The Longest Day

(Ark Royal X)

Christopher G. Nuttall

Book One: Ark Royal
Book Two: The Nelson Touch
Book Three: The Trafalgar Gambit
Book Four: Warspite
Book Five: A Savage War of Peace
Book Six: A Small Colonial War
Book Seven: Vanguard
Book Eight: Fear God And Dread Naught
Book Nine: We Lead
Book Ten: The Longest Day

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall

Cover by Justin Adams

http://www.variastudios.com/

All Comments Welcome!

Cover Blurb

A Stand-Alone Novel Set In The Ark Royal Universe!

The first major alien offensive against Earth has been blunted, winning humanity time to deploy new weapons and prepare new tactics as Earth’s space navies prepare to take the offensive.  But the enigmatic aliens have plans of their own - a full-scale attack on Earth that will either win the war in a single stroke or lose it.

The stakes have never been so high.  The fate of humanity itself is in the balance.  And, as battle rages across the solar system, as humanity finds its back pushed firmly against the war, millions of people - military and civilian - struggle for survival, knowing that victory will come with a very high price ...

... And defeat will be the end of everything humanity holds dear.

Historian’s Note

The Longest Day is set during the Earth-Tadpole War, at roughly the same time as the latter half of The Nelson Touch.  However, it is designed to stand alone.
Prologue

Tadpole Prime

No human had ever visited the Heart of the Song.  No human ever would.

The Tadpoles - as their human opponents had termed them - didn't really believe in cities.  It wasn't necessary, under the waters, to live in a compound, let alone sacrifice some of their freedoms to convenience.  Even the giant factories they’d built, first on the surface and then in orbit around Tadpole Prime, felt profoundly unnatural to them.  Something was lost, they thought, even as their race advanced into space.  Ideas - the currency of their society - were slowly giving way to a bland uniformity that was as unnatural as the cities themselves.

It was something that disturbed them, although they would never have admitted it.  Their whole society was based on freedom of movement and association.  The disparate factions lived or died, stood alone or amalgamated, based on their ability to attract new voices and adapt to new circumstances.  Being trapped in an echo chamber, where no new ideas could germinate and grow, was their racial nightmare.  And yet, as they clawed their way into space, it seemed to be on the verge of coming true.  They knew it ...

... And yet, they didn't know how to deal with it.

The Heart of the Song was the closest thing their race had to a genuine capital city, hundreds of metres below the waves.  It was holy ground, sacred to a race that had never really developed anything resembling a religion.  A human would have wondered at the lack of opulence, but the Tadpoles cared little for grandeur.  All that mattered was that the area possessed excellent acoustics.  All the factions could send representatives, if they wished, and be heard.  And then a consensus would be reached.

Hundreds of thousands of Tadpoles floated in the water, adding their voices to the song as it rose and fell.  Millions of seedlings rushed through the liquid, unnoticed by their older brethren.  The Tadpoles knew - and accepted - that most of those seedlings would never grow to maturity, never claim the intelligence that was their birthright.  It was the way of things, as unquestioned as the laws of physics themselves.  Children only had value when they reached an age to join their voices to the song.  

The war had not gone as planned, the Tadpoles acknowledged.  It was ... frustrating.  They’d spent a great deal of time studying their enemy, since First Contact, yet they clearly hadn't learnt everything they needed to know.  The song - the consensus -  admitted those points, then moved on.  There would be time for recriminations and improvements later, after the war.  Their enemies had proven themselves adaptive, alarmingly adaptive.  It was not a pleasant thought.

The original plan has failed, the voices urged.  Let us take the offensive directly to their homeworld.

The song echoed backwards and forwards for hours.  There were advantages to taking the offensive, but there were also disadvantages.  And yet, did they dare wait?  They’d determined that they shared a region of space with an aggressive, ever-expanding race.  Much of the material they’d captured had been incomprehensible - and their alien prisoners very alien - but it was clear that humanity had practically exploded into space.  It was sheer luck, the song acknowledged, that they’d encountered humanity when the Tadpoles held a tech advantage.  A decade or two later and it might well have been the other way round.

They are already learning to adapt our technology to serve themselves, the voices insisted, grimly.  Time is not on our side.

Then we should speak to them, other voices injected.  Try to convince them to share the universe with us.

The song wavered for a long moment.  Not all the factions had been keen on war.  Wars were risky, they’d insisted.  There was no way to know if humanity would fight like the Tadpoles of old or something different, something not bound by the song.  But human history seemed to be one continuous liturgy of war.  The Tadpoles didn't understand the reason humans had put so much energy into warring amongst themselves - the captured files were readable, yet incomprehensible - but they were frightened.  It was impossible to avoid the belief that the galaxy, the utterly immense galaxy, might not be big enough for both races, even though they could have shared a hundred worlds without problems.

They are inventive, the war factions said.  Let us dictate terms to them after we have won the war and removed all danger to ourselves.

They are too dangerous to exist, another faction added.  We must destroy them before they destroy us.

The song hissed with indignation.  Humans were an intelligent race, the only other intelligent race known to exist.  They did not deserve to be exterminated.  And yet, the risk of leaving them alive had to be admitted.  The Tadpoles were creative, but far - far - less innovative than their opponents.  It was all too easy to believe that the humans might come up with something that would tip the scales decisively against them.  And then ... human history was full of examples of what winners did to losers.  If they were prepared to crush people who were their biological identicals, the Tadpoles asked, what would they do to aliens?

Let us win the war, the song said.  We can worry about the aftermath afterwards.

New ideas flooded through the gathering.  An offensive, targeted directly on the human homeworld.  It might not succeed in occupying the system - the Tadpoles admitted that the system was heavily defended, even if the human factions didn't work very well together - but it would devastate the human industrial base.  Follow-up raids could target their remaining colony worlds, crippling their space navies for lack of spare parts and maintenance.  And then the war would be over, bar the shouting.

And then we can dictate peace terms, the factions said.

It would be risky, the song agreed.  But there was always an element of risk in war.  They’d thought they’d prepared for everything, but the humans had surprised them.  Losing so many carriers to a single ancient ship - a ship so old it had never registered with them as a potential threat - was galling.  It was also a grim reminder that, for all of their technological prowess, they could still lose the war.  The song was unanimous.  They had to win.  They didn't dare lose.  

And if the offensive fails?  A lone faction asked.  What then?

It will not fail, the war factions sang.  The fleet will be strong enough to retreat, if necessary.

The lone faction was unimpressed.  And what if you’re wrong?

Then we will deal with it, the song insisted.  The decision had been made.  A thrill of anticipation ran through the gathering.  Until then ... we must win this war.

Chapter One

RFS Brezhnev, Deep Space

Captain Svetlana Zadornov slept with a gun under her pillow and a knife hidden by the side of her bunk.

It was, she felt, a reasonable precaution.  Mother Russia expected her womenfolk to be mothers, not starship officers and commanders.  There were only a handful of women in the Russian Space Navy and almost all of them had been harassed - or worse - during their careers, even though they’d all been officers.  Svetlana’s uncle, Sasha Zadornov, was a high-ranking member of the Politburo and even his name wasn't enough to deter the troglodytes who resented a woman intruding into what they saw as a purely male sphere.  It was sad, but true - she’d discovered as her career progressed - that her skills in starship command and maintenance were less impressive than the ability to injure or kill someone who thought a mere woman couldn't possibly offer any resistance to him.  Knifing two officers and one rating had done more for her reputation than winning a coveted gunnery award.

And then they sent me to Brezhnev anyway, she thought, coldly.  Her lips quirked into a nasty smile as she lay in her bunk, half-asleep.  And didn't that come back to haunt them?

It wasn't a pleasant thought.  Everyone conceded - officially, at least - that Svetlana was qualified to command one of the Rodina’s starships.  But there had been no question of giving her a carrier command, let alone one of the modern destroyers or survey ships.  She was a woman, after all.  They’d given her Brezhnev, a destroyer so old that she'd only been refitted with artificial gravity two years ago.  Giving the ship to anyone would have been a calculated insult, but giving Brezhnev to her ... it galled her, sometimes.  She knew her scores were higher than those of half her classmates at the academy.  

But if I’d been on one of the modern ships, she reminded herself, I might have died at New Russia.

Her intercom pinged.  “Captain?”

Svetlana snapped into full wakefulness.  One hand gripped her pistol, automatically.  It wasn't likely that the message presaged an assassination attempt - or worse - but she hadn't survived so long without taking a few basic precautions.  “Commander Ignatyev?”

“Please can you come to the bridge, Captain,” Commander Misha Ignatyev said.  “Long-range sensors have detected something you need to see.”

“Understood,” Svetlana said.  Ignatyev was nearly thirty years her senior and bitterly resentful at having been passed over for command, again.  He wouldn’t call her to the bridge unless he had a very good reason.  “I’m on my way.”

She swung her legs over the side of the bunk and stood, feeling the gravity field wobbling around her.  Brezhnev hadn't been designed for artificial gravity and it showed.  Her cabin, so tiny she could barely swing a cat, looked oddly slanted to her eyes.  Half the lockers were embedded in the bulkhead, high enough to make retrieving anything on the top shelves very difficult.  But the design would have made perfect sense, she knew, if the ship hadn't had a gravity field of its own.  There were times when she seriously considered turning the gravity generator off and keeping the crew in zero-g.

Which wouldn’t please the engineers, she thought.  The engineering crew weren't much better than the rest of her crew, although they’d fallen in line after she’d proved she knew what she was talking about.  She pitied the poor butterflies who concentrated on acing the political reliability courses at the academy rather than learning how starships actually worked.  A hint of technobabble and they’d be drowning helplessly, unable to make a decision.  And the engineers would take ruthless advantage of them.

She reached for her jacket and pulled it on, then inspected herself in the mirror.  Her blonde hair was cut short, a mannish hairstyle that gave some of her aunts fits of the vapours every time they looked at her.  They twittered endlessly about how poor Svetlana would never get a man, let alone fulfil her duties to Mother Russia.  She pursued her lips in annoyance, silently cursing the old biddies under her breath.  They knew she was sterile, damn them.  Children were simply not a possibility.  

And it isn't as if we are still facing a demographic crisis, she thought, as she strapped her pistol into place.  We don’t need every woman turning out four kids before she turns thirty.

She glared at her own reflection.  Her face wasn't as sharp as she would have liked, but she was mannish enough not to seem automatically female in male eyes.  Most men, she’d come to realise, looked past hints of femininity as long as the woman in question behaved like a man.  Sharing crude jokes and defending her territory - with a gun, a knife or her bare hands - wasn't pleasant, but it was the only way to get respect.  And while she doubted she would ever see a carrier command, she knew she’d done well.  That was all that mattered.

Opening the hatch, she stepped into the command corridor and walked down to the bridge.  A pair of armed spacers stood guard - no naval infantry on Brezhnev - and saluted her as the hatch hissed open.  Svetlana made no response.  Instead, she stepped through the hatch and onto the cramped bridge.  It felt uncomfortably warm.  The temperature regulators were probably on the fritz, again. 

“Captain,” Ignatyev said.  He was a short, dumpy man with a white beard, easily old enough to be her father.  His competence was unquestioned, but he lacked the connections to rise any higher.  “Long-range sensors picked up hints of turbulence in the distance.”

Svetlana sucked in her breath, sharply.  The Earth Defence Organisation had been holding an exercise designed to get the various national navies used to working together, but - as far as she knew - none of the planned operations were taking place anywhere near Brezhnev’s patrol route.  Her ship hadn't been invited to take part, of course.  The Russian Navy considered the ninety-year-old destroyer an embarrassment, even though she was a near-contemporary to the British Ark Royal and she’d been kept in active service all that time.  But most of Brezhnev’s systems were still outdated ...

Her armour isn't outdated, Svetlana thought, coldly.  Brezhnev and her sisters had been designed for a very different environment.  And that might give us a fighting chance.

There were no holographic projectors on Brezhnev, of course.  She bent over the tactical officer’s console, examining the very vague readings.  They were faint, faint enough to make her wonder if Brezhnev was seeing things.  Space wasn't quite as dark and silent as civilians believed and her sensors were old enough, despite the refit, to pick up on something that wasn't actually there.  But she had heard about the alien tramlines.  The mysterious contact - if it was a contact - was on a vector that suggested it might have come from the closest tramline ...

“Keep us in stealth,” she ordered.  “Helm, inch us towards the contact.”

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said.

Svetlana glanced at Ignatyev.  “Send a FLASH message to Putin Station and Pournelle Base,” she ordered.  “Inform them that we have detected a contact and are moving out of position to attempt to pin it down.  Attach a full copy of our sensor log too.”

“Aye, Captain,” Ignatyev said.  He lowered his voice.  “The Kremlin may not be pleased if we abandon our patrol route.  Or if we alert Pournelle Base.”

“We have standing orders to investigate all sensor contacts,” Svetlana reminded him, fighting down a flicker of annoyance.  She didn't mind having a lively debate with her XO, but not where her crew could hear.  “And the Kremlin ordered us to copy all alerts to Pournelle Base.”

She sat down in her command chair and strapped herself in, then keyed her console to bring up the latest set of standing orders.  Ignatyev might well have a point.  The Kremlin might be unhappy if Pournelle Base was alerted ahead of time, even though she had standing orders to do just that.  But she also understood the reasoning behind the standing orders.  The human race was at war and, like it or not, the defence of the solar system and Earth herself was being coordinated through Pournelle Base.  They had to be informed of any prospective threat to humanity’s homeworld.

A low rumble ran through her ship as the drives picked up speed.  Svetlana glanced at the readouts, hoping and praying that the sensors hadn't decided to start seeing things.  She had enemies back home - her family had enemies.  Moving out of position to investigate a sensor contact that turned out to be nothing more than a random energy flicker could be made to look bad, if the wrong people got hold of her sensor logs.  And, in the constant battle for patronage that defined modern Russia, it was a given that they would get hold of it.

We don’t need an external enemy, she thought, sourly.  We’re perfectly capable of fucking things up for ourselves.

But we do have an external enemy, her thoughts reminded her.  And so does the rest of the human race.

She sighed, inwardly.  Eighteen months ago, alien forces had attacked Vera Cruz and a handful of other colonies along the rim of explored space.  Aliens!  Svetlana hadn't believed it at first, not until her uncle had confirmed it.  The entire human race was under threat!  She’d been concerned, when it finally sank in, but everyone had believed that the space navies could handle the threat.  The Multinational Force assembled to cover New Russia, the largest and most powerful formation assembled by the human race, was invincible.  Twelve fleet carriers and over fifty smaller ships, as well as New Russia’s formidable defences.  The aliens should have hit the defence and bounced ...

Instead, they’d blown it to hell.  Svetlana still couldn't believe it, even though nearly a year had passed since the battle.  The aliens hadn’t just beaten the fleet, they’d destroyed it.  Sixty ships, including twelve fleet carriers, wiped out in less than an hour.  The panic had been overwhelming, when the news had finally sunk in.  If the British hadn't had a single ancient carrier that had been able to stand up to the alien weapons, the war might already be over and humanity would have lost.  Svetlana had no idea what the Tadpoles - as the British had termed the aliens - had in mind for a defeated humanity, but she doubted it would be particularly pleasant.  Human history showed everything from enslavement to outright extermination.

And we have armour too, she thought, glancing at her status board.  Half the icons were dark ... she hoped that meant the computer nodes were having problems, again.  She was fairly sure they were.  Brezhnev was tough, but she’d be in real trouble if she’d lost all of those systems.  We might be able to take one or two blows from the aliens before they finish us.

“Captain,” the tactical officer said.  “The turbulence is getting stronger.”

“Slow to full stop,” Svetlana ordered.  It was an old rule of thumb.  Anyone she was close enough to see was close enough to see her too.  “Passive sensors?”

“Picking up flickers of power distortion,” the tactical officer reported.  He looked up, his pale face suddenly paler.  “Captain, power distribution is very similar to the alien masking field reported at New Russia.”

“Then we’re too close,” Ignatyev said.

“Perhaps,” Svetlana agreed.  She studied the readouts for a long moment.  There was definitely something out there.  Something big.  If she’d had a proper tactical expert ... she buried the thought with all the other resentments.  The Navy had sent its finest people to take part in the defence of New Russia, where most of them had died.  “Tactical, keep probing for insight.”

“Aye, Captain,” the tactical officer said.

Svetlana leaned forward.  Ignatyev was right.  They were already far too close to the unknowns for anyone’s peace of mind, let alone hers.  But they did have some advantages, ones she wouldn't dismiss in a hurry.  The unknowns couldn't risk using their active sensors without risking detection - the solar system was seeded with listening stations and scansats - and Brezhnev was radiating almost nothing.  It was unlikely, highly unlikely, that the aliens would get a sniff of her presence, unless they had some piece of tech that the human race had never heard of.

And that isn't entirely impossible, she reminded herself.  She’d seen too many images of plasma bolts tearing through carriers as though they were made of paper.  If they can see through their own stealth fields, we may be in some trouble.

“Contact,” the tactical officer hissed.  His display filled with red icons.  “Captain, I have thirteen - perhaps fifteen - carriers and over a hundred smaller ships.”

Svetlana felt her heart sink as she studied the readings.  The carriers were all too familiar now, their elegant lines a silent mockery of crude human ships.  She’d seen too many images of the alien ships to mistake them for anything else.  There were no deployed starfighters, as far as her sensors could tell, but it hardly mattered.  The aliens had arrived in force.  And if they couldn't be stopped, Earth would fall.

She kept her voice steady with an effort.  “Launch two probes on ballistic trajectories,” she ordered.  “I want them to pass through the middle of the enemy formation.”

“Aye, Captain,” the tactical officer said.

Svetlana looked at Ignatyev.  “Do a course projection,” she ordered.  She suspected she already knew the answer, but she needed to check.  “Where are they going?  And when will they arrive?”

Ignatyev bent over his console.  “Earth, Captain.  They’ll be there in less than five hours unless they reduce speed.”

Shit, Svetlana thought.

She’d assumed as much.  Earth was still the centre of the human sphere, still home to seventy percent of the entire human race.  The industrial nodes orbiting the planet couldn’t be replaced in a hurry, even if the remaining colonies pooled their resources without the normal human bickering.  God knew that New Russia had already been lost to the enemy.  And who knew what was happening there?  Svetlana knew better than to believe everything she heard on the datanet - the Russian media parroted the government’s line, unlike its western counterparts - but some of the horror stories might have some basis in fact.  The Tadpoles might be enslaving the entire population.

“Send another FLASH signal,” she ordered, curtly.  There was a risk of detection, but it had to be borne.  Earth had to know what was heading its way.  “Scatter the message - I want a copy sent to every naval base in the system.  Inform them of our contact, then attach full copies of our sensor records.”

“Aye, Captain.”  Ignatyev didn’t argue.  That, if nothing else, indicated just how serious matters had become.  “Signal sent.”

