.

“Normally, the Posleen might destroy the ship, along with its antimatter,” Tigernuts said. His voice was grim. “Taking the ship intact, on the other hand, will help us to build more and more anti-Posleen vehicles, such as your Challenger-III tanks and the German Tiger tanks.”

“We’re building them,” Whitehouse said. He watched as the holographic captives were freed. “The problem is building enough of them to have a significant impact. I wish that we could duplicate the suits ourselves; the prototype mecha units are nowhere near as capable.”

Tigernuts grinned wolfishly; the American Army had been working on their own armoured suits, even if they could never match the Galactic designs. “Trade you what we have in exchange for the Handling Machine,” he said. “We have had some limited success.”

“I’ll take it up with the Prime Minister,” Whitehouse said. “I’ve been summoned back to London for tomorrow. I can’t say that I’m very enthusiastic.”

Tigernuts lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?” He asked. “What for?”

“I have no idea,” Whitehouse said. He frowned. “I don’t think I’ve done anything stupid recently, so it might be a combat command.”

“Good luck,” Tigernuts said. “You never know; the Posleen might by-pass Britain entirely.” He scowled. “You’re a small nation, unlike us; hell, you might manage to crush the landing with few losses.”

Whitehouse looked out of the window, into the driving snow. “I don’t think we’ll be that lucky,” he said grimly. “One way or the other, I think the Posleen will come for us next time.”

Chapter Sixteen: The Green and Pleasant Land

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
13th December 2004

The Taoiseach of Ireland, Sean McNamara, was an old man. Grey hair, going thinner on top, fell down around a pale face. Ireland had been shocked – and then terrified – by the Posleen; they hadn’t known anything about them until the first announcement, and then they hadn’t really believed…until the pride of the American Army was torn to ribbons in the brutal battles in Washington DC.

The Prime Minister watched as McNamara took his seat, his eyes flickering nervously around the room. He supposed, intellectually, that he could sympathise with the Taoiseach: Ireland was not a particularly militaristic nation, the terrorists and the Irish regiments notwithstanding. Ever since becoming independent, the Irish had striven to remain neutral; they simply didn’t have the military needed to face off against the Posleen.

Of course, we might not either, the Prime Minister thought. The British Army was training as hard as it could, using the information bought with American lives, but it was a long slow process. The issue would be decided, he knew, in the first few days of the war; if Britain would be forced to retreat into the north, or if they would destroy the Posleen invaders. For Ireland…a single Posleen globe – four million Posleen – would prove more than fatal. Emergency planners were already working out plans to cope with an expected horde of Irish refugees.

He smiled suddenly. There was already such a flow, mainly Protestant from Northern Ireland. As much as it pained him – it didn’t really – giving up Northern Ireland would only simplify British defence commitments. There was no longer time for luxuries, such as maintaining Britain’s position in the world.

“I hope that you do not find our situation amusing,” the Taoiseach said grimly. The Prime Minister knew that coming to London as a supplicant did not please the Taoiseach. Certain elements within Ireland would sooner have died than ask for British help. “The situation is dire.”

“I know,” the Prime Minister said. The BBC and the other news channels had been broadcasting images of the Posleen at work, eating their way through humans from India and America. Whatever was happening in Africa had eaten the media crews as well. More and more of Africa was falling to the Posleen, and soon they would hold all of that strategically vital land.

Did the Posleen build factories? The Prime Minister couldn’t remember, but he knew that they would have to prepare for an invasion over the Channel, as well as one dropping from space onto their positions. He made a mental note to see what asserts could be moved into South Africa; the Posleen were closing in on the most powerful nation on the continent, which might just self-destruct long before the Posleen got there.

“We are having…problems in building a defence,” the Taoiseach admitted. The Prime Minister nodded once, in respect; admitting weakness to the French or the Russians would not have come any easier to him. “We…can’t produce a military like yours, and we need help.”

“Your problems stem from your lack of personnel to draw on,” the Prime Minister said. It was a covert acknowledgement that MI6 had been watching the developments in Ireland closely. “I know you’ve had the amnesty and everything…”

The Taoiseach nodded bitterly. The Irish Parliament had agreed to amnesty every member of the IRA and the other terrorist groups, no matter their crimes, provided they agreed to go through rejuvenation and join the Irish Army. Some of them had deserted – one of them had turned up in Britain and had been shot under martial law – and others had been…well, useless.

“That might have been a mistake,” the Taoiseach admitted. “They were violent men, but they refused to grow up.”

“And they lacked the skills needed for fighting the Posleen,” the Prime Minister said. General Anderson had prepared a through briefing for him; the IRA were skilled in violence and striking from the shadows, dropping back into the ordinary civilian population and hiding behind a legal system that gave the guilty every advantage. Against the Posleen, they would be rapidly killed and eaten.

“Exactly,” the Taoiseach said sharply. “Ireland has no compulsory military service, no real tank force, and only a handful of experienced officers, many of whom decided that their loyalties were to you instead. To add insult to injury, the politicians are reluctant to enforce the conscription laws, even the agreement that all of our young men should be conscripted.”

“And, of course, you can’t arm them,” the Prime Minister said.

“We do not have the time,” the Taoiseach snapped. “How long until they come?”

The Prime Minister shrugged. “The original projection was 2008,” he said. “Of course, the attack we just beat off in America was early.”

The Taoiseach scowled. “I will be blunt,” he said. “We need your help.”

The Prime Minister looked up at him, feeling respect and a certain amount of concern. He admired the Taoiseach’s willingness to ask for help from the oldest enemy, and he agreed that if Ireland could be kept free of Posleen, it was worth doing. On the other hand, even America was stretched to the limit, even with the Darhel supplying more weapons.

“Are there…,” he began, and stopped. Whatever the Darhel were up to, it seemed to work through native protest movements, even though the Posleen had put a stop to organisations like African Aid. After all, there were no longer many central Africans to help. He shook his head; that was one question he could never ask.

Sir Robert would laugh, he thought grimly. I’m not cut out for intelligence work.

He sighed once, sadly, as the servant brought in a cup of tea for each of them. He half-suspected that the Taoiseach needed several glasses of something alcoholic, but he refrained; it might have been taken as an insult.

“What manner of help do you want?” He asked finally. “What exactly do you want us to do for you?”

The Taoiseach nodded thoughtfully. “We need experienced officers to help build up the army,” he said. “We need weapons and equipment.”

“I think that we can spare some officers,” the Prime Minister said. He’d anticipated the request and made some arrangements. “However, we would have to have some guarantee of success.”

The Taoiseach lifted a grey eyebrow. “If the Americans got hammered as badly as they were,” he said, “how do you expect us to guarantee a victory?”

“We want you to conscript everyone for the army,” the Prime Minister said. “This is not a time for half-measures.”

“The Germans are allowing some people to refuse service, even though they are using the SS,” the Taoiseach protested. “Why can’t we?”

“Germany is big enough to absorb the first attack,” the Prime Minister said. General Anderson had covered that as well. “Ireland…is not. I cannot say that I approve of the SS – even though you are using the IRA and its comrades in evil – but they’re needed.”

“That’s not going to be easy,” the Taoiseach admitted. The Prime Minister nodded. “What else do you want?”

The Prime Minister sipped his tea. “I will be frank with you,” he said. “We expect the next Posleen landing to land here, along with the rest of the industrialised world. That includes Ireland. If everything goes to plan” – which it won’t – “the Posleen will be wiped out quickly. Unfortunately…”

“They won’t be defeated that quickly,” the Taoiseach agreed. “You might have to keep fighting for a long time.”

“I know,” the Prime Minister said. “One of the contingency plans is to seal off the Posleen landing sites, preventing them from moving any further, while we gather the force to crush them. If that works, we will need to evacuate our civilians somewhere.”

“And you want them to move to Ireland,” the Taoiseach concluded. “I understand the logic.”

“Ah, but do you agree?” The Prime Minister asked. “Our price for sending what help we can, some of which may not be as useful as you might have hoped, is that you agree to allow us to evacuate some of our people to Ireland, without prejudice or fear or favour.”

The Taoiseach looked at him for a long moment. The Prime Minister didn’t envy him; the decision would be damaging in the long run to Ireland, although less damaging than a Posleen invasion, with thousands of Posleen eating their way through Irishmen and women. He would have liked to help Ireland, if only to make up for some of the mistakes of the past, but they couldn’t afford to divert resources from British defence without gaining something in return.

“I would have to discuss that with my cabinet,” the Taoiseach said finally. “I suspect, however, that they will agree to your terms.”

“We may end up asking for your help later,” the Prime Minister admitted. “One thing we can do at once, though, is sending you an experienced officer now.”

The Taoiseach smiled. “That would be helpful,” he said. The Prime Minster knew that it would be a token gesture, at best. “I’ll arrange for him to meet the commanding officers of the defence force.”

***
An hour after the Taoiseach had left, the Prime Minister was still working on the reports, trying to avoid thinking about a difficult situation. Certain members of the aristocracy and the Royal Family had attempted to arrange for off-planet accommodation for them, not just in Fleet, but on a Federation world. The Darhel had been very willing to arrange it, but the Prime Minister had squashed the idea flat.

“I don’t need more problems,” he muttered. He understood the agreement that Fleet’s dependents would be given first priority, and in fact the two princes of the blood were serving with the fleet, but there were so many entire families left behind on Earth. If news got out that the Royal Family was getting special treatment, there would be riots in the streets.

Hell, I might join them myself, the Prime Minister thought. Churchill hadn’t let the Royal Family shirk the obligations that came with the Throne, and he had been in a far weaker position. Nightmarish through the Posleen situation was, it could be handled by the Army, provided they had everything they needed. Civil unrest – for such a good cause – was not something they needed.

“Prime Minister, General Whitehouse is here for his meeting,” his secretary said. “Shall I send him in?”

The Prime Minister nodded to himself. “Send him in, please,” he said, and waited until the tall General entered. The Prime Minister didn’t waste his time playing dominance games; there simply wasn’t the time for such unimportant matters.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” General Whitehouse asked. The Prime Minister winced inwardly; the accent was pure upper-class. It would horrify the Irish no end, and yet…how many officers of General Whitehouse’s calibre could be spared?

“Yes, I did,” he said. “You have quite an impressive record, General Whitehouse.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister,” General Whitehouse said. He seemed content to wait for the reason for the meeting to be revealed in due course. “I have always been willing to serve.”

The Prime Minister smiled. “You joined the army in 1970,” he said. “You rose rapidly and commanded a section during the Falklands War, including heavy guns. You received awards for this, including a knighthood you rejected – and were promoted to General in time to fight in the Gulf. Now…you have been working on integrating the old and new weapons into the fighting forces of Britain.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” General Whitehouse said. “The exercises using the information from America have been progressing well.”

“How well?” The Prime Minister asked. “How confident are you?”

“Impossible to say,” General Whitehouse admitted. “If one globe lands, we can handle it. If two to five globes land, we might be able to handle them. If we get more than ten…we’d be…”

“Fucked,” the Prime Minister said, succinctly. “Have you been following developments in Ireland?”

General Whitehouse nodded. “They’ve been giving new life to the IRA bastards,” he said. “It’s almost as bad as the Germans; at least the SS had some honourable people in it.”

“What a surprise,” the Prime Minister muttered. “I admit that resurrecting parts of the SS would give me the shivers, but it’s a German decision, not one of ours. The problem with Ireland, however, is that they have few trained people to help them build an army in time.”

“I understand their problems,” General Whitehouse said. “I just don’t know what it is to do with us.”

“Have you seen the worse-case and worst-case projections?” The Prime Minister asked. “We could make use of Ireland, as a place to run to if nothing else.”

“The Posleen will take Britain over my dead body,” General Whitehouse assured him.

The Prime Minister smiled. “That, General, is what I’m worried about. I need you, General, as the commanding officer with the most experience at using older tech against the Posleen, to go to Ireland and help them.”

General Whitehouse blinked. “I thought I was in line for a combat command,” he said.

“You are,” the Prime Minister replied. “If the negotiations go well, you will end up commanding a force in Ireland itself, working with both British and Irish units. If they don’t, you’ll be pulled out in 2006, just to get one of the commanding posts.”

General Whitehouse smiled, appreciating the challenge. “They’re not ready to fight the Posleen,” he said. The Prime Minister pointed a long finger at the briefing paper on the desk; General Whitehouse read it quickly, then looked up. “Prime Minister, they’re in serious trouble.”

“I knew that,” the Prime Minister said. “I had their Prime Minister, their Taoiseach, in here, asking for help.”

General Whitehouse finished reading the section marked ORDER OF BATTLE. “They’re in serious trouble,” he repeated. “How many weapons are we going to be sending them?”

“As many as we can spare,” the Prime Minister said. “Quite frankly, I’d send them some of the ACS units, if we could spare them. For the moment, we should be able to send them ten thousand heavy machine guns, tipped with Galactic metals for extra penetration, and several thousand artillery guns. They can produce the shells, at least; we shared the shell specifications with them back when all of this started.”

“Will they be producing the shells?” General Whitehouse asked sharply. “It seems to me that they lack the political will, more than anything else.”

The Prime Minister shrugged. “We won’t be sending them any more shells,” he said. “Now that production of the latest heavy artillery guns is under progress, we won’t be making more than a handful of the shells for the older designs.”

“Permission to point that out to them,” General Whitehouse asked dryly.

“Granted,” the Prime Minister said. He knew that he sounded tired. “This is something of a thankless task, General; I would not have given it to you if I thought that you would be unable to handle it.”

General Whitehouse smiled. “I won’t let you down,” he said.

The Prime Minister nodded. “Now, what is the current status of the training program?”

General Whitehouse opened his briefcase and brought out a series of sheets of paper. “It’s going better than we had a right to expect,” he said. “The combat data from America has really helped. For the moment, we’re concentrating on practicing sealing off the regions of Posleen intrusion.”

He passed over a sheet of paper. “All of our defence forces will be operating within one of those three areas,” he said. “Green; the Posleen are not within range. Yellow; the Posleen are within marching range. Red; the Posleen are coming down right on top of you.”

The Prime Minister winced. “Is that likely?”

“It happened at Fredericksburg,” General Whitehouse said grimly. “Incidentally, we’ve had to add extra ear protection to the soldiers standard outfit, just in case. When the invasion begins, Green forces will go on alert, Yellow forces will march into defensive positions…and Red forces will buy them as much time as they can.”

“You’re writing off the Red forces?” The Prime Minister asked. “There’s no hope for them?”

“The Americans couldn’t save the forces on the ground,” General Whitehouse said. “When the Posleen land, wherever they land, they will have instant numerical superiority. The Red forces will suddenly find that their role is to kill as many Posleen as they can before they’re overrun.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said.

“It’s hardly your fault,” the Prime Minister said. “Carry on.”

“We’ve been practicing counter-attacks and defences,” General Whitehouse continued. “We can establish a mobile defence wall – a quickly-created line of defences – fairly quickly; the problem is doing that before the Posleen hit the line.” He shook his head angrily. “I wish we had better data on how they thought, or an understanding of their minds. A human force would strike for London, but what will the Posleen do?”

“I wish I knew,” the Prime Minister said. “And the results of the drills?”

“We stop the Posleen directly about a third of the time,” General Whitehouse admitted. “Quite frankly, I think that’s optimistic; the Posleen carry one hell of a kick. What I’m really worried about is a second landing, a week or so after the first landing, when everything is in disarray.”

“And the communications network is working,” the Prime Minister said thoughtfully. “Will that be of tactical advantage?”

“I hope so,” General Whitehouse said. “Of course, the Posleen don’t have real rear areas in the sense we do, but we should be able to locate their masses and pound them with long-range gunfire.”

“Fighting on the green hills of England,” the Prime Minister sighed. “One of the reasons that we’re helping the Irish is that it might make a place to run to, afterwards.”

General Whitehouse frowned. “Sir – Prime Minister – they might object.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Yes, they might,” he said. “They might indeed.”

Chapter Seventeen: Shadows

Darhel Embassy
London, United Kingdom
20th December 2004

The Darhel Tir knew that he didn’t truly understand humans. As a lower-ranking functionary, it was his job to be as familiar with humanity as possible – no Indowy or Himmit intelligence aides for him – but he knew that humanity was a curiously perverse race. The concept of treason was not, of course, unknown to the Darhel, but the concept of betraying one’s country – one’s planet – for such abstract causes as the ‘good of the environment’ and ‘the defence of civil liberties’ was alien to them.

The Tir smiled, showing his teeth. It was safe to do so; there were no humans nearby to wonder why the Darhel – who were strictly vegetarians – had predator teeth. Human teeth, the teeth of a race that had annihilated many other races on their own world, were flat and lumpy compared to the Darhel teeth. The Darhel rarely smiled; it upset people and upset people were people who wondered about things the Darhel would have preferred they didn’t think about.

Ecologically unsound. Environmentally unsafe. Polluting…filthy. Aesthetically unappealing. Heretical. Upsets me at my vegetarian breakfast. Forces me to contemplate that which must be denied.

They’re crazy, the Darhel thought, as it studied the feed of information from Margent Hammond, though his loyal servant Griffin. It understood bribery and blackmail, both of which had been used on humans ever since they were first encountered, and it knew that they were reliable. The sheer…concept of betraying one’s entire people for strange abstract ideals made no sense to it at all.

“Still, the old ways are still the best,” the Darhel said aloud. “AID?”

“The information has been integrated into packages designed to be dumped directly into the Posleen net,” the AID said.

The Darhel nodded again. It did not suit the Darhel for the Posleen to overrun all of the Federation, or even for the best-case situation – the collapse of the Posleen-controlled space – within the next hundred years. The Posleen, by their very nature, would present a problem for any Darhel hoping to ‘tame’ them; the first Darhel to try had never returned to claim their rewards.

In fact, the Posleen race should be…

NO! Don’t even think about that, the Darhel thought, reminding himself of the dangers of becoming too immersed in thoughts of blood and slaughter. The Darhel could not – dared not – fight; to fight was to lose their minds and go mad. Every few years, one of the Darhel would go mad and wreck havoc, worse now that the Posleen were coming, bearing down on the main Federation worlds.

The Darhel focused, reciting a calming mantra, even as he considered the best way to hobble the human defence forces in Britain. It would not do for the Federation to win the war against the Posleen if the humans destroyed the Darhel control, now and forever. The Darhel inability to fight would doom them; the humans would destroy them…if they ever found out what the Darhel had done. For the Darhel to be safe, Earth had to be ruined…and the core population of humans on Indowy worlds trained to take their places within the Galactic Federation.

“Analysis the positioning of the human forces,” the Darhel ordered the AID. Shorn of its master’s crippling hatred of violence, the AID could calculate tactical positions without the threat of madness. “Calculate…the best locations for the Posleen to land and…move out over the land.”

The Darhel shuddered. Speaking in such roundabout terms was the only way to avoid madness. The mere thought of what the Posleen would do, when they spread out, was too much for him to contemplate.

“Working, done,” the AID said. He had never bothered to help it develop a personality. “Information compressed into Posleen-class packages.”

“Transmit the information into the main net interface unit,” the Darhel ordered, and scowled. A human writer had once warned of the dangers of trusting fanatics; the Tir in Germany had only fanatics to work though. While the fanatics were more than willing to betray their nations – they believed in the myth of ‘star-brothers’ – they were unpredictable by definition. Hammond, on the other hand, was predicable; she had taken the Darhel’s money and now she would work for the Darhel.

The Darhel smiled again, nastier this time. The Darhel would triumph, eventually. By the time humanity arose again, the Darhel would control them and their energies would be directed towards the ends of the Darhel.

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
20th December 2004

The Prime Minister nodded politely to Sir Robert Darter and Daniel Morgan as they entered his office, watching as the guards sealed the office against all intrusion. This was one of the few places they were certain had no Darhel listening devices; no Darhel had ever visited Downing Street. That didn’t rule out a Darhel agent, but the Darhel seemed content to work through Hammond, and everything she did was supervised by MI5.

“I trust that you have reviewed the situation?” The Prime Minister asked Morgan, as soon as the room was sealed. He wasn’t entirely sure that he trusted the replacement Home Secretary, but he would be needed if the worst happened. “You understand what the Darhel are trying to do?”

Morgan’s face contorted. “You are allowing one of them to live in London, perhaps more than one,” he burst out, finally. “They’re working to weaken us and you’re allowing them free reign?”

“We cannot tip our hand too soon,” the Prime Minister said. “The recent developments, however, are disturbing; did you see the information the Darhel were demanding?”

Sir Robert nodded grimly. “It would gladden my heart to see a Posleen army marching to London according to the maps we supplied them,” he said. “Still, the Darhel have other ways to collect information, and we are far too vulnerable to such manipulations.”

Morgan nodded. “Why not take it up with the rest of the world?” He asked. “They could be doing it everywhere.”

“They are,” the Prime Minister said. “It’s hard to be certain – the elves are very good at covering their tracks – but it seems certain that they’re active in Germany, as well as America and France.”

“They might have been the ones behind the SS,” Morgan said. “It might have been their idea all along.”

“Perhaps,” the Prime Minister said. “Now that the Irish have finally decided to accept our help, we’ll be sending them weapons” – he held up a hand to forestall comment – “and some advice on deploying them. Daniel, do you understand your position?”

Morgan nodded. “Sir, is this really necessary?”

“I have to remain in London,” the Prime Minister said. “If the Darhel tell the Posleen that London is our centre of operations, they’ll come for London.”

“Assuming that they think the same way we do,” Sir Robert said. “There’s enough evidence to suggest that they don’t think anything like the way we do.”

The Prime Minister shrugged. “Immaterial,” he said. “Morgan, if something happens to me, you will be Prime Minister. After Christmas, you are going to head to the base in Scotland, along with the shadow parliament. This will probably be the last chance we’ll have to talk in person.”

“I understand,” Morgan said. “I won’t let you down.”

“I hope not,” the Prime Minister said. “Now, I think that we’ll have to keep feeding the Darhel semi-accurate information, at least until the landings begin.”

“Because the Darhel themselves are non-violent,” Morgan said. “They won’t be able to take advantage of our positions themselves.”

“Exactly,” Sir Robert said. “Now, if we allow them to continue building their fake network, then we can ensure that we send them the right, or rather the wrong information, at the important time.” He smiled. “The Darhel seem prepared to work through agents, this scumbag Griffin, for example. We haven’t been able to identify him properly; I suspect computer tampering.”

“And the Darhel are masters at that,” Morgan said grimly. Sir Robert nodded. “Then their attempts to assist us to improve the Internet are a Trojan horse.”

“Exactly,” Sir Robert said again. The Prime Minister smiled; it seemed to have become Sir Robert’s favourite word. “We can expect them to deploy spyware-like programs within the servers, if not programs designed to manipulate financial information and share-trading.”

“To gain more control over us,” Morgan said. “That’s why GalTech has been busy buying up property, now that the economy is on the mend.”

“Here, Europe, America, the Darhel have been busy,” Sir Robert agreed. “They’re gaining more and more control over properties, working through an entire series of cut-outs. It’s so hazy that we’re not certain that it’s even real.”

“I think I preferred being in the Guards,” Morgan muttered wryly. “What’s the point? The industries in Silicon Valley and the Rhineland, to name but two, are going to be firmly trounced by the Posleen.” He scowled. “Why the hell are they buying them?”

“A very good question,” Sir Robert said. “War compensation, perhaps; the American government has already agreed to pay compensation to the owners, who may not know whom they’re really working for, once the invasion is over. The Darhel would have plenty of time to design the system in their own manner.”

“Crafty bastards,” Morgan commented. “Will we let them do that?”

“That might be up to you,” the Prime Minister said wryly.

“Christ, you’re gloomy today,” Morgan snapped. “You’re not dead yet!”

The Prime Minister laughed. “I suppose I’m not,” he said. “Sir Robert, please keep both myself and Daniel informed of developments.”

“Of course,” Sir Robert said. “Prime Minister, Hammond wants to meet with you again.”

The Prime Minister blinked. “Please, send her in,” he said.

***
Margent Hammond hadn’t set foot in Downing Street for several years, not since the Darhel had contacted her and made her one of their agents. Her role as a double agent only made it harder for her to talk to the Prime Minister, even when she was supposed to be talking to him. Who knew what could arouse an alien’s suspicions?

“It’s good to see you again,” the Prime Minister said. She thought that he was sincere. “You’ve done good service for this country.”

“I want it to end,” Hammond said, and disgraced herself by bursting into tears. The Prime Minister reached out and gently patted her on the back. “I can’t take this any more.”

“You’ve done so well, so far,” the Prime Minister said sadly. “Do you really want the Darhel to win?”

Hammond shook her head. Her occasional meetings with the Tir had convinced her that the Darhel were dangerous. “I can’t take this life any more,” she said. “I have to lie to people who think I’m going to help them. I have to give money to people who I then betray. I have to rail against the defence of Earth and people are listening to me…”

She broke down, sobbing. The Prime Minister passed her a handkerchief. “I know what you mean,” he said. It wasn’t enough. “I do understand your situation, Margent, but it is a role that only you can play.”

Hammond looked up at him, at the famous face that was becoming lined with worry. “I should have gone into a respectable tradition, like prostitution,” she said. “If I’d known that trying to help would have this effect…”

“I know how you feel,” the Prime Minister said, seriously. She felt him passing her another handkerchief. “Don’t you know how much good you’ve done?”

“The Germans are doing something that only benefits the aliens,” Hammond said. She’d never met the German Gunter, the Green and Socialist, but he was clearly working for the Darhel. “The French are too wrapped up in their own nationalism to care about the elves. There’s just me…”

The Prime Minister nodded. “You’re the last person who speaks for the left with any authority,” he said. “Once the Posleen are beaten off, you will be in a position to make your own bid to become Prime Minister, should you want to try.”

“Like Harriet Jones,” Hammond said wryly. She sat up and sipped gratefully at a cup of tea the Prime Minister passed her. “After the Darhel, how many people would trust us?”

“A good point,” the Prime Minister admitted. “Still, the aliens are not unbeatable, are they?” Hammond lifted an eyebrow. “They came to you, didn’t they?”

Rusholme, Manchester
14th July 2005

Winter faded slightly as the effects of the Posleen bombardment of Earth wore off, allowing Britain to bask in a reasonably warm summer. Months passed and it grew warmer, allowing the people some holidays near the beaches, those that hadn’t been mined in preparation for a possible invasion. For those who had been conscripted, the summer provided them with a chance for a holiday, a chance to remember what the world had been like before the first wave of Posleen had arrived.

Sameena pulled herself out of bed with an effort, turning to look at Brad’s naked form lying beside her. Grinning, she reached out and poked him neatly in the chest, then tickled him.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” she whispered into his ear. “It’s time for the Civil Defence meeting, remember?”

Brad jumped up, nearly banging his head into hers. “What?” He snapped, coming awake with the ease of one who had been practicing for the past three years. “What drill…why you little…”

Sameena laughed and fled as he chased her around the room, finally cornering her in the shower. Their mock-struggle became something more as the water washed down over them, bringing them to the brink together, then plunging over into glorious ecstasy.

“I love you,” Sameena whispered into his hair. She washed herself quickly, stepping out of the shower, and pulled on a robe. Neither of them had been morning people, in the world before the Posleen came, but they’d learnt to get up. As CDC employees, they were entitled to orange juice rations and she poured them both a large glass of juice.

Brad stuck his head out of the shower. “You are a rotten swine, you know that?” He asked, clearly unhappy at having been woken on his day off. “Come here so I can spank you.”

Sameena stuck her tongue out. “Someone, who will remain nameless, naturally, promised to take me to Blackpool today, remember?” She asked, passing him the glass of juice. “Didn’t I just make it worthwhile?”

“I was drunk at the time,” Brad protested, drinking the juice. Sameena pouted. “All right, all right,” he said. “What’s on the telly?”

Sameena picked up the remote and turned the telly on. Scenes of a riot outside an army base appeared in front of them, with marching policemen being attacked by the rioters. A protest sign, reading “friendship to our alien brothers,” came smashing down across the head and shoulders of a policeman.

“Shit,” Brad breathed. “Where the hell is this? Fort Churchill?”

“This is Sennelager, Germany, 14 June 2005,” the female reporter said. A sign at the bottom identified her as CHARLENE JACKSON, BBC. “Here, rioters protesting against the formation of the 47th Panzer Korps, otherwise know as a resurrection of the dreaded SS, are clashing with the police.”

Sameena relaxed. The thought of Sarfraz being attack by protesters was too painful to consider. “Alhamdulilah,” she breathed. “What’s happening?”

“And now, there are soldiers appearing,” Charlene’s voice said. The camera focused in on a number of men, leaving the base and wearing…what the hell was that? Charlene didn’t know; it wasn’t conventional riot gear.

“Protective masks,” Brad commented. “They don’t want to be identified.”

“What the hell are they doing?” Sameena asked. Of itself, her hand sought and found Brad’s, pulling them into an embrace.

“The SS men are moving closer and closer to the crowd,” Charlene said. A lone unarmed SS man strode ahead of them, singing with his men and marching with his fists held high. “They’re closing in on the crowd.” She coughed. “The crowd has defeated the police in open combat.”

“That Ullah bastard, Noreen’s cousin-father, would have been shocked,” Sameena commented, her eyes drawn back to the spectacle. Strange German words rose up as the SS troopers closed in, a song that, oddly, she knew better than the vast majority of Germans.

“Shit,” Brad said, as the first SS man went down under a hail of protesters. They gasped as a bare-breasted woman tore open her shirt, just before he fell, and then the SS charged, waving their clubs and using them as weapons. The protesters seemed to pause for a moment as the SS slammed into them, using their weapons liberally, and then they broke. Their singing faltered – both sides stopped singing – as the violence exploded, countless protesters crushed under the SS heel.

“Those bastards,” Sameena said. Charlene had given up trying to comment, merely allowing the live broadcast to speak for itself. The protesters, greens and socialists and people who had merely come for a good time, fled before them, leaving grey-clad men holding the field.

Brad held her close. “I want to forget about that,” he said. “I want to forget…”

“That was the scene at Sennelager, Germany,” the BBC presenter said. “Despite official protests from world governments and Jewish groups, the German government has declared its intention to continue with the reactivation of certain SS groups. The Germans have assured us that no real villains have been rejuvenated – and indeed most of the real villains were hung – but the concerns of Jewish groups remain unabated.

“The British Government has not issued a comment on the events at Sennelager, Germany, but it is expected that, in the wake of the Posleen actions in America, that effective action will be minimal. Despite the official stance of the French Government, some senior French army officials have refused to consider the possibility of cooperation between French units and the SS.

“In other news, the Posleen forces in Africa are believed to have ended the Darfur genocide by eating all of the participants,” the reader continued. “Although information is sparse, the government in the Sudan and Egypt pretends high confidence and…”

Sameena clicked the television off. “Let’s go to Blackpool,” she said. “I really don’t want to think about the SS right now, or even the Posleen.”

Chapter Eighteen: Final Moves

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
15th July 2005

The Prime Minister flipped off the TV with a look of distaste. “I confess, I have some sympathy with the protesters,” he said. “Do we really want the SS back on our planet?”

“The Posleen will eat most of them,” General Whitehouse said wryly. “Think of all the evil people in Africa who are being eaten right this moment.”

The Prime Minister glared at him. “Think of all the leaders off sunning themselves in the Caribbean while their people suffer,” he snapped. “I spare no love for the Taliban, bastards to a man, but did they really deserve to have the Posleen make mincemeat out of them?”

General Whitehouse shrugged. “They would have been a thorn in our flesh in the future,” he said. “I don’t have the luxury of wondering if people deserved it or not. If they’d developed a better military tradition, instead of charging madly shouting Allah Ackbar, they might have survived the Posleen.”

“India has our tradition and look what happened there,” the Prime Minister snapped. “What progress have you made in Ireland?”

“Quite a lot, once we got over the protests, both at expanding the military forces and at using British assistance,” General Whitehouse said. “They might have a chance after all.”

“Good,” the Prime Minister said. “Details?”

“Well, Ireland won’t be building any Sub-Urbs,” General Whitehouse said. “They have asked us to produce them some Sub-Urbs, but the machinery is needed in Scotland and Wales, although we could send some of the Wales machines to Ireland if the Posleen break through the defence lines there. That…does give us – them – some motivation to get it right, first time.”

“We’ll make plans to move the Wales construction machines if we have to,” the Prime Minister said. “We’ll have to use one of the carriers to do it; its not like the ship is good for anything else at the moment.”

Neither man commented on the irony of one of the most powerful naval units in the Royal Navy, such as it was with most of its personnel transferred to Fleet, being relegated to humble transport duties. The Invincible and her two consorts were both powerful and capable, even though they were dwarfed by the American super-carriers, but against the Posleen, their air complement was worse than useless. The Sea Harriers would be wiped from the sky – for nothing.

“I’ll mention it to General Anderson,” General Whitehouse agreed. “For the moment, the Irish have been building conventional shelters and stockpiling food, but if the Posleen get loose, it will be a disaster.”

“For everyone,” the Prime Minister said. “Seriously, what are the strengths and weaknesses of the new Irish Army?”

“They’re capable and – once we got rid of most of the terrorists – disciplined,” General Whitehouse said. “They still have a number of strange problems with religion, such as putting Catholics and Protestants together when we integrated the two parts of Ireland for military purposes; the problem is keeping them reminded that fighting it out will only give the Posleen a free lunch.”

“The BBC has been doing that for us here,” the Prime Minister said. “Horror stories about the Posleen in India and Africa, and the videos the Americans made for the Germans.”

General Whitehouse nodded. “Their real problem is that they’re short on many weapons,” he said. “They have hardly anything that can stand up to a Posleen lander and survive the experience…”

“We have hardly anything that can do that,” the Prime Minister pointed out.

“While killing the blasted lander,” General Whitehouse said. “They don’t have many tanks and an ordinary anti-tank round is just going to be shrugged off. Apart from that, they really need more artillery and heavy machine guns.”

“We’ve sent what we can,” the Prime Minister said. “Arms are at something of a premium right now.”

General Whitehouse grinned. “Don’t I know it,” he said. “Do you have any idea how many weapons turned up when the Irish started? Hundreds of weapons, each from different parts of the Warsaw Pact, stored away for a civil war.”

“I guess that the Posleen will put a stop to that, just as they are in the Sudan,” the Prime Minister sighed. He knew that the Posleen had succeeded in bringing peace to the Sudan, but it was the peace of the grave. “How are you providing ammunition for them all?”

“With difficulty,” General Whitehouse admitted. “We could fill an entire series of Turtledove’s books with descriptions of all of the compromises we’ve had to make. If we have a couple more years, then we might be able to get everything standardised. For the moment, one regiment has AK-47s – thanks for the ammunition, by the way – another has German weapons that date back all the way to the First World War, a third has some American weapons that must have been smuggled in…and on, and on.”

“Someday I want to read your memoirs,” the Prime Minister said. He smiled. “Now, what’s the good news?”

“We have nearly half of Ireland’s male population and a sizable percentage of the female population, roughly two million, under arms or in training now,” General Whitehouse said. “Convincing everyone to work together has been…difficult, nothing like as bad as we have had here. Of course, few of those are armed.”

The Prime Minister smiled grimly. “And if unarmed troops try to face the Posleen, they will be slaughtered,” he said.

“We’re working on getting more Irish weapons into production,” General Whitehouse said. “However, it will be a long time before they’re ready to face the Posleen. We might end up sending them to die by the thousands, just to prevent the Posleen from gaining a foothold in Ireland.”

“Smothering the fire with their bodies,” the Prime Minister said grimly. “It’s going to be unpleasant.”

“It could be worse,” General Whitehouse said. “Remember the guy who came up with the idea of wiring all of England with nukes?”

“Don’t even mention that man’s name,” the Prime Minister said. “If the Posleen didn’t get us, the survivors would, assuming there were any.”

General Whitehouse nodded. “Is there any chance of getting more officers I can borrow?” He asked. “That’s pretty much the other main weakness.”

The Prime Minister hesitated. “Take it up with General Mathews,” he said. “If he feels that we can spare a few officers for the period between now and the beginning of 2007, then we’ll allow it.” He frowned. “We could run more Irish officers through the expanded Officer Training School.”

“Good idea, sir,” General Whitehouse said. “Thank you.”

The Prime Minister snorted. “Thank me if you survive the battles on Ireland,” he said.

BBC Headquarters
Near Newcastle, United Kingdom
15th July 2005

Charlene lifted a single eyebrow as she entered the new BBC headquarters, buried deep under a field near Newcastle. The transmission towers, occasionally targeted by the Posleen in America, had been placed further away, well away from the headquarters. She passed through a long tunnel before reaching the headquarters itself, a simple Spartan room with several dozen people working there.

“This must have cost a bomb,” she said, as soon as she saw Edmund Robertson. The current Head of Programming grinned up at her. “What on Earth did it cost?”

“Less than you might think,” Robertson said. “We’re not just a BBC headquarters, but also one of the main communications hubs between here, London and Edinburgh, particularly if the Posleen take out the main radio links. If they do, we’re going to serve the Government as a relay centre, which means that they will allow us to use this bunker.”

He waved a hand around the bunker. “I know its not got hot and cold running Champagne, at least not yet, but its home.”

“It’s good to know that there will be a safe place for most of the staff,” Charlene said. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Oh, senior management is going to be moving up north,” Robertson said. Charlene snorted rudely. “They are going to the Shetlands, but us poor schmucks are going to be in the firing line, which is one reason for living here instead of a luxury apartment. If the Posleen come, we can hide out here for nearly a year, if we have to.”

“I think I would sooner be in bed with that actor from the SuperGoons TV show,” Charlene said dryly. “What are you going to do with me?”

“You know, I heard you the first time,” Robertson said wryly. “That depends; what do you want to do? I was quite impressed with your work in Germany.”

Charlene shuddered. She’d flown back to Britain that evening. The SS goons hadn’t hurt the reporters, but they’d scared hell out of them. “Not back to Germany,” she said firmly. “That was quite bad enough the first time around.”

Robertson looked into her eyes and didn’t pry. “So, where do you want to go?” He asked. “You could report from London again, or you could be an embedded reporter.”

“I’m not sure,” Charlene admitted. “Where do you want me?”

“On the bed, stark naked,” Robertson said, leering. Charlene glared at him. “Oh come on, what was I going to say with that lead-up? I would prefer to have you in London, myself; you have been promised access and I suspect that they would be willing to continue to share information and exclusives with you.”

Charlene nodded. “Please consider your face slapped,” she said. “London it is, then.”

Rusholme, Manchester
17th July 2005

Sameena lay in bed, her eyes closed, but not asleep. She smiled slightly as Brad’s hands found their way between her legs, exploring her private parts. She sighed as his fingers explored her body, making Brad giggle with delight.

“Caught you out,” he said, and kissed her gently. “You’re awake.”

Sameena opened her eyes and did her best to project annoyance at him. “I suppose you want your pound of flesh,” she said, and leered. “Ten bob to you.”

Brad leaned over and kissed her again. “What about five minutes of mouth to mouth exploration?” He asked huskily. “What about…”

The Civil Defence Alarms rang. Their pagers started to ring at the same time, announcing CONDITION RED, time and time again. Brad swore, caught between his lusts and his duty; Sameena, who was feeling randy herself, understood. Cursing, she swung out of bed, reaching for the uniform she’d taken care to keep ready at all times.

“I don’t want to die a virgin,” Brad said, as he jumped out of bed. Sameena watched as his erection rapidly vanished as he pulled on his own uniform; CONDITION RED meant ‘Posleen landing within thirty minutes.’

“You’re not a bloody virgin,” Sameena snapped, as she pulled on her shoes and ran for the door. A momentary check of the House Destruct System confirmed that it was ready and waiting to be linked into the city’s defence network, a mined house for the Posleen to be blown to bits on. “I have the proof of it.”

“I thought that you enjoyed it,” Brad snapped, running up behind her. The alarms continued to howl, even as their pagers fell silent, warning them to meet at the CDC station.

“I do,” Sameena snapped back. A single flick of the switch placed the life and death of their house in the hands of the city’s defenders, before they locked the door and ran down the stairs. Neither of them had a car, but neither of them needed one; the CDC centre was only ten minutes away.

“I love you,” Brad said, taking her hand as they ran. All around them, thousands of people were running for their lives, some towards their stations, and some towards the evacuation points. Even with the growing number of pagers and PDA units, the population was still not ready for the Posleen attack.

“A good thing school’s out,” Sameena shouted, over the howl of the alarms. “Otherwise there would be thousands of kids on the streets.”

“Those that haven’t already been evacuated,” Brad shouted back. “Lover, save your breath and run!”

Sameena was gasping with the effort by the time they ran into the CDC centre, which was starting to fill up with people. The main display, linked into the TERDEF network, was blinking with red icons, but it didn’t include the telltale words.

“This is a fucking drill,” Brad muttered. “I swear I’m going to kill the bastard who came up with this idea.”

“Stop arguing and move,” Sergeant Kendrick snapped. “Move.”

Brad kissed her once, hard, and ran on to the control room. Sameena watched him go, and then ran to the medical centre. They would need her skills.

“Welcome back,” Doctor Tyler sneered. She didn’t mind; he was like that with everyone. At that moment, the alarms stopped. “It looks like that was a drill.”

“I’m speechless,” Sameena said, in between gasps for breath.

“Clearly not,” Doctor Tyler said. He glared around as the other medical staff piled in, then checked the video link to the other medial centres. “You will doubtless be pleased to know that this is a drill,” he said. “However, your reaction time wasn’t perfect.”

Doctor Foster, who led the team that had been on standby, glared at him. “Doctor, we are not machines,” he said. “The Posleen will not be landing for at least an hour based on past evidence and…”

“And is there any evidence that the Posleen cannot land at once?” Doctor Tyler snapped. He glared around the room. “We have to be here, we have to get organised, and we have to be on the streets before the Posleen start to land.”

Nurse Betty coughed. “The Government says that the Posleen cannot land until they have orientated themselves,” she said. Sameena had often wondered how Betty had gotten the post; her massive assets did not include intelligence.

Doctor Tyler fixed her with his stare. “And when did the Government last tell the truth?” He asked. “Governments always lie, dear, when they are under serious threat, and then are now, would you not agree? Look at Africa, look at India; the price of failure is very clear.”

He ignored her stuttering, turning to face the rest of them. “I expect to see a better reaction time from you all next time,” he said. “Good day.”

Sameena sighed and left the medical room, wondering what Brad was doing. She didn’t have long to wonder as someone kissed her from behind. “Hi honey, I’m home,” he muttered in her ear.

“Up mine,” Sameena said wryly. She led him out of the centre, watching as thousands of people streamed back to their homes. Most of them were muttering angrily.

“Do you think that we do too many drills?” She asked. “Doctor Tyler gave us all hell today, just for not moving fast enough.”

Brad scowled. “Want me to kick his ass?” He asked. “I know; I agree with you. We do this every fifth day and people are getting pissed.”

Sameena shook her head. “Let’s go get something to eat,” she said. “Big brother is in town, and he promised he’d meet us later.”

***
Sarfraz had done something that would have Sergeant Benton very annoyed with him and Captain Yates seriously displeased; he’d arranged matters so that Anisa missed out on the drill. He rarely saw his girlfriend and he had decided that he needed the time, just to talk with her. Her father would have been most…unhappy if they had done anything else.

“I’m sorry I can’t come to see you more,” he said, hoping that she understood. She could give serious grudge and had ever since he’d pulled her pigtails when she was very young. “They’re making us work hard.”

Anisa looked up at him sadly. “They’re making us work harder here too,” she said. “I’ve been doing part-time medical work here, just to do what they want and still help dad, ever since…”

Sarfraz, greatly daring, reached out and kissed her on the forehead. Her mother and her three brothers had died in the riots. “I understand,” he said. He’d never been very good with the sensitive stuff. “I’m always here for you.”

“I saw Noreen recently,” Anisa said, with the typical female ability to ignore a rival, once she was neutralised. “She was spreading her thighs for a fat older man; I saw them together. She’s pregnant, again.”

Sarfraz shook his head. For a moment, he thought of how much sex he could have had, but he dismissed it. Anisa was intelligent; Noreen had been anything, but. He smiled down at his girlfriend; her soft brown skin and dark brown eyes made her seem older than she really was. He reached out and squeezed her hand.

“I have an offer for you,” he said. “I…have you and Sameena registered as my heirs, in the event of something happening to me.”

Anisa winced. “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” she said. “I want you here, in my arms.”

Sarfraz looked at her. “Will you marry me?” He asked. “Even as my fiancée, you would be prioritised for evacuation.”

Anisa blinked. “What would the army say if you got me out of here?”

“Nothing,” Sarfraz said. “If you become my engaged partner, you would have the right to one of the first places in the Sub-Urbs, which are loading up now.”

Anisa smiled sadly. “I will,” she said. “But I will have to ask my dad.” She smiled. “I think he’s been waiting for you to ask.” She kissed him once, the first time she’d kissed him in her house. “I’ll just go ask.”

She ran inside, leaving him to wait. Sarfraz sighed; as much as he enjoyed Mr Kalmar’s chess playing skills, he knew that he wanted the best for his daughter, the sole remaining family he had, between the Posleen and the riots.

“He wants you to come see him,” Anisa said, after a long moment. Sarfraz gulped and walked up the stairs, leaving Anisa downstairs. He muttered a prayer under his breath, hoping that Allah would grant him the courage to face Mr Kalmar. He would have almost preferred to take on a Posleen stark naked.

“Salaam,” he said, as he walked into Mr Kalmar’s room. Anisa’s father was very much the typical Muslim, a man with long dark hair and eyes that sparkled with amusement.

