Their Darkest Hour

Christopher Nuttall

(Their Darkest Hour – Book One)

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

All Comments Welcome!

Their Darkest Hour Cover

“No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own...across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.”
-HG Wells

When alien starships from a hostile interstellar power arrive in orbit, Britain is one of their first targets.  Swiftly, the aliens take control of Britain’s cities and force the remainder of the British military to go on the run.  With the government destroyed, the population must choose between fighting and collaborating with the alien overlords.  This is truly Britain’s darkest hour.

Caught up in these events are a handful of ordinary people, struggling to survive.  The Prime Minister, forced into hiding, and an unscrupulous politician looking to find fame and power by serving the aliens.  Soldiers fighting an insurgency and senior officers trying desperately to find the key to driving the aliens away from Earth; police officers faced with a choice between collaboration or watching the aliens brutalise the civilian population.  And ordinary citizens, trying to survive a world turned upside down.  

But resistance seems futile and the aliens appear unstoppable – and the entire population is caught in the middle.  As the alien grip tightens, the last best hope for freedom lies with those who will never surrender...and are prepared to pay any price for the liberation of Earth.

Prologue

The senior officers of the Conquest Force rose to their feet as the Command Triad entered the briefing room.  Ju’tro Oheghizh bowed his head in submission as they took their three seats, each one representing and commanding an element of the fleet.  Together, they would oversee the conquest – and pose no threat to the state, back home.  They’d be too suspicious of one another to ever plot treachery together.

“We have been observing Earth for the past five of its rotations,” Va’tro Nak’tak said.  Years, Oheghizh reminded himself, careful to think in the language of the prey.  “The humans are a curious race.  They may well be more unlike us than the Uteck.”

A rustle ran around the compartment as his words sank in.  The Uteck, unlike most known races, didn’t possess two arms, two legs and one head.  They were utterly alien – which hadn’t stopped them fighting the Eridiani to a standstill in fifty years of bloody warfare.  The State still believed that they could defeat the Uteck and occupy their worlds, but it would be a long time before anyone saw fit to resume the war.  It had simply been too costly.

“The humans have progressed remarkably unevenly,” Nak’tak reported.  “Their space presence is pathetic; they have yet to establish a base on their moon or start mining asteroids for war materials.  They are literally unable to pose any threat to the Conquest Fleet, even once we are in orbit around their world.  Furthermore, their ruling power seems curiously unwilling to crush its enemies – they appear to be willing to accept the hatred of their inferiors, instead of forcing their inferiors to submit.  This is without a precedent in all of known space.”

There was a pause.  “However, in certain areas, they are actually more advanced than ourselves,” he continued.  “Their most advanced computer systems are more capable than the devices we use on these starships – and certain other advancements may pose a threat to the Landing Force once we start taking up positions on the planetary surface.  In particular, they have an alarmingly high number of nuclear weapons and – we must assume – a willingness to use them if they face defeat.”

Azhadib, the Director of Conquest, spoke into the silence.  “Do you believe that this race will make acceptable clients for the State?”

“We believe that it may be harder than we expect to convince them to submit,” Nak’tak said.  “Unlike our previous encounters with low-tech races” – all of which had been brought into the service of the State, their development short-circuited by their natural masters – “they offer the promise of a workforce that will not require extensive training to grasp the basics of our technology, assuming that they are capable of grasping it at all.  We have a secondary reason not to simply exterminate this race.  They will be very useful to us.”

He didn’t mention the first reason, Oheghizh noted, in the privacy of his own mind.  Known space had many mysteries – races blossomed to life, built their empires, dominated the galactic scene for a few million years and then faded away – but even the State had heard rumours of the Elders.  They’d been warned that genocide would be harshly punished.  Oheghizh wasn't sure if he believed the tales or not – the idea of someone being more powerful than the State was difficult to grasp – yet it seemed clear that someone believed them.  There was no other explanation for the prohibition on genocide.

Earth spun in the centre of the compartment, a luminous orb glowing with blue-green light.  It looked almost homelike, yet it was home to over seven billion humans.  He glanced down at the reports the observers had filed in their long study of Earth, carefully monitoring the humans and devising plans for the invasion and conquest of their world.  As one of the senior Land Force commanders, Oheghizh could expect high honours and rewards if he succeeded in bringing his portion of Earth under control – and endless infamy if he failed.  The humans would pose a formidable problem, even to the State.  But they would succeed.  Failure would not be tolerated.

The assignments had been sorted out by the Command Triad and passed down as a unanimous decision.  Oheghizh would be assigned to a medium-sized island nation, still one of the most advanced and developed states on Earth.  Quite why they hadn’t developed any form of unity was a surprise – technological advancement tended to unite previously separated nations – but it hardly mattered.  Their political divisions would work against them when the Conquest Fleet revealed its presence.  They would have no time to plan a unified defence before they were overwhelmed.

And slowly, but surely, Oheghizh and his companions drew up their plans against Earth.  The Human Race would never know what had hit them until it was far too late.

Chapter One

RAF Coningsby/Salisbury Plain/London
United Kingdom, Day 1

“It looks like a busy day for us, boys and girls.”

Flying Officer Alexandra Horton smiled as Squadron Leader Rupert Paddington opened the briefing.  The men – and single woman – of No. 3 Squadron rarely had an uneventful day, even when they were patrolling the skies over Britain.  After 9/11, every civilian aircraft that went off course sent ripples of alarm running through the United Kingdom Air Defence Region and it wasn’t uncommon for Tornados or Eurofighter Typhoons to be scrambled in response to an aircraft that had simply lost its way.  Not that anyone was allowed to become complacent, of course.  The Eurofighters were scrambled with live weapons and everyone knew that one day a hapless pilot would be faced with the choice of shooting down a civilian aircraft or watching it plunge into the Houses of Parliament.  Alex was mildly surprised that none of the thousands of terrorist plots monitored by MI5 had ever come close to taking off.

“We’ve been informed that the UKGDE boys have been tracking more ghosts,” Paddington continued.  “Someone higher up the food chain is getting just a little bit concerned with these reports and they’d like some hard data.  You may be directed to perform an interception if a ghost shows up while you’re in the air.”

Alex frowned, thoughtfully.  Over the last few weeks, radar sets in Britain – and America as well, she’d been given to understand – had been tracking a handful of transient contacts that seemed to be travelling right at the edge of Earth’s atmosphere.  The general feeling was that someone – perhaps in Britain, but more likely in the United States – was testing a new model of stealth drone by flying it through one of the most advanced air defence environments in the world.  It wasn't an uncommon procedure, but surely someone would have said something by now, if only to prevent an interception that brought one of the craft down.  Rumours she’d heard suggested that some of the top brass were more concerned than they admitted, at least to the pilots.  There was a distant possibility that the Russians might have produced something new that they were using to probe NATO’s defence environment.

She shook her head, reaching up to feel her short blonde hair.  Her fellow pilots had nicknamed her Starbuck back when she’d started training to fly the Eurofighter and the name had stuck.  Being assigned to No. 3 Squadron was hardly a blot on her record, even if defence cutbacks did make their position increasingly insecure.  She’d heard that some of the top brass were worried about their ability to defend the UKADR if more squadrons were placed in reserve, or eliminated altogether.  Buying the Eurofighter might have seemed like a good idea back before 9/11, but now the money was flowing to the army and aircraft that could provide support to British troops on the ground.  The Eurofighter was an excellent piece of kit, yet it didn't have the close-support capability of an Apache helicopter.  Their service in Afghanistan had always been far less decisive than the MOD had hoped.

“Horton and Davidson, you’ll be on routine patrol, taking over from the lads out there now,” Paddington said, finally.  “Jackson and Stuart will be on QRA, ready to provide backup if there’s a problem or you need to return to base.  Don’t forget to keep one eye on your radar sets at all times.  You never know what you might run into up there.”

There were some chuckles from the pilots, although they all knew that a mission could shift from routine boredom to sheer terror within seconds.  Up in the air, they would be in the front line, not some paper-pusher in Whitehall who would happily question every little decision made by the men at the front. Alex knew pilots and soldiers who had been hounded out of the service by the MOD, or the government, merely for making poor decisions on the battlefield.  It seemed to have escaped their notice that soldiers and pilots had to make their decisions within seconds and there was no time to take a balanced view of anything…

She shook her head as Paddington dismissed them and headed for her plane.  The flight plan said that she would be in the air within half an hour.  There was nothing quite like flying over Britain as the dawn rose.  And if she was lucky, it might even be a routine patrol.

***
Darkness shrouded Salisbury Plain, but the sound of humming engines could be heard – faintly – in the gloom.  Dawn was approaching, the horizon starting to light up in the distance, leaving the French with little time to get across the river.  Brigadier Gavin Lightbridge-Stewart allowed himself a tight smile as he lay on the ground, using his night-vision goggles to peer into the shadows.  The French didn’t know it, but the British Army had prepared a nasty surprise for when they tried to reach the mock town.  

Full-scale exercises were rare – the days when the British Army could roam across Germany on exercises were in the past, and it was incredibly expensive to ship men and equipment to Canada or the USA – but the bean-counters had finally agreed to allow a joint exercise with the French.  A section of French tankers had agreed to play the attacking force, simulating an attack from Russia into the European Union.  Officially, the French were playing a fictional nation – it was typical of the politicians to be more worried about upsetting the Russians than helping out the soldiers who defended them – but everyone knew the truth.  Russia had been rather more noisy than usual over the last few months and senior officers had been warning the politicians that important skills were being lost.

His lips twitched into a smile.  The British Army was intimately familiar with the terrain and they’d used it to their advantage.  A troop of Challenger tanks had been positioned to give the French a bloody nose, while ground-based air defence systems had been deployed to prevent the French from using a drone to spy out the British defences.  Once the French tanks started to cross the river, they’d find themselves caught in a trap – unless they had a surprise of their own up their sleeves.  The politicians on both sides of the Atlantic might deride the French, but the French military was tough and very professional.  And it had picked up rather more experience in the years since Algeria than many outsiders realised.

He keyed his radio, speaking barely above a whisper.  “Prepare to engage,” he ordered, calmly.  It wasn't common for a Brigadier to lead from the front, but he’d missed the advance into Iraq and knew himself to be less familiar with armoured warfare than he would have preferred.  Besides, paper exercises were all very well, but it took real manoeuvring to gain a real understanding of what his force could – and could not – do.  Murphy never failed to put in an appearance in the real world.  “On my mark, launch flares and then engage at will.”

***
“The bloody protesters are still there, I’m afraid.”

Sergeant Robin Harrison, London Metropolitan Police, nodded as he strode up towards Buckingham Palace.  A small army of men and women carrying signs protesting against the latest cause of the month were gathered outside the gates, shouting at passer-bys while sharing drinks and food amongst themselves.  It seemed that there was no shortage of protesters in London; Robin knew from secret briefings that anarchist and other radical groups were streamlining their ‘rent-a-mob’ systems.  The Police had responded by monitoring Facebook and other social networking sites, but the technical staff had warned that their ability to take down parts of the internet was very limited.  Robin wouldn’t have cared so much – people had the right to protest, as long as they behaved themselves – if criminal gangs hadn’t started using protests as places to rob the protesters blind.  It had only been three months ago when the Police had had to intervene when the dedicated protesters started turning on freeloaders within the camps.

“So I see,” he said, tiredly.  Overtime seemed to be a fact of life in the Police force these days, as was permanent tiredness and general unhappiness.  The number of Bobbies on the street was going down and, despite the vast number of CCTV cameras all over London, crime was going up.  Every few months, they’d even get new targets from politicians who didn’t realise that they’d systematically crippled the Met over the last two decades.  “Anything we ought to keep an eye on?”

“They seem a surprisingly nice bunch,” Sergeant Singh said, seriously.  He nodded towards the protesters, who were trying to convince a pair of pedestrians to join them.  It didn’t look as if they were having any success.  “No real fights or anything, just shouting.  A few of them keep looking daggers at us, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing to worry about then,” Robin agreed.  The small police force would keep an eye on the protesters, some of whom might even be relieved that the police were there.  They might claim to be an anarchist commune, but in his experience those broke down rapidly into chaos and the rule of the strong if there was no presence from the forces of law and order.  It hadn’t been that long since the London Riots of 2011.  “Don’t worry – we’ll keep an eye on the Palace for you.”

Singh gave him a one-fingered gesture and sauntered off in the general direction of the police station, where he’d catch something to eat and a few hours of sleep before he went back on duty.  Robin watched him go and then turned to look back at the Palace.  It was all lit up, allowing the protesters to see the very heart of the establishment they hated so much.  The handful of policemen didn’t waste time staring at the Royal Residence.  They had to worry about keeping the peace.

A pair of protesters made eye contact with him, and then looked away as if they’d seen something dirty, or obscene.  Robin wasn't too surprised.  Some of the protesters saw the police as the enemy, the men who broke up protest marches and beat up protesters.  His father had been a policeman, as had his grandfather, and neither of them had to endure the level of public distrust modern policemen faced.  But back in their day, the police hadn’t been cut back to the bone, to the point where ordinary citizens started to see them as the enemy.  

He shook his head tiredly.  Maybe he’d jack it all in early and find a place in a private security firm.  They were hiring and the pay was generally better than the Met.  And maybe then his family would get better care than they could from the NHS.  His wife wouldn’t even come into London.  She preferred to live outside in the suburbs, away from the crowds and pressure.  He couldn’t really blame her at all.  London just wasn’t a safe place to bring up one’s children any more.

***
“Wake up,” a voice snapped, in her ear.  Doctor Fatima Hasid swallowed a word as her mother pulled away the blankets.  “Get up, you lazy girl.  You’re supposed to be on your way to work.”

Fatima scowled at her stepmother, but couldn’t quite bring herself to snap at the older woman.  At twenty-seven, she should be married and producing kids of her own – at least according to her stepmother.  If only her father hadn’t married again…but he had, leaving her to put up with an older woman who resented Fatima’s presence in her life.  Her stepmother had started putting forward the names of suitable boys, most of who lived in her grandmother’s village back in Pakistan.  Fatima had responded by taking more overtime with the NHS every time her stepmother arranged a meeting.  None of the boys she had met had seemed keen to marry a woman who was far more qualified than they could ever hope to be.

She pulled herself out of bed and scowled at her face in the mirror.  Dark eyes set in a dark face stared back at her, leaving her with an almost waif-like expression.  The uniform she donned rapidly belonged to the nearest hospital, where she worked ever since graduating as a medical doctor.  It would be years before she could pay off her debts and go into private practice and until then the NHS owned her, body and soul.  She washed her face and headed downstairs, to where her stepmother was banging pots and pans together.  It wasn't as if she was doing anything useful either.  Fatima had to get her own coffee and cereal before heading out of the house.

“They’ll give you the sack and then where will you be?”  Her stepmother demanded.  Fatima ignored her as best as she could.  Her father was already on his way to work, after visiting the mosque for morning prayers.  “Who’ll want you if you lose your job?”

“The boys you seem to think are suitable for me have no jobs,” Fatima replied, as calmly as she could.  It was true; her stepmother’s family had been pressing her to convince Fatima to marry a boy from Pakistan, who could then be brought to Britain.  The fact that Fatima herself didn’t want to marry a stranger didn’t mean anything to them.  They’d all had arranged marriages and they’d turned out fine…well, publicly, at least.  Fatima knew that at least one of her stepmother’s relatives beat his wife.  “And I still have an hour to get to the hospital before I start scrubbing up.”

Her stepmother started to bleat again, but Fatima tuned her out with the ease of long practice.  There were times when she cursed her decision to study medicine, even though it provided an independence many of her friends would envy.  The screaming kids in the waiting room, the injuries inflicted by chance or deliberate malice, watching men and women dying slowly in front of her…there were days when she just wanted to walk away from it.  But that wasn't an option, not when she still had to pay off her debts.  The NHS was dreadful when it came to arranging life-saving medical treatments, yet somehow it was very good at tracking down students and demanding that they repay the loans they’d taken out to study…

She shook her head as she finished her coffee and headed for the door.  She’d just have to endure until the day she could leave the NHS behind.  And then perhaps she could set up in private practice, or maybe even leave the country.  There were high-paying jobs for medical staff in America, she’d been told.  Maybe she’d emigrate and leave her stepmother behind.  The thought made her smile, even as she saw the dawn rising over the horizon.  Another day was about to begin.

***
He couldn’t sleep.

Prime Minister Gabriel Burley stood in Ten Downing Street and peered through the bullet-proof glass at the protesters at the end of the streets.  It seemed that there wasn't a day when the protesters weren’t there, screaming and shouting as if they blamed Gabriel personally for the economic malaise that had gripped Britain over the last ten years.  The country didn’t seem to be able to hold together a government for more than a year either, not after the latest round of parliamentary scandals.  Gabriel, two years ago, had been nothing more than an up-and-coming MP, a safe pair of hands for a Parliamentary seat that was solidly Conservative.  He’d never dreamed of becoming Prime Minister, certainly not after his predecessor’s career had been blown out of the water in the latest expenses scandal.  His opponents had remarked that the only reason Gabriel had avoided being implicated in the scandal had been because he didn’t have the imagination to fiddle his expenses, let alone do anything more interesting.  There were times when Gabriel feared that they were right.  Nothing he did seemed to please everyone, or even anyone.

He looked down at his desk and shook his head, bitterly.  It was covered in folders, each one a wordy report from the Home Office, the Ministry of Defence or the Security Services.  He was supposed to read them all, but reading them was a chore.  Didn’t anyone use plain English these days?  He’d once spent an hour reading a briefing paper on recent developments in Iraq only to discover that it could have been condensed down into five or six sentences.  At least he’d been able to make his feelings clear on that point.  It was a shame that the Civil Service took so long to adapt.  The next Prime Minister would probably not see any improvement.