“They’re ignoring us,” the tactical officer said.  The alien ships were flowing past Brezhnev, seemingly unaware of her presence.  “They didn't even pick up the drones!”

“It looks that way,” Svetlana agreed, dryly.  It was good news, she supposed.  The drones were sending a constant feed of information back to their mothership, telling her things she hadn't wanted to know about the enemy fleet.  Earth would have some warning of the oncoming storm.  “When they pass us, bring the ship about.  I want to shadow them all the way to Earth.”

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said.

Ignatyev shot her a questioning look.  Svetlana ignored it.  She didn't have time to explain her reasoning, not now.  The alien ships were still too far from Earth to be tracked by the orbital defences, let alone the starships that made up the combined Home Fleet.  Brezhnev had to stay close to them, whatever the risk.  If the fleet split up under stealth, Earth wouldn't have the slightest idea that anything had happened until it was too late.  Humanity’s homeworld was a pretty big target, but it wasn't the only one.  

Long-range kinetic strikes on the Jupiter Cloudscoops or the asteroid mining colonies will do a great deal of damage, she thought.  Maybe not enough to cripple us, but enough to make it harder for us to recover.

“Launch a relay drone,” she added.  “Once it’s in place, establish a relay laser link.  I don’t want them getting a sniff of us.”

“Aye, Captain,” Ignatyev said.

Svetlana’s lips twitched.  If the aliens detected Brezhnev, the ship would be blown away before her crew had a chance to take any sort of evasive action.  She didn't dare make any radio transmissions when the signals would be passing through the alien formation.  That would be pushing her luck too far.  

Another shiver ran through the ship.  “We’re moving into position, Captain,” the helmsman reported.

“Laser link established,” Ignatyev added.  “Captain, the time delay ...”

“I know,” Svetlana said, sharply.  It would be at least an hour before her alert reached Pournelle Base.  Earth’s defenders wouldn't have that long to prepare to defend the planet against the oncoming storm.  “It can’t be helped.”

She shivered, a cold sensation running down her spine.  To her, it was a tactical problem; to Earth, it was life or death.  Mother Russia was about to face its most severe threat since Hitler’s invasion or the Central Asian Wars.  And so was the rest of the planet.  Humanity’s homeworld was about to be attacked.

And they don’t even know the enemy is on the way, she thought.  Her messages were speeding towards Earth, but they wouldn't have reached their destination.  There would be people sleeping on Earth, or going to work or school or whatever they did all day ... utterly unaware of the nightmare bearing down on them.  They don’t have the slightest idea what’s coming.

Her blood grew colder.  They’d know soon, she told herself.  The entire planet is about to go to war.

Chapter Two

Sin City, Luna

“Welcome to Sin City,” the speaker blared, as the underground train finally came to a halt beside a garish platform.  “Where everything that happens in Sin City stays in Sin City!”

Brian Wheeler pursed his lips together in disapproval as the passengers scrambled to the doors, fighting to get out.  It wasn't as if the doors were going to slam shut and deny the slower passengers the chance to enjoy themselves, was it?  The Management wouldn't permit that, not when there was a chance to make money from the guests.  It was far more likely that the doors would be kept open until the last of the guests had departed, then a security team sweep the train for surveillance devices before allowing it to take on new passengers.

He picked up his briefcase, walked through the doors and headed up the stairs, keeping an eye on his fellow passengers.  Half of them seemed to be naval cadets and crewmen from Britain and America, laughing and chatting nervously as they passed through the security gate.  The remainder appeared to be civilians, although a handful were probably military contractors.  He caught sight of a warning notice, informing all travellers that there were strict limits to what could be brought through the gates and into Sin City proper.  The colony guarded its secrets well, he knew from prior experience.  No one was allowed to bring recording or surveillance equipment to Sin City.  The potential for blackmail was too high.

Sweat prickled down his back as he reached the security gate and pushed his ID chip against the reader.  It was possible, quite possible, that he’d been blacklisted.  Sin City ran automatic checks against security and criminal databases before allowing newcomers to pass through the gates ... if they had a record of him, they could deny him entry or force him to wait for a decision to be made at a higher level.  Brian would have been tempted to do just that, if he’d been sure of the outcome.  But too much was at stake to take foolish chances.

The gate hissed open.  He smiled as he walked through, heading down the corridor and into the giant complex.  Flickering holograms and wall-mounted billboards greeted visitors, offering them pleasures beyond imagination ... some of which were illegal almost anywhere else.  Gambling, sex, VR adventures ... the possibilities were endless.   You could find anything in Sin City, he’d been told ... the only real danger was becoming addicted to the pleasures and never wanting to leave.  Or being caught with traces of illegal drugs in one’s bloodstream.  Brian had never been a naval officer, but he’d been told that drug tests were mandatory after personnel returned from leave.  He believed it.

Sin City was a vast complex buried beneath the luna soil, he recalled as he studied the holographic display.  The upper levels were devoted to gambling and other mainstream pleasures, places where first-timers were separated from their money as quickly and efficiently as possible.  Brian couldn't help wondering if the games were rigged, although the Management had been quick to deny the possibility.  People did win and win big, they pointed out.  It just didn't happen very often.

Finding the security office on the chart, he turned and walked down towards the stairwell.  A dozen topless girls walked past him, laughing and joking as they made their way to a burlesque show.  Brian took one look at bare breasts bobbling in front of his eyes, then told himself to keep his mind on the job.  He couldn't afford to let himself be distracted.  The girls giggled as he passed, but he ignored them.  They’d have no trouble finding clients when the time came.  

More advertisements bombarded him as he reached the stairwell and made his way downwards, deeper into the colony.  He could enter a fantasy world and have adventures, or a harem, or ... he couldn't help a smile as a list of possibilities appeared in front of him.  Most of them were pathetic and none of them were real.  He didn't care to pretend to be a secret agent for a day, let alone some of the weirder options.  It would have surprised him if they had any customers ...

People always want to indulge their fantasies, he thought, wryly.  And it certainly beats spending years developing one’s skills if all one wants to do is have fun.

He glanced into one of the casinos as he reached the lower levels.  Hundreds of men - serious gamblers, judging by the chips on the tables - were playing for very high stakes.  The waitresses were topless, again, but none of the men were paying attention.  Brian rolled his eyes, remembering some of his older cases.  The girls would make hundreds of pounds - perhaps more - in tips, while the house would take its cut of the winnings.  And they didn’t even have to do much, beyond keeping glasses filled.

The surroundings changed as he reached the lowest level.  It felt almost as if he was walking into a prison, or into the real world behind the facade.  The walls were cold grey, the ceiling so low he felt as though it was brushing the top of his head.  Two security guards eyed him warily, shifting slightly to expose the weapons at their belt.  They looked overdressed, Brian decided, but he knew better than to underestimate them.  Sin City’s Management recruited from the ever-growing pool of ex-military personnel, particularly Special Forces.  The guards might well have more training than himself.

And they probably get paid better too, he thought, without heat.  He’d read hundreds of stories from close-protection details around the world, but never anything from anyone who’d worked in Sin City.  They were paid very well to keep their traps shut.  What happened in Sin City stayed in Sin City.  God alone knows how much has been covered up over the years.

The lead guard moved to block his path.  “Yes?”

“I need to speak to Chief Patel,” Brian said.  He held out his ID chip.  “Please inform him that I am here.”

The guard eyed him for a long moment, then took the datachip and ran it through his portable reader.  Brian frowned, bracing himself.  It was quite possible, despite everything, that Chief Clancy Patel would order him unceremoniously deported from Sin City.  Or even take more unpleasant steps to deal with the intruder.  Technically, Brian was breaking several regulations just by entering the city without permission.  But Patel would know that, Brian reasoned.  The man he remembered would wonder why Brian had revealed himself so openly.

“Wait,” the guard said.  

He stepped back, then started subvocalising into a mouthpiece, sending a message to higher authority.  Brian waited, telling himself to be patient.  Chief Patel would want to see him ... surely.  And if he didn't, there were other ways to accomplish his mission.  Rumours aside, he doubted the Management would order his immediate execution.  They’d never be certain that Brian didn’t have friends who knew where he’d gone.  Sin City rested on thin ice at the best of times.  They wouldn't want the Luna Federation to start taking a harder look at them.

“The Chief will see you,” the guard said.  “You will accompany me.”

Brian nodded, then followed the guard through a pair of solid airlocks.  The interior definitely resembled a police station, right down to a handful of people in handcuffs.  Brian glanced at them - a trio of naval ratings and two young women, one of whom had a nasty bruise on her face - then looked away.  Sin City had a good reputation for protecting its guests.  A hostess who’d decided to pickpocket would be lucky if she wasn't immediately returned to Earth.

And they won’t want that, Brian thought, as they passed a handful of other guards.  They probably escaped from the security zone.

The guard led him to a door, knocked once and opened it.  Brian stepped inside without waiting for orders, looking around with interest.  It was definitely more homely than the rest of the complex, right down to a photograph of Patel’s wife and children on the desk.  The man himself sat behind the desk, eying Brian with interest.  Brian looked back, silently cataloguing the rest of the oversized office.  There were files, folders and knickknacks everywhere.  Patel had always been a magpie, but it hadn't been until recently that he’d had a chance to indulge his obsession.

“Brian,” Patel said.  He rose to his feet and held out a hand.  “Long time no see.”

Brian shook his hand, firmly.  Time hadn't been kind to his old friend.  Patel looked older - and stouter - than he remembered, his hair thinning on top.  Working in Sin City was worse than being on the beat, Brian had heard.  Disturbances had to be handled as quietly as possible, apparently, and troublemakers had to be removed without delay.  The guests could not be allowed to think that they were unsafe in Sin City.

“You too,” he said.  “How are the children?”

Patel shrugged expressively as he motioned Brian into a seat, then sat down again behind the desk.  “Coping,” he said.  “Luna is a better place for them than London, these days.  Mia got my father’s skin colour and so ...”

Brian nodded in understanding.  Patel was clearly not of British blood, even though his family had been in Britain for generations.  Looking East Asian after the Troubles was not an advantage, although the photograph on the desk showed a very beautiful young girl.  Mia would be nineteen or twenty now, if he remembered correctly.  She’d find Luna much more congenial than Britain.

“I assume this is not a social call,” Patel said, after his secretary had served them both foul-tasting coffee.  “What do you want?”

Brian placed his briefcase on the table and opened it, removing a paper folder.  He would have preferred a computer file, but experience had taught him that they could be hacked from a distance.  It was unlikely that anyone would expend so much effort on him, yet taking precautions was second nature after ten years on the force.  Some of his cases - before and after he'd retired - had had a political dimension.  This one might have a political dimension too.

He opened the folder and passed Patel a photograph.  “Abigail Swansong, fifteen years old,” he said, as his friend peered down at the image.  Abigail was blonde and beautiful, but her face seemed set in a permanent scowl.  “Daughter of Timothy and Maria Swansong, CEOs of Swansong Enterprises.  You may have heard of them.”

Patel’s face went blank.  “Vaguely.”

Brian snorted.  Timothy and Maria Swansong might not have been the richest people on the moon, but they were definitely in the top ten.  And they were connected.  Swansong Enterprises did a great deal of work for the Royal Navy, as well as the United States and the Luna Federation.  They were not the sort of people one wanted as enemies.  They’d built their company up from the ground, punching their way through obstacles with a thoroughness Brian could only admire.  It was a shame that their daughter was such ... such a brat.

“She had a fight with her parents, three weeks ago,” Brian said.  “Screaming, shouting ... I believe the words ‘you’ll be sorry’ were mixed up in there somewhere.  She went to a friend’s house to cool down, then vanished.  It took two weeks of detective work to trace her route to Sin City.”

“Getting through the security gates would have posed a challenge,” Patel observed, studiously.

“Her friend had a dealer who supplied her with - among other things - fake ID cards,” Brian said, with heavy patience.  “The police interrogated him at some length” - he removed another folder from his briefcase and passed it over - “and he was kind enough to provide full details of the fake.  We do not believe the silly girl has left Sin City.”

“Unless she went to Russian or Chinese territory,” Patel commented.

Brian met his eyes.  “Do you really believe that?”

Patel shrugged.  “It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to defect through Sin City.”

“Bullshit,” Brian said.  He tapped the folder.  “If either of them knew who she really was, they’d be trying to make use of her.  And if they didn't, they’d have passed her back to us by now.  They don’t have her, Clancy.  She’s somewhere within Sin City.”

There was a long pause.  “I’ll choose to assume you’re right, for the moment,” Patel said, stiffly.  “However, we cannot take action ...”

Brian met his eyes.  “Can you afford not to take action?”

“We have very strict secrecy policies,” Patel countered.  “The people who come to Sin City wouldn't come if they thought their ... indiscretions ... would be broadcast on the nightly news or splashed all over the datanet.  This girl deserves the same secrecy as every other visitor.”

“Bullshit,” Brian said.

“The rules cannot be changed,” Patel said.  “I ...”

Brian cut him off.  “Let’s discuss this, shall we?  Abigail entered Sin City using a false ID, which - I believe - is one of your dealbreakers.  God alone knows what she’s been doing since then, because she probably didn't have very much cash with her.  I doubt she brought enough money to rent an apartment for very long.  She certainly hasn't made any attempt to access her credit balance.

“And she’s fifteen.  I was under the impression that the minimum age to pass through the security gates was eighteen.”

“Sin City cannot be blamed if she uses a false ID,” Patel snapped.  “We do not make a habit of checking and double-checking every ID that passes the first scan.”

“Perhaps you should,” Brian said.  “The point is this - Abigail’s parents are rich, powerful and very influential.  They want their daughter back, alive and intact.  They’re prepared to go to the Luna Federation and demand action, Clancy, and you know just how fragile Sin City’s position is.  Too many people want you shut down for good.”

Patel glared at him, but said nothing.  Brian wasn't particularly surprised.  The Luna Federation - Sin City was an associated member - had never been keen on strong-arming its member states, but Sin City had always been beyond the pale.  Illegal drugs and other forbidden pleasures ... yes, there were people who wanted Sin City raided and then closed down permanently.  Given a fig-leaf to justify it - and Brian couldn't think of anything better than a missing young girl - the Luna Federation would probably have to act.

“On the other hand, we agree that this is a difficult position for you,” Brian added.  “If you help us clear it up now, I’m sure the family won’t push for sanctions.”

“Hah,” Patel said.  “Can you guarantee it?”

“No,” Brian said, honestly.  “But I can guarantee that there will be a scandal if they don’t get their daughter back.  You know as well as I do that Sin City isn't completely independent from the outside universe.  And principle counts for nothing when your opponent has the better cause and bigger guns.”

He leaned forward.  “Come on, Clancy.  What would you do if it was Mia trapped here?”

Patel scowled.  “I need to consult with my superiors,” he said.  He jabbed a finger at Brian’s chest.  “Wait here.  And don’t touch anything.”

Brian watched him go, then leaned back into his chair.  He didn't really blame his old friend for wanting to pass the buck.  He’d always disliked politics back when he’d been in the police, when doing the right thing could become the wrong thing very quickly if it upset the wrong person.  But Patel and his superiors were caught between a rock and a hard place.  If they cooperated, they risked their reputation; if they refused to cooperate, they risked everything.  The scandal would be immense.  

He kept an eye on his watch as the seconds ticked by, waiting.  The longer it took, he knew from experience, the further the buck had been passed.  No one was entirely sure who ran Sin City - their names had been carefully concealed - but he doubted they were blind to the danger they were facing.  Their privacy had only been tolerated because various governments had chosen to tolerate Sin City.  That might change in a hurry.

Patel returned, twenty minutes after leaving.  “They’ve authorised me to tell you where to find her,” he said.  “You can ask her to leave with you, if you like.  If she chooses to go, you can take her to the station and depart at once; if she refuses, we’ll honour her decision.”

“You do realise her parents won’t honour her decision?”  Brian rose.  “And she’s certainly too young to be here, whatever else she is?”

“That’s what I was told to do,” Patel said, curtly.  “Norma Lee - sorry, Abigail Swanson - is working at the Skittles Bar, on Level Five.  Do you need an escort?”

Brian pursed his lips.  He’d hoped for better.  But it would have to suffice.

“I believe I can find my own way there,” he said, shortly.   Level Five ... it could have been worse.  “Once I convince her to leave with me, I’ll take her straight to the station.”

“We’ll confiscate her fake ID before you leave,” Patel said.  “We clearly missed a trick when this one got through.”

“There’s no central database,” Brian reminded him.  The Luna Federation had never liked the concept of centralising everything.  Too many of the smaller colonies had bitter memories of hard times on Earth.  “This one ... I think it was official, from Dylan.  The forger just bribed them to insert a few more names onto the rolls.”

“Joy,” Patel said.  “Good luck, Brian.”

“Thanks,” Brian said.  He didn't blame Patel.  It wasn't his fault.  “And give my best to the kids.”

Chapter Three

Woking, United Kingdom

Molly Schneider took a long breath, then removed her robe and stood naked in front of the mirror.

Her reflection looked back at her, seemingly displeased.  Molly pursed her lips in annoyance as she examined her appearance with a critical air.  Her figure had never been quite the same since she’d had two children - and age was taking a toll, no matter how many rejuvenation treatments she took - but it wasn't a disaster.  She and Kurt might not have made love in weeks - they’d hardly made love since their daughter had been born - yet she still looked attractive.  Kurt had told her so, the last time they’d kissed before he’d headed back to his damned ship.  She couldn't help thinking he loved space - and his starfighter - more than he loved her.

And if he were here, I could have shared this with him, she thought, bitterly.  But he’s not here and I am.

Her eyes travelled up and down her figure, picking out the small imperfections that loomed larger and larger every day.  Her bright red hair was darkening, forcing her to decide between dying it or letting her hair turn grey.  Faint spots, barely visible to the naked eye, revealed where she’d dabbed concealment scales on her skin.  Her breasts were still firm, but she knew it was only a matter of time before they began to sag; her thighs and buttocks were slowly putting on weight, no matter how much hard work she put in at the gym.  Childbirth had definitely ruined her figure, even though it had given her two beautiful children.  But neither of them really appreciated how many sacrifices their parents had made for them.  Molly had given the best years of her life to them and they rewarded her with more and more demands.

Sighing, she turned to the bed and opened the new box.  The dress inside came directly from Middleton, one of the most famous dressmakers in London.  Princess Elspeth herself bought her dresses there, according to the promotional materials.  Kurt would faint, Molly knew, if he ever realised just how much she’d spent on the dress.  And yet, she needed it.  The material flattered her figure, showcasing her curves, but any ordinary dress could have done that without spending quite so much money.  It was a Middleton dress that would showcase her wealth, giving her access - finally - to the higher social circles.  It would give her the life she’d thought she was getting when she’d married Kurt.