“Salaam,” Mr Kalmar said. He spoke in English; a courtesy to Sarfraz. “You have finally proposed, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” Sarfraz said. He said nothing else, but waited. Normally, his father would have done all of the negotiation, but his father was dead.

“You will take care of her,” Mr Kalmar said. It wasn’t a question. He coughed once, a deep hacking cough. “I will not live to see my grandchildren.”

Sarfraz panicked, then realised that Mr Kalmar didn’t think that he’d gotten Anisa pregnant. The amused glitter in the old man’s eyes showed that he understood. Deep inside, Mr Kalmar remembered being young himself.

“I could make you wait,” Mr Kalmar said. “I won’t, however; I give you my permission.”

He hesitated for a long moment. “You will have to be married soon, of course,” he said.

Sarfraz hardly heard him, for inside his heart was singing. The Posleen might be coming, they might be almost at Earth, but that was all right; her father had consented. The birds were singing and Sarfraz had never been happier. The storm was coming; threatening to sweep over everything that was merely human…but for the moment peace reigned everywhere.

Interlude

The Posleen came once, twice…and each time they missed Europe and Britain. Major Posleen forces hit all the east coast of North America, Australia, India, China, South America, and the Middle East, devastating their human opponents. In China, the war went nuclear, devastating the country, but failing to stop the Posleen amid an orgy of political repercussions. It might have had an effect, if there had been enough Chinese left to care…

In the Middle East, from Egypt to Sudan to Saudi Arabia, the Posleen spread out across the land. Muslims and Christians and Jews fought together, united by a sudden threat from space, but the criminally corrupt regimes had spent too long blaming their ills upon the West. In Mecca, Osama Bin Ladin fought a final stand against a foe who cared nothing for the rule of law, for the common decency that had allowed his organisation to hide from the searchlights .

(Perhaps he understood, as the Posleen smashed the defences that had held for less than an hour, that Allah’s favour went to those who served him well, not to those who sought His blessing for acts that served the devil. Perhaps he repented, before a Posleen ate him, before they spread out like the wrath of an angry god. Perhaps he fell into the fire with hatred on his lips, perhaps…

Allah knows and men do not…)

For a long time, Europe dared to believe that the bullet had missed them. The minds of those charged with the defence never relaxed, but the politicians and even the public chose to believe that the Posleen would never come for them. It was an illusion that would be cruelly shattered.

***
The Posleen emerged from hyperspace, already moving to confront the units of Fleet that had been hastily deployed to meet them. Perhaps if more humans had survived the battles, more questions would have been asked about the outcome, but as space become a flickering morass of lights and explosions, the human force was slowly, agonisingly, destroyed. They fought for seven days, led by the massive Lexington, but in the end the fleet was destroyed.

They closed in on Earth, already picking their targets. Fire and death fell towards the planet as the PDCs engaged them, firing desperately to break up the massive globes before they disgorged their cargos onto the planet. They divided their forces, heading for South America, for India, for North Africa…and for Europe. The globes began to break up, dispersing their landing craft, even as the net updated itself with information on the planet below.

The God Kings didn’t question the source of the information. All of the net was sacred; they would no more question it than they would pledge themselves to follow a common – and stupid – normal Posleen. They adjusted their positions, moving more ships to target Europe, to reinforce the forces in Africa, such as they were. The other targets had already been claimed, more or less, the God Kings in India had claimed the fertile lands as their own.

The first globes fell down a week after the battle in space had begun. The globes that landed in Spain and France discovered an enemy who fought well, but hadn’t made enough preparations for their coming. In the end, Spain was reduced to a quivering remnant, hiding in the mountainous areas that the Posleen could not reach, praying for deliverance. France fought well and hard, but they hadn’t done all they could have done; the Posleen held the entire south of the nation by the time the landings ended.

For Italy, for Poland, the Posleen came and killed. The Italians held out in the north, even as the divisions between north and south became explosive. If the Posleen had sought more than simple destruction, there might have been grounds for an alliance, but the Posleen knew nothing. The hints on the net meant nothing to them. In Poland, the Polish survivors didn’t understand why some Posleen kept them alive; the remainder of the country had been destroyed. A few cities held out, praying for a deliverance that could never come.

In Germany, the Posleen met a match; the German armed forces, augmented by the rejuvenated SS Korps. The battles were long and bloody, but the Germans held, preventing the Posleen from seizing their country directly. Even as Germany rallied itself for the final battle, the Posleen massed at the borders…and comparisons to 1944 were all too common.

They were the lucky nations. In India, the Posleen had completed the task of conquering the nation long since, except for some mountain fortresses. In Africa, there was only silence; no radio transmissions marked the fall of the African nations that fought hard against the enemy. In South America, the Posleen hunted the few remaining humans, pressing up against the United States border. Michael O’Neal led his ACS units against the foe, fighting to hold them back, whatever the cost, as the United States slowly died…

And as for Britain, four globes detached themselves from the main swarm, heading for the British Islands…

Chapter Nineteen: Cry Havoc

Permanent Joint Headquarters
London, United Kingdom
27th March 2007

“The fleet couldn’t stop them,” Colonel Jaffrey reported grimly. “They’re closing in on us.”

The ground shook violently. “They just hit the PDC five kilometres away,” Captain Norrell reported. “Sir, this is a more intensive bombardment; the PDCs are getting hammered themselves.”

“I hope they’re doing some hammering themselves,” General Mathews snapped. “How many of the bastards are there?”

“Around ninety globes,” Colonel Jaffrey said. “I guess that whoever uplifted the bastards didn’t bother to include any concept of synchronised flying.”

Anderson swore. Ninety globes meant more Posleen than they could possibly handle. He kept his voice as calm as he could. “Do we have a landing site yet?” He asked. He dismissed the possibility of the Posleen missing them out; Britain was too important a site for the Posleen to avoid, the PDCs alone would draw their interest.

“No, sir,” Colonel Jaffrey said, as calmly as he could.

“Alert status?” General Mathews asked. “Are the Posleen targeting the projected targets?”

“Alert status is CONDITION RED,” Anderson said grimly. He stared down at the display. “The Posleen have hammered some targets that were included in the list.”

The two men shared a long glance. “Inform Sir Robert,” Mathews ordered. “Do we have a landing site yet?”

“They’re still orbiting,” Colonel Jaffrey said. “The Germans and Americans are getting in some licks.”

“Good for them,” Anderson said. The display flickered and changed. “They’re moving.”

“I think they’ve found their targets,” Colonel Jaffrey said. “We have…I think somewhere around forty globes coming to Europe. I’ll have updated landing tracks in a moment.”

Anderson held his breath. Was it possible that Britain would be spared? He looked at Colonel Jaffrey’s face and knew that the answer was no. “Posleen incoming,” Colonel Jaffrey said, his voice agonisingly calm. “We have at least four globes coming our way, heading towards us. It looks more like the South-West.”

Anderson swore. They’d slipped the Darhel information, information that the Posleen had clearly used when planning their landings. “Transmit the warning,” he ordered. “Can you give me a precise landing site?”

There was a long moment. “Four globes, now breaking up,” Colonel Jaffrey said. “Birmingham, Cheshire, near Manchester and Bath.”

“They’re looking to tear the entire country in half,” Anderson said. “I’ll have to inform the Prime Minister.”

“There’s going to be panic,” Mathews said. “I’ll call the Prime Minister.”

“Touchdown in thirty minutes,” Colonel Jaffrey said. “Warnings transmitted.”

***
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart’s face was flushed and pale. “I can confirm that the Posleen are landing in force,” he said. Charlene watched as the display automatically updated itself, warning of the Posleen coming down near the heart of the country. “The Government urges everyone outside the target area to remain where they are, and for everyone inside the target zone not to panic.

“The Prime Minister has appealed for calm, warning that panic only helps the enemy,” he continued. “For the moment, the civil defence force is moving into action, and we hope to defeat the Posleen very quickly.”

Manchester, England
27th March 2007

Colonel Thanes said a single word under his breath as the report came in, then jumped up to organised the defences. His battalion, along with most of the rest of the King’s Regiment, had been organised to face a possible landing in Manchester – and it looked as if that was what they were going to get.

“GalTech scanner is tracking them now,” his sensor tech reported. “They’re around half an hour out.”

“Then cut those fucking alarms,” Thanes snapped. “Is everyone ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Williams said. “The men are taking up their positions now.”

Thanes nodded. The plan was deceptively simple; hold the Posleen away from Manchester for as long as they could. If the Posleen landed on top of them, however, that wouldn’t be very long at all. He paused to survey the defences; three lines of fortified trenches, armed to the teeth.

“The 2nd Armoured is reporting that it’s ready to move in for anti-lander duties,” Captain Pitt said. “General Amherst is taking command of the defences of Manchester now.”

Thanes nodded. General Amherst had that rarity; experience at fighting the Posleen on one of the Galactic worlds. “What’s the timing?”

“Twenty minutes,” Sergeant Williams said. “They’re going to be quite close to us.”

“Today is a good day to die,” Thanes said. It seemed appropriate, somehow. “Do you have any idea how close?”

Sergeant Williams shook his head. “Close,” he said. “They’re bunched up, sir; they might be right on top of us, or they might be a few miles away.”

“Too close for escape,” Thanes said. He had already dismissed the possibility; he had family in Manchester, people who had been unwilling to leave when offered a place in the Sub-Urbs. “Warn the men, Sergeant; this is a fight to the death.”

***
The howl of the sirens was accompanied by the one thing that wasn’t ever included in the drills, the disclaimer that this was not a drill. “This is not a drill,” the loudspeaker roared, in between howls. “The Posleen are landing within thirty minutes, repeat; the Posleen are incoming to land nearby.”

“Fuck,” Brad said. Fortunately, they’d had enough warning when the ships entered the solar system and engaged Fleet. “Honey, you ok?”

Sameena looked up at him. “Scared to death,” she said. “They’re coming here, aren’t they?”

A series of thunderclaps split the sky. “Does that answer your question?” Brad asked. “Come on.”

He glanced once around the room, pausing only to pick up the photographs of the two of them together. He passed one of them to her, and then activated the self-destruct system for the house, before running for their lives.

“We have to get to the station,” Sameena said. All around them, it was absolute panic; people were running around screaming their heads off. “We have to get our instructions.”

Brad smiled. She had always been more practical than him. “Come on then,” he said. They ran through the streets, ignoring the flashes and flickers in the sky, and ran into the centre. The presence of the heavily-armed soldiers and the Handling Machines, already erecting barricades, underlined the stark truth; this was no drill.

“This is it,” Sameena said. “Brad, I love you.”

He kissed her once, hard, then again. “I love you too,” he whispered. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I hope that we will,” she said seriously. “I’ll wait for you, love.”

Brad kissed her one last time, and then left, unable to bear to see her cry. He ran into the CDC centre and stared at the display; a series of red circles, closing in on Manchester. A counter counted down the time to landing; 00.15…

“Attention,” Sergeant Kendrick bellowed. “This is not a drill.”

For once, there were no rebellious mutterings. “The enemy is here, and it looks as if he is landing near us,” Sergeant Kendrick said sharply. “At their normal rate of expansion, we can expect to see them in a few hours at most; two hours at least. We can expect the defence lines to slow them up, but not for long.”

Brad shuddered. He knew how much effort had gone into the defences around Manchester, enough effort to build a whole new city. The thought of something smashing its way through them was terrifying.

“The enemy seems to be landing at Wilmslow,” Sergeant Kendrick pronounced. “Our priority is to get the people out, then support the army ourselves. Collect your weapons from the store, and then move out to your stations. Now!”

***
Her father hadn’t wanted to move. Anisa had pleaded with him and begged him, but her father was growing older and older, wasting away in front of her eyes. He hadn’t been a bad father – and she knew that some of her fellow Asian girls had had terrible fathers who had sold them on the marriage market – but he was set in his ways. His acceptance of Sarfraz’s un-Asian courtship had been as far as he was willing to bend.

Her mobile phone rang. “Anisa, its me,” Sarfraz said. “Don’t talk; listen. I don’t know how long the network will hold up. The Posleen are coming, and we’re going to be meeting them soon. Love, they’re coming down in Wilmslow, and it won’t take them long to reach Rusholme. Get the hell out of there.”

“I love you,” she said quickly, thinking of their wedding night. It and a handful of other days had been the only time they’d been able to spend together as a married couple. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Sarfraz said. “Get to the…”

The connection broke. The phone displayed SERVICE OFFLINE when she tried to call him back. “Dad, we have to get out of here,” she said. “Dad…”

“We will be safe here,” her father said. She could remember when his beard had been glossy black and she’d pulled it as a baby. “We have always been safe here.”

There was a knock on the door. Anisa ran and opened it. “Brad?” She asked. She remembered her sister-in-law’s lover from the wedding. “What are you doing here?”

“My duty,” Brad said. He waved a hand at the Handling Machines, steadily converting Wilmslow Road into a defence line, tearing up the road and building fortifications for the earnest-looking men in green uniforms. “Anisa, you have to get out of here.”

She looked up at him, miserably. “I know, but dad won’t go,” she said. “I have to take him with me.”

Brad stared at her. “Anisa, if you stay here, you’ll be eaten alive,” he said. “This place is going to be a defence line. Your shop will be demolished at this rate.”

Anisa watched as one of the most famous restaurants in Rusholme was pulled down by the Handling Machine, its rubble being converted into a defensive strongpoint. Several more followed it – she recognised part of the local mosque in its pile of rubble – and she made up her mind.

“Give me a hand here,” she said, and went back into the shop. “Dad, I have to take you out of here.”

“No, I won’t leave,” her father said. “What’s that young man doing with you, eh? Your mother will not be happy…”

“He’s lost it,” Anisa said. The mention of her mother had hurt. “Please, help me.”

Brad scowled. “I could sedate him and add him to the coach,” he said. “Would that help?”

The entire building shook violently. “Yes, I think it would,” Anisa said, feeling panic for the first time. Brad jabbed her father with a needle-like tool, watching as her father crumpled. “Can you help carry him?”

“I’ll have to,” Brad said. “Listen, have you heard from your husband?”

“Just ordering me to get out,” Anisa said. “Is he going into action?”

Brad looked up at her. “I believe that he will,” he said. He passed her a sheet of paper as he picked up her father, slinging him over his shoulder. “That’s mine and Sameena’s email address; once you reach the refugee centre, let us know, ok?”

Anisa nodded as the building shook again. “Let’s get moving,” she said. “Why do you even care?”

“You’re going to be my…well, sister-in-law,” Brad pointed out. “Sameena insisted that I ensure that you were safe.”

“Kiss her for me,” Anisa said, as they reached the road. Behind them, a Handling Machine cut into the building, turning it into a pile of rubble. Anisa nearly began to cry at the desecration of Rusholme, building lines of defences against an alien who cared nothing for Rusholme’s people. “Good luck.”

Brad carried her father over to a waiting coach. “This thing should take you to a refugee centre,” he said. “Good luck.”

“Thanks for everything,” Anisa said, leaning over to give him a kiss on the cheek. He blushed. A series of thunderclaps echoed across the sky; black shapes could be seen in the south, descending towards the Earth. “Is that them?”

“It looks that way,” Brad said dryly. “Now get out of here, before a Posleen decides to eat you.”

***
“The Posleen are supposed to be only five miles off,” Jacob Arnold, reporter for the BCC, gabbled into his microphone, silently blessing the BBC’s inventers for the throat mike. It had its downsides – it heard even the muttered comments that don’t quite form in your mouths – but it was nearly perfect for reporting in a very noisy environment. “The situation here is tense.”

He swung his shoulder camera over the barricades that the army was setting up, near the Ring Road surrounding Manchester, the M60. Lorries brought reinforcements, thousands of them, while the Royal Artillery set up row after row of guns. The thousands of fleeing civilians were directed away from Manchester, pointed away from the city that everyone knew would most likely fall. In the distance, the Posleen ships could be seen; the noise of their engines could be heard even at their distance.

“And here is Major Hosea Agreda, who will tell us the situation,” Arnold said. He waved a hand at a harassed looking Major, who smiled weakly at him. “Major, what is the situation?”

“The Posleen are landing,” Agreda snapped. “Can’t you see that?”

“Then why haven’t you moved forward to engage?” Arnold demanded. “The Posleen will eat thousands of people…”

“Including the troops based out there,” Agreda snapped. “We have a war on our hands and you insist on asking stupid questions?”

“The people have a right to know,” Arnold said. An explosion billowed up from the south, one that was oily and somehow…wrong. “They have a right to know why they’re not being defended…”

“MP,” Agreda snapped. Two burly military policemen came up behind him. Before Arnold could protest, they snapped handcuffs on him and handcuffed him to a van. “We don’t have time to answer your questions,” Agreda snapped. “Just stay there and a promise you an exclusive interview.”

“Police brutality,” Arnold protested, even as the camera moved to follow Agreda’s retreating back. “This is unfair and…”

Another series of explosions blasted off from the distance. He shuddered, wondering what would happen if the Posleen punched their way through the defence line…with him still handcuffed to the van.

“Let me go,” he shouted. The MPs ignored him. “Let me go, you fucking idiots!”

***
The series of explosions close by wasn’t a surprise to Colonel Thanes, for the simple reason that he’d been expecting it. The experts had insisted on their positions being sheltered, but they’d scattered thousands of pounds worth of electronic equipment, doing nothing, but pumping out electronic emissions, nearby. The Posleen, descending from orbit, lashed out at the decoys, blasting them with their weapons.

“Colonel, that’s the last of the decoys,” Sergeant Williams said. He glared down at his PDA; he had been one of the officers – most of the army – who had to work without an AID. “Colonel…”

“What the hell is that?” Thanes asked, holding up a hand. There was a sound in the air, even though their ear protectors. “Sergeant…”

He stepped out of the shelter and looked upward. Intellectually, he’d had an impression of the Posleen landing in silent UFOs, massive flying saucers landing their strange soldiers on the ground. Instead…the sky was on fire. He could see the entire globe, a gigantic disc pushing its way down into the atmosphere. Heat radiation from it, revealing a glowing red shape as it floated down. He felt hot and wondered why, wondered if the…craft was radioactive.

“Fuck me,” Sergeant Williams breathed.

Thanes stared up at the sight, wondering if he’d been right not to order a retreat. What could stand against something like that? In the time it took him to think of retreat, the disc had grown larger and larger, and then the fire vanished, leaving the Posleen landing force clear to the eye. He could make out the individual craft, the twelve-sided polygons of the command craft surrounded by their rings of protective landers. Moments later the sonic boom hit.

Thane hit the ground without even knowing that he’d fallen, the sheer pressure of the sound forcing him down. The entire force was on their knees beside him, even through the ear protectors. Not all of the soldiers had worn theirs; they would go deaf permanently. For a long moment, the trained and prepared force – if anything could prepare them for this – wavered on the edge of breaking.

A Posleen landing craft broke the spell, a massive dark shadow that floated above them, heading only slightly south of their position. At this distance, Thanes couldn’t tell what type it was, but as the Posleen repeated the destruction of the dummy strongpoints, he cowered with the rest of the men in the command post.

“Sir,” Sergeant Williams said. “They’re landing!”

Thanes shook off the stunned feeling with an effort and peered over the top. The massive black shape of the lander had settled to the ground, opening its doors…and releasing a horde of yellow centaurs onto the ground, armed with strange alien weapons. Shouting strange words, perhaps not even words in whatever tongue the Posleen used, they charged away from the lander.

“Fire,” Thane snapped, as the Posleen charged towards their position. He cursed as he watched the Posleen react; they had been expecting resistance, firing back with their strange guns. They were firing from the hip, something he’d been taught never to do, but their aiming was very good. Behind them, the lander rose into the air again, preparing to support them on the ground.

“Die, you mother-fuckers,” Sergeant Williams shouted, as the Posleen charged forwards, impaling themselves on the British guns. They kept coming and kept coming, finally overrunning the position. Even as the long-range guns began pounding them, they smashed through the guns and came for the humans. Thane fired madly at the Posleen, blowing away great hunks of yellow flesh, but the monsters came on and on.

“Die,” he breathed, as a Posleen slashed at him with the butt of its weapon. His hand clutched the grenade, worrying away at the pin. As the world went dark around him, he wondered if there would be enough time for him to pull out the pin.

There was.

Chapter Twenty: The Battle For Manchester

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
27th March 2007

The Prime Minister disliked the command bunker immensely; it was cold and sterile. As soon as it had been confirmed that London was in no immediate danger, he returned to his office and watched as the display updated itself, with entire sections going dark as the Posleen advanced.

“How bad is it?” He asked, without looking around. General Mathews was the only other person in the room. “How much worse is it likely to get.”

Mathews tapped the map. “We hit them hard with artillery, until they killed most of the spotters,” he said. He allowed his hand to drift over the map. “We might well have defeated one of them outright, the one near Bath,” he said. The Prime Minister looked up. “We battered it pretty badly and they’re nowhere near as frisky as the others,” Mathews said. “We’re moving in some units to see if we can destroy them now.

“Unfortunately, the other three globes have done better,” he said. “The Posleen are advancing on Manchester now, blasting their way through the opposition and killing the spotters for the long-ranged guns. They’ve also started to shoot the drones out of the air; we underestimated their ability to track burst transmissions. So far, over ten thousand people are confirmed dead, and thousand wounded.”

“Hellfire,” the Prime Minister said. Britain’s biggest disaster ever, and he was the one presiding over it. “Please, tell me something helpful or useful.”

“There’s a scattering of Landers heading for Ireland,” General Mathews said. “We passed the warning on to the Irish and General Whitehouse, but there’s nothing else that we can do for them. The Churchill attempted to engage the landers, but they blew her out of the water.”

“Shit,” the Prime Minister said. “What’s the situation on the ground?”

“The Posleen appear to be consolidating their advantages,” General Mathews said. He ran a hand over the map, considering. “They’re going to take Manchester, at least they’re certainly trying to take Manchester, and by the end of the day they’ll have Birmingham, Strafford and possibly Oxford.”

The Prime Minister thought of all the people in the North West and the Heart of England and shuddered. “They’re tearing us apart,” he whispered.

“Anderson believes that’s what they’re trying to do,” Mathews agreed. “They’ve landed in the most vital areas of our population; they’re in a position to cut the country in half if we let them keep Manchester, but we can’t stop them. Hurt them, yes; stop them, no.”

The Prime Minister scowled. “We can’t cut them up now?”

Mathews shook his head. “We don’t know enough about the situation on the ground,” he said grimly. “We know that they’re advancing on Manchester, but we don’t know enough about Birmingham because the bastards came down practically on top of the town and started slaughtering everyone. The entire situation is fucked up beyond repair.”

“We can’t send the ACS units in, then?” The Prime Minister asked. “The House is going to want answers.”

General Mathews snorted dryly. “I would have thought that they would have other things to worry about than politics,” he said. “No, we don’t have enough intelligence to start sending in unsupported units; we’re having to fire blindly into Bath and the other Posleen concentrations. It’s a nightmare.”

“It always was,” the Prime Minister said dully. “Barely three hours after the Posleen land and we’re already on the verge of losing.”

“We are not on the verge of losing,” General Mathews said. He traced out the positions on the map. “We’re moving into defensive positions, moving to seal off the Posleen landing sites even now,” he said. “Once we have the lines in place, we can start preparing to remove them from our soil.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “And our civilian refugees?”

“They’re flowing out of the area and anywhere too close to the Posleen,” General Mathews said. “We’re lucky we made as many plans as we did; we ended up with more refugees than we expected. There’re still flowing out of Manchester, but it won’t be long before the Posleen enter the city.”

“The French are taking a beating,” the Prime Minister said. “We may end up with some Frenchmen coming here.”

“If they’ll fight for us, then bring them on,” General Mathews said. “I don’t want to commit the ACS units until we’re certain what we’re dealing with, Prime Minister, but we may end up without a choice.” He scowled. “Anderson thinks that they’re moving to link up their holdings and keep us out,” he said. “It won’t be long, then, before they seek to expand further.”

***
“The Darhel definitely passed on some information to the Posleen,” Sir Robert said, half an hour later. “They didn’t pick too many of the vital targets, but they did get some of the decoy ones. In fact, I suspect that the Manchester Globe intended to land on top of our headquarters, rather than on top of the battalion they did land on.” He scowled. “There were no survivors, of course.”

“Of course,” the Prime Minister snapped. “So, what do we do now? Look at all the damage they caused.”

“Too much,” Sir Robert agreed. The Posleen didn’t seem to have had a coordinated fire plan for hitting the British defences; they’d hammered the PDCs and some artillery units that had attempted to engage the falling landers, but they had refrained from the ‘shock and awe’ bombardment that British or American generals would have used as a matter of course. Kinetic bombs had fallen across Britain, but few seemed to have been targeted to destroy the defences; they’d hit rail yards, junctions, motorways, some factories and – for a reason no one could understand – Woburn Abbey.

They don’t want to kill us when they can eat us and in fact they’re depending on us to feed them with our bodies, the Prime Minister realised, with a flash of sudden insight. Do they even care about the information the Darhel are feeding them? Are they bright enough to understand its value?

“Do you think that it’s the time for dealing with the Darhel we have resident in London?” Sir Robert asked, breaking into his thoughts. “He is rather a…nuisance.”

“I would have thought that you would have an opinion on that,” the Prime Minister snapped. “Intelligence work is your bailiwick.”

The ground shuddered violently. “A strike on HMS Belfast, from orbit,” an aide called.

“It’s not safe here,” Sir Robert snapped. “Prime Minister, I have one opinion, and that is that you are risking yourself up here. Some Posleen are still in orbit, preparing to descend to God knows where.”

“Very well,” the Prime Minister said, and headed for the emergency shaft to the bunker. “What is your opinion?”

“Keep him for now,” Sir Robert said, falling into the Prime Minister’s stride. “We might have an opportunity to feed the bastard enough information to lure the Posleen into a serious mistake. Hammond can help us to ensure that nothing…unfortunate happens to the information.”

The Prime Minister stepped into the elevator. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “I hope that you’re right.”

Manchester, England
27th March 2007

Jacob Arnold had stopped struggling. His hands, bound behind his back and secured to his own van, prevented him from escaping. His shouts of outrage, and then insults, had been ignored; Major Hosea Agreda had other matters to worry about.

“The Posleen have blasted through the position to the south,” one of the army men said. Arnold glared at him; the Sergeant seemed to be enjoying his predicament. He had known that many army officers regarded the reporters as spies for the enemy, but how could he communicate with the Posleen? Not even the Himmit had succeeded.

“Stand by to repel attack,” Agreda ordered, calmly as always. Arnold would have admired him under other circumstances; his quick orders had prevented the force from panicking, even when three of the tanks had arrived by surprise, moving in to take up firing positions. The soldiers, for a long chilling moment, had thought that they were Posleen tanks.

The roar of the artillery, placed between buildings further up towards Manchester, grew louder as time passed, hurling shells towards the last known position of the Posleen. From the grim conversation of the soldiers, Arnold realised that the Posleen had killed the men who were supposed to be directing the artillery…and the British were firing blind.

“Don’t forget to film this, our last stand,” a soldier said, running up with a heavy machine gun. The Handling Machine, the creepy device that had been building trenches for the defenders, was trundling off into the distance, leaving the defenders to make their stand.

Cowards, Arnold thought, with all the confidence of a man who would be running for the horizon himself, if he wasn’t secured. His camera, mounted on his shoulder, continued to film, although he was no longer sure if anyone was receiving his signal. The noise of the war grew louder and louder, explosions blasted up from the distance, growing closer and closer even as he watched.

“Contact,” Agreda shouted. Arnold couldn’t see them, but the soldiers could; they took up their positions and checked their weapons. Blasts of green and red light appeared, flickering over their position and striking directly at vehicles. An explosion behind him destroyed a car that had been abandoned; Arnold remembered that he was attached to a van and shuddered.

He closed his eyes, wishing that it was over, and then he saw them. The Posleen were moving on, strange horrible aliens, firing madly at the humans as they raced closer. Some of the Posleen were ducking and weaving, others just put their heads down and charged, firing all the time.

“Mines…now,” Agreda snapped, and a massive series of explosions billowed out from under the Posleen. Chunks of gore flew everywhere as the Posleen died in droves…and more of them appeared, running over the bodies of their comrades as they closed in on the human defenders. Soldiers began to fall as Posleen HVMs slammed into their positions.

“Fire,” Agreda snapped, abandoning his attempt to let them get close enough to slaughter. The guns all opened up at once; the artillery gunners lowered their massive cannons to fire directly into the Posleen mass. The Posleen fired back, blasting their way through the defenders by sheer weight of numbers, and then they were through. The human soldiers fought and died in seconds as the Posleen overran their positions.

“No,” Arnold breathed, as a Posleen blasted kill Agreda in a split-second. Under other circumstances, he might have been delighted, but now that meant that he was alone. He never saw the Posleen sighting its weapon on his van…or felt the blast of heat that blew his body into a million fragments.

***
“The SAS recon teams are reporting that the Posleen are pausing to eat the remains of Major Agreda’s force,” Lieutenant Olga Clough reported. Even five years in the army couldn’t keep a green tinge from her face. “They just punched through the defences like they weren’t even there.”

“Not enough defence in depth,” General Amherst muttered. Fighting with Mike O’Neal had been easier. “They’ll have more trouble when they hit Rusholme.”

“I hope so, sir,” Lieutenant Clough said. “Sir, the SAS wants permission to engage the God Kings.”

“Denied,” General Amherst snapped. “They’re needed to do the spotting for the artillery.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Clough said, and returned to the field telephone. Amherst scowled as he looked up at the map; the Posleen were far quicker to react than he remembered from Diess.

They must have learnt from us, he thought grimly. The Posleen then had charged the Federation buildings and human defence forces with equal abandon – and paid for it. This time, they were reacting quicker against the threat of human artillery; blasting buildings that might hide spotters and reacting impossibly quickly to laser pinpoints finding their positions.

He scowled again. “What’s the report from the CDC?”

“They’re still moving people out of Manchester,” Lieutenant Clough said. She peered down at the latest email. “They’re having bottleneck problems with train drivers.”

“They don’t want to return to Manchester,” Amherst muttered. He didn’t blame them – much – but he knew his duty. “Have them reminded that under martial law they can be shot for desertion.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Clough said. “Incidentally, the BBC would like to complain about the treatment of Mr Arnold.”

“We have more important matters now,” Amherst snapped. The video link from the SAS changed sharply as the Posleen began to move again. “The Posleen are moving.”

“Heading directly into Manchester,” Lieutenant Clough said. She cursed, just as the same thought occurred to Amherst. “Sir, they’re surrounding the city as well.”

Amherst cursed. “All of a sudden, we’re going to need the ACS,” he said. He scowled down at the map. If the Posleen surrounded Manchester, the refugees – and the defence forces – would be trapped inside the city.

“I’ll call the PJHQ for you at once,” Lieutenant Clough said. “They’re holding the ACS on a tight leash.”

***
No one saw who started it; no one ever knew who started the cry. “The Posleen are coming,” someone shouted, and the civilians, the countless people who were unable to believe how bad the situation was, started to run. Panic spread rapidly as they fled, even as the first reports of the Posleen began to arrive. As explosions began from the direction of Fallowfield, the crowds panicked and ran.

“Move to the station, slowly,” Brad shouted through a megaphone, and knew that it was futile. If the people had had cars, the situation would have been even worse than it was, but instead the great mass of humanity fled down towards the centre of town.

“Attention, the Posleen are within ten minutes of this location,” the speakers announced, and the panic only grew worse. The noise of the invasion was thunderous – the shape of a Posleen lander could be seen in the distance, advancing towards them – and the crowd fled.

“I think we’re going to have to join the defence,” Sergeant Kendrick snapped. “We have to hold them long enough for them to reach the buses and the guards there to sort everything out.”

Brad thought of the handful of buses remaining – a number of drivers had refused to drive back into Manchester – and of the reports that the Posleen were moving to surround the city, and knew that they couldn’t hold long enough. Sergeant Kendrick handed out the addition weapons – missile launchers and some weapons of dubious origin – and ordered some of them to assist the artillery officers.

Oh, Sameena, he thought, and wondered where his lover was. Sameena had been assigned to work in the medical centre at the universities, where the evacuation buses were, and he shuddered at the thought of her being stuck there. Briefly, he wondered what had happened to Anisa; the buses were packed up along the roads, hundreds of buses trying to escape the city.

“Take your positions,” Sergeant Kendrick bellowed. “Colonel Abernathy has command!”

Colonel Abernathy, a dour man wearing a uniform Brad didn’t recognise, looked at them and shook his head. He muttered a command to Sergeant Kendrick, who began organising them into defensive positions behind some of the barricades. Colonel Abernathy seemed more interested in the large artillery cannon behind the barricades, a design that looked as if it had come out of a science-fiction novel. It moved on its own, Brad noticed, only slightly chilled by the sight.

“The next people – the next monsters – who come down that road, I want you to kill,” Colonel Abernathy bellowed at his men, and Sergeant Kendrick echoed him for the CDC men. The line, he knew, was built all around Rusholme, a carefully-prepared line that would either stop the Posleen, or bleed them so hard that even God Kings would wince at the cost of taking the city.

“Sir, yes, sir,” the soldiers shouted, and the CDC people echoed them.

“Special weapon, take your target,” Colonel Abernathy ordered, and the strange cannon moved to sight on the B-Dec moving in on their position, ignoring the sparks as isolated soldiers and militia fired on it with their weapons. To the massive ship, even a heavy machine gun was a popgun.

It’s a bloody good thing they don’t coordinate those with the infantry Posleen, Brad thought grimly, as the Posleen grew closer and closer. The handful of fleeing humans dwindled to a stop, screams from the distance, heard even over the fighting, showed what had happened to them.

“Fire,” Colonel Abernathy snapped, as the first Posleen arrived in the distance, advancing down the road. The strange weapon fired once, firing directly at the B-Dec, and it exploded in mid-air, falling down on top of the advancing Posleen. The explosion billowed out, shattering parts of Rusholme as the shockwave passed over it, but they were alive.

“Here they come,” Sergeant Kendrick said. The Posleen didn’t seem to care that untold thousands of them had just been baked alive by the destroyed B-Dec. They came on, spreading out to present less of a target, and Brad fired with the other humans. They killed and killed, but still the Posleen came on, bringing up other landers.

“Kill those fucking lander craft,” Colonel Abernathy shouted, and the strange gun went into action again, firing at the Posleen who were now aware of its existence. Brad lost track of time as the killing went on and on, the Posleen reached the first line of defences, only to be swept away by the soldiers firing madly into their bodies at point-blank range.

“Stand by to retreat,” Sergeant Kendrick said, in a voice as cold as iron. Brad came back to himself with a jerk, seeing for the first time how the Posleen were slicing them to bits, using their missiles and heavy weapons to hammer the humans before they advanced. The landers had killed the heavy weapon, but there was another further into Manchester, preventing them from coming to close…

A wave of heat passed over them as a plasma blast came too close for comfort. “Move,” Sergeant Kendrick snapped. “Back to the next line!”

Brad crouched low and ran, followed by the rest of the CDC men, even as the newcomer soldiers fired to cover their retreat. Brad jumped for the line, made it to the next position and turned…to see the Posleen falling back. He stared, unable to believe his eyes, and saw that it was true. The Posleen were retreating!

The cheer was spontaneous. “We did it,” a soldier shouted. “We finally hit them hard enough to make them take notice!”

Sergeant Kendrick looked up at Colonel Abernathy. Somewhere during the battle – Brad was astonished to discover that it had taken over three hours – the colonel had been wounded; his left arm hung uselessly from its socket.

“Sir,” he said, “should we pursue?”

Colonel Abernathy wasn’t listening to Kendrick. Rather, he was listening to the radio, and as Brad watched, his face went grey. “No, Sergeant,” he said, and his voice held despair. “They’ve surrounded the city, and they’ve trapped the refugees in the city. They can’t take the city, so they’ve decided to starve us out.”

Brad thought of Sameena, trapped within the city, and of the limited food supplies held within the city, and shivered…

Chapter Twenty-One: Scattered Showers

Dublin, Ireland
27th March 2007

The Taoiseach of Ireland sat by the window, staring up at the skies. Flashes of light burst across the sky as the Posleen engaged the defences of Earth, hammering them down so that the Posleen could land on the planet. Time passed, and then the Irish Defence Minister, Angela Lawless, stepped into the room.

“Taoiseach?” She asked. The Taoiseach turned to study her; the red-haired girl who’d become one of the dominant forces within Irish politics. She was amazing, even to him, even though some people talked about her as a second Margaret Thatcher. Only thirty years old, she might be able to become Taoiseach herself, or serve as the kingmaker to one of her allies.

The Taoiseach smiled bitterly. That rather assumed that the Posleen left Ireland alone. If they won, Ireland would be a fading memory and Posleen digestive by-products. If they attacked and lost, Ireland would become a British dependency, ending their eighty years of independence at a stroke.

“The Posleen?” He asked. Only one thing could have made Angela disturb him. She’d been the loudest in calling for a major defence program, before the Posleen destroyed Washington, and the loudest in resisting help from the United Kingdom. Her Anglophobia was the greatest in the Dail – the Irish Parliament – and perhaps the most dangerous.

Angela nodded. “Yes, Taoiseach,” she said. “Only a small force of lander craft, heading from Britain.”

“They landed in Britain,” the Taoiseach said. It wasn’t a surprise to him. Ireland’s big and very annoying brother had always been an important country. “What’s happening there?”

“Four globes, which means something like sixteen million Posleen,” Angela said. Good nationalist though she was, even she couldn’t hide a shudder. “The problem is that some of the landers are coming our way, heading towards Cork.”

The Taoiseach blinked. “Why Cork?”

“It’s impossible to be certain,” Angela said, and he sensed her annoyance. “One possibility is that the Posleen force that landed in England, near Cardiff, is taking a beating and the God King has decided, in the vernacular, to pick on someone smaller.”

“I must remember to thank the Prime Minister,” the Taoiseach said dryly. “How many landers?”

“The British think around five to six,” Angela said. She checked her PDA. “We don’t have active radar on the mainland” – she meant Ireland itself – “but the British lost a frigate to them, attempting to get a look at them.”

“Brave men,” the Taoiseach said. Angela scowled. “How long do we have?”

“Three hours,” Angela said. “I request permission to put Case Zulu into action.”

The Taoiseach didn’t hesitate. “You’re confident that you and General Whitehouse can take out the entire Posleen force of” – he paused to do the maths – “around forty-eight thousand Posleen?”

Angela’s face twisted at the mention of the British general, but she nodded. “We have no choice,” she said. Despite considerable effort, the Irish were nowhere near ready for a long war. “We have to destroy the landers before they can expand into Cork.”

The Taoiseach scowled. The thought of fighting a battle through the streets of Cork didn’t please him, but what choice was there? There wasn’t one, as far as he could see. They’d built as many defences as they could, but they were too limited, too weak, to hold for long.

“Put Case Zulu into action,” he said. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” Angela said. “I’ll send the orders at once.”

Cork, Ireland
27th March 2007

The skies were cloudy, but flickering blasts of light could be seen, flicking through the clouds and spinning down towards Earth. Flashes of light glittered through the clouds, hinting at the storm that was about to break on Earth. From his position near Monkstown, Colonel Glen Finney shivered, watching the storm that was building…

“I heard that the BBC said that they’d landed in Britain,” Captain O’Neil said. “Colonel, this could mean freedom.”

Finney glared at him. “Idiot,” he said. “Do you think that the differences between England and Ireland matter any longer?”

“They did shove the problems up north onto us,” Captain O’Neil pointed out. “They just…left us with the problem of the IRA and the other bastards.”

Finney sighed. His regiment, the 3rd Irish Artillery, had been armed with British weapons, the small heavy-pounding guns that had equipped British soldiers for the coming war. The entire force was commanded by a British general, one who knew what to do to face the coming threat. On the other hand, the IRA seemed unable to give up its little war – and he was certain that some British officers were laughing their heads off as they turned on the Irish Republic.

“We should never have accepted the terrorists into our ranks,” he said. Like many common men, he found it hard to care about principles like that. Whatever grievances the IRA might have had, it had lost any right to complain when it began killing innocent civilians.

O’Neil shrugged, just as the alarms began to ring. “Sir, that’s the air raid siren,” he snapped. “Are we under attack?”

Finney snorted. “It looks that way,” he said. O’Neil had been one of those who had believed that the Posleen were an illusion created by Ireland’s enemies, one designed to make them give up their way of life. “Get the men ready to repel attack.”

O’Neil saluted and ran towards the gun positions. Two hundred of the British weapons, armed with thousands of shells, and Finney had just realised that they might not be enough. He lifted his binoculars and peered over the sea; black shapes could just be made out, coming towards Ireland.

He lifted his radio. “This is Colonel Finney,” he snapped. “I have visual sighting of Posleen landers…”

***
“At least seven landers,” the voice on the radio said. General Whitehouse nodded; he’d expected that the Posleen would remain concentrated. He’d hoped that they would; he needed them to stay together to have any hope of defeating them quickly. The reports from Manchester and Liverpool, where the Royal Navy was already preparing to evacuate civilians, were not encouraging.

We should have built more underwater Sub-Urbs, he thought grimly. The British had begun construction of underwater bunkers up north, near Skye, but it was far more difficult than building them underground.

He tapped his radio, wishing that the Irish had invested in a proper command base, rather than the mobile command unit he’d had brought over from Britain. It wouldn’t be long until the Posleen started hammering terrestrial radio transmitters – and he had no Galactic transmitters.

Bastards should have bought ACS units, he thought, and scowled. The Irish Parliament had flatly refused to send forces off-world, which meant that they didn’t have much in the way of GalTech. The Irish would be fighting with what they had on hand – that, and the handful of special weapons that the British had sent them. He thought of the special weapon, prepared with considerable care, and shuddered.

“Hold fire until they land,” he ordered. “I repeat, hold fire until they land.”

***
Finney nodded as he received the order, taking a moment to confirm it. The Posleen landers had crossed the coast, firing randomly at coastal targets, while continuing towards Cork. They would overfly his position soon, unless…

“They’re slowing,” O’Neil muttered. Finney checked for himself, the Posleen were slowing, falling into a spinning pattern that was oddly hypnotic. “Sir…”

“I think they’re going to land,” Finney said grimly. “We open fire as soon as they land, understand?”

“They’re coming down on top of us,” the radio screamed. An explosion marked the death of a forward position, just south of the town. Finney swore as the Posleen landers came in to land – except one.

“Sir, one of the landers isn’t landing,” he said, into his radio. “Should we engage?”

“Yes,” the British general snapped. “As soon as you see Posleen, open fire. I’m moving one of the Chieftains forward now.”

O’Neil swore a very un-catholic curse as the Posleen opened fire, scorching the ground below them and frying thousands of Irishmen and women. The landers completed their descent, coming in to land…and then the Posleen emerged.

“Fire,” Finney snapped, and all of the guns went off at once. The Posleen didn’t flinch as the high-explosive anti-personnel shells detonated on top of their ranks, fired from seven different positions around Cork. They’d landed in one spot and they paid for the mistake, but they just kept coming and coming…

“Sir, the warheads are not damaging the landers,” O’Neil said grimly, as the Posleen expanded their perimeter, hacking their way through the few remaining defenders with ease. “They’re just bouncing off.”

Finney stared through his binoculars. O’Neil was right; the shells designed for anti-Posleen duties weren’t having any effect on the grounded landers, which were still spilling out Posleen. The enemy aliens were advancing towards their position, their own weapons hacking away at the defences. A missile landed too close to an ammunition store and the resulting explosion destroyed half of the brigade.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I think we’d better start thinking about a coordinated withdrawal.”

“And there’s a lander coming out our way,” O’Neil snapped. “Suddenly I have this urge to flee in panic.”

“Me too,” Finney said. “Me too.”

***
“We’re now getting Posleen lift emissions,” the sensor tech reported. He’d been ‘stolen’ from Fleet, his shuttle to orbit having been grounded by the Posleen. “Sir, the landers are moving.”

“Quickly, one after the other, one, two, three, four of the armoured Martians appeared, far away over the little trees, across the flat meadows that stretched towards Chertsey, and striding hurriedly towards the river,” General Whitehouse muttered, quoting from a book that General Anderson had introduced him to. War of the Worlds had been required reading when the planning sessions were beginning for the Posleen War. “They’re coming towards us, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir,” the sensor tech said. “They’re Posleen, not Martians. Martins are green.”

General Whitehouse almost laughed. “Never mind,” he said. “Contact Allen Chance. Tell him…tell him to kill as many of them as he can.”

***
Captain Allen Chance scowled and swore as the small tank carefully manoeuvred itself into firing position. The five modified Chieftains, each one loaded with small antimatter warheads that would take out a Posleen lander – if they were lucky – were the only anti-lander units in Ireland, despite a brave production program. Three of them were positioned nearby, hastily moved in on the Irish rail network, committed to stopping the Posleen at all costs.

“Captain, we have the lander emissions close by,” Lieutenant Reilly said. He was a big black man, one of the most competent gunners in the force. “They’re coming over the ridge.”

“Driver, stand by to move us,” Chance snapped, as bursts of green light flashed overhead, heading for one of the Irish artillery positions. A massive series of explosions marked the deaths of the brave Irishmen who had stood their ground till the end. “Gunner, fire as soon as you see the black of their hulls.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Reilly said. Chance, nodded, sensing more than seeing the Posleen landers as the vibration of their passage crept towards them. A dark shape appeared over the ridge, a B-Dec gliding towards Cork.

“Fire,” Chance snapped. Lieutenant Reilly had already fired, a shell that slammed into the lander, smashing it backwards. “Move us!”