One of the walls of his office held a large painting, commissioned by his immediate predecessor.  It showed all of the Prime Ministers of the United Kingdom, from Pitt the Elder to Gabriel himself.  He’d been surprised to receive it, only to be told that it had taken so long to produce that the Prime Minister who’d ordered it had left office by the time it had arrived.  The Prime Ministers seemed to be gazing disapprovingly at him, as if they felt that he was letting the side down.  They were probably right.  When Gabriel compared himself to Pitt, or Churchill, or Thatcher, he always found himself lacking.  But then, they’d never had to worry about an economic crash that was slowly bringing the country to its knees…

“Lucky bastards,” he muttered, as he returned to his desk.  The files sat in front of him, mocking him by their silent presence.  His secure palmtop buzzed, reminding him that he had the daily security briefing in an hour, followed by several meetings with MPs before his speech in Parliament in the afternoon.  The speechwriter had promised him a good speech, one he could read out before the assembled MPs, but it wouldn’t go down very well.  It never did, not when all he could deliver was bad news.  There were times when he felt that the only reason the Opposition hadn’t pushed for a no-confidence vote was because they didn’t want to be saddled with commanding the sinking ship.  They found it more congenial to snipe and shout abuse.

He opened the first file and looked down at it.  It was just as he feared; a short summery, and then twenty pages he’d have to read, just in case some bastard with press credentials hurled a question at him.  They’d have a field day with an ignorant Prime Minister.  Cursing under his breath, he tapped the intercom and called for coffee.  He’d read through one of the files, he promised himself, and then he’d have some time to relax.  And then he’d attend the briefing.

And then all the alarms went off at once.

Chapter Two

Over Norwich/Salisbury Plain/London
United Kingdom, Day 1

“You know,” Davidson remarked, “Becky has been quite jealous recently.”

Alex rolled her eyes.  The two Eurofighters were heading south-east, high over Norwich.  It was definitely shaping up into a routine patrol, which was part of the reason they were bantering together as they flew onwards.  It helped them remain alert and remind them that they weren't alone, even if they were flying single-seat aircraft.  Fliers could forget about everything else while boring through the sky at just under supersonic speed.

“I thought you were dating Kate,” she said, mockingly.  Davidson’s love life was the stuff of legends.  Fast-jet pilots never seemed to have any difficulty finding female companionship while they were off-base.  “What happened to the poor girl?”

“One of those Para bastards got his hands on her while I was looking the other way,” Davidson admitted.  His girls never stayed with him for long.  “I think they were talking about getting hitched, last I heard.”

Alex snorted.  “And who does Becky have good reason to be jealous of?”

Davidson affected a hurt tone.  “I'm shocked that you could think that I might cheat on her,” he said.  Alex snickered and made a one-fingered gesture towards his plane.  “She’s jealous of my Typhoon, Alex.  I get into her and I take her to Heaven twice a day.”

“I always knew that you were terrible in bed,” Alex said, fighting down the urge to burst into giggles.  “That joke is older than the CO’s CO.  And if you keep moving from woman to woman, you won’t live long enough to get promoted into a desk job.”

“You make it sound as if they’d kill me,” Davidson protested.  “I think...”

“Charlie One, Charlie Two, this is Sector Control,” a new voice said.  Alex straightened up at once, feeling ice shivering down the back of her neck.  “We are picking up a single contact on intercept vector; I say again, we are picking up a single contact on intercept vector.”

Alex glanced at her radar screen as...something blinked into existence.  Dead ahead of the Typhoons, it was advancing towards them at Mach Four.  For a moment, she thought it was a radar glitch, the kind of glitch that had caused panic during the height of the Cold War, or the years after 9/11.  The contact remained alarmingly stable, refusing to vanish.  She ran through the situation in her mind and realised that they’d be in visual range within two minutes.  What the hell could travel at that speed?  There were rumours of a hypersonic drone being test-flown in America, but what would it be doing over Britain?

“Acknowledged, Sector Control,” she said.  “Be advised that we will attempt to make visual contact; I say again, we will attempt to make visual contact.”

“It could be a ghost,” Davidson said.  He sounded excited.  Alex had flown a real-life interception mission before, back when the Russians had flown a pair of Blackjack bombers over the North Sea to remind NATO that they existed, but Davidson’s military experience was limited to dropping bombs over Afghanistan.  “You think we could be the first to see one with our own eyes?”

Alex glanced at her radar screen, and then peered ahead into the lightening sky.  If she saw the craft...it was possible that someone higher-up would order them to avoid contact or to forget what they’d seen, if it was someone’s secret test project.  They should come into visual range in seconds...

Her threat receiver lit up like a Christmas tree.  “What the hell...?”

A streak of light lanced out of nowhere and struck Davidson’s Typhoon before he had a chance to evade.  The weapon, whatever it was, hit its target so hard that Davidson’s plane was blown into a fireball before he had a chance to realise that he was under attack.  Alex yanked her plane into an evasive course just as a second streak of light – a very fast missile, according to her on-board displays – slashed through where she’d been.  They were under attack!  She almost froze in shock – only her training kept her moving.  The radar was reporting dozens of new contacts now, appearing from nowhere over the North Sea and moving towards the British mainland.  One finger uncovered her firing buttons as she tried desperately to call for reinforcements.  The QRA aircraft should have been in the air the moment the radar controllers on the ground realised that something had gone badly wrong.

“Sector Control, this is Charlie One...”

Her radio screeched, loudly enough to force her to turn it down in a hurry.  Someone was jamming her, preventing her from calling for help.  The unknowns, whoever or whatever they were, were angling towards her, slowing as they came.  Whatever they were flying seemed to outmatch her Typhoon effortlessly – who the hell were they?  Alex gritted her teeth and activated her targeting systems.  An enemy craft came into her sights and she launched a pair of missiles right towards it.  The craft started to turn, but it was far too late.  One of the missiles struck home and the enemy craft exploded in a shockingly powerful blast.  

Another missile was screaming toward her.  Acting on instinct, she corkscrewed her plane through the air, realising that she was utterly outmatched.  But running could be as dangerous as trying to fight.  A black shape appeared out of nowhere in front of her and she plunged the plane down, catching sight of an angular aircraft that reminded her of the F-117 Nighthawk, only several times as large.  She took a shot at it anyway – it couldn't possibly be friendly – but she couldn't tell if she’d inflicted any damage.  Whatever was screwing with her radio was screwing with her radar as well.

A brilliant flash of light caught her attention, from the west.  Something had exploded on the ground, but what?  The entire country couldn't be under attack, could it?  The RAF hadn't had any reason to think that someone intended to attack Britain – or if they had, the senior officers had never bothered to tell the pilots.  Her threat receiver screamed again, too late.  The entire aircraft buckled around her...

Desperately, moving so quickly that she hadn't quite realised what she was doing, she pulled the ejection lever and exploded out of the aircraft, into the suddenly-hostile sky.

***
The first of the French tanks were coming into view, a trio of AMX-56 Leclerc Main Battle Tanks.  There were a handful of soldiers flanking them, watching for antitank teams that could target the heavier vehicles with Javelin missiles, but Gavin could tell that a number of Frenchmen were missing.  The French hadn't been engaged so far, which suggested that Lieutenant-Colonel Jean-Luc Baptiste had a plan of his own.  Who knew what those missing French soldiers would be doing while the British attempted to take out the main force?

A streak of light slammed down from high above and struck the lead French tank.  It exploded in a colossal fireball, the turret actually being blown into the air.  Gavin stared in utter disbelief.  What the fuck?  Had someone in the Royal Artillery accidentally loaded live ammunition into the big guns?  A second missile struck a tank, followed by a third that missed, almost toppling its target over through the colossal force of the explosion.  Heedless of his personal safety, Gavin pulled himself back to his feet, his mind spinning with the sheer impossibility of the situation.  They were under attack!  They were in the heart of the British Army’s Training Area and they were under attack!

He glanced back towards where the Challengers were positioned, hoping that their crews had enough sense to bail out before they were targeted too.  Their unknown opponent – once might have been a dreadful accident, but two or more suggested deliberate malice – had to have gained control of the air.  They could presumably detect any moving tanks...but who were they?  There had been no report that Russia was planning anything drastic and the only other nation that might have had the capability to attack Salisbury Plain and the garrisons surrounding it was the United States.  The thought that they might be at war with America was absurd.

Something caught his eye and he glanced to the east, towards Tidsworth Garrison.  A streak of fire was falling from the sky towards the Garrison.  It dropped below the horizon, seconds before there was a brilliant flash of light, followed by a massive fireball.  The sound of thunder reached his ears seconds later.  It looked almost like a baby nuke!  Other fireballs were rising too.  It didn't take his intimate knowledge of the training area to know that they were rising from the location of many of the other garrisons surrounding Salisbury Plain.  He spared a brief thought for the men and equipment that had presumably been destroyed in the blasts, and then started to run for the command vehicle.  The tactical command centre had been buried well behind the ambush point; it should – should – have escaped detection.

He waved a hand at Sergeant Gibbon as the Fijian soldier appeared from the concealed tanks.  “Get a crew down to check out the French and get them under cover,” he barked, trusting the Sergeant to deal with the situation.  A number of young soldiers looked badly shocked, holding their personal weapons as if they were unsure what to do with them.  He silently blessed his own insistence on issuing loaded weapons to the men, even on training exercises.  It had been intended to ensure that the tankers were used to carrying them, but he had a feeling that they might be needing them to fight.  “And then send a runner to each of the garrisons.  I need to know what we have left in the fight.”

The tactical command vehicle was half-buried under a small mountain of earth.  Gavin pulled at the hatch and it opened, revealing a cramped compartment with the latest in communications and coordinating gear.  He hadn't been too impressed with the entire concept when he’d first heard of it – the command vehicle wasn’t even as well-protected as the wretched Snatch land rover – but it might have proved itself useful today.  A pair of operators, both looking as if they were on the verge of panic, glanced up at him in relief.

“Report,” he barked.  “Who the hell hit us?”

“Sir, I don't know, sir,” the lead operator said.  He looked far too young and nerdy to serve with the army, but his skills at pulling information out of the ether were remarkable.  “All of our communications links have gone down!”

Gavin swore.  They had a laser link to the British-owned satellite communications network and various NATO systems.  If they were all gone, it meant that their unknown opponent had somehow taken them all out seconds before launching the attack on Salisbury Plain.  It was simply impossible to jam a laser signal, or even detect it.  He keyed the radio and cursed when a wash of static blasted from the speakers.  They were being jammed.  His unit – and every survivor from the garrisons – had been cut off from higher authority.  They were on their own, unable to coordinate with PJHQ or the MOD in fighting off the attack on British soil.  But who were they fighting?

There was another screech of static, followed by a sudden shift into the BBC.  “...Receiving reports of massive explosions in London,” a voice said.  “We have been unable to reach...”

The signal washed out of existence.  For a moment, Gavin was sure that he could hear voices hidden in the static, but he couldn't make out what they were saying.  The BBC had been unable to reach whom?  The Government?  He’d met the Prime Minister during a meeting at PJHQ and he hadn't been too impressed, but he was legal authority.  And if they were at war...Dear God, just who the hell were they fighting?

He jumped out of the command vehicle and sighted a number of soldiers being alternatively bullied or cajoled into work by Sergeant Gibbon.  A handful of men wearing French uniforms were with them, some badly wounded.  The French hadn’t been the only ones hit on the training area, he noted absently.  It was easy to see which British units had been hit as well.

“Sir,” a soldier yelled.  It took Gavin a moment to place him as the commander of a Rapier missile launcher that had been deployed to provide some protection to the tankers.  If they’d had armed weapons...but no one had expected an attack from nowhere.  “Sir, we got some data before they hit us!”

Gavin looked over at him.  It was hardly the proper way to file a report, but under the circumstances he didn't care.  The Rapier was supposed to be monitoring every aircraft flying over the range, including a handful that had been tasked to play enemy aircraft during the exercise.  They should have picked up something...

“Sir, the attackers came out of nowhere,” the soldier said.  “But just before they started firing and we lost the network, the UKADR sounded an alert.  So did the NATO network.  Sir...some of those craft seemed to come from outer space.”

“Aliens?”  Gavin said, in frank disbelief.  It was impossible.  And yet it made a certain kind of sense.  Who else would have the power to take out the satellites, drop bombs – kinetic strikes, perhaps - onto the garrisons and presumably hit London as well?  It was impossible, but...he pushed his doubts aside.  “Sergeant, pass the word.  We’ll regroup at Point Alpha – get the military police to sort out who we have left alive and what equipment we have that still works.”

“Sir,” Sergeant Gibbon said.  There was a pause.  “What about civilians, sir?”

Gavin winced.  Salisbury Plain was a designated place of natural beauty, which meant that civilians could and did get underfoot most of the time.  The military was supposed to have jurisdiction over the Live Firing Range, but the word from higher up was to be gentle, if possible.  Gavin shook his head.  The civilians would have seen the explosions – hell, perhaps the little green men or whoever would have targeted the towns around Salisbury Plain as well.

“Tell them to go back to their homes,” Gavin ordered, finally.  They’d never prepared for alien invasion.  The possibility had never even been considered.  “And see if the civilian telecommunications network is still working.  We need to know what’s left of our country.”

****
The ground came up to meet Robin’s face before he quite realised what was going on.  He hit the ground hard enough to stun him, his body armour taking most of the shock below the neck.  Everything seemed to have gone absolutely quiet.  Dazed, unsure of what had happened, he started to push himself upright.  His jaw felt as if it had been struck by a glass bottle and...what the hell had happened?  There hadn't been any warning that someone was behind him, yet what else could have sent him falling to the ground?

He staggered to his feet and looked back at Buckingham Palace.  It was gone.  He was so dazed that it was several seconds before he realised that something was terribly wrong, and several more seconds before he realised what had happened.  Buckingham Palace, the home of the British Monarchy, was a smouldering pile of rubble.  Many of the protesters who’d been outside had been hit by flying debris and were badly injured – or dead.  They seemed to be whispering, making shapes with their mouths that never became words, almost as if they were miming.  He couldn't hear anything, apart from a faint ringing in his ears.  It took him several moments to realise that he’d been deafened by a sound so loud that it hadn't really registered on him.  He could only hope that it was temporary.

Pulling his radio off his belt, he keyed the emergency switch.  Every copper within five miles should start converging on his position, as if they wouldn't be on their way already.  This was Buckingham Palace; surely, someone at Scotland Yard would have noticed the destruction of the King’s residence.  They’d have the fire brigade, ambulances and entire regiments of policemen on their way right now.  They might even get to the Palace before some fucking terrorist wannabe started singing their own praises on YouTube, claiming that it was another strike against the oppressive state.  Who knew?  Maybe the Government would be so angry that they’d take off the gloves and just hit back.

He stumbled towards the protesters, intent on doing what he could to help, when he realised that Buckingham Palace hadn't been the only target.  Smoke and flames seemed to be rising into the air from all over London.  He’d thought that it was a terrorist attack – even though he couldn't understand how they’d managed to get a bomb into the Palace – but this was on a different scale altogether.  There were at least seven different plumes of smoke...he rubbed at his ear, cursing the growing ringing.  It was impossible to call for help if he couldn't hear the reply.  How could terrorists have pulled off such an attack?

The first protestor, a young girl barely old enough to drink, had been crippled by the blast.  Robin did what he could for her, praying that the ambulances would be on their way.  But if London had been hit several times...he’d been in enough crisis situations to know that it took time to get organised, time to throw off the shock and take control.  How long would it be before someone took command and started funnelling help to the wounded?  And what if the unknown attackers had taken out the Government?  One of the plumes of smoke seemed to be coming from the direction of Whitehall.

And if they’d taken out the government...he shuddered, unable to face the implications.  If they’d taken out the government, they’d committed an act of war.

But who were they?

Chapter Three

London
United Kingdom, Day 1

“What...?”

The emergency doors burst open as two men hurled themselves into the Prime Minister’s office.  Gabriel had no time to react before they grabbed him bodily and carried him over to one of the office walls.  It opened, revealing a hidden shaft leading down into the bunker below Ten Downing Street.  He yelped in shock as they dropped him, feet first, down the shaft and towards what felt like certain death.  Instead, the tube seemed to twitch around him and he found himself slowing and sliding out into the bunker.  A man wearing a black uniform caught him by the arm and pulled him away from the tube, just before the first of his own assailants popped out of the tube.  Gabriel’s mind finally caught up with the string of events and he realised that the Personal Protective Detail assigned to Ten Downing Street were doing their jobs.  He’d been briefed on the emergency procedures – everything from terrorist gunmen to chemical or radioactive weapon being deployed against Whitehall – but he was ashamed to realise that he didn't know their names.

One of the men – the leader, Gabriel assumed – tapped a key into a concrete wall.  A hatch appeared out of nowhere, revealing a set of metal stairs that led down into the bunker.  It was illuminated by flickering lights that seemed to be having trouble remaining alight, suggesting that the power supply to Ten Downing Street had been cut off.  There was an emergency generator in the basement, Gabriel remembered, as well as a handful of other precautions, but as far as he could recall they’d never been tested.  They certainly hadn't held an emergency drill after he’d become Prime Minister.  The oversight, he realised as he clambered down the stairs, might have cost lives.  

Another doorway opened at the bottom of the shaft, revealing the Crisis Management Centre.  Gabriel had been inside a handful of times, but he’d never grown to like the drab concrete walls and the effect of being cut off from the rest of the world.  The only decoration was a painting of a cobra a previous Prime Minister’s child had produced, a reference to the COBRA Committee that served as Britain’s emergency council.  No one had had the heart to take it down.  The team leader pointed Gabriel to a seat and headed over to the bank of computers and communications equipment placed against one wall.

The ground shook, alarmingly.  Gabriel glanced up as the light hanging over the conference table spun from side to side, proving that he hadn't imagined the explosion.  Something on the surface...was there anything left of Ten Downing Street?  He silently thanked God that his wife hadn’t been in the building.  She’d been on a visit to Edinburgh to meet with the First Minister of Scotland, carrying messages from Gabriel that he didn't dare entrust to anyone else.  Dear God – had Edinburgh been hit too?

Gabriel took a moment to calm himself, and then tried to sound professional.  “What happened?”

The team leader glanced over at him.  “I’ve not sure, Prime Minister,” he admitted.  He looked a tough young man, but Gabriel had enough skill at reading people to know that he was nervous.  “We picked up a FLASH warning from  PJHQ warning that an attack was underway – we immediately grabbed you and got you into the bunker.  But most of our communications lines appear to be down and...”

