The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

RAF Coningsby

Lincolnshire, United Kingdom

31^st August 2001
General Mathews smiled at Colonel Anderson as the helicopter settled in to land on the RAF base, which was already assuming an impression of disuse. It wasn’t so much physical – the base seemed as active as always – but spiritual; the atmosphere of a base that knew that it was running out of time. Once the Posleen got on the ground and deployed their interdiction systems, the RAF would only be useful for fast courier efforts across the Atlantic.
“Pleased to see you, sir,” Anderson said, shaking his hand. “What’s London like?”
“Panicking,” Mathews said wryly. “The economy has finally gone crash, even with the united global action.”
“It’s nice to know that we can work together on something,” Anderson said wryly. “I would have thought that the arms trade alone would have done something useful for the economy.”
“Not when every nation needs everything its got,” Mathews said. He snorted. “You’ll be delighted to know that the Darhel refusal to deal with anyone, except the major powers and those who were willing to send troops into space, has really pissed off the UN. Some of the minor countries are making a stink about it.”
“Screw them,” Anderson said, a very politically incorrect viewpoint. “I’m surprised that the UN has survived the first month after Contact was announced.”
“It still has its uses,” Mathews assured him. “Even Saddam is offering troops to the Darhel.”
“And they’ll return to a Posleen-infested ruin,” Anderson said. “Deserts and hardly any natural features, particularly against such a ruthless opponents. They won’t be slowed down by the Kabala Gap.”
“It’s been pointed out to Saddam, I think, from a safe distance,” Mathews said. He smiled. “The Darhel won’t be getting their money’s worth, I fear.”
Anderson shrugged. “Speaking of the Galactics and GalTech, I want to introduce you to something interesting,” he said, leading the way over to a hanger. “One of our major problems is that we may not be able to get a working tank that can stand against the Galactics, even the modified Challenger-II tanks. We have plans, sir, but the production is going to be a real bitch, if you’ll pardon my French.”
“Duly pardoned,” Mathews said. Anderson tapped the hanger door key. “What do you have for me?”
The hanger door started to open, widening to a point where a heavy bomber could pass into the hanger. The hum of an unfamiliar engine began as Anderson shouted instructions, giving orders in a voice that would have befitted a drill sergeant. And, slowly, something began to emerge from the hanger.
Mathews’ first thought was that it was a gigantic spider. It crawled along the ground on eight legs, four on each side, and it was studded with mechanical tools and strange objects. Four heavy machine guns, clearly controlled by computer, were mounted on the top, and it moved with a strange ambling motion that was curiously hypnotic. A small hatch in the side showed where the human operator would sit, directing the machine to do…what?
“What the hell is that thing?” Mathews asked. “I thought that we had discarded the concept of a walker.”
“Meet the GalTech answer to some of our prayers,” Anderson said, his voice serious. “It’s a massive trench and fortification builder, capable of constructing an entire series of trenches and walls within hours. It sucks in dirt and mashes it into building material, powered by an energy source that can be adapted to power the suits, when we finally get them.”
He grinned. “It’s not designed as an offensive weapon,” he said, “but it has some offensive capability. Not only does it have some limited fabrication capability for bullets, but it can hurl dirt and rocks at the Posleen, making them very miserable indeed.” He smiled. “They’re very good indeed at tracking incoming projectiles, but can they handle thousands of small compressed boulders?”
Mathews smiled. “I don’t know,” he said. The machine certainly looked deadly enough, with the equipment folded up on its top. “Can they?”
“In a few months, we should have enough of these to begin the construction of basic fortifications around the cities,” Anderson said. “That’s not what they’re really meant for, though; think of them as instant defences for the holding line.” He waved a hand at the machine. “The machine can build fortifications that will provide some defence for an infantry force, suits or no suits.”
“And, when we’re on the retreat, one of them can build us a new line of defence posts,” Anderson said. “The Posleen are going to hate the machines.”
Mathews nodded. “I like them already,” he said. “Now, what are you going to call them?” A thought struck him. “Oh, God; please don’t tell me…”
Anderson grinned mischievously. “They’re the Handling Machines¹¹, of course,” he said. “What else could we call them?”