The driver, Lieutenant Dwynn, didn’t bother to wait for orders. The Chieftain skidded backwards, even as the B-Dec exploded, slamming down on the other side of the ridge. The shockwave picked up the tank and tossed it around, but by some miracle they survived.

“Tank Seagoon is gone,” Chance said, as he realised that his companion tank had been destroyed. “Tank Bluebottle is damaged.”

“We’re alive,” Lieutenant Dwynn said.

“Not for much longer,” Lieutenant Reilly said, as the dark shape of another Posleen lander loomed over the ridge.

“Get firing,” Chance snapped. Lieutenant Reilly was already swinging the main gun around, but it was too late. A green burst of light blasted the tank and detonated the antimatter in its shells, destroying the three men and some of the advancing Posleen, before they ever realised what had happened to them.

***
Finney ran, ran as fast as he could, trying to reach the next defensive position. The Posleen were on hot pursuit, but they were moving slowly; the antimatter blast seemed to have taught them caution. The roar of the guns was still deafening; dimly, he realised that the Posleen God Kings were ordering them to seek out the gun positions, rather than chasing the survivors.

A new position loomed up in front of him and he climbed into it gratefully. “Sir, Colonel Finney, reporting,” he said, to the commander of the defence. “We’re all that remains.”

The Colonel looked at the twenty-three men who were all that remained of the 3rd Irish Artillery. “You don’t seem to have done badly,” he said. “We’re bringing up more guns now; you might have to serve them.”

“They’re coming,” Finney protested. “Who ordered more guns brought up?”

“I did,” a British aristocratic voice said. Finney turned and saw General Whitehouse. “We have an opportunity to stop them here and now, and I intend to take it.”

“They have landers coming our way,” Finney said. He found that he was shaking with shellshock. “Sir, they’re too powerful.”

“And yet, Cork is only a few miles north of them,” General Whitehouse said, with a terrifying scowl. “For the moment, the Posleen are concentrated. In the two hours since the fighting began, we’ve been moving up troops and supplies, along with reserves and bigger guns. That antimatter blast stunned them, stunned them badly enough to slow them down a little.”

“They’re hunting down the other gunners,” Finney said dully. “My men are gone.”

“Ah, that explains it,” General Whitehouse said. Finney glared angrily at him. “I don’t mean to disparage your losses, but we have them in a concentrated spot. I’d use a nuke, if I had one I could fit on a shell.”

“Me too,” Finney admitted. The Irish Parliament had flatly refused the offer of tactical nuclear missiles, which would have only been of limited effectiveness against the Posleen. The British had also offered a handful of nuclear shells for the artillery, but they hadn’t had many and the Irish had refused the ones they had been offered.

“We’re moving up the last two tanks now,” General Whitehouse said. “We now know that they can take out the Posleen landers, so advancing against the landers won’t be a problem.”

“Unless you lose the tanks,” Finney said. “Sir, when do we attack?”

“In around twenty minutes,” General Whitehouse said. He glanced down at his watch. “Jackson” – he waved at his assistant – “find these men some of the spare heavy guns, ok?”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said. “Come on, sir; we’ll outfit you with more guns.”

“Here come the Posleen,” someone bellowed. General Whitehouse shouted orders as Finney turned to see the Posleen, charging across the field at them. The combat engineers had skilfully converted the terrain into a defensive position, but he knew how dangerous the Posleen were.

“Come on,” Jackson snapped. “We have to get you back into the battle.”

***
General Whitehouse scowled as the Posleen came forward, firing madly. Against any normal foe, the sheer horrendous death toll would stop them long before, but the Posleen were mad, charging the defences by sheer weight of numbers.

He stepped away from the Irishmen and picked up the field telephone. “It’s time for Stinker,” he said. “Fire when ready.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer on the other end said. General Whitehouse put the phone down and waited, even as the pounding of the guns grew louder and louder. The Posleen were still concentrated; Colonel Finney and his men had slowed them down from their usual dispersal. By his most optimistic estimate, there were still something like thirty thousand Posleen, packed into a five-mile wide area.

The sudden burst of light wasn’t a surprise to him. The Stinker, a special shell loaded with compressed antimatter, had been kept a careful secret from both the British and Irish Parliaments, who would have howled with rage at the thought of such weapons being used on their soil. The goggles that almost all of the men wore kept them from going blind, even as the blast destroyed much of the Posleen force.

They’ll think that that was a lander going up, he thought. The sole surviving Posleen lander seemed to have come to a stop, even though it was still pounding the defences. A shell from the sole surviving Chieftain destroyed it in midair, sending it slamming down into the ground.

“Stand by to advance,” he ordered, and felt part of his soul shrivel up and die. “Keep firing!”

***
Private Ruairi Heekin watched as the Posleen charge slowed and broke, the few surviving Posleen milling about before the machine guns tore them to shreds. The massive blast – nuclear, he was sure – had utterly broken them, sending a shockwave right over Ireland.

“Move, now,” his section leader shouted, and he jumped over the barricade, heading south. It was madness, part of his mind realised, but this was their opportunity to destroy the remaining Posleen before some God King managed to pull them back together again.

“Die,” he shouted, as a Posleen reared up in front of him. He fired once, the burst of bullets from his heavy machine gun slaughtering the monster. The Posleen howled and fell over backwards, even as the first Irish tank regiment advanced past them, finally allowed to engage the Posleen in their favoured way of war.

An explosion marked the death of the first tank as a group of Posleen opened fire with HVM launchers. His commander ducked sharply as the Posleen fired on the infantry, barking orders into his radio. Seconds later, a rain of shells landed on top of the Posleen, blasting them from Ireland. He ran forward, ducking and weaving, locating and killing individual Posleen.

“We’re winning,” someone shouted. The chant was taken up by the rest of the men, advancing into the space cleared by the blast. “We’re winning…”

Chapter Twenty-Two: Trapped in Manchester

Manchester, United Kingdom
26th March 2007

“Ah, ladies and gentlemen, there has been something of a development with the Posleen,” the driver said. “We may not be getting out of Manchester.”

Halfway down the massive coach, Anisa looked up. Her father, slumped by her side, didn’t move. They’d been driven through Manchester, but as they reached the north side of the city they’d started to slow down as more and more vehicles, from ambulances to cars driven with the last of the civilian supplies of petrol, joined the crush. It was cold; she shivered and pulled her headscarf closer around her face, trying to get warm.

“The Posleen are moving around the city, around the ring road,” the driver said. There was immediate consternation. The driver waited for the passengers to subside, before continuing. “We can’t proceed out of the city with any safety.”

“We can’t fucking stay in the city,” a fat and burly man protested, very loudly. Anisa shivered and shrank back on herself, hugging her arms to her chest. “We’ll all be killed.”

“And why aren’t you in the army?” An older woman demanded. “My Jonnie is out there now, fighting to defend us, and you’re here…”

“Silence,” the driver snapped, before the man could start waving his fists around. Anisa felt terrified; the passengers were starting to panic. “We are going to proceed to a shelter, where we will wait.”

“If the Posleen are besieging the city,” a young boy with thick spectacles asked, “what is the point of waiting?”

The driver glared at him. “We have been informed that the army is going to try to open up a corridor to the rest of the nation,” he said. “You will be driven out along with the rest of us.”

Before anyone else could argue, he took the coach onto a side road, making their way through back streets that would have been frankly illegal before the Posleen came. Eventually, they reached a building that was hidden in the press of side streets, a large undistinguished warehouse.

“All out,” the driver said. A uniform policeman helped them to climb out of the coach, leading them into the warehouse. It stank; Anisa felt her nose wrinkle, and there were thousands of smelly blankets on the floor.

“Where’s the fucking toilet?” The fat man demanded. “I need a shit!”

“And if you don’t shut up, I’ll have to arrest you,” the policeman snapped. A grim undertone ran through the crowd. “Male toilets, that way; female toilets, the other way.”

Anisa didn’t join the women pressing their way to the toilets. She pulled out her phone and checked it, but there was still no signal at all. The entire mobile phone network – all of the major providers – was down. Gently, she pulled her father over to a corner and prayed as best as she could, even as the sounds of fighting grew closer.

***
The television camera was mounted on a police checkpoint that had once been designed to pick up speeding cars. Instead of crazy drivers, it showed the Posleen advancing around the city, closing in on the refugee lines.

“Shit,” General Amherst commented. It was the only thing he said as the Posleen fell on the lines of refugees. The Civil Defence Corps had done well, but there were too many vehicles and too little time. The army units fought bravely, but the Posleen were too strong.

“They’ve sealed Manchester,” Corporal Loomis reported. “Sir, they’ve encircled the entire city.”

“I noticed,” Amherst snapped. He stared up at the gathering darkness as night prepared to fall. In nearly seven hours of bitter fighting, his force had been put through the grinder quite badly.

“The 34th and 45th infantry have withdrawn back inside the city,” Captain Henderson said. “They’ve repelled a couple of minor Posleen attacks.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that they had the patience to stave us out,” Amherst said grimly. “What the hell are they doing?”

“I have no idea,” Captain Henderson said. “Sir, I used one of the Galactic transmitters to signal PJHQ. Perhaps the PJHQ knows what they’re doing.”

“Why?” Corporal Loomis asked. “They never have before, have they?”

***
As soon as the army units came up and relived the defenders of Rusholme, Brad had attempted to contact Sameena. Fortunately, he knew where she was – the main hospital – and it was easy to use his CDC permissions to get a direct line.

“I fought,” he admitted. “Honey, are you all right?”

Sameena sounded ill. “I just healed a man without any anaesthetic,” she said. “Brad, we’re running out of supplies here, or anything we can use to slow down the wounded.”

“They’ve stopped attacking for the moment,” Brad said. “Honey, they seem to want to seal us in.”

“And you know this through your direct links to London?” Sameena asked dryly. “Brad, promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I promise,” Brad said. “You take care as well.”

“I really hope that that’s a business call,” Sergeant Kendrick said dryly. He winked at Brad. “Is that the current head of the medical centre?”

Brad blinked when Sameena told him that she was pretty much the head; everyone senior to her had gone to the front or been killed. Sergeant Kendrick took the phone and made arrangements for transferring some of the wounded out of the immediate line of Posleen advance.

“Thank you,” he said finally, and put the phone down. “Naughty boy,” he said. “Don’t use the lines for personal stuff again.”

“Yes, sir,” Brad said. “Sir, are they going to starve us out?”

“I would, in their place,” Sergeant Kendrick admitted. “I don’t know how the Posleen think, Brad, but it’s the logical thing to do.”

Brad shuddered. “So, what do we do about it?”

Sergeant Kendrick snorted. “I imagine that General Amherst is wondering the same thing himself,” he said. “If the Posleen attack again, we might run out of bullets, and you know what will happen then…”

“They’ll eat us,” Brad said, privately resolving to drink poison if the Posleen got that close. “Sir, what do you want me to do now?”

“I wish I could give you the day off,” Sergeant Kendrick said, smiling wryly. He waved at several other members of the CDC, who were hanging around. “Nights coming in,” he said. “I want you lot to go down to the sewer point and made the link with the army.”

Brad smiled. “We could get out of here,” he said. “We could slip everyone through the sewers.”

“Everyone?” Sergeant Kendrick asked dryly. “No, but we could get a few of the people out. Get cracking, will you?”

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
26th March 2007

A darkness had fallen over the land, the Prime Minister knew, both a natural one and an unnatural one. On the map, the region of land held by the Posleen glowed an evil red, a giant red eye glaring at him. From Bath to Manchester, the Posleen held sway, consolidating their hold on the land.

“Wales is holding out for the moment,” General Mathews said grimly. “The Sub-Urbs there are holding; we put a lot of weapons into there and so far they’ve thrown back the attacking Posleen. There are skirmishes all along the border. The problem, however, is Manchester.”

He changed the display. “This is the best picture we have,” he said. The Prime Minister wondered if it was the most optimistic, rather than the most detailed. “The Posleen have failed to take the city, but they’re settling in for a siege.”

“Which is a change in their usual procedure,” Anderson injected. “They must have a clever God King in charge, one of those who can learn from experience.”

“Even the normal Posleen can learn from experience,” the Prime Minister said. “How many people are trapped inside the city?”

“It’s impossible to say,” Mathews said. “The best estimate is upwards of several hundred thousand civilians, perhaps way more. We do know that nearly two hundred thousand soldiers are caught within the city, along with several thousand killed or seriously wounded when the Posleen closed the circle.”

The Prime Minister shuddered. “All right,” he said finally. “What do you want to do about it?”

“The population of Manchester is the largest population caught within the Posleen-occupied territory and the only one we can hope to extract,” General Mathews said. The Prime Minister nodded; Birmingham had made its last transmission earlier in the day. Bath and Cardiff were both bleeding heavily. “I want to send in the ACS.”

The Prime Minister steepled his fingers. “I was under the impression that the ACS would be employed in a defensive role,” he said. “You’re talking about laying on at attack with inadequate preparation.”

“We know that the Posleen can be beaten,” Mathews said. “Ireland shows that we can defeat a landing if we act quickly, and the Posleen seem to be concentrating on Manchester. It’s very un-Posleen-like behaviour, which is odd.”

“I think they want the food,” Anderson said. “We did a pretty good job of dealing with the…food supplies in other cities. Perhaps they’re getting hungry.”

“We should be so lucky,” the Prime Minister said. “Go on then, how do you plan to handle it?”

“We have been moving forces to the north of Manchester, intended to cover the refugees when they began to escape,” General Mathews said. “Reinforced by the ACS units, which will take the point, and the 3rd Armoured Regiment, which has the modified anti-lander tanks, they will move from Oldham to the M60, which seems to be serving as the border.

“As they’re moving, the SAS teams will call in fire support for them, targeting the Posleen in the region,” he continued. “While the main focus of the attack will be the Oldham-Manchester axis, we’ll be hitting Posleen targets all around Manchester, trying to distract them. In fact, we’ll be pounding them harder in the direction of Liverpool, which is still holding out.

“Once the attacking force has punched its way through the Posleen, we will open the roads and cover the refugees once they flee, withdrawing as completely as we can from Manchester. The Posleen will take the city, but they’ll take rubble.”

“We could launch a nuclear strike,” Anderson suggested diffidently.

“I will not condone the use of such weapons on British soil,” the Prime Minister said flatly. He picked up his phone. “Shelia, can you call Sir Robert?”

He put down the phone. “With some slight modifications, we might be really able to stick it to the Posleen.”

It was Anderson who caught on first. “You’re going to give Hammond some real false information,” he said. He smiled. “Telling the Posleen that they’re going to be attacked from Liverpool?”

“Correct,” the Prime Minister said. He looked up for a moment at the portrait of Britain’s first – and, so far, the only – female Prime Minister. She would have approved, he felt; Lady Thatcher was known for taking hard decisions. He smiled. “That, General, is exactly what we’re going to do.”

Mathews coughed. “I would like to see the data myself first,” he said. “It might contain information that might be useful to the Posleen anyway.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll do that first, I think.”

***
Margent Hammond was petrified. The arrival of the Posleen had shocked her the first time, but to see Manchester and Birmingham laid waste was horrifying. She’d known people in Birmingham, who now were feeding the Posleen.

“I made a mistake,” she said bitterly. There was no one to hear her in her private office. “I should have refused to see Griffin when he turned up, the bastard.”

She cursed. Her position as head of the ‘semi-loyal opposition,’ the party of MPs who opposed the war, made her unable to propose measures for the defence of Britain, such as the chilling ‘Bouncing Barbie’ weapons the Americans had accidentally invented. She’d wanted the weapons, but politics had demanded that she – unsuccessfully, thank God – oppose their introduction, along with other weapons that the Darhel had wanted removed.

They don’t like it when we improvise, she knew grimly, and understood it to be the truth. The Darhel had been undisputed masters of their section of the galaxy for so long that they no longer had the ability to react well to surprises. The Posleen Invasion had come as a shock to them, but they no longer had the capability to fight them – not for long enough to be effective. The Darhel didn’t even dare deploy AI warriors, robotic killing machines, after one group had gotten out of control, fortunately close enough to the Posleen not to survive the experience.

She felt like crying. The Darhel had insisted on using her as their tool, and even knowing that her own people were making use of everything she told them, everything she did for the Darhel, didn’t make the sensation of betraying her own people any easier to bear.

And thank God that we don’t have a big leftist party, she thought, and chuckled bitterly at the irony. In Germany and France, the massive Socialist and Green parties had fallen almost completely under Darhel control; some through bribery, and some through radicalism. The Darhel agent hadn’t even bothered to try to conceal it from her, reminding her of Darhel power and sophistication.

She gazed down again at the details that – officially – came from a source in the Ministry of Defence. There was a major counter-attack being laid on, one designed to destroy the Posleen forces surrounding Manchester, launching from Liverpool. Unofficially, she knew that it came from MI5, from the small group of officers who were her handlers. The Darhel would take the information and do…what? She had good intelligence sources within the MOD, and she knew that the Posleen had hardly responded to any of the more important titbits within the files she’d passed on.

But then, the Posleen are not very bright, she thought, and then her secretary interrupted her thoughts. “Miss Hammond, Mr Griffin is here for his appointment,” she said.

Hammond took a breath and let it out in one rolling sigh. “Send him in,” she said. She pasted a smile on her face as the Darhel agent, as handsome and anonymous as ever, entered the room. His dark hair was the same rich black as ever; his dark eyes were the same as they had been when they had first met, six years ago.

“A pleasure, as always,” Griffin said. His attitudes to her had changed, however; he was asserting his dominance. If she had been younger, she had no doubt that he would have pressured her into bed with her. Her agents had reported that he had some female company, in the flat the Darhel had supplied for him.

“How is everything, now that the Posleen are back?” Hammond asked. “Have you been offered a place on a ship out of Earth?”

Griffin lifted one elegantly shaped eyebrow. “I have been honoured to serve those I serve for a long time,” he said. “They have agreed to look after my family in exchange for my services.”

“Bought and paid for,” Hammond said. As long as the Darhel needed her, they wouldn’t simply dump her and cut and run. She felt that she could be snide on occasion.

“Like you,” Griffin said. “Your message said that it was urgent.”

“There is a plan afoot to defeat the Posleen,” Hammond said. She cringed perfectly under his gaze. “I thought that you wanted to be informed of any such information.”

“I do indeed,” Griffin said. “May I see the information?”

Hammond passed across a handful of papers. “Why don’t you people use computers all the time?” Griffin demanded, examining them and using his AID to make scanner copies of them, dumping the signal back to the Darhel embassy. “Because you’re stupid primitives, that’s why.”

Hammond was stung. “There are plenty of people who dislike using our computers,” she said, waving a hand around an office for which ‘paperless’ would have been an oxymoron. “Yours are much easier to use, but they still have that…aura of being for techno-geeks and people like that.”

“Really,” Griffin said. “A society will not advance until it is at peace with its technology.”

“Our technology was advancing too fast,” Hammond said. That had been party dogma before the Posleen landed. Queen Victoria’s armies would have been cut to ribbons – and there would have been no microscopic allies to save the day. “We had progressed beyond our ability to control it.”

“Quite right,” Griffin said. “However, my masters will be more than happy to assist humanity to find its place within the galaxy.”

“I’m sure they would be,” Hammond said, sincerely. “What are you going to do with the information that I have found for you?”

Griffin shrugged. “That’s up to my master,” he said. “Now, how about a drink?”

Hammond didn’t react to another of his dominance games. “Certainly,” she said, and if she gritted her teeth, no one noticed.

***
The Darhel Tir studied the information from Griffin with interest, using his best calming mantra to avoid the consequences of thinking too much about war, death and suffering. The idea, so long ago, of storing some human genetic material had proven to be a flawed idea, but who needed it when humans were more than willing to sell their own souls for money? The Darhel understood – and yet, concepts such as ‘honour,’ ‘loyalty,’ and ‘duty’ meant little to them. Life within the Darhel-run Federation was based around rules designed to counter the aggressive impulses that meant certain death – and even included the proper and acceptable way to commit treason!

It was unfortunate, the Tir decided, that there weren’t enough humans with the proper training to assist it, to take the weight of such decisions off his hands – and mind. Some German and French Generals, for reasons that made no sense to the Darhel, had decided to assist the Darhel, but they couldn’t be trusted. Motives like the half-expressed and ill-conceived ideals of some of the Germans could not be trusted, for they could swing against the Darhel at any moment.

The Darhel held himself together by an effort of will, before making the final arrangements. The Posleen Net would show that the humans were planning to attack from Liverpool, the omnipotent Net that the Posleen trusted completely. The Darhel shuddered, on the edge of madness, as he uploaded the information, and then he pushed the AID away, hard.

The Tir shuddered again, before leaving the room. Thousands of humans would die – but, for the Tir, that was the entire point of the exercise. Humans had to remain on their own planet until they were under Darhel control – or the entire Federation would be lost.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Holding the Line

Manchester, United Kingdom
27th March 2007

Sarfraz wanted to panic, he wanted to scream, and he wanted to charge into Manchester and save his wife. Ever since the Posleen had landed, he’d had one telephone call…that had broken off in the middle of the conversation, and then silence. He’d heard nothing from Brad, and only one email from Sameena, reassuring him that she was healthy.

He’d spent most of the evening praying in the room they’d given him when the 1st ACS had moved to Oldham, wishing that he’d been able to find a mosque close enough not to break the strict command to stay near the armoured suits at all times. He had half-considered asking Colonel Yates for an exception, but Yates had more on his mind, coordinating the plans for a counter-attack on the morning.

Damn it, I want to go now, he thought. Yates had banned the use of sleep drugs – they might have had to move at any moment – and his night had been torn apart by nightmares. He’d tossed and turned on the ground, enough to disturb everyone, although many others were in the same state. The regiment had recruited from the Greater Manchester region, after all.

The bell rang and they jumped for their suits in a well-conditioned reflex, before they realised that it was the briefing bell. The regiment, the first platoon and the others, headed into the mess, which was also serving as the briefing room. The mess, which was large enough to hold all of the six hundred and fifty ACS troopers, had been set out with food.

“Eat as much as you can,” Sergeant Benton ordered. It was conventional wisdom that troops fought better with food in their bellies. “You don’t know when you’re going to be eating again.”

Sarfraz winced as he picked up a bowl of porridge, one of the few things he could eat. Fried bacon was haram, of course, and he’d never cared for fried eggs or potatoes. Sandwiches and other foods were there for the taking; he picked up several large cheese sandwiches and added them to his plate.

“We don’t want to sit too close to the front,” Derek muttered, as the rest of the 1st platoon got their food. “We want to pretend that we never heard the orders.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sarfraz snapped. He understood the point, of course, but his sister, his wife, his soon-to-be brother-in-law, as well as the remains of his family, was in the trap. If they didn’t rescue them, the Posleen would have them for breakfast, if the Posleen ate breakfast.

He glanced at his watch. It was 0600. Outside, it was dark and silent, broken only by the occasional explosion as combat teams from the SAS encountered Posleen patrols, skirmishing with the enemy. The night flickered with little pulses of light as orbital wreckage fell into the Earth’s atmosphere.

“Attention,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “Silence for Colonel Yates, silence!”

Give him great honour, as he deserves, Sarfraz though wryly. The British Army often treated its senior officers like oriental despots, and most of them deserved it more than the so-called Muslims. He allowed himself a brief moment of contemplating the House of Saud being gobbled up by the Posleen – they had been utterly unwilling to arm and train their citizens – and grinned.

“Silence in the ranks,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “Ahmed, wipe that smile off your face!”

Several soldiers snickered at Sarfraz’s discomfiture, and embarrassment, and it broke the ice. There was still tension in the room – armed men who knew that they would be going into their first real test – but it was fading even now. Indeed, as Sarfraz dimly realised, that had been the point of his rebuke.

“At ease,” Colonel Yates said. The career officer seemed to have aged overnight. It was a feeling Sarfraz fully understood; he shared it himself. “Stand…at ease!”

As they were sitting down, it clearly being a breakfast briefing, there was little point to the command, but the entire regiment relaxed anyway. Colonel Yates held a small remote control in his hand; he pressed a button and the curtain on the wall lifted, revealing a computer screen. A second click of the button brought up a chart of Manchester.

Sarfraz cursed under his breath. A massive red circle encircled the city, revealing the Posleen forces, waiting patently for the humans to crack. Compared to the Posleen, their forces looked very weak indeed; only thirty to forty thousand humans and their vehicles. There were hundreds of the skull-sign used to designate the landers, dozens of them gathering…near Liverpool? The M62 seemed to be crawling with landers.

“Nearly two hundred SAS soldiers lost their lives gathering this information,” Colonel Yates said grimly. His voice was uncharacteristically grim. “The Posleen have trapped a large number of civilians within the city, and it is our task to free them.”

Or die trying, hung in the air. “The Posleen are massing for a drive on Liverpool,” Yates said grimly. We are going to hammer our way through the Posleen on the north-east side of the city, on the ring road, and then we’re going to head around the ring road in both directions, trying to hold as wide a corridor open as we can. The civilians are going to flee, and then we’ll retreat ourselves, probably under fire.”

Sarfraz took a bite of his sandwich. The Posleen would be tough opponents and very dangerous to advance against. As Yates spoke on, describing the tanks that would be supporting them, he knew that it was going to be difficult. She’s in there, he reminded himself, for he was convinced that his wife was inside the city.

“We move out in thirty minutes,” Colonel Yates said finally. “Eat as much as you can, then report to the staging post in full armour.”

***
General Amherst stared down at the display and shuddered. The Posleen had probed the city all night, seemingly undeterred by the darkness, slaughtering a few humans here, a few humans there. As a race, the Posleen seemed unwilling to probe deep inside the city, but Amherst was confident that they would attack again in the morning.

“We have started massing the refugees,” Colonel Darter said. Amherst frowned; his father was the head of MI5, but he was a skilled infantry officer. “We’ve also got some of our own units covering their retreat.”

“We’ll make it,” Amherst said. He was in strategic command, but it would have been foolish for him to claim tactical command. Brigadier Chapman, in Oldham, held that position; it was not a responsibility that Amherst envied him.

“Yes, of course we will,” Colonel Darter said. He looked up into the lightening sky. “It won’t be long now.”

***
Anisa woke up suddenly, woken by the feeling of a hand gently squeezing her buttocks. She almost relaxed into the feeling, and then her memory caught up and she opened her eyes. A grossly fat man was kneeling beside her, his hands feeling their way through her baggy trousers.

“Get away,” she snapped, wishing that she’d brought a weapon of some kind. The would-be rapist squawked and ran, tripping over several other people on the floor, before fleeing out the door into the city. There was a sound of a shot, but no scream, no suggestion that the bullet had found a target.

“Are you all right, love?” An older woman asked. She had a kind face, one that was shaped by laugh-lines. “What did the bastard do?”

“Groped me,” Anisa said, her shock rapidly being replaced by anger. “Where did he go?”

“Back into the city,” the policeman said. “I tried to shoot him, but I missed.”

Anisa shook her head, wishing that her father were better. Perhaps he’d reacted badly to the hostel; he’d been unwell in the night and then he’d been sleeping. Suddenly alarmed, she checked his pulse; it was weak, but still there.

Prayers, she thought, and then laughed at herself. How could she pray in a room where there were no clean spaces, hardly big enough to hold all of the movements, let alone one stinking of urine? Women could pray later if they needed to; it was their only real advantage over men.

“If I could have your attention please?” An army officer asked. His nametag read SINGH. “The army is about to launch an offensive intended to get us out of here.”

“It’s about time,” the fat man shouted. Several sharp warnings from the policeman hadn’t convinced him to keep his fat mouth shut. “When do we leave?”

“We’re going to pack ourselves into buses now,” Singh said. “Some of us will be leaving through tunnels, but the majority will be in buses. Would you please troop outside and get into the buses now, please.”

“Come on, dad,” Anisa whispered. She half-dragged, half-carried, her father through the door, wishing that she was stronger. A young man, with a wife and two children, helped her to carry him. She smiled her thanks and was rewarded with a grin.

“In here, now,” their driver shouted. The buses were lined up; she could count nearly a hundred within sight. Manchester United buses, ones she’d used to go to university, so long ago, and more common buses. Armed soldiers were everywhere, guarding the civilians and keeping the peace.

“It’s raining,” she muttered in surprise. Dirty rain was starting to fall from the heavens, cold enough to freeze her soul. She remembered how the weather had been messed up during the first invasion, three years ago, and she shivered. The Posleen had hit Earth far harder this time.

“When are we going to get out of here?” The fat man demanded, and, for once, no one ordered him to shut up. The sound of explosions echoed across the air…and she shivered. Sarfraz was in the middle of that, she was certain.

***
Sameena had been given a place on one of the buses leaving the city. It had been the only thing that had convinced Brad that it was worthwhile splitting up with her – spending the last night in a cold shelter, holding each other – and continuing his duty. The pumping station, a massive brick building, was connected to an entire series of sewers all over Greater Manchester, leading as far as Bolton – eventually.

“Blasted stink,” he commented. Sergeant Kendrick had ordered the small team into the sewers, just to ensure that they were intact under the ground after the Posleen attack. He stared through the darkness, wishing that some of the lights they’d strung up had remained in the midst of the bombardment.

“Aha,” Theodore Ware, an American tourist who’d chosen to remain in Britain, said. He clicked together a broken wire, clipping together two threads, and the lights came on. The tunnels stretched away in front of them, massive brick constructions deep under the earth, a massive waterway boarded by a walking side. He scowled; with the sewage, people could only walk two abreast.

“We should have had them emptied,” he muttered. A thought struck him. “Is there any point in using boats in here?”

The question was bounced along to Sergeant Kendrick, through the landline. “No point,” Kendrick said. “How would we get them through the filters?”

“Sorry,” Brad said. He didn’t mean to snap, he was just worried. “Might there be crocodiles in here?”

“Shut up,” Kendrick said shortly. “The tunnel seems to be clear, so come on.”

Brad nodded and headed back to the start of the tunnel. The CDC had used a strict separation method in deciding who could use the tunnels; no one disabled, no one who might be a danger to the others. Kendrick issued orders calmly to a group of people who were nervous, and with good reason. At any moment the tunnel might collapse and seal them in.

“All right,” he said. “Move in slowly and calmly. If you fall in, climb out at once. There’s nothing harmful in the water, but you don’t want to drink it.”

Brad concealed a smile. The green filth that made up Manchester’s sewage wouldn’t be safe to drink under any circumstances. “Brad, you will lead,” Kendrick said. “Keep on in the lighted tunnels; radio me once you reach the end, two miles away.” The crowd rustled. “Don’t worry, it won’t take that long.”

“I knew you hated me,” Brad muttered. He climbed back down into the main sewer, sensing the reaction as people stared down the lightened sewers. “All right, everyone,” he called. “Two abreast; keep quiet and disciplined, and we’ll get out of this no bother at all.”

He paused for a second. “And, for God’s sake, don’t smoke in here.”

“And why not?” A woman demanded. “What’s wrong with a fag or two?”

“You’ll cost us some air,” Brad said. There was only a breeze from the air pumps. “Don’t smoke if you value your life.”

***
The massive Challenger-III tank had been modified for the Posleen. Quite apart from having a more powerful anti-lander main gun, it carried four heavy machine guns for the Posleen infantry, and some Galactic power crystals for the engine. While the government had established vast reservoirs of oil and petrol, no one was eager to waste it all on the preliminary battles.

Captain Bertha Demimonde smiled evilly as the four tanks advanced carefully down the road, moving towards the Posleen. The enemy had placed most of their landers on the opposite side of the city, allowing them to take up their positions without interference or getting swamped by the enemy.

“Captain, we have antigravity emissions, just ahead,” Lieutenant Tamara Shull reported. “At least two landers.”

“Gunner, load anti-lander rounds,” Demimonde ordered. “Stand by to attack.”

The road opened suddenly ahead of them, revealing the horde of Posleen ahead of them, with two landers hovering overhead. “Fire,” Demimonde snapped. “Gunners, load anti-personnel rounds; open fire!”

“Here they come,” Corporal Buckley said, as the horde of Posleen charged the tanks. “Transmitting contact reports to artillery command now.”

“Firing,” Lieutenant Shull snapped, as the machine guns started to chatter. An explosion within the Posleen mass revealed that the artillery guns, thousands of guns moved into position overnight, had begun to fire, hammering great chunks of the Posleen mass. Blood and gore flew everywhere, but the Posleen kept coming, ignoring their growing death toll.

“Incoming,” Corporal Buckley said, as some Posleen began to engage with their HVM missiles. Two Challengers blew up in quick succession. “I report that armour was not as effective as we expected.”

“Duly noted,” Demimonde snapped. “Guns, take those fucking Posleen out!”

“Firing,” Lieutenant Shull reported. A blast from the machine guns hosed across the Posleen, slaughtering them. “I wonder if any of their weapons are worth anything.”

“The landers are worth lots,” Corporal Buckley said. “Captain, there are more landers inbound.”

Demimonde scowled. “Are they flying over the city?”

“No,” Buckley reported. “They seem to be reluctant to confront the anti-lander guns in the city itself.”

The anti-lander guns that are running out of rounds, Demimonde thought coldly, and scowled. As soon as a God King got desperate enough to try to swarm the defences, all hell would be out for noon. “Keep shooting,” she snapped, glancing out of the tank. Explosions all across Manchester marked the landing points of shells that were targeted – she hoped – on the Posleen. The SAS were risking their lives time and time again, against a foe that knew nothing of the Geneva Convention, knowing that every transmission might be detected and lead to their deaths.

“The infantry is moving up,” Colonel Goddard snapped, over the radio. “Cover them.”

“Load anti-lander,” Demimonde ordered, as three more landers appeared, hovering around the city to open fire on the humans attacking the Posleen. “Fire!”

“Firing,” Lieutenant Shull snapped. “Two targets destroyed.”

An explosion rocked the tank. “I think we have a problem,” Corporal Buckley said. He shuddered. “Captain, I think that’s a Posleen defence line.”

Demimonde snapped orders to engage, and then studied the Posleen line. It wasn’t as competent as a human line, such as the one inside the city that had tossed the Posleen out, but it was capable. Even as she watched, a series of HVMs made mincemeat out of three Challengers.

“Driver, pull us back,” she snapped. “Gunner, hammer those bastards!”

“Insufficient effect,” Lieutenant Shull reported. “They’re falling into their dug-in positions.”

“How did they build them so quickly?” Demimonde asked, then realised the answer. The Posleen, in a rare fit of cunning, had taken over the human defence lines. The God King controlling the Posleen had clearly given orders not to pursue the humans.

“Now what the hell do we do?” Lieutenant Shull asked. No one answered her. No one could answer her.

***
General Amherst cursed as the sheer scope of the disaster became clear. With the Posleen successfully blocking the offensive – just like Stalingrad, a part of his mind whispered – the forces that were even now moving in from the direction of Liverpool, moving under heavy human shellfire, would trap the human soldiers and kill them.

We could peel them back if we could break through the defensive line, he thought, and considered. The Posleen were too stupid to know that what they were doing was suicidal in the long run, but his forces were blocked themselves from counterattacking. Unless…

“Contact Brigadier Chapman,” he ordered, picking up the telephone. The concept flowed from his mind like water onto the planning screen of the computer. A sign of pure genius, perhaps…or desperation. “Tell him that its time for the ACS to earn their pay.”

There was a long pause. “Yes,” he said. “I know that those units were supposed to be husbanded. Brigadier Chapman, if you don’t send them in now, the entire offensive has failed.”

His bluntness got a result. “I’ll order them sent in now,” Brigadier Chapman said finally. Amherst scowled. Safe in Oldham, Brigadier Chapman could afford to make the hard decisions. “The ACS regiment will punch through the Posleen defensive line, or die trying.”

Chapter Twenty-Four: Spearpoint

Manchester, United Kingdom
27th March 2007

Sarfraz quickly finished drawing power from the power truck and stepped away from it, allowing another ACS soldier to step in. The scene ahead of them was one out of hell, with fires and explosions blasting all over Manchester. The black shape of Posleen landers, engaging the human defenders, could be seen, firing even though the rain.

“We need some proper rain,” Derek muttered. “Enough to slow them down.”

“Do they get slowed down in the rain?” Sarfraz asked, checking the heavy plasma rifle he’d been issued with. The British-designed suits had internal weapons, but using them drained the power supplies faster than normal use. “The unarmoured infantry would certainly be slowed down.”

“Lazy sods,” John commented grimly. The King’s Regiment had headed in to confront the Posleen and had lost nearly half of its soldiers in the first half hour. The remainder of the force was still fighting grimly, a blunted spear that had been intended to plunge into the Posleen.

“Attention,” Colonel Yates said. “We finally have a mission, people, and it’s going to be tricky.”

A map appeared in front of Sarfraz, within his internal displays. “The Posleen have prevented the armoured tanks from punching through their defence line on the ring road,” Yates said. “We have to punch through ourselves.”

Sarfraz listened as the orders were detailed. It was basically simple, he realised; there were only a few possible variants on tactics. The heavy guns – the 5th Royal Artillery – would start concentrating their shells as the ACS advanced, and then the ACS would punch through the remainder of the enemy, holding open a path for the refugees.

Or at least that’s the plan, he reminded himself. “Platoon, form up,” he commanded, as soon as Yates had finished talking. “Sir, 1st Platoon reports itself ready for action.”

“Move out,” Sergeant Benton commanded. The ACS began to walk forward, marching out of the forward base, heading towards Manchester. Sarfraz allowed the suit’s AID to do most of the motions, concentrating on his plans for engaging the Posleen directly. Ahead of them, explosions began to focus on the Posleen lines, even as they passed tanks that were engaging landers and Posleen groups.

“They’re blunted, all right,” Derek muttered. The wreckage of twelve tanks could be seen, some of them still burning after the Posleen HVMs had struck them and blown them apart. “I think the armour needs work.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” John commented. “Sir, I think we should stand by and…”

The roar of artillery shells nearly deafened them, even though the suits. Ahead of them, the Posleen lines exploded, devastated as thousands of shells rained down on two miles of their lines. He could see Posleen, moving in the gloom, trying to escape the explosions that were tearing them apart.

“This might encourage them to get their own artillery,” he muttered. He hefted the plasma rifle, feeling the systems in the gun interface with his suit. “How long is this going to go on for?”

“Five minutes,” Sergeant Benton said. “Stand by…”

The roar of explosions suddenly ceased. “That’s the shelling finished,” Yates snapped. “All platoons…attack!”

Sarfraz ran and the suit ran with him, boosting him along at a speed the Posleen could hardly comprehend. A leap brought him over the Posleen lines, his rifle already firing, controlled by the control units in the suit. The handful of Posleen lucky enough to survive the artillery fell before them; some of them were even wandering around, shocked.

“Incoming,” Derek snapped, as a hail of HVMs raced over their heads. Sarfraz cursed; a God King and a horde of Posleen were moving from the inner siege lines, heading out to meet the humans. The God King was firing massive lasers from his saucer, clearly reluctant to lead his horde to the attack. Normally, God Kings were smart enough to stay back from the lines.

Must have been trying to stay between the fires, Sarfraz thought. He felt no pity; the God Kings were hardly human, hardly worth considering with pity and compassion. This was a far worthier jihad – despite the proclamations of certain so-called scholars in Mecca – than anything else in Islam’s history; there could be no doubt about the Posleen appetites, none at all.

“Kill the God King,” Benton snapped, and seven plasma rifles flared as one, blasting the God King before the saucer craft could carry him – it – out of danger. The Posleen soldiers lurched around, looking for orders, and the humans cut them down.

“Fire on these targets,” Yates snapped, sending orders directly to the 3rd Royal Artillery, which was moving up behind the 5th Royal Artillery. Shells started to land from short-ranged guns, hammering away at the Posleen, making the breech in their lines wider and wider. “Break them!”

***
Sergeant Katie Tierra grinned as she realised what the noises meant, even before the intelligence officer in General Amherst’s office updated the situation map near their positions. The Posleen were being hammered; the advancing troops were forcing them to turn and face the attackers - which meant that the defenders might have a chance to turn the tide.

“Line up for an advance,” she shouted, as the orders started to flicker in. Her men obeyed her at once; she’d led them out of the Posleen trap the day before. Even as the rain grew heavier, falling from the sky and reducing visibility, she waited for orders, feeling the weapon in her hand. The rifle was loaded with bullets that had been configured to punch into the Posleen…

“We’re to advance,” the communications tech shouted, picking up his own weapon and racing towards the lines. “In five minutes…”

“Why five minutes?” Tierra demanded. Her Latino features twisted into a scowl. “We can move now!”

A hail of shellfire leapt up from Manchester, from the guns positioned in the centre of the city, slamming down amid the Posleen. The massive explosions sent hails of shrapnel and high explosive through the Posleen lines, devastating them. Tierra whooped with glee; the Posleen were caught between two fires.

“Does that answer your question?” The communications tech asked dryly. Tierra didn’t bother to answer, watching instead the explosions. Suddenly, as quickly as they started, they stopped. A handful of tiny explosions flickered as ammunition detonated, or the Posleen fired on imaginary targets, and then it was over.

“Advance,” Tierra shouted, and led the charge. She ran out of cover, ducking and weaving, and charged towards the Posleen. The massive aliens seemed shell-shocked- perhaps their leader had been killed – and they melted before the humans. She fired madly, tossing grenades around at the Posleen as they staggered away, breaking before them, and then she saw the finest sight in her life.

It was humanoid, painted a shiny silver colour, but shadowed with a holographic field. She smiled as she saw the armoured suits rushing forward, waving to them as the Posleen lines shattered…and she never saw the Posleen that fired at her. A screaming pain broke though her leg…and she saw it literally blown off.

“Where the hell’s my fucking leg?” She demanded, just before the pain hit and she fell over, or was it the other way around. One of the armoured troopers bent over her, checking her out. She wondered if he was really looking at her bleeding leg, or checking out her breasts.

“It’s damaged beyond repair.” The ACS trooper said. “The waltz is never going to be danced again, I’m afraid.”

“Fuck,” Tierra swore. “They’re beaten, right?”

“We’ve broken through into Manchester,” the ACS trooper said. “They’ll counter-attack, of course, but we have the time we need to pull everyone out.”

“Thank God,” Tierra said, and fainted.

***
“All right,” the driver shouted. “We have a path out!”

The cheers were deafening. Anisa joined in. The bus started its engines and started the long drive towards the ring road, moving at a respectable pace. She squeezed her father’s hand, even as the bus kept moving slowly, past the armed soldiers and the CDC people.

“According to the radio, the army has torn a two-mile wide hole in the Posleen lines,” the driver said. “We’re due to pass through in ten minutes.” An explosion flickered in the distance. “The Posleen will, of course, be trying to close the gate,” he continued. “Please, don’t panic; I have to concentrate.”

Anisa closed her eyes and started to pray. The bus jerked once, and she opened her eyes again, wishing that she could sleep. She didn’t dare try, not after so nearly being raped. Absently, she wondered what had happened to the would-be rapist; had he been shot, or had he run into the Posleen lines? There was no way to know.

“We’re breaking the law here,” the driver said, conversationally. Anisa smiled; all of the traffic on both lanes was heading north. Three abreast, the buses and coaches were heading out of the city. “Stay alert for the policemen.”

There were some chuckles, which quickly became nervous giggles. “We’re about to pass through the defence lines,” the driver said, as they reached the end of the city. Anisa watched as the entire line slowed, passing through a hole opened in the blockade.

“It’s a bloody bottleneck,” someone whispered. The buses could only pass through one at a time; several breakdowns were shoved out of the way without any concern for recovering the vehicles.

“They’re making the gap wider,” someone else pointed out. Anisa nodded; several bulldozers were working hard on making the gap bigger. The defence lines, however, had been built by Handling Machines – one of them could be seen trundling north near them – and weren’t giving in easily.

“Here we go,” the driver said. The bus passed through the gap, heading along a motorway that had been devastated by the fighting. The bus, which wasn’t designed for rough transport, shook violently as it passed over potholes and rubble on the ground.

“Brave lads,” an elderly woman said. Anisa winced; three tanks lay there, utterly ruined. One of them had had a hole punched right through the frontal armour. “Very brave lads.”

Anisa muttered a prayer under her breath. An explosion flickered off in the east; the dark shape of a lander could be seen. The collective indrawn breath should, by rights, have tipped the entire bus over, but fortunately it didn’t.

“That’s us through the second line,” the driver said. The engine revved powerfully. “It’s now time to run for the refugee centre in Oldham.”

The cheers shook the entire bus. “We’re safe, dad,” Anisa said. Her father smiled tiredly at her. “We’re safe.”

***
The ground shook violently, and a small child fell into the sewage. Brad swore and shouted for everyone to stop moving, grateful that the sewers had stopped having their waste pumped along to the reclamation plant.

“Here, take my hand,” he said, reaching out to the small girl. “What’s your name?”

“Bonnie,” the girl said, through tears. “My eyes are stinging.”

“Don’t swallow anything,” Brad snapped. “Take my hand, now!”

The snap of command in his voice must have had an effect. The girl grabbed onto his hand, almost pulling him into the muck himself, and allowed him to pull her out. Her impractical dress was totally ruined, damaged beyond repair. The ground shuddered again and he stumbled, somehow avoiding falling in.

“What’s happening?” A woman demanded. Her cry was taken up rapidly by others. “What’s happening?”

“There’s a battle going on above our heads,” Brad said. The lights flickered and the gasp of panic was audible all along the line. Hundreds of people, pressing themselves against the wall, trembling in fear of the dark. The Posleen must have heard; did the aliens hear? He couldn’t remember.

“We have to get out of here,” the woman protested. “We have to move…”

Her gaze lighted upon a hatch in the roof. They were midway along the way to the exit point; if they came up there, they would be in the middle of the Posleen. The Posleen would doubtless be delighted at the unexpected lunch; Brad wasn’t so keen on it himself.