Gabriel stared at him.  “Has Downing Street been destroyed?”

“No, Prime Minister,” the team leader said.  He frowned, looking down at the console.  “I can't get through to anyone else – not PJHQ, not Edinburgh, not anyone.  The radio network appears to be being jammed.  I’m not sure...ah.”

He looked up as the main door to the conference room opened, revealing Major-General Sir Alan Robertson.  Gabriel allowed himself a moment of relief.  Robertson commanded the Household Division, the main body of troops in London.  Among other duties – both operational and ceremonial – the Household Division was responsible for evacuating the Monarch, the Prime Minister and other government ministers from London in the event of an emergency.  Robertson wore a combat uniform and carried a pistol on his belt.  He was followed by three other soldiers, all carrying rifles and wearing combat uniforms.

“Prime Minister,” Robertson said, relieved.  “Thank God you’re safe.”

“You too,” Gabriel said.  A fourth soldier had arrived – but he looked more like a man dressing up rather than a real soldier.  He had a pair of glasses and looked slightly overweight, carrying a small laptop under his arm than a weapon.  “General...what the hell is going on?”

Robertson looked...worried.  “Prime Minister,” he said, slowly, “we’re at war.”

“At war?”  Gabriel repeated.  “Who with?”

The fourth soldier looked up.  “Aliens,” he said, flatly.  “We’re at war with aliens from outer space.”

Gabriel stared at him, unsure if he should laugh or cry.  “Aliens?”  His Personal Protective Detail seemed to be having the same reaction.  “Aliens?  And I suppose that Doctor Who is going to come along any minute to tell them to piss off?”

“Please, Prime Minister,” Robertson said quietly.  “Hear him out.”

The fourth soldier put his laptop on the conference table.  “Fifteen minutes ago, the entire orbital communications network – ours, NATO’s, the Russians – went down,” he said.  “Bare minutes later, we lost contact with the Deep Space Tracking Network – that’s a joint operation largely run by the Yanks, but there are stations on British soil and we have access to the live feed.  The last report we had from RAF Fylingdales reported a number of incoming missiles that appeared to have come from orbit.  One of their projected endpoints – their targets – was the base itself.  The entire Ballistic Missile Early Warning System has been taken down.

“At roughly the same time, ground-based radar stations picked up a number of unknown aircraft breaching the UKADR – that’s the United Kingdom Air Defence Region,” he continued.  “RAF aircraft on alert were vectored towards the intruders – we lost contact shortly afterwards with both the aircraft and their bases.  It appears that we have been hit badly all across the country.  We have lost contact with almost all military bases within the United Kingdom.”

“Which leaves us no choice,” Robertson injected, “but to assume that they’ve been destroyed.”

Gabriel felt...weak, unsure of himself.  It seemed impossible, yet...if the unknowns, the aliens, had the capability to hit British military bases, there seemed no reason why they wouldn't – if they were hostile.  His thoughts ran in circles.  Why would aliens be hostile?  What did Earth have that would make them worthwhile targets?  He’d always been taught that a civilisation advanced enough to master space travel would have outgrown the desire to fight purely for the sake of fighting...

“It gets worse,” the soldier said, softly.  “We have confirmed that a number of strikes fell in London itself.  The Permanent Joint Headquarters has been destroyed, along with a number of railway stations, road junctions, and – for reasons unclear – Buckingham Palace.”

“The King,” Gabriel said.  “What happened to him?”

“He was in residence at the time, along with his wife, his eldest son and his wife,” Robertson said.  “We’ve had no word.  I send a small detachment to the Palace to see what they could find, but first reports say that the devastation was almost total.  There is a very good chance that Prince Harry may be the next in line to the throne.”

Gabriel shook his head slowly, unable to quite believe his ears.  Robertson was talking about the death of the Monarch – and the deaths of thousands of military and civilian personnel – as calmly as if he were ordering dinner.  How could he be so dispassionate?  Or was he trying to remain calm in the hope that Gabriel himself would remain calm?  If they’d really been hit as badly as Robertson implied, the chances were that his position as Prime Minister was no longer viable.  God alone knew what he would be able to do for his country.

“Contact,” one of the soldiers said, suddenly.  “I got a link through to Salisbury Plain!”

“Excuse me,” Robertson said.  

Gabriel nodded as the General slipped away, heading towards the bank of computers.  How could he deal with an alien invasion?  Had it only been an hour ago that he’d been battling with the economic crisis?  What would happen if – when – the British population realised what had happened to their country?  He looked over at Robertson and found himself envying the man’s calm.  Maybe he should have gone into the military instead of politics.  But then, he would have made a poor soldier.

“We managed to get in contact with Brigadier Gavin Lightbridge-Stewart,” Robertson said.  The name meant nothing to Gabriel.  “He appears to be the senior officer left at Salisbury Plain; the preliminary reports say that the garrisons there have been hit badly.  We managed to fill each other in on a few details, but we simply don’t know much of anything.”

He shook his head.  “The Brigadier will be establishing defensive lines and preparing our counter-attack,” he said.  “We need to get you to the command bunker under the training area.  It appears to be intact, thankfully.  The aliens don’t seem to know about its existence.”

“Or they would have hit it,” Gabriel said, slowly.  “Can they hit it and...ah, destroy it?”

“They can drop rocks from orbit,” Robertson said.  “If they knew about the bunker, they could have taken it out – we assume.”  He seemed about to say more, when one of the consoles started to bleep an alarm.  Robertson glanced at it and then swore aloud.  “We’ve managed to set up a passive detection system outside, Prime Minister.  It looks as if they’re sending in shuttles.”

Gabriel stared at him.  “They’re coming here?”

“They’re coming to London,” Robertson said, grimly.  “I have two rifle companies in the city, armed for dealing with terrorists rather than alien invaders.  We can bleed them – I assume – but we probably can’t stop them from landing in the city.  We have to get you out of here.”

He looked down at the table for a long moment.  “Normally, we’d get you and your ministers out through the tunnel network, but parts of it seem to have caved in under the bombardment.  I’m not sure if the aliens intended to trap you or if it was merely a fluke, yet we cannot risk using the network.  We need to get you upriver as quickly as possible.”  He raised his voice.  “Butcher?”

One of the uniformed soldiers looked up.  “Sir?”

“Check the boat and prepare it for immediate launch,” Robertson ordered.  He looked back at Gabriel.  “Butcher served four years in the SAS before being asked to serve as a Close Protection specialist.  Hughie and Mother” – a thin man and a taller man who looked as if he had muscles on his muscles – “both came to us through the SBS.  They’ll take care of you if anyone can, Prime Minister.”

“Thank you,” Gabriel said, quietly.  “General...what are you going to do?”

“I have to get back to the surface and take control of my men,” Robertson said.  “We have to assume that they’re carrying out a decapitation strike – an attempt to capture or kill you and the rest of Parliament.  I intend to give them a bloody nose when they try.”

Gabriel hesitated.  “Don’t get yourself killed, General,” he warned.  “The country will need you.”

“We’ve barely been at war an hour,” Robertson said, “and already we've been hurt worse than Hitler or Napoleon ever managed.  God alone knows what’s happening to the rest of the world.  We never planned for alien invasion, Prime Minister.  Hell, the last time we planned for a military invasion was back during the Cold War.”

He shook his head.  “The lads will take care of you,” Prime Minister.  “Linux” – he nodded at the soldier with the laptop – “will go with you.  He’ll be needed at the bunker.  Good luck.”

“And to you,” Gabriel said, automatically.  He was struck by the sense that he would never see Robertson again.  “General...”

Robertson saluted, and then left the room.

“Come on, Prime Minister,” Butcher said, two minutes later.  “It’s time to go.”

Gabriel had never had the chance to explore the entire tunnel network.  From what he recalled from briefing papers he’d never had a chance to read properly, the military had taken advantage of commercial tunnelling to add their own network for emergencies.  Some tunnels linked government buildings together, allowing swift and silent evacuation; others led to hidden bunkers and archives that were never intended to see the light of day.  Some information was in the public domain, he remembered, but the government had managed to keep a lid on most of the specifics.  Or so they hoped.  Gabriel had also been told that the Russians had gained access to far too much data on the tunnel network and emergency procedures.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but they seemed to be heading upwards – and the air seemed to be getting damper.  A faint smell reached his nose, a stench that made him want to recoil, just before they turned into a chamber that held a large boat.  Butcher held up a hand to halt Gabriel while he clambered up and into the boat, vanishing over the side.  There was a moment’s pause, and then the engine roared to life.  The soldier reappeared and held out a hand to help Gabriel climb up.  He was ashamed to realise that Butcher had simply lifted him at the end.

A thought struck him.  “Why Butcher?”

“Dad was a butcher,” Butcher said.  “We don’t stand much on ceremony, Prime Minister.  Once someone passes Selection, they’re one of us.  The lucky ones get to choose their own handle.  The unlucky ones get someone else picking it for them.”

He waved Gabriel to sit at the bottom of the boat.  The sound of the engine grew louder as the other two soldiers climbed onboard and concealed their weapons and uniforms below blankets.  It struck Gabriel suddenly that anyone who saw him would know that he was the Prime Minister, but it was already too late to express his doubts.  The boat seemed to leap forwards – there was a terrifying glimpse of a grating ahead of them, followed by a smell that made him want to throw up – and then they were suddenly out in the open.  He caught sight of the Houses of Parliament and stared, realising that flames were rising up in the distance, from the direction of the Palace.

The boat started to tilt madly to one side as Butcher pointed them upriver, towards the west.  Gabriel struggled to remain calm, even though part of him was convinced that they were going to be thrown into the water at any moment.  A handful of other boats seemed to be making their way downstream, clearly intent on getting out of London before something worse happened.  He wondered, suddenly, just how much the civilians knew about the crisis.  It had never occurred to him to ask...in the distance, he could hear the sound of sirens.  The police were responding to the attacks, but did they know what they were facing?  And if there really were aliens heading towards London?

It seemed like a bad science-fiction movie, but it was happening...

Twenty minutes later, just as they were leaving London, Hughie tapped him on the shoulder and passed him a pair of binoculars.  Gabriel glanced at them in puzzlement, and then looked up into the sky.  A flight of aircraft were heading down towards London from the west...but they looked odd.  Gabriel pressed the binoculars against his eyes and gasped as he finally made sense of what he was seeing.  The alien shuttles were larger than the largest jumbo jet the human race had ever produced and they were heading towards London.  They’d escaped the city in the nick of time.  He tried to estimate how many aliens could be on those aircraft before realising that it was impossible to produce anything like a reliable estimate.  For all he knew, the aliens could be microscopic in size – or they could look like stone statues of weeping angels.  And perhaps they wouldn’t even be humanoid.

“We’re still being jammed,” Hughie said, quietly.  The SBS soldier had a faint Scottish accent that echoed through his voice.  “We can't warn the General or the troops in London.”

“But they know that they’re coming,” Gabriel pointed out, desperately.  Suddenly, he felt ashamed for running.  “They must know that they’re on their way.”

“Maybe,” Hughie said.  “Or maybe the aliens have ways to avoid passive detectors.  Any radar station that lights up is likely to get clobbered.  I don't know, sir.  We just need to get you up to the command bunker, and perhaps then we can go back to the front lines.”

“Or the front lines will come to us,” Mother grunted.  “Look.”

Gabriel followed his gaze.  There were more alien shuttles now, hundreds of them, glowing red as they decelerated through Earth’s atmosphere.  Just for a moment, he wondered how interstellar logistics could make an invasion possible, before dismissing the thought.  There was no way to know how alien logistics worked.  For all he knew, the aliens mass-cloned soldiers whenever they wanted to overrun another world.

He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for the men and women who were about to be caught up in a nightmare.  General Robertson had been determined to fight – it crossed Gabriel’s mind that he should have ordered them out, but it was too late.  All he could do now was pray for them – and pray that the aliens weren’t savages.  An alien race could wipe out all life on Earth.

The sound of more explosions caught them as they headed onwards, echoing back from London.  There was no way to know what was going on behind them either.  All they could do was pray.  And hope that, one day, they would be able to avenge themselves on the aliens.

Gabriel shook his head.  An hour.  An hour after the alien attack had begun and he was on the run.  And to think that yesterday he’d been cursing problems he would have given his soul for today.

Chapter Four

London
United Kingdom, Day 1

“Anything we should know, sir?”

The military officer sighed.  Robin had been busy organising what medical help he could for the wounded, after a handful of ambulances and policemen had finally arrived.  They’d reported that London’s railway stations had been hit as well, causing massive casualties as well as jamming up the road network.  The emergency services were overwhelmed trying to deal with the chaos.  And they still had no idea what was going on.  The radio seemed torn between increasingly hysterical bulletins and requests for the public to remain calm and in their homes.  Judging from the level of traffic on the streets, Robin suspected that that particular request was going unheeded.

“Yes,” the soldier said.  A handful of other armed soldiers had appeared, causing many citizens to start edging away from them.  Robin wasn't so impressed, if only because he’d spent his probationary period in Southampton, wrestling Royal Marines on Friday nights.  “There’s a good chance that whoever did this to us” – he waved a hand at the pile of smoking rubble that had once been Buckingham Palace – “is likely to start landing ground troops.  You’re looking at ground zero for their invasion.”

Robin stared at him.  A terrorist attack was understandable, even if there had been a hideous failure in intelligence that should have allowed them to detect the plot in time to derail it.  Even a handful of bombs detonated around the city was understandable; Islamic Fundamentalism had been suspiciously quiet over the last few months and the radicals knew that they needed to keep staging spectacular attacks to boost their cause.  But an invasion…Robin had taken part in drills where the Met had been seconded to the military for a military emergency, yet no one had believed that Britain might actually be invaded.  The nightmare of an uprising from the poorer – and Islamic – parts of the country seemed more plausible.

“We’re at war,” he stumbled, finally.  “Against who?”

“We’re unsure as yet and we don’t have time to speculate,” the officer said, firmly.  “I need you to get the civilians out of the area as quickly as possible – starting now.  God alone knows how much time we have left.”

Robin allowed his eyes to trail over the gardens and the surrounding area.  A small number of policemen and medics had finally shown up, allowing them to start treating the wounded – although only one ambulance had arrived, which had been pressed into service to take the worst cases to the nearest hospital.  From what little he’d heard from other police officers, London was gridlocked.  Everyone who had a car seemed to be trying to get out of the city and to hell with how it impeded the emergency services.  The BBC wasn't helping.  It was either jammed up with static or raving about explosions in a dozen cities.

“I can’t get everyone out…”

“You have to,” the officer said, quietly.  There was an earnest tone in his voice that somehow stripped Robin’s final doubts away.  He saw a pair of soldiers carrying handheld antiaircraft missiles setting up a position on one side of the gardens.  If the enemy intended to send in paratroopers, the British Army would give them a hot reception.  “I don’t know how much time we have left.”

He strode off in the direction of his men, leaving Robin staring at his back.  Robin’s training asserted itself and he began to bellow orders.  God knew how he’d wound up as senior officer on scene – the mobile command centre had probably been stuck in traffic – but at least no one was arguing.  The wreckage of Buckingham Palace had probably concentrated quite a few minds.

“Start moving the civilians out of here,” he ordered, sharply.  “Draft able-bodied men as stretcher-bearers if necessary; start moving them at least a mile from this location.”  He found himself grappling with a completely unexpected problem.  If an invasion force – absurd as it seemed – was about to land in Central London, where was even remotely safe.  “Take control of the traffic and get it moving away from here – commandeer any vehicles that can be used for moving casualties and put them to work.  If anyone gives you trouble, arrest them and we’ll worry about charges later.

Time seemed to slow down as an endless flow of civilians, government civil servants and worker drones were pushed out of the area.  Most of them saw the pile of debris and didn’t argue, but a handful seemed insistent that whatever was happening had nothing to do with them.  Robin ignored their pleas, then their threats, and finally had a couple arrested and dragged away.  The remainder finally got the message and headed away from Central London.  A few who might have protested saw the soldiers and their obviously lethal weaponry and made themselves scarce.  Robin nodded at two of the soldiers as he checked his radio again, but all he could hear was static.  Whoever was jamming them had neatly shattered the Police in London.  There were thousands of officers on the streets, cut off from their superiors and probably facing their own private nightmares.  Dear God – if the country was really being invaded, what did the invaders intend to do with the Police?

He pushed the thought aside as he helped a pair of constables manhandle a wounded civilian down towards a waiting van.  A team of doctors were at least trying to separate the minor wounded from those who needed a hospital immediately, but it was a terrifying nightmare.  Hardly any of the civilians were used to violence and anarchy on such a scale and many of them seemed to be on the verge of coming apart.  Robin might have joined them if he hadn’t felt responsible for managing the crisis.  It was certain that no one senior to him had made it to Buckingham Palace.  He remembered the explosions all over London and shivered.  The invaders, whoever they were, might have taken out Scotland Yard.  And if they’d done that, they would have fragmented the entire network.

“Sergeant,” a voice bellowed.  He turned to see the officer he’d spoken to before, looking grim.  “How quickly can you get the rest of the civilians out of here?”

Robin blanched, reading the bad news in the officer’s face.  “Too long,” he said.  They’d managed to get most of the people on the move, but the traffic wasn't taking the hint and heading away from Central London.  Entire streams of people were being pointed away from the Houses of Parliament and being told to run.  It was all a horrible ghastly mess.  “How long do we have?”

“Maybe five minutes, maybe less,” the officer said.  “Radar has picked up enemy craft heading towards London.  The chances are that they’re coming here.  You have to get the civilians out of the line of fire.”

Robin nodded and blew hard on his whistle.  “Everyone away, now,” he bellowed.  The other policemen took up the cry.  “Move…now!”

He looked up at the officer, who had one hand on his pistol.  “I’m qualified to fire in the line of duty,” he said, quietly.  “I could stay…”

“You’re needed elsewhere,” the officer said.  The sound of thunder – no, it wasn't thunder – echoed in the air.  “Go!”