Chapter Nine: Gathering Pace

Churchill Training Centre

United Kingdom

14 September 2001
Once he’d gotten used to army life, Sarfraz was starting to enjoy it, at least to some degree. Sergeant Benton – they’d learnt on the second day never to call him ‘sir’ – was a good teacher, even though it was easy to hate him. Once the recruits had gotten used to him, they discovered that they didn’t hate him; after all, he was trying to keep them alive.
The first few weeks had been pretty uneventful, even though they had been hard. The first thing that they’d gone though, on the second day, had been a major medical check-up, with some very embarrassing questions and medical procedures, following a compulsory donation of their own blood. Once that had been perfected, they’d begun physical training, working out the last fat from their bodies and building up their strength. Quite apart from football matches, which were apparently intended to develop their teamwork, they’d marched over the countryside, carrying heavy packs and weapon-shaped objects.
He grinned. Derek had asked when they would develop their own weapon training, and the answer had been in the second month. Their training was moving ahead fast; they were expected to learn driving^th and shooting very quickly. Sergeant Benton was insistent that they learned to take care of their weapons, giving them horror stories about what happened to people who didn’t take care of their guns.
“You have to keep the weapons empty and cleaned when you’re not using them,” he’d bellowed. “When the weapon is unchecked, Mr Rifle is not your friend.”
They’d chuckled, but the seriousness of the situation had not escaped them. Sergeant Benton had taken them through an entire catalogue of weapons, explaining how they worked, enough to ensure that they were familiar with the weapons. Now, however, they were going to be introduced to something new, something…alien.
Sarfraz smiled to himself. He hadn’t believed in the aliens at first, but meeting one of the little Indowy had convinced him. The tiny alien had brought in something called a Handling Machine, which they were expected to learn to use. The massive spider-like machine had promptly dug up the front lawn, making a defence line that they could use in their drills.
“Attention,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “Stand to attention!”
The men formed up, far more briskly than they had done before being introduced to the army. The regiment – for they would form a new regiment when they were declared ready for service – saluted as one when Captain Yates appeared, moving briskly to stand on the small stand.
“At ease,” Sergeant Benton bellowed, at a nod from Yates. “Stand…at ease!”
The regiment relaxed, minutely. Sergeant Benton had explained, often enough, that there were varying values of ‘at ease’ and when dealing with senior officers, it was wise to stand to semi-attention, rather than relaxing completely. If the senior officer ordered a soldier to relax, the soldier could do so, but only if directly ordered.
“We have a special treat for you today,” Yates said. The regiment didn’t quite wince; Sergeant Benton’s idea of treats included midnight marches and low rations from time to time. “Observe.”
He waved a hand at the main door. From the darkness, an armoured form moved out, moving gracefully towards the stand. Sarfraz stared, his attention forgotten, just captivated by the armoured suit. His eyes swept over it; it was rock-grey, with weapons and equipment studded all over it’s form. Despite its size, it moved smoothly and almost silently.
“This is a training suit,” Yates said. “It’s one of the first hundred made for us. Sergeant Stark, if you please?”
The suit suddenly moved rapidly, heading over the training field. The trench that the Handling Machine had dug was vaulted over in seconds, the suit was moving faster and faster. One arm lifted…and a hail of gunfire shattered the training display. The soldiers gasped as the suit flipped over in a back flip that Batman could only dream of, before canting back to them.
“Impressed?” Yates asked. The men knew better then to answer. “You may be wondering why the suit is here, instead of one of the other training grounds, or with the forces heading to one of the alien worlds. Basically, we expect to be able to form three to four regiments of armoured combat suits, but none of them will be ready in time for anything beyond the actual invasion itself.”
He grinned. “I am telling you this because you need to understand what’s at stake,” he continued. “The Armoured Combat Suits are very different from Challenger tanks, different enough to make such experience worthless. In the next couple of years, we hope to turn you lot into ACS troopers, the elite of the force. Quite frankly, you have less to unlearn.”
He nodded at the ACS, which opened up neatly, disgorging a man. Sarfraz noted with some amusement that he wasn’t even breathing hard. Sergeant Stark was tall and dark haired, with a small moustache that seemed to dominate his entire face somehow.
“You had better take care of my baby,” Sergeant Stark said. His voice was faintly upper class. “That is a Mark-I combat suit, capable of lifting tons of weapons and equipment, capable of moving at nearly seventy miles per hour and capable of running for hours without needing a recharge.” He chuckled. “It takes time and effort to learn how to use it – are any of you claustrophobic?”
He went on without waiting for a reply. “You have to be careful because the suit amplifies what you do,” he said. “Try to shake someone’s hand and you’ll take their arm off. Jump…and you’ll jump further than you believed possible, thanks to the antigravity system inside the suit. Any questions?”
There was a long pause. “When do we get to try it?” Derek asked.
Stark laughed. “How about right now?” He asked. “We’re moving in American-designed simulators now, so that you learn the ropes without having an individual suit to practice on, because an individual suit…configures itself to a permanent user.” He sniggered. “You also have to be naked to use it, or nearly naked in our designs. Now, who is going to volunteer to be first?”
Captain Yates looked at Sergeant Benton. “Johnston, step forward,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “As the first to complete the March of Death¹², you will have the honour of trying the armour first.”
“Lucky bastard,” Derek muttered. Sarfraz grinned. “Look at him go.”
***