“We have to reach the defended end,” he said, and to his surprise the panic abated – slightly. “Come on!”

He led them as fast as he dared, knowing how dangerous it would be if anyone slipped in again. He kept a tight hold on Bonnie; she would have to be hosed down once they reached the end. Finally, they saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Is that you, Brad?” One of his co-workers, Travis Lindsey, shouted.

“Yes, its me,” Brad shouted. “Hurry up and get a hose ready.”

“Don’t wanna be hosed,” Bonnie said, very definitely. “Don’t want to be…”

“You’re getting hosed down before you catch something,” Brad said flatly, as they reached the end of the tunnel. Even the overcast skies were a delight to see after the tunnels. “Travis, what’s the situation?”

“The army has opened a tunnel,” Lindsey said. “It’s pretty bad out there, Brad.”

“And…?” Brad asked, refusing to even form the question. Lindsey smiled, recognising the problem. “Is she…?”

“She’s fine, working here at the medical lab,” Lindsey said. “Go see her, now, before the Sarge finds us something else to do.”

***
General Amherst had moved his mobile command post to Moston, his only concession to the needs of retreat. They’d moved thousands of civilians – more than a few had elected to walk rather than wait for a bus – but there were thousands more, and the Posleen were starting to catch on.

“How the hell do these people think?” He demanded, of no one in particular. “What do they think they’re doing?”

“They’re alien,” Corporal Loomis reminded him. “They don’t think like us.”

“They’re testing the defences of Rusholme,” Amherst snapped. The display changed alarmingly. “No, they’re hammering their way through the defences.”

“Most of the soldiers were pulled out,” Corporal Loomis said. “The others…”

“Cannot break contact under fire,” Amherst reminded her. He scowled; the remaining defenders in Rusholme were dead, they just hadn’t been killed yet. Other Posleen were moving, nearly a hundred landers proceeding around the city, heading to seal off the escape route.

“God doesn’t like me,” he muttered. The Posleen had clearly decided to reduce the city, developing new angles of attack; three, four prongs heading into the city. Now they’d decided they were willing to take the losses they would suffer, Manchester would fall within an hour at most. It was ironic, even to him; if the escape route hadn’t been opened, the defence lines would have been stronger.

“Orders to all units,” he said finally. “Those that can break contact and fall back on the pumping station are to do so. Those that cannot…are to remember that the British Army stands between the civilians and the Posleen, always.”

Corporal Loomis didn’t bother with any false expressions of sympathy. “Yes, sir,” she said. “The ACS will hold the line for as long as they can.”

“Order the evacuation teams to speed up, even sending people on their feet,” Amherst ordered, feeling the weight of his responsibilities crashing down on his shoulders. “We’re running out of time.”

***
Sarfraz watched dispassionately as the Posleen came on, their yellow shapes glistering with the rain. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain, he thought absently, firing from his concealed position. The Posleen were good at tracking his blasts, but they were concentrating on battering their way through the defences by sheer force of numbers.

“Kill that God King,” Yates ordered. A display flashed up in front of Sarfraz; a targeting display illuminating the God King. He fired a single long burst of plasma, overloading the God King’s saucer and sending it plunging towards the Earth. Two landers appeared and a tank killed them, three more appeared to take their place.

“The tanks are running out of anti-lander shells,” a voice on the radio said. Sarfraz cursed; the ACS suits were tough, but none of them could stand up to a direct hit from a lander weapon. A hail of HVMs struck out at one of the ACS platoons, blasting through their barricade and damaging the suits.

“Platoon seven, get out of there,” Yates snapped. “Regiment, stand by to fall back towards Oldham.”

“Sir, there are still civilians crossing the line,” John protested. Sarfraz understood; he didn’t want to leave them either.

It was a mark of Yates’ own concerns that he didn’t bite John’s head off. “I understand,” he said. “However, we have little choice.”

Sarfraz scowled, watching as artillery rained down on the Posleen. The enemy seemed to be getting smarter; they used their HVMs as mini-artillery of their own, blasting through barricades with determination, if not skill. The human artillery was becoming the target of lunging attacks by landers, forcing them to run or look to their own defences.

“That’s the tanks out of ammunition,” Yates said, as a lander crashed to the ground, exploding on top of a horde of Posleen. “All units; fall back.”

Sarfraz jumped backwards, seconds before three HVMs slammed into the barricade he’d been hiding behind. He moved back, firing madly, even as the Posleen closed in. A hail of HVMs slammed into the refugee vehicles, the last few vehicles, blasting them to bits. He smiled bitterly; at least even the Posleen would find it hard to eat people who had been blown into their component atoms.

“I’m calling down the artillery now,” Yates snapped. The massive wall of artillery, the units that had been brought up to assist the attack, fired as one. For a moment, even the Posleen seemed stunned by the carnage, and then they pushed forward again. Scenting victory, the landers hovered closer and closer, unaware yet that the humans had no more anti-lander weapons in the battlezone.

Mike O’Neal took out a lander with an antimatter mine, Sarfraz thought suddenly. The regiment had met the American hero once. Three C-Decs, the most powerful landers, were closing in…and he had no antimatter weapons to make them pay. How many landers did the Posleen have in England? He wondered. More than the British had of anti-lander weapons?

“Ahmed, put your butt in gear,” Sergeant Benton roared. Sarfraz didn’t hesitate; he turned and ran as fast as he could, falling back towards the defence lines at Oldham. Behind him, the Posleen fell on Manchester…and the huddling soldiers and civilians remaining within the city.

I hope you choke on them, you bastards, Sarfraz thought, and ran harder.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Counting the Cost

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
28th March 2007

Dawn rose over London, bringing clouds of rain and hail with it, descending upon a city that was preparing for a siege. The Prime Minister, who knew more than most about the power of the Posleen, could only hope that the defences would be enough, when the Posleen decided to test them in person. He stared out of the window, watching the defenders continue their building, and wondered.

Behind him, the members of the War Cabinet took their places in the room, sitting around the table. In theory, Parliament was still in session, but with its members scattered around the country; a third in Edinburgh, a third in London, and a third in the Orkneys, holding a debate was…tricky. The Scottish Parliament, that overrated institution, had been rather unhappy about moving the Shadow Parliament to Edinburgh, but the BBC recordings of the Battle of Manchester, as well as the slaughter in Birmingham, had proven very convincing.

How do we win this war without losing our democracy? The Prime Minister asked. It was no longer 1940, when someone – Churchill – could be trusted with near-total power. Even with the Civil Defence Corps and the police working hard, there were still problems when people objected to government dictation. Parliament held a supervisory role – and it had forbidden the use of nuclear weapons unless all was lost.

The Prime Minister shivered. He’d forced himself to watch the videos, from desperate refugees from Manchester, to the slaughterhouses the Posleen had created. The long-range guns had tried their best to hammer the Posleen feeding zones, but they’d failed; the Posleen were growing better at chasing humans who were sneaking around their encampments.

And if all is lost? He asked himself. He knew what had been planned for that, just like he and a handful of others had conspired to do in Ireland. The Irish had shattered the Posleen landing force, defeating them before the Posleen could make Irish Stew out of them, and it had come at a price. If they ever learnt that the antimatter explosion hadn’t been an accident…

The Prime Minister shook his head. If the worst happened, the…incident in Ireland would be nothing compared to the devastation that would be employed in Britain itself.

Behind him, General Mathews coughed. The Prime Minister turned, walking slowly to take his seat at the head of the table. On the wall display, the area…infected by the Posleen glowed accusingly, a giant unblinking eye coloured red. He scanned the room slowly, taking in their faces; those who would support him, those who saw his position as weakening under the Posleen invasion.

Politics, he thought, making the word a curse. Even now, with the very survival of the entire world at stake, they were playing politics. It was stupid, it was…irritating, and it was human. Did the Posleen have politics?

“How many did we lose?” He asked flatly. “How many of our people lost their lives?”

There was a short chilling silence. “We lost around thirty thousand soldiers,” General Mathews said finally. “The defenders who fought in the final lines, trying to hold back the enemy in Manchester itself, were almost completely wiped out. Some of them survived, but they are trapped within the city.”

The Leader of the Opposition lifted an eyebrow. “How are you still in contact with them?”

The Prime Minister was almost grateful for the imprudent question. “The landlines, more or less, have survived the experience,” General Mathews said. “Some people are holed up in shelters the Posleen haven’t found. The bastards are getting very good at tracking our radio transmissions, and we don’t have enough Galactic units to go around.”

There was a second reason for that, but not everyone at the table was cleared to know about it. The Prime Minister sighed; there was a question he had to ask, and he didn’t want to ask it. He didn’t want to know the answer, even though he knew that he had to know the answer.

“And how many civilians died?” He asked. “How many managed to escape to the north?”

General Mathews hesitated. “It’s harder to be certain with civilians,” he said. “The bastards have landed in one of our most populous regions, but seven million people have left for the Sub-Urbs. A rough estimate is upwards of four million people, sir; it could very well be higher.”

The Prime Minister put his head in his hands. “And all of them are going to feed the Posleen,” he said. “General, what can we do now?”

It was General Anderson who spoke. “There are something like twelve million Posleen in the…occupied territory,” he said. “Spread out as they are, our only choice is to let them grind themselves to death against our defences.”

“Or go nuclear,” the Foreign Secretary said. His work had suddenly dwindled to relations with America, Ireland and Europe. “The Chinese went nuclear, at the end.”

“Parliament ruled it out,” the Prime Minister said firmly. “The MPs were not prepared, particularly the ones from Greater Manchester and Bath, to condone the use of tactical nuclear weapons. So…what are they going to do next?”

“I think that they’re going to try for Liverpool,” Anderson said. The officer who’d once war-gamed a European invasion of the United Kingdom looked haggard. It was always fun – until someone lost an eye. “They’re certainly bulging out towards Liverpool, massing the Posleen soldiers and their landers.”

The Prime Minister frowned. “Why not drive directly for London?”

Anderson shrugged. “Sir, I could give you any number of possible reasons, but there would be no hope of getting them right. I have theories, but no certainties. It’s possible that the God King in overall charge – assuming that there is such a figure – wants to help out the Posleen in Ireland.”

“They’ll be lucky,” General Mathews muttered. The Posleen in Ireland had been broken. There were still thousands of them left, but without any God King they were just armed animals.

“Perhaps,” Anderson agreed. “Another possibility is that they’re trying to prevent us from evacuating civilians to Ireland.”

The Minister for War Production blinked. “Do they know that we’re doing that?”

“Impossible to say,” Anderson said. The Prime Minister said nothing, but thought much; the Darhel would certainly have known and might have passed that little titbit on to the Posleen. “On yet another hand, they might simply be pinching off Liverpool before we can fortify it. Wales might have lost Cardiff, but the fortified Sub-Urbs in the mountains cost them dearly before they broke off. The point is, within a day or so Liverpool will be attacked, and that means that most of the three million or so civilians have to go to Ireland.”

“We can’t get them into the Wales Sub-Urbs or up to Scotland?” The Prime Minister asked. “Do we have the shipping to lift them all to Ireland?”

“The Posleen are between the civilians and the Wales Sub-Urbs,” Mathews said. He’d given the matter some thought. “We might be able to move some up north, but the main west coast rail line got wrecked, and the Posleen overran some of the stations. We have repair crews out and we expanded the rail network, but it simply doesn’t have the capability of moving all of the civilians.”

The Foreign Secretary smiled. “The Irish will not be too happy at having three million civilians dumped on them,” he said.

“It won’t be three million,” Anderson said, harshly. “It will be around half that, if we’re lucky.”

“And if we don’t start moving them now, they’ll all be lost,” the Prime Minister said.

Mathews nodded. “There is a further consideration,” he said. “If the Posleen realise what we’re doing, however they do it, they will attempt to move faster. They could reach Liverpool within a few hours if they launched the attack now.”

“Even in this weather,” the Press Secretary said. “It’s snowing in Germany and the Highlands, but its raining everywhere else.”

“I don’t think that cold or wet bothers them,” Anderson said.

Mathews tapped the map. “We have to buy time,” he said. “Sir, I request permission to deploy the mobile units to reinforce the defence of Liverpool.”

The Prime Minister hesitated. “I understand,” he said finally. “Permission is granted, General.”

***
The Darhel Tir cursed the Posleen with all the fervour of one denied the right to use the worst swearwords he had learnt from his human underlings. The fear of lintatai was too strong, even for him; he could not risk the profits of his group because of a spurt of rage, no matter how satisfying it would be before the collapse into madness. He nibbled a carrot, watching his sharp teeth tearing through the vegetable, and cursed again.

The idiots changed their plans because of what I told them, he thought. It made a grim kind of sense; his taps into humanity’s landlines made it clear that the humans had known that the Posleen were massing to receive the attack, so they’d changed their own plans. The humans had managed to hold open a corridor and save thousands of their own people from being threshed. Two days after the Posleen landing, and things were already going wrong.

Idiots, the Tir thought again. What would the Posleen do now? They knew, thanks to him, that humans were evacuating to Ireland, now that the Irish Posleen had been pretty much destroyed or scattered. Would they do the sensible thing and head towards Liverpool, or would they seek to continue battering their heads against Wales - or would they head towards London. Not for the first time, the Tir wondered how a country as small as Britain had managed to become so powerful – without opposition, the Posleen could be in London in less than a day.

The Tir shuddered. Occasionally, Darhel had faced the Posleen – almost always unsuccessfully. The thought of his flesh been rendered and torn and…

In a flurry of motion, the Tir spun to his computer and altered some of the data being fed to the Posleen. Both the humans and the Posleen would have been very surprised to discover that the defences of London had nearly three times as much men and equipment as they had in reality.

After all, the Net said it, so it had to be true. Right?

Refugee Camp
Oldham, Greater Manchester
28th March 2007

Privacy was non-existent in the refugee camp set up in what had once been a market, but few people cared. The tents and commandeered flats fairly hummed with the sound of humans celebrating their salvation in the oldest way. Combat brought very primal urges to the fore, and the refugees needed a diversion. Later, Brad was grimly certain, there would be recriminations, divorces and lots of money for lawyers, but for the moment everyone was celebrating.

He smiled. Sergeant Kendrick wasn’t taking part in the sexual orgy. Instead, the sergeant had been working on setting up the camp, seeing to running water and food supplies, and preparing for the move north. The Posleen, at least, showed no inclination to challenge the defences of Oldham, but all present knew that it was only a matter of time.

“What’s so funny?” Sameena asked. She was beautiful at any time. At the moment, she looked gorgeous; survival made the heart beat faster and desire stir. “What are you laughing at?”

“Life, the universe, everything,” Brad said. “Was it good for you?”

Sameena laughed. “Typical man,” she said, and stuck out her tongue. “Nothing matters, so long as your sexual organs are satisfied.”

“And yours weren’t?” Brad asked. Her only reply was a languid stretch that pushed her breasts out against her chest. “I guess you enjoyed it.”

“Twit,” Sameena said. “What are you doing now?”

“The sergeant wants me in an hour, Brad said. “I think we’d better go have a shower.”

Sameena nodded and pulled on her jeans and top. Brad followed, then they both stepped out of the tent and headed to the communal showers. The showers had been segregated; a plump matron was in charge of ensuring that the sexes remained separate.

“In there, loves,” she said. Her voice was old and hard. “Undress in the first room, get clean, and then get out. Don’t overuse the soap, ok?”

Brad nodded and headed into the male showers. They were messy; seventeen men were packed in, trying to wash themselves clean. A sign on the wall said NO INDECENCY. He chucked and washed himself as quickly as possible, then stepped back out as the water ran cold. Curses and shouts followed him as the men tried to escape the suddenly-cold shower.

“They’re switching tanks,” the matron shouted. “Wait five minutes.”

Brad smiled and dressed again, then stepped out of the showers. Sameena joined in five minutes later, looking more gorgeous than ever with her hair damp and her face clean. She smiled at him and he felt his tired soul brighten.

“Have you heard anything from Anisa?” She asked, and Brad nodded. “What did you hear?”

“She’s at a camp over there,” Brad said. Anisa had dropped an email to the CDC website, reporting her continued existence. “I passed it on to Sarfraz.”

“Thanks honey,” Sameena said. “What are you doing now?”

“I’m off to see the sergeant,” Brad said. “What happened to the medical staff?”

“Broken and torn,” Sameena said. “I may as well come with you.”

Brad held out his hand. She took it. “Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s go see what they have for us to do next.”

***
Charlene Jackson had seen many horrific sights in her time, from Bosnia to the rioting in Germany, but the sight of the refugee camp was the worst that she had seen. All around Oldham, tents and shacks, even people sleeping out in the open, were scattered around. The sound of an entire people, displaced from their homes, arose. Some people were playing football; others sat and stared towards the smoke rising from Manchester.

Charlene shuddered. Such things didn’t happen in England. It reminded her of the Third World – the starving children, the young men hanging around hopelessly, the older women talking endlessly about nothing – and it was chilling. This is the fate of those not lucky enough to feed the Posleen, she realised. A life of endless refugee camps, running endlessly from the Posleen – until they ran out of Britain.

“The honourable Luaky Commer, Member of Parliament, is about to give out toys,” someone shouted. The crowd didn’t seem to care. Charlene watched as a fat man, wearing a suit that clearly wouldn’t even have dreamed of running from hungry alien monsters, passed a suitcase of toys to a young girl.

There were cheers, but only from the hangers on and the press corps. Charlene filmed the looks of pure resentment, even hatred, from the civilians, recording the angry mutterings that arose as Commer started to burble on about how sorry he was and how unfortunate it was that the Posleen had come. He spoke about how he could end the war – if they voted for him in the next cycle.

Fat bastard, Charlene thought angrily. Commer didn’t seem aware of the hatred he was generating, until someone threw a rock at him. It missed, barely, and then the entire crowd surged forward. Commer paled – a difficult task with his utterly pale white face – and turned to flee. He tripped and the crowd closed in around him.

“Stop,” a commanding voice shouted. Charlene recognised him as Sergeant Kendrick, a dour army officer who’d been seconded to the Civil Defence Corps. “All right, he is a bastard, but it won’t do any good to tear him apart.”

“Smash those cameras,” someone shouted. Kendrick nodded to the three policemen who had accompanied him; they started to gather up the cameras from the press corps. Charlene reacted quickly, using her camera to dump its memory into the BBC van nearby, just before a policeman tore it away from her shoulder.

“You’ll be hearing from my union about that,” she protested, grinning inside. I think I do protest too loudly, she thought, and smiled to herself. The honourable MP, Luaky Commer, Member of Parliament, was released from the crowd and headed off, protesting with rage.

“Arrest them,” he demanded. Kendrick shook his head and said something quietly. Whatever it was, it didn’t please Commer, who stormed off in a rage. Kendrick glared around him at the crowd until it got the message and dispersed, then he looked up at Charlene.

“Who are you?” He asked bluntly. Charlene realised that her press badge had been lost in the scuffle. “What are you doing here?”

“Charlene Jackson, BBC,” she said. “Can I trouble you for an interview?”

Kendrick snorted. “I have quite a lot to do, young lady,” he said. “Quickly.”

“What’s it like here?” Charlene asked. “What’s going to happen next?”

“It’s pretty bad,” Kendrick admitted. “Conditions like this lead to a major breakdown of law and order; we’ve had two murders and seventeen rapes – that we know about. Those we caught have been arrested; personally, I think that we should just stake them out for the Posleen.”

“I won’t disagree,” Charlene said. “How is the food and water holding up?”

Kendrick chuckled. “Good God, an intelligent question,” he said. “We had most of the population of Oldham evacuated on the day the bastards landed, so we have enough food for a few weeks. Water isn’t too bad with a Galactic device doing most of the purification; the only real problem is that some pipes got broken in the chaos.”

He frowned. “We’re going to have people moving out of here as fast as we can,” he said grimly. “The rail lines have been running all day, moving people to the north, away from the Posleen. You tell them that, young lady; this place isn’t very well defended at all.”

Charlene winced. “What will happen if they come this way?”

“We’ll be eaten alive,” Kendrick admitted. Charlene scowled; the D-Notice would probably not allow her to show that on TV. “The army will do its best, but…”

“I understand,” Charlene said. “Overall, how would you consider the Civil Defence Corps performed?”

Kendrick smiled. “Very well indeed,” he said. “Some of us fought in the Battle of Rusholme and – dare I say it – helped win that battle.”

Charlene smiled. “Thank you for the interview,” she said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Kendrick shook his head. “Unless you’re a trained medic, get out of here,” he said. “That’s the best you can do, I fear. Gallipoli was nothing like this, I tell you.”

Chapter Twenty-Six: The High Cost of Living

Refugee Camp
Oldham, Greater Manchester
28th March 2007

Sarfraz held her close and cried into her headscarf. She cried too, holding him tightly, as they embraced. Behind them, the armoured suit looked on, cracked open to allow its user to egress. They had a little privacy, but not enough for either of them to risk being seen being intimate. Naturally modest, neither of them wanted to be exposed.

“Thank your Colonel for me,” Anisa said. “I…I thought I’d never see you again.”

She hadn’t told him about the attempted rape. It would only have upset him.

“I thought that you were dead,” he said, and held her closer. “I was scared that I would stumble across your body in the battle, or that I would see the Posleen eating you.”

“They missed me,” Anisa said. “The driver up north was nightmarish, but without the Posleen in hot pursuit, we made it here and I emailed Brad, who emailed you.”

“I must remember to thank him,” Sarfraz said seriously. “I thought that you were dead.”

“Men are too emotional,” Anisa said, and kissed him. “I wish…”

Sarfraz laughed. He was feeling horny as well. “We’ll get a place in Edinburgh or Glasgow or one of the Sub-Urbs,” he said. “The Posleen won’t get that far north.”

“They said they wouldn’t get to Manchester either,” Anisa reminded him. “The BBC kept lying.”

“They wanted to prevent a panic during the first invasion,” Sarfraz said. He remembered seen holographs of Sameena dying and scowled. The platoon had dunked Tigernuts in freezing water, on that terrible night after the drill, but it wasn’t enough. “That’s what they told us, at least.”

Anisa snorted. “I should have forced him out,” she said, referring to her father. “Instead, we were nearly caught by the Posleen. That was…too close.”

“I know what you mean,” Sarfraz said. He didn’t want to think about it. “How is he?”

“Pretty bad,” Anisa said. “He was old, and now…he’s been through a lot.” She hadn’t told her father about the attempted rape either. “He’s not in good shape.”

Sarfraz let go of her. “I should go see him,” he said. “Reassure him that I’m going to take care of you.”

“Come on then,” Anisa said. She sighed. “As good care as anyone can take of anyone in these times.” She paused and waved one delicate hand at the suit. “What about that?”

Sarfraz tapped the AID at his belt. “Heel,” he said. The ACS clunked to life and followed them as they headed into the main refugee camp, passing tents and bedding without bumping into anything, even with the hatch still open.

“That’s creepy,” Anisa said. She squeezed his hand and giggled. “You inside that, I mean.”

Sarfraz tried to look reproving and failed; a grin burst through onto his face. “It’s just a suit of armour,” he said. “It’s not another woman.”

“Another woman would make more sense,” Anisa said. She stuck her tongue out at him, before stopping in front of a massive tent with a red cross on it. “I think that Miss Suit had better wait outside.”

Sarfraz elbowed her gently. “Stay,” he said to the suit, and it powered down. “He’s in here?”

Anisa nodded and led the way into the dim tent. There were seven beds within the tent, each of them holding a single elderly person. Sarfraz grimaced as he breathed in and caught a whiff of the smell; it was disgusting beyond measure. The elderly hadn’t been given much treatment at all.

They’re waiting for them to die, he realised, and felt sick.

“Dad?” Anisa asked. Sarfraz blinked; he hadn’t recognised his father in law. Gone was the sober tidy beard that met in every respect the now-Thresh Taliban’s requirements for men. Gone was the dignified seriousness, broken by the occasional glint of true humour and decency.

Her father muttered something in Arabic and opened his eyes. Sarfraz shuddered; the eyes were dim and worn. For a long moment, he wondered if he was blind. “Sarfraz,” her father said, in his accented English. “That would be Sarfraz.”

Sarfraz’s blood ran cold. Who did her father think he was talking to? “Yes, it’s me,” he said. Anisa squeezed his hand. “Sir?”

“Sarfraz,” her father said. His voice sounded as if it was coming from a great distance. “Take care of her.”

“I will,” Sarfraz promised. “I’ll take care of her and…”

Her father closed his eyes and grew still. Anisa started to cry. A nurse came in and checked his pulse, comparing it to the device she held in her hand. “I’m sorry, love,” she said. “He’s gone to a better place.”

“I have always known him for a holy man,” Sarfraz said, allowing the anger to leak into his voice. “Why didn’t you save his life?”

The nurse met his eyes. “There are thousands of people here who need medical attention, soldier,” she said flatly. “In a fully-equipped hospital, with all the equipment that we have lost in one day, yes, his life might have been saved. Here, without the medicines we need? We can’t save everyone.”

Sarfraz sighed. “I have to take custody of the body,” he said. “He needs the funeral rites.”

“No can do,” the nurse said. “All bodies are to be burnt at once, by order of the Emergency Commissioner.”

“I’ll argue with him,” Sarfraz snapped. “I won’t let him…”

“There are no exceptions,” the nurse said gently. Two volunteers arrived with a body bag. Before their eyes, they zipped her father into the bag and carried him off. Crying, Anisa leant into his arms, sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I won’t let them hurt you any more.”

His AID buzzed. “Corporal Sarfraz, you have been ordered to attend an urgent meeting with the regimental planning staff,” it said. “Your attendance is mandatory in twenty minutes.”

“Fuck that,” Sarfraz snapped. “I won’t let you go.”

“You have no choice,” Anisa said. “You go to your meeting.”

“You come with me,” Sarfraz said. “The CDC can arrange for you to move on north.”

Anisa kissed him. “Yes, love,” she said. “I’ll find something to do.”

***
“You all did very well,” Sergeant Kendrick said. The three hundred survivors of the Civil Defence Corps (Manchester) were too tired to nod. There had once been two thousand of them; that said it all. Some had been killed in the bombardment, others had been eaten by the Posleen, or when…

Brad shuddered. The final moments of the sewers, when the Posleen had somehow set fire to the sewage, had been truly ghastly. In a moment, they’d sealed the doom of thousands of humans and ruined the sewers beyond easy repair. He’d heard that the SAS was still using them, but he didn’t know if that was the truth.

“We also seem to be out of a job,” Kendrick continued, and they chucked dutifully. “We have several options,” he said. “We can join the CDC here – we’re going to have to help with moving people further north anyway – or we can join up with the army. Pretty much all of us have some experience against the Posleen now, which means that they’ll take us without much training. For myself, I’m going to finish the evacuation, and then join up.”

He paused. “You worked for the CDC,” he said. “Legally, you’re exempt from conscription, largely because you’re a back-up force for your home region. However, that no longer…exists.”

Brad felt almost sorry for him. Kendrick had been born in the second-last century, in 1895. In 2001, when First Contact had occurred, he’d been dying in a nursing home, one hundred and six years old. He’d been born in Manchester, but the city had no longer been what he remembered, now that he had his memory back.

“If you want to join the army, now is the time to add your name to the register,” Kendrick concluded. Brad felt Sameena tense beside him, her hand in his. “Unfortunately” – he looked at Sameena and the handful of other medics – “medical people are not supposed to sign up. If you want to talk about it, see me later.”

The meeting broke up. Brad and Sameena wandered out into what had once been a supermarket. Now stripped of the food and supplies it had once shelved, it had been converted into a giant dormitory for refugees. They passed through the small beds, with thousands of people lying there, waiting for evacuation further north, and stepped out into the sunshine. For once, the skies were clear; the rain seemed to have stopped.

Sameena spoke first. “There used to be a school up there,” she said, waving a hand towards a road leading up a hill. “The Blue Coat School, for Christians, but I had a friend who went there. I wonder what happened to it.”

“Converted into a hospital or a command post, perhaps,” Brad said, not much interested. “Sameena…”

“You want to join up,” Sameena said. It was not a question. “Honey…”

“I’m not sure,” Brad admitted. “We did good work in Manchester, but we only trained in Manchester. We’ll be less useful in the future, in anywhere else and…”

“You can still drive, can’t you?” Sameena asked. She frowned. “You’re always useful, honey; you don’t need to prove yourself.”

“But I do,” Brad said. “Sarfraz is fighting, all I did was…”

“You fought in Rusholme,” Sameena pointed out. She sighed. “I know; stupid male pride.”

Brad sighed too. “I know,” he said. “I didn’t want to join the army seven years ago.” He paused. “Has it really been that long?”

Sameena’s eyes glistened with tears. “Getting sick of me already?” She asked. “I’m only twenty-five.”

“Twenty-six,” Brad snapped. “I love you, honey; It’s just…”

Sameena reached out and gave him a hug. “I love you,” she said. “One day, you will be the father of my children. If you get yourself killed doing this, I swear I’ll kill you.”

Brad hesitated, about to ask the obvious question, but he refrained. Instead, he held her close. “I have a few days to make up my mind,” he said. He paused. “Listen.”

A song echoed in the air, sung by one of the entertainers. Brad smiled; that had been one of the better ideas that the Government had ordered. Dozens of singers, actors, sports players and women of ill repute had arrived, including a handful of politicians. He held her close, hearing the song drifting through the still air.

“And whether the blood be highland, lowland or no.
“And whether the skin be white or black as the sloe.
“Of kith and of kin we are one be it right be it wrong.
“As long as our hearts beat true to the lilt of the song.”

“That’s lovely,” Sameena whispered. The old song seemed to shiver though the air, the deep male voice of the singer echoing. “You had better take good care of yourself, love; I want to grow old with you.”

Brad kissed her. It wasn’t the time for macho comments. “You too,” he said. “I’ll take very good care of myself – I promise.”

***
Sergeant Benton had been annoyed to see Anisa with Sarfraz, but Colonel Yates had agreed to make the arrangements to send her north today, to the military housing centre in Glasgow. The Colonel, who’d lost some of his own relatives in Bath, had understood.

“We have a serious problem,” Yates said. For once, there was no jiving in the ranks; they knew now just how dangerous the Posleen were. The 1st ACS Regiment had started with six hundred and fifty soldiers; now they had five hundred and seventy. Other units, the armoured divisions and the unsuited infantry, had suffered worse; entire units had just vanished under the Posleen boots.

Assuming the Posleen wear boots, Sarfraz thought. Yates had arranged for Anisa to wait in the CO’s office; it would have stirred up more trouble than anyone wanted for her to remain with Sarfraz. Sarfraz understood, intellectually, but he still worried. Anisa, Sameena and Brad were all he had left.

“As you know, several thousand civilians were evacuated to Liverpool before the Posleen cut the escape route,” Yates said. The AID-produced display showed how the Posleen movements, in red, cut off the blue escape route. Tactical icons, the dreaded red skull of a Posleen lander multiplied a thousand-fold, lay spangled around the motorway.

“Shit,” Derek breathed. There was a hum of agreement. Most telling of all, none of the senior officers bit his head off; proof that they agreed with him, at least in part. “They’ll massacre them.”

“Correct, Private,” Yates said. “In addition, General Amherst, who has set up his command post nearby, believes that the Posleen will seek to take Liverpool, just to cut of the line of supplies to the Sub-Urbs in Wales. The bastards are absolutely deadly on the coastlines; they’ll be able to cut the lines of supply. Most important, however, now that the Irish have thrashed their Posleen, we’ve been moving people from Liverpool and the nearby harbours to Ireland.”

“I bet the Irish are pleased about that,” John muttered.

“Silence in the ranks,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “I said silence, there!”

“They’re not,” Yates agreed. He shrugged. “However, that’s above my pay grade. The Civil Defence Corps and the Royal Navy, what’s left of it, is working as hard as it can, but Liverpool is not very far from the Posleen lines. All they have to do is march along the M62…and Liverpool will go into their mouths. Our mission, should we choose to accept it – of course, the other option is court martial – is to get into Liverpool and slow the Posleen down.”

A Captain coughed. “Will the armoured tanks be moving up along with us?” He asked. “We need anti-lander weapons.”

Yates nodded. The tanks are on their way already,” he said. “General Amherst pushed as hard as he could for them to be rearmed and sent the long way around, and the Marines have some tanks of their own…”

“Ah, the little fishes are in Liverpool,” someone said. “I bet they’ll sail away and leave us in the lurch.”

“No bet,” someone else called, before anyone could say anything. “Some of the Marines know what they’re doing.”

“Silence,” Yates said mildly. “The Marines are reinforcing the perimeter, supported by naval gunfire and several thousand artillery weapons. Unfortunately…naval gunfire will not last past the Posleen getting within HVM range; the frigates and destroyers might have some extra weapons added on, but their armour is sorely lacking. The modified Daring class, of which three will be in the battle, have good armour, but the Posleen have good weapons.”

He adjusted the map. “If everything goes to plan, we’ll be pulling the last of the civilians out in three to four days,” he said. “The trains and buses are doing what they can as well, but we’re having fuel shortages for the buses. Net result; most people will be leaving via ship for Ireland. Our mission is to hold out for a week, which is General Amherst’s own estimate.”

“Easy,” Derek said. “We’ll be back in time for tea.”

Yates smiled. “Are there any questions?”

“How long will it take us to get there?” John asked. The seriousness of his question made everyone chuckle. “My suit is still recharging.”

“We’re due to deploy in two days,” Yates said. “That should give us some time to prepare and run a few simulations, and time for the other units to arrive and join us here. I know – we could be there in a few hours, but they want us to have some chance of success when the Posleen come for us. Any other questions?”

Sarfraz lifted a hand. “Is there any news on reinforcements and replacements for those we lost in the recent battle?” He asked. “We’re going to need more people, sir.”

“There are no more suits,” Yates said grimly. “The three regiments and the special brigades are all we have until the Galactics, which means Fleet, can break back into Earth orbit.” He paused. “What that means, in case you’re wondering, is that if you lose your suit, you will be unarmoured – assuming you survive losing the suit in the first place.”

He smiled grimly. “Several of us have been nominated for the Victoria Cross,” he said. “We’ll have a formal presentation when we get out of Liverpool.”

***
Yates had, very quietly, allowed Sarfraz and Anisa some private time together in a private room. Their fears for the future had had an effect, pulling them together for the first time in too long. Sarfraz smiled as he looked down at her naked body; almost all of the regiment was out on the town or spending time with their loved ones, just before the deployment.

She smiled shyly up at him. “Was it good for you?”

“Magnificent, superb, fantastic…and that was just me,” Sarfraz said. She poked him in a delicate place. “You, on the other hand, were beyond compare.”

Anisa giggled, remembering their wedding night. They’d both been virgins; it had been a minor disaster, the first time. It had improved since, fortunately. Her body seemed to glow as she lay under him, feeling his body pressing against hers.

“You need to cool down,” she said, and giggled. “What now?”

“Another time?” Sarfraz asked, feeling his body stir. “Or do you mean for us?”

Anisa smiled. “Both,” she said, and opened her thighs. Afterwards, she pressed the question again. “What now for me?”

“You’re going to Edinburgh,” Sarfraz said. “Brad has relatives in Edinburgh who have agreed to take you in, for the moment. You’ll have to live with non-Muslims, but they’re good people.”

“So is he,” Anisa said seriously. “You’re not going to object to Sameena marrying him, are you?”

“Not more than formally required,” Sarfraz said. He grinned. “She’d kill me for daring to object.”

He smiled. He was, Islamic-speaking, Sameena’s guardian. Practically speaking, he could no more have stopped her from marrying Brad than he could have survived facing the Posleen stark naked – and he would have preferred the Posleen. They would only have eaten him.

“My new sister-in-law,” Anisa said. “You have better come back to me, husband – or our child will be fatherless.”

Sarfraz gaped at her. “What?” He asked. “What do you mean?”

Anisa sighed. “I felt that one hit the spot,” she said. “You’re going to be a father.”

Sarfraz frowned. His mother had once told him, in the lectures she’d given him before introducing him to their choice for a wife, that a woman could tell if she was pregnant. He’d thought that Anisa was on protection, the coil or the pill or an implant - he’d thought that…

“That’s wonderful,” he said, and meant it. “You had better take good care of yourself, understand?”

Anisa kissed him. “I understand,” she said. “You had better take good care of yourself as well, husband.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Marching to the Guns

Command Post
Liverpool, United Kingdom
1st April 2007

General Amherst was almost relived when the Posleen finally started moving, heading west towards Liverpool. The aliens had spent a couple of days sweeping up and down their occupied territories, clearly hunting down the remaining humans and adding them to the cooking pot. He didn’t know if the Posleen cooked their food, but there was no hope of a War of the Worlds scenario; the Posleen were immune to all terrestrial bugs .

He shook his head. There were so many questions about the Posleen; ones that he suspected would never be answered. They could – and did – eat humans; humans couldn’t eat them. They seemed to be immune to all human war gases; they didn’t use gas themselves, unless you counted the gas that had been released in Manchester when the sewage had begun to burn. Their technology was so much better than anything comparable to humanity’s; they didn’t make anything like as much use of it as humans would have – as Fleet was planning to use when they retook the high orbitals.

If they retake the high orbitals, Amherst thought, and felt a flicker of nervousness deep within his belly. He knew just how lucky he’d been to have escaped the fall of Manchester, and now he was in another trap; a city that only had boats to carry its people away from the rattrap. He scowled; nearly every major merchant ship – those that some God King hadn’t killed from orbit for no reason that a human could understand – had been drafted into the shipping. The logistics were appalling; it was worse than Dunkirk.

He smiled suddenly. Some of the people who’d made Dunkirk work had been rejuvenated and placed in command. They would do it, even if no one else would or could. Move thousands of people from the shore to the large boats; twenty minutes per trip. Move said large boat to Ireland. Move said empty large boat back again…

He stared at the map and shuddered. The distance between Liverpool and Manchester was roughly fifty kilometres, but the Posleen could cover that in an hour – if they were not stopped. The first line of defences were strung out along the A570, using the motorway as a common line of defence. The second line was along the M57, which was right at the edge of Liverpool itself.

He who would be strong everywhere is strong nowhere, he reminded himself. Unfortunately, there was little choice; they needed as much coastline as they could, and they had built powerful defences and – now that there were no longer any refugees coming from Manchester – powerful minefields. He shuddered; human troops would mutiny if ordered to clear a minefield with their bodies – the Posleen just went right ahead and did it.

Corporal Loomis coughed. “Sir, the Posleen are moving towards the first line of defence,” she said. “Do you have any particular orders?”

Amherst shook his head. “No, Stacy,” he said. He watched as the sensors updated the path of the Posleen, wishing that he had a few Himmit aliens under his command. The Himmit could sneak around like nobody’s business. “Notice how they’re developing their attack?”

Corporal Loomis looked up at the display. The Posleen were spreading out across a wide front, heading towards Liverpool, but pausing to overrun small villages and towns, and of course the handful of farms in the region. The Posleen would reach between Wigan to Warrington, both towns having been evacuated before the Posleen came for them.

“Bolton may have to be abandoned,” she said. Amherst nodded; Bolton had been serving as a refugee centre, but the new defence lines were further north. The Posleen would take a massive bite out of Greater Manchester, perhaps as far as Blackburn, before they were stopped. The SAS, which had people on the ground in the Peak District National Park, were reporting that the Posleen were probing towards Sheffield.

“Anything else?” He asked. Corporal Loomis had many important asserts, but she wasn’t a strategic thinker. “I was thinking about their movements.”

“They’re advancing on a broad front at walking pace, pretty much,” she said. She paused. “What the hell do they think they’re doing?”

Amherst frowned. “Scavenging for food was my first thought,” he said. “It’s possible, I suppose, that we got enough civilians out to make them hungry.” He scowled. It was too good to be true, or at least believed. He scowled down at the Galactic plot; one thing, at least, the Posleen landers couldn’t hide when they were moving.

“No,” he said. It was a single word and it froze the entire conversation. “They don’t want any of us to escape, not this time.” He scowled. “The Americans and our own survivors from Diess did warn us; the Posleen learn from experience.”

His hand traced arrows on the map. “They’re going to slam into the defences, battering them at every point along the line, and then they’re going to punch their way in.” He would have cursed, if he’d had the energy. “We have most of the people out of Southport, don’t we?”

Corporal Loomis nodded. “Yes, sir,” she said. “There’s just a couple of thousand left.”

“Order all of the ships heading here to get to Southport – no, pass it on to the guy handling the logistics,” Amherst ordered. “Southport is indefensible. The Posleen will be there in an hour or two at their pace, and I want the place empty before then.”

“Yes, sir,” Corporal Loomis said. She tapped orders into her PDA. “Orders sent.”

“Good,” Amherst said, thinking furiously. An idea had occurred to him. “Order the second defence line forward to reinforce the first.”

Corporal Loomis blinked at him. “Sir?”

“See to it,” Amherst ordered. “We have to hold the Posleen as far back from the city as we can. Pull in all the civilians to the docks, empty the suburbs, and then move the Marines to the edge of the city as well. It’s time to start moving faster.”

“Yes, sir,” Corporal Loomis said, having the sense not to argue further. “Anything else?”

Amherst glanced up at the map. “Surge the last aircraft from John Lennon and divert the others. The Posleen are too close for them to be allowed to continue flying.”

“Yes, sir,” Corporal Loomis said. “I’ll see to it at once.”

***
The Challenger-III had been beaten and battered by the Posleen, first in the advance and then in the retreat, but it had remained intact, more or less. Some quick work had repaired the damage and improved the armour, although the design teams had noted that it would be a while before the new Challenger-IV tanks – with stronger armour – arrived.

Given a completely free choice, Captain Bertha Demimonde would have preferred to be spending the day in bed with a hot young man, such as her driver. Of course, the British Army would have been very unhappy about such a relationship – and there was no proof that Corporal Joe Buckley would be even remotely interested in her. There were other men, of course, and Demimonde had an…interesting social life near the base, but instead she was stuck defending Liverpool.

She glared across the land towards the defence line. The Challenger-III wasn’t hidden; one thing they knew about the Posleen was that they had near perfect line-of-sight shooting. The SAS had lost several hundred snipers when firing at God Kings, just because of all of the Posleen opening fire on their position. She wasn’t certain how she thought about that; the minuscule protection of a dug-in tank, versus the ability to move rapidly.

Ahead of them, the infantry were dug in, preparing to stop or blunt a storm of Posleen. The alarms had been blaring for the past ten minutes and she was getting sick of the racket – she knew that the Posleen were coming. Lieutenant Tamara Shull, her gunner and sensor tech, had been reporting their anti-gravity emissions for the past fifteen minutes, the signs of an entire swarm of Posleen landers coming their way.

Behind them, the dug-in artillery began to fire, hurling thousands of shells towards the Posleen. Demimonde cursed suddenly; the hail of shellfire might start triggering the mines before the Posleen themselves started to run over them and detonate them. The Posleen were so unconcerned about their own fate that they would probably trigger the mines themselves, utterly unconcerned about the deaths – the unnecessary deaths.

General Haig could hardly be less concerned, she thought grimly, as the explosions began to echo ahead of them. The dark shapes of Posleen landers could be seen, the smaller Lamprey units rather than the bigger C-Decs or B-Decs. If she’d been commanding the Posleen force, she would have sent the landers in to finish off the humans on the ground, but instead…the Posleen just kept coming.

She scowled. In theory, there was a second defence line, but she wasn’t confident that the Marines would hold under the pressure of the Posleen. Inter-service rivalry aside - the Marines had done very well in the Falklands War and a lot of the veterans from that conflict had been rejuvenated – but they weren’t ready for the Posleen. The ACS units were around somewhere, but where?

“Stand ready,” she snapped, as the battle intensified. Her two subordinates scrambled to obey. “The shit is about to hit the fan.”

“Yes, madam,” Lieutenant Shull said. A born-again lesbian, someone who had taken care to hide that from the army authorities, who would not have been amused, Lieutenant Shull worked quickly. “The main gun is ready and we have one hundred anti-lander rounds.”

“Engine ready, madam,” Corporal Joe Buckley agreed. “We’re ready to move.”

“I’ll signal Colonel Goddard,” Demimonde said. “We have to kill as many of those fucking Lampreys as possible.”

Before they kill us through sheer weight of numbers, she thought. She determinedly left the though unspoken. The remains of the armoured division didn’t need more bad luck.

***
Corporal Matthew Barry felt sick, watching from his concealed nest as the Posleen raged by, heading for the defence line. He’d gone to great pains to build his little nest, but the sheer presence of the Posleen had nearly broken it open, nearly leaving him vulnerable. Nervously, he checked the explosive pack at his belt, enough explosive to utterly ruin his body and make it impossible for the Posleen to eat him.

“Control, there are thousands of the bastards,” he said. The swarm seemed never ending – and then they hit the minefield. The explosions, normal high explosive, shrapnel and Bouncing Barbie mines, ripped their way though thousands of Posleen, but they just kept coming. The minefields exploded and were silenced in minutes, even as the Posleen ran over them, charging at the defence lines, running over the bodies of their predecessors.

“They’re destroying the Barbie mines as well,” he said. It wasn’t a surprise; reusing the weapons depended on having time to hide them again, and the Posleen weren’t that stupid. Shells landed amid the mass, killing more and more, but they just kept coming. He blinked as a lander hovered overhead, firing HVMs at the defence line, and then saw his target.

Gotcha, you bastards, he thought, as the first God King appeared. He sighted through his rifle carefully, knowing that he would only have one shot, and fired once. The God King’s head exploded, even as the Posleen swung around to fire at him. He tried to roll out of the way, counting on the Posleen confusion when their God King died, but it was too late. Another God King was already giving orders, taking control of the swarm and redirecting it towards the imprudent human who had killed the first God King.