She donned her underwear - pricey too, but necessary - and then pulled the dress over her head.  It fitted perfectly, thankfully.  She’d invested so many of her hopes in the dress that she thought she would have broken down and cried if it hadn't been perfect.  She moved from side to side in the mirror, making sure that everything was held firmly in place, then turned to check her handbag.  Her small collection of everything from breath mints to perfume and birth control pills was where it should be, waiting for her.

The door opened.  Molly jumped.

“You look nice, Mum,” Penny said.  “Are you going somewhere fun?”

Molly gritted her teeth.  Penny took after her paternal grandmother, rather than either of her parents.  Her hair was blonde, her face was narrow and her eyes ... her green eyes were all she’d inherited from her mother.  Molly didn't pretend to understand how the genetics had worked themselves out, but it didn’t matter.  Penny was her daughter and that was all that mattered, even if she was being a right little brat as she grew into adulthood.

“None of your business,” Molly snapped.  “What are you doing here?”

Penny smirked.  “I heard that some of the boys at school were selling fake bags on the online marketplace,” she said.  She nodded towards the bag on Molly’s bed.  “Do you think that one might be fake?”

Molly gritted her teeth.  Surely she hadn't been so unpleasant to her mother when she'd been a teenager ... she hoped she hadn't been that unpleasant.  Penny was going through a rough patch, made worse by her father’s prolonged absence and constant fights with her teachers at school.  She’d brought home more pink slips than Percy and Percy was a boy!  Molly’s own brothers had been right little hellions until they’d been conscripted into the Home Guard and knocked into shape by unsympathetic drill sergeants.  Penny was damn lucky she wouldn't be conscripted.

“I bought it from a verified dealer,” Molly said, tightly.  She didn’t like the suggestion she wouldn't know a fake from a real bag, even though she suspected it might be true.  There were some very skilled counterfeiters out there.  “It has a certificate and everything.”

Penny smiled, lazily.  “That’s my point,” she said, in a tone that would have earned her a slap if she’d been standing any closer.  “The fakers can fake the certificates, too.”

Molly forced herself to calm down.  It was an important evening, perhaps the most important of her life.  She couldn't afford to allow her daughter to put her in a bad mood before it had even begun.  Penny was still a child, even though she wore adult clothes and affected adult airs.  She didn't have enough experience to know what she was talking about ... even if she was more aware of modern technology than her mother.  But then, that had been true of Molly and her mother too.

“I told you not to interrupt me,” she said, as she turned back to the mirror.  “What do you want?”

“Gayle is downstairs,” Penny said.  She didn't sound pleased.  “I think she wants a word with you before you go.”

“I hope you let her in this time,” Molly said.  Penny had talked her older brother into leaving Gayle ringing the bell until Molly had come down to open it herself.  The poor babysitter had been furious, of course, and only the promise of a major raise had been enough to get her to stay, let alone come back.  “You did, didn’t you?”

“She’s in the living room,” Penny said.  She looked downcast.  “I think she brought some work too.”

“You could learn from her example,” Molly said, firmly.  “Your father would agree with me, if he were here.”

“He’s not here,” Penny said.  “And he would agree with me.”

Molly gritted her teeth, again.  A headache was beginning to pound behind her skull, growing more and more painful with every heartbeat.  Penny had a nasty habit of picking fights with her teachers, then refusing to do the work they assigned.  If Kurt hadn't been in the navy - if there hadn't been a law that forbade expelling the children of military personnel - Penny would probably have been expelled by now.  As it was, she was well on the way to setting a record for the number of disciplinary actions.

She’d probably be proud, if she knew, Molly thought, sourly.  And act up even more to ensure she actually took the goddamned record.

“Your father would tell you to study hard,” Molly said.  “And you know it.”

She glared at her daughter, daring her to disagree.  Kurt had worked hard - very hard - to put Penny in an expensive private school, instead of a state school.  It would give Penny a chance to enter society without having to start at the bottom, if she worked hard.  But none of it would matter if she got expelled or simply failed all of her exams.  She’d be lucky if any of the state-run schools took her, with her permanent record.  Molly had no idea just how many of the horror stories about borstals were true, but she doubted her daughter would last a year if she was exiled to one of them.  Jail would be kinder.

“I miss him,” Penny said.  “I wish ... when will this war be over?”

“I have no idea,” Molly told her, bluntly.  She wanted Kurt home and she didn't want him home.  Kurt at home would mean putting an end to her new life.  “I’m sure he’ll be home soon.”

“Hah,” Penny said.  She looked up at her mother.  “Why are you even going out?  You shouldn’t be going out.”

Molly reminded herself, sharply, that her daughter was no longer the tiny babe she’d birthed ... had it really been sixteen years ago?  She’d instructed Penny not to date - she didn't want to see her daughter make the same mistakes as herself - but she doubted Penny had listened to her.  She was old enough to find young men interesting and too young to understand the potential dangers.  No doubt she knew - or guessed - what her mother was doing.  But how could Molly tell her daughter that her relationship with her husband had long since lost its spark?

You can't, her own thoughts answered.  She doesn't need to know.

“Mind your own business,” she snapped, instead.  “Go downstairs.  And behave!”

Penny shot her a sharp look, then turned and hurried out the room before Molly could give vent to an increasingly unpleasant series of threats.  The wretched girl seemed to be completely immune to discipline, even being grounded and denied access to the datanet ... there was no way Molly would dare leave Penny without adult supervision, even though Percy was technically an adult.  Penny was far too good at running rings around her elder brother.

Putting the thought out of her mind, Molly checked her appearance in the mirror one last time and then pulled the coat over her dress.  She would have preferred to wear something more comfortable for the drive, but she doubted there was anywhere to change in Penzance.  There was no way she was changing in a toilet, even a clean and private one.  And besides, Thomas Garrison would probably appreciate the view.

She sagged, just for a moment.  It was the life she wanted, yet it came with a price ... and a risk.  Being caught would get her in real trouble, if Kurt decided to make an issue of it.  She was cheating on a husband who’d gone to the wars, a husband who could make a strong claim to everything she owned ... and the children.  Kurt would be hurt, very hurt, if she was caught.  And yet, it was the life she wanted.  Pulling her coat around her, Molly walked through the door and locked it behind her.  Penny had raided her wardrobes before and Molly was damned if she was letting the little brat do it again.  

The sound of an argument was already echoing up the stairs as she hurried down.  Percy didn’t seem to dislike Gayle - Molly was sure he had a crush on her, although Gayle was five years older than him - but Penny picked fights with everyone these days.  Except her father ... Molly made a mental note to report Penny’s latest transgressions to Kurt, then dismissed the thought.  Kurt was a million light-years away.  There was nothing he could do about it until he came home, by which time there would no doubt be a few thousand other problems.

“I’ll be leaving in five minutes,” she said, checking her smartphone.  Garrison was already on the way, of course.  The man was nothing if not efficient.  “Gayle, Penny has some work to do” - she ignored her daughter’s muttered curse - “and I expect it to be done before she does anything else.  You can unlock her codekey to the datanode after the work is completed.”

“Yes, Mrs. Schneider,” Gayle said.

Molly nodded in approval.  Gayle knew how to work hard, which was more than could be said for Penny.  Molly paid Gayle well, but still ... she wished, suddenly, that Kurt had allowed her to hire a live-in maid.  Constant supervision would probably be good for Penny, particularly if the supervisor was tough enough not to let Penny’s barbs get under her skin.  It was just a shame Molly didn't have the time to do it herself.  

“You have permission to use whatever forms of discipline you think are appropriate,” she added, curtly.  “And she is to go to bed at ten.”

Penny gasped.  “Mother!”

“At ten,” Molly repeated.  Penny would probably consider it outrageous, but Molly found it hard to care.  “She has to be up bright and early for school tomorrow.”

She met her daughter’s eyes.  “And I expect you to behave yourself,” she added.  “Or else.”

“Hah,” Penny muttered.

Molly swallowed several nasty responses as she turned and walked out onto the street.  The car was parked several houses down, just to make it harder for the gossiping hens to notice that she was getting into a stranger’s vehicle.  Molly didn't think they’d tell Kurt, when he returned home, but there was no point in taking too many chances.  She risked social death - perhaps even criminal prosecution - if she was caught cheating on a deployed military officer.  

And that is half of the thrill, she thought, as she opened the car door.  The prospect of getting caught.

Thomas Garrison smiled at her as she sat down and closed the door.  He was ten years older than her, handsome in a dark way ... she rather thought he had some Italian or French blood in him somewhere.  Perhaps something from even further away, although it was considered rude to ask about that so soon.  His face was hard and angular, his dark hair so dark that she honestly wondered if it was dyed.  And his clothes were so expensive that she could have bought a new family car for the same amount, if she wished.

“Molly,” he said.  As always, his accent thrilled her.  He spoke like a London-born aristocrat.  “I trust that all is well?”

“It is,” Molly said.  She tried to keep her impatience out of her voice.  “We can leave as soon as you want.”

Garrison smiled, then keyed a command into the dashboard.  The car hummed to life, moving out of the parking space and heading down the road.  Molly watched, openly thrilled.  Kurt had never allowed her to buy a self-driving car, even though it would have made life easier - and safer.  Garrison, on the other hand, had bought the latest model to go on the market.  It had cost him more than Molly cared to think about ...

She leaned back in her chair.  “Do you have an updated guest list?”

He gave her a sultry smile.  “Lady Penelope Ward will be hosting, of course,” he said.  “And a number of others have confirmed that they will attend.  It should be an interesting night.”

Molly nodded.  Lady Penelope Ward was famous for throwing parties.  According to the datanet - and tabloids - it was all she ever did.  And yet, she’d somehow turned her parties into the premier social event outside the London Season.  Molly wanted to know how she did it - and burned with envy, every time she thought about it.  Some people had all the luck.

I’m making my own luck, she thought.  Garrison was a catch.  A wealthy lawyer with aristocratic connections ... if she scratched his back, he’d scratch hers.  He couldn't take her all the way, not when they couldn't get married, but he could get her started.  And when he dumps me, I’ll have a place of my own.

“The Prime Minister apparently declined,” Garrison added, after a moment.  “But Lord Campbell said he would probably be attending.”

Molly lifted her eyebrows.  “Probably?”

“If his wife can’t convince him to change his mind,” Garrison said.  “She’s having a feud with Lady MacDonald and she’s going to the party.  It should be amusing if they actually meet each other on the dance floor.”

“Very amusing,” Molly said.  She took every titbit of gossip he gave her and stored it away at the back of her mind.  Someday, she would find a use for it.  She was sure she would.  “And are there any other scandals likely to explode?”

“Apart from us, my dear?”  Garrison gave her another smile as he reached out to stroke her cheek.  “I do not know.  But not knowing makes it fun.”

Molly winced.  She’d taken lessons in graces and etiquette, but she knew she didn't know enough to navigate the social minefield.  Who should she curtsey to?  Everyone?  Or just the lords and ladies?  Lady Penelope had a habit of inviting people from all walks of life, as long as they were British.  Garrison had probably piqued her interest at some point.

“You can keep me advised,” she said.  His touch felt cool against her skin.  “How long until we get there?”

“Around two hours, once we hit the motorway,” Garrison said.  He tapped a button, tinting the windows.  No one could see in or out.  “It will give us some time for fun.”

He wrapped an arm around her, holding her tightly.  Molly hesitated, torn between two conflicting impulses as his fingers probed her neckline, trying to undo her coat.  She wanted - she needed - to keep him sweet, yet ... yet she didn't want to ruin the dress.  She didn't even know if there was a place to clean up a little before they hit the dance floor ... if they ever did.  He’d ruined one evening by insisting on finding a hotel rather than going to their destination.  

“It will,” she agreed.  She kissed him on the lips.  He kissed her back, but it felt odd.  She couldn't help thinking that he was out of practice.  “But should we not wait until after the dance?”

“It’s two hours,” Garrison said, sardonically.  His voice was bland, but there was a hint of ice in his tone.  She knew he wasn't someone to push lightly.  He was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it.  “What do you want to do until we arrive?”

Molly sighed and surrendered to the inevitable.

Chapter Four

Pournelle Base (USA), Earth Orbit

Admiral Jonathan Winters hadn't slept well since the news had come in from Vera Cruz.

It wasn't something he'd expected, even though he’d acknowledged the possibility of alien life years ago.  The civilians could talk all they liked about crashed alien starships to vague sensor contacts at the rim of explored space, but Jon had risen high enough to know that no one in authority had known the Tadpoles were out there.  There certainly hadn't been any real preparations made for alien contact.  The United States Navy had skirmished with China and Russia - and fretted over colonial issues on a handful of settled worlds - but no one had seriously expected all-out war.  There was just too much at stake.

Sure, he thought, rubbing his forehead as he tried to concentrate on the meeting.  That’s what they said back in 1914 and 2020 too.

“It could have gone better,” Admiral Henri Guichy said.  “But it could have gone worse too.”

“I don’t think we can afford another failure like that,” Admiral Cathy Mountbatten said.  The British officer scowled.  “Exercise BRAVE DEFENDER was an exercise.  What happens if we have to do it for real?”

Jon nodded, curtly.  Cathy Mountbatten - she was apparently related to the Mountbatten - was an aristocrat, something that offended his meritocratic principles, but she was more than merely competent.  He’d been worried, at first, when she’d been assigned to the Earth Defence Organisation as one of his Chiefs of Staff, yet he had to admit she’d worked out well.  And yet, she had almost no experience in interstellar warfare ... none of them had any real experience in interstellar warfare.  No one had really considered a long, drawn-out war that would be fought outside the various Solar Treaties.

Which was a failure of imagination on our part, he told himself.  We’re going to have to do better in future.

He pushed the thought aside, looking from one to the other.  Admiral Henri Guichy was a political appointee, but - thankfully - he was genuinely competent too.  His brown hair and faint smile masked a tactical mind that Jon admired, sometimes.  The French had won the right to name the second-in-command of Earth’s defences and they hadn't abused it.  Beside him, Cathy Mountbatten was tall and blonde.  They both stood in odd contrast to Jon’s black skin and blacker hair.  

“The exercise is now winding down,” he said.  “I have no doubt the analysts will murder thousands of innocent databytes to tell us what we should be thinking about it, but ... before the politicos get involved, what do you think?”

“We haven’t quite mastered the art of cooperation, even after New Russia,” Cathy said, bluntly.  “Linking our command datanets together was quite hard enough, but convincing our personnel to work together was even harder.”

Jon nodded, sourly.  American and British personnel worked together regularly, but none of the other Great Powers had such a close working relationship.  The Chinese and Russians were only close because they hated the idea of standing alone against America and Britain, while the French tried to navigate a course between two factions and the smaller powers worked hard to keep from being assimilated.  Hell, the Great Power system itself had been steadily unbalancing for decades.  Jon privately suspected that it was - that it had been - only a matter of time before one of the smaller powers insisted on being treated as a Great Power.  

Japan, India ... even Brazil and Turkey, he thought.  They’re all building up their space fleets now.

“That’s something we are going to have to address when the other representatives return,” he said.  The Chinese and Russian representatives had been assigned to monitor BRAVE DEFENDER from the participating starships.  “If nothing else, we don’t know what will happen now the Tadpoles have been rocked back on their heels.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment, remembering the recordings from New Russia.  The aliens had slaughtered nearly a hundred starships, including twelve fleet carriers, then proceeded to occupy the system itself.  There was no way to escape the conclusion that the Tadpoles possessed far superior weapons technology, as well as a drive system that was far more flexible than anything humanity had devised.  Ark Royal had captured an alien ship - largely intact - and that would make it easier to unlock the alien secrets, but he knew it would take time to put anything more significant than the plasma cannons into production.  Hell, producing as many plasma cannons as possible carried its own risks.

“They might talk to us,” Guichy said.  “Has there been any progress with the prisoners?”

Jon shook his head.  The alien prisoners seemed happy enough, as far as anyone could tell, but talking to them was impossible.  Some of the more paranoid members of the Oversight Board were demanding enhanced interrogation, yet it seemed pointless.  Asking questions was impossible when one couldn't put them in the right language.  

And we don’t know how they’d react if we started torturing their people, he thought.  But after what we found on Alien-One, some people have stopped giving a fuck.

He pushed the thought aside.  “It’s been a long day,” he said, nodding towards the giant holographic display.  Earth was surrounded by a small galaxy of tactical icons, ranging from tiny single-shot weapons platforms to giant industrial nodes and asteroid settlements.  It looked invulnerable, yet he hadn't needed New Russia to know just how vulnerable it really was.  “Perhaps we should continue this discussion tomorrow.”

Cathy shot him a sympathetic look.  “Politics in Washington?”

“Yeah,” Jon said.  He was lucky he hadn't been called in front of a Senate committee exploring just what had gone wrong at New Russia - again.  Losing three fleet carriers had been a nasty shock for the United States Navy.  Nearly seven thousand crewmen had died with them.  The inquest was still going on as midterm elections approached.  “Are they any better in Britain?”

“Ark Royal gave us a much needed boost,” Cathy said.  “But people are still scared.”

Jon had to smile, humourlessly.  In hindsight, decommissioning and breaking up America’s armoured carriers had been a serious error.  Sure, they’d been costly and slow and unprepared for a modern combat zone ... but they would have been able to stand up to the aliens.  Bolting extra armour on modern carriers wasn't the same.  The flimsy ships just didn't have enough protection to give them a reasonable chance against alien starfighters.

“I don’t blame them,” he said.  “But at least we know the aliens are not invincible.”

He rose.  “Get some sleep,” he ordered.  “We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Cathy said.  “Make sure you get some sleep too.”

If I can, Jon thought.  He’d lost friends at New Russia.  And if something doesn't come up that only I can handle.

He scowled at the thought as he headed for the hatch.  There had been a time when he’d thought he had a real career, back when he’d boarded his first command.  He’d climbed the ladder step by step, careful not to make any missteps that would see him condemned to an asteroid mining settlement or the Mexican Wall, but when he’d reached the top ... he was no longer in command.  He held meetings and talked to politicians - he was their whipping boy - and yet it seemed he did nothing of value.  Unless one counted shielding the juniors from their political masters ...

Pournelle Base hummed around him as he walked into his suite.  It was immense, easily large enough for two or three senior officers.  But Pournelle Base had been built on a grand scale, ensuring that there was plenty of room for its command staff.  Personally, Jon would have preferred extra starfighter launch racks, but that hadn't been an option.  The USN had wanted a large base, after all.

He removed his shoes, then climbed into bed and closed his eyes.

The alarms howled, seconds later.  Jon sat up, cursing under his breath as he fumbled for his console.  Had he slept at all?  It felt as if he’d barely closed his eyes before the alarms howled.  And yet ... what was happening?  He keyed the console and the alarms fell silent, at least in his quarters.  Moments later, Captain Mike Hanson’s face appeared in front of him.

“Admiral,” he said.  His face was ashen.  Jon knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth.  “We’ve had a report from one of the picket ships.  An enemy force has entered the system.”

