The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

RAF Coningsby

Lincolnshire, United Kingdom

16^ndth December 2001
The massive Galactic shuttles were lined up on the runways, drawing the attention of the press cameras and the soldiers who were on duty, even as the men and women of the 1^st Armoured Division and three infantry divisions saluted the Queen as she stood on the edge of the podium. The band was pumping out God Save the Queen and Rule Britannia, and they could have been playing both at once for all the attention they were getting. Everyone’s eyes were on the shuttles.
“They came to use and requested our help,” the Queen said. There wasn’t silence – respect for the Monarchy had gone downhill sharply following the death of Princess Diana – but the soldiers were attentive. The thousands of watching civilians weren’t so attentive; they had come to see the aliens. Even a few months after contact, aliens were hardly a common sight.
Watching from his seat on the podium, wishing that it weren’t so cold, the Prime Minister smiled. The Duchess Boildespudswell would have made a better speech, even if the Prime Minister had made common cause with the Monarch. Mentally kicking himself for not having had the foresight to have arranged for Peter Sellers to have been rejuvenated, the Prime Minister listened as the Queen finished her speech.
“They need our help out there,” the Queen said. She’d said the same thing several times in different words. “In the name of interstellar harmony, go forth and defeat the aliens who threaten galactic peace.”
Ouch, the Prime Minister thought. The Queen clearly still believed that the Darhel were benevolent. He had his doubts; the Darhel were clearly playing a double game, seemingly working at cross-purposes with themselves. Still, the Queen had finally finished, and it was his turn to speak.
“We all know what’s coming our way,” he said, hoping that that was in fact true. “The Posleen will destroy us, unless we can delay them on the Federation worlds and learn enough about them to have a chance of defeating them on Earth.” He looked across the rows of trained soldiers, professional killers, and knew that most of them would be dead before 2002 was finished. “For your country, you have been asked to take on the longest assistance mission ever, to an alien world. Remember, when you go, you fight for Britain, carrying part of Britain with you.”
He spoke on, keeping the speech as short as possible, before concluding. The Galactic shuttles opened and the soldiers filed onboard; their equipment had been moved to orbit beforehand. As the band played Will You No Come Back Again, the shuttles slowly lifted off and headed into the darkening sky.
“Most of them will die,” Colonel Anderson said. The Prime Minister nearly jumped; he hadn’t heard the officer coming up behind him. “They’re not ready for the Posleen.”
“None of us are,” the Prime Minister said. “This is not going to be a very merry Christmas.”

Business Complex

Central London, United Kingdom

31^st December 2001
There was a curious air to the revellers thronging through Trafalgar Square, dancing under the fireworks as the New Year came on and on. Margent Hammond would have preferred to have joined the dancers, even though she was really too old to enjoy the experience, but Griffin had been insistent. She followed him into the complex, one of countless anonymous office blocks, and they entered a darkened room.
“So, what happened in Manchester?” Griffin asked. Hammond shrugged; she hadn’t given any orders at all for the march, or for what happened afterwards. “We paid you money…”
“You donated money,” Hammond said. “I was under the impression that we were going to meet your employers.”
“You will,” Griffin said. He frowned; it was a remarkably handsome frown. Hammond was old enough to recognise that it was faked. “We gave you money in exchange for you rallying opposition against the military gaining a position of prominence…”
It was an odd way to put it, Hammond realised. It was almost as if he was reluctant to talk about war. “We made no agreement,” she said sharply. “I am working for my own reasons, for the good of Britain, rather than your good.”
“Galactic society cannot stand under a sudden explosion of humans from Earth,” Griffin said. “If we burst out into space, we will ruin the Federation with an endless demand for newer and newer planets. Thousands of races will be absorbed or wiped out by human fighting, just like we did to the Native Americans.”
Hammond, who knew perfectly well that the myth of the noble savage was just that, a myth, was careful not to smile. “Galactic society seems to be inviting us up to fight for them,” she said. “Only two weeks ago, nearly a hundred thousand British men joined nearly a million soldiers in a multinational force, heading towards a planet with an unpronounceable name.”
“Diess,” Griffin said. “It’s hardly unpronounceable.”
Hammond shrugged. “As I said, why bother with attempting to repeat your mistake of prohibition” – she smiled at the confirmation that Griffin was American – “when the Posleen will be devouring thousands of millions of…Indowy?”
A new voice spoke from out of the darkness. Hammond shivered; the voice was strange, almost…alien. It was strangely hypnotic, in fact, calm and reassuring. It made her want to trust the speaker implicitly, and she felt a flicker of alarm as she realised what the speaker really was.
“The Posleen are a regrettable problem,” it said. “It is so rare for a species capable of mindless violence, such as your own kind in the past, to develop the technology permitting it to escape gravity, let alone the lightspeed barrier. Your species, however, must learn to develop socially before you can fit into the delicate balance of galactic society.”
Hammond collected her thoughts with an effort. “You have introduced technologies that will forever free humans from Earth,” she said. She peered into the darkness, trying to see the other speaker. “You should know that we wouldn’t stay here.”
“Ah, but that is what we want you for,” the speaker said. It’s voice shifted, becoming sadder. “If you can help us prevent your race from converting each and every member of its people into soldiers, then there won’t be…”
The voice sounded actively distressed as it trailed off. Hammond realised that speaking of war, even in such roundabout terms, was actively distressing to the being. “Tell me something,” she said. “I insist on knowing whom I’m working with. Who – what – are you?”
“I have been remiss in my hospitality,” the voice said. “Mr Griffin, if you would please activate the lights?”
Hammond shielded her eyes as the lights rose sharply. She stared at the figure, seated neatly behind a desk. Even in the half-light, she could make out its small slight form, and the strange greenish tint to its skin. Its oddly-shaped head was elfin, with two slightly pointed ears. In the darkness, it might have passed for human, but not in the dim light pervading the room.
The Darhel smiled at her, revealing very sharp teeth indeed. She remembered that they were vegetarians and was not reassured. “A pleasure doing business with you, Miss Hammond,” it said. “I hope you are now reassured of our interest in the safety and well-being of the galaxy?”