Shit, he thought, as the Posleen fired. The series of explosions killed him and scattered his body all over the ground.

***
Lieutenant Seth Fanaroff had no time to stare as the Posleen marched on, moving with slightly more care than normally as they closed in on the human lines. The brilliant streaks of HVMs being fired directly at the human position was blinding, he covered his eyes even as he started to fire his heavy machine gun, aiming directly towards the Posleen mass.

“Die,” he shouted. The Vickers machine gun he carried grew warmer in his hands as he fired, hosing down the Posleen forces. The sheer mass of the Posleen pressed them onwards, using their own dead bodies as shields, and they broke through the line. A Posleen brought its weapon around…and Lieutenant Seth Fanaroff was killed before he could react. The Posleen took a bite out of his body and pressed on.

***
Captain Bertha Demimonde cursed suddenly as the Lamprey closed in on them. “Loan anti-lander round,” she snapped. “Fire as you bear.”

“Firing,” Lieutenant Shull said. The Challenger shook as it fired a single shell directly into the Lamprey, which fell to the ground and exploded.

“Move us,” Demimonde snapped. Buckley didn’t hesitate; the tank was already moving just before a HVM slammed into their former location. “Fuck me, that was close.”

“I’d sooner not, if it’s all the same to you,” Lieutenant Shull said wryly. “Captain; incoming Lamprey.”

“Hit the bastard,” Demimonde snapped. The Challenger shuddered again as it struck the Lamprey, its companions opening fire at the same time. The landers paused in their drift forward – perhaps even the Posleen could not afford to spend them casually. Three more exploded, two falling onto the Posleen lines below.

“They’re coming at us along the ground,” Buckley snapped. Demimonde cursed at missing the Posleen advance, very un-Posleen-like. “Lieutenant, take them out!”

Shull didn’t even bother to argue, activating the machine guns and sweeping across the Posleen as they advanced. The Posleen fired back, missing them…and then a HVM slammed into the turret. The entire tank flipped over end over end, coming to a rest finally upside down.

Demimonde gasped in pain, carefully undoing her restraints and trying to move. Nothing was broken; the outside monitors were still working, revealing wave after wave of Posleen passing them. Something dripped down onto her, and she realised with horror that it was blood.

“Tamara?” She asked, and then realised that there was no point. Lieutenant Shull’s head was tilted at an odd angle; her neck was clearly broken. Corporal Buckley pulled himself up, trying to look closer, and then he finally shook his head.

“Dead,” he said grimly. He felt her pulse, but she could tell that there wasn’t anything coming from Lieutenant Shull any longer. He looked out of the portals and realised that they were trapped.

“I think this is when I’m supposed to tell you I’ve always loved you,” he said. Demimonde chuckled harshly. “They’ll find us soon in here, the way they’re probing around.”

“And we can’t run; they’ll see us and kill us,” Demimonde said. She checked her pistol, wishing that they’d been armed with something with more kick. “How’s your weapon?”

“Working, but it won’t do much against the Posleen,” Buckley said. “They’re checking the tanks now.”

Demimonde made a decision. “Come here,” she said, and pulled him into a harsh kiss. He seemed surprised at first, and then she felt the male desire to mate activate inside him as he kissed her back. “Now, take me!”

***
General Amherst cursed as the results of the sensors came in; the Posleen were punching through the lines as if they were made of paper. His men were fighting well, but they were too spread out to be of much use, fighting ruthlessly, but without the numbers necessary to make an impact on the Posleen.

“I think its time,” he said. Corporal Loomis nodded. Despite heroic effort, they hadn’t managed to move enough civilians from Liverpool to Ireland, or even to the Isle of Man. “Order the ACS to stand by to move in, to plug the Posleen as far forward as they can.”

“Yes, sir,” Corporal Loomis said. “Sir, it might also be time to unleash the neutron bombs as well.”

Amherst snorted. Parliament had finally, reluctantly, given them permission to use the enhanced radiation weapons if the situation was…desperate. In his view, the situation had passed ‘desperate’ some hours since, and was now at ‘hopeless,’ if not ‘commit suicide and save the Posleen the trouble.’

“Inform the special artillery,” he said finally. “Inform them that they are to fire at the targets I’ll designate, and only those targets.”

“Yes, sir,” Corporal Loomis said. “The ACS can operate within the radioactive environment, so they’ll be safe.”

Amherst nodded. He didn’t know how the Posleen would react to radiation and he wasn’t certain that he wanted to find out, but there was no longer any choice. If there had been more of the weapons, perhaps they could be used to win time, but he had only four warheads, one that would have to be held back for later use.

He stared at the map for a long moment. There was no longer any hope of relief; they would have to make their escape by sea, or die fighting at the wall. He checked the location of the assault rifles; if the Posleen came, he would die fighting.

“Corporal Loomis, you have to prepare for evacuation yourself,” he said. “You have a promising career ahead of you.”

Corporal Loomis shook her head. “I’m staying here,” she said firmly. “You’re going to need help, sir.”

***
Bertha Demimonde wasn’t a virgin, but the final desperate burst of lovemaking was something different. Joe – she could no longer think of him as Corporal Buckley – had taken the precaution of placing a grenade near them, and then he’d given her his full attention. As she cried out in delight, his thrusts bringing her to new heights of orgasm, she felt at ease for the first time since the war had begun.

“Oh God,” she cried out, as her third orgasm blasted through her. It was an uncomfortable position, but a bed in the finest hotel couldn’t have given her such an experience. She hardly noticed the scraping at the side of the tank as she came again, feeling him come inside her violently, his face tensed with the effort of giving her everything she could stand and a little more.

The Posleen normal didn’t have the intelligence to understand what was happening, nor what would happen when it stuck its head inside. As they came together, the Posleen lunged for them, triggering the grenade on the floor. The blinding explosion killed both humans and the Posleen for several meters around the crippled tank. The humans died happy; the Posleen…did not.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Leaving of Liverpool

HMS Chatham
Southport, England
1st April 2007

Captain Charles Haddock peered through his binoculars are Southport, just in time to see the final boats leaving the shore, heading for the countless ships lying offshore. He cursed; a desperate pilot had lifted off in a helicopter, only to be struck down by the bright lance of an HVM.

“They’re coming,” his exec said. Haddock nodded; the Posleen might not be very smart, but they were learning. If they employed all of their landers in attacks, rather than moving them around to avoid shellfire, they would have marched all the way to London by now.

“Idiots,” he muttered, as another helicopter exploded in the air. “They’re committing suicide.”

“What other choice do they have?” His exec said. A native of Southport himself, tears were running down his face as some Town Councillor, doubtless safe on one of the ships, pressed a button. In a tearing series of explosions, the entire town disintegrated. “My God.”

Haddock nodded grimly as the alien forms appeared on the beach. “Communications, signal to the remains of the flotilla,” he said. “Civilian ships to leave; military ships to open fire!”

Chatham shuddered as its guns opened fire. The frigate had been rearmed for the battle, even though it couldn’t hope to carry battleship-level armament. Machine guns and shells designed to cripple other ships or support troops on the ground opened fire, raking the Posleen horde.

“Do you think that Posleen can swim?” His exec asked. “I wonder if…”

Haddock wasn’t listening. “Move us back, now,” he snapped, as two landers came into view. “Order the Daring to engage.”

The new and heavily modified Type-45 frigate launched a missile at each of the landers. The landers returned fire with their point defence, hacking the missiles out of the sky, and then turning on the ships.

“Uh-oh,” Haddock muttered, before the landers opened fire. Three HVMs smashed into the Chatham and exploded within the hull. Seconds later, all that was left of the fleet was wreckage floating on the water.

Liverpool, England
1st April 2007

Corporal Loomis checked her PDA as the time ticked by. “The special weapons detachment reports that it is ready to fire units one to three,” she said.

Amherst nodded. “Pass me the radio,” he said. “This is General Amherst, declaring an Alpha Black; I repeat, Alpha Black.”

“This is Lieutenant Woolly,” the reply came back. “Alpha Black confirmed; targets designated for servicing. Weapons free?”

“Weapons free,” Amherst confirmed. “God save the Queen.”

***
A Handling Machine had dug a massive series of trenches for the second defence line, right through the M57, right within parts of Liverpool itself. Sarfraz, who knew that the Marines were taking up positions within the built-up areas of Liverpool, shuddered at the possible cost of a battle within the city itself.

The ACS reacted of its own volition as a hail of shells passed overhead, heading towards the Posleen lines. It plunged into the trench, flashing up red warnings in Sarfraz’s display. Protests echoed over the communications network, demands to know what was happening, all drowned out by the AID network.

“Main command has warned of nuclear release,” the AID said. “Corporal Sarfraz; you are warned that enhanced radiation weapons” – the ground shuddered violently – “have been deployed.”

The displays altered. A sleet of radiation glittered nearby. “Warning, the environment is now openly hostile to all forms of life for a short period.” Sarfraz thought of the Marines and shuddered; any protection would save them, but had they time to dig in. Had the Posleen had time to dig in? How many Posleen were in the landers? Were they safe there?

“Telemetry from spy-shells reports that many Posleen were dug in,” Yates said, and the entire platoon swore as one. “Silence,” Yates said. “We have five minutes; let’s make the most of it.”

***
The enhanced radiation weapons had been originally designed to deal with a Soviet armoured charge across Germany, the ultimate weapon against the hordes of tanks the Soviet Union could deploy. Hardly had the American scientists finished congratulating themselves on their ingenuity before the world’s left and the Soviet propaganda machine swung into action. Denounced as the ultimate capitalist weapon, one that destroyed personnel, but left property undamaged, the pressure forced the weapon to remain out of active service.

The world had been reluctant to build them, even after First Contact. It had only been after Fredericksburg that the British had started to build them, only to discover that they needed some elements from America to build them. The net result was that there were only a handful of the weapons – and if the Posleen were even slightly dug in, the weapons would be far less useful than they had hoped.
***
John was singing as the ACS unit carefully moved forward, leaving half of their number with the defensive line. The Posleen had overrun the tanks and half of the anti-lander weapons; if they’d pressed forward they might have overrun the rest of the weapons before the atomic weapons were ready to be deployed.

“Some are born with a silver spoon,
“Some are born without a clue,
“Some are born to take the biscuit,
“Some are born to just make do,
“When those fat cats drop the big one,
“They will turn a penny too,
“They will rent out nuclear shelters,
“We'll get one with an outside loo.”

It’s a good thing that the Posleen aren’t as smart as they could be, Sarfraz through grimly. If they used more than a handful of their landers, they might have been able to win the war in a day. As it was, the humans were teaching them new tricks, forcing them to learn. If they ever master coordinating their different units…

“There,” Derek said. They looked down and saw their first live Posleen since the warheads had detonated. Sarfraz scowled; the Posleen were gathered around the corpse of a God King, almost as if they were praying to it. The sight was far too reminiscence of Muslims at prayer for his pleasure. Even so, the Posleen were clearly in a bad way and he almost felt sorry for them.

“Fire,” he said quickly. A quick burst of fire from the plasma rifles they were carrying and the Posleen died rapidly. John was still singing, an almost mournful song.

“Ashes to ashes, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
“Ashes to ashes, let the rich man live, let the poor man bust.”

“Shut up, John,” Sarfraz snapped. “What’s that?”

They stared into the distance. The suits responded, using their sensors as binoculars and magnifying the view. Five landers could be seen, working their way through the desolation towards them; a massive force of Posleen could be seen, moving behind them.

“Uh-oh,” Derek commented, as the Posleen came on.

“They’re mad,” John protested. “The ground is still radioactive!”

“And getting less radioactive by the minute,” Yates snapped, over the radio. “Fall back; I’ll call in covering fire for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarfraz said. “Fall back, everyone; fall back.”

***
Corporal Loomis coughed. “Sir…”

“I saw,” Amherst said. He scowled; mad they might be – and the shells with cameras could find no sign of God Kings leading the charge – but the Posleen were coming on and on. What is meant was obvious; the Posleen were aware that the radiation was already fading, and were pushing on.

They’re mad, he thought. How could any foe take such losses and just keep coming? His mind shied away from the consequences; Posleen might be more resistant than humans, but they were coming on through a radiation cloud. Thousands of them would die over the coming weeks…and none of it would help his command.

“Are the other charges prepared?” He asked. “Are they ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Corporal Loomis said. She frowned. “Everything is ready.”

Amherst nodded. “This is your last chance to leave,” he said. “Are you sure you want to stay?”

“Yes, sir,” Corporal Loomis said. “It’s not as if I could escape now.”

“I suppose,” Amherst said. He shuddered; the videos of landers – Lampreys mainly – firing into helpless ships had reminded him of a computer game his son had used to play, before being conscripted. The War of the Worlds, he remembered; that had been what it had been called . He smiled at the irony.

“Order the Marines to hold as long as they can, then fall back to the docks,” he said. “The same goes for the ACS units; they’re to hold, then make their way out of here on a ship.”

***
The massive black shape of a Posleen lander shuddered as a shell slammed into it, hammering through its hull and sending it limping away from the battlefield before it crashed into the ground.

“It missed the Posleen,” Derek said. Sarfraz could only nod; the battle was raging against them and the Posleen were closing in. He fired a massive burst of machine gun bullets from the heavy gun, watching as they tore through the Posleen as if they weren’t there, and then more Posleen appeared, some showing the signs of radiation poisoning, and they just kept coming.

“Get down,” John snapped, seconds before a hail of HVMs blasted through the position. Sarfraz was blown end over end by the blast, shattering their defences and killing four of the armoured soldiers. “Sir, I think we’d better fall back.”

A second round of HVM missiles killed the anti-lander gun. “I think you’re right,” Yates said. “Prepare to fall back into the city.”

“I really hope that some of those buildings are safe,” John muttered. Sarfraz could only nod; parts of Liverpool were burning brightly. “Any particular location?”

“There are minefields directly behind you,” Yates said. Their AIDs displayed the location. “Proceed around the minefields, then head for the docks.”

Sarfraz winced. That order could only mean one thing; the battle was within shouting distance of being lost. He gave the orders and the remaining ACS units carefully disengaged, leaving the Posleen to the tender mercies of the King’s Regiment. He hoped that the Posleen would enjoy the experience; the King Regiment was based in Liverpool.

***
The original King’s Regiment (Liverpool) had been amalgamated with The Manchester Regiment to form The King’s Regiment (Manchester and Liverpool). When the Posleen came, and the sheer nature of the threat had become clear, the two regiments had been separated again, to provide a training cadre for the conscripts. In a very old style, partly due to the influence of rejuvenated veterans from the region, it was very much a ‘Pals Battalion;’ the soldiers knew one another even before the training had begun.

Sergeant Keith Barron smiled as the Posleen charged across the minefield. The Posleen had simply no way of clearing the minefield, short of their own bodies, and they made the German infantry look like cowards. The Germans in the Great War – which he remembered as if it were yesterday - had been careful to use artillery to clear mines, or at least send in the sappers first. The Posleen, on the other hand…

A spray of missiles shot over his head and he ducked sharply, reflexively. He muttered fire coordinates into his radio, marvelling again at the improvement in the system since his time. The shells started landing directly among the Posleen, angering them; they fired missiles madly into skyscrapers and tall buildings, trying to kill the spotters who were directing the shellfire.

Brighter than we were in 1942, Barron thought, as the Posleen hammered away at the lines, falling in their thousands. The British in Singapore should have been able to kill the Japanese commander, General Yashamati, by firing on the building from which he was directing the battle. Barron remembered the shame of those years, and the Posleen would do worse than simply starving the prisoners.

They’ll eat us, he thought, and checked the position of the grenade on his belt. If worst came to worst, he would destroy his own body, rather than allowing the Posleen to eat him. Another hail of shells ran overhead, aiming at the Posleen, and mashed up a developing attack before it could even begin.

“Hit,” he shouted, and cursed. The Posleen were brave, if bravery was a concept that even applied to them; they simply formed up and charged again. The King’s Regiment shuddered under their attack, but didn’t break. The Posleen would have to kill them all to break them, and the Posleen kept coming.

“I’m proud of you all,” he said. The King’s Regiment didn’t break; for one whole hour they held up the Posleen, holding them back from the docks and the final escape of the civilian population of the city. Their friends and relatives would have their chance to escape, even as the Posleen finally punched through. Finally, the Posleen killed every man where they stood.

“Goodbye,” Barron said, as a Posleen lashed out for him. He emptied his pistol into the monster’s mouth and leapt forward, triggering the grenade. The explosion destroyed both of them.

***
“They’ve broken through the line,” someone shouted. Instantly, there was panic; the 7th Royal Artillery (Liverpool) wasn’t a fighting unit. They’d done well, everyone knew, at firing at the Posleen, but without the King’s Regiment keeping the Posleen off their backs, they were almost defenceless. They wavered…and almost broke.

“Keep fucking firing,” Sergeant Henry Childers bellowed. “They’ll eat you if you run!” He paused to allow the gunners to calm themselves, even as the roar of the Posleen grew nearer. “Level your guns; canister fire!”

The guns, the smaller short-ranges guns, lowered themselves into position. The first Posleen came around the corner, weapon raised, and three guns fired at once. The Posleen was literally blown apart, and the shrapnel slashed through its companions. More guns fired, blasting directly into the Posleen, and forcing them back.

“Pull back,” someone snapped, as a Posleen locked a missile launcher onto their position. It was too late; the HVM missed the gunners, but hit the ammunition supply. The resulting explosion blew away yet another roadblock towards the docks.

***
The ACS regiment reformed near the docks. Sarfraz looked out at the ships, hundreds of car ferries and container ships, carrying passengers away to Ireland. The CDC was working hard, trying to control the panic, but the crowds were getting nervous. Civilians, those who hadn’t already fled, refugees from Manchester and soldiers who no longer had their weapons, as helpless as the rest.

“Colonel, what do we do?” He asked, as soon as the AID link to Colonel Yates was re-established. “Sir, where do we go to fight?”

Yates sounded very tired. “You don’t,” he said. “You’re cleared to hover over to HMS Invincible” – the AID blinked up an image of the ship – “and leave the fight.”

There was immediate protest. “Sir, we can still fight,” Derek protested. “Sir, we still have weapons and power and arms and…”

“Doesn’t some authority come with this Colonelship?” Yates asked acidly. “Corporal, the regiment cannot be wasted in a futile last stand. You are to leave, now.”

There was only one answer, Sarfraz knew, and it wasn’t ‘fuck you.’ “Yes, sir,” he said. “Come on, everyone.”

The crowd jeered them as the ACS units hovered over the docks and the water, heading directly towards the waiting ship. Even as they closed in, the handful of Royal Navy ships opened fire, aiming at the Posleen positions as the city burned behind them. The massive aircraft carrier didn’t join in; instead it set off at once, heading away from the Posleen.

“We should be back there,” John protested.

“I know we should be fucking back there,” Sarfraz snapped, losing his temper. “We have our orders and we will obey, understand?”

He’d half-hoped for John to start a fight, but instead he subsided. He watched as Liverpool faded away into the distance, explosions ruining the entire city and its human population. The Posleen would have no food in the city, not if the sappers had done their work well. If they hadn’t, well…Sarfraz was certain that they would find another chance to kill Posleen.

***
The position on the docks disintegrated as the Posleen broke through the Marines, the final line of defence. Humans fled everywhere, trying to get on one of the ships, jumping into the water and swimming away from the Posleen. The Posleen didn’t hesitate; they grabbed and captured humans for their food, breaking their legs to ensure that the thresh didn’t escape. Here and there, a brave soldier fought to the last, or destroyed his own body to prevent the Posleen from eating him.

General Amherst shut off the television with an oath. “It’s time,” he said. “Stacy, I was proud to serve beside you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Corporal Loomis said. Amherst flipped open the box on his desk and examined the control pad inside. It was chillingly simple; a four-digit code and a timer.

“Seven-four-three-seven,” he muttered, typing it in. “Time…Stacy, can you see how many Posleen are now in the city?”

“Thousands,” Corporal Loomis said. She flipped from sensor to sensor, camera to camera. “The Posleen seem to be slowing.”

“Probably worked out that resistance has collapsed,” Amherst said. “Any sign of them flowing out of the city?”

“Bastard,” Corporal Loomis hissed, as one camera showed a soldier raping a helpless civilian. “No, they seem to be sweeping for humans. I hope they get that bastard.”

Amherst found it impossible to disagree with the sentiment. “Five minutes, then,” he said, and tapped in the timer. There was a scrabbling at the door of the bunker. “Perhaps sooner.”

“Better change it quickly,” Corporal Loomis said. She picked up her sub-machine gun. “I think they’re coming.”

“It’s ready,” Amherst said, moving out of the line of fire. He felt inhumanly calm, preparing to push the big red button as soon as the Posleen broke in. The door crumpled inwards, Corporal Loomis opened fire, he pushed the button…and the world went white around them.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Stranglehold

Permanent Joint Headquarters
London, United Kingdom
5th April 2007

England was dying.

General Anderson blinked away sleep from his eyes and stared down at the map again. In the four days since Liverpool had fallen – or been reduced to radioactive debris, according to the few remaining in Opposition – the Posleen had expanded along the coastline, cutting the links to Wales. The Sub-Urbs were now thrown back on their stockpiled resources and fabricators, desperately hoping that the Posleen would run out of…well, Posleen, before they managed to force a breech.

And then, the Posleen had moved south. Most of the civilians from there had already been evacuated, both by ship to Ireland and Scotland, and even to London, using the trains to head north. Even so, the Posleen seemed to have shied away from confronting the defences of London, contenting themselves with capturing as many humans for food as they could.

They’re preparing a broad offensive again, he thought grimly, and shuddered. It was the same that they’d done at Liverpool, but on a much larger scale. They were learning to keep their landers moving, back and forwards, because several dozen had been wrecked by long-range shellfire, and it was making tracking them difficult. Some were heading down south, perhaps transporting troops around, others…were heading to Liverpool.

“Perhaps they mean to hit Ireland,” he muttered to himself, and scowled. The Irish had done well, they’d crippled the Posleen in Ireland and crushed them, but at a deadly cost. They would be defenceless if the landers hovered over the Irish Sea to land troops again, something that hadn’t been observed until the Posleen arrived on Earth.

He shook his head absently. That was a question for the politicians, and he was due to meet the Prime Minister later in the day. For the moment, he returned to checking through the SAS reports; the Posleen were digging in and sweeping the territory they held, looking for humans. There were so many of them that there were only a handful of places to hide, most of them well out of the way.

“Penny for your thoughts?” General Mathews asked. “There’s going to be a service for Amherst before the meeting.”

“There should be a service for everyone,” Anderson snapped. He tapped the map. “Do you see what’s about to happen?”

He watched as Mathews studied the map with interest. “They’re going to jump to Ireland?”

“It looks that way,” Anderson agreed. He indicated the skull-icons of the Posleen landing craft. “However, they’re also preparing for a major offensive into London.”

Mathews swore. “Are you certain?”

Anderson laughed bitterly. “As certain as I can be of anything,” he said. “The sensor network has been tracking anti-gravity emissions of landers moving all over the place, perhaps helping them to consolidate, but there are clearly more and more Posleen moving into their positions near Oxford – and digging in.”

“They’re scared of more radiation weapons,” Mathews muttered. “How does this translate into an attack on London?”

“All the refugees are going to London, from their point of view,” Anderson said. “Now they’ve occupied Manchester-Liverpool-Bath, they have to move against the largest remaining area in the south; London.”

Mathew’s voice was cold. “It takes less than a day to drive to London,” he said.

Anderson shook his head. “It’s not that bad,” he admitted. “There are nearly two million soldiers dug in around London, up as far as Oxford. The Posleen, however, are going to come at us in a single very broad frontal offensive, hammering us into the ground by sheer weight of numbers. From Oxford to Newbury to Southampton, they will come for us.”

Mathews hesitated. “Southampton hasn’t fallen yet,” he protested.

Anderson tapped the icons on the display; Posleen…units moving toward Southampton. “It will,” he said grimly. “Sir, is there any chance of getting authority to release nuclear warheads?”

Mathews shook his head. “Liverpool was a special case,” he said. “Parliament has its collective head in the ground.”

Anderson slammed his hand down on the table. “Fuck it,” he snapped. “Do they have any idea how many troops have lost their lives in this fucking war? One fucking week since the bastards landed and nearly a million soldiers dead!”

“Silence,” Mathews said. “They are the duly elected leaders of this nation.”

“My God,” Anderson said. “Do we even deserve to survive?”

“Don’t go there,” Mathews advised. “You’re the strategist; what do you suggest we do?”

Anderson glared at him, then returned his gaze to the map. There was a possible solution, but it was desperate. In fact, desperate was too mild a word for it, and the political leaders would hate it. It also needed total commitment…and depended upon a dangerous unknown.

He said as much. “I don’t think that Parliament will go for that,” Mathews said. “Let alone the Prime Minister.”

Anderson shook his head. “We have one million, more or less, killed in action,” he said. “That, by the way, includes units of modified tanks and APCs that will require several months, at best, to rebuild, and two hundred utterly irreplaceable armoured combat suits. In addition, we have around two million injured, which leaves us with an effective strength of four million, many of whom are second-line or third-line units.”

He took a breath. “The civilian death toll is estimated at four million, which I suspect is very conservative,” he continued. “Almost everyone within the Posleen occupied zone is dead meat, literally. That’s not counting Aberdeen, or the other deaths from orbital bombardment, or those who fell prey to human monsters on the retreat. When the Posleen come for London, sir, that toll will probably double; you know how many people are crammed into the city.”

“To the Posleen, it must look like a four-course banquet,” Mathews said.

“The population of Britain, before the war, was estimated at sixty million, more or less,” Anderson said. “The estimates ranged from fifty-four million, to sixty-one million. Of those, twenty million have been cramming into the Scottish Sub-Urbs, or have been training to take their place in the army. Another five million have gone into Wales, and, quite frankly, I’m not confident that the Sub-Urbs there can hold out.”

Mathews nodded. “There’s a nuclear demolition charge under the Sub-Urb,” he said. “If it falls, at least they won’t get the meat.”

“That means that there is still something like twenty-five million people running around,” Anderson said. “Some are in the army, but you know just what effect the Posleen have had. The communications network, which was supposed to be undetectable and indestructible, is reeling. The transport network is pretty much crippled…and the Posleen are advancing on London. Once London goes, that’s the end of the ball game for England.”

“You spent too long in America,” Mathews said. “I can’t make the decision you need; only the Prime Minister can do that.” He smiled. “So, let’s go see him, then.”

“Now?” Anderson asked in surprise. “What about the service?”

“This is more important,” Mathews said. “Come on.”

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
5th April 2007

Watching the honourable Luaky Commer driven away by the refugees had delighted the Prime Minister, but the news of Liverpool had shocked him to his soul. The MPs hadn’t been happy either; some independent MPs had introduced bills forbidding the use of further nuclear weapons on British soil. They had been voted down, but it had been closer than the Prime Minister liked to think. Absently, he cursed the ITV reporter who’d broadcast images of the dead Posleen, even if many people had cheered the sight.

How long until they come here? He asked himself, and shuddered. There were thousands of refugees in London, utterly overloading the CDC. The streets were policed by reinforced military policemen, and even they had been unable to keep the tensions off the streets. To be fair, thousands of refugees had signed up with the army, but how much formal training could they receive in the time before the Posleen came?

“Prime Minister?” His secretary said. He’d sent his wife up north to the Sub-Urbs, relying on Daniel Morgan to look after her. Morgan wasn’t a bad sort, not in his way; he was confident that he would take care of her.

“Yes, Syeda?” He asked. His Asian secretary smiled faintly at him. “What’s happened?”

“That was the PJHQ,” she said. “Salisbury has fallen.”

The Prime Minister nodded. The Posleen were pushing south, heading down towards the coast through very little opposition as the British forces converged to unite around London. Several isolated units had been destroyed, right to the last man; the Queen couldn’t keep up with all the posthumous awards and knighthoods.

Keep her busy and not scheming to get off-planet, the Prime Minister thought, with a sharp edge to his thought. A lifetime in the Labour party had left him very anti-monarchical, even though it had had to be moderated with the Posleen on the way. Now that Salisbury had fallen, the Posleen could take Bournemouth and Southampton, and cut two more ports from the available destinations for refugees.

“Inform the Emergency Commissioner on the Isle of Wight,” he said. “He probably already knows, but he has to seal the island and take on as many soldiers as he can.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Syeda said, with a little curtsy. “Prime Minister, the two generals are nearly here for their appointment.”

The Prime Minister smiled grimly. The area around the Houses of Parliament and Downing Street had been kept clear of refugees. Buckingham Palace had been converted into a refugee centre at his direct order.

“Send them in as soon as they arrive,” he said, and returned to his work. Even with a united War Cabinet, there was so much to do and he felt…tired. No British Prime Minister, even Chamberlain, had ever presided over such a large disaster, and it would only get worse. He was grimly certain of it; the reports from France and Poland were not encouraging, even though both of them had more manoeuvring room than Britain had. And as for China…

The Prime Minister knew that he was too tired, but what other choice was there?

“Prime Minister, General Mathews and General Armstrong are here,” Syeda said. The Prime Minister blinked; had he dropped off to sleep for a few minutes? It didn’t seem likely, but…?

“Send them in,” he said, and pulled himself to his feet. “Can you bring in extra strong coffee as well?”

He shook the hands of both men and waved them to seats. The coffee came in and both men made appreciative noises; coffee was becoming more and more of a rarity as the Posleen overran the places that grew it. In time, the Prime Minister was certain, the Sub-Urbs would start growing their own, but that would be a long time off.

“What can I do for you?” He asked finally. “Have they started moving on London?”

Anderson spoke first, which was unusual. Normally, anyone from the MOD would let the senior speak first. “England is dying,” Anderson said flatly.

The Prime Minister nodded slowly. “You see no hope, then?” He asked. “We should just blow up the country and call it a draw?”

His tiredness wasn’t unnoticeable, sadly. “England is dying,” Anderson repeated, and ran though the reasons. The Posleen advance across the land towards London, which held a rich crop of…food. The ruined transport network, trapping thousands of civilians near the Posleen. The loss of the industries in the North West. The slaughtered troops and – worse – the lost equipment.

“I know about that,” the Prime Minister said. “What do you think the Posleen will do?”

“Two things,” Anderson said. Beside him, Mathews stirred, not unnoticed by the Prime Minister. “First, I think that they will try again for Ireland. They’re moving too many landers into Liverpool for it to be anything else. If they wanted to challenge the Preston-Blackburn-Bradford-Leeds line, they would be moving them to Manchester.”

The Prime Minister sighed. “What can we do about that?” He asked, feeling despair flickering through him. “Is there anything we can do?”

Anderson nodded. “We can send them some additional anti-lander weapons,” he said. “Several thousand of our troops were evacuated to Ireland, so they can reinforce the Irish defenders. Other than that, there’s very little we can do.”

He tapped the map. “For the moment, the bastards are consolidating their position for a charge at London,” he said. “Although its difficult to be certain, I think they’re moving to cut off further escape, by taking the ports, and then preparing to hit us along a broad front. Sir, they will come…and they will take London.”

The Prime Minister narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain?” He said. “There is no way to hold London?”

Anderson met his gaze. “Even if we used our entire nuclear arsenal, we would still have problems,” he said. “Not least, of course, with fallout drifting across the land. Quite frankly, even with two million men, we cannot be strong everywhere. And, of course, many of the best units have already been lost. They will punch through the borderlines” – his hand traced movements on the map – “and surround London, assuming that they don’t just charge in and butt their heads against us. Once they seal London…there will be nothing closer than Newcastle that could break through them, and they won’t be there in time.”

The Prime Minister put his head in his hands. “Then there’s no hope,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”

“There is one thing we can do,” Anderson said. “We have a defence line north, one intended to prevent the Posleen from entering Scotland and menacing the Sub-Urbs. If we concentrate on building Hadrian’s Wall – where the defence line is supposed to be – into a really formidable defence line, one built using everything we’ve learned from Liverpool, Manchester and a hundred other battles, we can hold the Posleen and stop them flat.”

Mathews coughed. “We would be pulling everything and everyone north of Preston into that line,” he said. “We did have a contingency plan for building the line, but it will take months to complete.”

The Prime Minister felt a glimmer of hope. “How long will it be before the Posleen reach the line?”

Anderson coughed. “If the Posleen were fighting in London, perhaps even fighting house to house, they would be delayed. I don’t care how powerful they are; fighting in London would really hammer them and weaken them, and they would need time to gather the…fodder.”

“You want us to hold out in London while the defence line is built,” the Prime Minister said. “The Scottish Parliament is going to love that.”

“We are at war,” Anderson said flatly. His voice became grim. “Some of our best generals are dead; others have been killed before they had a chance to become great. Even if the plan works and Scotland is saved, the death toll is going to be horrendous. The Scottish Parliament, with all due respect, can go to hell.”

The Prime Minister, unexpectedly, laughed. “I’m going to send you to oversee construction of the line,” he said. “Perhaps you could tell them that to their face. Bring in the CDC people who escaped Manchester and Liverpool; conscript the builders in…Newcastle and Carlisle.” He hesitated. “What about the seven Handling Machines in London?”

“They may as well stay here,” Anderson said. “There are five in Preston, and three more that were supposed to have been moved to Newcastle, along with some of the reconfigured tanks.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Final dumb question,” he said. “What about the ACS regiments?”

“A week of fighting has proven hard on them,” Mathews said. “The 1st was ordered out of Liverpool by General Amherst and…took it badly. Colonel Yates knocked some heads together and put them back in shape. The 2nd took heavy losses near Salisbury and is falling back on London. The 3rd has been based in Scotland and has missed out on the war so far.”

“Keep them for your wall,” the Prime Minister ordered. “Coordinate your efforts with Daniel Morgan; he’ll be the next Prime Minister.”

Both men gaped at him. Mathews spoke first. “Prime Minister?”

“I’m not going to leave London,” the Prime Minister said. “You know what’s buried under London; I have to stay here.”

“Sir?” Anderson asked.

“Later,” Mathews said. “Sir…Prime Minister, are you certain that…?”

“Perhaps I made the wrong decisions,” the Prime Minister said, speaking more to himself than to them. “I could have defied Parliament; I could have dropped the bomb. I chose…to believe that the Posleen were just funny-looking humans, rather than flesh-eating monsters out of bad science-fiction.”

“Sir, no one expected it,” Mathews said. “Sir…”

“My mind is made up,” the Prime Minister said. “Whatever happens, I’m staying in London.”

“It will be a honour to stay by your side, provided it’s in a bunker,” Mathews said. “You’re not the worst Prime Minister we ever had.”

The Prime Minister smiled thinly. “Damning with faint praise?” He asked. “Any Posleen that tried to bite Margaret Thatcher would have broken its teeth on a rivet.”

Anderson sniggered rudely. “Sir, it could have been Chamberlain. He would have tried to appease the Posleen.”

“Perhaps,” the Prime Minister said, feeling his tiredness return. This time, it brought friends; apathy and depression. “General Anderson, ensure that the Irish get what help we can send them,” he said.

“The Type-45 frigates didn’t work out in practice,” Anderson said. “The First Sea Lord was not amused.”

“That man’s a danger to shipping,” Mathews commented. “Sir, we’ll just have to try to keep ships out of the Posleen line of sight.”

“See to it,” the Prime Minister said. He smiled bitterly. “Send the First Sea Load – sorry, the First Sea Lord – to me if he complains. The navy can send the rest of its Marines to join your line, General.”

“Thank you, sir,” Anderson said. He sighed. “Why couldn’t it have been Harry Turtledove’s lizards? We’d have had them in zoos within a week.”

Chapter Thirty: Picking Up Lives

Edinburgh, United Kingdom
7th April 2007

Of all of the major cities in the United Kingdom, Edinburgh had probably suffered the least from the Posleen, even though it was playing host to thousands of refugees. The castle, famous for holding off invaders, hadn’t been targeted from orbit before the Posleen landed, and the city was almost as it had been before First Contact.

Anisa found it relaxing. The city might have thousands of refugees, but arrangements had been made – for once – well in advance; the Lothian Council had handled the matter fairly well. There had been a lot of grumbling about interference from something called the Scottish Parliament – the first she’d heard about it – but by and large the city had everything well in hand.

“More tea, love?” Mrs Doris asked. Mrs Doris, an aunt of Brad, had been delighted to take her in, along with three smaller children who’d lost their parents. The council had asked for people to take in refugees and many of them had; she had been very relieved when a Scottish couple had taken her in. Many of the Asian families had only been willing to take in people from their own subgroup – and had not had the best of intentions for doing that.

To be fair, of course, everyone had done that. The older boys, those that had not been recruited into the army at once, had often been left in the refugee camps, supervised by the police and a handful of famous sports stars. They’d all trooped out to see Manchester United playing Hearts at Murreyfield, before enjoying a picnic on the green. The rations weren’t as much as she would have preferred, but as a pregnant mother she was entitled to more than she could reasonably eat.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully. Minding the adopted children – the Doris children had all left the nest long since, apart from one girl who was training to be a nurse – was what she did while she was there, helping the family as much as she could. Mrs Doris had been more than willing to teach her some Scottish foodstuffs; Asian spices were in short supply after the Posleen had had their Indian takeaway.

She shook her head sadly. She was worried about Sarfraz, more than she dared say. His last email had referred to them leaving Liverpool, where several radiation weapons had detonated. She’d been very relieved when she realised that she could have gone there; the police had insisted that all refugees be checked for radiation poisoning, hosing down the refugees in the streets.

“Don’t do that, Nancy,” she said suddenly, as the seven-year-old played with her food. The Doris family got an increased ration as a host family, one that kept them alive and healthy.

“Ah, you’re going to be a bonnie mother,” Mrs Doris said. “Are you going to be cooking something with me for the street eating party?

Anisa didn’t make the obvious joke. It had been funny the first couple of times, but like a normal joke, it had lost its humour through repetition. “It’s harder to cook anything unique,” she said, running her mind through the list of ingredients doled out to the Asian population, the handful of remaining spices and Halal meat.

“All that matters is that people have food,” Mrs Doris said. She smiled at her; the street parties were an attempt to make a small food supply stretch further. Someone who coordinated such a system could make a feast from the combined rations, and as it was officially encouraged, the council helped out, normally by encouraging the police to provide some assistance and some of their rations.

“A shame that alcohol is prohibited,” Mr Doris said. Anisa, who knew perfectly well that several people had been running illegal stills to supply people who couldn’t live without their drink, didn’t answer. “How about a nice curry?”

There was no malice in his words. Mr Doris seemed to forget that the world was there half the time, concentrating on his gardening. “There’s no coconut milk,” Anisa said thoughtfully, “but we could just leave that out, perhaps making some basic Nan bread or even a little rice.”

“Hardly any rice,” Mrs Doris said. “I was thinking a basic cake myself, a nice sponge cake that would go a long way.”

“The flowers are dying,” Mr Doris said suddenly. “Hitler’s forces have killed the flowers.”

They waited to see if he would say anything else, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry about him,” Mrs Doris said, and Anisa could see the agony in her voice. It was supposed to be summer, but the effects of the bombardment left the skies cloudy and dark. “He’s not right any longer.”

“It’s not a problem,” Anisa said, reaching out to comfort the old woman. “It’s ok.”

She’d faced racism, overt and covert, and nearly been raped. She could cope with a man who was slowly slipping into senility. She would live, until Allah called her home.

“We’ll get started this afternoon,” Mrs Doris said. “Let me know if you want anything, then go email your husband and exchange loving messages.”

Anisa blushed slightly. “Thanks,” she said, and meant it. “Thank you for everything.”

***
Rupert Fisher had not been called back to service to fight in the war. As a former police officer, he had been recruited back into the police force, but then he’d been assigned as a community leader and assistant. The kind of person who helps people to help themselves.

He sipped his mug of tea – more accurately a tea substitute since India and China had been overwhelmed by the Posleen – and watched as several dozen people milled around the street, eating from a number of dishes. The food was a mix, as always, from bacon rashers to vegetable curry. Potatoes, at least, were not in short supply; nor, to the horror of the children, was broccoli.

He grinned. The children, at least, were being entertained by a local magician. Even as he watched, a rabbit came out of a hat, much to the delight of the children. The magician clearly decided to make the best of it, claiming – of course – that he’d meant to do that all along. Fisher winked at him as the cheering grew louder; the magician took a bow.

“Put that away, Alf,” he said, spying Alf Garden drinking from a flask. The fumes of the home-brewed alcohol could be smelt at long distance. The senior – often very senior in age – policemen might take a blind eye to private drinking, but drinking in public was something else.

“Spoilsport,” Alf said, and quickly hid his flask. Fisher watched as he took some curry from an Asian girl and scampered off to one of the tables to eat. He smiled at the girl, noticing her for the first time, and chattered to her for a while. Their own people had taken in most Asian refugees, so he was curious.

“They didn’t want a married girl,” she explained, as she served him some chicken – at least, he hoped it was chicken. “Too independent; too unreliable.”

“I thought that you people were reliable,” he said. “I’m Rupert, by the way.”

“Anisa,” she said, holding out a hand. He shook it gravely. “They wanted people who could help out, and as a married women my duty is to my husband, and so…”

“They couldn’t marry you off to their sons,” Fisher guessed.

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” Anisa said. Fisher laughed. “Do you like the curry?”

“Very nice,” Fisher said. The curry was spicy; the Nan was warm. “Why no sauce?”

“Couldn’t find the coconut milk,” Anisa said. Fisher, who knew that many items could only be found on the black market, nodded grimly. “The people who said that they had it wanted payment in carnal ways.”

“Bastards,” Fisher said. He made a mental note to hunt up the black marketer who’d tried that trick. He paused. “What does a Posleen look like in real life?”

Anisa shook her head. “I never saw one in real life,” she said. She shuddered. “All I remember is the fear and terror of running from them, seeing the explosions that marked where they were.”

“I understand,” Fisher said. “Good luck. Where is your husband?”

“The 1st Armoured Combat Suit regiment,” Anisa said. “Beyond that…I really don’t want to know. I worry enough about him as it is.”

Fisher nodded as a singer struck up a version of Rule Britannia. The crowd showed their appreciation by hurling bits of food and drink at him. “Stop that,” Fisher bellowed. “Excuse me.”

He barrelled his way through the crowd. The last thing they could afford to do was waste food. “Jack, stop throwing that food,” he snapped, regaining control. “Don’t you know there’s a war on?”

Command Base
Newcastle, England
7th April 2007

The journey northwards had been nightmarish, even though Sergeant Kendrick had pulled strings to keep Brad and Sameena – and the other couples in the Civil Defence Corps – together. The Posleen had raged against Liverpool, poked small raids up towards Preston, and scared hundreds of thousands of people. Despite the best efforts of Sergeant Kendrick and the Civil Defence Corps, public order was breaking down.

“I heard that there are people surviving in the Peak Districts,” Brad said, trying to keep warm. The room was freezing cold, even though it was April. English weather had been going funny before the Posleen arrived, and now it was tipping badly towards an eternal winter.

He scowled. If the Posleen ever managed to complete the invasion of Earth, it would never be illuminated by sunshine again.

“Idiots,” Sameena said. She cuddled close to him, trembling with the cold. “The Posleen will get them.”

“I know,” Brad said. He kissed her, wishing that they were alone. Sex might warm them up. “I wish…”

“I know,” Sameena said. She’d had amorous thoughts as well. “I know what you meant, love.”

“Thank you all for coming,” Sergeant Kendrick said. “As you know, it was intended that most of you – having applied for the army – would be trained in army procedures.” He smiled darkly. “Unfortunately, the Civil Defence Corps has been recruited for something else, something apparently more important that fighting.”

There was a stir. “I will now introduce you to General Anderson, who will explain the matter to you,” he said.

General Anderson was tall and thin, wearing a basic army uniform. His face was tired and worn, but carried no scars, not even a shaving scar. Rear-echelon mother fucker, Brad thought coldly; clearly Anderson was nothing like Amherst, who’d fought to the death in Liverpool.

“We have a serious problem,” Anderson said. “Eventually, the Posleen will come north, heading towards Scotland…and there will be nowhere left to run. They have already killed millions of us humans – and they will kill the rest of us in Scotland.”

“Then lets hang ourselves now and save the effort,” someone muttered, loudly enough to be heard.

“I have a better idea,” Anderson said firmly. “We have one final throw of the dice, one last chance for victory. If we lose the industries we have established in the north – game over. Therefore, we must not lose those industries.” He pointed a hand at a map, indicating a red line running from cold Newcastle to Gretna Green, where couples had once run away to be married. “I will give ten points to Pornwatcher for the person who can tell me what this line is.”

There was an immediate buzz, mainly over what Pornwatcher was. “It’s Hadrian’s Wall,” someone said finally. “Sir, what’s Pornwatcher?”

“Never mind,” Anderson said firmly. “We’ll sort that out later. Now, as it happens, Hadrian’s Wall – the original – is no good for stopping the Posleen; most of it is in ruins. However, we are going to build a new Hadrian’s Wall; one that can stop the Posleen.”

Brad gaped at him. “Are you suggesting building a line of defences two hundred miles long?”

“More like one hundred and seventy-five kilometres long,” Anderson said grimly. “We have the ability to build it; we have hundreds of people here, tons and tons of cement, several Handling Machines and plenty of firepower to put on the line.” He sighed. “I won’t lie to you,” he said. “This will take a very long time indeed.”

Hadrian’s Wall, Brad thought. “Sir, how long do we have to build it?” He asked. “The Posleen might be willing to challenge us before we’re ready.”