Jon felt his blood run cold.  No one had ever seriously considered a conflict in the solar system, certainly nothing much larger than tiny settlement wars in the asteroid belt.  The Solar Treaty, the one international treaty that all the spacefaring powers took seriously, forbade it.  There was just too much at stake ...

The Tadpoles never signed the treaty, he thought, numbly.  And why should they?

“I’m on my way,” he said, scrambling out of bed.  “ETA?”

“Two hours,” Hanson said.  “Unless they start taking pot-shots at us with a mass driver, of course.”

“Of course,” Jon said.  Mass drivers weren't exactly banned, but the Great Powers had worked hard to discourage their use.  Another mistake, in hindsight.  “Do they know they’ve been detected?”

“Not at last report,” Hanson said, as Jon pulled on his jacket.  “But that could have changed by now and we wouldn’t know.”

“No,” Jon agreed.  “Have some coffee sent to the pit.  I’m on my way.”

He hurried out of the cabin and down into the giant Combat Information Centre.  A massive hologram was floating above the central console, showing the solar system and every known human installation in exquisite detail.  He felt his heart sink as he looked up and spotted a cluster of red lights advancing steadily towards Earth.  Smaller windows, opening below the main display, told him things he didn't want to know about their firepower.  This was no mere raid, not like the escort carriers humanity had dispatched to keep the enemy off balance.  This was an all-out invasion.

His steward met him at the command chair, holding out a mug of coffee.  Jon took a swig absently, keeping his eyes on the display.  Deliberately or otherwise, the Tadpoles had timed their invasion well.  Two-thirds of humanity’s forces were out of position, finishing BRAVE DEFENDER.  It would take time, time he didn't have, to concentrate his forces.  He hoped that meant the enemy had the system under covert observation.  If Lady Luck - or God - had deserted the human race to that extent ...

“Two hours,” he mused.  The display was already outdated, of course.  A set of conical vectors showed where the aliens should be, unless they had somehow managed to improve their drive systems still further.  “Or less, perhaps.”

He looked at Hanson.  “Do we have a ship count?”

“Brezhnev reported fourteen fleet carriers and one hundred and seven smaller ships, as of the last update,” Hanson said.  He took a breath.  “Sir, she’s an old ship.  Her sensors might have missed something.  It was sheer luck she even spotted the bastards.”

Jon nodded, curtly.  Perhaps God hadn't abandoned humanity after all.

“Send a planetary alert,” he ordered, putting the thought aside.  There would be time to think about it later.  “Inform the EDO that I am assuming command of all mobile forces and fixed defences, in line with the EDO Treaty.  Make sure you copy the message to all planetary governments.  They’ll have to start their civil defence procedures.”

“Aye, sir,” Hanson said.  “Two hours ... it’s not very long.”

“It will have to do,” Jon said.  The aliens hadn't landed on New Russia, according to the last set of updates.  Earth was a bigger target.  But the planet wasn't the main target.  “Once that’s done, copy the message to every starship and fixed installation within the system.  Make sure they understand that the EDO Treaty is now in effect.”

“Yes, sir,” Hanson said.

Jon sat down, thinking hard.  Hopefully, there wouldn't be any real objections.  The prospect of being hanged did tend to concentrate the mind wonderfully.  But he knew it wasn't going to be easy.  They’d assumed, even after New Russia, that they would have more warning, more time to work the kinks out of the system.  That assumption had been a mistake.  He couldn't help wondering just how many other mistakes they’d made.

They timed it very well, he thought, sourly.  If I don’t concentrate the fleet, they can defeat us piece by piece; if I do concentrate the fleet, I run the risk of letting them do a great deal of damage before they can be stopped.  I might win a tactical victory and lose on a strategic scale.

He felt his heart sink as he contemplated the possibilities.  There was no way to be sure that the attack force Brezhnev had detected was the only attack force.  Space, even interplanetary space, was vast beyond imagination.  The Tadpoles could hide another invasion force within the interplanetary void, if they wished.  And he wouldn't know until it reached its destination and opened fire.  

A human admiral wouldn't be keen on splitting his fleet, he reminded himself.  But would the Tadpoles feel the same way?

It wasn’t a pleasant thought.  He’d assumed he’d be leading the navy into battle against the Russians or Chinese, if the diplomats didn't manage to smooth over whatever crisis had sparked the war.  And they would have been human foes, their logic understandable ... their tactics predictable.  But his true opponent were aliens, aliens who might have their own ideas about how to fight a war.  They might consider splitting their fleet to be a smart move.

Then we’ll teach them better, he told himself.

He glanced at Hanson.  “Any word from the ground?”

“Nothing beyond a brief acknowledgement,” Hanson said.  “But the world is going dark.”

Jon nodded, shortly.  That was planned, at least.  One thing they’d learnt from New Russia was that the aliens had no hesitation in dropping KEWs on radio sources.  Or light sources, perhaps.  The civilians would howl if they were denied access to the datanet, but it might just keep them alive.  Unless the aliens did intend to scorch the entire planet.  America’s population was more dispersed than it had been for centuries, but he knew better than to think it would be enough to protect them.  Rendering Earth uninhabitable shouldn't pose any serious problems to the Tadpoles.  Their technological base was more than capable of producing the required weapons.

He leaned back in his chair, feeling the weight of the world - of the solar system - fall onto his shoulders.  Years of extensive political micromanagement had led him to believe that that would never change, even though the EDO Treaty placed command authority firmly in his hands.  And yet ... he pushed the thought out of his head.  He couldn't go to his political superiors and beg them to share the responsibility.  The buck stopped with him.

Which won’t stop them from complaining, afterwards, he thought.  A nasty thought struck him and he went cold.  If there’s anyone left to complain.

He cleared his throat.  “Record for Admiral Robertson, Enterprise,” he said.  Admiral Robertson had been in command of BRAVE DEFENDER.  He waited for the nod, then went on.  “Thaddeus, the system has been invaded.  You are ordered to concentrate your forces at Point Asimov, along with other forces I will dispatch to you, and then advance against the enemy fleet.  By that point, I imagine, they will have already attacked Earth.”

The words caught in his throat.  A human admiral would seek to bring the enemy fleet to battle ... he’d certainly want to bring the enemy fleet to battle, although he would also be aware of the importance of devastating the enemy’s industrial base.  And yet, the mobile fleet couldn't be replaced in a hurry ... which way would the aliens jump?  Admiral Robertson might find himself the target of concentrated alien malice.  

“If they do so, you are to trap them against the planetary defences,” he ordered.  “If they attempt to engage you, you are to evade them as long as possible and then fall back on Earth so you can be supported by the planetary defences.  I expect you to use your own best judgment in deploying your forces against the enemy.”

He took a long breath.  The next set of orders ... he didn't want to issue them, but he had no choice.  All contingencies had to be prepared for.  “In the event of both Pournelle Base and Nelson Base being destroyed, you will assume command of the remaining military installations within the system.  Give them hell.

“Good luck.”

He glanced at Hanson.  “Send the message,” he ordered.  “And then inform all mobile fleet units within the Earth-Luna region that they are to prepare to leave orbit within thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Hanson said.  He paused.  “If we lose them, we’ll be dependent on our fixed defences.”

“I know,” Jon said.  He bit down the flash of annoyance.  Hanson was doing his job, pointing out potential flaws with his superior’s orders.  “But they don’t add that much to our firepower.  Admiral Robertson is going to need them.”

He leaned back in his chair.  The orders had been given.  His subordinates were rushing to their stations, preparing themselves for the prospect of a sudden and violent death in the next few hours.  And yet ... all he could do was wait for the aliens.  There was nothing he could do until they reached engagement range.

The prospect of being hanged concentrates the mind wonderfully, he quoted mentally.  He couldn't remember where the quote had come from, but it had struck him as important years ago.  But it concentrates the mind on the fact that it is going to be hanged.

It wasn't a very reassuring thought.

Chapter Five

Ten Downing Street, London, United Kingdom

“I think we’re done here,” Prime Minister Andrew Davidson said.  The Cabinet Office was feeling oddly oppressive as night fell slowly over London.  “Unless there’s anything that should be raised now?”

“Well, the economy is starting to fray,” the Secretary of State said.  Anita Jordan was too much of a politician to be blunt.  “Realistically, Prime Minister, there’s very little we can do about it.”

Andrew nodded, impatiently.  Late-night meetings were always bad.  Everyone wanted to go to bed, but everyone also wanted to make sure they had the last word.  It was frustrating as hell, particularly for him.  His cabinet ministers wanted to ensure that they promoted their own careers as well as serving in his government, preparing themselves for the inevitable faction fight that would follow his resignation or his electoral defeat.  And while he understood the importance of keeping them hungry, he couldn't help finding it irritating too.  

“Let us hope that things get better,” Andrew said, although he knew they wouldn't.  The British economy was slowly shifting onto a war footing, causing massive dislocations throughout society.  Thankfully, they’d managed to paper over the worst of the cracks in the system, but it had been too long since large sections of the population had been forced to sacrifice for victory.  “And that the Opposition remains quiet.”

His lips quirked in grim amusement.  The Opposition had been relatively quiet since the war had begun, surprisingly.  But then, the government had had a stroke of good luck when Ark Royal proved she could fight the Tadpoles on even terms.  The Opposition politicians could merely gnash their teeth and wait for an opening they could use to criticize the government without facing a major backlash.  Thankfully, they’d been too stunned to capitalise on the Battle of New Russia before Ark Royal had given the Tadpoles a bloody nose.

“There have been some industrial disputes,” Neddy Young said.  The Home Secretary looked tired and worn.  “So far, mainly just grumbling ... but that will change.”

“Probably,” Andrew said.  He shook his head.  “And I definitely think we’re done here.  I’ll see you all in the morning.”

He leaned back in his comfortable chair and watched as his cabinet rose and hurried out of the chamber.  They’d be driven back to their apartments in the Secure Zone, where they would get a few hours of sleep before they would have to return to their desks.  Andrew was too much of a cynic to believe that their presence was truly important to their departments - the cabinet ministers were all political appointees - but hopefully the general public would believe the government was on top of the situation.  The last thing Britain needed was another round of unrest and ethnic conflict.

There was a knock on the door.  “Coffee, Prime Minister?”

Andrew looked up.  A young maid was standing there, looking uncertain of herself.  Andrew didn't really blame her.  The housekeeping staff were supposed to be neither seen nor heard, particularly by the politicians they served.  He’d thought it was an archaic policy when he’d first heard of it, but he had to admit it did have a point.  Too many government ministers had abused their positions before the Troubles.

And they still do, he thought, crossly.  It’s just that we’re better at dealing with it now.

“No, thank you,” he said, rising.  “I’ll go back to my office.”

He walked past the girl and strode down the corridor.  None of the other staff were in evidence, although it was clear that someone had swept the passageway in the last couple of hours.  They’d have heard him coming and scattered to get out of his way ... he shook his head, silently promising himself that he’d do something about it.  The housekeeping staff didn't have to run and hide like mice fleeing the cat, did they?  But it was very much a minor issue, compared to the problems that were turning his hair grey.  He didn't know if he’d ever have time to handle it.

Ten Downing Street had been severely damaged during the Troubles, he reminded himself as he walked past a long line of portraits.  A truck bomb had exploded in Whitehall, killing hundreds of government officials and wounding hundreds more.  The building had been rebuilt with increased security - the government wouldn't have left the area in ruins, even though some people had wanted a more flamboyant centre of government - but Andrew couldn't help wondering if something had been lost.  Some of the faces looking down on him - Prime Ministers through the ages - would not have approved of modern-day Britain.  Others would have thought it a dream come true.  

We do the best we can, he thought.  And sometimes we just force ourselves to keep going until the problem goes away.

He sucked in his breath as his eyes moved from face to face.  Winston Churchill, Margaret Thatcher, Tony Blair, Charles Hanover ... he’d read hundreds of books discussing their strengths and weaknesses, trying to see if there was an ideal.  But there wasn't, as far as he could tell.  Even Churchill had had to play to the backbenchers.  Only Hanover had had a considerable degree of freedom and he was perhaps the most controversial figure in British history.  A saint or a sinner ... no one really knew for sure.  There were no balanced biographies of him, as far as Andrew knew.  His death had either been a tragedy for his country or a very lucky escape.

We’ll never know, Andrew thought, walking into his office.  And perhaps we should be glad of it.

He sat down at his desk, eying the pile of folders that had somehow materialised on the table while he’d been gone.  He’d delegated as much as he could to his staff, but there were still far too many issues that required the Prime Minister’s personal attention.  The Civil Service could and did carry out orders, shaping governmental intentions into something practical, yet they didn't run the country.  Andrew knew, all too well, that the buck stopped with him.

Damn it, he thought.  I ...

An alarm rang.  Andrew froze in his seat, shocked.  He’d never heard that alarm outside drills, drills they’d only just restarted.  An attack ... Ten Downing Street was under attack?  It had to be a drill.  No one could have sneaked through the ring of steel protecting the centre of London, no one ...

He jerked to his feet as two burly men crashed through the door and into his office.  One of them grabbed him, yanking him away from the desk; the other opened a hidden door, revealing a gravity chute.  Andrew had no time to protest before the first man hurled him down the chute, then jumped after him.  It felt like forever before he hit the antigravity field at the bottom of the chute and stopped.  A hand grabbed him and pulled him out of the field, holding him steady.  Andrew’s stomach heaved, as if he were going to be sick.  He swallowed hard, reminding himself that he’d taken the chute before.  But he’d had plenty of time to prepare himself, last time.

“Prime Minister,” a calm voice said.  “Welcome to the bunker.”

Andrew brushed dust off his sleeves, taking the opportunity to concentrate his mind.  His stomach was still churning.  And yet ... he looked up at the speaker, forcing himself to match the name to the face.  General Peter Templeton, one of the duty officers who rotated through the Whitehall Bunker.  Andrew didn't know him that well - he hadn't had time to meet and greet everyone who worked in Whitehall - but Templeton would be competent.  He wouldn't be manning the bunker if he weren’t.

“Thank you,” he said.  “What happened?”

Templeton looked grim.  “The orbital defences sounded the alert, Prime Minister,” he said, as he motioned for Andrew to follow him into the bunker.  “An enemy fleet is heading directly for Earth.”

Andrew felt his blood run cold.  He’d assumed, despite himself, that Ten Downing Street had become the target of a terrorist attack.  There hadn't been a major terrorist attack in over a hundred years, but that proved nothing.  The security services had made it clear to him, when he’d moved into Downing Street, that the odds of preventing terrorist attacks completely were very low.  There were more guns on the streets, these days, than there had been before the Troubles.  And obtaining explosive materials wasn't that difficult.  

He shuddered.  A terrorist attack might have been preferable. Security officers were trained to assume the worst and get the principals to safety as soon as possible, rather than hoping for the best.  Throwing him down the chute had been unpleasant, but necessary.  He understood that too.

“Crap,” he said.  “How long do we have?”

“Assuming the enemy’s speed remains constant, somewhere around two hours,” Templeton said.  He led the way into the bunker.  “They’re moving at a pretty fair clip, Prime Minister, but they will have to slow down before they reach Earth.”

Andrew nodded as he studied the central hologram, wishing he could understand it.  He’d visited the Whitehall Bunker twice, shortly after his election, but he hadn't bothered to bring himself up to speed on the installation.  The bunker was fully staffed, ready to take command of Britain’s military and security forces if the shit hit the fan.  He’d thought he hadn't needed to know much more, back then.  In hindsight, that might have been a mistake.  He hoped Templeton and his staff wouldn't hold it against him.

“So far, the enemy appears to believe that they remain undetected,” Templeton said, nodding to the display.  “We believe they’ll drop their sensor masks at some point within the next hour or so.  They would be fools to assume they’ll remain undetected until they enter weapons range.”

Andrew nodded.  Earth was protected by more fixed defences - and sensor nodes - than any other planet in the human sphere.  The sheer multitude of defence systems alone would make spoofing them very difficult, although he knew better than to think that was a certainty.  He supposed it didn't matter, in any case.  The aliens would realise, sooner rather than later, that the human defenders were reacting to something ...

He pushed the thought aside.  The defence of Earth was out of his hands.  His responsibility was his country and people.

“The media will be watching,” he said, slowly.  “Do they know what’s happening?”

“The first reports came in less than ten minutes ago,” Templeton said.  “However, it will not be long before the media realises that something is wrong.  And then ...”

“Panic,” Andrew said.  There had been panic in the streets after New Russia.  Everyone had expected the aliens to punch straight through to Earth before the human forces could adapt to their weapons.  “There’ll be anarchy.”

He sucked in his breath.  He’d seen a multitude of plans for every contingency, from a Great Power conflict to outright civil war and none of them had made reassuring reading.  Britain was a more unified country than some of the other Great Powers, but a combination of alien attack and governmental collapse would bring out the beast in everyone.  The planners had been pessimistic.  It remained to be seen if they were actually wrong.

“I understand that we have a contingency plan for this situation,” he said.  “Is that correct?”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Templeton said.  He spoke from memory.  “We’ll alert military bases and police stations first, then inform the general public once the security forces have been deployed.  Martial law will be declared.  All reservists who haven’t already been called up will be ordered to report to their nearest base, while the remainder of the civilian population will be instructed to stay put and wait.  We anticipate that most people will obey orders.  Those who don’t will be arrested and detained until the emergency is over.”

Andrew swallowed.  It was late, thankfully.  Most civilians would be at home, he hoped.  They’d be safe, for a while.  But that wouldn't last.  The government had advised everyone to stock up on food and water, when the war had begun, yet he had no idea how many people had actually followed the government’s suggestion.  If food distribution services started to break down, millions of people would starve.  Some of them would go looking for food elsewhere.

And they might be shot, he thought, grimly.  The police had strict orders about dealing with looters.  And won’t that come back to haunt us?

He pushed the thought out of his head.  “Make it so,” he said.  “I’ll address the nation once the first alerts have gone out.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Templeton said.  He paused.  “We also require your permission to deal with the media.  They cannot be allowed to cause a panic.”

Andrew sighed.  Even now, the media wielded considerable power.  He’d be Public Enemy Number One after the crisis ... if, of course, the crisis ended.  His party would certainly pay a high price during the next election.  But if the crisis didn't end, the next election would be the least of their worries.  He had no idea what sort of government the Tadpoles would impose on Earth - if they didn't simply eradicate the human race - but he doubted it would be one most humans would find congenial.

“Do it,” he said.  Perhaps he could resign, afterwards.  It might salvage the party’s chances in the General Election.  “And make sure they know it was my decision.”

He took a chair and forced himself to think, dragging up details from half-remembered briefings.  The Whitehall Bunker was deep under Whitehall, deep enough that nothing in humanity’s arsenal could destroy it without doing immense damage to London.  It was linked to an entire network of bunkers and storage depots around the country, allowing the government to keep functioning even if the country itself was invaded.  The cynical side of his mind wondered if there would be any point - any survivors above ground would not be pleased to see the government after the war - but it didn't matter.  It was their duty to rebuild the country after the war.