***
Fatima had never felt so pressured in her life.  She’d been on duty at the hospital when the police had sounded the alert and had been rounded up to go to the remains of Buckingham Palace.  Seeing the rubble had shocked her, but there hadn’t been any time to sit down and cry – not when there was work to be done.  Hundreds of people had been wounded and there weren’t anything like enough medical supplies to treat them all.  From what she’d overhead, the emergency teams that should have been first responders to any crisis had been caught in traffic, as had most of the ambulances in London.  Her mobile phone was useless and the pager she’d been given as they ran out the door had gone blank.  She had been forced to improvise splints and bandages for half of her patients.

“Lie still,” she said, sharply.  The wounded man in front of her had been one of the guards in front of Buckingham Palace when the bomb – or whatever – had blown it into a pile of rubble.  His leg was clearly broken in two places and it was quite possible, judging from the bruises, that he had internal injuries as well.  She’d bandaged him up as best as she could, but he really needed an operation.  It didn’t look as if he was going to get one any time soon.  “I said, lie still!”

“They need me,” the man insisted.  He sounded delirious, or perhaps he was going into shock.  Fatima put her hand firmly on his chest and held him down gently.  “I need to…”

“You need to get better,” Fatima said.  She’d heard stories of what happened in Pakistan and other less-developed countries when bombs exploded without warning, but she’d never expected to see it in Britain.  Someone should have taken control at once and started coordinating all of the emergency response teams.  Instead, everything was chaotic and the only people who were trying to establish order were a handful of policemen, who looked as frightened and helpless as the rest.  “You can’t go back to your unit with a broken leg.”

She wanted to give him something for the pain, but there were no painkillers left.  A pair of civilians pressed into service as stretcher-bearers appeared and gently lifted the wounded man onto a makeshift stretcher.  Fatima checked his leg carefully, warned them to ensure that their charge didn’t try to sit up, and then waved for them to go.  There was no time to rest – she had to deal with the next wounded person.  It seemed that there was no end to the wounded; men, women and children, half of them looking as if they didn’t quite believe what had happened to them.  This was Britain, not some Third World country where the natives killed each other at the drop of a hat.  Disasters weren’t supposed to strike the British mainland.  

A hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped.  “You need to get on your way,” a policeman said.  He looked about as worried as Fatima felt, but he seemed to have it under control.  “You need to escort the patients back to the hospital.  This place isn’t going to be safe much longer.”

Fatima looked up.  All over the area, policemen and soldiers were shouting at civilians to move.  The wounded were being carried off, followed by those who could walk on their own and the remaining medical staff.  She started to follow them automatically, and then stopped dead.  This was London.  What the hell was going on that meant they had to risk moving so many wounded people at once?

“All I know is that this place is about to get very unsafe,” the policeman warned.  He was holding something back.  Fatima had done a course in reading people back when she’d been studying to be a doctor.  “I think you’d better start moving – now.”

He sounded so earnest that Fatima picked up her bag before quite realising what she was doing.  She could hear the sound of thunder in the distance and see plumes of smoke rising up into the sky.  Something was clearly badly wrong…shaking her head, she started to follow the wounded.  They’d need her when they reached their destination, wherever that might be.  It seemed as if the police and soldiers were closing off all of Central London…

***
“I think that’s most everyone out,” Constable McEwen reported, grimly.  The sound of thunder was growing closer.  Robin hadn’t been able to stop himself from scanning the horizon, looking for incoming aircraft.  God alone knew what was heading their way.  “Sergeant…”

“Time for us to leave, then,” Robin said.  The armed policemen might be a help, but it was far more likely that they’d just get in the way.  It wasn't as if they’d trained with the soldiers – hell, all the plans to hold major exercises had been curtailed by the shortage of cash.  He remembered his wife, suddenly, and shivered.  At least Helene was out of London, safely away from the chaos that had gripped the city.  God alone knew how long it would be before the more rowdy element of the city’s population decided that it was a great opportunity for looting, raping and burning.  “Get everyone back to the cordon and keep moving the civilians further away…”

He covered his ears as something screeched by overhead.  A tiny black dot, seemingly flying as low as it could over London, flashed by and headed into the distance.  No missiles arose to challenge it, although Robin had no way of knowing if the soldiers had held their fire or if they didn’t have enough antiaircraft missiles to spend them freely.  Given how much it cost to produce equipment for the Met, he suspected the latter.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, as he started to run.  He’d hoped that it was nothing more than a terrorist bombing, even though the officer he’d spoken to had seemed certain.  “It’s really happening.”

***
Trooper Chris Drake perched on the roof of the Ministry of Defence’s Old Admiralty Building and peered down towards Green Park.  Smoke was rising up from all over London, suggesting that the enemy – and he still found it hard to believe that the brass took the stories of little green men seriously – hadn’t concentrated their attentions on Buckingham Palace.  From what he’d heard before the CO had dispatched him and a handful of others to vantage points where they could see for some distance without being seen, the enemy had bombarded the railway stations and several junctions.  The result of one attack away from the Palace was easy to see.  Westminster Bridge had been hit by…something that had knocked it effortlessly into the water.  Chris didn’t need to be a CO to know that that ensured that it would be harder for any reinforcements to reach Whitehall.  Of course, if some of the other stories he’d heard were true, there was little left to reach Whitehall.

He’d seen action in Afghanistan, but he’d never expected to have to fight a war in England – no one had.  Some of the lads had been worried about their wives, girlfriends and children and in truth Chris knew that he couldn’t blame them.  The CO had worked hard to keep them focused on the incoming threat, but without it Chris suspected that some of his comrades would probably have seen to their own families.  They’d expected months – perhaps years – of warning before Britain itself came under threat.  No one had expected an attack that had crushed them under its treads within a few hours.

The sound of engines pulled his attention back to the here and now.  One of the tech guys down on the streets below had been able to rig up a passive detection system – or so he’d heard – but radar coverage was a thing of the past.  It was possible that their enemy – little green men or whatever – would manage to get tactical surprise, even though the troops were dug in about as well as they could given the short notice.  He started scanning the skies with binoculars, looking for trouble.  Who knew what alien landing craft would look like?  Flying saucers, or something humanity might have built itself, or maybe even tiny blue boxes that were bigger on the inside.  There were just too many possibilities.

When he finally caught sight of the craft heading towards London, he was almost disappointed.  They were big, all right; larger than any aircraft he’d seen in his career, massive shapes that seemed oddly unsteady in the atmosphere.  The wings seemed too stubby to keep the craft in the air, although the roar of their engines suggested that whatever was powering them was more advanced than anything on Earth.  In fact, they reminded him of something out of Thunderbirds.  Despite himself, he felt a little relieved.  They might not be as badly outmatched as he’d feared.  The thought of facing the aliens from Independence Day had scared hell out of the soldiers.

The craft roared closer, moving with deceptive ungainliness.  He formed a mental picture of a SAM blasting one of them out of the air, but realised quickly that the CO would want to hold off on that if possible.  God alone knew how much damage a crashing alien transport would do to London, or to the civilians who happened to be caught in the blast.  He reached for his radio, checked the channel quickly, and keyed the switch twice.  They’d discovered that they could beat the jamming to some extent, if they used higher frequencies.  Chris suspected that the aliens might be relaxing the jamming – whatever they used to coordinate might not be too different from what the humans used – but it hardly mattered.  The entire city would have seen those craft making their final approach.

They flew over Hyde Park and started to shower tiny objects down towards the park below.  Chris peered at them through his binoculars, trying to make out shape and form.  They looked like paratroopers, but there were no parachutes.  He wondered if they’d smash themselves into bloody ruin on the ground below, before realising that they had to have some way to slow their fall.  Some of the SAS operatives had talked about opening their parachutes at terrifyingly low levels, barely slowing their fall before they touched down.

Other paratroopers were falling now, heading towards St. James Park.  Chris leaned forward as the first of the black objects touched the ground and straightened up.  The sight was so surreal that, just for a moment, he was convinced that he had to be dreaming.  He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but it was true.  The aliens had landed.  

Chapter Five

London
United Kingdom, Day 1

Tra’tro The’Stig braced himself in the cramped confines of the landing shuttle as the pilot started to count off the final seconds.  Like most of the other assault formations, Assault Landing Unit #352 had been tasked with decapitating the prey – the humans, he reminded himself – before they could rally their troops and counterattack.  The Kyg’pa - the Land Force – had had plenty of experience carrying out assault landings on hostile worlds and much of that experience suggested that the prey were easier to beat if their leaders were dead.  In all of the endless briefings after they’d been pulled out of their stasis pods, they’d been warned that the humans – although primitive – were dangerous.  Anything that weakened them before their world was occupied and their new position as Workers of the State was explained to them was all right by the Land Force.  The concerns passed down to them about capturing the human infrastructure intact were irritating.  It meant that the starship crews were unlikely to fire down at the planet’s surface without authorisation from the Command Triad.

He kept his concerns to himself.  Anyone who served the State knew that dissent was not considered welcome, at least from the lower ranks.  The people at the top had the right to determine everything from troop dispositions to attack strategy and they didn't need his input.  If he kept working away, and survived the coming war, he might just reach the higher levels where he could actually influence policy.  And it was just as likely that the humans would roll over and surrender without a shot being fired.

The alarm echoed through the transport as it started to slow down over the human city.  The’Stig had seen images taken by spy drones during the briefings and had to admit that the humans didn't seem to know when to stop building.  Their city seemed completely disorganised, while their buildings would be alarmingly tight for his soldiers.  They’d probably have to start establishing their own headquarters on the surface rather than using human buildings, if only because of the size difference.  Humans seemed to be shorter and thinner than his people and their buildings had been built for their comfort.  They hadn’t thought to widen them for their new masters.

He flinched as the drop field caught him and propelled his unresisting form towards the hatch, followed by the remainder of the Assault Landing Unit.  As always, there was a moment of sheer terror as he tumbled down towards the planetary surface, just before the counter-gravity field caught hold of his form and cancelled his motion, a mere second before he would have slammed face-first into the ground.  Earth smelt funny – it was clear that the human disunion even affected their older cities – but he pushed that aside.  The Assault Unit was spreading out, looking for trouble.  Intelligence had stated that the humans had already lost their command and control networks, but the next thing Intelligence got right would be the first.  They were really nothing more than well-connected officers who had the ability to avoid being assigned to front-line combat missions.  

A dead human lay on the ground, not too far from his position.  He glanced down at the body, recoiling in shock from its oddly-disjointed form.  The humans looked as if they were permanently on the verge of falling over when they moved, with a suppleness that was alien to his people.  A brief glance at the frontal area confirmed that they were looking at a male.  There was no way to tell how the human had died.

The radio network hissed, suddenly.  “Contact,” it snapped.  The sound of human weapons almost drowned the coordinator’s voice out.  “Engage and destroy!”

The’Stig cursed and dived for cover.  Intelligence had made its usual flawed assessment – they’d landed right in the midst of a Grisna nest and the wretched little creatures were stinging like mad.  Hefting his weapon, he led a small detachment forward, towards the buildings that served as the human centre of government.  The human leaders were probably long gone, but taking their buildings would show their impotence.  Or so Intelligence promised...

***
Chris Drake couldn't believe his eyes.  He was still half-convinced that he was dreaming, perhaps after a night of too many curries or kebabs.  The aliens – and they had to be aliens, not men in funny-fitting suits – were landing in St. James Park, right in front of him.  He keyed the switch on the camera that should have sent a live feed back to the CO, wondering what the straight-laced officer would make of it all.  The aliens...were very alien.

His first thought had been humanoid dinosaurs, but they moved with an eerie grace that belied their hulking forms.  They were larger than humans, carrying weapons that looked too ungainly for humans to use, wearing camouflage uniforms that seemed to automatically blend with their surroundings.  What little skin he could see was gray and leathery, reminding him of elephants in the jungle, but their eyes were dark and very cold.  Their faces seemed to be almost immobile, although he couldn't tell if they were naturally inscrutable or if he just couldn't recognise an alien expression when he saw it.  One of them seemed to be the leader on the ground, using hand motions to advance his troops forward; the others seemed to be grunts.  He reminded himself not to count them out too soon.  The British Army used its best troops in the Air Assault Role and he had to assume that the same was true of the aliens.

He looked down at their weapons, trying to see what they were carrying.  They didn't look that fancy, certainly not compared to weapons he’d seen in a hundred different alien invasion movies; indeed, he was sure that they weren't much more advanced than anything he’d seen on Earth.  There was a crudeness about their design that reminded him of some of the makeshift weapons they’d pulled out of caves in Afghanistan, or weapons produced with a Russian eye towards functionality rather than appearance.  Some of the weapons seemed to be almost portable machine guns; it struck him, suddenly, that they could probably carry more weight than the average human.  Their transport aircraft were heading off in the distance...

The CO gave the order and the fighting began.  A number of British soldiers had been positioned in nearby buildings, using them to pour fire down onto the hapless aliens, while a team of mortar gunners started to lop shells towards their landing zone.  It was a shame that they hadn't had a few days to prepare, Chris thought, as he saw a couple of aliens hit the ground, dark blood staining the grass around their bodies.  The Household Division had never expected to be fighting a major action in the heart of London.  Some equipment that they’d used in Afghanistan was outside the city.  It might as well be on the other side of the moon.

For a moment, he was sure that the aliens were doomed, before they started to return fire with surprising accuracy.  Their handheld weapons had the same rate of fire as a GPMG and their aim was better than anyone would have expected.  A pair of their leaders – he assumed, seeing they seemed to be in charge – were slipping forward, leading a direct assault against Whitehall.  One of them was shot down by a sniper, while the other managed to take cover against a damaged car.  It exploded a second later – the IED team had been putting their expertise to work – blowing the alien backwards.  Chris watched dispassionately as it crashed back down to Earth and lay still, presumably stunned or dead.  The remaining aliens had taken cover and were laying down fire towards the defenders.  From what little Chris could pick up on his radio, they’d managed to pick off many of the soldiers through heavy fire.  A handful of buildings were burning as alien grenades set fire to their interiors.

A dull roar echoed overhead as a second flight of alien transports roared down the Thames.  This time, a team with a Stinger was cleared to engage the enemy craft, launching their missile at almost point-blank range.  Whatever countermeasures the aliens had were ineffective at such a distance and the missile struck the alien craft on the side of its fuselage.  For a moment, it seemed to have survived...and then it flipped over and came crashing down into the river.  A colossal fireball blew up from where it had come down, throwing debris everywhere.  If any aliens had survived, Chris couldn't see how they could get out of the water and into the fight.  A second alien transport was hit just before it could start unloading its cargo.  This one was damaged and managed to stagger away over London before coming down in the suburbs.  Chris breathed a silent prayer for the civilians living where it had crashed before dragging his attention back to the main battlefield.  The remaining alien transports had started to deploy alien tanks.

The British Army had considerable experience moving light armour around by air, but the aliens clearly had better technology than anything available to the Army Air Corps.  Their tanks looked bigger and nastier than a Challenger II, although there was something funny about their design.  It took him a moment to realise that they seemed to be lacking any treads, almost as if they were designed to be nothing more than moveable pillboxes.  They hit the ground and bounced; Chris cursed as he realised that they were riding an air cushion, rather like small hovercraft.  Each of the alien tanks started towards the defence line as soon as they landing, big guns rotating around with terrifying speed to challenge the puny humans ahead of them.  They weren’t completely dependent upon the big guns either, he saw.  The alien tanks carried what looked like small machine guns, four to a tank.  They probably could engage multiple targets simultaneously.

A streak of light announced that one of the antitank teams had engaged the nearest target.  The alien tank stopped dead as the missile blasted through its upper armour and presumably killed the crew, but its comrades opened fire at once.  Chris felt the building shake as they raked the windows with machine gun fire, while using their main guns to clear any large obstacles on the ground.  The entire building seemed to be on the verge of collapse as a shell detonated inside; frantically, he scrambled backwards to the fire escape and started to slide down to safety.  Judging by the noise, the aliens were responding to any attack with savage force.  They didn't seem to have to worry about civilian casualties.  

Cursing, he ran towards the rally point, just as the Old Admiralty Building started to collapse into a pile of rubble.  Other soldiers joined the retreat, falling back to regroup and reform the defence line – but would it be enough?  They’d been warned to be ready to slip out into London and try to escape the alien dragnet.  Perhaps the time had come to leave...

A thunderous roar sent him falling to his knees.  Behind him, the aliens were advancing, carefully.  The rubble slowed their pace, but it also provided cover for their infantry.  At least they hadn't yet realised just how small humans were, compared to their hulking forms.  Humans could hide themselves in places no alien could follow.  A handful of soldiers were taking advantage of the confusion to use grenades to set up makeshift IEDs.  The aliens might take Westminster, but they’d take nothing more than a pile of rubble – and a very bloody nose.

***
The’Stig ducked as a human bullet cracked just past his ear.  He couldn't count just how many times he’d come close to death; the humans might have been small and puny, but they knew how to fight.  If it hadn't been for the tankers, the Assault Unit might have been wiped out in the first hour of the assault.  Even with the tankers, the humans were bleeding them hard.  At least their backs were to the river, he told himself firmly.  They'd have nowhere to run when the tanks closed in on their positions.  Any rational species would have realised that the position was hopeless and sought terms.  

He wasn't sure who was in command right now, not after the humans had taken down the transport carrying two superior officers and their mobile command network.  The threat of human-portable weapons had clearly been underestimated, part of his mind noted, cursing Intelligence under his breath.  Several units had been shredded, leaving him as the senior officer within eyesight.  He didn't even know half of the troopers who had been drawn into his orbit.  All he could do was keep them moving forward and hope that the tankers sucked up most of the incoming fire.  

A pile of rubble allowed him a chance to slip under cover, just as one of the troopers saw what looked like a pile of metal discs on the ground.  The’Stig was just a second too late in ordering him to stop; he picked the discs up and an explosion blew him into bloody fragments.  Even their body armour couldn't protect them against such an attack.  The’Stig scowled and inched backwards, eyes scanning the piles of rubble and peering through the smoke in hopes of seeing the humans before they saw him.  The entire area could be mined, but he doubted that he’d be able to get a team of experts to come down and remove the mines safely.  Reporting their presence to his superiors – once they were appointed – would only mean that they’d be told to be careful.  They needed to take the human leaders alive.