“I know,” Anderson said. “It will take at least a month of massive effort by nearly five hundred thousand people to develop the wall. Hopefully, we’ll have two months at least – the Posleen are eyeing Ireland and London – but we should have time.”

“We’ll be integrating Newcastle into the defences,” Sergeant Kendrick injected. “It will probably end up being the weakest link in the defences.”

“I wonder what they want with you,” Brad muttered to Sameena.

“Perhaps a medical position on the line crew,” Sameena said. “I don’t think I could bear to be parted from you again.”

She said that loud enough to be heard. “That’s pretty much what you will get,” Kendrick said. There were some good-natured chuckles. “Now, let’s get started, shall we?”

***
Two hours of heavy work later, Brad was grimly certain that the line would never be finished in time. He understood, in part, that that was the result of crippling tiredness, but it seemed impossible to make an impression in the ground.

“Look out,” Sergeant Kendrick shouted. Brad pulled himself out of the way of a Handling Machine, watching as the machine sucked in dirt and replaced it with compressed concrete. Thousands of bulldozers and lorries worked endlessly, working on building the line.

“We’ll have a bunker there,” Anderson said. Brad smiled, even though the aches and pains; the prefabricated bunkers were being brought forward on the rail lines, now that the east coast line was defunct. The Handling Machine had dug the first trench line, now the cranes lowered the prefabricated unit into the trench.

It was the wrong way round. Anderson shouted curses and insults at the crane driver and the entire bunker was picked up and carefully put in the right place. Brad smiled as a Handling Machine poured in more cement, preventing a single shock from blowing it out of the ground.

“Now, start putting in the tunnels,” Kendrick shouted. Brad leapt to obey, watching grimly as a network of tunnels was laid, then covered with dirt by the Handling Machine. The Posleen were large monsters; they would never be able to fit into the tunnels, and the humans could reinforce trenches with ease.

“A mile completed,” Kendrick pronounced, as the team ended work for the day. Brad nodded tiredly; he'd developed aches in muscles he hadn’t known he had. Perhaps it was possible, after all; there were thousands of men working all along the length of Hadrian’s Wall.

They’ll just keep adding to it and adding to it until the Posleen come, he thought, as he staggered back to the mobile home that had been provided for the two of them. He wished for a shower, but there wasn’t enough water for that. He collapsed into a chair and closed his eyes.

He was woken, sometime later, by Sameena. “What’s happened?” She asked. “What happened to you?”

Brad blinked. He could still hear the noise of the construction works and dimly realised that there was a second team at work. “Hard work,” he muttered, and closed his eyes again. His body felt unnaturally stiff. “How was your day at the office, love?”

“Stand up,” Sameena ordered. Brad tried and finally managed it; his body, which had once been in pretty good shape, hurt like hell. “What were you doing all day?”

“Digging and moving and sorting and…”

Sameena was rubbing her hands all over his back. “You’re all stiff,” she snapped. “Here.”

She started to undress him, pulling his trousers and boxers off without difficulty, and then taking more care with his shirt. Even in the cold, it had been so hot when they’d been working, hot enough to make them sweat. Her hands ran over his body, poking gently at knotted flesh, and then she smiled.

“You stink,” she said. Brad was too tired to be annoyed. His body had been covered in sweat during the working period. “Lie down on the bunk.”

Brad moved slowly, gently. “What are you going to do to me?” He asked. “What are you doing?”

“This is not proper massage cream,” Sameena said, as he lay on his front. “It’s what you need, love.”

Brad didn’t argue as her hands began to knead the back of his head, moving down to his back and buttocks slowly, tantalisingly. “I was cleaning up accidents all day,” Sameena said. “What you’re doing is clearly high risk.”

There was a mechanical screech from a machine. Brad tentatively identified it as a Handling Machine, cursing the idiot who’d given the machines limited personalities, or at least a semblance of them. They were…too human at times, just strange enough to remind humans that they were anything, but human.

“I’m glad you’re not there,” he said, sincerely. “It’s far too easy to be worried about you.”

Sameena kissed the back of his neck. “That’s what you’re there for,” she said wryly. “That, and paying the bills.”

“I always wondered what you saw in me,” Brad said. He yawned as she helped him to turn over, applying her fingers to his legs, massaging them slowly and taking out the knots one by one. He was too tired to be aroused, even when she kissed him once, shockingly, on his penis.

“Poor dear,” Sameena said. She held him gently. “I think you’d better have something to eat, and then go to bed.”

Brad laughed tiredly. It was almost a giggle. “Yes, mother,” he said. “I’ll eat all of my greens.”

He closed his eyes again and fell asleep. Sameena kissed him tenderly on his cheek and lay down beside him. Smiling, she fell into sleep beside him, holding him for the night. It would be another big day tomorrow; even the noise of the construction, continuing throughout the night, did not disturb them.

Chapter Thirty-One: Spy Stuff

HMS Invincible
North Sea
14th April 2007

A journey that should have taken less than a day had stretched into two weeks as a result of the Posleen. The original plan had been for the Invincible to deliver its civilian refugees to Ireland, and then head to the docks at Portsmouth. By the time it was realised that the Posleen were happily firing at anything in the English Channel, from both sides of the Channel, the carrier had to turn around and return around the other side of Britain, finally coming into dock at Great Yarmouth. It had taken time and effort for the navy to build the dock, but in the end it had been worthwhile.

Sarfraz shook his head as the carrier finally came to a stop. The Regiment had nearly broken apart over the retreat from Liverpool; some men had wanted to go back and fight, others had been quietly determined to avoid a useless fight. By the third time the carrier had to retreat from the Posleen, the morale was at rock bottom, and the ship was starting to suffer.

Colonel Yates, to be fair, was old and wise enough to let the men blow off some steam, before forcing a new training regime on them. The government researchers had learned a great deal from the Posleen attacks, including some interesting details about their lander-infantry coordination. By and large, they claimed, it was non-existent; the times that both had tried to attack together had been caused by the relative smallness of the battlezone, rather than any coordinated plan.

I really hope they’re right about that, Sarfraz thought. They’d lost nearly seventy men in the brutal battles, leaving them with only five hundred and seventy men in effective fighting shape. The time on the carrier, he had to admit, had not been wasted; they’d been able to make some repairs on the damaged suits, as well as training constantly.

Still, it was good to be back on dry land, enjoying a proper dinner in the military base nearby. After the third soldier-sailor brawl, Sergeant Benton had kept the two groups apart as much as possible, trying to prevent more injuries. The soldiers had accused the Royal Navy of being too cowardly to stay and fight the Posleen; the sailors had accursed the Armoured Combat Suit Regiment of running from the battle.

“If I could have your attention,” Yates said, unfailingly polite. Sarfraz put down his knife and fork – having proper implements for eating was a genuine pleasure after so long surviving on Navy food – and listened. He smiled contentedly; the beef stew and dumplings would never had passed the test of ages, but it had been good and there had been enough of it for him to feel quite full.

“Silence in the ranks,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. The sergeant had worked hard to keep them training and preparing for the next confrontation with the Posleen, one that they all expected would be coming soon, perhaps in London itself. “Silence…there!”

“At ease,” Yates said, as soon as quiet had fallen. “We’re going to London,” he said grimly. “The Posleen are going there too. Intelligence estimates that they will have completed the task of…annexing all of the south by May at the latest and then they will come for London.”

His voice shuddered slightly. Sarfraz understood; Yates was a career officer and watching his country get eaten by alien monsters was more than he could take. “Our mission is to get to London now, and then act as a forward recon force, slowing the Posleen down to buy time for London. Any questions?”

John coughed. Sarfraz winced as Sergeant Benton’s glare slowly orientated itself on John’s face. “Sir, where are the people going to go?” He asked. “We’re running out of country.”

“We’re trying to move people up north into Scotland, where we’re training new regiments,” Yates said. He left one detail unspoken; the regiments would have no ACS units. Since the Posleen had blockaded Earth, there would be no new ones from the Federation. “We have to keep fighting.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek said. His voice rang out in the silence. “Will we be leaving again?”

The room tensed. The question was right on the edge of insubordination. “We will be holding the Posleen up as long as we can,” Yates said. “We are a valuable resource, Private, and we cannot be wasted trying to turn back time.”

“In effect,” Sergeant Benton added, unexpectedly, “we will not be sacrificed for nothing, like the Highland Division was in the Second World War.”

Sarfraz, who knew very little of non-Islamic history, understood the point. “Will we be acting as a regiment, or as individual platoons?”

Yates nodded at the sensible question. “We’re not sure yet,” he admitted. “It might easily be both, depending upon the circumstances. For the moment, we have to get to London. We’re going to be taking the train, so I expect everyone up at 0700 tomorrow.”

He stepped down from the podium. “The normal rules apply about being on the town,” Sergeant Benton said. His voice was like granite; some of the conscripted regiments had caused real trouble before the Posleen had come. “Be back here by 2300, or you will regret it for the rest of a short and miserable life”

He glared once at them all. “Dismissed,” he said, and left the room.

“We should be training,” Derek said. “Why are they giving us” – he checked his watch – “ten hours on the town?”

“It’s a reward,” John said gloomily. “Ave, Caesar; those who about to die salute you.”

Sarfraz glared at him. “You’re bloody morbid today,” he snapped. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a wife to email.”

“Try to call her if you can,” Derek said. He smiled suddenly. “You might be able to get a landline from here; the Posleen aren’t close enough for the CDC to claim all of the landlines for themselves.”

“True,” Sarfraz agreed.

“I’m going to find some drink and a girl,” John said, and smiled. “Wine, women and song.”

“Booze, whores and caterwauling,” Derek said. “I’ve heard your singing before.”

“Up yours,” John said, and they left together. Sarfraz laughed once and then went to try to call Anisa. If John was right, then it might be their last chance to talk, face to face.

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
14th April 2007

The Darhel were always careful to avoid being photographed, the Prime Minister knew. It was clear why; close up, the Darhel were nothing like the elves of human myth. Their teeth, he was certain, were those of a predator, not of the vegetarians they claimed to be. He knew that there had been a near-disaster at the White House, when the Darhel had almost been served a meat stew, but no one had ever seen the Darhel eating at all.

Looking at the Darhel teeth, and the way that the Darhel was slicing through the carrots that had been provided, the Prime Minister understood why. Hidden cameras were recording the entire scene; the Darhel was slashing at the carrot as if it were the face of an enemy. A human would have been very aggressive indeed to have eating food in such a manner; human teeth simply weren’t sharp enough.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” the Darhel said. His rank was Tir, the Prime Minister knew, a mid-level executive. If the Darhel had a name, it had never been spread around, another curiosity of the Darhel psychology. He was polite, more polite than most people who came to see the Prime Minister, and yet the Prime Minister could not escape the feeling that the Tir was plotting out his neck for the noose.

“You’re welcome,” the Prime Minister lied smoothly. His people had kept him aware of Darhel financial manipulations through the GalTech group; manipulations intended to give them control of a large part of Earth’s economy. He smiled suddenly, keeping his teeth hidden; that was why the Darhel would lose, in the long run. All they understood was profit, loss – and contracts.

“Your people are facing defeat,” the Darhel said. “Your own information medium reports that the Posleen will be in London within a week.”

It took the Prime Minister several moments to realised that the Tir meant television. “I think that that’s a little…pessimistic,” he said. “The general estimate is one month.”

The Tir’s teeth worked grimly. The Prime Minister chewed his own carrots, thinking furiously. “Regardless, it is imperative that I myself and the embassy does not fall into the hands of the Posleen. The race as a whole may be stupid, but there are some smart God Kings out there.”

The Prime Minister was almost disappointed. He’d half-expected the Darhel to be offering salvation, in exchange for service or something else. Were the Darhel cowards, or were they simply scared of the madness that enveloped them if they tried to fight? There was no way to be sure.

“You would like to leave,” the Prime Minister said flatly. “I would have to consider it at length. How do you propose to leave?”

“A Himmit stealth ship could carry me over to the redoubt on the land of ice,” the Darhel said. The Prime Minister realised he meant Iceland, which was useless to the Posleen, but held a large Darhel embassy. “It does, however, require your permission to land.”

“How true,” the Prime Minister mused. The Darhel seemed to be moving like a child who needed the toilet, but was too proud to admit it. “On the other hand, there is the morale implication of your departure.”

The Tir frothed around. “It is not a major issue,” he said, and remembered himself. “I can arrange for more supplies for you on Iceland, where I can testify to the strength of your defences.”

The Prime Minister smiled. “It will require time to get all the orders out to the anti-lander weapons,” he said. It was partly true; some of the SHORAD units were scattered around the country in inaccessible places. The other reasons…

“We have placed our faith in your people,” the Tir said. It seemed agitated, on the verge of bursting out. “I will wait, for a few days.”

“Thank you,” the Prime Minister said. “You honour us with your confidence.”

***
“We cannot let him go,” Sir Robert said, later. “It’s time, I think, to start asking Mr Griffin some extremely pointed questions.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Is it just me, or are the Darhel cowards?”

“I don’t think they look upon the universe the same way we do,” Sir Robert said. The intelligence chief smiled grimly. “In the long trips to their worlds, they didn’t make any real preparations for our troops, which had a natural effect on morale. You should read General Crenaus’s report on the subject.”

“That man should be with the French now,” the Prime Minister said. The French had been reduced to a cowered isolated remnant. “He is vastly more competent than anyone else they have.”

“No argument,” Sir Robert said grimly. “As far as they were concerned, the troops were bought and paid for; they were pretty much Darhel property, like pets.”

The Prime Minister thought of the millions who had died across the world when the Posleen landed. “Bought, paid for, and needlessly spent,” he hissed. “Yes, it’s time to have Mr Griffin interrogated.”

Sir Robert bowed his head. “I will have Margent Hammond inform him of new and vital information,” he said. “I am certain that he will talk, once we interrogate him.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “See to it,” he said.

***
Margent Hammond skimmed through the information that Sir Robert had given her. “Are you sure that this is a good idea?” She asked. “Look at it.”

She scowled down at it. The information concerned the defences of the Exeter Line; the line of defences protected Plymouth from the Posleen. It wouldn’t be long before they fell, but if the information on the sheet was accurate, and the Posleen attacked at the right time…the city would fall far quicker than could be expected.

“It would brighten my declining years to watch the Posleen try to act on that information,” Sir Robert assured her. “There will not be anything like an attempt to remove the troops and let the civilians starve or be eaten.”

Hammond nodded. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “Shall I call him?”

“Yes, please,” Sir Robert said. “After all, it’s almost over.”

Hammond smiled sadly. She had hated every last bit of turning her beloved organisation into a nest of spies, even as the underground – the network that spoke of rebellion on behalf of an impossible dream – whispered of great successes in France and Germany. She shuddered; the great successes had resulted in thousands of millions of deaths.

“That’s good to know,” she said. She’d wanted to leave London, but the MPs seemed determined to remain within the city. She sighed. “I’ll call him now, then.”

“You may not see him today,” Sir Robert said, after she’d made the call. “But if you do, that’s the information.”

He departed before Hammond could ask him what he meant, but she decided to wait for Griffin. She waited…and waited…

***

William Burns slipped through the darkness of London, watching the occasional burst of fire as a refugee lit up a cigarette. As a dangerous man himself, Burns had no difficulties in passing through the roughest areas of town, making his way to the Darhel embassy. The embassy itself was a neat business office, set within a field of empty business offices.

He smiled. Unable to buy a large land space – he’d heard that the Darhel had tried to buy Buckingham Palace – they’d settled for buying up all the buildings nearby for privacy, and buying off the local police to keep the refugees out of their cosy area. He checked ahead; the main door was opening.

I bet they wanted something with more glamour, he thought, as Griffin stepped out of the door and headed towards the Houses of Parliament. He’d been scared that Griffin would have hailed a cab, but instead the Darhel agent kept walking, heading north. Burns tailed him at a distance, knowing that other agents would be converging on their position, heading into the best position to intercept Griffin.

Section C , he thought. We do the real work around here.

He smiled as Griffin headed along an almost deserted road. It was feeding time and the crowds were at Hyde Park, being fed whatever passed for a living diet in these troubled times. The timing hadn’t been an accident and he closed in on Griffin quickly, ignoring the other man as much as he could.

Showtime, he thought, as another agent came up from the front. The second agent rabbit-punched Griffin before he could react, making him gasp in pain. Burns lashed out with his injector, injecting Griffin with a sedative and watched him fold to the ground.

“This guy will keep us going for a while,” he said, affecting a common accent. He stripped Griffin quickly, removing the AID and anything that might be taken in a common mugging, and put them in his bag. If the Darhel were listening through the AID, they would see only a mugging.

“Take the dead guy to the river,” he said, continuing the charade. “I’ll take this lot to the black market.”

“Be seeing you,” the street tough said. Another agent, he lifted up Griffin as if he weighed nothing. Burns left quickly, not giving the AID anytime to react, and walked though several streets before dumping the entire lot in a dumper. Tempting as it was to keep the AID for himself – AIDs commanded a high price on the black market – he knew that it was too dangerous. AIDs recorded everything that happened near them, up to and including sexual congress.

Success, he thought, as he caught up with the van later. Griffin was in for a very rough time indeed.

***
The Tir was annoyed, as far as it could be annoyed, when Griffin’s AID suddenly reported that its holder was under attack. The message from Hammond, reporting a vital piece of information had been extremely important, but losing Griffin was…annoying. The Tir did not, of course, care much for Griffin, despite his usefulness. In fact, the knowledge of what Griffin had done in America had fuelled the Darhel leader’s decision to recruit him; in a time of war, he could expect no mercy from any nation’s authorities.

The Tir used one of his puny swearwords again. The Darhel were hated by many races, but they had never engaged in the sort of perversions that Griffin had, before nearly being caught by the American FBI. The Darhel had intervened, and there were times that the Tir regretted it. Not least because if anyone identified Griffin, they would hang him at once, depriving the Darhel of a valuable operative.

This is most…irritating, the Darhel decided finally. Not for the first time, he wished that it could curse using human swearwords, ones that carried real force. He couldn’t, of course, unless he wanted to risk madness.

“Now…what do I do?” He asked himself. Asking the senior Darhel on Earth, the Tir Dol Ron, was out of the question. It would call into question his very competence, as would asking the representative in Germany, or France. Besides, with the way that the German Ambassador’s schemes had been falling apart even before the Posleen landed, associating with him would have…negative career effects for the English Ambassador.

“Unable to supply a suggestion,” the AID chimed in. The Tir ignored it, taking deep breaths and muttering a mantra under his breath. He would be lucky not to be stripped of all rank and position for this, if his superiors ever heard of it. The Hammond women had accepted an AID, one of a handful outside the military. Carefully, grimly, the Tir ordered his AID to establish a covert link with her AID, ordering it to download the information within her AID.

Useless, the Tir thought coldly, five minutes later. Hammond was something of a technophobe, a human condition that the Tir had rated as ‘useful’ five minutes ago. Whatever information Hammond had would remain with her, unless…

The Tir ordered his AID to send a message directly to Hammond’s AID. The next time she looked at it, if she ever did, she would see the message. The Tir was reduced to praying; this was the last chance for any status at all when the war ended.

Chapter Thirty-Two: Return to Ireland

Dublin, Ireland
15th April 2007

There was nothing, the Taoiseach decided, like an invasion by homicidal aliens to unite a country. For once, Ireland was at peace with itself – and the English. Of course, there was still the task of hunting down and killing every last Posleen on Irish soil, but the Posleen force had been broken. Without their God Kings, they were little more than animals.

“We have a problem,” Rory Kavanagh, the head of the Irish Justice Department, said grimly. The Taoiseach looked up reluctantly; savouring the charms of a united Ireland was a strong drug. “More fighting in the refugee camps.”

The Taoiseach nodded grimly. The agreement that had sent thirty anti-lander tanks, mainly modified Chieftains, and the crews to use them had had a string attached; the Irish would take in English refugees. This didn’t exactly please most of the Irish population, nor – to be fair – did it please the English in question.

He sighed, a great heaving breath. “What happened this time?”

“We were asking for conscripts from the refugee camp,” Kavanagh said. “They don’t have enough food…”

“No one has enough food,” the Taoiseach sighed.

“And they rioted, dragging in the local village, which wasn’t too keen on having the refugees nearby,” Kavanagh said grimly. “Sir, we’re going to have to do something about it.”

The Taoiseach smiled bitterly. “Like what?” He asked. He allowed his concern to show on his face. “Would you like us to push them all into the sea? There are fifty thousand British soldiers in this country, who – I am certain – would object rather loudly. They do happen to be better armed than we are, and without their modified tanks the Posleen landers will cut us to ribbons.”

He grinned up at him. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Let’s remove any police protection and let the mobs get them…except many of them are armed and what would the British soldiers do?

“Be serious,” Kavanagh said. “I know that we cannot do anything…”

“How dare you imply that I’m not serious?” The Taoiseach asked. “No, we can’t do anything. For once, the country is peaceful, and the last thing we want is to weaken ourselves in the face of the Posleen.”

Kavanagh might have said something else, but then there was an urgent knock at the door. Angela Lawless came in, running quickly. Her face was flushed and the Taoiseach blinked; her face was never flushed.

“Taoiseach, we have a problem,” she said. “Radar has detected a Posleen force moving our way, coming from Liverpool.”

The Taoiseach felt his blood run cold. “Where are they going to land?” He asked. “Cork again?”

Lawless shook her head. “Here,” she said. “Dublin.”

The Taoiseach stared at her, feeling Kavanagh’s shock beside him. “Are you certain?” He demanded. “What do the British sensors say?”

“They’re coming from Liverpool directly to here,” Lawless said. Her face was pale now, the flush replaced by fear. “At least ten landers, which means nearly eighty thousand Posleen. Taoiseach, if they land here…”

“We’re suddenly in worse trouble,” the Taoiseach muttered. Some of the population had been moved to the country, but they’d beaten one invasion and…they’d thought that it would be the only one. Wishful thinking, the Taoiseach cursed, and swore inwardly.

He smiled suddenly. Not for the first time, he was putting the defence of Ireland in the hands of an Englishman. “Contact General Whitehouse,” he ordered. “Inform him that I am giving him command of all troops within Dublin and the surrounding counties. He is to defeat this attack, whatever the price.”

Lawless didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Taoiseach,” she said. “Sir, you should leave this building.”

“Tanasite Kevin Flynn is out of here,” the Taoiseach said firmly. “I will stand and fall by my people.”

***
“How noble, how brave…how utterly stupid,” General Whitehouse snapped, as he got the message. He knew that his forces were in serious trouble, even if the Posleen were taking their time about crossing the waters. If it weren’t so un-Posleen-like, he would have wondered if they were giving him time to concentrate his forces on purpose.

Are they doing that? He asked himself grimly, and shuddered. It made a certain kind of sense, except the rapid deployment abilities of human armies – and the Posleen forces as well – had been eternally shattered by Posleen interdiction of the air. An airmobile brigade was worse than useless against the Posleen; they would sweep it out of the skies with ease.

He shook his head and dismissed the thought. The Posleen, had they that sort of capability, would have taken all of the landers in their force and headed for London. Nothing could have stopped them. Instead…

“I want a track on those landers,” he said. The Irish policemen and women were trying to enforce clear streets, but with thousands of people trying to flee all of a sudden, they were overwhelmed. Whitehouse briefly considered sending troops to support them, then dismissed it as a waste of time and resources.

“Yes, sir,” the sensor tech said. “Sir, they’ll be here in half an hour.”

Moving slowly, Whitehouse thought grimly. Too slowly for his liking. “Any precise landing zone yet?”

The sensor tech shook his head. “Nothing beyond County Dublin,” he said. “They might be planning to come down directly on top of the city, like they did in Birmingham, or they might be planned to surround the city first.”

Whitehouse nodded and resumed his pacing. There were units near enough to Dublin to reach it just after the Posleen landed, but humans weren’t good when attacking the Posleen directly. The aliens were like Russians; give them a defensible position and they hung on until the bitter end. If they wanted to surround the city…

“Sir, the militia is turning out,” Colonel Valera said. The Irish militia had been an idea to add to Ireland’s combat power, without actually raising an army. It was amazing how many weapons had been hidden in Ireland. “They’re ready to fight at your command.”

Whitehouse shrugged. He’d seen the militia at work. The safest place would be to be the person they were shooting at, provided they managed to actually fire as a group. Their training was almost none-existent and their discipline even worse, if that was possible. Units of the militia in the country had taken part in attacks on British refugees; despite the claims of the Taoiseach, Ireland had been on the verge of all-out war for nearly a week.

“Sir, we have a landing site,” the sensor tech said. General Whitehouse nodded; they had only two anti-lander tanks in Dublin itself, with three more racing towards the city as fast as they could. None of the others could get within range before it was over, one way or the other.

“Where?” Colonel Valera demanded. “Where the hell are they landing?”

“Two separate locations, ten minutes,” the sensor tech said grimly. “One lot is going to land on Howth; the other…the other, seven landers in all, are heading for Dublin.”

“Hellfire,” Whitehouse swore, swinging around to stare at the map. “Colonel O’Malley is to move along the R105 to take up positions at the narrowest part of the peninsula. That force is secondary, so the militia can take up defensive positions as well.”

He paused as the sound of the Posleen craft, a dull thrumming in the air, could be heard. “General O’Rourke and myself will command the other units, including the anti-lander units, within Dublin itself.”

“Yes, sir,” Colonel Valera said. “Sir, what about the civilians?”

“Order them to get the hell out of there,” Whitehouse said. The noise of the air raid sirens and the Posleen landers combined to form a painful chord, hanging in the air like icy poison. “They don’t have much time at all.”

***
The Irish Rapid Reaction Force had been planned for service as part of the United Nation’s peacekeeping efforts, before the Posleen and First Contact rendered that hopeless organisation permanently defunct. As cold politics reared its ugly head, the UN had become more and more shrill, finally pushed aside when its demands for fair treatment for all became impossible to tolerate.

Instead, the Irish Rapid Reaction Force had been developed as a unit designed to handle a Posleen incursion, although it had not seen action in the first Posleen raid on Ireland. Colonel O’Malley, one of Ireland’s most experienced combat commanders, had been placed in command.

“I am the senior commanding officer,” he snapped. Timothy O’Brien, who was the commander of the militia unit, didn’t seem to understand. “We will not attempt to engage the landers as we don’t have anything that can touch them.”

“My men are brave,” O’Brien said, an unsubtle way of pointing out that the soldiers didn’t seem to share that bravery. “We can move up and face them as they come over the shore.”

The noise of the Posleen landers was making it hard to think. The dark shapes of the units could be seen in the distance, closing in on the capital city of Ireland. “If you go up there and try to face the Posleen, you will be killed for nothing,” O’Malley said grimly. “You can go up there if you want, but we won’t support you.”

He waved a hand at his men, setting up defence lines. The flow of civilians, suddenly refugees from their own homes, passed them without cease, driven on by the noise of the Posleen. “Please…”

“Coward,” O’Brien sneered, and he led his men in their civilian vehicles up along the road to where the Posleen were landing.

“We could shoot him in the back,” his sergeant, a veteran of several peacekeeping missions himself, muttered.

O’Malley shook his head. “The Posleen will kill them all,” he said. The British hadn’t had that sort of trouble, had they? “I wonder…”

The noise of gunshots suddenly echoed through the air, followed by missile and energy bombardments from the Posleen landers. There were screams, which cut off suddenly.

“That’s them gone,” O’Malley said. He glanced over the defence line; the stream of civilians had tricked to a stop. “How long do you think it will be before we get some artillery support?”

“I have no idea,” his sergeant said. “I thought that we were supposed to have priority.”

“Tell that to the supply officers,” O’Malley muttered. “The way they act, the army exists only for their benefit and we have to sign seven different sets of papers before…”

“Here they come,” the scout shouted, riding back on his motorcycle. A Posleen blast caught him in the back and blew him off his bike, killing him instantly. O’Malley snapped orders and the force deployed to the positions they had prepared – positions that were far too frail for the requirements.

“Stand ready,” he ordered. “Fire!”

The machine guns opened fire at once, raking the Posleen charge with thousands of bullets designed to punch through armour. Often, several rows of Posleen were wounded or killed by a single sweep, even as the Posleen began to return fire. HVMs and Posleen blasts swept overhead, slaughtering the men as they stood there and returned fire…

“Fucking politicians,” O’Malley screamed, as the Posleen smashed through the line and came for him. They’d done everything right, in the time they had, and yet their line hadn’t held the Posleen for more than ten minutes. He emptied his pistol into a Posleen, only to miss the Posleen knife that cut off his head and killed him instantly.

***
The Posleen landers glided in, massive shapes that seemed to defy the laws of physics. General Whitehouse knew the numbers of the troops gathered to oppose them, many of whom were cowering under the impact of the…sheer fucking noise of the landers, and knew with a sick certainty that it would not be enough.

“Dublin Bay is frothing,” Colonel Valera said. His voice was sick with terror, not for himself, but for his people. “Sir, what do we do?”

Whitehouse lifted his radio. “Chieftains, fire as you bear,” he ordered.

***
Lieutenant Albert Hyde didn’t like the Irish. He’d spent ten year in Ireland before the Posleen arrived, trying to prevent one faction from killing off another faction, and for the effort had been shot at by both sides. His angry resignation from the army, in the wake of what he considered a decision of unparalleled stupidity by the British Government, had been suddenly revoked when the Posleen arrived.

He scowled as he inched the Chieftain tank closer. He was forty-seven, not old enough to qualify for rejuvenation, and he felt every one of those years. His marriage to an Irish girl – as a result of accepting her assurances that the Catholic Church’s rhythm method always worked – had not endeared the Irish to him. As far as he was concerned, they were stupid superstitious louts more concerned with preserving the dignity of their Church rather than protecting their children from the evil servants of Satan within the church.

And I have to give my life defending this so-called green and pleasant land, he thought, as he sighted the main barrel of the tank on an approaching lander. He understood the point, of course; each lander carried around eight thousand Posleen and killing just one of them would make the odds easier to beat.

“Weapon locked on target,” he said. The other two Chieftains signalled their agreement.

“Fire,” the commander said. Hyde pressed the firing stud and a single antimatter-armed shell was blasted from the barrel, flying straight and true into a Posleen lander. He’d hoped that the explosion would shatter the remaining four landers, but instead the landers opened fire with a terrifying burst of fire. Lieutenant Albert Hyde’s last thought was of the woman with whom he’d had two happy years of marriage – and a lot more unhappy years. The Posleen lander blew him into atoms.

***
“Christ and his saints,” Whitehouse swore, and ignored the disapproving looks from his Irish subordinates. The Posleen had swept the docks pretty thoroughly, wiping out thousands of militiamen – and several hundred irreplaceable combat troops who were genuinely useful. The collapse of the Irish Rapid Reaction Force only meant that sixteen thousand more Posleen were racing into Dublin, trying to seal the city before the civilians could escape.

Colonel Valera gasped. “Sir, what about the artillery?”

“They’re going to have to do very well indeed,” Whitehouse snapped, as the Posleen howled out of the landing landers. He cursed; the spotters had been killed in the brief bombardment. “Send them the coordinates, quickly!”

He watched as the Posleen ran into the second defence line, smashing through the city with gay abandon. Their weapons brought down entire buildings, hampering themselves as much as the Irish, who fought tooth and nail. Even the militia was behaving itself, fighting in an almost disciplined pattern.

But he knew that it was hopeless. The landers were moving – except one that had been knocked out by artillery – and even without them in play, the centre of Dublin was lost.

“Order the units to prepare to surround the city,” he said. At least there had been some planning for that, although it was expected that it would be the Posleen laying siege, rather than the other way round. Absently, he wished for a second antimatter round, or a nuclear warhead, but he had none.

Got to convince the Taoiseach to get the Prime Minister to send one over, he thought grimly. The centre of Dublin was turning into a slaughterhouse, but if the city could be held long enough, perhaps the units that were racing towards Dublin could seal off the city and prevent the Posleen from spreading further into the country. The thought of the Posleen loose against the refugee camps was appalling to contemplate.

The field telephone rang as he was issuing orders for an organised retreat under fire, the hardest of all military manoeuvres to pull off successfully. “Have the anti-lander Chieftains remain on the outskirts of Dublin,” he ordered, and picked up the phone. “Whitehouse.”

“Is it hopeless?” The Taoiseach asked quickly, bluntly. “Is Ireland doomed?”

Overacting twit, Whitehouse thought coldly. “Not quite,” he said firmly. “We have a limited opportunity to trap them in Dublin, and then shell them to death. We have to convent the outer defences into a line that can hold the Posleen, and we have to do it quickly.”

The Taoiseach didn’t bother to argue. “What do we do?”

“We need to conscript every able-bodied man and woman,” Whitehouse snapped. The thought of conscripting women had been horrifying to the Irish Parliament. “Once we have the gun stores broken open” – and what blasted idiot thought of that – “we can arm them and then put them into the wall.”

The Taoiseach shuddered. It could be heard down the phone line. The noise of the advancing Posleen was growing louder, even as Ireland’s defenders fought for every inch. “General, see to it,” he said finally. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

“You have to ask the Prime Minister for a nuclear weapon,” Whitehouse said, pressing his advantage. The Taoiseach gasped. “Taoiseach, at this rate Dublin will be ruined anyway.”

“I thought that ballistic missiles were useless against them,” the Taoiseach protested.

“Not a missile, a shell,” Whitehouse said. “Sir, we have to write off Dublin anyway.”

“No,” the Taoiseach said. “Build your line, General, but I will not permit the use of nuclear weapons.”

There was another explosion, closer this time. Whitehouse put the phone down as hard as possible, and then turned to his staff. “We have to move,” he said. “We’ll meet up again at the rendezvous point on the outskirts of the city.”

“Yes, sir,” Colonel Valera said. “It was a honour to serve with you.”

“Yes, it was,” Whitehouse agreed. “Come on then, let’s go.”

***
Three hours of savage fighting later, Whitehouse knew just how lucky they’d been. The Posleen had been savaged as well, he knew, which had been all that had saved them. They’d chased humans around, trying to capture as many as possible, and it had bought Whitehouse time. The Taoiseach and most of the Irish Parliament had escaped, much to the annoyance of some of his staff.

“For the moment,” he said, “they’re trapped within Dublin. However…”

“That won’t last,” the Taoiseach said. “What do we do about it?”

Whitehouse sighed. “The only thing we can do,” he said. “We build up here, we wait for their attack, and once we have enough guns, we shell them to bloody ruin.”

He didn’t mention the deliberate firing on Posleen…pens for human captives. It would only have upset the Taoiseach. He also didn’t mention his request to the British Government for another antimatter weapon, or one very simple fact. With half of the remaining Irish Defence Forces tied down around Dublin…a third Posleen landing would run riot over the country, and destroy Ireland.

He smiled. Somewhere deep within his heart, the nation had become worth defending - at the very time it stood closest to the abyss…

Chapter Thirty-Three: Dance of the Darhel

Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
18th April 2007

The Prime Minister watched on television as the antimatter blast swept over Dublin, scorching the trapped Posleen invasion force and utterly destroying it. The Irish Parliament was still howling over the decision, but what other choice had there been? The Posleen infestation on British soil could not be destroyed, short of feeding a third of the country into the fire, but Ireland would survive.

Sir Robert coughed. “Sir, we have the details from the interrogation,” he said. “We now know what was happening.”

The Prime Minister shrugged. “Do I really want to know? He asked. “What did you do to him?”

“Classified interrogation techniques,” Sir Robert said. He frowned. “The little bastard has a great deal of GalTech in him, stuff designed to help a soldier at work. We got very lucky; he woke up in the van and had to be sedated again.”

“I see,” the Prime Minister said, not much interested. “What did he have to tell us?”

“He’s been a busy bee,” Sir Robert said. “Apart from Hammond, he has been developing other sources, as well as working the black market and generally driving prices up. You want the really interesting news? We found out who he really is; he’s Peter Middlebrow, from Arkansas, America.”

He paused for that to sink in. “We don’t have that much access to the FBI records these days, but they were copied over here as part of the information sharing that took place after Fredericksburg, and we were able to scan them. Peter Middlebrow raped and tortured, then killed, several small children, while working for one of the drug lords. Two weeks before the First Contact, his records were hacked and he was released into the care of the US marshals.” He smiled. “Needless to say, the entire incident was completely fictitious, as were the US marshals.

“The FBI apparently was never aware that Middlebrow had managed to escape, apparently with help, until a check on the physical records proved that Middlebrow had escaped. The computers in the Hoover Building, before the Posleen remodelled it, believed that Middlebrow was safely in jail; all of the records of the jail service swore blind that Middlebrow was in the hands of the US marshals.” He grinned. “Guess who has the ability to manipulate records like that?”

“The Darhel,” the Prime Minister said. “Why? Why use one of the few people that would be guaranteed a quick noose when we caught him?”

“I don’t know and we won’t know until the Darhel himself can be made to talk,” Sir Robert said. “My guess is that they believed that Middlebrow, who might well have been practicing his perversions on refugee children, would have every incentive to work for them, as they could dump him back in the shit anytime they felt like it. On the other hand, they seem to have promised him a life off-planet when the Darhel left Earth.”

“I will not stand for that,” the Prime Minister said, coldly and clearly. “The Darhel have been buying him access to children?”

Sir Robert shifted uncomfortably. Both of them knew that London was a powder keg, with millions of people packed in too tightly to breath and the Posleen breathing down their necks. Anything could happen in the shadows, and the police would never know about it. He scowled; with corruption the way it was these days, the police might be doing it.

“I think that he’s been trading with some of the crime lords,” Sir Robert said. “We’re working on extracting information now on his connections; he seems to have used his AID to hack into some of our computers and obtain extra rations, which have then gone into the black market. In exchange, they gave him access to orphan children.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Have your people find out what they can,” he said. “We’ll send in the army units, perhaps the SAS, rather than relying on the local police.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Sir Robert said, understanding the point. “Sir, what about the Darhel?”

“It – he – wants to leave England,” the Prime Minister said. “The idiot didn’t even make me an offer in exchange for providing him with assistance.”

“He’s also made contact with Hammond again,” Sir Robert said. “As Griffin failed to deliver the information – never even got close to getting it – he wants to have it directly from Hammond. I wonder, sir; should we be thinking about trapping and arresting the Darhel?”

“He has diplomatic immunity,” the Prime Minister said grimly. He scowled. “Is there a legal way of arresting him?”

“We’re under martial law,” Sir Robert said. “If we were to demand that he surrender himself…”

“His people would know about it,” the Prime Minister pointed out.

“They’re not going to be able to use Fleet against us,” Sir Robert pointed out. “We make up nearly a fourth of Fleet, along with Germans, French and Americans. The Darhel don’t fight themselves, they can’t.”

The Prime Minister nodded slowly. “The Posleen are coming for London,” he said. “Perhaps we could arrange an incident…the Darhel gets caught in a trap, or attacked by the Posleen…”

Sir Robert laughed. “That’s what Hammond is going to tell him,” he said. “The Posleen have sneaked closer and closer, and they’re interdicting the air lanes, particularly stealth shuttles.”

“But the Himmit stealth shuttles are undetectable,” the Prime Minister said.

“Not completely,” Sir Robert said. He rubbed his hands together with glee. “That’s what we’re going to tell him, that if he takes such a shuttle he’ll be killed.”

“Too complicated, I would have thought,” the Prime Minister said. “The other option, of course, is to just walk into his embassy and arrest him.”

“That would require diplomatic coordination,” Sir Robert said. “The Germans, at least, know that something is going wrong with the Darhel.”

“We’ll take him into protective custody,” the Prime Minister agreed. “When the Posleen come for London, the bastard can meet his fate, perhaps at the hands of the Posleen.”

Sir Robert shook his head in awe. “That’s cold blooded and ruthless,” he said. “I like it, sir. I’ll make the arrangements at once.”

***
The Tir finally made a connection with Hammond, cursing once again the human problem known as a technophobe. The AID could have put them in touch at once, but instead he’d had to wait several days, just for the wretched woman to bother to look at the AID and…

The Tir felt madness howling at the corner of his mind and shuddered. The Ghin, the superior Darhel in the Earth system, had ordered him to prepare for immediate evacuation, and he knew that the Ghin had meant at once. Disobeying the Ghin, even though he had a very good excuse, was just not done; his position would be destroyed, unless he succeeded.

It is a good thing that he cannot simply send soldiers to pick me up, the Tir thought, and muttered a calming mantra under his breath. The dull red flickers of madness receded slightly, to be matched by an equally unpleasant gnawing worry, pounding at the corner of his head. His cowardice – and he was too self-honest to refuse to recognise the problem – had saved London, and his own body from Posleen teeth. Now, the Posleen were running out of ideas, and so were the British.

He smiled. Hammond had been very clear on the subject; the British intended to make their last battle, their last stand against being threshed, in London. The massive growth of their military here, drawing units in from across the British lands, meant only one thing. When the Posleen came, it would be one final brutal battle…and the Posleen would win.

Absently, the Tir ran though the calculations, wishing that the Posleen were truly careful about loading information onto their own Net. Four globes had landed; that much was certain. Unless the Posleen God Kings had been truly…bloody-minded about shoving Posleen into the globes, around sixteen million Posleen had landed on British soil. How many of them had died? How many of them were spread out over the land, armed with their weapons that killed and rend and tore and…

The Tir repeated his mantra again. The white hot flashes of fire in his brain receded. Trying to forget about the Posleen, he looked down at the message from Hammond. It was enough to make him panic again; it was grim and disturbing.

WARNING; A Classified intelligence report has revealed that the Posleen have learned how to track Himmit ships. The government is keeping it a secret for the moment; stealth shuttles are one of the weapons that have to work, and they’re planning to share this with no one, not even the Federation.

“Your Ghin, how could you keep this a secret?” The Tir asked himself, and knew the answer. The Ghin had vast interests in the manufacture of Himmit shuttles, the ones used by Fleet – and if their protection were to be compromised, his holdings would decrease in value. He smiled once, showing his teeth; information was power, and his possession of it…

“He meant to leave me here to be shot down,” he realised, as his eyes ran further down the message. Hammond had warned of Posleen units closing in on London, defying the humans, just to interdict the airlines. Of course, apart from the Darhel, how many people would want to use the aircraft when the Posleen were around?

The Tir’s paranoia ignited. The Ghin had seen his work and felt threatened by it, threatened enough to engage in the time-honoured pastime of killing-without-killing. And yet…there was room to escape the trap, room to turn it to his advantage by…

“Signal the Darhel Embassy in America,” the Tir ordered. “Inform it that I am unable to leave…”

His secretary, a human female that Griffin had assured him was considered beautiful, spoke on the intercom. “My Tir, there are two men from the Foreign Office to see you,” she said. “Shall I send them in?”

“Certainly,” the Tir said, and sat down in his chair. The two humans entered and the Tir smiled at them. “What can I do for you?”

The older, or so he thought, of the two humans spoke first. He gave no name. “Tir, as you know, the Posleen are closing in on London.”

More than you know, the Tir thought, even as he nodded gravely. “The aliens are destroying a great deal of valuable property,” he said. “I was under the impression that I was to be evacuated…however, I would like protective custody.”

The two humans exchanged glances. The Tir knew little about human expressions, but they seemed astonished. “Might I ask you, Your Tir?” The older human asked. “We were charged with placing you into protective custody.”

“I no longer feel safe here,” the Tir said, which was fairly true. “I imagine, however, that you can provide transport to the consulate on Iceland.”

“Of course,” the elder said. “If you would come with me?”

The Tir picked up his AID. “Unfortunately, we cannot provide any space for valuables,” the younger said quickly. “If you would please provide a box of valuable items, we will provide transport at a later date.”

The Tir showed his teeth, something that always impressed the Indowy. The humans didn’t flinch. “Some of the items of GalTech in this embassy are very valuable,” he said. “I cannot be parted from them.”

“Unfortunately, we are providing a ship and transport for all the diplomats,” the elder said. It took the Tir several moments to realise that he meant a ship on the sea, rather than a spaceship. “We cannot show favouritism.”

The Tir scowled, gnashing his teeth. “You will put a guard on the embassy,” he said, and was rather pleased when the two humans nodded together. “Now…I’m all yours.”

***
“More than you know, you alien bastard,” Sir Robert muttered, as the Darhel climbed into the van of its own free will. He’d had a few nasty moments when the alien had insisted on informing his senior officers, but the Darhel had limited itself to confirming the protective custody status, and then come along quite willingly.

“A shame about the diplomatic plates on the van,” his aide said. Captain Reece specialised in issues that the British public didn’t want to know about, such as forcible interrogations. Reece had interrogated Griffin, the man who was now being drained of everything he knew about the Darhel.

“Yes, a great shame,” Sir Robert agreed, as the van passed slowly through the shantytowns that were the lot of many refugees. The police watched them carefully; the crowds seemed moribund, but if a fight were to break out, it would be very nasty very quickly. He waited as patiently as he could until the van arrived, in the sealed courtyard.

“Come on,” Reece said. He took no pleasure in what he did, for which Sir Robert was quietly grateful. “Let’s go see the alien.”

Sir Robert nodded and walked through the long corridors, pausing only to nod to people he knew and to accept salutes from some of the military personnel subordinated to him for the duration of the crisis. The building was not new – there was no new building being done in London apart from defences – and it had a history. Lives had been made and broken; secrets had been revealed and dark truths had seen the light of day.

“The Darhel Tir is waiting for you in this room,” the guard said. “He’s getting a little annoyed.”

“Sue me,” Sir Robert muttered, and swept in, Reece in tow. The Darhel’s bright eyes fixed on his face; the alien recognised him. Sir Robert would have bet his knighthood on it. “Good afternoon, Your Tir.”