The red icons on the display didn’t seem to be moving.  It took him several minutes to work out that the display itself was shrinking as the alien ships moved closer and closer to Earth, gliding into position to threaten the entire planet.  The bunker staff spoke in hushed voices as they struggled to coordinate a national response to a planetary threat, snatches of conversation echoing in Andrew’s ears as they worked.  Many of them seemed to be dealing with officials who didn't quite believe the news.

We should have held more drills, Andrew thought.  But we always considered them too disruptive.

It was a frustrating thought.  The country hadn't held national drills since the Troubles.  Even the annual military exercises hadn't involved more than a tiny fraction of the population.  He couldn't help wondering just how people were going to react, when the news finally crashed into their minds.  There would be panic, then chaos.  He had no doubt that thousands upon thousands of people would rush to buy food and arm themselves, despite the order to remain at home.  There was always someone who thought the rules didn't apply to them.

“The King has been informed,” a voice said.  “He’s staying in London.”

Andrew nodded to himself.  The Royal Family didn't have any power of its own - the Houses of Parliament were united on that, if nothing else - but it did have symbolic value.  King Charles IV could encourage the population to work together to overcome their problems, although the cynic in Andrew suspected his words would fall on deaf ears.  What did a man who had grown up in Buckingham Palace know of the common man?  The Royal Family’s true role was to distract the public from power.  There would be little cause for that if the Tadpoles won the war.

Templeton walked back over to where Andrew was sitting.  “The datanet is already flooding with alerts,” he said.  “Someone in America or France let the cat out of the bag.”

Andrew glanced at his watch, then winced.  Barely twenty-seven minutes had passed since he’d entered the bunker.  The police and military would do all they could, but they simply hadn't had time to prepare for either riots or enemy landings.  There was no way to keep the word from spreading, too.  The datanet was meant to be carefully monitored, but hackers had been exploiting flaws in the system for years.  It hadn't been seen as a major problem, as long as they stayed out of government systems.

“Alert the population,” he said, finally.  “Better they hear it from us than anyone else.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Templeton said.

Andrew sighed.  The British public maintained a healthy scepticism of anything that came out of a politician’s mouth.   It was hardly a surprise - British politicians had done a great deal of damage because they’d lost touch with reality, before the Troubles - but right now it was a major headache.  Andrew liked to think that his honesty ratings were higher than his predecessors, yet that meant nothing.  The person sitting in Ten Downing Street was a liar, as far as most of the population was concerned.  They never had to deal with the compromises Andrew had to make every day.

“Keep it as truthful as possible,” he said.  He’d have to address the nation.  There were a number of emergency speeches in his desk drawer, but none of them really fitted the situation.  “And make sure they know to stay indoors.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Templeton said.

Andrew leaned back into his chair, gritting his teeth.  It wasn't going to be pleasant.  Even in the best case scenario, hundreds of thousands of people were going to be seriously injured - or die.  And yet, there was no choice.  His country was about to be attacked.

And we’ll beat them off, he told himself.  We will.

But he knew, all too well, that that was out of his hands.

Chapter Six

Sin City, Luna

There was definitely something darker in the air, Brian decided, as he made his way up the stairs and onto Level Five.  The wild parties were still going on - he ducked as a piece of underwear flew over his head - but there was an edge to the air that worried him.  He glanced at his watch, deciding that time had to be running out for most of the guests.  They’d be in deep shit if they failed to catch the last train back to their destination.

“Banned in Boston, sir,” a young waitress said, holding out a set of datachips.  “Yours for a hundred credits.”

Brian rolled his eyes as he took in the titles.  Semi-legal porn, probably already pirated and uploaded to the darker corners of the datanet.  They probably would be banned in America - the social conservatives had been fighting a war against datanet porn for years - but that probably meant nothing to anyone who actually wanted it.  There was no shortage of ways to get around datanet restrictions with the right tools and knowledge.  Besides, the porn flicks weren't banned in Britain.

“No, thank you,” he said, tersely.  

The girl shrugged and headed on to the next potential customer.  Brian rather doubted she’d have better luck.  Smuggling datanet porn into a military base could get someone in real trouble, although there was always some idiot who thought he could get away with it.  No doubt the idiot would have plenty of time to reflect on his stupidity in the brig.  He glanced at the string of adverts on the walls, then walked down to the bar.  It looked to be heaving with customers, the waitresses carrying vast trays of drinks from the bar to the tables.  Brian couldn't help thinking that the clientele didn't look very savoury.  Most of them were either merchant spacers or military types.

Many a foul crime has probably been planned in here, he thought, as he walked into the bar and looked around.  Or tips shared on how to evade anti-smuggling patrols.

He gritted his teeth as the music started to pound, a dull throbbing beat that was supposed to be popular ... somewhere.  A line of naked dancers appeared on the stage, shaking their breasts and kicking their legs in a manner that made Brian roll his eyes.  He liked the female form as much as any other straight male, but there were limits.  The blatant sexuality was more disturbing than enticing.  But it didn't seem to be a problem for the drunkards in the front row.  They were hooting and hollering as the dancing became more and more obscene.

A waitress, her skin as dark as the night, appeared in front of him.  “Table, sir?”

“Yes, please,” Brian said.  He passed her a tip, watching with admiration as she made the coin vanish before any of her superiors noticed it.  The bar looked to be the sort of place where tips were expected to be shared.  “Can you give me somewhere away from the stage?”

“Of course, sir,” the waitress said.  “If you’ll follow me ...?”

Brian followed her, his eyes moving from waitress to waitress as he searched for his target.  None of the waitresses looked particularly happy to be there, although some were clearly better at hiding it than others.  A handful of girls had nasty marks on their skin, utterly unconcealed.  Abuse was technically forbidden in Sin City, but the girls were probably not in any position to make a complaint.  Their visas would be cancelled if they couldn’t find replacement positions after they were fired.

Poor bitches, he thought.  But where is Abigail?

He was tempted to ask his escort as she offered him an empty table and waited for his order, but he suspected it would be a bad idea.  It was unlikely that anyone at the bar knew who ‘Norma Lee’ really was, yet if they did ... Brian wasn't in the mood for a fight.  God alone knew what Sin City’s Management would do if the shit really did hit the fan.  They’d have to be insane to pick a fight with Abigail’s family, but their reputation for secrecy was important to them.  Sin City would lose half its customer base if secrecy was no longer an option.  He ordered a pint, then leaned back to watch the waitresses.  He’d just have to keep his eyes open and wait.

The dancing finally came to an end, the dancers bowing obscenely before marching off the stage.  Thankfully, Abigail didn't seem to be among them.  Brian kept looking, silently praying that Abigail hadn't thought to change her looks.  He’d seen videos of the girl, but he knew better than to think that he’d recognise her if she cut or dyed her hair.  Facial identification software might not even be able to pick her out from the crowd.

Perhaps I’ll have to ask after all, he thought, as he sipped his beer.  Someone might tip her boss off if Clancy screws the pooch.

A new set of waitresses appeared, looking worn down by life.  Brian studied them, but ... his eyes almost flickered over Abigail before he spotted her.  She hadn't changed much, yet ... she looked different.  She looked beaten down by life.  There were no visible bruises, but that meant nothing.  Brian was old enough to know that there were plenty of ways to hurt someone that left no visible trace.  Naked threats and intimidation of someone who was very much a fish out of water would probably be enough to do the trick.

He watched her carefully, waiting for the moment he could signal her.  Abigail looked young, painfully young.  Surely someone would have noticed she was too young.  But he doubted Abigail’s boss would have looked any further than her fake papers.  They’d gotten her into Sin City, so there was nothing wrong with them.  And if there was, Brian knew, it wouldn't be the boss’s fault.  He caught her eye, just for a second, and waved.  She hesitated, looking as though she wanted to send someone else, then slowly made her way to his table.  Brian couldn't help thinking she looked as though she was walking to her own execution.

“Abigail,” he said, quietly.  “I’m here to help.”

Abigail’s eyes went very wide.  “Who are you?”

“Sit down,” Brian said, quietly.  The music was drowning out every conversation, as far as he could tell, but he knew better than to count on it.  Someone with a focused mike would probably be able to hear every word.  “Your parents sent me to get you home.”

Abigail swallowed, hard.  “I don’t want to go home.”

Brian studied her for a long moment.  He didn't have daughters, but he’d seen his fair share of teenage suspects.  They’d often been pushed into doing more and more stupid things until they attracted the attention of the law, then wound up in cells waiting for transport to the nearest borstal.  They tried to sound prideful, they tried to sound grown-up, but most of them knew they were in deep shit.  Abigail sounded just like the ones who wanted to call their parents, yet were too stubborn or too afraid to make the call.  They were the ones who could be helped, once justice had run its course.  The ones who couldn't were probably already doomed.

He sighed, inwardly.  Kids grew up too fast, these days.

“You shouldn't even be here,” Brian said.  “Do you even want to be here?”

He saw the answer in her eyes and nodded to himself.  Abigail might be trying to put a brave face on it, but she was terrified.  Someone had found her work, then taken a share of her salary ... perhaps all of her salary.  It was hardly an uncommon problem, even though it was technically illegal.  God knew the Management would turn a blind eye as long as it didn't become a major problem.

“Your parents aren't mad at you,” he reassured her.  “They just want you home.”

“They think I’m a baby,” Abigail whispered.

“They know better now,” Brian said, seriously.  Teenage runaways weren't that common on the moon.  Most children grew up fast when they were raised in a lethal environment.  “Let me take you home.”

“I owe money,” Abigail said, quietly.  “I ...”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brian said.  He’d seen shitty contracts before.  The chances were good that the whole system was rigged.  Abigail would get her salary, then be billed for everything from her food and drink to her outfits.  She'd wind up more in debt than ever before.  “I can take you out of here.”

He watched her for a long moment, silently praying that she’d take the opportunity.  There was no way he could drug her and carry her out, not when the security forces might turn on him.  And if she refused ... someone might ask her a number of very pointed questions about just why her parents had sent a private detective after her.  Most runaways didn't have wealthy parents.

“I can't leave,” Abigail said.  “They need me ...”

“They don’t,” Brian said, firmly.  “There is no shortage of girls like you.”

“Fine,” Abigail said.  She sounded torn between hope and fear.  “I’ll get my coat and ...”

Brian met her eyes.  “Do you have anything with you that can't be replaced?   If so, come with me now.”

Abigail nodded and rose.  Brian rose too, one hand dropping to his pocket as he quickly swept the bar for potential trouble.  Ideally, he’d just take Abigail and walk out before anyone could react, but her employer might not take kindly to it.  Several potential excuses ran through his mind, yet all of them would be chancy.  Abigail probably wasn't allowed to leave the bar, even when she wasn't on duty.  Who knew what might happen if she found a terminal?

And the bar patrons aren't exactly the nicest people, he thought, wryly.  They might join in a fight for the sheer hell of it.

The waitress at the door looked worried, then alarmed.  Abigail gulped.  Brian braced himself as he turned around, somehow unsurprised to see a giant slab of muscle ambulating towards him.  The bartender - Abigail’s employer, he assumed - was a misshapen parody of a man, his arms and legs bulging with exaggerated muscles while his chest, neck and head seemed inhumanly small.  His piggish eyes glared suspiciously at Brian, as if he suspected Brian of kidnapping a waitress.  The outfit he wore hid nothing, not even the bulge between his legs.  Brian hid his disgust with practiced ease.  Smart people knew better than to have their bodies enhanced in back-alley cosmetic surgeries.  The side effects were almost always unpleasant.

“And where,” he demanded in a nasal whine, “do you think you’re going?”

Brian contemplated a number of options, then decided on the truth.  “I’m returning this girl to her parents,” he said, firmly.  He had no intention of telling the whole truth, if it could be avoided.  “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding a replacement.”

The piggish man glowered at him.  Brian heard Abigail whimper and felt a flicker of annoyance, mixed with anger.  The bartender probably would be intimidating to someone without combat training.  Brian had met worse people in military bars near Catterick, back during his probationary period.  Wrestling half-drunk squaddies wasn't a sport for the faint of heart.  But the bartender was nowhere near as tough.  Brian would have bet good money the bastard simply couldn't move very fast without toppling over and hitting the ground.

“She owes me money,” the bartender said, finally.  “Seven thousand credits, counting interest.”

Brian did the calculation in his head.  Seven thousand Luna Credits was roughly five thousand pounds.  He rolled his eyes at the conceit.  He had no idea how much debt Abigail might have incurred, but he was fairly sure it wasn’t that high.  Her outfit probably wouldn't cost more than fifty pounds at the local store.

“I rather doubt it,” he said, sharply.  He removed a card from his pocket and held it out.  “If you have a genuine claim, submit it to this address.  I’ll see to it that your claim is taken into consideration.”

The piggy man’s glare grew darker.  “I’ll take it out of your hide,” he said, cracking his fists loudly.  “I won’t let anyone steal from me ...”

Brian briefly considered drawing his shockrod and jamming it into the man’s groin.  The screaming alone would deter anyone from following them, at least long enough for Brian and Abigail to put some distance between themselves and the bar.  But it would also draw a great deal of attention.  He didn't want to have to deal with that.

He leaned forward, instead.  “The girl’s fifteen,” he said.  “Do you really want to argue it with the Management?”

There was a long pause.  Brian tensed, bracing himself for an attack.  Sin City did have a strict age limit.  The bartender would be in deep shit if he were caught violating it, even if Abigail’s papers had passed muster.  The smart thing to do would be to let the matter - and Abigail - go, but Brian didn't dare count on the man being that smart.  He’d either not noticed Abigail’s age or chosen to ignore it.

“I’ll send a bill,” the man warned.  “And I expect it paid at once.”

Brian shrugged.  “Come on,” he said, to Abigail.  “We have to go.”

He led her out of the bar and down the corridor.  Abigail followed, her eyes flickering from side to side as if she expected an attack at any moment.  Brian had seen prisoners - freshly released from jail - showing the same reaction.  Prisons were meant to be safe, but somehow vast numbers of weapons and illegal drugs were smuggled past the guards.  A prisoner who couldn't stand up for herself was in deep shit.

“Thank you,” Abigail said, softly.  “I ...”

Brian looked her up and down.  “What happened?”

Abigail swallowed, hard.  “Is Terry in trouble?”

“I imagine he’s been grounded for a few decades,” Brian said, dryly.  He had no idea what Abigail’s parents had done to her friend, but he doubted it was anything pleasant.  God knew Terry’s parents would be pissed too.  “What happened to you?”

“I thought no one could follow me if I came here,” Abigail said.  “I ... I didn't think to take any money.  I ... I trusted the wrong people.  They ... they told me I had to work, or else ... or else they’d hurt me and ... they didn't listen to me.”

“I imagine they wouldn't,” Brian said.  He thought, fast.  There would be a medical centre nearby.  He could have Abigail checked for any immediate problems before they boarded a train to Luna City.  But he wanted to get her out as quickly as possible.  The bartender probably had friends.  “Are you in pain now?”

Abigail shook her head.  “Just ... just scared.”

“We’ll get you out of here in a jiffy,” Brian told her.  He studied her for a long moment.  She didn't seem to be hurt, as far as he could tell.  But she was shaking ... it looked as though she was torn between clinging to him and running as fast as she could.  “And then you can go home.”

“My parents will kill me,” Abigail said, as they resumed their walk.  “Are they ... are they really mad?”

“They’re not pleased,” Brian said.  They reached the stairwell and started heading up.  “But I think they’re more shocked than angry.”

“That’ll change,” Abigail predicted, darkly.  “They never listen to me.”

“A common complaint,” Brian said.  “I ...”

He broke off as the alarms started to howl.  Abigail caught his arm, her entire body trembling like a leaf.  Brian reached for his shockrod, then stopped himself.  That wasn't the intruder alert siren, he thought.  It was the emergency alert.

“ATTENTION,” a voice blared.  “THIS IS AN EMERGENCY SITUATION.  ALL GUESTS ARE ADVISED TO MAKE THEIR WAY TO THE NEAREST SHELTER AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.  I SAY AGAIN, ALL GUESTS ARE ADVISED TO MAKE THEIR WAY TO THE NEAREST SHELTER AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.”

Brian blanched.  An attack?  There was a war on - he knew there was a war on - but he hadn't really expected an attack on Sol itself.  Perhaps the war had been going badly, worse than the media claimed.  God knew no one in their right mind would take any government’s word for granted.  And an attack meant that Luna might be attacked.  Sin City might be attacked.  Or it might be something as simple as an air leak.  Better to assume the worst ...

He caught Abigail’s hand.  “We have to go to the nearest shelter,” he said.  The tube network would already be shutting down, if he recalled correctly.  There was no way to leave Sin City without it, unless they rented a shuttle.  “And then we wait.”

Abigail glanced back down the stairs.  “What about ... what about them?”

“Right now, we have other problems,” Brian said.  He led her down the corridor.  A handful of other guests were making their way to the shelters, but most seemed determined to remain in the casinos.  Some of them were even arguing with the staff.  Brian understood their logic - they thought that a major attack on Sin City would kill everyone, in or out of the shelters -  but he didn't agree with it.  If there was an attack, they had to do everything they could to stack the odds in favour of survival.

Which won’t help a bit if someone nukes the place, he thought, as they reached the shelter hatch.  It looked grim inside, as grim and desolate as an airport passenger lounge.  The handful of inhabitants looked scared.  We’ll be dead before we know what hit us.

He kept that thought to himself as he found a seat.  There was no point in scaring Abigail.

She looked at him.  “How long do we have to stay here?”

“As long as it takes,” Brian said.  He drew his terminal from his belt and opened it, trying to access the local datanet.  “Get some sleep.  It might be quite some time.”

Chapter Seven

Ward Mansion, Penzance, United Kingdom

Molly stumbled into the bathroom and bent over the washbasin, feeling sick.

She hadn't really expected the party to be quite so ... intense.  They’d been late, largely because Garrison had been intent on showing her that he was still in good shape for an older man, but that wasn't the problem.  She’d had a chance to clean her dress and redo her makeup before going onto the dance floor.  The real problem was the number of young and beautiful people she’d met at the party.  Indeed, women had outnumbered men two to one.  She couldn't help thinking that Garrison had been attracted to quite a few of them.

It isn't fair, she thought, bitterly.  It just isn't fair.

She swallowed, hard.  She’d been to quite a few formal parties since they’d come into money, but this was different.  She felt terribly out of place.  The chatter was all about people and places she didn't know - and would probably never know - while the food and drink were utterly unfamiliar.  She was tempted to think that Garrison was probably playing a joke on her, when he’d told her that Lady Penelope’s food was to die for.  Her stomach churned, mocking her.  Expensive food just didn't agree with her, it seemed.