Something moved, right at the corner of his eye.  Instinct sent him jumping backwards, just in time to avoid a knife thrown at him by a young male human.  The human was wounded, he realised, and it had still attempted to take his life.  Was the entire species insane?  He fired a burst towards the human and watched bright red blood splash on the rubble.  They looked so fragile and yet they could kill and kill and kill...

And they could hide.  Hindsight, always clearer than foresight, showed him just what had happened.  He’d ignored the human’s hiding place because it was too small for one of his people.  If he’d taken a longer look, he might not have been surprised so badly.  And some of the other troopers who’d been ambushed might have remained alive, if they’d been more aware of what the humans could do to them.  They’d have to learn quickly on this world.  

He motioned for his troopers to hold their positions.  The tankers were coming up behind them and more reinforcements were on the way.  Let the tankers take a few bullets – which would only glance off their armour in any case.  His troopers needed a rest before they pushed onwards – and besides, the humans were trapped against the river.  They’d have to break through the assault lines to escape and that wasn't going to be easy.

***
“They’re sending in their tanks, sir!”

Major-General Sir Alan Robertson nodded, sharply.  After some thought, he’d established his command post in the Houses of Parliament, assuming that the aliens wanted to take Parliament relatively intact.  They didn't seem to be that concerned about many of the other historic buildings in Central London, but it made sense.  It would have been easy for them to take out the civilian government from orbit if they’d simply wanted them dead.

But his force was in an untenable position – which, he admitted to himself, he’d known about long before the aliens actually landed.  The aliens seemed to be bringing in more reinforcements and their supplies of Stinger missiles were running low; it seemed that the aliens did have some form of effective countermeasure.  Besides, he didn't want to shoot down another craft and see it crash in London.  The team he’d positioned in the London Eye had reported that fires were spreading out of control from where one of the alien transports had crash-landed.

“Send in the Javelin teams and tell them one shot each,” he ordered, sharply.  The British Army had ordered thousands of Javelin missiles, but most of them had been stockpiled in the countryside or deployed to Afghanistan.  No one had thought to equip the Household Division with more than a handful of antitank weapons.  Who in their right mind would have considered that they’d be needed?  “And then tell them to head for the tunnels.  They’re to get out of the city and link up with the rest of the army.”

The ground shook violently as the aliens started bombarding Whitehall.  Alan swore under his breath, realising that the aliens were clearly using orbital or drone surveillance assets to track his men.  Their advance was almost unstoppable now, particularly not with what remained of his two companies.  There was no point in getting more men killed for nothing.

“Sound the retreat,” he ordered.  He keyed his radio and issued the command.  “Get the lads out of here...”

High overhead, an alien drone detected the signal, locked onto his position and fired a single missile.  Major-General Sir Alan Robertson died before realising that he was even in danger.

***
“We’re to get out of here,” a sergeant was yelling.  “Move, you stupid...”

Chris picked himself up, just as the alien advance broke through one of the makeshift defence lines.  He fired a quick burst from his SA80 in the hopes of slowing the aliens, just as he realised that they’d blocked him from reaching the tunnel that should have led down into safety.  Before he had a moment to think about it, he turned and ran towards the embankment, jumping down into the Thames.  The river would carry him downstream and he’d be able to link up with what remained of his unit once he got out of the water.

Behind him, London burned.
Chapter Six

London
United Kingdom, Day 1

“My God.”

From his vantage point, Robin had been able to see some of the fighting – too much of the fighting.  What he’d seen had left him silently grateful that he wasn’t close enough to see the rest of it.  The aliens had landed in force – two of their transports had been shot down, including one that had crashed into the other side of the Thames – and taken Whitehall.  God alone knew how many soldiers had been killed in an ultimately futile last stand.

He looked down towards the streets.  They had been emptying with remarkable speed as people fled the battle, heading towards their homes in the hope that they might find safety with their families and friends.  Robin suspected that there was going to be no such thing as safety in London for the next few weeks, if not ever.  What the hell did the aliens want?  Part of him refused to believe that there were aliens, but the evidence was undeniable.  The flames and smoke rising up in the distance suggested that the world had indeed turned upside down.

“Sergeant,” one of the other policemen said, “what the hell do we do?”

Robin silently cursed him for asking that question.  In truth, he had no idea what they should do, because the Met had never seriously considered that London might be invaded.  The last time the British police had considered the question had been back during World War Two, when – if he recalled correctly – they’d been ordered to maintain public order, but avoid giving any help to the Germans.  But the Germans had never invaded and the plans had never been put to the test.  What would the aliens do now they’d won themselves a city?

His radio buzzed, suddenly.  The jamming seemed to have stopped, suggesting…what?  Logically, the aliens would have wanted to keep the police and military forces fragmented, but perhaps their own communications were affected by their jamming.  Or perhaps they were going to be hunting down any remaining soldiers and hoped that some of them would be foolish enough to use their radios.  Or perhaps…he pushed the thoughts aside as a cold voice, utterly inhuman, echoed out over the airwaves.  The aliens were finally making their demands known.

“Attention,” the voice said.  “This is Ju’tro Oheghizh, speaking for the Eridian State.  All humans are to pay careful attention to this message on pain of punishment.  Planet Earth has been conquered and is now part of the Eridian State.  Your leaders have been captured or killed; your military forces have been scattered.  Further resistance is futile.  Accept your new position in the universe or you will be destroyed.

“All civilian humans are to remain within their homes until instructed to report to the occupation authorities,” it continued.  “Any attempt to impede the passage of my forces will result in severe punishment.  Human military and police personnel are to turn themselves in to my forces.  All weapons are to be surrendered to the occupation authorities.  Failure to report will result in…”

“Severe punishment,” Robin muttered.  The aliens didn’t seem to hide their intentions.  There was no guff about coming to liberate humanity from human leaders; nothing, but naked force.  And they’d already taken London.  “And what happens if we report in?”

The message came to an end and then started to repeat itself.  Robin listened a second time, but there were no differences – and no clue as to the fate of police and military personnel.  If he recalled correctly, Iraq had collapsed into chaos partly because of the absence of a proper police force, yet the aliens might not care about chaos on the ground.  Their attacks on London had shown a frightening lack of concern for civilian casualties.  He glanced up as another alien transport roared overhead, dropping what looked like heavy crates towards the ground.  They’d probably start pushing out from Westminster as soon as they felt strong enough to brave the surrounding city.  God knew it wasn't as if there was much in the way to stop them.

“We go to the nearest police station,” he said, finally.  Scotland Yard might be gone, but it was far from the only police station in London.  “We take the weapons and we conceal them somewhere before they think to secure the stations for themselves.  And then we wait and see what happens next.”

He watched as the policemen leapt to work, grateful that someone had finally told them what to do.  Robin shook his head as they started to run through deserted streets, avoiding crashed and abandoned cars, hoping against hope that they would find someone more senior to issue further orders.  He didn’t have the slightest idea what to do next.

***
Ju’tro Oheghizh stepped off the shuttle and onto Earth, looking around him with ill-concealed interest.  The humans seemed to have built habitations suitable for smaller creatures than themselves, although many of their buildings had been levelled by the first wave of assault troopers.  A handful of humans, several wounded, sat in the middle of the grassy park, watched by armed guards.  It was difficult to read human expressions, but some of them were clearly watching his troopers and considering how best to escape.  Others seemed to be completely unaware of their surroundings.  The discovery that there were other races out among the stars was always a shock to planet-bound races, even ones who had conceived the possibility long before they reached into space.  He doubted that the humans would be any different from the other races brought into the State.  It would take time to hammer their new status into their heads.

“The lead assault units were badly hurt,” J’tra Rahol reported, as soon as they exchanged salutes.  “The humans fought bravely and well.  We’re still finding traps left behind in the ruins – their small size gives them an advantage that cost many of our lives before we adapted.”

Oheghizh narrowed his snout.  “And the surrendered humans?”

“Many appear to be in shock,” his subordinate reported, as they walked into the makeshift command centre.  Oheghizh had hoped to set up in the human buildings, but if the humans had had time to leave surprises behind them, it would be unduly risky.  “I do not believe that we have captured any truly important humans.  Their leaders appear to have fled before we landed in their city.”

“Unsurprising,” Oheghizh said.  There had always been an awareness that the human leaders might have been able to get out of their city – London, they called it – before the assault force landed.  Some of the Land Force Commanders had called for targeting the human leadership with strikes from orbit, but the Command Triad had overruled them.  They needed to bring the humans into the State as quickly as possible and having their leaders alive would make that easier.  It would take too long to rebuild human society directly.  “Do we have any idea of their current location?”

Rahol tapped the computer display.  “The humans appear to be attempting to regroup their forces to the west,” he said.  “A number of human military units apparently escaped destruction during the opening minutes of the bombardment, including a number of air defence units.  We have targeted active sensor emitters from orbit, but they appear to have learned from experience and are keeping any remaining active sensors turned off.  Their effectiveness will decrease rapidly as we have destroyed their bases and supply dumps.”

He pointed one long finger at the human road network.  “Our own forces are landing around the cities, trapping the human civilians within our grasp,” he continued.  “There have been a handful of engagements between our forces and human military units, but most human units seem to be attempting to avoid contact.  We have broadcast our demands for surrender on all human military and civilian channels.  So far we have received no reply.”

Oheghizh nodded, slowly.  The humans were no doubt shocked by their sudden fall from power on their homeworld.  Given time, they could probably regroup and launch a series of counterattacks that would cost the State dearly – and put a hold on his personal career ambitions.  Logically, they needed to maintain the pressure as much as they could; practically, they needed to get set up on the ground before the naval forces surrounding Earth insisted on withdrawing most of the transports.  The humans had managed to shoot down a number of shuttles, more than any of the planners had expected.  Logistics were going to be weaker than anyone had expected when they’d drawn up the plans to invade Earth.

But it wouldn’t last.  The humans were just as dependent upon supplies to keep their forces moving as the State – and their supply dumps were flaming ruin.  Their effectiveness would fall sharply over the next few days, leaving them without the ability to do more than harass his forces.  And then they’d be in control and well on the way to turning Earth into a productive outpost.  The humans were certainly more capable of labouring for the State than several other races he could mention!

“Keep grouping our forces for a push westwards,” he ordered, finally.  There was no way to know how the great mass of human civilians would react to their presence.  The human government seemed to believe that keeping the civilian population disarmed was a good thing – although some of their measures had seemed so absurd he’d wondered if there was a translation problem – but it was clear that they’d never quite succeeded.  Orbital observation indicated mass unrest in parts of the human city.  It couldn’t be tolerated.  The Land Forces would have to open up the roads to allow supplies to be moved around the region.  “And expand our patrol perimeter.  I want the humans to feel our foot on their chest.”

***
Garden House School had been a primary school yesterday, when the world had made sense and aliens were just figments of human imagination.  Now, it had been turned into a makeshift medical centre, following emergency plans that had been drawn up sometime during the cold war.  Classroom tables had been pushed together and covered with blankets, allowing the wounded somewhere to wait for treatment.  Fatima wanted to close her eyes and rest, but there was no time.  The small number of medical staff in attendance were doing what they could, yet there seemed to be no end to the wounded.  And the civilian volunteers were doing more harm than good.  She bandaged up a wound that really needed an operation in a proper hospital, knowing that she might have condemned the patient to a slow and unpleasant death.  Any half-trained doctor knew the value of a sterile environment, but they didn’t have a hope of maintaining one in the school.

She removed her scarf as she saw the next patient, a small girl barely old enough to go to school.  Her parents seemed to be in shock, pointing at their daughter’s arm as if they expected Fatima to be able to know what was wrong just by looking.  She always hated treating children – young children couldn’t tell doctors what was really wrong with them – but there was no choice.  She wrapped the scarf around the child’s arm, turning it into a makeshift sling.  It crossed her mind that her stepmother would be horrified to see her in public with her hair uncovered and she almost broke down into helpless giggles.  After everything else that had happened since the first explosions, it was almost a relief to worry about something so petty.

“She’s in pain,” the mother insisted.  “Can’t you give her something for the pain?”

Fatima shook her head, grimly.  The school had had a well-stocked medical room, but they’d used almost all of the painkillers within the first hour.  They’d sent runners to the nearest hospital in the hopes of getting more, yet none of the runners had returned.  Fatima’s superiors had been reduced to urging policemen to take painkillers from nearby shops, along with what other medical supplies they could find.  And there still seemed to be no end to the wounded.  Leaving a child in pain tore at her heart, but what else could they do?

She heard the sound of screaming from outside and closed her eyes.  London had had riots before, but what would happen with an alien invasion force in the heart of the city?  She breathed a silent prayer as the sound of gunshots echoed out in the distance, followed by a faint humming that seemed to echo in the back of her head.  One of the doctors walked over to the classroom door and peered down the corridor.  He jumped back, his face white as a sheet.

“They’re coming,” he said.  His legs buckled and he collapsed on the floor.  “They’re coming!”

Fatima braced herself as the first of the aliens came into view.  It was clear that the alien – she couldn’t tell if it was male or female – seemed to be having trouble in corridors designed for humans.  The weapon it carried in one hand looked too large to be carried by a human, although she had to admit that she knew almost nothing about weapons.  Dark eyes, seemingly without any colours at all, peered around the room.  Fatima met them for a second and was struck by just how alien the alien seemed to be.  It turned and headed onwards, followed by a small number of other aliens.  Fatima realised, as she felt her own legs give way, that they were expanding outwards.  God alone knew what they’d do when they ran into resistance...

And, despite herself, she hoped that they would place the makeshift hospital under guard.  If London really did dissolve into chaos, the hospitals and chemists would be among the first places targeted for drugs.  Who knew how the aliens would react to rioters?

***
Building by building, the advancing assault unit swept through the human city.  Outside their government centre, it seemed that there had been no time to rig traps or other surprises, although Tra’tro The’Stig knew better than to take anything for granted.  His superiors had noted his achievement in the first battles by granting him a lead role in the expansion, along with reinforcements that had been dispatched from orbit.  It was a honour he would happily have foregone.  The oddly misshapen humans seemed either curious or terrified of his patrol; he watched in amusement as some ran away, while others just stared at them as if they’d never seen a non-human before.  He shifted his weapon towards one of the humans who was paying too much attention to them in hopes of scaring the little creature away.  The human emitted a high-pitched whine and fled.

The humans had abandoned many of their vehicles in positions that made it harder for the tankers to advance in support of the ground troops.  Two of the tanks had already started pushing human vehicles to one side, but the remainder were holding back, nervous about the consequences of meddling with alien technology.  Besides, the humans had shown a flair for creating traps and no tanker wished to lose his vehicle to a mere improvised bomb.  The’Stig cursed them under his breath, even as he saw another group of humans ahead of him.  They were staring at his patrol as if they couldn’t believe their eyes…

A human voice yelled a command and the first projectiles crashed down around them.  The’Stig’s first thought was that they were under attack by human soldiers, but they were throwing glass bottles and stones rather than grenades and bullets.  A moment later, one of the bottles crashed down on top of a trooper’s head, sending him sprawling down onto the road.  The humans might not be soldiers, but they could harm his troopers.  Their defiance could not be tolerated.  

He snarled as he pulled down on the firing trigger and sprayed bullets over the humans within eyesight.  They fell to the ground in bloody heaps, their comrades suddenly running back as if they’d realised that it wasn't a good idea to challenge the occupation force.  The’Stig refused to let them go easily; he lunged forward, firing burst after burst as he moved.  The attack ended almost as quickly as it had begun, with a number of humans dead and two of his troopers mildly injured.  He silently made a note to praise the body armour in his report.  If they hadn’t been so well-protected, they would have certainly had more injured, if not dead.

“Advance,” he ordered, sharply.

The force continued on its way, coordinating with other groups as they pressed out along the human roads.  It dawned on him suddenly that they weren’t really controlling the city at all, merely the main roads they intended to use for transporting supplies.  They simply didn’t have the numbers to maintain control over the entire city.  After a moment of thought, he kept that insight to himself.  His superior officers no doubt knew all about it and intended to deal with the humans in another manner.  Their city was dependent upon food supplies from outside, wasn’t it?  They could simply be starved to death if they refused to cooperate.

He smiled darkly as the first assault drone hummed overhead, watching for further human ambushes.  The humans who had escaped the brief engagement – if he dignified the one-sided massacre by calling it an engagement – would spread the word.  Any attempts to slow the occupation force would not be tolerated.  Maybe the humans would learn quickly enough that the occupation force could relax.

The drone reported what looked like another ambush up ahead.  He checked his weapon as the force moved carefully onwards, ready to deal with the ambush when it was triggered.  The humans would learn – or they would die.  In the end, he told himself firmly, Earth would belong to the State.  The only real question was how many humans would have to die before the rest realised that they had no choice, but to submit.

Chapter Seven

Long Stratton
United Kingdom, Day 1

“I saw you come down,” a voice called.  Alex barely heard him.  “Are you all right?”

Alex shook her head.  Her entire body was shaking with post-combat stress.  She’d left RAF Coningsby expecting nothing more challenging than a routine patrol and an attempt to intercept one of the mysterious ‘ghosts.’  Well, the ghosts weren’t a mystery any more, were they?  They belonged to the bastards who had blown Davidson out of the sky and shot her down, whoever they were.  She’d practiced ejecting before, but she’d never had to eject from a Typhoon in the midst of a battle…she cursed her own weakness as she tried to stand up.  Her legs refused to cooperate and she stumbled before grasping the proffered hand gratefully.

“I…thank you,” she managed.  Normally, a pilot bailing out of an aircraft would have been tracked by ground-based radar stations and a SAR helicopter dispatched from the nearest base.  Now, she had the unpleasant feeling that the rest of the RAF had more important things to worry about than a single Typhoon pilot.  The explosions she’d seen as she drifted down to the field suggested that the entire country was under attack.  “Do you have a mobile phone?”

“I tried to call an ambulance when I saw your parachute,” the farmer said.  He looked older than her father, but there was a toughness around him that reminded her of the RAF Regiment soldiers who guarded the RAF’s airbases.  His face was tanned by the sun.  “There’s no signal at all.”