The Darhel’s eyes glittered. Sir Robert wished that he had more information on how the aliens thought. In a human, he would have interpreted the expression as anger…and some fear.

“Human chief of intelligence,” the Darhel said. Sir Robert smiled; the Darhel had recognised him. “What are you doing here?”

“We want answers,” Sir Robert said flatly. “You have been engaged in hostile actions against us and…”

“Sergeant Reece, interrogator,” the Darhel said. Sir Robert blinked; Reece’s career file did indeed list him as a sergeant. “What do you want with me?”

***
The Tir felt the flickering of lintatai around his mind and for the first time welcomed it. The humans had managed to break though the carefully-woven tissue of lies that the Tir had constructed, perhaps going far enough to reveal everything, from Darhel hacking of the Posleen Net to the deliberate limitation of weapons heading to the human Fleet.

“We found Mr Griffin, badly beaten by muggers,” Sir Robert said. The Tir hardly heard him, wondering how lintatai was supposed to be brought on. Now that he actually wanted it to happen, it was harder than he thought. “He told us everything, Your Tir; we have Hammond, we have the network she created, and we have you. You will tell us everything about the Darhel and their plans for Earth.”

All was lost! Red fire bubbled up in the Tir’s mind and he laughed suddenly, harshly. Before the human Reece could react, the Darhel was on him, his inhumanly strong arms ripping off his head. He spun around, laughing, and two human soldiers burst in. Lost in the madness, the Tir never even noticed the bullets that blasted though his body and killed him outright.

***
“Bother,” the Prime Minister said mildly. “So that’s what lintatai is like?”

“For this particular Darhel, yes,” Sir Robert said. “We’ll have to burn the body, of course; it would be far too revealing to have it handed back to the Darhel in that state.”

Margent Hammond sighed. The two politicians – it had almost slipped her mind that she was one too – seemed to be taking the death of a living creature far too calmly, even though the Darhel was almost certainly responsible for the deaths of thousands of humans. It was a massive difference in her thinking; she almost didn’t recognise herself.

“We’ll also dissect the body,” Sir Robert continued grimly. “The Darhel have been so unforthcoming about how their bodies work that this represents an opportunity to learn more and more about them.”

“A good idea,” the Prime Minister said calmly. “I want a total information concealment over the entire incident and…”

“Is that it over?” Hammond asked suddenly, breaking into the conversation with rudeness she would never have been capable of, six years ago. “Is that it over?”

“For you?” The Prime Minister asked. He smiled, almost sadly. “Yes, it’s over.”

“It won’t ever be over,” Sir Robert said. “Yes, Margent; you’ve won this part of the war, but whatever the Darhel are up to, it won’t be stopped by losing their main agent in London.”

“We’re going to have to make arrangements with the other nations, then,” Hammond said, surprising even herself. “Make covert plans to deal with the Darhel before they can do something too drastic.”

The Prime Minister studied her almost sadly. Innocence, once lost, could never be regained. “We will do so, covertly,” he said. “There’s General Horner, in America. There’s that O’Neal guy, in America. There’s the BND, in Germany, and the SS goons, much as dealing with them turns my chest inside out.”

He sighed. The Posleen had landed several waves upon the Earth, slowly forcing humanity back into redoubts while preparing their final offensive. Hammond nodded grimly; she’d seen enough of the Darhel to know that they didn’t have the best interests of humanity at heart.

Bought and paid for, she thought.

“Prime Minister, what is going to happen to me?” She asked. “I can’t stay in London; the other Darhel might seek to contact me.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “We’ve got you an express ticket to Edinburgh,” he said. “The Shadow Parliament there could use you.”

Hammond smiled tiredly. “Thank you, Prime Minister,” she said.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Standing At Armageddon

Nr Oxford, England
20th April 2007

Oxford had fought bitterly against the Posleen, but in the end it was all for nothing; the defenders simply didn’t have the firepower necessary to defeat the foe. Even as the famous universities died in fire, the Posleen munched their way though the humans who had been unable to leave, heading towards London. They were in no hurry; why should they be? What was there to stop them?

Sarfraz checked his display as the sun went down. The ACS unit, of course, had no problems at all with darkness; the sensors could see perfectly through the night. They didn’t need lights or anything else that might alert the Posleen to their presence, their holographic generators projected shadows over their armoured forms.

“Sir, I think I can see some Posleen,” Derek whispered. There was no need to whisper – the AID transmissions were supposed to be undetectable by the Posleen – but somehow the night forced silence upon them. It was heavy and oppressive, lit only by the stars and the flames where the Posleen lurked.

“No shit,” Sarfraz muttered, as the AIDs shared the images. The Posleen were standing near a burning barn, watching as it burned. He hoped that they hadn’t found food there, and then…”

“No,” John said, and the ice in his tone was shocking. “Sir, look here.”

He sent over his view, from his suit. In one of the pens that had been used for swine, humans were gathered, penned in like sheep. He watched grimly as his AID magnified them, developing them into human faces, with human feelings. There were at least fifty of them, penned up and guarded by several Posleen, and…

He swung his sensors back to the bonfire. Shapes could be seen at work, cooking meat. He peered carefully; some of the shapes were clearly cattle and some were…some were human.

“I thought that all of the livestock was meant to be moved out of the way,” Derek protested. “What happened here?”

Shelia coughed. The only one of three women in the 1st Armoured Combat Suit Regiment, she was tough and strong and very independent. Sarfraz wasn’t sure what to make of her; his Madonna-whore complex had taken a beating over the past few years. His wife had laughed when he’d told her that, and he could never understand why.

“There’s a lot of corruption here,” she said grimly. “If you send off your livestock, you’re lucky to be able to go on rations this far from a major city, and you can almost count on losing the livestock, rather than simply being able to move up to Scotland or Ireland.”

“Idiots,” Derek said. “Sir, what are we going to do about them?”

Sarfraz adjusted himself for a better position, studying the Posleen position. Was it his imagination, or were the Posleen holding back on feeding the two hundred or so normal Posleen there? A God King stood by a saucer craft, feeding on a haunch of meat – human meat. The shape of a leg was unmistakable in the flickering light.

“We’re going to get them out of there,” Sarfraz said grimly. He checked his map; as far as SAS reconnaissance teams could determine, this Posleen force was the closest to London, with more at Oxford itself. He shuddered at the thought of the carnage the Posleen could cause within the city itself; he’d been once with Anisa on a trip his parents had known nothing about.

“Corporal Ahmed, are you confident that you can extract them?” Yates asked, when he flashed his plans back to London. “You do realise that all your suits are valuable.”

“We can’t have the Posleen feeling safe here,” Sarfraz pointed out. He flashed an image back to Yates; a Posleen bit off the head of a little girl, swallowing it in a gulp. He felt sick, even as his mind worked on the tactical problem of extracting the humans. “Sir, we have to try, at least.”

“Permission granted,” Yates said. He sounded reluctant. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sarfraz said, and broke contact. He considered the problem for a long moment, the main Posleen force was grouped together in a field, eating he didn’t like to think what. The God King sat to one side, attended by more normal Posleen.

“John, Sandy, take your HVM launchers and stand by to use them on the main Posleen mass,” he ordered, and nodded as they acknowledged. His display flickered and changed, offering him the ability to coordinate the entire force…and he knew better than to use it. It was too dangerous when he himself would be fighting.

“Alan, your task is to take out the God King,” he ordered. “Use an HVM yourself and sight it yourself. Everyone else, with me.”

His sensors marked out the perfect path down to the Posleen encampment. They moved slowly, carefully, praying that they remained unseen. The Posleen might not be very bright, but they knew to recognise danger when they saw it and then they would direct the full force of their rage against them.

It’s a good thing they’re not bright enough to lure us in and then kill us, he thought, as they reached the closest safe place to the Posleen. This close, the AID audio-discrimination programs could pick out the sounds of humans, screaming or pleading with the uncaring Posleen.

“Bastards,” he muttered. “Derek; John, are you in position?”

“Yes, sir,” they said together. “Sir, we can fire when you’re ready to attack.”

Sarfraz made one last check of his team. The readouts from the twenty-one armoured soldiers were calm and ready; no one was about to panic. They would be outnumbered ten to one, but them were calm. And besides, if the fire teams did their job right…

“Fire,” he commanded, and tensed himself to spring.

***
Registered Nurse Patty Archer had been regretting her decision to stay with her relatives for the last three weeks, ever since the transport network had broken down. Her uncle, the owner of the farm, had been reluctant to leave – he’d practically forced his wife to stay – and the local council had refused to let Patty leave. When the Posleen had overrun the farm, they’d scooped up all the humans and sealed them in the pen.

“Look,” she said. “Can’t we talk about this?”

The Posleen ignored her, just as it had ignored shouts, pleading and screams from its human captives. They’d been held in the pen for two days, fed only on undercooked beef and some grass that the Posleen seemed to believe that humans could eat. A couple of the children had eaten it and promptly become ill, ill enough to die. The Posleen had taken the children and eaten them.

I hope you got ill, she thought, forgetting the oath she’d taken as a trainee. She was almost sure that the Posleen were not covered; monstrous aliens who had penned her up and were intent on eating the humans, one by one.

“I’m dying, Patty,” her aunt said. Her uncle had tried to fight the Posleen, along with several other men who had been missed by the army conscription organisation for one reason or another. The Posleen had eaten them first, and then turned on the remainder of the humans.

“I know,” Patty said. At least the Posleen gave them clean water, seeming to understand that humans needed that to live. She suspected that the Posleen were genuinely interested in how humans bred; they’d taken care to put a lot of young men and young women in together. So far, the hunger had prevented anything from happening.

Her aunt snorted. “I’m sorry we kept you here,” she said. “Jacob never meant for you to get hurt…”

“I know,” Patty said again, feeling useless. She glared mutely at the huge form of the alien as it marched past again, looking for a human to eat. The larger alien that seemed to be in charge was clearly forcing rationing; only seven humans had been eaten since the nightmare had begun.

An alien claw reached out and caught hold of her hair. She screamed, making the alien shudder, and then it lifted her out by her hair, carrying her out of the pen. It’s breathing was spooky, far more so than a really bad date she’d had when she was younger and innocent. It made a noise, a strange noise, as it carried her over to the larger Boss Posleen.

Did you just say yum? Patty wondered, staring up at the Boss Posleen. It made a second noise and the first Posleen drew a knife, preparing to…

A streak of light flashed across the sky, slamming into the main Posleen encampment. Patty took her life in her hands and hurled herself away from the Posleen, saving her life as a second streak of light targeted the Boss Posleen directly, blowing its flesh all over her. She screamed as she hit the ground, only realising that she was wounded when she felt her wound start to bleed.

“Get down and stay down,” a voice was shouting. Patty rolled over onto her back, to see massive dark humanoid shapes slicing through the Posleen. Most of the aliens had been killed in the first missile attack, the remainder were very uncoordinated, firing madly back at the humans. More explosions followed, but there was no doubt as to the outcome, particularly when an armoured suit tore open a Posleen with ease.

Patty closed her eyes. “Are you all right, madam?” A voice asked. She opened her eyes to see a massive form leaning over her. Seconds later, the suit cracked open and a black face peered out. “Private Sidney Caribbean, at your service.”

“Patty Archer,” Patty said. She stared up at the darkly handsome face. “I think I’m in love.”

***
Sarfraz spoke through the private AID channel; there was no need to embarrass Private Sidney Caribbean more than necessary. “Sidney, stop trying to score, get back in your fucking suit, and start cleaning up the Posleen.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, instead moving to crack open the pens. The Posleen hadn’t modified them at all, but they were still impossible to open from the inside, much to his surprise. Pigs weren’t that intelligent, even though they were very definitely off the list of permissible foods.

“Come on out,” he said, as gently as he could. “We have to get you out of there.”

“Sir, SAS Recon reports several Posleen forces coming this way,” John interrupted. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Sarfraz thought quickly. “We need to get them out of here,” he said. “How many?”

“At least two thousand, boss,” John said. “Sir…”

“I know,” Sarfraz said. John wasn’t a coward, but he was practical to a fault. The Regiment was already running lower on power than Sarfraz cared for, and the platoon could not afford to be cut off and destroyed. The regular army, dug in nearer London, would be unable to provide support.

“Colonel, we’re coming back with” – he glanced around the former thresh – “nearly a hundred prisoners,” he said. “We’ll need new power and perhaps artillery support.”

“Understood,” Yates said. “The 7th and 8th Platoons will divert to assist you.”

“Thanks,” Sarfraz said. An idea had occurred to him. “Are there any lorries in this place?”

The crowd of former thresh looked embarrassed. “No, sir,” an older man said finally. “The monsters destroyed all of the vehicles.”

“The monsters killed my father,” a young boy said. Sarfraz ignored him. “When I grow up, I want to be like you…”

Sarfraz snorted. “You can’t move fast enough to escape the Posleen,” he said grimly. He considered; if there were no vehicles, then…

“Sir, we can’t leave them,” Derek said.

“I know,” Sarfraz snapped. Suddenly, he had it. The Posleen had been kind enough to blow the roof off a barn; it lay on the road, almost undamaged. “Everyone onto that roof, now!”

They looked at his as if he was mad, before obeying. Sarfraz gave orders, detailing four troopers to carry the roof, linking their AIDs together to ensure that they remained in formation and perfect step. “Now, up we go,” he said, and they lifted.

“Bloody brilliant, sir,” Derek said, grinning. “Now, all we have to do is…”

“Get home,” Sarfraz said. “Colonel, we’re on our way.”

The four troopers lifted up the barn, using a combination of the armoured strength and the anti-gravity units to carry the entire group of people on the barn. It was a tight fit, but Sarfraz had seen the roof of the barn; he was certain that it could carry a larger weight than that of the starved people.

“Let’s go,” Sarfraz said. “There’s no longer any time to lose.”

Permanent Joint Headquarters
London, United Kingdom
21st April 2007

The image of the humans being carried on a massive roof had made General Mathews laugh, before he returned to his work. There really was no question about it; the noose was tightening around London. The Posleen were moving forward, slowly picking up the pace as they closed in.

He cursed silently to himself. The Posleen were learning, or perhaps it was sheer coincidence, but they were clearly learning more about how to deal with a human defence line. Perhaps the knowledge was integral to them, or perhaps they learned it from the human brains they ate, but whatever the cause, they were closing in on London.

He stared down at the map, produced by the SAS, by the ACS, and by the sensors they’d strewn around the region. One thrust, proceeding towards the north of London. A second thrust, to the south. A third, the most powerful of all, proceeding directly towards London.

“How long do we have?” He asked himself. With their landers, the Posleen would be in London in several hours, assuming they had to kill resistance first. Yet…they were playing it smart and keeping the landers back, waiting for the troops to catch up. In two days, then, assuming they continued their slow pace, they would hit the main defence line.

Hit it and bounce, General Mathews thought, and hoped that he was right. They’d been trying desperately to get as many people out of the city as possible, but there were still millions of civilians within the city. The Posleen would hit the defence line along the M25, the line that had been built through a combination of waterworks and human construction, and then they would…

“We won’t break,” General Mathews muttered, as the images of the Posleen, captured by remote cameras, continued to play out on the screens.

“General,” his aide said. “General, its time for your interview.”

Mathews scowled. The aide had said it in the same tone of voice used to announce a prolonged and humiliating medical treatment. The principle was the same. “Send her in,” he said tiredly, and wondered why it could not have been passed on to Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.

Charlene Jackson entered. The BBC reporter still looked hot – she managed to look gorgeous even in the PJHQ – and she looked bright and bouncy. Mathews envied her almost; she seemed oblivious to the threat that was bearing down on London.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she said, shaking his hand.

I had no choice, Mathews thought, noticing that she had a firm grip. Her lips quirked; clearly she understood his unspoken words. “I’m always happy to talk to a sensible reporter,” he said, and smiled.

Charlene didn’t call him on the implication. “The reports of the situation are grim,” she said. Mathews cursed inwardly; the woman had had plenty of time to get used to working the military for comments. “Is it true that the Posleen are finally coming for London?”

“It seems that way,” Mathews said, wishing that he could lie directly to her. It wasn’t done; the Prime Minister would have to sack him, and he knew that no senior general, apart from himself, remained in London. “They’re certainly advancing again.”

Charlene paled. “Why?” She asked. “Did they decide that they’d had enough of the midlands?”

“I cannot speculate,” General Mathews said. In fact, he had several theories, but he wasn’t inclined to share any of them. “The sheer fact, the main fact, is that they’re coming for us.”

Charlene didn’t press him on the subject of the Posleen motivations. “When will they be here?”

Mathews sighed. “In around two days, at their current rate of progress,” he said. “We will, naturally, be doing what we can to impede them.”

Charlene’s voice was firm, but perhaps there was a tiny hint of a shake in it. “Can the defences stop them?” She asked. “Can they be kept out of London?”

“We certainly aim to give it the old college try,” Mathews said. He sighed. “There are too many unknowns, young lady; we just don’t know.”

“And will you be moving people out of the city?” Charlene asked, ignoring the ‘young lady’ comment. “What about evacuation?”

“We’re going to be taking care of that as best as we can,” Mathews said.

Charlene smiled. “Would you not agree that keeping people in the city is practically the same as waving a sign saying COME EAT ME in front of the Posleen?”

Mathews smiled back. She was an intelligent woman, he conceded. “No,” he said. “On foot, refugees can and will be hunted down and eaten,” he said. “While we will do our best to get people out of the city, as best as we can, we will be better off pressing them all into the defence.”

“So everyone will be armed,” Charlene said. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Mathews grinned openly. “Do you like the thought of feeding a Posleen?”

“Not really,” Charlene admitted. “Is there any truth in the rumour that the Posleen are trying to breed humans?”

Mathews shook his head. “There isn’t enough evidence to be certain,” he said. “There has been some suggestion that that is what some Posleen holding pens have been trying to do, but they clearly don’t understand the theory very well.”

A distant explosion echoed across the city. “If you will excuse me,” Mathews said, “I have to go see the Prime Minister. London will soon be under martial law.”

Chapter Thirty-Five: Armageddon Rising

London, England
23rd April 2007

The Prime Minister was determined about one thing. The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain would not die cowering in a cellar, or escape the fate of his people like so many tin-pot dictators had done. Africa had been almost digested by the Posleen, but its leaders had escaped. Even as the Posleen came for London, escape was still possible, but the Prime Minister had made up his mind.

BOOM! An explosion, not too far away. The Posleen were pressing hard against the main defence line, with two other smaller attack prongs passing out around the city, preparing to close the vice. They weren’t hurrying; why would they? There was no longer any place to go, except…

BOOM! Another explosion. How many had died in this war? The Prime Minister knew that estimates for Britain alone reached upwards of twenty million, soldiers and civilians alike. How many more would die, killed outright or eaten, over the next few days?

BOOM! No, the Prime Minister knew, no one would be eaten. He looked across at the red button on his desk, almost begging him to push it. It would be pushed, when the end came for London.

The telephone rang. The Prime Minister picked it up and listened to the message without batting an eyelid. Time, it seemed, would be more limited than he had expected.

***
The men of the 44th Infantry Regiment (London) had received their first surprise when the Posleen began their attack. They were not complacent – they had officers who’d fought the Posleen before – and yet…they had grown accustomed to the Posleen being stupid. Tactical dullards, to be sure, and yet there had been times when a God King demonstrated a flash of true genius, often at the worst possible time. They had prepared their minefields and their dug in positions, and then…

“Here they come,” Captain Snubb snapped, as the first Posleen appeared. The 44th Infantry Regiment opened fire at once, raking the Posleen with a hail of machine gun bullets and canister fire from the short-range artillery. Snubb blinked; the Posleen were not charging at the defenders, but only firing their HVMs.

“Keep shooting,” he snapped, and then the Lampreys arrived. The landers had always glided slowly across the sky, convincing thousands of people that that was all they could do. These Lampreys had no need to slow down; they charged directly at the human position and the shockwave of their coming slammed through the lines. Men fell to their knees, permanently deafened, as the landers slammed down to a half, just beyond the lines.

“They’ve landed behind the lines,” Captain Snubb screamed into his radio. The Lampreys’ weren’t hesitating either; their weapons were lashing about them, wiping humans and their machines from the city with equal abandon. Even as a plasma blast killed Snubb, the Posleen in the Lamprey landers began to boil out, heading further into the city.

***
“Sir, they’ve torn a hole in the outer defence line,” Colonel Rather reported, in a voice like death. “The artillery wants to know what to do.”

“Why did they have to chose this moment to be innovative?” Mathews demanded, ignoring the hovering presence of the BBC reporter. He scowled. “Order the artillery to open fire on the landers.”

“But sir, they’re within our lines,” Colonel Rather protested. “Sir…”

“Do it,” Mathews snapped, and felt something die inside him. “Do you want those landers releasing all of their Posleen?”

***
“Driver, move us up slowly,” Lieutenant Robins said grimly. “The artillery is engaging now…”

An explosion blasted out ahead of them. “We have lander emissions,” Private Douglas reported. “Sir…”

“Take us forward,” Robins snapped. The tank rounded the road and gazed upon a field of devastation, with hundreds of Posleen swarming across a minefield towards the landers. The landers themselves were preparing to launch.

“Fuck,” Douglas reported, as three more landers appeared, heading toward them at the more normal speed. “Sir…?”

“Slip the grounded lander coordinates to the artillery,” Robins ordered grimly. “Gunner, target the landers in the air.”

“Yes, sir,” the gunner said. “Incoming…”

A hail of small explosions blasted out over the grounded landers, crippling them and slaughtering the Posleen. “Fire,” Robins snapped, and the tank fired once, crippling a lander as it tried to see the new threat. “Lock on the second one and…”

A Posleen HVM tore through the tank and killed them before they ever knew what had hit them. The tank exploded and the Posleen passed through over its wreckage, heading deeper into the city.

***
Colonel Higgins scowled as the sensor contacts expanded. The Posleen had torn a hole in the outer defence line, managing to destroy a large enough space to force their way in without tacking the other parts of the outer defence line. The other two prongs of the Posleen advance were moving out around the city…but the main group of Posleen were charging in along the A40, heading directly for Westminster.

“Do they know that’s where our centre of government is?” He asked, as his men took up their defensive positions. He wished that he had an ACS force with him, but they were being held in reserve, waiting for the Posleen to over-commit themselves. He glanced around at their positions; they’d done well, in a city that was hardly designed for street fighting.

“Order the police to hurry up,” he snapped, as yet another crowd of refugees went by, heading further into the city. He’d heard on the grapevine that thousands of ships were leaving London and never coming back, heading away from the doomed city. He wasn’t sure that he blamed them; a more rational evacuation might save thousands more lives, but they would be risking their own lives and in some cases their livelihoods.

“Some people are refusing to leave,” the police liaison said. “They want to fight the Posleen…”

“God save me from amateurs,” Colonel Higgins swore. “Please, tell me they have weapons, at least…”

“They have the distributed AK-47s, sir,” the police officer said. Colonel Higgins had never bothered to learn the man’s name. “They’re taking up position before Ealing. They might blunt the Posleen a little…”

A series of explosions rang out behind them as the Posleen stumbled on the mines. The shellfire didn’t abate; the Posleen were taking one hell of a pounding. It sounded like every Posleen in the galaxy had been killed several times over, but Colonel Higgins knew that they would be lucky if they killed three fourths of them.

“Some of them are running,” he said, as several armed men ran past. His men jeered at them, but the men just ran on as explosions shattered entire tower blocks behind them. He wondered absently how the Posleen were coping with the Grand Canal, and then checked the reports from the CCTV cameras.

“That’s one smart God King,” he muttered. The Posleen were forcing rubble, in some cases knocking down entire buildings to provide the rubble, into the canal. The horde pressed on and on, and they smashed through the civilians as if they weren’t even there.

“Sniper, see if you can identify their leader,” he muttered into his radio. There was no sign of a Posleen God King saucer, which suggested that the Posleen were either being led from the front, or being directed at long distance. Human shellfire, which was becoming more accurate as the Posleen punched their way through London, suggested the latter.

“No luck, Colonel,” the SAS sniper said, after a moment. “They all seem to be normal general issue Posleen.”

“Bugger,” Colonel Higgins muttered. He scowled as he realised how close the Posleen were to his position. “Here they come!”

The first Posleen appeared at the end of the road and a hail of fire lashed into it, killing it within moments. Dozens more appeared, and they were cut down in moments, slaughtered and swept aside like nothing on earth. Yellow blood spurted out, and then the Posleen returned fire. HVMs and plasma blasts slammed against the trenches, hammering at buildings that might hold the imprudent humans.

“Kill them all,” Colonel Higgins bellowed, and fired madly into the Posleen mass. They didn’t seem to have grasped the idea of trenches; they fired madly back at the humans, but mainly over their heads. “Kill them…”

Just like that, it was over. The Posleen stopped their advance. Colonel Higgins peered suspiciously over the top of the trench and stared. The Posleen seemed to have fallen back. He exchanged a puzzled glance with the machine gunner, further down the trench, and then the thrumming sound of enemy landers appeared in the air.

“Uh-oh,” a soldier commented. Colonel Higgins couldn’t disagree; landers were bad news. At least the three landers were behaving conventionally this time, rather than coming in faster than the speed of sound.

“Order the anti-lander guns to fire as they bear,” he commanded. “Take those bastards down!”

Seconds later, the first gun fired, striking the lander dead on and destroying it. The other two landers returned fire, their missiles slashing into the human position, but there were more guns and the two landers fell quickly, crashing to the ground and exploding in a blast of fire.

“We got the bastards,” Private Chant shouted. “We beat them back!”

Colonel Higgins scowled. The enemy was doing what he wanted the enemy to do…and that was very suspicious. What the hell did the Posleen – assuming they thought at all – think they were doing?

***
General Mathews looked at the developing situation and saw disaster unfolding. The Posleen action in breaching the main defence line had been more successful than he’d feared; the Posleen follow-on echelons had punched their way through the defences from the rear, shattering most of the outer line. The Posleen that were surrounding the city were starting to press in, scenting victory, and one prong was heading directly for the PJHQ.

“Do they know?” General Mathews asked. It wouldn’t be the disaster that it would have been in earlier years, now that there was a complete back-up system on the other side of the city. Irony indeed; the one time that Northwood had been seriously attack, and the foe didn’t have the decency to come from the east.

“There’s no way to tell,” the Prime Minister said, though the radio link. “Can you withdraw?”

“Not with enough men to matter,” Mathews said. The PJHQ had been stripped of all, but essential personnel anyway. “Sir, we have to order the ACS units to cut the units in Enfield a way out, if they can.”

The Prime Minister sighed. “Conserving them for the final battle?” He asked. “Neither of us will live to see it.”

“I know,” Mathews said. A distant explosion announced the arrival of the Posleen. “Sir, it was a honour to be working with you.”

“You too,” the Prime Minister said. “Good luck.”

Mathews put down the phone and chuckled. “I’m sorry, Miss Jackson,” he said, and meant it. “The Posleen are coming to this site.”

Charlene’s eyes went wide. “Are they coming here because they know what it is, or because it’s in their way?”

Mathews shrugged, thinking cold thoughts about elfish aliens. “I have no idea,” he said. “I’m sorry that you’re going to die here.”

“I’m sorry too,” Charlene said. She held out a hand. “I hope you don’t mind if I film everything?”

Mathews took her hand and shook it. “Security hardly matters now,” he said. “Come on.”

He led her out onto the lawn. The main building itself had been abandoned when it had become clear that the Posleen were coming. He’d only insisted on keeping a skeleton staff because there were few sites that could handle the complex task of controlling the military forces in London.

He smiled. “Take a weapon, Miss Jackson,” he said. “It’s time to stand and die.”

The trees caught fire as a Posleen force opened fire on them, blowing them out of the way. Mathews nodded in understanding; after numerous tiny skirmishes in the Peak District, the Posleen were taking care to avoid being ambushed in the trees. The PJHQ staff opened fire, targeting the Posleen with care.

“Spread out,” the Marine Commander snapped. He shrugged as Mathews nodded; tactical command was his responsibility. Charlene followed him, using the weapon as if she was born to it, firing as the Posleen came across the lawn. HVM missiles smashed the main building, destroying it in a blaze of explosions, and then the Posleen were upon them.

“Die,” Mathews howled. This was his ground and the Posleen would cross over his dead body. He fired madly into an alien, watching the yellow blood spurt as the Posleen reeled over backwards, and ducked a Posleen blade. He didn’t duck fast enough. The Posleen slashed his head off, and then bisected Charlene Jackson. Her camera recorded everything before it was smashed under a Posleen foot.

***
Colonel Yates had gathered almost the entire regiment, or what remained of it, together. “We have special orders,” he said grimly, and there was something in his voice that stifled dissent. “The men in the force here are not to be sent into the main battle.”

Sarfraz gaped at him. The Posleen had come on faster then they’d feared, but they could be beaten; he was certain of that. The ACS, in their first major attack on the Posleen, had smashed an entire Posleen force. With the units that had been placed at Enfield, he was certain that they could have taken on the entire Posleen army – and won.

“We have to cut a way out of London,” Yates said, and held up a hand to stifle any disagreement. “We’re going to be needed elsewhere.”

“Where will we ever be used?” Derek asked. Sidney nodded in agreement; he’d managed to have Patty Archer attached to the unit as a nurse. Sarfraz smiled inside; it showed just how badly off the country was if little things like that got past the Sergeant.

“Are you that eager to die?” Yates asked. Derek flushed. “We have a mission, as I said; we have to get the anti-lander tanks out of London.”

Sarfraz blinked. Out of London before…what? He thought, and came up with an answer he didn’t like. “Sir, can’t we…?”

“This isn’t a debating society,” Sergeant Benton snapped. “Move out!”

***
One by one, the defence lines fell as the Posleen smashed their way through London, hammering on the doorstep of British democracy. Kensington Palace held out for nearly an hour, the Tower of London held out for longer. The Prime Minister watched grimly, yet strangely calm, as the bastions fell, one by one, and millions of Posleen poured into the city. From the west, from the south, from the north, they poured in, thousands of them, millions of them.

How many of you bastards are there? The Prime Minister asked himself. He knew the standard formula; four landers at four million or thereabouts Posleen each, equals sixteen million Posleen. The Bath globe was hammered badly, he knew, but the Posleen seemed careless of their losses. How many of them had died?

He shook his head as the roar of explosions came closer and closer. In the end, did it matter? They couldn’t have lost more than a couple of million in Manchester and Liverpool, even with the Enhanced Radiation Weapons, perhaps four million overall. They’d gotten lucky in Birmingham; they’d come down right on top of the city and taken it before the defenders had managed to recover.

Bastards, the Prime Minister thought. He wanted to peer through the windows, but he refrained; the Posleen had disintegrated Buckingham Palace for housing a sniper. The Prime Minister mentally cursed the Darhel and all they stood for; they’d told the Posleen enough to let them know where they had to destroy to win the war.

How many of you bastards are within London? The Prime Minister asked. His fingers caressed the big red button. Would enough Posleen die to make recovery of England – for almost all of England had been lost – possible? He knew that it would not, unless all of the Posleen were destroyed; the units that could have challenged them successfully had been chewed to bits by the Posleen. The ACS units, the modified Challengers, the new Challenger-IV units…all were unready for the task at hand.

“On the other hand,” he said aloud, as he watched the Posleen closing in, “if enough of you die here, perhaps Scotland will survive the experience.” He smiled. “What a change it will make if the Scots are the ones determining the shape of the new British nation.”

The entire building shook. He smiled sadly. He’d imagined many scenes where he was forced to surrender his country, but the Posleen would be uninterested in formal surrender. His hands danced over the box, tapping in the arming code, and setting the dead man’s hand behind him. The Posleen, by luck more than judgement, might have destroyed a few of the devices, the rest would be untouched.

He looked at the cameras and knew that his time had come. The Posleen were pressing through the gates, smashing the buildings with ease. Perhaps they were puzzled; perhaps they didn’t understand why the Darhel had sent them here. The final defenders fought bitterly, angrily, knowing that it was futile. The Prime Minister took his seat, determined that the leader of the world that had given the world democracy would die with dignity, and pressed the button.

The sappers had placed no less than twenty nuclear warheads in London, overkill designed to prevent the Posleen weakening the effect by accidentally destroying a device. Only three devices had been wrecked, not enough to prevent the Posleen from being destroyed. Some were underground, contaminating the land for years to come; some were on the surface, expanding their blast as far as they could. The weapons detonated as one, and the Posleen wilted before the blast.

The Prime Minister, surrounded by the tools of democracy, died at his desk, smiling and unaware.

Chapter Thirty-Six: Aftermath

London, England
23rd April 2007

The AIDs shrilled a warning as one, compelling the ACS users to throw themselves into the nearest ditch. Tanks and anti-lander vehicles were abandoned, moments before the ground shuddered, and the sky went white. Sarfraz hugged the ground in the ditch as a wall of fire passed overhead, his AID screaming warnings about radiation and the shockwave, his sensors reporting cars and lorries and thousands of tons of debris hurled overhead.

“What the hell was that?” John asked. For once, he sounded stunned rather than cheeky, scared rather than self-assured. “What was that?”

“The fall-back plan,” Yates said. The colonel suddenly sounded very old. “Enough nuclear weapons to fry as many Posleen as attacked London. Millions of the little bastards…”

Derek coughed. “Are we ever going to get to perform our function?” He asked. A hail of dirt and debris cascaded over them in the trenches. “What do we do now?”

A nasty thought struck Sarfraz. “What happened to the unarmoured people?” He snapped. “Where are they?”

“Unable to locate life-signs,” the AID reported. “Local radiation count is higher than humans can stand for long.”

John muttered nervously under his breath. “They must be dead,” he said.

“No panicking,” Sergeant Benton said sternly. “We’re nowhere near as badly off as that American unit was, the one led by O’Neal.”

Sarfraz smiled in relief. Repeating the trick of using grenades to blow them free of the mud would have been tricky without knowing exactly what was happening – or what conditions were like outside. His armoured muscles strained, and slowly broke him free of the mud.

“Break free,” Yates ordered, before the regiment could have a claustrophobic attack. “Push as hard as you can…”

Sarfraz’s head broke though the mud and he waited for his sensors to orientate themselves on the local scene. “Oh Allah,” he breathed. London was wreaked beyond repair, shattered in a blinding firestorm that had spread though the tanks and vehicles they’d been meant to get out of the city. The wreckage of the vehicles was still burning, sending more smoke into the air.

“A mushroom cloud,” John breathed. It could be seen in the sky, settling over London, glowing with infernal light. There was no sign of anything human or Posleen, no sign of anything moving.

Derek prayed aloud. Sarfraz felt like joining him. “Sir, could we be the last people in Britain?” John asked. “Sir…”

“No,” Yates said. Check your AID, private.”

Sarfraz checked his as well. It was reporting a connection, one made with an AID further up towards Great Yarmouth. That alone meant that some part of their support network continued to exist.

“But what does it matter?” Derek asked. “London is…”

“Gone,” Yates said harshly. “Our duty is to the living!”

Sarfraz didn’t join the discussion. He was thinking about Anisa, his pregnant wife. Her latest email, before London had been…flattened, had confirmed her pregnancy. With all of the radiation around, would that child be the only one they would ever have?

“AID,” he asked, “how much radiation am I absorbing?”

“None,” the AID said flatly. “The integrity of the suit is not compromised.”

“But everyone who was not in a suit is dead,” Sarfraz realised. He'd saved Patty Archer, just for her to die in the radiation cloud. “AID, how far will the radiation spread?”

“Unable to determine,” the AID said briskly. “Sensor reports have been lost; the sensors within London itself have been destroyed. The disruption to normal communication channels has been extensive.”

Sarfraz wished that the AID had been allowed to develop a real personality. He’d never been keen on the idea before. “AID, will the cloud spread as far as Edinburgh?”

“Unable to determine,” the AID replied. “Limited sensors make it impossible to provide a certain answer. The calculations also depend on conditions which were unpredictable before the blasts, as the Posleen bombardment has destroyed the weather systems and damaged the ecology.”

It seemed to pause for a moment. “Preliminary data suggests that the radiation is already decaying towards…tolerable levels,” it continued. “It may decay before it reaches too far from the city.”

“It might drift over France,” Sarfraz said thoughtfully, and smiled. The Posleen held most of France these days. “Is there any contact with higher authority?”

“All right,” Yates said. Sarfraz dragged his attention back to Yates with an effort. “I’ve been in contact with the commanding authorities up in Edinburgh. We’re to pull out of here for Great Yarmouth, where we will meet up with the sailors again.”

“Navy food again,” John said. His voice trembled; his attempts to put a brave face on it failed miserably. “Sir, what about our power?”

Sarfraz checked the power ratings and cursed. The suits had enough power for around an hour’s walk, assuming that they remained in power-low mode, which would prevent them from using their weapons or enhanced sensors. Were there still Posleen around?

“Remain in power-low mode,” Yates ordered. “We can’t step out of the suits…”

“We could carry ourselves,” Sarfraz suggested. “There are four hundred of us. Each of us can carry a partner, and then trade places when the power runs too low for anything, but life support.”

“Good thinking,” Benton said. “Colonel?”

“Yes,” Yates said. He sounded grim. Sarfraz suddenly remembered that Yates had been born in London. “Let’s go.”

“Move out,” Benton bellowed, and, taking one last look at the ruins of London, the regiment headed for the sea.

Edinburgh, United Kingdom
24th April 2007

It had taken nearly a day for the reports to filter in through the battered and seriously damaged computer and communications network. Some messages, from AID holders near the battle, were received instantly, others took longer to arrive. When the news was finally released – the BBC had lost the signal from London at the same time the bombs went off – the entire city went into shock.

“What happened?” Daniel Morgan asked. General Anderson smiled sadly; Morgan had never expected to be Prime Minister. He was far too ruthless for the party. “What happened in London?”

Anderson frowned. “The bombs detonated,” he said. They had no way to be certain how many bombs had gone off, but London was clearly wreckage now. “The entire city was wreaked.”

Morgan looked up with desperate eyes. “Is that how its going to be from now on?” He asked. “The Posleen are going to come, and we have to kill our own people or let them be eaten?”

“No,” Anderson said. “Work proceeds on the Hadrian’s Wall defence line. We will hold them there.”

“They must be damaged themselves by the blasts,” Colonel Wells said. “Perhaps we could counter-attack.”

With a sudden frisson of horror, General Anderson realised that he was the senior surviving army commander. “No,” he said, even though every cell of his body cried out for revenge. “The offensive forces were destroyed at London, remember? The ACS, those that remain, are on their way here, but we lost a lot of the best units there.”

He tapped the map grimly. “Even their numbers have limits, but we have no way of knowing how many of them are dead,” he said softly. “They could still hammer over to York, where we have very little in the way of defences, or even come up to challenge the defence line before its ready. They haven’t pressed against Preston, yet, but it can only be a matter of time before they do. When they do…Preston will fall.”

He sighed. “The units we have here are the ones working up,” he said. “They’re not ready to fight yet, particularly not an offensive war. The ACS are the only units that can do that without massive losses, and we can’t risk them at the moment.”

“I see,” Morgan said. “What about nukes?”

Anderson had thought about that. “We don’t know exactly where they are,” he said. “Even if we did, most of them are out of the range of tactical artillery nuclear shells. They’ve been growing better at hunting down humans spying on them, alas.”

Morgan sighed. “So your big idea is to have the defence line built before they come for us,” he said. “Tell me; can we hold them out of Scotland?”

Anderson nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “First, we have one hell of a lot of firepower gathered along the line now, and more being assembled. Second, we can use nukes against the attacking Posleen. Third, and finally, we will have a line they cannot circumvent; they will have to break their way through it.”

“They managed to do that to London in less than a day,” Morgan said. “What’s to say that they won’t do the same to you?”

“First, with all due respect to the London defences, mine are deeper,” Anderson said. “Now we know how they managed to punch through the defences, we can adapt and hold more forces in reserve, perhaps even the ACS units rather than conventional forces. We will have more and more firepower as time goes on, and we will have thousands more heavy guns to shell them to death.”

“There can’t be that many of them left,” Morgan said hopefully. “How many can there be?”

“I don’t know,” Anderson admitted. “They don’t have anything like a recognisable command and control system, even though we know that one exists in some form, so we can’t get a grip on exact numbers and units.”

“I’m confused,” Morgan admitted. “What exactly do you mean?”

“We have no idea who is in charge of the Posleen from among the hordes of God Kings,” Anderson said. “There could be one big commander, or several of them, all with different ideas about how to fight the war.”

“Which would explain some of their actions,” Morgan said. “I assume that most of the MPs managed to make it out?” Anderson nodded. “Oh, joy,” Morgan said. “Another few hours of arguing about if an MP whose population has been eaten should sit in the house.”

“The Posleen might eat them too,” Anderson said.

Morgan glared at him. “The Posleen have better taste,” he said. “What about the Darhel body?”

“Taken out of the city on a submarine,” Anderson said. Sir Robert had not survived the battle of London, as far as they knew; he’d wanted to stay with his people until the end. “It’s on its way to a secret base in the Orkneys.”

“Good,” Morgan said. “And the Darhel agents?”

“Rounded up under DORA, those that weren’t in London,” Anderson said. “There won’t be any more trouble from them.”

***
The BBC had been uninformative, ever since the direct feed from London had been broken. Anisa had been worried, desperately, about Sarfraz; the MOD headquarters in the city was not responding to any enquires. The confused rumours on the Internet, ranging from claims that God had smote the city with his wrath to claims that the Posleen had been destroyed, had only made her panic worse.

“Anisa, love?” Mrs Doris asked. “Anisa?”

Anisa looked up, noticing for the first time that the darkness had fallen. “Yes,” she said, confused. “That’s me.”

Mrs Doris looked down at her drawn face and frowned. “The radio has been announcing a special broadcast,” she said. “Are you fit enough to listen?”

“Yes,” Anisa said definitely. “I’m ready to listen.”

She pulled herself to her feet and swayed. Mrs Doris caught her with her hand. “Think of the child,” she scolded. “Take more care of yourself.”

Anisa was too tired to argue. She yawned grimly, staggering into the next room. The radio was playing; the television hadn’t worked right since…whatever had happened in London had happened. Mr Doris looked up at his wife, smiled grimly, and returned his attention to the radio.

“Now sit there and don’t move,” Mrs Doris said, as the radio began its special announcement. Anisa listened; she knew who the Prime Minister was, but the voice on the radio was unfamiliar.

***
Morgan spoke with a sheer grim determination. His…outright dislike of speaking on the radio, and his sheer bloody-mindedness on certain subjects that the party as a whole would have preferred to have ignored rather than letting them trouble their peace of mind, had disqualified him for a cabinet post…until the Posleen had come. Suddenly, ensuring a political base of support was all-important, and offering Morgan a post was part of that.

He smiled. At least no one could accuse him of being soft on defence.

“People of Britain,” he said. He had refused to use a speechwriter; the speech had to come from the heart. “It is with tragic news that I must confirm the destruction of London, along with most of the Posleen army attempting to take the city and eat its inhabitants. Although we have no figures on the death toll yet, I am sorry to report that they are very high indeed.”

He’d slanted it to suggest that the Posleen were responsible for the explosions. “For the moment, we remain safe in Scotland and the process of defence continues. We have secure defences” – he was careful not to mention that London had thought the same – “and we have enough firepower to hold out for a long time, long enough for Fleet to return and break us out of the nightmare. Panic and fear are our worst enemies now.

“The government is reforming along the lines of power, now that the Posleen have been halted for the moment,” he concluded. “As Winston Churchill once said, we will fight them on the beaches and the hills and the fields and we will keep fighting them until we all lie dead – or they do. The Posleen are not an enemy we can surrender to; they want to eat us all.

“I ask you all to remain calm. The MOD infrastructure will release the news of the dead soldiers within the week, once we known who has been killed in London, and we will make all such information open to all. Thank you and good night.”

***
“That was Daniel Morgan, Prime Minister pro tem,” the BBC announcer said. “The police have asked us to inform everyone that there will be a curfew for the entire country for the night. All reservists and soldiers on leave have been ordered to report to their barracks at once, I repeat; all reservists and soldiers on leave have been ordered to report to their barracks at once.”

There was a pause. “Our prayers go out to those suffering in London,” he concluded. “Please tune in again tomorrow at nine in the morning for a further update.”

Mrs Doris turned off the radio, her face ashen. “An entire city gone, just like that,” she said. “All those people…”

“Manchester’s gone too,” Anisa said. She started to cry. Nancy, the little girl, climbed over and gave her a hug. “Is that what it’s going to be like here too?”

“Of course not,” a new voice said. Anisa looked up. Brad stood there, with Sameena behind him. “The defences can hold.”

Mrs Doris shook her head as her husband sat down again, having let the two into the house. “I never even heard you,” she said. “How are you doing, young Brad? You’re much taller than I remember you.”

***
“He’s not dead,” Sameena said, having taken Anisa into a private room. “You can’t start believing that he’s dead.”

“I know he’s not dead,” Anisa said. “I’m pregnant, with his child.”

Sameena gaped at her, unable to repress a spot of mischief. “Really?” She asked. “I never knew he had it in him.”

Anisa smiled weakly at her. “He has it all right,” she said, pulling out a photograph.

Sameena winced. “I don’t want to know,” she said quickly.

Anisa laughed and flipped the picture over…to reveal Sarfraz and her on the breach, fully clothed. “Got you,” she said. Sameena, who’d expected a photograph of her brother naked, sighed in relief. “Somehow, taking dirty photographs never occurred to us.”

Sameena recognised that Anisa was in mild shock. “You need to sleep,” she said. “Come on, I’ll put you to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” Anisa protested, and then yawned. Her computer pinged, the sound of a new email appearing. “Excuse me.”