The dress felt clammy against her skin, despite the promises in the brochure.  Perhaps there was something in the air ... or perhaps it was just her sweat.  She looked down at her hands, remembering what she’d been doing before they reached the hall.  Did everyone know what she’d been doing?  She couldn't help feeling that everyone was laughing at her, behind her back.  She didn't know how to talk to the upper crust, she didn't know how to dance, she didn't even know how to fake it ... what was she, really?  What did she have that the younger girls didn’t have?

No one had been rude to her, openly.  No one had cut her dead on the dance floor.  But they knew she wasn't one of them.  They’d watched her muff the dances and make a fool of herself ... God knew what Garrison thought, damn the man.  Perhaps he was already planning to make her take a taxi home while he went off with one of the younger girls.  Could she even get a taxi all the way to Woking?  She wasn't sure.  It was already far too late to guarantee finding a driver ...

She forced herself to think.  Perhaps she could just go.  It wasn't as if she needed anything beyond her bag and coat.  She could call a taxi ... she might have to spend more money than she cared to think about, but she could just go.  And then ... she looked down at the sink, fighting the urge to retch.  All of her dreams would turn to powder if she just abandoned Garrison and Lady Penelope.  

And Kurt will be furious, she thought, bitterly.  Why hadn't he been the sort of man she wanted?  She’d certainly thought he had good prospects, back when they’d married.  But he wasn't inclined to spend money on parties and fancy dresses and ... she swallowed, again, as her gorge rose in her throat.  What the hell am I doing?

Her smartphone bleeped, loudly.  Molly cursed, almost stumbling as she reached for the wretched device.  She’d drunk far too much, part of her mind noted.  She wasn't thinking clearly.  There weren't many people who had her number, which meant ... Gayle?  Or one of the kids?  Or ... or Garrison?  Perhaps he thought she was taking too long in the bathroom.  She opened the phone and stared at the display.  A red message was blinking on the screen.

Molly stared down at it.  EMERGENCY ALERT.  EMERGENCY ALERT.  ENEMY FORCES HAVE ENTERED THE SOLAR SYSTEM.  ALL CIVILIANS ARE ORDERED TO ...

Her mind spun as she read the entire message.  The solar system was under attack ... it was impossible.  Wasn't it?  The war was thousands of light years away, right?  She swallowed, hard, as the news sunk in.  The solar system was under attack and she was over four hundred kilometres from her children.  She flicked through the rest of the message, cursing under her breath.  Civilians were ordered to remain where they were and await further instructions.

She clicked the phone, trying to call Gayle.  But nothing happened.  There was no signal, something she’d been told was impossible.  Britain had the most advanced datanet in the world and yet ... and yet there was no signal.  Had the aliens already taken it down?  Or ... she cursed, again, as she realised the truth.  The government had probably taken the network down, just to make sure the civilians couldn’t jam up the system.  Or to keep them from spreading panic ...

Molly checked her appearance in the mirror, then hurried back outside.  The dancing seemed to have come to a sudden end, with half the dancers streaming through the doors and down towards the car park.  The others were milling around in confusion, muttering to each other as they checked their smartphones time and time again.  It wasn't a joke, Molly noted as she searched for Garrison.  The planet really was under attack.  She heard the sound of cars moving out of the parking lot and glanced through the doors, just in time to see a string of fancy cars leaving the hall.  No doubt the drivers believed the curfew didn't apply to them.

I have to get back to the kids, she thought, grimly.  I can't afford to follow the curfew either.

Garrison was standing next to two men she didn't recognise, chatting with them.  He’d warned her never to interrupt a private discussion, but this was important.  One of the men huffed in annoyance as she caught his attention, while the other looked oddly relieved.  Molly made a mental note to work out what that meant later, if she ever cared enough to do it.  She had other problems at the moment.

“This had better be important,” Garrison said.  He sounded irked.  “I was on the verge of closing a very important deal.”

Molly swallowed a number of very nasty remarks as she held out her smartphone.  The emergency alert was still on top, blinking constantly.  No doubt the government could update her at any moment, if it wished to do so.  God knew she got enough messages from people she didn't know, trying to sell her shit she didn't want.  Garrison lifted his eyebrows as he read the message, then shrugged.

“We’ll have to stay here,” he said, calmly.  “We’ve been ordered to stay off the roads.”

“I need to get back to the children,” Molly snapped.  She fought down the urge to slap him, hard.  “Take me back.”

“There’ll be a room for you here, if you want it,” Garrison said.  He sounded faintly bored, as if the fate of Molly’s children didn't bother him.  It probably didn’t.  “You can stay until the all-clear is sounded.”

Molly clenched her fists.  “And how long will that be?”

“I have no idea,” Garrison said.  “But if you can’t go on the roads, how do you expect to go home?”

“Give me the keys,” Molly said.  “I’ll drive myself home.”

“You need me,” Garrison said.  “The car won’t accept any other driver.”

“Then take me home,” Molly snapped.  “Now!”

“You are in no position to make demands,” Garrison observed.  He turned, surveying the handful of people who’d remained in the hall.  “I do not ...”

Molly leaned forward and caught his arm.  “You are going to take me home,” she snarled, angrily.  God!  Was this what he was really like?  Or was he panicking on the inside, just like her?  She found it hard to care.  The asshole clearly didn't give a damn about her.  Perhaps he’d just brought her to the party to humiliate her.  He’d certainly indulged his pleasures on the trip to Penzance.  “Now!”

Anger gave her strength.  She dragged him down towards the doors, holding him tightly.  He was probably stronger than her, normally, but she was a mother ... a stab of guilt tore through her heart as she realised just how blatantly she’d abandoned her children.  Gayle would be with them, but Gayle wasn't much older than her charges.  She certainly didn't know how to take care of them for more than a day or two.  Did she even know where the food was hidden, under the stairs?  Molly couldn't remember if Percy knew.

The cold air snapped at her as they walked down to the car park.  She looked up, half-expecting to see a giant invasion fleet high above her, but there was nothing.  The lights she knew to be space habitats and industrial stations were still there, twinkling faintly against the night sky.  Kurt had told her, once, that the stars shone constantly in space, but she hadn't believed him.  Now ... now she didn't know what she believed.

“This is completely ridiculous,” Garrison said.  “Do you know how hard it will be to reach Woking?”

“I don’t care,” Molly snarled.  In the distance, she could hear the sound of helicopters.  She told herself, firmly, that they were human helicopters.  But that proved nothing ... did it?  She couldn’t help remembering a handful of alien invasion movies where the aliens had taken over innocent humans and turned them into living weapons. “We are going to Woking.”

Garrison opened the car door and pressed his hand against the sensor.  It should have turned green as the engine came to life.  Instead, a red alert blinked up on the dashboard.  Molly read it, torn between the urge to start crying and a madcap desire to giggle like a schoolgirl.  GPS OFFLINE, it read.  CAR NAVIGATION SYSTEM DISABLED.

“Start it up,” she snapped.  “Now!”

“I can't,” Garrison said.  She thought she heard a hint of panic in his voice.  “I don't know how!”

Molly stared at him.  “You bought an expensive car you don't know how to drive?”

“The computer does the driving,” Garrison insisted.  “It’s just ... it’s just been disabled!”

“... Fuck,” Molly said.  All of a sudden, she understood precisely why Kurt had refused to buy a self-driving car.  Garrison had spent shitloads of money on a car that could be remotely disabled.  She couldn't keep a giggle from escaping her lips, despite the situation.  Garrison’s car was now nothing more than an oddly-shaped piece of metal.  “You ... you spent all that money on a useless car?”

“It isn't funny,” Garrison snapped.  It didn't sound as though he liked her mockery.  Most men disliked being mocked.  “Think of everyone who was on the road!”

Molly leaned against the car door, staring up into the night sky.  He was right.  If a car could be remotely disabled, everyone unlucky enough to be on the road might have had their trip brought to a sudden end.  She had a vision of countless cars stopped on the motorway, unable to proceed to their destination.  And yet ... surely that would block the roads.  She doubted the government would want to disrupt the motorways that much.

She looked around, desperately.  Most of the cars were gone.  The remaining cars looked far too much like Garrison’s to give her any confidence that their owners could drive them without the computers.  And that meant ... she looked eastwards, cursing under her breath as the problem sank in.  Four hundred kilometres wasn't that long a journey, in a modern car, but it would take her days to cover on foot.  She touched her smartphone, trying to place another call.  Nothing happened.  The network was still down.

There are boats on the water, she thought.  She could see their lights, glimmering in the darkness.  I could take one ...

Cold logic caught up with her.  And go where, dumbass?  Woking’s inland.

Garrison caught her arm.  “Come back to the hall,” he said.  “We’ll see what we can do there.”

Molly gritted her teeth as she pulled her arm free.  The hall was the last place she wanted to go.  But where else could she go?  They were several miles outside Penzance ... she could walk there, she supposed, but what then?  A hotel?  Or a taxi ... she doubted she could find a taxi driver willing to violate the curfew.  Garrison had connections, but a random stranger on the street probably wouldn’t.

“Fine,” she said, softly.  “But we’re not staying.”

Garrison said nothing as they made their way back up the garden path.  The hall looked eerie in the semi-darkness, the lighted gardens she’d admired already cloaked in shadow.  A handful of servants were cleaning up the buffet, while two more were keeping a wary eye on a portable terminal.  A talking head was blathering about nothing while alien warships were closing in on Earth.

“I need to speak to Lady Penelope,” Garrison said, once they were inside.  “Coming?”

Molly shrugged and followed him up the stairs.  The interior of the building felt eerie too, like a movie stage that had suddenly been deserted.  Molly recalled seeing hundreds of servants manning the building, but most of them appeared to have vanished.  She couldn't tell if they’d gone to be with their families or been assigned to other jobs.  The estate was large, larger than she’d realised.  She couldn't imagine being in charge of it herself.

Lady Penelope was sitting in her office, talking on an old-style telephone.  Molly felt a spurt of hope - she could use the telephone - which died as Lady Penelope put down the handset with a curse.  Landlines had gone out of fashion years ago, at least for modern houses and settlements.  Her home didn't even have a landline.  She might be able to use the handset to call someone in Woking, but probably not her family.

“The landline is down,” Lady Penelope said, glaring at the handset.  “I couldn't even call my family.”

“I can't contact mine either,” Molly said.  She held out her handset.  “Do you have a vehicle that can take me home?”

“Not at the moment,” Lady Penelope said.  She jabbed a finger at the display.  A line of prisoners were being marched into a police van.  “Do you want to go into a detention centre?”

Molly stared.  “They can’t do that!”

“The government has invoked the Security and Defence of the Realm Act,” Lady Penelope told her.  She sounded distant, as if her mind was occupied elsewhere.  “You do not want to be caught on the streets, not now.”

“... Shit,” Molly said.  She flushed.  “Begging your pardon, My Lady.”

“I understand the impulse,” Lady Penelope said.  “But you do not want to mess with the police, not now.”

Molly nodded.  It had been years since she’d taken Modern Studies in school - the courses were mandatory - and she’d forgotten much of it, but some things had stayed with her.  The Security and Defence of the Realm Act, passed during Charles Hanover’s second year as Prime Minister after a particularly unpleasant terrorist atrocity, had granted the government incredibly wide powers to fight terrorism and terrorists.  The act had been hugely controversial at the time, even though the population was still reeling after the slaughter of hundreds of children.  On one hand, it had given the police and security forces a free hand to go after terrorists; on the other, it had made a joke of civil liberties and put thousands of innocent people behind the wire.  Even one hundred and fifty years after the Troubles, the act was still controversial ...

And still on the books, she thought, numbly.  I could go straight to jail.

“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed.  “What should I do?”

“Nothing,” Lady Penelope said.  “Stay here.  I’ll have the staff make up a bed for you.”

“Can they get me a sober-up too,” Molly said.  She looked down at her dress.  “And some proper clothes?”

“If they have something in your size,” Lady Penelope said.  “I think ...”

She broke off and nodded to the terminal.  The Prime Minister was giving a speech.  Molly couldn't help thinking he looked tired, even though he was in London.  She had no doubt that his family had already been rushed to safety.  The surge of bitter envy shocked her more than she cared to admit.  She’d always thought of herself as upper middle class.  But now ... now, she was cut off from her children, unable even to call them.  What could she do?

“... Country faces its gravest test since the Battle of Britain,” the Prime Minister said.  He sounded tired too.  “The aliens have entered our solar system and are advancing on our homeworld.  It will not be long before they open fire.”

There was a long chilling pause.  “Years ago, a great politician insisted that Britain would never surrender.  He said that we would fight on the beaches, we would fight on the landing grounds, we would fight in the fields and in the streets, we would fight in the hills; we would never surrender.  I say that to you now - we will fight in space, we will fight on the land ... we will fight until we drive the invader from our system.

“Today, humanity stands as one, united against a common foe.  Be of stout heart.  Humanity will win this war. We will drive the enemy back into deep space, then counterattack until our world - our worlds - are safe once again.”

“Pretty words,” Garrison said.

“And cribbed from Winston Churchill,” Lady Penelope added.

Molly shrugged.  She didn't care about who’d written the original speech, let alone who’d modified it for the Prime Minister.  Perhaps he'd done it himself.  There was a rawness about it she’d never heard from his more polished political speeches.

“Fine,” she said.  “What do we do now?”

“The only thing we can do,” Lady Penelope said.  “We wait.”

Chapter Eight

Carrier 05/RFS Brezhnev, Deep Space

The humans had noticed them.

It was not unexpected, the combat faction noted.  The human star system teemed with activity, with hundreds of starships and spacecraft making their way between worlds or heading directly to the tramlines.  They’d known there was a very good chance of being spotted sooner or later, although they’d hoped to get closer before they were detected.  It was ... awkward.

The discussion raced backwards and forwards as more and more data flooded into the sensor datanet.  The timing was definitely awkward.  A number of human warships were pulling away from their homeworld, either fleeing or aiming to link up with other human units outside sensor range.  The factions paused, momentarily unsure which way to go.  Destroying the human carriers would cripple their ability to take the offensive - although the armoured carrier was nowhere to be seen - but wiping out their industrial base would finish the war, if the humans couldn't muster a counterattack before it was too late.  Isolating and destroying a human sub-unit would be greeted with complete satisfaction, yet if there were other human ships out there ...

The planet remains the priority target, the faction decided.  New orders raced through the datanet, reorganising the flotillas.  Their industrial base must be targeted and destroyed.

The Song grew louder as the fleet dropped its sensor mask.  There was no point in trying to hide any longer.  The humans had already seen them.  Besides, it soaked up energy at a terrifying rate. The fleet adjusted course slightly, preparing to launch starfighters once the first set of targets were isolated.  Humanity’s homeworld would be heavily defended, of course.  The defences would reveal themselves soon enough.  And they would be destroyed before they could tip the balance in humanity’s favour.

One squadron altered course, preparing to intercept and shadow the human ships as they powered away from Earth.  Two more readied themselves to detach from the fleet and engage the human positions on Earth’s satellite.  The moon was unusually large, the Tadpoles noted, although that meant nothing to them.  A star system that had birthed intelligent life was already a rarity.  There were only two such stars within explored space.

Almost as an afterthought, the fleet brought its active sensors online.  There was no point in denying themselves their most powerful systems any longer.  Their positions were already noted and logged.  Besides, their human opponents were still out of range.  Better to learn as much as they could about the defences before they had to fight.  If the humans were trying to lure them into a trap ...

We can evade if necessary, the combat faction stated, silencing the doubters.  And we can outrun them if we are forced to retreat.

***
“Captain,” the sensor officer said.  “They’re bringing their active sensors online.”

“Hold us steady,” Captain Svetlana Zadornov ordered, coolly.  She’d expected it for several minutes.  The Tadpoles had already dropped their sensor mask.  They probably already knew they’d been detected.  If her puny sensors could pick up Earth’s defences hastily preparing for war - and they had - the aliens would have no trouble doing the same.  “Don’t let them get a hint of our presence.”

She braced herself as the aliens swept nearby space for trouble.  They might not have detected Brezhnev - they would have blown her out of space if they had - but that might change the moment they used active sensors.  Brezhnev was far too close to the edge of their formation for comfort, precisely where a covert shadow would want to be.  She’d practiced sneaking up on carriers before - modern starships had a sensor blindspot directly to the rear - but there were just too many ships in the formation to make it easy.  One ship could keep an eye on another’s blindspot.  Assuming, of course, the Tadpoles had blindspots.  The reports from previous engagements had been inconclusive.

We’re about to find out, she thought, grimly.  She had no doubt of their fate if the Tadpoles spotted them.  Brezhnev was faster than their carriers, but she wouldn't have a hope of outrunning either missiles or starfighters.  If they see us, we’re dead.

“Updating fleet tallies now,” the sensor officer said.  “I have a complete list ...”

“Forward it to Pournelle Base,” Svetlana ordered.  Earth could see the incoming fleet for itself now, but there was no point in taking chances.  The Tadpoles were flying in tight formation, clearly trying to confuse the defenders.  That, if nothing else, suggested they didn't know about her ship.  “Helm, reduce speed a little.  Let them get ahead of us.”

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said.

“We should prepare to take evasive action,” Ignatyev muttered.  “Captain, if they see us ...”

“We’re dead,” Svetlana confirmed.  She shrugged.  There was no point in making preparations.  Brezhnev could not hope to evade whatever the enemy threw at her, once they realised she was there.  “It doesn't matter.”

“Captain,” the sensor officer said.  “They’re detaching a fleet group - seven starships, all destroyers!”

Svetlana narrowed her eyes.  “Destination?”

“Unsure as yet, Captain,” the sensor officer said.  “But they’re definitely pulling away from the main body.”

“I see,” Svetlana said.  

She ran through the potential vectors in her head.  The alien ships probably weren't coming after her.  They didn’t need to play games if they wanted to smash Brezhnev out of existence.  But where were they going?  Concentration of force was the first lesson in the tactical handbooks she’d read during basic training.  Mother Russia’s tacticians had learnt, the hard way, that dispersing their force across the battlefield led to defeat.  And yet, seven destroyers weren't going to make a significant difference.  Unless, of course, the aliens had come up with something new.

“Alert Pournelle Base,” she ordered.  The alien vectors were sharpening now, heading directly towards the human ships.  A picket force, then.  Their sensors must be better than hers, she decided.  They clearly didn't feel they’d lose track of their targets.  “Inform them that the aliens are watching them.”

“Aye, Captain,” the communications officer said.

Svetlana leaned back in her command chair, careful to project an aura of calm confidence as she contemplated her options.  Brezhnev had received no further orders since detecting the alien fleet, although that wasn't surprising.  The Americans were notoriously careless about communications security, but even they understood the dangers of sending messages to a starship so close to the enemy.  It was unlikely that the Tadpoles could decrypt humanity’s encryption codes, at least quickly enough to matter, yet even they would wonder who was supposed to receive a message they intercepted.  And that meant she had freedom to act as she saw fit.

As long as I do my duty, she thought, wryly.  And that means staying close to the aliens.