Somehow, Alex wasn't surprised.  The unknowns – whoever they were – had to have taken out the communications satellites, as well as jamming ordinary radio frequencies.  There was no reason why they couldn't jam mobile phones as well.  She cursed under her breath as she realised that she wasn't entirely sure where she was, or how to report in to whatever remained of her unit.  The country was at war and she had enlisted to defend it.  She needed to return to the base.  And that might be impossible.

“I can take you down to the farm,” the farmer offered.  He held out a calloused hand.  “My name’s Giles, Giles Smith.  I own the land about here.”

“Alex,” Alex offered, as they shook hands.  “I didn't mean to land on your farm...”

“Don’t worry about it,” the farmer said.  He frowned, for a long moment.  “I don’t suppose you know what those flashes I saw in the distance were?”

Alex filled him in on what little she knew as they walked down towards the farmhouse.  It was a neat little building, surrounded by a field of sheep and cows, almost like something from a bygone era.  She would have been charmed if she hadn't been so worried about the situation – and the smell from the fields.  The people who suggested that humanity should abandon technology and go back to the land had never smelled the countryside.  She was happy with air conditioning and filtering.

Inside, she allowed the farmer’s wife to give her a cup of tea while she tried to call the base.  The telephone line buzzed and clicked alarmingly, and then went dead, without even a dial tone.  At Smith’s suggestion, she tried the internet and was pleasantly surprised to discover that the farmhouse had broadband.  Smith explained, when she asked, that the farmhouse often played host to young people and they all demanded internet access.

“And the wife likes watching streaming video from London,” he added with a wink.  “I know better than to get in her way.”

Alex smiled as she tried to access MILNET through the internet connection.  It should have accepted her password and allowed her access, but the link seemed to keep dropping out, as if some of the network nodes were malfunctioning.  The unknown enemy had launched their attack without being detected, at least until it was far too late.  There was no reason why they couldn't have launched a cyber-attack as well and taken out most of the military’s secure network.  The pilots had briefed that that was supposed to be impossible, but the unknowns had done far too much that should also have been impossible.

Finally, the system blinked up a warning; enemy troops in London and several other cities.  Alex stared at the screen, not quite believing her eyes.  How could anyone have simply landed in London?  Where the hell was the rest of the RAF?  The thought – the thought that she had been trying to avoid – floated back to the surface of her mind.  She’d been blown out of the sky, along with her wingman.  It was quite possible that the remainder of the RAF had met the same fate, or had been caught and destroyed on the ground.  Who the hell were they fighting?

A set of general orders, directed to soldiers and TA reservists, flickered into existence.  They were ordered to make their way out of the cities and rendezvous with officers at certain locations, each referred to with a different codename.  Alex stared at them, before realising that whoever had taken command of the British military wouldn’t have wanted to put their instructions on the military network, no matter how secure it was supposed to be.  The unknowns were probably monitoring every move they made.  

But she had no idea where to go.  The RAF had never anticipated needing to establish covert rendezvous points, certainly not since the end of the Cold War.  She could find a list of military bases online, yet the chances were good that they had been destroyed or attacked and occupied by the unknowns.  The unknowns...their enemy didn't even have a face!  Who the hell were they fighting?

She clicked on one of the options and an answer, of sorts, floated up in front of her eyes.  Aliens.  It seemed impossible, but so did the ghosts – the ghost aircraft that had blown her out of the sky and killed her wingman.  She covered her eyes for a long moment, feeling the world spinning around her, and then looked back up at the screen.  The damning words were still there.

“Aliens,” she whispered.  How long had it been since she’d watched the television show where the RAF had accidentally shot down a UFO, only to find themselves caught in the middle of a war between two alien races?  Years...she’d been a child at the time.  “It’s not possible...”

But she could think of no other possible explanation.

Smith came back into the room and she filled him in, leaving out nothing.  The farmer listened carefully, without interrupting, and then nodded.  “I suspected as much,” he admitted, after she’d finished.  “The BBC has been raving about monsters in London.  They must have seen the aliens...”

“But what do they want?”  Alex asked, helplessly.  “What does puny Earth have that they might want for themselves?”

“I have no idea,” Smith said.  He shrugged.  “Listen; I have to go to the Parish Council and tell them what’s going on.  God alone knows what’s going to happen if London’s been occupied and we have to see to the crops.  Lots of people might come running out of the cities and heading for the farms.  I’d like you to come with me.”

Alex hesitated, and then nodded just as her stomach rumbled loudly.  “Have something to eat first,” Mrs Smith said, firmly.  “And you as well, Giles.  You don’t eat enough as it is.”

***
Alex had never been to Long Stratton before, but Smith was happy to fill her in as they rumbled into the town and headed towards the Town Hall.  Long Stratton was a civil parish with a population of roughly three thousand people, many of whom seemed to be thronging the streets as if they expected answers to be handed down from above.  It struck her that many people around the country would have only seen explosions or heard thunderclaps, or perhaps listened to the ranting from the BBC – and wouldn't have the slightest idea of what was going on.  How long would it be, she asked herself, before confusion turned into panic?  And how long would it be before the aliens made their demands known to humanity?

Smith parked by the Town Hall and nodded towards the old-style stone church.  “There’ll be hundreds of people there, seeking guidance,” he said, softly.  “Everyone knows everyone else here, not like in the big cities.  We have a real community here, despite everything London can do to ruin it.  Little green men aren't going to take this place from us without a fight.”

Alex kept her opinions to herself.  Some of the farmers would have shotguns, or hunting rifles, but most of the population would be unarmed.  It was quite possible that they could produce Molotov Cocktails and other makeshift weapons, yet how could they stand up to the alien onslaught?  The defenders of Long Stratton and its sister towns might just be marking themselves for extermination.  What was her duty to them if they decided to challenge the aliens directly?

Smith led her into the Town Hall after a brief chat with the policeman standing outside, looking rather worried.  Alex saw his hand toying with his radio and realised that the police in Long Stratton had been cut off from London by alien jamming.  She thought about telling him what she knew, and then realised that it would be pointless.  He couldn't do anything about it, but panic.  Shaking her head, she allowed Smith to lead her into a small room.  Three men were gathered there, looking deeply worried.  She smiled inwardly as they saw her uniform and frowned, uncertain what to make of her presence.  God alone knew what she was going to tell them.

“This is the Parish Council, or as much of them as could be assembled,” Smith said, without preamble.  “Rupert Leigh; Tory MP for his sins, but a good man outside politics.”  A tall thin man nodded impatiently.  “Timmy Simpson; used to farm quite a bit, but now pretty much retired.”  Simpson snorted, making a gesture with his fingers that suggested counting money.  He was an older man, with a hunch that suggested that he was bowed under some great weight.  “And the Reverend Macpherson, shepherd of our little flock.”

“I should be in the Church,” Reverend Macpherson said, shortly.  “People need to come together and pray to God for guidance.”

Smith nodded and started to outline what he’d heard from Alex, starting with the story of how he’d found her in his field.  Halfway through, when he reached the bit about aliens, all three of the councillors stared at her.  They looked as if they wanted to call in the policeman and have the pair of them arrested for public drunkenness.  Smith finished by reminding them of some of the more hysterical statements on the BBC – “we live in strange times,” he said.

“I wish I didn't believe you,” Leigh said.  His voice had an upper-class edge that reminded Alex of a certain breed of officer.  They’d sounded as if they’d been absolutely certain about everything too.  “But aliens...dear God, what are we going to do when we tell the people?”

“We shall inform them in the Church,” the Reverend said.  “They will have time to reflect on God’s will instead of panicking.”

Leigh snorted.  “But what are we going to do?”

Alex had been giving the matter some thought.  “They made us study recent military history back when I was a trainee pilot,” she said.  “The first few hours after an invasion are always the most dangerous for ordinary people, because the occupation force will be on edge and unsure of its ground.  You may not see very many aliens this far from London, or they may decide to take stock of the entire country.  I think you need to consider what you’re going to do when they arrive – and what you’re going to do about others.”

She scowled.  “Right now, London and a dozen other cities are war zones,” she continued.  “The population is going to start fleeing the cities and heading for the countryside.  You’re not that far from Norwich – and that’s got upwards of three hundred thousand people who will find themselves starving very quickly.  What happens when they start flooding the farms?  You have food here – and animals that can be slaughtered for human consumption.  What are you going to do when they arrive?”

“There’s the police,” Leigh said, slowly.

“I think you have to assume that the police and the military have been knocked on the head,” Alex said.  She didn't want to admit it, but it was quite possible.  “Even if there is still a working government and military out there, they are going to have more on their hands than helping you.  You need to start planning for the worst.”

“Good God,” Leigh said.  He stared down at the table, helplessly.  “I don’t think that there is anything we can do if the situation is that bad.  We can’t hold back swarms of starving humans...”

“We may have no choice,” Simpson said, flatly.  “Do you want to wait and see your families starving because you gave all your food to refugees?”

“I would remind you,” the Reverend said sharply, “that charity is your duty towards your fellow man.  Remember the parable of the Good Samaritan.”

“The Good Samaritan,” Simpson replied, “was in no danger.”

He shook his head, slowly.  “We may be in serious trouble anyway,” he warned.  “It isn't as if we keep stockpiles of food and seeds out here – normally, we could just order the supplies when we needed them.  How dependent are we on the rest of the world?  International trade is probably shot to hell.”

“No doubt,” Alex agreed.

“Then we put it to the vote,” Leigh said.  “We can speak to the people in the Church – ask them to work together to safeguard our farms and the rest of our property.  And then we can hope that this whole crisis is just going to blow over.”

“Hark at him,” Simpson crowed.  He laughed, unpleasantly.  “Stupid politicians always think that the world will go back to normal if they just keep their eyes closed long enough.  The country has been invaded, you idiot!  Even if the army does manage to give those thieving bastards a damn good thrashing, do you think that anything is going to be the same ever again?  Really?  I want some of whatever you’ve been smoking.”

Leigh reddened, but he somehow managed to keep his voice calm.  “If the worst does happen, we’re probably doomed,” he said.  “I refuse to stop hoping for the best even as I try to prepare for the worst.”

“Typical politician,” Simpson said.  He looked up at Alex, amused malice glinting in his brown eyes.  “You want to bet that we’re all dead a week from today?”

“That will do,” the Reverend said.  He stood up from the table.  “I believe that it is time to sound the bells and summon the townspeople to the Church.  We can tell them what we know and then we can decide what to do.”  He looked over at Alex.  “I’d like you to remain at hand.  You may be needed to answer questions.”

“I don’t know what else I can tell you,” Alex admitted.  “I’ve told you everything I know.”

Simpson shrugged.  “Some people will probably feel better knowing that someone in a uniform is telling them not to worry,” he said.  “Back in the War” – it took Alex a moment to realise that he meant the Second World War – “they used to tell us to keep calm and carry on.  And we did too.”

“You lived out here, safe on your farm,” Smith pointed out, with some amusement.  It was clear that he and Simpson were old friends.  “I think the people in the Blitz probably felt a little different.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Simpson said.  He looked up at Alex.  “After the meeting in the Town Hall, let me know if you decide to stick around.  I have some items you may be interested in using.”

***
The announcement and discussion in the Church was just as bad as Alex had feared.  Nearly two hundred people had crammed themselves into the building and they all wanted to talk.  The children had picked up on their parents’ emotions and looked fearful, apart from the ones too young to know that something was wrong.  Alex found herself targeted by irate people who wanted to know what had happened to the RAF, or why the invasion had been allowed to take place.  After trying to point out twice that she had been taken completely by surprise, she did her best to ignore the louder protesters.  It wasn't as if there was anything else she could do.

“We can survive this if we all pull together,” Leigh said, once the general panic had calmed down slightly.  The sheer unreality of the situation helped, although the BBC had clearly managed to cause panic in some quarters.  One report claimed that London and Manchester had been occupied by giant elephants.  Alex couldn't help, but feel that little gray aliens would have been more traditional.  “We don’t know what’s going to happen, but we will get through it all.”

The crowd didn't ask for specifics, luckily.  Alex allowed herself a moment of relief that it seemed to be quietening down, even though she wasn't sure what she wanted to do now.  Where did she go to report in?  RAF Coningsby was almost certainly destroyed – or occupied by alien forces.  The RAF had been taken completely by surprise.  

She stepped outside and looked up at the darkening sky.  An entire day had gone by and she’d barely noticed.  High overhead, the stars were coming out – and there were a handful of trails burning their way down towards Earth.  The remains of humanity’s pathetic space program, she assumed.  Some of the other lights would be alien starships...

In the distance, she heard the sound of thunder and shuddered.

The night no longer felt safe.

Chapter Eight

Salisbury Plain
United Kingdom, Day 1

“Prime Minister?”

Gabriel shook himself awake, surprised that he’d managed to fall asleep.  After they’d left London, they’d followed the Thames upstream, with only minor delays caused by bridges that the aliens had targeted from orbit.  A couple of hours later, they’d left the boat and transferred themselves to a Land Rover Butcher had recovered from somewhere.  Reading between the lines, Gabriel guessed that the vehicle had been stolen, but he had found it difficult to care.  Exhaustion had overwhelmed him soon afterwards.

They had parked in the midst of woodland, with the vehicle half-hidden under the trees.  A small group of armed soldiers wearing camouflage uniforms had surrounded the vehicle, glancing around nervously as they waited for the Prime Minister to disembark.  Gabriel knew very little about the military, but he could tell that the soldiers were worried.  No matter how he looked at the situation, there seemed little cause for optimism.  A day ago, he’d been Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.  Now...his position as Prime Minister seemed almost meaningless.  No Prime Minister had ever had to flee London for fear that enemy troops would capture or kill him.  Even Charles I had managed a reasonably dignified departure from his former capital.

Butcher led him into the woods, down towards a small concrete building marked PRIVATE, KEEP OUT.  The soldier opened the door, revealing a ladder leading down into the depths of the Earth.  Unwilling to show fear in front of the soldiers, Gabriel followed him down and realised to his relief that the lower levels of the bunker were properly lit.  A uniformed soldier was waiting for him.  The man looked deeply worried, but relieved when he saw the Prime Minister.

“Prime Minister,” the soldier said.  “I’m Brigadier Gavin Lightbridge-Stewart.  Welcome to the bunker.”

Gabriel followed the Brigadier as he led the way through a hatch into a large concrete room.  It seemed primitive compared to some of the other emergency facilities he’d seen over the years, clearly not a facility that had been intended to return to active service.  A number of maps had been scattered on the table, with red lines drawn on them by a handful of military personnel.  Several more officers were working what looked like an older set of radios, trying to get back in touch with the rest of the world.  Oddly, Gabriel felt a pang of relief as he took in the scene.  The situation was bad – disastrous – but experienced personnel were trying to come to grips with it.  They might not be so outmatched after all.

“Please, be seated,” the Brigadier said.  “I have a military brief for you, but you might prefer a shower and a change of clothes – and a hot meal.  The situation is unlikely to change in the next few hours.”

Gabriel hesitated.  In truth, he wanted the shower, and some food, and a few more hours of sleep.  But he needed to know what was going on before he could come to grips with the situation.  Perhaps they could find out what the aliens actually wanted – assuming they wanted anything.  If invasion and settlement was their goal, surely they’d have some kind of plan to deal with the human governments.  He remembered the report that alien craft were heading towards London – the craft they’d seen as they headed upriver – and shuddered.  The aliens had made at least one of their goals quite clear.

“I’d like the briefing first,” he said, finally.  The Brigadier nodded, as if he understood perfectly.  Neither of them could do much to influence the situation, but they couldn't just rest while the entire country was in danger.  “How much do we actually know about what’s going on out there?”

The Brigadier tapped one finger on the maps.  “Most of our military communications network has been badly hammered,” he said.  “We never anticipated the physical destruction of the network nodes or the satellite network orbiting the planet, although most of the hardwired connections – the land lines – are undamaged.  Our intelligence is therefore very limited and changes frequently, but I’ve had several intelligence and signals units working on what we do have and trying to put together a comprehensive picture.”

His expression darkened.  “The aliens – whoever they are, whatever they want – have clearly not limited their attentions to us,” he added.  “We have intermittent contact with the Americans and they confirm that Washington has been invaded; we also picked up a brief report from a French military unit that implied that Paris had also been hit.  I’m afraid that we have been unable to make contact with American or French government officials – the outlook, Prime Minister, isn't good.”

Gabriel nodded, bitterly.  He’d hoped that they would be able to call on NATO for support, but it was clear that NATO had fragmented, with the national military forces on the run – fighting their own hopeless battles.  The American President was a friend and he’d managed to make some progress in talking to the French President...what had happened to them after the aliens landed?  America was so powerful that he assumed that the aliens had devoted much of their attention to smashing them flat.  It was quite possible that the President and everyone else in their line of succession was dead.  

“We have been attempting to make contact with personnel in Europe – we have officers at NATO Headquarters and a British Army base in Germany – but so far attempts have proven fruitless,” the Brigadier said.  “I think we have to assume the worst; the units have been destroyed or scattered.  Parts of the internet are still working and we may be able to establish contact, but...”

He shook his head.  “Overall, Prime Minister, the news is about as bad as it can get,” he continued.  “From what reports we have received, the Royal Navy has been effectively destroyed from orbit.  We’ve picked up witness reports of warships being hit by missiles or kinetic energy weapons, leaving them ablaze and sinking.  There are reports that suggest that many large container ships have also been sunk.  We assume that the other major naval forces have also been destroyed, but we’ve heard nothing apart from a brief internet message from Toulon reporting a sinking carrier.”

“My God,” Gabriel said.  How many sailors had died before they’d even known that they were under attack?  “What about the air force?”

“The RAF has lost most of its bases to orbital strikes,” the Brigadier said.  “The aliens have been dropping in on some of the bases and converting them – I suspect – to bridgeheads.  I’ve issued orders for material to be removed from the remaining bases before the aliens arrive and take possession – the RAF Regiment has orders to briefly engage them and then withdraw before they can be destroyed by superior firepower.  A handful of aircraft survived the first strikes and attempted to hit back at the aliens, but results were...not optimum.  The aliens have also been landing on civilian airports and deploying their forces to take up positions on the ground.  Our ability to impede them is very limited.”