Sameena sighed as Anisa checked the laptop computer she’d been given. “He’s alive,” she shouted, as the email came though. “Look!”

Sameena read it quickly. Sarfraz had written a short note, saying that he was on the carrier HMS Invincible and was on his way to Newcastle. He didn’t say much about the battles in London, but Sameena got the impression that he’d been far too close to them. He did mention that the entire regiment had been badly battered, and that they were enjoying the rest.

“He’s being promoted,” Anisa squealed, suddenly very happy indeed. “He’s going to be a lieutenant. Is that higher than a general?”

Sameena sniggered. “No, a general is higher,” she said. “Email him back, love; tell him we’re here in Edinburgh and looking forward to seeing him.”

“I will,” Anisa promised. “Umm…”

Sameena understood. “You want some privacy,” she said. She left Anisa behind, smiling to herself, and slipped back into the living room. “He’s alive,” she said shortly.

“That’s wonderful,” Brad said. His mouth grew into a grin that seemed too large to be real. “That’s the best news we’ve had all week.”

Sameena frowned. “The bad news is that he’s going to Newcastle,” she said. “That means…”

“The bastards are coming up this way,” Brad said, ignoring Mrs Doris’ annoyance at his language. “That means that the line needs to be built faster and faster.”

Sameena sighed. “How long will it be before any of us can have a normal life?” She asked. “How long?”

Mrs Doris, unexpectedly, spoke first. “You young people of today,” she said. “All wanting things you have to earn. There’s nothing that brings a country together like a war, with everyone doing their bit for the country. Instead, you have no faith in the leaders, and then you grow up and become the leaders, and the rot sets in.”

She smiled at their stunned expressions. “The world isn’t safe enough for people to have everything, you know. Once the Posleen are defeated, how long will it take for you to forget that again?”

Interlude

For either side in the declared war, and the third side in the undeclared war, it was not a time of peace. For the Posleen, reeling from the losses in London, it was a time to consolidate and to prepare for the coming offensive into Scotland, ending the war. For the humans, it was a time to dig into Scotland and to refuse to budge, even for launching small limited probes at the Posleen forces.

For the Darhel, watching the collapse of their operations in Germany and France, the loss of the Tir in London wasn’t a major concern. It would have been…embarrassing if the Tir had been caught, or indeed if he had continued to live. Questions would have been asked; share prices would have plummeted. In the end, the Darhel simply wrote the Tir off, unaware of his true fate.

Across the Earth, an uneasy peace fell, one broken only by the occasional skirmish between the two sides. For France, huddled into a small area near Germany, it was a time of suffering, a suffering that passed unnoticed amid the remaining corridors of power. For Germany, it was a time of cleansing, of preparing for the coming wave of Posleen. For Poland, partly occupied by the Posleen, it was a time of suffering indeed – and it would never end soon.

Tired, like two prize-fighters in a victory bout, both sides took stock of the situation. In England, the Posleen occupied themselves with rounding up and eating the remaining humans, while probing gingerly at the radioactive ruins of London. York fell, after a brief token defence, and the Posleen realised that the humans within the city had fled north. Even as they chased them, the humans fled beyond the Preston line…and beyond that, to Scotland.

In Scotland, the production of weapons continued unabated, arming as much of the population as could be armed. There was no longer any wishful thinking, no longer any reluctance to use the weapons of hell itself, so long as they brought victory. Yet the humans did not attack, fearing defeat and the fate that the Posleen brought, biding their time until the Fleet could be ready…

***
In the bitterness of the winter of 2007, the next wave of Posleen made their appearance. Some on Earth prayed for deliverance, but Admiral Bledspeth knew better. The Posleen wave, sixty-five globes, each composed of hundreds of smaller ships connected for interstellar travel, was simply too great, unimaginably great. And Earth's defending fleet was simply too small.

From his position on Titan Base, he watched as the defending force went into action. A multinational force, under a British Admiral. The starships Lütjens, Almirante Guillermo Brown, Moscow, Genjiro Shirakami and Honshu, ships named for proud wet-navy ships in human history, fought to stem the tide. They fought…and one by one they died. The Posleen pressed on against the battered planet, closing in and separating their units to land on the planet.

Space became a maelstrom of energy as the Posleen landers duelled with the Planetary Defence Centres on the surface. The Posleen died in the thousands, but they fought on, slamming kinetic weapons against the surface time and time again. As humans died, as holes appeared in the defence network, the Posleen landed, falling to the surface in gentle waves of death. France, Germany, China, America and India all received more Posleen, as if there weren’t enough already. The Posleen Net hummed with activity as deals between God Kings were struck; making certain decisions that would affect the entire war.

And slowly, but very surely, two Posleen globes fell towards the British Isles…

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Armageddon

Hadrian’s Wall, United Kingdom
18th December 2007

The UKADR radar network that had once protected the British Isles had been destroyed beyond repair by the Posleen, who had occupied most of its sites and blasted the others from orbit, but there were enough sensors scattered around to allow the commanders to see what the Posleen were doing. There was no question that the Posleen were finally coming, even as the shape of two separating globes appeared on the display.

“They’re coming for us,” Colonel Baxter said, as the sky streaked with light as the battle went on. The ground shuddered as a kinetic bomb slammed into a PDC, not too far away from them. “Why couldn’t they have landed on Ireland?”

General Anderson scowled at him. The second Posleen attempt on Ireland had been defeated, allowing the Irish time to prepare, but they also held thousands of English refugees. The Posleen had made the serious mistake, in both battles, of coming over the seas, rather than trying to land directly on Ireland. If a globe had landed on Ireland, Anderson knew that it would have devastated Ireland from one end to the other.

“We need their food,” he reminded Baxter. Despite the cries of many Irish farmers, the development of the Irish farming infrastructure to allow them to grow thousands of tons of food had been accelerated by the support of refugee farmers from Britain. “Without that…”

“We have more mouths to feed too,” Baxter said grimly. It was an old argument. “If we didn’t have the Jews…”

Anderson ignored him. The globes were finally settling down to a final landing zone. “Where are they landing?” He asked. “Do we have a projection?”

“Bradford and…near Manchester,” the sensor tech said. “Sir, it won’t be long before they reach us.”

Anderson did a quick calculation. Two globes meant that eight million more Posleen had been dumped on Britain. These Posleen might have survived prior battles on Federation worlds; they might be smarter and more dangerous than the ones they’d fought before, the ones who’d practically kicked them out of England.

“The Preston Line won’t stand,” he said, and knew that it was true. The Posleen had hammered the Preston Line twice, but now they had the force to simply overwhelm it. “Order Colonel Rhoden to fall back.”

“Aye, sir,” Baxter said. Another stream of lights fell from the sky, heading further north. “Sir, they’re going to hit the big line.”

Anderson nodded. “I know,” he said. They’d spent seven months building the line, one solid line of defences from Newcastle to Carlisle, both cities they could ill afford to lose. Newcastle, because it was a port, and Carlisle because it was a major railway hub. Losing either of them would hurt.

“Contact the Prime Minister,” he said. Daniel Morgan had been confirmed as Prime Minister, under the pre-Invasion rules, until the invasion was defeated. “Inform him that I am placing the defence forces on red alert. Now they have more Posleen, I’m sure that they will come north.”

He looked up at the map again, his mind spreading out to cover the distance. The Preston Line could never be held with eight million Posleen – and God knew how many from the first invasion – bearing down on it. It had only survived as long as it had because of the Posleen determination to capture London, and then their determination to mop up the remaining humans below Preston.

Mentally, he cursed the Darhel. If they’d had ten years to prepare, they would have beaten off the Posleen in space and Britain would never have been invaded. If the Darhel had been frank with them…

He shook his head. Such worrying was counter-productive. Instead, he tried to work out how long it would take for the Posleen to confront their main defence line, and failed. A human could have driven there, in the days before the war, in a matter of hours. He suspected that it would take the Posleen a little longer…but how much longer?

The telephone rang. “Anderson,” he said, picking it up. “Yes, Prime Minister?”

“This is it, then?” Morgan asked. The new Prime Minister, at least, had more determination to win, whatever the cost, than his predecessor. “They’ve finally come to hunt us down?”

“I’m afraid so,” Anderson said. He remembered, so long ago, reading the War of the Worlds. Had the characters then felt the same sense of crushing helplessness? “They’re going to hit the line.”

“And then…what?” Morgan asked. “Should I issue evacuation orders?”

Anderson laughed, bitterly. “Where is there to go?” He asked. Sweden, Norway and Finland were busy taking in Germans and Frenchmen. Iceland was a possibility, Canada was even more possible…but there would be nowhere for the fifteen million surviving British to run to, nowhere to hide.

Fifteen million, he thought, and shuddered. The Posleen had a lot to answer for. “Prime Minister, we may have to implement Armageddon.”

“They’ll crucify me,” Morgan said wryly. “You have full launch authority, General; don’t fuck it up.”

“No, sir,” Anderson said. It was night; how long would it be before the day rose? He glanced at his watch; it was nearly three o’clock. “It will be dawn in six hours,” he said. “Prime Minister…”

“General, it was a honour to be serving with you,” Morgan said. “Whatever happens, make sure the Posleen know what it means to be English.”

Jokes about being what you ate bubbled to the top of Anderson’s mind. He forced them down. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said. “We won’t lose here, sir.”

***
Anisa lay on her back, sleeping uncomfortably. Sarfraz lay beside her, one hand gently placed on his wife’s swelling belly. Her child – their child – was growing well, according to Sameena, and it wouldn’t be long before Anisa gave birth.

I’m going to be a father, Sarfraz thought, with a mixture of joy and astonishment. He remembered being young and without a girlfriend, then he remembered being introduced to Noreen – who now existed, he was certain, as Posleen digestive by-products. Anisa was special; being with her was like being complete.

His AID chimed an alarm. Sarfraz shuddered; they’d heard about the battles in the outer solar system. “Lieutenant, the Posleen have landed in Britain,” it said. “You are ordered to report to the Regiment HQ.” It paused. “In addition, I have taken the liberty of booking your wife a seat on the evacuation train, leaving in half an hour.”

Sarfraz used a word that would have made his father reach for his belt. “Thank you,” he said. It had been Anisa who’d been charmed by the idea of a computer with a personality. She’d spoken to the AID for ages, helping it to grow into a person, even though it was imprinted on Sarfraz.

“Love?” She asked now, opening her eyes. She’d been taking courses as a nurse, but as her belly grew, she had been offered a place in the Sub-Urbs, a place that should have been hers by rights from the start. Like dozens of other wives, she’d been billeted with her husband in the defence line.

“It’s time,” he said. “They’re coming.”

Anisa sat up slowly, heavily. “She’s nervous,” she said, feeling her belly. “She wants out.”

“You want her out,” Sarfraz said. Anisa was confident that their child was a girl. “You have to get dressed quickly.”

He had been wearing his underclothes anyway, something that had been declared mandatory when the Posleen had re-entered Earth’s solar system. If they’d come down directly on top of the line, he would have been woken well before now. That he hadn’t suggested that they had some time, but not enough for a final sexual act.

There was a knock at the door. “Who’s there?” He called. “Who are you?”

“Me,” Sameena snapped. “Brad’s with me. Brother, we have to move!”

“I know,” Sarfraz said. He sighed. “Come on in.”

He smiled as Anisa gasped, and then at the red flush that spread out over Brad’s face. “For the record, you are a bastard,” Brad said.

“Speak for yourself,” Sarfraz said, pulling on his army trousers. They’d been designed to go with the ACS, but they were uncomfortably tight.

“I am,” Brad said. “I’ve been ordered to the defence line,” he said. “You’re to go to your headquarters.”

“And I’m going to help Anisa get out of here,” Sameena said. “After which I’m going to slap you a few times.”

Sarfraz winced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Honey, I have to go now.”

“Come here so I can slap you,” Anisa said, staggering to her feet with Sameena’s help. She leaned over and kissed him firmly on the lips. “You had better come back to me,” she said. “Your daughter needs her father.”

Sarfraz gave Sameena a peck on the cheek and shook Brad’s hand. “I love you all,” he said sincerely. “Brad, take care of her. Sister, marry the guy.” He kissed Anisa once more, feeling tears welling up in his face. “Stay safe,” he said, and left the room before they saw him cry.

***
The Preston Line held for a grand total of ten minutes, the rearguard fighting madly against a swarm of Posleen that seemed to have no end. Finally, a force of landers moved on overhead, raining down death from above, and the final defenders died. The Posleen charged into the town, only to be met with explosives; every building within the city had been rigged with one heavy explosive charge. Eager for loot, the God Kings sent their troops into the buildings…until several thousand Posleen had died.

The human forces fled north and the Posleen followed…

***
SAS Sergeant Robin Clark crouched in his hidden position in the signal box, watching as the Posleen came on and on. They’d passed through the Lake District with ease, tramping over any possible opposition. The civilians who had chosen to remain behind either fled into the hills, hiding from the Posleen, or were caught and eaten. The Posleen never broke step, never slowed down, heading north and covering the hills like a blanket.

“Control, I hope you’re getting this,” he subvocalised into his microphone. A Posleen fired a burst of energy at a bird, blasting the inoffensive creature out of the sky. Its burned body fell to the ground and was promptly devoured by one of the Posleen.

What the hell was that about? He asked himself. It seemed that every Posleen in existence was tramping over the hills, heading for his position. As he watched, the first Posleen drew closer and closer to his hidden weapons.

“Control, I’m engaging,” he said, and tapped the button on his control. Half a mile away, mounted on tripods, four automated machine guns opened fire, raking the Posleen hordes. Mines and semi-automated weapons, some of them captured from the Posleen, opened fire, pouring death onto the Posleen ranks.

“Bugger,” he said mildly, as a God King fired a HVM directly into the machine guns, triggering the explosives stored underneath them. The explosion blasted into the sky and the Posleen swarmed on, hunting down the other weapons. Clark tapped a second switch and the mines activated, blowing great chunks out of the Posleen, but still they came on.

The entire structure shuddered as a Posleen launched a missile into it. It was weak enough for the missile to punch though without detonating. “Goodbye,” he said quickly, as a second missile detonated against the signal box and blew it – and him – into very tiny pieces indeed.

***
Anderson scowled as the third holding position fell. He’d considered the idea of using tanks and the ACS to try to slow the Posleen up, but there simply weren’t enough of them to hold the Posleen, not without prepared defences.

“We should have expanded the lines,” he said grimly, and scowled. There simply hadn’t been time for everything he’d wanted to do. The Posleen were coming on, poisoning the very land with their presence.

“The hills are alive with the sound of Posleen,” Baxter said. “Sir, what about the shells?”

“Not within range yet,” Anderson said. “We don’t want them to know that some of our guns can indeed shoot that far.”

“Yes, sir,” Baxter said. The Posleen were too close to the line, Anderson knew; too close for some of the other weapons to be used. “Sir, we still have the feed from the automated sensors.”

“Good,” Anderson said. “Keep a constant update to the artillery, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Baxter said. “Sir, the Posleen will be on us in an hour at this rate.”

“Signal the alert,” Anderson said. He shuddered; from west to east a wall of Posleen was proceeding, with two major threats developing. One would hit Carlisle, one would hit Newcastle – and isolated units would hit the line all along its length.

“Smart God King,” he muttered. He paused. Where were the landers?

“I don’t know,” Baxter said, when he asked. “Sir…”

“They’re not very good at coordinating, but they usually combine the two attacks,” Anderson said. “So, where the hell are they?”

***
“This is the situation,” General Yates said. His command, perhaps the smallest in the remains of the army, was the most capable; one thousand five hundred armoured combat suits, every last one in the British inventory. There were more with the British units in Fleet, of course, but the Darhel kept a stranglehold on them.

He tapped the map. “The bastards are finally hitting us a big one, the largest we’ve ever faced. They have two main attack prongs, several dozen smaller ones at nearly ten thousand each, and they’re going to hit the line in an hour, perhaps less.”

Derek coughed. “Sir, where are the landers?”

“That’s a very good question,” Yates agreed. Sarfraz nodded; the skull shape of a lander – any lander – was missing from the map. “We don’t know; we’re not tracking them at all.”

“Perhaps its just infantry,” John mused. “Don’t they always send in landers?”

“They found out that it worked, so they always repeat it,” Yates agreed. “Which is worrying, as I’m sure you will agree. All I can tell you is that we can’t see the bastards, which means they’re still on the ground where they landed.”

“Perfect opportunity for some nukes,” Derek commented.

“Out of range,” Yates snapped. “Our mission is simple; we’re to split up into the three regiments and support the three main targets of the Posleen attack. It may become necessary to use nuclear weapons to break up the Posleen attack, in which case our task will be to clear the remains of the Posleen.”

John smiled. “Won’t the radiation do them in?”

“These would be straight fusion weapons,” Yates said absently. “That was a good question, John.”

John, who would probably never make above lieutenant, nodded. Sarfraz, who knew that Sergeant Benton was trying to hammer sergeant skills into John’s head, smiled grimly. John would make a good sergeant; he had the right combination of disdain for superior authority, particularly know-it-all officers and sheer genuine competence. Rote obedience could not be permitted in the ACS unit.

“Move out,” Benton snapped, at Yates’s nod. “Armour and arm up, then move out to the designated locations.”

“Yes, sir,” Sarfraz said, and checked the AID on his belt. His suit was working properly, the AID reported; all of the weapons and ammunition were ready for use, and the power cells were fully charged. Quickly, carefully, he climbed into the suit and sighed. He wanted to tell Anisa that he loved her, one more time.

***
“Where the hell are the landers?” Anderson demanded, as the Posleen overran Penrith. The small town had been abandoned months ago, its population inducted into the army or assigned a space within the Sub-Urbs. “What are the Posleen doing with them?”

Baxter shook his head. “Sir, I don’t know,” he protested. “We’re watching for them, but its like they’re keeping them on the ground.”

Anderson frowned. “They might be making another stab at Ireland,” he muttered, and dismissed the possibility. If the Posleen intended to fly over to Ireland again, they would have been seen moving. “How are the PDCs holding up?”

“Fairly well,” the Fleet liaison officer said. “The Posleen have been challenging them, on and off, but they seem to be concentrating on the PDCs covering France and Germany and perhaps Russia.”

“Not our problem then,” Anderson said grimly. It was odd; the Posleen were normally very stupid, so what was making them act differently? They could innovate, from time to time, but this was the very opposite of innovation.

A surprise happens because someone has failed to recognise something they should have seen in advance, he reminded himself. It still didn’t make sense; what were the bastards doing?

Baxter coughed as time ticked by. “Sir, the Posleen have reached firing distance for the outposts of the line,” he said. “The commanders are asking permission to open fire.”

Anderson didn’t hesitate. Whatever the Posleen landers were doing, they were suddenly unimportant. “Tell them to open fire,” he commanded.

“Yes, sir,” Baxter said. Anderson watched the displays grimly; the Posleen died in massive explosions, marching over the minefields with a chilling disdain for their deaths…and kept coming.

“Has there been anything from Ireland?” He asked hopefully, and then all of the alarms sounded at once. He swung around to stare at the display; dozens of red icons had suddenly appeared on it, rising from the Manchester region and heading north.

“Sir…” Baxter said.

“I saw,” Anderson said grimly. He stared as nearly three dozen landers headed north, charging towards the humans, but remaining low – low enough to avoid PDC fire. It wouldn’t save them once they passed the Pennines, but for the moment they were almost untouchable.

“They’re going to hit the line at the same time as the ranks of Posleen,” Baxter said. He shuddered. “Sir…”

“Order the anti-lander weapons to open fire as soon as the Posleen come within firing range,” Anderson ordered. “Whatever happens, we do not break, not here.” He took a breath. “This is for everything, everyone, and we will not break!”

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Apocalypse Now

Hadrian’s Wall, United Kingdom
18th December 2007

The Posleen ranks advanced upon the human position, with their weapons flaring out death and defiance, and the humans returned fire. The black shapes of the landers, growing closer and closer, could be seen in the distance, closing in at a more normal pace.

“Gunner, lock and load,” Lieutenant Grimes ordered. He checked the display as the Posleen swarm moved closer and closer, each Challenger selecting a different target. As the landers crossed over the Posleen hordes, he gave the order. “Fire,” he snapped.

The Challenger shuddered as it launched an antimatter round towards the Posleen craft, punching a massive hold through the lander. The Lamprey flipped over and exploded, showing molten metal on the Posleen below, before falling down onto the ground. The explosion battered human and Posleen lines together, but the Posleen kept coming.

“Move us,” Grimes snapped, and the Challenger leapt backwards, avoiding a HVM by sheer luck. Three Challengers exploded as the remaining landers opened fire, sweeping their weapons across the human position, desperate to destroy the threat. “Gunner, fire as you bear.”

“Firing,” the gunner said, launching a second round towards a Lamprey. The Posleen craft was damaged, but remained intact, aiming blasts of green and yellow light towards the human position. “Machine guns auto-engaging…”

The Challenger shuddered as its machine guns swept away Posleen infantry on the ground. The aliens pressed on, slamming their missiles against human bunkers and the vehicles, staggering backwards under a hail of dirt and boulders from a Handling Machine. An explosion nearby marked the loss of a human bunker, struck by a missile.

“They’re punching through the first line,” the gunner protested. “Sir, we have to move.”

“Move us,” Grimes snapped, and the Challenger leapt backwards. The entire battle had narrowed down to the Posleen landers, ignoring the Posleen on the ground. They fired once more, bringing a lander down with a mighty blast, and then the entire tank was blown open by a Posleen with a shoulder-launched HVM.

***
“The first defence line is in trouble,” Baxter said. “Sir, they’re requesting permission to launch the FAE weapons.”

Anderson studied the displays for a long moment. “Denied,” he said. “Let them get closer to the second line first.” He paused. “We may as well start interdicting them now.”

“Yes, sir,” Baxter said. He sounded relieved. “I’ll order the guns to open fire at once.”

Anderson didn’t hear him, watching as the Posleen came on and on. The shells started to fall amongst them, but they came on anyway. For every Posleen they killed, three more took its place, firing madly at the humans who dared to stand in their way.

“I think we can use the FAE now,” he said, after ten minutes had passed. “Send the signal.”

***
“That’s the signal,” Sergeant Kendrick snapped. “Brad, see to the weapons; Clive, bring the shells.”

Brad didn’t salute – only the army saluted – but he leapt to obey, moving the special weapons out of their shelter. The roar of the battle was closer than he cared to think about, but the Posleen were becoming bogged down in the first defence line. Having punched though, they now were realising that the humans had taken care to plan the defence carefully. Each Posleen was standing on a place that had been carefully targeted, weeks before.

“The weapon is ready,” he said, as he booted it up. The cannon was one of a kind – or rather one of twenty special models – one designed to shoot a unique shell at the Posleen. Clive wheeled the trolley up and they carefully placed the shells in the weapon.

“I’m giving it the coordinates now,” Brad said. He checked the firing coordinates carefully; they’d all heard about what the Posleen had done at Fredericksburg. The weapon moved on its own, carefully sighting the almost-comical weapon on the advancing Posleen.

“You’d better hurry,” Sergeant Kendrick said. The man seemed remarkably calm. “They’re on their way.”

Brad worked carefully, refusing to hurry. “The weapon is targeted,” he said. “Permission to fire?”

“Fire,” Sergeant Kendrick said. “We’ve no friends down there now.”

***
The weapon was called a Fuel-Air Explosive, or FAE for short. As the gun carefully blasted its shell into the sky, it was surrounded by a hail of conventional shells from the other guns, just to prevent the Posleen from suspecting the truth. As the shell fell down onto the Posleen, it detonated, throwing a wave of burning fuel across the Posleen position.

“Oh, yes, baby,” John exulted. “Look at them burn!”

“I saw,” Sarfraz said grimly. “Sir…?”

“Go,” Yates said. “Move, now!”

Sarfraz leapt forward from where he’d been crouching, firing as he came. The Posleen, already reeling under the FAE bomb, tried to meet them, but the ACS cut them down quickly and efficiently. The Posleen fought hard, or in some cases tried to run, but they died.

“General, we have more of the bastards,” Sarfraz said, peering carefully around a ruined bunker. With the kind of grim determination that would have broken a human army, the next wave of Posleen was already coming. “We need more weapons.”

“They’re being fired,” Yates said, just as a wave of fire enveloped the Posleen. Sarfraz was fascinated; the aliens seemed almost…scared by the fire. “Now, fall back.”

“Retreat hell,” John said. “We just got here.”

“And they’ll be here soon,” Sarfraz snapped. “Our job is to throw them back when they come for us!”

“You know what this reminds me of?” Derek asked. “The final battle in the War of the Worlds.”

Sarfraz scowled. “Does it offer a solution?” He demanded. Derek made a grim noise. “Then shut up.”

***
“The FAE proved more effective than expected,” Baxter said. Anderson nodded; the Posleen had come alarmingly close to success when they’d broken through the first defence line. “However, we don’t have that many shells and…”

Anderson scowled as the next flight of Posleen landers closed in. “They’re not coordinating properly, the stupid bastards,” he said. “If they sent them in together, we’d be fucked up the butt.”

He scowled. “General Yates, call back the ACS units,” he said. “It’s time for the unarmoured infantry to take their shot.”

“Aye, sir,” Yates said, through his AID. “Sir, the ACS suits need recharged.”

Anderson thought quickly. “Have them recharged now,” he finally decided. “They’ll be needed again.”

***
I must have been out of my fucking mind, Private Lindsay Hauptmann thought, as the Posleen closed in on her position. She’d refused to join the army at first, but after her boyfriend had been conscripted, she’d made the decision to join him. Naturally, he’d been assigned to Fleet – where he was shacking up with a Chinese woman of great sexual ability and very little brain – and she’d been assigned to the ground pounders.

“Lindsay, the Posleen are closing in,” Sergeant Meir shouted. The Israelis had been assigned to the line as well – it was all or nothing time – and they were much better at integrating the two sexes in combat. At the moment, Lindsay would have been much happier flying a desk, even if she did have to suck the cock of a fat superior officer.

“I noticed,” she said, though her shakes, and aimed her machine gun carefully down the slope. The bunker was supposed to be well hidden, but she’d looked around during drills and she’d been able to spot it.

“Fire on my command,” Meir snapped, and the platoon aimed their guns carefully at the Posleen. The aliens seemed unaware of their presence; the killing valley had been designed with luring them into a false sense of security in mind. In the valley, they would be safe from the ever-present artillery.

Lindsay took a firmer grip on her weapon, imagining that each of the Posleen wore the face of her former boyfriend – although she would have preferred to take a Posleen to bed than her ex – and prepared to fire. The centaur-like aliens didn’t seem to notice as she muttered her hate, but they heard Meir’s command.

“Fire,” he snapped, and Lindsay fired, blasting a hail of bullets into the killing zone. The Posleen died by the hundredfold, and they kept coming and Lindsay started to laugh insanely. She was brought back to reality by a hand slapping her buttocks.

“They’re dead,” Meir said. His olive face was grinning at her. “You killed most of them yourself.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lindsay said, trembling. She felt…she didn’t have words to describe how she felt.

“Next time, exercise more fire discipline,” Meir said, and winked at her. Lindsay winked back. Perhaps Meir would make a better lover than her ex, who might well have died in the battles in space.

***
Brad looked up as the dull thrum of the Posleen landers appeared, then he saw the craft; two B-Decs closing in. He knew the procedure, the only way they could act, and hated it.

“Brad, move, you idiot,” Sergeant Kendrick snapped. “Go!”

Brad started to object. “But, Sarge…”

“Go, you flaming idiot,” Kendrick said, loading the last FAE shell. “You have that girl.” The dark shapes of the landers grew closer, firing down at the humans who dared challenge them. “Go!”

Brad turned his heels and ran, jumping for the pre-prepared bunker as the sun was blotted out by the B-Dec. He felt the wave of heat as the FAE round detonated uselessly against the ship’s hull, and then felt the shockwave as a weapon designed for tanks and city walls disintegrated Sergeant Kendrick utterly.

“No,” he shouted, as he fell headlong into a trench. “No…”

“Shut up and take up a rifle,” a sergeant snapped. The B-Dec moved away, looking for other human artillery positions. It didn’t seem concerned about him. “They’re coming on the ground.”

Brad cursed and snatched up one of the rifles, turning to take a position within the trench. The line of soldiers nodded sympathetically to him, before he checked the weapon and peered out across the top of the trench.

“Let them get closer,” the sergeant muttered. The head of the first Posleen rose to reveal the entire body, and then three more appeared, walking with their strange alien gait. They stopped, peering around, watching for human positions, or for any signs of an attack.

“Fire,” the sergeant snapped, and they fired as one. The four Posleen died quickly and simply, then a God King hovered up on his saucer. They fired at him and he dropped back down, then a swarm of Posleen came boiling back over the ridge.

“Fuck,” Brad breathed, wishing that he’d spent more time with Sameena. He fired and kept firing, even as the Posleen came on and on, and finally they gained the heights.

“Move,” the sergeant snapped. “Crenshaw, Raven, cover us!”

Brad smiled in sudden relief as he saw the secondary trench leading away from it. He fled down it with the others, and then turned to take up an observation position. The Posleen were not in hot pursuit; instead, they seemed to be taking orders from a bigger Posleen.

The God King, he realised, as he watched, trying to determine what they were doing. They were playing with the human weapons, the human artillery, trying to figure out what it was. He felt his blood run cold as the God King slapped two of the normal Posleen while issuing orders in a very agitated voice.

“I wish I could understand you,” he muttered, as the God King finally managed to direct the others to control the weapon. He cursed; if the Posleen managed to work out how to use the artillery, they would be invincible.

“We have to stop them,” he said, and lifted his rifle.

“Allow me,” the sergeant said, lifting a RPG unit. He carefully sighted it on the Posleen God King, and fired. The explosion destroyed the God King, and then the series of explosions killed the normal Posleen.

“Thank God,” Brad breathed. “If you will excuse me, I have to report to my command post.”

“God will be with you,” the sergeant said. “Good luck.”

***
Sameena had no time to take a break or a shower, wishing that she had some way of getting all the blood off her clothes. It had soaked into the fabric of the material, sticking to her body in ways that would have been considered indecent, before the Posleen came. The latest casualty was a man who’d suffered…the wound.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as she injected him with painkiller. There wasn’t much else she could do. A Galactic regeneration vat could have done something for him, but what could she do?”

“I kept it,” the man whispered. Sameena was nearly sick as he opened his hand, revealing a penis clutched within it. She shuddered; the member was crushed beyond repair.

“I can’t attach it,” she said, unable to think of a comforting lie under the circumstances. “I’m going to have to put you out.”

“And then it will be all better,” the soldier said. Sameena didn’t answer, wishing that she had time to cry. She washed her hands compulsively, but it wasn’t enough. For the first time in a life that had been more devout than many would have considered it, she wished that she could get drunk. She needed something to take the pain away, anything…

***
It had been hours since the battle started, Anderson realised grimly. Hours in which the Posleen had slowly ground through the lines, one line after the other line. Losing the FAE weapons had hurt; they were the one thing that could have seriously hurt the Posleen – and seemed to scare them too. Worse, there were several reports of the Posleen taking control of some human weapons, such as artillery, and trying to use them.

Hopefully, you’ll keep destroying yourself in the process, he thought, but he knew that it was almost certainly wishful thinking. One God King had managed to destroy himself in the attempt; others had managed to fire several shells before being suppressed. We do have a smart Posleen out there somewhere.

“Sir, the Posleen are about to break through line three in seven places,” Baxter said. Anderson nodded; his news merely added to a catalogue of disaster. Newcastle was burning as the Posleen fought their way through it; Carlisle had the unwelcome distinction of being the first and last human city to have been shelled by Posleen forces.

“I think its time,” Anderson said. “Have the special weapons been prepared?”

“Yes, sir,” Baxter said. He tapped Anderson’s AID, sitting on the desk. “They await only your order.”

Anderson nodded, thinking as fast as he could. Was it really necessary? A lifetime spent planning for the invasion of England had, at the end, proven to be of little help against the unimaginably powerful Posleen. His life’s work had been shown to be inadequate, worse than the American invasion he’d drawn up one grim day.

“Clear the channels, broadcast the warning,” he said. He picked up his AID, accessing the code words he needed. “Alpha Black; confirmed,” he said. “Tango Charlie – targets as follows.”

“Yes, sir,” the reply came. “Launch when?”

“Five minutes,” he said, and shuddered.

***
The Posleen stood some twenty human miles from the battle, coordinating everything from its hidden lander. It had taken time, prestige and the promise of more loot than it had wanted to give up to convince the hordes on the last two globes to land in Britain, but it had been worth it. In the end, the humans would be thrashed and then threshed.

The Posleen God King would have smiled, if it could have. It had studied Earth with interest, noting how powerful a minor nation like Britain had become. While other God Kings struggled with America or Germany, it had concluded that Britain could be taken quickly, and then put to work for the benefit of all of the Posleen. How could a nation like Britain raise an army that could challenge the Posleen?

The plan had met with some slight flaws, it knew, and yet in the end it had succeeded. The remnants of the humans had found their way north, into the most worthless part of their lands, and it possessed dominance over the most valuable parts of Britain. The humans had even been kind enough to kill off a number of God Kings who would have challenged it, the ones who had objected to some of it’s innovations. Where were they now? Dust and worse than dust.

The lander’s sensors bleeped a warning. The God King looked down sharply. The lander was outside human artillery range; it was certain of that, and the thousands of shells could not exist. Yet they clearly did…

The shells landed…and the God King’s world vanished in a tearing blast of fire.

***
“Our father, who art in heaven,” Derek prayed, as the nuclear weapons detonated. Twenty-one shells had been fired, mixed in with the more conventional shells that had been bombarding the Posleen since the battle had begun, seven hours ago. The men of the ACS regiment were tired, surviving only on Galactic drugs, and yet…the force of the nuclear explosions shocked them in ways nothing else could.

“Stay down,” Sarfraz snapped, as the shockwaves rolled over their position. His AID updated him on the targeting of the nuclear shells, locations where the Posleen were in high concentrations, including their landers and…food pens. The weapons, the AID informed him, were straight fusion, rather than the far dirtier bombs that had destroyed London.

“That’s the shockwave,” Yates said. Someone muttered something under his or her breath. “It’s time.”

The ACS regiment pulled themselves to their feet, their suits moving in the suddenly warm air, and they stepped forward, onto the killing fields. They probed forwards, carefully, finding and killing Posleen as they found them. They charged forward, followed by unarmoured infantry, braving the radiation to kill Posleen.

“I think we might have won,” John said, as the scope of the devastation became clear. “Where are their attackers now?”

“Don’t jinx it,” Sarfraz muttered, and then there was no time for anything, but killing.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Interludes and Examinations

Edinburgh, United Kingdom
14th March 2008

General Anderson walked down the middle of the Princes Street Gardens, enjoying the sudden blast of heat from the sun as the weather cleared. The Posleen bombardment had been brutal, but in the end, Earth had prevailed. They might still occupy parts of the globe, they might still one day threaten a land invasion of Scotland…but for the moment the remains of the British people were safe.

He looked up towards the castle, now decked out in bunting and flags. The Posleen had ignored the castle, even as they had targeted sites that threatened them directly, or just because a God King wanted to make a pretty explosion. It was almost like the war had never happened; for a long moment, he wondered what life would have been like if…

Peace always comes to an end, he thought sadly. The German resistance to the Posleen had collapsed only two days ago, leaving the survivors fleeing to Sweden. The Posleen were now advancing into Russia, fighting hard to eat all of the humans alive. They’d broken a Posleen force, but the other nations hadn’t…and paid the price.

Could it have been different? He asked himself. He shook his head. Thanks to the Darhel, the sheer power of the Posleen had given them a fair chance of landing on Earth. After that, they had smashed through human defences as if they weren’t there, needing thousands of soldiers to die facing them. Britain had lost over forty million people, soldiers and civilians…and parts of the country would never recover.

He shook his head. Perhaps the sheer violence of the battle had stunned the Posleen as much as it had stunned the humans. Perhaps they’d killed the mysterious God King who’d masterminded the attack on London, and then the attack on the defence line. Perhaps…

I guess we’ll never know, he thought, and continued his walk up towards the castle. The Posleen were digging in, ironically enough along the Preston Line that had broken so easily when the final Posleen attack had begun. It was hard, sometimes, to remember that the final battle had taken less than a day, harder still in the wake of Germany’s death struggle. The Germans, in the end, had been hampered just as the British had been…and had lacked the ability to translate the SS’s ruthlessness into an effective weapon.

“Good afternoon, General,” the guard said. The Castle itself had been converted into the government centre for the entire free British Isles; Scotland and a thin slice of England. Ireland maintained an independence that was more in form than in actuality, dependent upon British weapons, but sending food in exchange. Perhaps…

“Good afternoon,” he agreed, and passed though into the castle itself. Parts of the building had served as an army garrison before the Posleen War had begun, its symbol of defiance suiting the Morgan Government. Anderson shivered; both of them had taken care to disperse the truth about the Darhel out of Edinburgh, but like all secrets, it was vulnerable.

He stepped though stone corridors, passing several more guards, and entered the Prime Minister’s office. There was something curiously informal about the entire arrangement; he liked it. He smiled suddenly. Being Commander of the Armies probably helped.

“General,” Morgan said. The intensely tall man nodded once to him. “The news from Europe is grim, then?”

Anderson nodded. “Europe has fallen,” he said shortly. “We may face a renewed assault.”

“I wonder,” Morgan said thoughtfully. “I assume that there’s no chance that we can punch through their lines and win a victory ourselves?”

Anderson shook his head. The Posleen had practically copied the human defence lines, building one that would take thousands of ACS troopers – of which he had around nine hundred – to penetrate. In the meantime, they wandered through England, doing whatever Posleen did in such circumstances. The SAS reports made no sense.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “We would damage them, yes, but not enough to put them off trying to counter-attack.”

Morgan nodded. “Politics are strange things sometimes,” he said. “The body?”

There was no need to ask which body. “Safe in the Orkneys,” Anderson said. “We’ll find out all we can from it.”

“Good,” Morgan said. “I wish we knew what was up with Fleet.”

“Struggling every time to rebuild, just in time to be knocked down again,” Anderson said. He smiled. “We have time, sir, time enough to take care and make sure that we live. And as long as we live, we will have time to take revenge.”

Morgan nodded. “The real enemies in this war,” he said. “We’ll have to keep it quiet until the war ends, and then…well, we’ll see.”

***
Margent Hammond looked around her office, studied the posters, and chuckled to herself. Pictures glorifying Castro and Che no longer suited her mood, nor the status of the Minister Without Portfolio.

She chuckled again, shaking her head in amused awe. Before the Posleen War, she’d never been disgraced by being offered a place in government, but that was part of the British system. In Britain, unlike America, the moderates could form common ground…and now she was a moderate.

“Minister, the Green MSP is due to meet you in five minutes,” her secretary reminded her. The power struggle between the Shadow Parliament, which was now, to all intents and purposes, the real parliament, and the Scottish Parliament had nearly been disastrous. Her work, which had mainly consisted of smoothing ruffled feathers, had kept the peace.

There would never have been a civil war, she told herself, and hoped that she was right. It had been the worst crisis that British Democracy had ever faced, more so than adding the SS to the German Armed Forces had risked. Finally, the power-sharing agreement had been concluded, proving once again the power of democracy.

General Anderson had laughed at her when she’d expressed that comment. “The Posleen at the doorstep do force people to concentrate their minds,” he’d remarked, and she supposed that he was correct. It had certainly prevented a civil war, which – with all those weapons around – would have proven utterly disastrous.

And the Darhel were still out there. She knew the truth, knew it in a way that could not be denied. She looked back at her denial of the truth about the Posleen, at her belief that a star-civilisation would be more advanced socially because it was more advanced technologically, and she knew that she’d been wrong.

They might come for me again, she thought, and shuddered. Perhaps the Darhel would; perhaps they would leave her alone. Perhaps the Darhel who’d recruited her – she hadn’t dared to ask what had happened to Griffin – had died in London, or perhaps he had escaped, to reach out to her once more. Whatever happened, she would meet it with all of her new determination.

The Green MSP entered. Hammond pasted a smile on her face and stood up to greet him. “Good afternoon, Minister,” she said. “How may I help you?”

***
Syeda Ahmed was a beautiful baby girl, or at least Sarfraz thought so. His sister, his wife, and the Doris Family thought so as well; he had a suspicion that it had been Syeda who’d got them so many invites for dinner, rather than the series of medals that had been planted on his chest by the Queen. Admittedly, being a war hero made life interesting – he’d had the pleasure of rejecting a Saudi Prince who wanted him to spearhead the recovery of the Middle East – but it was wearing at times.

What did I do to deserve this? He asked himself, as he waited with his wife for the register. The happy couple – Brad and Sameena – were waiting for their wedding to be made formal, for them to finally have a chance at life as a married couple. He shook his head; he would have preferred them to marry in the mosque, but he understood.

“Even if I should be beating hell out of him,” he muttered, and felt his wife laughing inside. The two of them deserved a chance – and perhaps, with the Posleen having wiped out the…contaminated regions of Islam, perhaps Brad would convert. He smiled bitterly; his discussion with the Saudi Prince had covered such areas – another good reason not to have the wedding in the mosque.

“Allah created all, right?” He’d asked. “Then why did he create the Posleen? Did he create them as a warning? Look at the areas, which survived – America, Britain, a handful of other democratic nations. Your people died because of your choice to break his laws.”

He smiled. Writing his own interpretation of Islam, now that the people who had hounded Salman Rushdie were feeding the Posleen, would be easy. He knew what he had to say; the truth, and nothing but the truth.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the marriage register said calmly. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Brad and Sameena kissed, a kiss that was perhaps more passionate than was normal in such circumstances. Anisa held his hand as the couple kissed, and then kissed Sarfraz herself.

“Well done,” Sarfraz said dryly. “Brad, take care of her, ok?”

“You know I will,” Brad said. “You too, brother.”

“That’s going to take some getting used to,” Sarfraz said, and stuck out his tongue. “Any thoughts on the name?”

He saw Brad blush and Sameena’s skin darken slightly. “Simon Kendrick,” he said firmly. “The Sergeant deserves that much.”

“I won’t argue,” Sarfraz said. He took his wife’s arm and they stepped out together into the bright sunshine. The world might be at war…but for once there was peace everywhere.

***
“The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
“And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;
“Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
“Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
“We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
“Landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
“But doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord,
“MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword!
“Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!
“Courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!
“If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
“Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!
“Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!
“Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!”

Epilogue

Stars glittered above the Earth, even in broad daylight. For the first time since the Posleen had landed, the fleet protected Earth – the fleet had had defied Darhel orders and come to Earth to save it from the final Posleen attack. In America, the final desperate battle of Michael O’Neal at Rabun Gap came to an end – in Britain, human kinetic weapons slammed into the Posleen positions, slaughtering the Posleen where they stood. Some tried to fight, others fled…looking for a safety that no longer existed.

General Anderson sat outside Edinburgh Castle, enjoying the sunshine, reading one of his most prized books. The British military had been preparing for the final offensive ever since the Battle of the Line, but they hadn’t expected to win so quickly. The ACS units were spearheading the charge into Posleen-occupied Britain, smashing through the remainder of the Posleen after the fleet had finished its mission, pounding the Posleen units from space relentlessly.

He smiled. Admiral Bledspeth was leading the mission, introducing the Posleen to all the uses of space that they’d never thought of, or had never been allowed to think of. He understood the convictions that some elements of the Alien Studies Group held – that the Posleen were a Darhel weapon that had gotten rather badly out of hand – even if he didn’t believe it. Whatever the truth behind their origins, the Posleen were doomed now – they had no way to hide from the human forces slashing their way south, looking for revenge.

He shook his head absently. That left the Darhel to deal with, and the elves were smarter than the Posleen – but not by enough to matter. Even now, he was certain, the Darhel were planning to regain control of Fleet – which was unaware of the dangers it faced all of a sudden. They would succeed, at least to some extent, and under their control humans would colonise worlds, except…

Humans could fight. The Indowy couldn’t fight at all. The Darhel believed firmly in keeping the rules, such as they were; creative disobedience was…well, alien to them. Humans could rebel against the Darhel, but it would have to be done carefully, for the Darhel had agreed to aid the reconstruction of Earth. They would use it to get their hooks into Earth and humanity…but they didn’t know that humans had no problems in simply cutting the knot, in a sense. If they didn’t like the Darhel, they would simply destroy them.

Might as well slap Saddam on the wrist, he thought, and smiled. It had taken time, time spent carefully building a network of contacts, but when it was all over the stars would be humanity’s – and the Darhel would be destroyed. The British, the Germans, certain elements within America…all would work together. It would be the work of generations, but they had them now, thanks to the Darhel.

We’re going to need them, he thought. The Earth had had six billion people on it before the Posleen arrived. Now…only a billion, more or less, lived where humans had survived, and how many Posleen? Thousands of millions? Billions? They would all have to be hunted down and killed. It wasn’t over yet.

He shook his head. The meeting with the German general was due soon. It had been why he’d abandoned tactical command to General Yates, and why he was waiting now for the German. The meeting would be held well away from AIDs and the Darhel, far from any chance that they might be seen. He smiled; the meeting was soon, but he had one last thing he wanted to do.

Smiling to himself, he opened the book and found a page. It was a first edition novel, a copy of The War of the Worlds, one that had been a birthday gift to him from his parents. He smiled as he read the final lines, even though he knew – had always known – that it was too much to rely upon for humanity.

And strangest of all it is to hold my wife’s hand again, and to think that I have counted her, and she has counted me, among the dead.

The End