She looked at her XO.  “Keep the alpha crew on duty, but send the beta and gamma crews back to bed,” she ordered.  The engagement would probably be a long one, unless it turned out to be as one-sided as New Russia.  “I want them refreshed for when the shit hits the fan.”

Ignatyev nodded, curtly.  “Aye, Captain.”

Svetlana returned her attention to the display.  The main body of the alien fleet was slowing, unsurprisingly.  Launching starfighters at a respectable percentage of the speed of light would be a major headache, although human carriers had done it in extremis.  It was good to know that the aliens had some limitations too.  The detached squadron, on the other hand, was picking up speed as it hurried away from the main body.  She couldn't help wondering if whoever was in command of the detached ships wanted as much independence as possible.  It was certainly something she’d want, if she were in command.

They’re aliens, she reminded herself.  They won’t think like us.

“We could alter course to track the detached units, Captain,” Ignatyev suggested.  “The main body is not trying to hide.”

Svetlana fought down a flicker of annoyance.  The detached units might pose a problem, but they lacked the firepower to be a real threat.  It was the main body of the alien fleet that needed to be tracked, even though it was definitely not trying to hide.  Sensor nodes right across the system were already tracking the aliens as they approached Earth.  It was possible that the main body of the fleet was a diversion - she had to admit it was possible - but she doubted it.  Ignatyev was trying to get her in trouble.  It wouldn't take much to convince her superiors that a woman had no place on the command deck.

She gritted her teeth.  The hell of it was that she would never know if he was trying to trick her ... or if he was trying to offer sound advice.  She didn't dare trust him, she didn't dare trust anyone.  Her uncle’s political enemies would want to take her command just to spite him, while the sycophancy of his allies was almost worse.  But then, she couldn't help wondering if a sycophant might actually be useful.  She wouldn't need to keep guarding her back against the knife.

“We need to keep our eyes on the bigger formation,” she said, firmly.  “We’ll hold our current course.”

Ignatyev didn't look pleased, but he said nothing else.  Svetlana watched him as he turned away, wondering if he would try to cross the line from offering alternatives to insubordination and outright mutiny.  She had legal authority to execute her crewmen if they turned against her - or for anything she considered reasonable grounds for a hasty court-martial and execution,  but she knew it would be dangerous.  Ignatyev didn't have the sort of connections that would save his ass - or fry hers, if she killed him anyway - yet it would send a bad message to the crew.  No one had ever proved that a couple of captains had been murdered by their crew - the official reports stated that both cases were accidents - but she’d heard the rumours.  Crewmen who thought they could be killed on a whim were likely to try to find a way to strike first.

And you wanted to be on the command deck, she reminded herself, dryly.  Stop whining and get on with it.

Svetlana tapped her console, bringing up the sensor reports.  The alien fleet looked twice as ominous, now it was revealed in all its malevolent glory.  So far, it hadn't launched starfighters, but it didn't need them.  There was nearly an hour to go until it was ready to engage Earth's defences, unless Home Fleet mounted a counterattack ahead of time.  She hadn't seen the plans, but she doubted it.  Home Fleet needed to concentrate its forces before moving out to engage the enemy.

Bastards got lucky with the timing, she thought, sourly.  Or was it really a coincidence?

Her face darkened as she remembered her last lunch with her uncle, shortly before returning to her command.  A number of ships had gone missing in the months before the Battle of Vera Cruz, ships that could easily have been captured or destroyed by the Tadpoles.  And it was clear the Tadpoles could speak to humans, even though they rarely bothered.  Could they have made contact with dissident human factions?  Could they have placed spies within the Kremlin?  It didn’t seem likely, but that hadn't stopped the KGB from cracking down on dissidents all over the Russian Federation.  Mother Russia had thousands of enemies.  Some of them were even inside the walls.

And it made a nice little excuse for a crackdown, she thought.  And round up quite a few people who thought themselves untouchable.

It was a sobering thought.  She had few illusions about her government, even though she loved her country.  Russia had always been ruled by the knout, even if the justifications changed over the years.  Dissidents could not be tolerated, not within the walls.  Their selfishness would bring the country to its knees, if given the chance.  Better to crack down on them before it was too late.  

She allowed herself a cold smile.  She'd seen the list of purged men and women - most of whom had been sent to Siberia rather than simply executed - and several had been quite familiar.  One of them, a professor who’d expected her to service him in exchange for a good grade, deserved far worse than spending the rest of his life counting trees.  Svetlana wouldn't waste her time feeling sorry for him.  He’d probably spend far too much time on his knees once he reached the gulag.  The nasty part of her mind wondered how he’d enjoy playing the girl.

It’s all about power, her uncle had said, months ago.  And about never letting a crisis go to waste.

“The enemy ships are repeating their sensor scans,” the sensor officer reported.  “So far, they haven’t seen us.”

“Keep us steady,” Svetlana ordered.  Brezhnev was within the turbulence zone.  There was a good chance that anyone who caught a sniff of her presence would put it down to the turbulence instead of a prowling human starship.  But she knew better than to take that for granted.  The aliens knew they’d been detected, after all.  “Keep forwarding our sensor readings to Pournelle Base.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Svetlana nodded curtly as the seconds ticked away.  Earth wasn't that far away now ... she wondered, grimly, just what was happening on the streets of Moscow.  Schoolchildren were taught what to do, if the alarms sounded, but she had no faith in the system.  The shelters had been designed for terrorist bombings, not for alien invasion.  All the official dogma about how Mother Russia’s vast size worked in her favour didn't apply to an enemy who controlled the high orbitals, ready and willing to drop KEWs on anything that moved.  She knew just how effective orbital firepower had been against insurgents, during the later stages of the Age of Unrest.  The barbarians simply hadn't realised just how advanced technology had become, nor how effective it could be when its users were no longer concerned about collateral damage.  Every young man in Russia was expected to join the militia - if they weren’t conscripted into the military - but she had no idea how they’d stack up against the aliens.  There just wasn't enough data from New Russia on how the Tadpoles intended to treat humanity’s homeworld.

“Captain, we have received a message directly from Pournelle Base,” the communications officer said.  “They’re ordering us to remain where we are and prepare for fire-control duties, if necessary.”

Svetlana tensed.  “Was that message relayed through the drone?”

“Yes, Captain,” the communications officer said.  “But the aliens might have gotten a sniff of the original message.”

“Understood,” Svetlana said.  “Send back an acknowledgement, then wait.”

She kept her face impassive, even though it was bad news.  If the aliens had picked up the original message, they might wonder who had actually been intended to receive it.  Perhaps they’d dismiss it - humanity’s homeworld practically radiated with radio signals heading in all directions, most of which would be utterly incomprehensible to alien minds - but she didn't dare take it for granted.  The aliens knew they’d been detected.  It wasn't that much of a jump to think they might have accidentally crossed paths with a stealthed picket ship.

“Fucking Americans,” Ignatyev growled.  “They could have killed us!”

“Perhaps,” Svetlana said.  She watched the alien ships for a long moment.  It didn't look as though they were preparing to blow Brezhnev into space dust, but that meant nothing.  Her ship was far too close to them for her peace of mind.  “But the aliens don’t seem to have noticed.”

She silently promised herself she’d file a complaint later, if there was a later.  It would probably come to nothing, but it might give Uncle Sasha leverage in the ongoing Great Power negotiations.  She had no doubt that her family would praise her achievement to the skies, particularly if she lost her life during the battle.  They’d always found her more of an embarrassment than she knew they cared to admit.  She couldn't help wondering if one of the reasons she’d been assigned to Brezhnev was her family hoping it would keep her out of sight and out of mind.

“The alien fleet is reducing speed again,” the sensor officer reported.  “They’re launching sensor probes towards Earth.”

“Watch for them sending anything to the rear,” Svetlana ordered, curtly.  “Helm, reduce speed to match.”

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said.

Svetlana nodded, then turned her attention to the in-system display.  The system was going dark, hundreds of radio sources snapping out of existence as the alert raced across the solar system.  Asteroid miners, freighters ... they were trying to hide in the vastness of space, trusting that the aliens wouldn't be able to find them easily.  Svetlana hoped they were right, although she feared the worst.  The aliens had had plenty of time to note the locations of each and every radio source before they’d been detected.

And the planetary colonies couldn't hope to hide, she thought, grimly.  If the Tadpoles won the coming battle, they’d be able to destroy the colonies, asteroid habitats and industrial nodes at leisure.  They’ll be easy to find, once the aliens start looking.

“They’ll see us, sooner or later,” Ignatyev warned.  His face was very grim.  He looked like a man in desperate need of a drink.  “And then we’re dead.”

“I know,” Svetlana said.  The closer they got to Earth, the harder it was to justify sticking so close to the aliens.  They were far too close for comfort.  “But we have to keep an eye on them.”

Her lips quirked into a cold smile.  Ignatyev might be right.  But if he was right, he’d be too dead to say he’d told her so.  They’d all be dead.

And as long as we die bravely, she thought, we might as well die for something.

Chapter Nine

Pournelle Base (USA), Earth Orbit

“We’re picking up messages from across the system, sir,” Captain Mike Hanson said.  “The entire system is going dark.”

“Very good,” Admiral Jonathan Winters said, coolly.  “Are the emergency procedures in place?”

“Yes, sir,” Hanson said.  He paused.  “I don’t know how effective they will be.”

“Of course not,” Jon said.  “We never actually tested them, did we?”

He pushed his annoyance aside with an effort.  The alien fleet had reduced speed twice, either preparing to launch starfighters or deliberately trying to lure him into sending Home Fleet to engage the enemy in interplanetary space.  That would be a mistake.  Home Fleet was stronger, numerically, but the alien technology gave them the edge.  There was no way he could risk committing Home Fleet to battle until it was concentrated and, ideally, the alien forces had been worn down a little.

“Mars, Venus and the smaller colonies are activating their emergency procedures now, sir,” Hanson said.  “The asteroid miners should be able to avoid detection indefinitely.”

Jon shrugged.  He wasn't that concerned about the asteroid miners.  The technology used to mine the asteroids, from tiny one-man ships to giant mobile refiners, was hardly difficult to replace.  He was a great deal more concerned about the industrial nodes and the cloudscoops orbiting the gas giants.  Losing the cloudscoops alone would do immense damage to the planetary economy.  There were stockpiles of HE3 across the system, but he doubted they could meet demand until the cloudscoops were replaced.  If Earth ran out of fuel ...

“We’ll worry about it later,” he said.  “Time to engagement?”

“Thirty minutes, unless they reduce speed again,” Hanson said.  He nodded to the display.  “They’re trying to keep us guessing.”

“Or force us to put wear and tear on our equipment and personnel,” Jon said.  “Clever of them.”

He rubbed his forehead as he contemplated the problem.  Naval doctrine called for launching starfighters and bombers as quickly as possible, but that would tire his pilots before the battle even began.  And yet, not getting them out into space risked losing them if the aliens took out their bases.  The Tadpoles knew to go for the carriers.  They could probably also guess which orbital installations carried starfighters of their own.  They’d certainly seen orbital defence installations at New Russia.

“Order the CSP to remain on alert, but hold back the remaining starfighters,” he ordered, grimly.  “Have we primed the remainder of the defences?”

“Yes, sir,” Hanson said.  “All orbital installations have been alerted.  Automated systems are coming online now, while missile pods are being deployed and linked into the planetary defence datanet.  We’ll be at peak readiness within twenty minutes.”

“Let us hope so,” Jon said.  He frowned as another report came in from the long-range sensors.  The detached alien squadron was heading straight for Home Fleet.  “And the fleet?”

“Readying itself, sir,” Hanson said.  “The main body of the fleet will be concentrated in forty minutes, save for the Mars and Io detachments.  They were caught out of position and will require more time to join the fleet.”

Jon nodded, tersely.  It was unfortunate, but it couldn't be helped.  A civilian would probably have asked why the remaining detachments couldn't hit the enemy ships from the rear, yet anyone with any grounding in space combat would know the answer at once.  Coordinating a battle on an interplanetary scale would be an absolute nightmare, even if spreading out his forces in the face of the enemy hadn't been a spectacularly bad idea.  He’d seen a handful of fleet exercises where the planners had tried to be clever, but almost all of them had ended badly.  A handful of the groundpounders had even had the nerve to accuse the umpires of rigging the game against them.

Their grand plans won’t be workable until we find a way to send messages at FTL speeds, he thought.  It wasn't something he’d wanted, when he’d stood on a command deck, but he saw the value of it now.  Real-time updates from his detachments would be very useful, even if it would allow him to nag his subordinates.  And then the politicos will use it to micromanage.

“Inform me when they finally link up with Home Fleet,” he ordered.  “And then start launching long-range probes towards the alien fleet.”

“Aye, sir,” Hanson said.

Jon studied the display, thinking hard.  On one hand, the aliens had dropped the sensor mask, revealing their presence to anyone who cared to look.  Cold logic told him that they’d seen his ships departing orbit and drawn the right conclusion.  On the other hand, the aliens were flying in such close formation that they had to assume he couldn't pick one ship out from the others.  If he hadn't had Brezhnev in position, they would have been right.  

They don't think like us, he reminded himself, sternly.  They might not have any problem revealing themselves at this stage.

Hanson coughed.  “A shame we sent Ark Royal away, sir.”

Jon shrugged.  They’d made the best call they could with the information they’d had at the time, although he didn't expect the politicians to understand that.  There would be recriminations aplenty after the battle, if there was anyone left to recriminate.  Taking the offensive - hopefully knocking the aliens back long enough for humanity’s space navies to adapt to the new reality - had seemed a good idea at the time.  And pinning humanity’s one major combatant that had a hope in hell of hurting the bastards, to a single planet, would have cost them the war.  He had no doubt that the Tadpoles were adapting their tactics too.

“We’ll have to cope without her,” he said, dryly.  “And I’m sure we will.”

He leaned back in his command chair and took a sip of his coffee, trying to appear calm and composed even though his heart was beating like a drum.  The defence of the solar system rested in his hands.  Earth rested in his hands.  If he failed, billions of humans would either be enslaved or killed.  The Tadpoles would devastate the orbital industrial nodes, if nothing else.  They weren't that alien.  They’d know that destroying humanity’s industrial base would be enough to win the war.

Hanson cleared his throat.  “The Japanese and Chinese squadrons are finally ready to launch, sir,” he said.  “Two officers have apparently been removed by their direct superiors.”

“Understood,” Jon said.  

He sighed, inwardly.  There was a war on ... and the various Great Powers were still playing games.  But then, if a Chinese or Russian officer had been in charge of the planetary defences, he rather suspected that America would have qualms too.  Hell, even getting an American to take command had been a political nightmare.  The only officer who enjoyed universal support was Theodore Smith and his record was decidedly mixed.

But he did give us our first victories, Jon thought.  And that definitely counts for something.

“Keep me informed,” he said, putting the thought aside.  “We have to be ready when the hammer comes down.”

***
“They want us to stay here?  Are they mad?”

Captain Ginny Saito kept her expression under tight control, even though she privately agreed with Lieutenant Bush Williams.  The starfighters were lethal in space - all the more so now the squadron had been refitted with plasma guns - but they were utterly vulnerable as long as they remained in the station’s launch bays.  Hell, the fighter pilots themselves were sitting in the ready room, rather than manning their craft.  She understood the logic - starfighters simply didn't have very long endurance - but she also understood the frustration.  Her pilots wanted to get out there and start tearing into the enemy.

“The CO has issued his orders,” she said, sharply.  “And we will obey them.”

She sat back in her chair, keeping her private frustration off her face.  She’d been in the military long enough to know that you never bad-mouthed your seniors to your juniors, even if you thought it was just a harmless griping session.  It was bad for discipline, if nothing else.  And she did understand the orders they’d been given.  Better to take the squadron directly into battle rather than risk running out of life support midway through the engagement.

“I’m just saying we’re sitting ducks,” Williams insisted.  “What happens if they start throwing rocks at us?”

Ginny shrugged.  “Sit down and shut up,” she said, firmly.  “We’ll launch when we are told to launch.”

She looked from face to face, silently gauging their feelings.  The squadron had been on active duty before the war, but an assignment to home defence meant that they wouldn't have a chance to actually engage the enemy.  Or so they’d thought.  The big display was showing a host of red icons descending on Earth with murderous intent.  God alone knew what the aliens would do, when they entered orbit, but she doubted it would be pleasant.  She’d seen speculations of everything from a negotiated surrender to the complete destruction of humanity’s homeworld.

And we lost friends at New Russia, she thought.  She’d known a number of pilots who’d died in the brief, one-sided engagement.  We all want a little revenge.

She forced herself to sit still, despite an overwhelming urge to get up and pace.  That would have upset her squadron ... she wondered, suddenly, if she had any paperwork she needed to do in a hurry.  But that probably didn't matter.  She’d seen too many of the reports from New Russia - and Ark Royal’s engagements - to have any doubt about just how powerful the aliens actually were.  The odds were stacked against any of her squadron surviving to see the end of the war.  

“I knew I should have rewritten my will,” Lieutenant George Faulkner said, suddenly.  “That bitch in Los Angeles is going to get my pension, I know it!”

“Then try not to die,” Williams advised.  “You don’t have time to write your will now.”

Ginny rolled her eyes.  Faulkner had been married twice and both relationships had been disastrous.  Honestly!  She didn't understand why he hadn't gone to Sin City on his last leave and spent some time in the brothels there.  Or simply picked up a girl or boy in one of the bars that sprang up like weeds around military bases.  It wasn't as if starfighter pilots, male or female, had any trouble finding company for the night.  A flightsuit was just as good as a pheromone-tinged perfume for attracting the opposite sex and it had the advantage of being legal.  But she supposed some people were eternal optimists.  She wouldn't consider marriage herself until she left the service or took a desk job.

When hell freezes over, she thought, darkly.  If I survive long enough to say no when they offer it to me.

She winced, inwardly, as she remembered her last ... chat ... with her parents.  She’d come from a military family, but her father and grandfather had never quite reconciled to Ginny joining the military.  She knew they meant well - she knew they didn't want to lose her - yet she still found it annoying.  She’d joined the USN and worked her way through the hellishly tough starfighter training course.  She’d earned her wings.

Although I also earned the chance to get my ass shot off, she reminded herself, wryly.  And that might have been a mistake.

She didn't regret anything, really.  And it wasn't as if she intended to remain single for the rest of her life.  She’d have access to rejuvenation treatments when she retired, assuming she survived long enough to retire.  There would be a husband, children ... her father would have grandchildren, eventually.  He’d just have to be patient.

I just wish I could message him one more time, she thought.  Just to say goodbye, just in case.

She shook her head.  She’d fallen out of the habit when she’d enlisted, knowing her father would do his level best to convince her to leave the training program.  Anyone else who left, she was sure, would be called a quitter ... at least by her father.  Did he want his daughter to be a quitter?  She smiled at the thought, although she knew it wasn't really funny.  He’d find a way to rationalise it somehow, she was sure.  Now ... she wasn't sure if he'd be proud of her or if he’d be terrified.  Perhaps it would be better to call him after the battle.