He waited, perhaps expecting Gabriel to say something, but there was nothing to say.  “They also bombarded most – not all – of the army garrisons in the country,” he concluded.  “Damage was very significant, but enough soldiers survived to allow us to begin preparations for underground war – if necessary.  I’ve had teams of soldiers return to the damaged bases and remove as much equipment and weaponry as we can from storage – as well as rounding up soldiers, reservists, and anyone with military experience who is willing to volunteer.  I suspect that the aliens won’t leave us alone here much longer – they have to know that we’re attempting to regroup.”

Gabriel shivered.  “Brigadier...I need a honest answer,” he said.  The Brigadier looked oddly insulted by the question.  “Can we stop them if they come here?”

“Unlikely,” the Brigadier admitted, after a moment.  He drew out a line on the map.  “I have positioned our remaining armour – that’s Challenger II tanks, the best tanks in the world – in positions where they can give the aliens a bloody nose when they come westwards.  They’re backed up by antiaircraft weapons, small antitank teams and a whole series of booby traps.  We can and we will give them a bloody nose, Prime Minister, but we can't stop them.  They have complete air supremacy and the ability to drop rocks on us from space.  A straight fight will be disastrous for us.”

“I never claimed to be a military man,” Gabriel said, slowly, “but why are you talking about fighting them if you can't stop them?”

The Brigadier frowned.  “Prime Minister...in recent years, we have had to operate on reduced logistics that have, quite frankly, cost lives.  Normally, we would be able to draw ammunition, fuel and spare parts from our deports on the mainland, although we could never afford the stockpiles that we believed to be necessary for modern warfare.  Military units burn through their supplies at terrifying speeds, even under the best of circumstances.  Right now, our logistics train has effectively been destroyed.  I imagine that we will become unable to operate the tanks within the next week.  And, of course, they have eyes in the sky.  They’d be able to detect us moving the tanks and blow them away from orbit.

“What that means is that our best chance for actually hurting them badly is now,” he added.  “From what we’ve seen of their armour in London – we managed to get pictures from the battle – we should be able to give them a rough reception.  Our tankers have been given orders to hit the enemy hard, then fall back and abandon their vehicles.  We should be able to make them more careful about advancing into unsecured territory while we prepare our fallback option.”

Gabriel shook his head slowly.  Yesterday, he’d been thinking about the economy.  Now he was forced to think about war raging across England’s green and pleasant land.  It should have been unthinkable.  He rubbed the side of his head, feeling a headache pounding inside his skull.  How could anyone come to grips with what was tearing the country – the world – apart?

He looked up at the military officer.  “And what do we do after they’ve smashed our tanks?”

“The only thing we can do,” the Brigadier admitted.  “We fight an underground war – an insurgency – until they decide that humans are too dangerous to keep as slaves.”

“But...”  Gabriel stopped, unsure if he should believe his ears.  The thought of waging an insurgency against the invaders was romantic in the abstract, but in the real world he knew it would be horrific.  God alone knew how the invaders would react to insurgents – human history showed a wide range of possible alternatives.  Hell, for all he knew the invaders had technology that would allow them to read human thoughts or track human soldiers by their scent.  “Can we hope to win?”

“I don’t know,” the Brigadier said.  “All I can say is that it seems to be the only alternative – unless we want to raise the white flag and surrender.”

Gabriel settled back into his chair, feeling the strength flowing out of his body.  Surrender?  Winston Churchill had rejected the very idea of surrender, insisting that Britain would fight on the beaches and fields and streets – but Churchill had known that invading Britain would be a monumental task for Adolf Hitler.  Would his attitude have been different, Gabriel asked himself, if the Nazis had actually landed?  Europe had seen bitter fighting in towns and cities, but Britain had been spared.  But now...the aliens had succeeded where a long string of enemies had failed.  They’d landed in England and the remains of the British military was on the run.

And yet...what did the aliens have in mind for humanity?  He’d wracked his brains, but he hadn't been able to come up with one solid reason for an advanced alien race to invade the Earth.  All they could take from Earth was humans – and surely if they were advanced enough to cross the gulf between stars, they were advanced enough to make machines that would replace slaves.  Maybe they were just mindless monsters, intent on exterminating all other races, but then they could have just dropped rocks from orbit.  Or maybe there was something he was missing.  If only he wasn't so tired...

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted.  He cursed himself a moment later, for forgetting the one thing that should have been a priority.  “What’s happening with the civilian population?”

The Brigadier’s expression hardened.  “The aliens have come down in force around London, Manchester and a dozen other cities,” he said.  “From the reports we’ve had, they’ve been refusing to allow anyone to leave and they’re backing up that refusal with live ammunition.  Other parts of the country have seen riots and unrest – I think that they’re only going to get worse as people realise that the government has been crippled.  We’re trying to get reservists out of the cities, but...”

He shook his head.  “I’m afraid it’s going to get worse, Prime Minister,” he added.  “It won’t be long before we see starvation.  God alone knows how many people are going to die.”

Gabriel silently cursed his predecessors – and himself.  Over the years, Britain had become increasingly dependent upon food imported from overseas – upwards of fifty percent of British food came from outside the country.  And with the global trading network shot to hell by the aliens, there were likely to be shortages very quickly.  The damage the aliens had inflicted on Britain's road and rail networks wouldn't make distributing what was left any easier.  There had been calls to establish a national strategic food reserve that would allow the government to feed the people, if necessary, but successive governments had chosen to avoid the issue rather than pay for the necessary precautions.

“We never planned for this sort of global outrage,” he admitted.  Perhaps, he added to himself, because the prospects were so horrifying.  “What do we do about it?”

“I don’t think we can do much about it,” the Brigadier said.  “I think that we will have to hope that the aliens choose to feed our population – we sure as hell can’t do it for ourselves.”

Gabriel tried to find some of Churchill’s determination within himself, but it seemed impossible to believe that there was any hope of victory – or even survival.  His position as Prime Minister was meaningless...

“Have a rest,” the Brigadier advised.  “I have teams working on our long-term plans – it’s possible that the aliens will give us enough time to lay the groundwork for a long-term insurgency.”

“Or they won’t,” Gabriel said.  He pulled himself to his feet.  The room seemed to be spinning around him and he was suddenly aware of the people covertly watching him.  He had to be strong for them, he told himself firmly.  It didn't help.  “If we can't beat them, Brigadier, what’s the point of even fighting?”

***
Brigadier Gavin Lightbridge-Stewart watched, his face impassive, as the Prime Minister’s bodyguards helped him down the narrow corridor.  There was a small selection of rooms under the bunker, where he could have a shower and a long sleep – God knew he needed it.  The man wasn't a soldier and hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might find himself on the run; for all the bellyaching about British politicians and the seemingly endless scandals, Britain wasn't Afghanistan or one of the other countries where political leaders knew to keep a bag packed for flight at all times.

He looked down at the map on the table, trying to force himself to remain optimistic.  The situation was grim, but the reports from London made it clear that the aliens weren't gods.  They seemed to have a slight shortage of force fields, directed energy weapons and all the other miracle technology that any self-respecting fictional alien race should possess.  In fact, some of their technology looked to be inferior to human tech – although there was no way to be sure.  The analysts had taken a look at the images of the alien landing shuttles and concluded that they shouldn't fly, at least with any technology known to mankind.  Their best guess was that the aliens had some form of negating gravity.  The shuttles actually seemed to be more fragile than human craft.  They’d been hit with Stingers and blown out of the air.

How long do we have?  He asked himself.  They’d been spoiled by modern technology.  The fog of war, once banished by overhead reconnaissance and satellite imagery, was back with a vengeance.  There was no way to know what the aliens were doing – at least until the scouts were in position to start reporting back.  And the aliens could presumably track their radio transmissions and direct their aircraft to pick them off...

The Prime Minister had looked as if he was on the verge of collapse.  Gavin couldn't blame him; no one, in their worst nightmares, had imagined an alien invasion.  He didn't want to think about what the civilian population was feeling, looking out into the darkening sky and wondering what would happen to them now that their country had been invaded.  Britain had been a good place to live for many; now...now it might become a nightmarish alien-ruled land.  Or perhaps the aliens would choose to work through human proxies.

He shook his head.  There was no way to know.

Passing command of the bunker to one of his subordinates – who had been commanding a troop of tanks until Gavin had pulled him out to serve in the bunker – he headed for the ladder up to the surface.  He could inspect the defence lines and chat with the soldiers, just to see how they were coping with the situation.  And he could start laying the groundwork for underground resistance.  The PM might swing towards coming to an accommodation with the aliens, but Gavin had other ideas.  His country had been invaded.

He wasn't going to let that pass without a fight.

Chapter Nine

London
United Kingdom, Day 2

Westminster looked like a war zone.

No, Alan Beresford, Member of Parliament for Haltemprice, corrected himself.  It was a war zone.  Alan prided himself on his cynical approach to life – it had certainly served him well in politics – but even he felt a pang as he saw the damage the aliens had inflicted on the heart of the British Government.  The Houses of Parliament were scorched – by the aliens or their human defenders – and Big Ben had collapsed inward on itself.  There had been hundreds of dead bodies scattered about, but from what he’d heard the aliens were collecting them up and disposing of them.  He didn't want to think about how.

At thirty-five, Alan had been in politics for most of his life.  His father had been a well-connected MP who had arranged for his son to receive employment within the office of another MP, who had in turn opened up a whole series of doors for his friend’s son.  Alan knew little about the world outside politics and cared less.  All he cared about was the chance to make money, increase his personal power base and pass his legacy on to his son.  He’d dreaded the prospect of an effective Prime Minister in Ten Downing Street for a long time – the thought of someone like Thatcher taking a look at his hidden secrets was terrifying – and he’d done a great deal to keep the position in the hands of a pathetic non-entity.  Alan no longer believed in Britain, but then – why should he?  The great British population, blessed with the gift of democracy, freely chose to elect men with few real qualifications for government – and then blamed those men for what they did to the country.  No one had ever really held Parliament to account for a very long time.

But now...the world had changed overnight.  Aliens had arrived, real aliens.  Alan hadn’t seen any of the battle at first hand, not when he’d been cowering in his upmarket flat fearing that every second might be his last.  He’d believed that it was more likely to be terrorists and the BBC’s increasingly absurd broadcasts just another sign of panic caused by the bastards.  The news had only penetrated his skull when his political fixer had staggered in, bleeding from his shoulder, and raving about massive aliens.  And then he’d heard their broadcast...

His position as an elected MP was useless now, Alan knew.  The British Government was on the run – no one had seen hide or hair of Burley and his ineffectual Cabinet since the aliens had landed.  Alan knew better than to assume that Burley could turn the situation around, which meant that it was every man for himself.  The aliens, on the other hand, wielded real power.  He could make an alliance with them and offer his services in exchange for protection, wealth and more power than he’d ever dreamed possible.  Who knew what sort of rewards a race that could cross the gulfs between stars could offer their faithful servants?

He stopped dead as he saw the alien patrol turning towards him.  Despite his belief that the aliens needed allies, it took all of his strength not to turn and flee.  The massive brutes loomed over him, carrying weapons that seemed too large to be real.  Alan had used shotguns and hunting rifles while staying at estates owned by his friends, but the alien weapons were very different.  It struck him that the aliens had to be less socially developed than humanity – yet it hardly mattered.  They’d crossed the gulf of space to reach Earth and impose their will upon humanity.  It had taken them barely a day to crush most of humanity’s defences.

Alan smiled and held up his hands, hoping that the aliens would understand the gesture.  Their dark eyes showed no sign of human emotions; their faces seemed curiously immobile, almost as if they didn't have emotions at all.  Or perhaps he was just looking in the wrong place.  They might show their thoughts by how their hands moved when they spoke.

“I come in peace,” he said.  “Take me to your leader.”

“Follow us,” the lead alien grated.  The voice didn't seem to come from its mouth, but from a small device hanging down below its oversized chin.  Alan wasn't too surprised that they could speak English.  They were clearly advanced enough to monitor human broadcasts and decipher human languages.  “Do not attempt to escape.”

The area surrounding Ten Downing Street and Buckingham Palace had been devastated.  Alien machines were moving through the rubble, pushing it aside and exposing the hidden network of tunnels under Whitehall.  A set of alien-designed buildings had already been erected in Hyde Park, allowing them to come and go freely, rather than trying to fit into human buildings.  They’d have problems using human vehicles and aircraft, Alan told himself, and smiled.  Even he appreciated that the aliens were on the end of a very long logistics chain.  They’d be delighted if he could convince thousands of humans to serve their new overlords.

One of the aliens held up an oversized hand to stop him in his tracks, while a second waved what looked like a metal wand over his body.  A security check, he realised, and allowed his mobile phone to be confiscated without demur.  He hadn't been able to get a signal to call anyone – the landlines seemed to be badly damaged, or perhaps the staff just hadn’t reported in after the aliens had landed – and he made a mental note to suggest to the aliens that they restore mobile phone communications as soon as possible.  It would go a long way towards allowing them to win hearts and minds.  

The interior of the alien building was oddly disappointing.  It seemed more like a giant tent than anything else, with dozens of aliens working on small consoles and barking orders – or at least he assumed they were orders – at their subordinates.  A massive image of Britain was displayed against one wall, covered with red and green markers that appeared to surround most of the larger cities.  For the first time, Alan allowed himself to doubt the wisdom of his course of action.  The aliens seemed to have won the war in the first day.  Perhaps they wouldn't need him...

His escorts opened a door in the side of the building and pushed him into an oversized office.  It was easy to believe that it was a power office, like the rooms favoured by CEOs he knew, but perhaps it was just normal for the aliens.  They would need more living space than humans – a large human office might be uncomfortably cramped for them.  A single alien was half-crouching in front of a desk, tapping away at what had to be a computer terminal.  He – Alan decided to assume that it was a male, at least until it was proven otherwise – wore a simple black uniform, decorated with golden writing.  Assuming the aliens prized gold as much as humanity, he was looking at a senior officer.  He stepped forward and did his best to place an interested expression on his face.  Who knew how the aliens would react to a man offering to help them?

“I am Ju’tro Oheghizh,” the alien said.  Alan assumed that Ju’tro was a title of some kind – General, perhaps, or Leader?  It was unlikely that the supreme commander of a force invading the entire planet would be based in Britain.  “You wished to talk with me?”

“Yes, sir,” Alan said.  Perhaps the alien wouldn't understand human respect, but there was no reason to take chances.  “I am a high official in the government of this country.  I wish to offer you my services.”

There was a long moment as the alien’s unreadable eyes bored into Alan’s face.  “We know who you are,” the alien said, finally.  Alan’s mind raced; he hadn't seen them communicating, but who knew what they might be able to do?  They might have communications implants in their skulls.  “You will assist us in bringing humanity into the State.”

“Of course,” Alan said, quickly.  He allowed himself another smile.  “I would be happy to serve.”

***
“You know,” Sergeant Singh observed, “I was rather hoping that it would be a nightmare.”

Robin nodded in agreement.  They’d found their way to a police station, hidden most of the weapons in what he hoped was a secure hiding place, and then gone to sleep in the station’s dormitory.  A handful of policemen with families had gone to their homes to check on their loved ones.  No one had attempted to dissuade them.  Robin had considered trying to slip out of the city and make it to his house – and his wife – but the aliens had blocked all of the roads out of London.  He had kept trying the telephone, only to hear nothing, not even a dial tone.

He pulled himself out of the bunk and checked the shower.  The station's internal water supply was still working, thankfully, as was the internal generator.  Most of London's power had been lost overnight, although there was no way to know if the aliens had done it deliberately or if humans had simply shut the power stations down before they fell into alien hands.  London had seemed uneasily quiet after the events of the invasion, but Robin had no illusions.  It wouldn't be long before the veneer of society fell away and what remained of social order collapsed into anarchy.  And without the police on the streets, it was likely to spread rapidly.  God alone knew what would happen then.

“I managed to get some news from the BBC,” one of the constables reported after he entered the briefing room.  Had it only been two days ago when he’d been on patrol, back when the world had made sense?  “They were claiming that negotiations are in progress and it was all a terrible mistake.”

Robin snorted.  “That was no mistake,” he said, flatly.  He couldn't see how a race that could cross light years could launch an attack on London by accident.  The BBC had never impressed him as a policeman, if only because it tended to side against the police force whenever its honour, capability or competence was called into question.  “The planet has been invaded and we’re at war.  God help us.”

He scowled over at the darkened terminal.  Normally, it would have been glowing with updates from across the city, as well as items of interest, lists of suspects and all the other information that the modern policeman needed on a daily basis.  Now, it was dark, suggesting that the police communications network was still down.  Each of the police stations would have been cut off from the others...he shook his head, bitterly.  What were they supposed to do now?  Report in to the aliens and see what they had in mind for police officers?

“I’ve got something,” one of the other constables said.  “I heard a voice...”

He fiddled with the radio again and the static faded away to a background hiss.  “...Speaking for the Conquest Force,” a voice – unmistakably human – said.  “I am the sole surviving member of the British Government.  We have been defeated.  The Eridian Conquest Fleet has destroyed our defences.  We can no longer offer resistance to their invasion force.  I am therefore ordering all remaining military units to surrender at once to the nearest Eridian force.  Their leaders have assured me that they will be treated well, in accordance with their Rules of Law.”

Robin swore.  “Who the hell is that?”

“That’s Beresford,” Sergeant Singh said.  “I think he’s sold out to the aliens!”

“We must accept the fact that human independence is over,” Beresford continued.  “They have informed me that humans who are willing to serve will receive good treatment and a chance to climb within their ranks.  Humans who refuse to serve them will be treated as criminals and rebels against the new lawful authority on Earth.  I have been charged with making the process of human assimilation into their society as smooth as possible.  There is no other hope for the survival of humanity.  The aliens rule the skies.  Long-term resistance will only result in the deaths of millions of humans.

“Accordingly, I am ordering all civil servants and policemen to report for service at once,” he continued.  “Those who do not report will be treated as deserters and will face the consequences when they are caught.  Our priority must be the reestablishment of law and order within Britain.  Those who do not submit to their rule will be punished.”