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

“You have to climb into the suit, then hold your breath for thirty seconds,” Sergeant Stark said. Sarfraz was glad that his face couldn’t pale. “I’d shave too, if I was you,” Stark continued. “It’ll scratch inside.”
Sarfraz climbed inside, feeling the jelly-like material rippling around him. “Remember to hold your breath,” Stark said again, and placed the helmet over his head. Sarfraz nearly screamed as his head was enveloped in the strange material, pouring over his head and down over his face. The darkness was oppressive; he couldn’t feel anything. Suddenly, just as he was about to start thrashing around, the material moved back, giving him something to breath.
“How are you in there?” Stark’s voice asked. Through the suit, it sounded perfect, much to Sarfraz’s surprise. The suit was projecting a view into his eyes, a nearly perfect view. He looked at the training site and was astonished to see that a window appeared in the suit’s vision, zooming in on the training site, helping him to calculate distance and speed.
“You could have warned me,” he said, and distantly heard his own voice, relayed by the speakers in the suit. “That was fucking terrifying.”
Stark laughed, ignoring the insubordination implicit in Sarfraz’s tone. “You lot have done fine so far,” he said. The vision of the suit flickered, revealing that Stark was moving back, out of the way. “Do you want to try to move?”
“Yes, please,” Sarfraz said. “Do I just move normally?”
“Yes,” Stark said. “Go slowly at first, then speed up. You’ll have plenty of time to practice on your own suit later.”
“Inshallah,” Sarfraz said. He already knew that he wanted a suit, that he would sell his soul for one. He moved a leg forward slowly, having to think about walking for the first time in ages, and was astonished by how…capable the suit was. It moved with him; if there hadn’t been a slight feeling of his body in the suit, he might have been fooled into believing that the suit wasn’t on.
“Man of steel, woman of Kleenex,” he muttered, forgetting that the suit was relaying his words.
“Exactly,” Stark said. “You’ll make a good ACS officer. Now, move.”
The tone of command was so absolute that Sarfraz ran, heading across the field. The end of the field came at him so fast that he didn’t have time to react; he smashed straight into the hedge at the end of the field. He winced, expecting to be torn by thorns, but the suit crashed through them and fell tumbling over as if they weren’t even there.
“Get back here, slowly,” Stark bellowed. “They’ll take that out of your wages.”
Sarfraz staggered to his feet slowly, carefully, and surveyed the damage. The hedge looked as if a car had hit it, smashing through it as if it weren’t even there. He carefully walked back towards Stark, feeling the suit rippling around him.
“Now, the target,” Stark said. He waved a hand at a cardboard Posleen. “Target and fire.”
The suit seemed to recognise the Posleen, classing it as an ENEMY COMBATANT. Humans and several birds were classed as HARMLESS (MOSTLY), making Sarfraz chuckle. Whoever had programmed the suit’s weapons had a sense of humour. He lifted his hand and a targeting indicator appeared, coming to a crosshair on top of the Posleen. The targeting, he suspected, would be precise, but given what they were facing, would it have to be precise?
Fire, he thought, and the suit fired. A hail of plasma fire cannoned out and destroyed the Posleen, blasting it into thousands of tiny cardboard bits. Three more Posleen popped up and Sarfraz moved onto them without even thinking, sweeping the weapon across them.
“So, what do you think?” Stark asked.
“I think we just wasted a lot of cardboard,” Sarfraz said, soberly. The real Posleen would be shooting back. “How do you get this thing off?”
Stark rattled off the instructions and Sarfraz followed them. It wasn’t quite as unpleasant as putting the suit on, but it was unpleasant enough. “I think I want one,” he said. “How much do they cost?”
Stark sobered. “A lot of British soldiers are going to die for your suit,” he said grimly. “We’ll get you yours as soon as we can.”
Sarfraz looked up at the suit as Sergeant Benton bellowed for the next recruit. “These things could be bloody terrifying if they’re used in enough strength,” he said. “How many do you think we’ll be able to deploy?”
Stark shrugged. “The plan is for around two to three thousand,” he said. “Don’t overestimate them; the Posleen have weapons which can make them defunct quicker than you can say Allah Ackbar.”
“That would be bad,” Sarfraz said dryly. “Dying with those words uncompleted.”
“The trick is not to die for your country, but to make the other poor bastard die for his God King,” Stark said. The next recruit stepped up. “Now, hop in,” Stark said. Sarfraz saluted Sergeant Benton and headed back to the barracks; they’d been told that they could have the rest of the day off while everyone was watching the suit.
“Man, that was cool, the way you went through that hedge,” Derek said. “That was bloody fantastic.”
“Didn’t like putting it on,” John admitted. “It felt like I was sticking my head into a vat of jam.”
“I think we get used to it,” Sarfraz said. He grinned. “It was great, wasn’t it?”
“No fucking argument,” Derek said. “When do you think that we’ll get to play with the simulators?”
“I think, from what Stark was saying, that we’ll be simulating pretty often,” John said. He lay down on his bunk. “I guess we might even start that tomorrow.” He grinned. “Just like playing a video game.”