And besides, I might not be able to get a message out, she thought grimly.  The main communications network is down.

A low hooting echoed through the ready room.  The pilots looked up, then grabbed and donned their helmets as they prepared themselves for action.  Ginny put her maudlin thoughts aside and checked her own helmet, bracing herself.  They’d be launching in ten minutes, perhaps less.  And then ...

Williams cleared his throat.  “Let all who go to don armour tomorrow,” he announced dramatically, “remember to go before they don armour tomorrow.”

Ginny face-palmed as the rest of the pilots snickered.  “It was a mistake to let you watch that show, wasn't it?”

“I’m afraid there’s going to be a certain amount of ... violence,” Williams agreed.  He put on a smarmy look that made Ginny want to hit him.  “But at least we know it’s all in a good cause, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Ginny said.  She made a mental note to find whoever had introduced William to The Black Adder and do something thoroughly horrible to him.  Something lingering in boiling oil, perhaps.  “We do.”

***
Admiral Thaddeus Robertson had the uneasy sense that he was sitting on top of an unexploded bomb.  It wasn't a sensation he liked - and he kept telling himself that he was being silly - but it refused to fade.  USS Enterprise was the largest and most powerful carrier in human space ... or she had been, two years ago.  Now, she might as well have been made of paper for all the protection she’d give her crew if the aliens caught them.  The engineers had bolted on great slabs of armour when the USN had realised just how vulnerable the carrier was - slowing her effective speed more than he cared to think about - but he had no illusions.  A concentrated attack would be lethal.

He sat in the CIC, watching as Home Fleet gathered around the flagship.  It was the largest fleet humanity had ever assembled, consisting of every warship in the system, yet he knew - all too well - that it had its flaws.  The starships hadn’t been designed to stand up to plasma fire, half his starfighters didn't have plasma cannons of their own and the crews just weren’t used to working together.  Everyone spoke English - it was the standard language outside the upper atmosphere - but they simply didn't have much else in common.  And the international rivalries ...

“The enemy squadron is approaching us,” Commodore Jack Warner reported.  “They’ll be within engagement range in twenty minutes.”

Thaddeus shrugged.  He would have been astonished if the enemy squadron actually attacked, although he knew from bitter experience that the damned aliens had quite a few surprises up their sleeves.  If the politics had worked out, he would have been in command at New Russia ... and he knew, even if he didn't want to admit it, that it wouldn't have made a difference.  The squadron approaching his ships might not be able to punch through his defences and inflict real harm before they were stopped, but it didn't matter.  What did matter was that their presence would make it impossible to hide his movements.

“Order the fleet to engage stealth protocols,” he said.  It probably wouldn't fool the aliens for long, if at all, but it might keep them guessing.  He’d take anything he could get.  “Time to full concentration?”

“Thirty minutes,” Warner said, slowly.  He looked down at his datapad, then back at his commander.  “Unless we wait for the Io detachment.  That would add an extra twenty minutes to the wait.”

Thaddeus considered it, briefly.  Humanity knew some of the alien tricks - now - but he didn't dare assume that they knew all of them.  Concentrating his entire fleet was obviously a good idea, yet ... how long would it take?  And how much damage would the aliens do to Earth in the meantime?  There was enough firepower bearing down on the planet to give the combined fleet a very hard time.  God alone knew just how many carriers and starfighters the aliens had.  There was no way to tell just how badly they’d been hurt after each engagement.

“We’ll move without them,” he ordered, finally.  It was a gamble, but the Io detachment wouldn't add that much to his firepower.  “We cannot let them punch through to the high orbitals.”

“Yes, sir,” Warner said.

Thaddeus nodded, curtly.  What would the aliens do?  What were they planning?  A smash and run raid, or an actual occupation?  Did they even know themselves?  A smart planner would have contingency plans for both, depending on how the battle went.  For all he knew, they were planning to smash Earth to rubble and then spend the next few weeks hunting down every last settlement in the solar system.  If that happened ...

We’ll just have to make sure it doesn't, he told himself, firmly.  And get to Earth as quickly as possible.

He winced.  His crews - all of his crews - would do everything in their power to get Home Fleet moving as quickly as possible.  They were already cutting corners he knew they’d pay for, sooner or later.  And yet, it would still take time to get the fleet on its way ... time Earth didn’t have.  The aliens were already beginning their final approach.

And, until his fleet arrived, Earth would have to stand alone.

Chapter Ten

London, United Kingdom

“They’ll be within engagement range soon,” the First Space Lord said, quietly.  “It’s out of our hands now.”

Prime Minister Andrew Davidson shot him a sharp look.  “You can’t take command?”

“Admiral Winters is in command,” the First Space Lord said.  He sat facing Andrew, his face calm and composed.  “And I’m on the ground.  Admiral Cathy Mountbatten has already moved to Nelson Base.  She’ll take command if anything happens to Pournelle Base.”

Andrew looked down at his hands, feeling helpless.  He’d never really understood just how Churchill, Thatcher and Hanover must have felt, not until now.  Countless British spacers were going into battle and he could do nothing, but wait for the results.  He could issue orders, if he wished, yet it would be pointless.  The fate of Earth was about to be decided and he could do nothing.  

“Understood,” he said, grimly.  He looked at General Peter Templeton.  “Are we ready for this?”

Templeton cleared his throat.  “Almost certainly not, Prime Minister,” he said.  He spoke - again - from memory.  “Military bases are on alert - mobile infantry units have been dispersed, in case the enemy takes control of the high orbitals.  Political figures are currently being scattered around the countryside, where they should be relatively safe unless the aliens intend to scorch the entire planet.  The command and control network is up and running, allowing us to keep in touch with our national units.  If worse comes to worst, Prime Minister, our bases have orders to act on their own if they lose contact with London or Britain One.”

Andrew met his eyes.  “And what will they do?”

“What they see fit,” Templeton said.  “It’s never been tested in real life.”

“I know,” Andrew said.

He’d taken a moment to review some of the contingency plans, but none of them had been designed for alien invasion.  An all-out Great Power war had seemed far more likely.  None of those plans had made reassuring reading, either.  The planners had warned that orbital and nuclear strikes would probably be directed against Britain, both to wear down the ground-based defences and cripple the government and military infrastructure.  Their worst-case scenarios had been the stuff of nightmares.

He forced himself to think about something else.  “And the general public?”

“There have been ... incidents,” Templeton said.  He looked down at the table.  “Panic-buying, a handful of riots ... we’ve deployed riot control units to deal with them, under the Security and Defence of the Realm Act.  Several thousand rioters are now in a number of makeshift detention camps, awaiting processing.  It’s sheer bloody good luck that this happened so late at night.”

Andrew nodded.  The thought of hundreds of thousands of people trying to get home, blocking the roads and arguing with police officers, was chilling.  It would have been an absolute nightmare.  Hell, it was still going to be a nightmare.  Far too many people probably had been caught away from home.  Sorting out the mess would take weeks.  

“Remind the policemen to be as gentle as possible,” he said, softly.  “We’re not talking about insurgents or traitors here.”

Templeton frowned.  “With all due respect, Prime Minister, keeping the motorways clear is an absolute priority.  We have to be able to move men and equipment around the country as quickly as possible.  And frankly, we don’t want looters on the streets.  We’ll need to make sure that food is distributed as fairly as possible.”

Andrew scowled.  “You mean, useful people get fed first.”

“Yes,” Templeton said.  He didn't bother to try to deny it.  “We will have to make hard decisions in the future.”

“I saw those plans too,” Andrew said, sharply.  He wondered, briefly, if he counted as a useful person.  Right now, his position seemed meaningless.  “It won’t be easy, will it?”

“No, Prime Minister,” Templeton said.  “But we do have matters under control, for the moment.”

“That won’t last,” the First Space Lord warned.  “The aliens will engage Earth’s defences in the next ten minutes.”

Andrew looked at him.  He knew he was clutching at straws, but he had to try.  “Did you not attempt to communicate?”

“We tried,” the First Space Lord said.  For a moment, he looked older - far older.  “We planned for this, Prime Minister.  We sent messages in everything from plain English to mathematical concepts.  We know these bastards understand us; they’re just not interested in talking to us.”

“Some people need to be smacked around a bit before they pay attention,” Templeton said.

Andrew frowned.  “Is that what they taught you at Catterick?”

“At Kendrick Borstal,” Templeton said.  “I’d already mastered the art of listening when I went to Catterick.”

“Oh,” Andrew said.

He looked up at the display.  Hundreds of starfighters were already visible, settling into formation as the alien starships made their final approach.  Behind them, the planetary defences were preparing to fire.  A handful of smaller displays simulated the battle, showing everything from a costly victory to a total defeat.  Andrew knew better than to believe the simulations - long experience had told him that they couldn't be trusted - but one thing was clear.  It was going to be a long and bloody engagement.  

And there was nothing he could do.

He could go to bed, he knew.  The Prime Minister did have a suite of rooms in the underground bunker.  Indeed, it might be the best thing he could do.  He’d be needed after the battle, although he had no idea - yet - if he’d have to offer surrender or start reconstruction.  But he couldn't just go to bed, even though he was tired.  He eyed the empty coffee mug balefully, wondering if he was on the verge of caffeine poisoning.  Whoever had stocked the bunker had gone for potency over taste.

“Tell me something,” he said, quietly.  He wasn't sure which one he was addressing.  “How did you cope?  When you sent young men out to die?”

“It never gets any easier,” the First Space Lord said, equally quietly.  “You just learn to compartmentalise your feelings until afterwards.  And then you deal with them in private.”

Stiff upper lip and all that, Andrew thought.  His tutors had believed, firmly, that all the troubles Britain had faced over the last two hundred years had come from a lack of stiff upper lip.  They might have been right, he conceded privately, although he hadn't forgiven some of them for how they’d treated the students in their care.  Better a boy dies like a hero instead of living like a coward.

He pushed the thought aside.  “Do whatever you need to do,” he said, quietly.  “I’ll be here.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” the First Space Lord said.

Andrew watched them go, then keyed his terminal.  The BBC was broadcasting a series of updates, all carefully bland and stripped of any useful data.  But then, there were censors in the broadcasting offices now, making sure that nothing leaked out that might cause panic on the streets.  Andrew had his doubts - the public was unlikely to believe bland reports once they saw lights in the sky - but there was no choice.  A real panic would be utterly disastrous.

He looked around the conference room, feeling ... old.  The bunker was safe, unless the enemy knew where to find it and were prepared to drop heavy weapons on London.  He was safe, while his people were suffering.  Or would be suffering, once the aliens started dropping bombs on the planet.  He’d pay a price for that, during the next election.  If, of course, there was a next election.  He doubted the Tadpoles cared one whit for democracy.

They can't be attacking us for nothing, he thought, desperately.  What do they want?

He shook his head.  There was no answer.  And there was no choice, but to fight.

***
“RETURN TO YOUR HOMES!  I SAY AGAIN, RETURN TO YOUR HOMES!”

Police Constable Robin Mathews braced himself as the police line formed at the end of the road.  Hundreds of men and women were gathered outside the shops, forcing open the doors and windows as they tried - desperately - to stock up on food.  None of them seemed to be paying any attention to the policemen, even though more and more police vehicles were arriving at any moment.  They were too concerned about grabbing enough food to stay alive.

Stupid idiots should have stocked up while they could, he thought, darkly.  The police line grew stronger by the minute, but he wasn't looking forward to wading into the crowd.  They really should have bought the damn food when they were told to buy it.

He shook his head inside his helmet.  He’d stocked up on food - his partners and he had shared the cost - but not everyone could afford it.  And far too many people didn't really believe in the aliens.  Who would have believed in them?  The war had been hundreds of light years away.  They didn't really want to believe it could come to Earth.

His earpiece buzzed.  “We’re going to have to clear them,” the captain said.  “Get your shockrods ready.”

Robin muttered a curse under his breath as he drew his shockrod from his belt and activated it.  The device glowed blue, something he’d been told was intended to intimidate anyone who wanted to pick a fight with the police.  He had to admit it worked, but ... he wasn't too keen on it.  The police might have been armed for the last two hundred years, yet it wasn't something they liked.  He’d always felt that there were times when it was better to keep the weapons out of sight.  

And not to attack people who are scared, he told himself, curtly.  All hell is about to break loose.

“THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING,” the captain said, over the megaphone.  “DISPERSE NOW AND RETURN TO YOUR HOMES.  THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER WARNING.”

Robin braced himself.  Mobs were always dangerous.  People were smart, but a mob was a dangerous beast.  His eyes moved from person to person, silently noting the ones who were trying to slip away and contrasting them to the idiots who were urging the others on.  Once the mob reached a certain level, it wouldn't need any encouragement any longer.  Everyone would be swept up in the violence until they were shocked out of it.

“Shit,” someone muttered, as the first beer bottle flew through the air and smashed on a riot shield.  “Someone’s been drinking.”

“Here they come,” someone else said.

The mob lunged at the police line, shouting and screaming.  Robin held up his shockrod as the mass approached, then started striking people when they got too close to him.  But the mob was too strong.  The police line wavered as the rioters slammed into their shields, forcing some of the policemen backwards.  Robin felt sweat trickling down his back as the shouting grew louder.  He’d shocked a dozen rioters, perhaps more, but the rest of them just kept coming, shoving their stunned comrades up against the shields.  Some of them were going to be seriously injured or worse.  He’d seen rioters trample their former comrades during rugby matches.

“Brace yourself,” the captain snapped.  He sounded grim.  “Screamers incoming!”

Robin resisted an insane urge to drop his shockrod and cover his fragile ears as the screamers flew overhead.  Strobe lights flared, his visor darkening automatically to block out the worst of it.  The sound was terrible, even through his earpiece.  He had to fight to keep from turning and fleeing like the rioters.  There was something about the screamers that unmanned everyone unlucky enough to be caught without protection.  Using them on a riot ... the captain had to be desperate.  There would be hell to pay, afterwards.  Questions would be asked in Parliament.

Darkness fell like a hammer.  Robin blinked hard as his visor cleared, swallowing hard as he saw the remains of the riot.  Some of the rioters had managed to escape, but the remainder were lying on the ground, covering their ears or rubbing their eyes.  Most of them looked to have been sick, or lost control of their bowels.  Guilt stabbed at him, even though he knew the rioters had been on the verge of smashing the police line.  He hadn't become a copper for this!

“Anyone who wants to run, let them,” the captain said, over the intercom.  “The remainder ... cuff them and get them in the vans.”

It was hardly proper procedure, Robin knew, but no one seemed inclined to care.  The majority of the rioters would run back home, where - hopefully - they’d stay until the crisis was over.  If it was ever over.  Robin was only a lowly constable, but he’d overheard a couple of senior officers discussing the possibilities in low voices.  The entire planet was under attack and London, one of the most important cities in the world, might be among the first targets.

I should have taken the post in Cardiff, he thought, as he removed a collection of zip-cuffs from his belt and walked forward.  But I just had to go to London, didn't I?

He reached the first rioter, a man who would have been intimidating if it wasn't clear he was wearing a pair of soiled pants.  He’d probably been far too close to one of the screamers when it lit up.  Robin checked his condition, just to be sure, then snapped on the cuffs.  The man was burly, but offered no resistance.  Robin wasn't too surprised.  There was definitely something about the screamers that made it impossible to continue the fight.  A handful of others moaned at him, but didn't resist.  He allowed himself a sigh of relief as back-up finally arrived, carrying or dragging cuffed rioters to the vans.

“This one is dead, sir,” Lieutenant Ryman reported.  “Poor bitch had her head stamped on.”

Robin looked, then swallowed hard to keep from throwing up.  The girl’s head had been smashed like an eggshell.  Someone - probably several someone’s - had crushed her during the riot.  Her body was so heavily mutilated that he wouldn't have been sure she was female, if he hadn't been able to see breasts.  She’d been young, he thought, probably in her early twenties.  And now she was dead.  He couldn’t help wondering what she was doing on the streets.  Was she desperate for food or had she scented excitement and rushed to the scene?  

He pushed the thought out of his mind.  There was nothing that could be done for her, even with modern medicine.  She was just the first - one of the first - to die.  If the aliens started raining rocks on Britain, she’d be the first of many.  He muttered a brief update into his mouthpiece, then continued cuffing rioters too slow or too stunned to escape.  Slowly, but surely, order was restored to the streets.  The prisoners were handed over to the vans, who took them to a nearby stadium.  It would serve as a detention centre until something better could be arranged.

“They stole a lot of food and drink,” the captain said, as the police regrouped.  A number of officers looked battered.  Robin winced.  The rioters had managed to get through the line in places, then.  “And several of them stole more expensive shit too.”

Robin wasn't surprised.  There was always someone willing to take advantage of a crisis to enrich themselves.  He was surprised there hadn't been more rioting, particularly in London proper.  The capital never slept.  Normally, hundreds of thousands of bright young things would be on the streets, drinking, dancing and trying to forget their lives for a few short hours.  And yet ...

He looked around, feeling a shiver running down his spine.  The streets were eerily quiet.  London normally never slept, but now ... the underground was still, the streets were closed and most of the population safely behind closed doors.  The only vehicles on the street belonged to the police, the military and various government officials as they struggled to prepare for the impending invasion.  A line of army lorries rumbled past them, carrying tough-looking soldiers from the nearby barracks.  They headed onto the bridges, narrowly missing a pair of diplomatic outriders escorting a diplomat to Whitehall.  Robin was surprised the foreigners hadn't hunkered down in their embassies.  He'd pulled guard duty at the French embassy, a couple of years ago.  The building looked as if it had come straight out of the Sun King’s France, but it was more heavily fortified than any of the police stations in London.

Maybe they have plans for future cleverness, he thought, as he helped pick up the handful of bodies and bag them up.  There was nothing that could be done for them until after the crisis was over, when they’d be identified and the next-of-kin informed.  Or maybe they think they’ll be safer out of the city.

It was a tempting thought, he had to admit.  A number of policemen hadn't reported for duty when the alert had gone off, even though they should have done.  The streets were closed, but a savvy person could grab a boat and head upriver if they wanted.  Or drift down to the sea ... Robin would have been tempted himself, he admitted privately, if he hadn't believed firmly in his duty.  And yet, the urge to grab his partners and just run from London was almost overwhelming.  There were plenty of potential targets in and around London, but if he went further away he should be safe ...

His earpiece buzzed.  “Report to Alpha-Nine,” a voice said.  It took Robin a moment to place the speaker.  One of the emergency staff from New Scotland Yard ... the man who’d briefed them on the crisis.  “Time is short.  I say again, time is short.”

Robin felt his blood run cold.  The aliens were arriving.  Their time was about to run out.

And no time to run, he told himself.  Whatever happens, we’ll be here for it.

PURCHASE THE REST FROM AMAZON NOW!