There was a long pause.  “We have grown used to human despots concealing their true motives behind fancy language,” he concluded.  “The Eridians do not seem to share our attitudes.  They wanted Earth; they took it.  Their attitudes will not be swayed by pleas or protests.  They believe that might makes right.  Do not, for the sake of all humanity, seek to challenge them.  They will respond with deadly force.”

A moment passed, and then the message began to repeat itself.  “Turn it off,” Robin snarled, savagely.  He couldn't believe his ears.  There was no way to doubt that Beresford had sold out to Earth’s new masters.  They’d probably promised him wealth and power if he served them.  “What the hell do we do now?”

One of the constables put their choice into words.  “They seem to want us to work for them,” he said.  “If we do that...”

“Collaboration,” someone else growled.

“If we work with them,” the constable continued, “we would insulate the ordinary people – the people we swore to protect – from the aliens.  If we refuse...we put our lives and those of our families in danger.  We all know how the aliens react to challenges.”

Robin nodded, bitterly.  A group of louts – if he could be excused a moment of political incorrectness – had attacked an alien patrol with glass bottles and little else, apart from bad intentions.  The aliens had opened fire and killed many of their attackers before the remainder fled for their lives.  It hadn't been the only encounter between the aliens and humans who had tried to fight either.  The aliens didn't seem to care that the humans were young, barely armed, and powerless...they’d seen a threat and dealt with it.  They didn't have lawyers and politicians in uniform holding them back from handing out a good thrashing.

“There’s another possibility,” Sergeant Singh suggested.  “We join up – and prepare ourselves to turn on the aliens if necessary.  They might have told us that they’ve crushed all resistance, but we know that that might not be true.”

“I won’t push anyone into the decision,” Robin said.  He’d made up his mind.  “If anyone wants to leave, they can do so now – without fear.  I will go and see if I can shield humans from them...”

“Maybe,” Sergeant Singh said.  “Or perhaps they’ll expect us to do as we’re told.  And we might be told to do something truly awful.”

***
Fatima rubbed her eyes as she pulled herself from the depths of sleep.  She’d just run out of energy – after seeing so many patients she’d lost count, she’d ended up finding a quiet corner and just collapsing into an uneasy sleep.  Never in her worst nightmares had she imagined having to help so many people – and watch others die though lacking the supplies to save them.  Maybe it had been a dream...she shook her head, cursing her own weakness.  It had been no dream.  They were still in the makeshift hospital and she could hear patients moaning in pain.

She pulled herself to her feet and headed towards the corridor.  It was crammed with patients, lying on the floor; only the lucky ones had blankets to insulate themselves from the cold.  The sight appalled her; the NHS hadn't been the best medical service in the world, but it wouldn't have allowed such conditions in a hospital.  Now...now there was nothing they could do for their patients, but try to make them as comfortable as possible.  They’d raided all the nearby chemists and supermarkets – and they were still short of supplies.

A hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped.  “You all right, missy?”

It was a policeman, wearing what looked like riot-control gear.  “I’m tired,” she said, bitterly.  “What are you doing here?”

“It seems that they want us to take care of the hospitals,” the policeman said.  He sounded as if he didn't quite believe his own words – or the changes in the world since...had it really been only a day ago?  “There’s fifty of us assigned here and over a hundred at the nearest hospital.  Someone’s been helping them assign us, that's for sure.  Did you hear the broadcast?”

“I’ve been sleeping,” Fatima admitted.  Her body ached and she was uncomfortably aware that she stank.  The white jacket she wore had been stained by blood.  Her supervisor would have been furious at her if she’d turned up to work looking as if she’d walked out of a slaughterhouse.  “What happened?”

“One of our beloved MPs has sold out to the aliens,” the policeman explained.  “I think we’re expected to bow and scrape before them now – or they’ll be offended.  And it seems that their response to offense is to open fire.”

Fatima shivered.  “Is there nothing we can do?”

“It seems that we’ve been beaten,” the policeman said.  “Maybe there’ll be a chance to do something about it later, but for the moment we just have to keep our heads down and see what happens.  Maybe the remains of the military can beat them off, or...something.  Perhaps the Americans will fly a captured UFO up to the mothership and blow them up...”

He shook his head.  “All we can do is wait and see,” he said.  “The fighting seems to be at an end – and we lost.  The country has been invaded.  And God alone knows what is going to happen next.”

Chapter Ten

Near Salisbury Plain
United Kingdom, Day 2

“You know,” Chris Drake said, “I never thought I would be pleased to see a redcap.”

The Military Policeman smiled, a little weakly.  “It’s been one of those days,” he agreed.  “Name, rank and unit?”

Chris smiled.  He’d allowed the Thames to push him out of London before climbing out and finding a convenient place to dry himself.  There had been a small charity shop nearby where he’d picked up enough clothes to keep himself warm as he walked the long way around London and up towards Salisbury Plain.  He’d been lucky enough to find a civilian Range Rover, which he’d borrowed to complete the rest of the journey, but he’d been forced to stay off the main roads.  The aliens, according to the radio transmissions he’d picked up, liked roads.  They would, he assumed, have shot him or captured him the moment they saw him.

He’d relaxed a little as he headed westwards, until he’d run into the military police unit.  He wasn't the only soldier who’d been separated from his unit and forced to travel alone to the rendezvous point, although as far as he knew he was the only soldier who’d escaped the Battle of London.  The others had been supposed to link up in a disused warehouse and consider either making it out by foot or carrying on the fight against the invaders – God alone knew what had happened to them.  He’d trained beside them, fought beside them – and now he was alone.  Unless he was very lucky, he’d be pushed into a new unit to make up the manpower shortfall.

“You were in London?”  The MP said asked, clearly impressed.  “We’ve got orders to forward all survivors from London to the RV point.  It seems that some of our superiors will want to talk to you.”

Chris hesitated.  There was a defence line being constructed that should slow the aliens down – he doubted that a force with air supremacy could be stopped – and part of him wanted to join it, to get stuck into the aliens who had killed so many of his friends and comrades.  The rest of him knew that it was his duty to brief his superiors, to tell them what had happened at London and to ensure that the Household Division’s last stand went down in the history books.  But would the people writing the history books be human – or alien?

“They’re going to be waiting to hear from you,” the MP said, a moment later.  “I suggest you brief them quickly.  They’re going to hit us soon.”

Chris nodded and gunned the engine.  He knew the area around Salisbury Plain fairly well – a legacy of the time spent boozing after exercises in the Live Firing Training Area – and it shook him to see so many deserted houses.  The civilians would have been warned to leave the area as quickly as possible, whatever the aliens might have had to say about it.  They probably wouldn't care if human civilians were caught in the crossfire.  Everything they’d done suggested a certain lack of concern for human life.  The sight of refugees heading north or south tore at his heart.  Britain hadn't seen such deprivation since the Civil War – and that, by European standards of the time, had been remarkably civilised.  He caught sight of a tank hidden under camouflage netting and waved to the man standing beside it, clearly planning an ambush.  They should get in at least one good shot before the aliens started dropping killer crowbars from orbit.

Two miles further on, he ran into a second group of military policemen who ordered him to abandon the Range Rover and proceed on foot.  The woodlands seemed crammed with human soldiers, including Royal Marines and RAF Regiment personnel, all forced together by circumstances.  Chris had fought beside the Royal Marines in Afghanistan and while he thought – naturally – that the soldiers had the advantage, he had to admit that the Royal Marines were tough, professional fighters.  The military policemen were sorting them out, sending some further away from Salisbury Plain while holding others to join the defence line.  It looked as if someone was in command, thankfully.  Perhaps everything he’d seen in London would be useful after all.

But the aliens controlled the high orbitals over Earth.  They could bombard the planet into submission, or hammer any human military force foolish enough to show itself openly.  How could an insurgency hope to win against such an enemy?  God alone knew if they could do more than sting the enemy...

“Down here,” a military policeman said.  There was a hatch hidden in the woods, seemingly leading down to nowhere.  Given how many other bunkers, bases and supply dumps were scattered around Salisbury Plain, it made sense to think that there was a government bunker hidden there too.  “They’ll meet you at the bottom.”

Chris nodded and began to descend down the ladder.

***
“Are you decent, Prime Minister?”

Gabriel snorted at Butcher’s mock-falsetto tone.  He’d slept for several hours and awoke feeling as if he hadn't slept very long at all, but his watch told a different story.  Butcher – who had apparently been assigned as his permanent bodyguard – had pointed him at the shower and told him to take his time.  Someone had brought in a spare set of clothes, allowing him to lose the suit and tie he’d worn during the mad rush from London.  The military seemed to have maintained its sense of efficiency, he told himself, and wondered how long that would last.  

“I think so,” he said, finally.  He hadn't been able to shave and his cheeks felt rough with stubble.  “Have we been discovered?”

“I don’t think so,” Butcher said.  “But there have apparently been developments.  I’ll leave it to the Brigadier to brief you.”

They walked down the concrete corridor and into the conference room.  Most of the operators he remembered from last night were missing, their stations shut down and marked for destruction.  In fact, the entire bunker complex seemed emptier than he recalled – even though he could hear the sound of people talking in low voices down the corridor.  He assumed that they hadn't been detected – they would have fled the bunker if they had even suspected that the aliens knew where they were – but it was clear that something had changed.  The Brigadier, when he made his appearance a moment later followed by a young soldier, looked deeply worried.

“Prime Minister,” he said.  “I’m afraid that there have been developments.”

Gabriel listened carefully as the story of the Battle of London came pouring out of the young soldier.  Two companies of British soldiers had fought and held the aliens for nearly an hour, before the aliens finally pushed through by brute force.  London itself had been damaged in the crossfire, with at least one alien transport crash-landing in Central London.  The thought was impossible to grasp – it just wasn't supposed to happen in Britain.  Even the suicide bombers who’d killed far too many civilians on 7/7 hadn't even dreamed of causing so much pain.  

“It gets worse,” the Brigadier added.  “I’m afraid that the aliens have found themselves a Petain.”

He tapped a console and the recorded radio message played out, twice.  Gabriel found himself listening with growing anger as Alan Beresford – an MP who had been implicated in a dozen scandals, yet nothing quite seemed to stick – recited the alien message to the British population.  God alone knew what the public would make of it.  They’d be frightened, isolated from the rest of the world, unsure of their place...far too many would simply grasp the straw Beresford was offering them.  And the aliens themselves...

If Beresford was to be believed, their social development had not matched their technological development.  But then, a case could be made that humanity’s development hadn’t matched its technology either.  The aliens...they’d come, they’d seen and they’d conquered, with as little regard for the rights of mankind as Julius Caesar had shown to the barbarians he’d crushed beneath the heels of his legions.  It was tempting to believe that Beresford was a liar – Gabriel wouldn't have believed that the sky was blue if Beresford had said it – but so far everything the aliens had done matched what he’d said.  But then...if Nazi Germany had won World War Two, everyone would have been raised to believe that Nazism was right.

“My God,” he said, finally.  “What do we do about it?”

The Brigadier scowled.  “The last reports have the aliens massing forces here, here and here,” he said, tapping locations on the map.  “I believe that they intend to advance westwards within the next few hours and scatter our forces before we can regroup and take the offensive.  I’m afraid that we’re going to have to put our emergency plan into operation before too long.”

Gabriel nodded.  “What do we have to do?”

“You’re going to a secure location in the north – an old estate that belongs to a family that has been linked with the British Government for centuries,” the Brigadier said.  “It was always envisaged as the final resort – and so there haven’t been any mentions of it on our computers or anywhere else.  Butcher and his team will escort you there and then take care of you, once you’ve recorded a message for the civilians.  You have to tell them that there’s a government still out there fighting...”

“But won’t that encourage them to fight themselves?”  Gabriel asked.  “Won’t we just be prolonging the agony?”

“I wish I knew,” the Brigadier admitted.  “Back when I did a stint at Northwood, I saw some of the contingency plans and scenarios dreamed up by civil servants.  They all tended to change depending upon the underlying assumptions, but I think we have to assume that the majority of the civilian population will not resist the invaders.  But there’s a fine line between not resisting and outright collaboration and...if they believe that there is a government left out there, fewer people will collaborate.  I think that the aliens have to have limits on their manpower.  Whatever their FTL drive, shipping millions of troops across interstellar distances cannot be cost-effective.”

“And the fewer collaborators they have, the harder it will be for them to rule Earth,” Gabriel said.  The Brigadier nodded.  “But what do they want?”

“If we take that traitorous bastard at his word, they think they have the right to rule everyone too weak to stand up to them,” the Brigadier said.  “Or maybe they have some other goal in being here that they’re keeping to themselves – perhaps because they fear we could spite them in some way.  Overall...we don't know what they want.

“The good news is that we managed to make contact with two of our missile boats,” he added.  “The aliens hit our submarine bases pretty hard, but we had three of the four boats at sea and two of them have been appraised of the situation.  Using them may be tricky with the aliens controlling space, yet we do feel that there are possibilities.  We’ve also managed to pull most of the tactical nukes from their storage bunkers and I’ve given orders to conceal them...”

“They are not to be used without my express permission,” Gabriel said, sharply.  The thought of nuclear war on British soil was horrifying.  “I want you to make that clear to your officers.”

“They know to keep them in reserve,” the Brigadier said, flatly.  “Overall, most of our deployed submarines – the attack submarines as well – seem to have survived.  They may be usable in the future, but for the moment we have no firm plans.”

He stood up.  “We’ll make a stand when they come west and give them a bloody nose, then fall back to prepared positions,” he concluded.  “And then most of the lads will go underground and carry on the fight.  The aliens have ordered all military and police personnel to surrender themselves – they’ve clearly started putting the police to work, but no one thinks they intend to make use of the soldiers!  It seems that they’re already establishing detention camps near the cities.  Most of the lads would sooner die than go into one of them.”

***
“People of Britain,” Gabriel said, twenty minutes later.  It didn't sound good.  Normally, back in Ten Downing Street, he would have had a speechwriter, a make-up artist and a careful briefing on who was expected to be in the media crowd and what questions they might ask.  He’d spent so much time preparing for speeches that it had often struck him that he’d done little else in his brief time as Prime Minister.  And now...half the population would probably curse him as a man who’d fled, leaving them to face the aliens.  “Our nation has been invaded.”

He took a breath.  “I won’t lie to you,” he continued.  He’d wanted to be honest in his speeches, but the crowd of advisers had warned that too much blunt speaking could backfire.  The public seemed to believe that politicians were always liars, yet they elected men who made them feel good about themselves – instead of telling them the truth.  At least now he could go with his instincts.  “The situation is dire.  Many of our cities have been invaded directly; others have lost power and water supplies.  Anarchy is threatening to grip our streets.  

“Many of you will be frightened.  Many of you will wonder if we can resist the aliens, or even if we should resist the aliens.  Others will seek to take advantage of the chaos for their own benefit.  I know that many of you will be looking to safeguard your families and friends, rather than thinking about the welfare of the country.  I cannot blame you for worrying about your own lives, or those of your friends and families.  The entire country has suffered a devastating blow.  Our world has been turned upside down.

“But Britain has a long and proud history of resisting tyranny.  It was us who stood alone against Nazi Germany, though we were bombed and half-starved and suffered defeat after defeat.  We played a full part in the containment of Communist Russia, preventing general war from engulfing Europe for the third time.  We stood firm against Napoleon when he threatened to invade our shores.  The situation is dire, but it is not hopeless.  We can fight back against the latest invaders.

“The British Government has survived and it will carry on the fight as long as possible,” he concluded.  “I will not order you to resist – I want you to decide for yourselves.  If you wish to stand up and fight for Britain, for the freedom of our island nation, join us in resisting the enemy.  Take care of yourselves, plan carefully – and hit them as hard as you can.  There will be many dark days ahead, days where we can assume nothing, but blood, toil, tears and sweat, but there will come a day when we live freely in our own land once again.”

He tapped the switch, ending the recording.  “Very good, Prime Minister,” Linux said.  “I’ll have it online tonight, once this bunker has been evacuated.  The entire world will hear your speech...”

Gabriel frowned.  “But the aliens will try to wipe it from the internet,” he pointed out.  Their jamming had certainly prevented any attempt to reclaim the airwaves.  “How can we stop them purging it before it reaches its intended audience?”

“Leave that to me,” Linux said.  “There are thousands of people on the internet who devised all kinds of programs to share files – despite the best that governments and big corporations could do to stop it.  We’ll get your message to the world – after that, it’s all up to them.”

“Thank you,” Gabriel said.  He wanted to ask what would happen to the young soldier, but the words wouldn't form in his mouth.  How could he ask anyone to fight for Britain when he was going to run away and hide?

Butcher cleared his throat.  “Prime Minister?”  He said.  “It’s time to go.”

“Understood,” Gabriel said.  He hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.  “Let’s go.”

The climb back up into the open air made him feel oddly claustrophobic.  It was a relief when they finally reached the surface and emerged in the midst of a small group of armed soldiers.  Butcher spoke to them briefly, and then led the way northwards through the woods.  Gabriel could hear the sound of birds chirping in the distance, ignoring the presence of human soldiers in their habitats.  Their lives would go on regardless of who ruled the planet.  He looked up into the bright blue sky and shivered.  There was something impossibly surreal about the whole scene.

“The scouts reported refugees gathering to the north,” Butcher said, as they reached a civilian car that had obviously been commandeered by the military.  “We’ll try to give them a wide berth.  The aliens don’t seem to care about civilian vehicles, but I think that will change once they realise that we've been using them to ship men around under their noses.”

Gabriel opened his mouth to ask why they were using a civilian car, before realising that there was no other choice.  He couldn't have made it to the north on foot.  The SAS men were used to walking for miles in a single day, but he’d just slow them down.  They had to rely on the car and hope that the aliens didn't start blasting vehicles at random.

He glanced over towards the east.  No plumes of smoke marred the sky, but he knew that the aliens were present – and planning their offensive.  He wondered how many people still didn't realise what had happened, or what was going on – there had to be entire communities that hadn’t had any contact with the aliens.  No matter how advanced they were, he couldn't see how they intended to occupy every last town and village on the planet.  If he was in their shoes, how would he do it?  Target America, Europe, Russia and China...and let the rest of the world collapse into chaos?

And how long could Gabriel accept his people suffering while he hid from their new masters?