The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Agincourt

Earth Orbit

11^th October 2004
Captain April Weston flinched as a Posleen burst of plasma fire skimmed past the converted Galactic fast transport, converted into a warship intended to stand in the defence of Earth. In the month since assuming command, she’d come to realise that the Galactics had an utterly useless construction infrastructure, as far as the needs of the war were concerned.
“Incoming missile,” the boson snapped. Weston had only a moment to clench her fists before the Posleen missile exploded, far too close to the ship for comfort. “Missile detonation; deflector screen handled most of it.”
“I can see that,” Weston muttered. If the missile had been on the other side of the ship, it would have been vaporised without them ever knowing what had hit them. “Engage the enemy.”
“Missiles locked,” the weapons tech snapped.
“Fire,” Weston snapped. Agincourt shuddered as the external Missile/Launch Pod Assembly systems for antimatter armed and driven missiles launched a full spread of missiles. The Posleen ship continued its fall towards Earth, damaged by the attack.
“Target hammered,” the tactical officer said. “Captain, we’re short on missiles.”
Weston closed her eyes and desperately tried to concentrate. She hadn’t slept for nearly two days, all of which had been constant running battles with the Posleen ships. If she’d been in command of the Posleen craft, Earth would have fallen by now, but instead…instead, the Posleen were continuing to fall towards their selected targets on Earth, instead of wiping the human defence forces from the skies.
She giggled suddenly, inanely. It reminded her of nothing less that Independence Day, as the Posleen craft began to break up; the Landers heading for their targets on the surface. I’m too fucking tired, she thought grimly.
“Captain, we have to reload the external Missile/Launch Pod Assembly systems,” her exec said. Weston smiled; no one doubted Sharon O'Neal’s competence, except her last captain, a Russian bigot with wandering hands. The explosion near Archangel suggested that that captain was explaining himself to the Higher Authority right now.
“Local space is clear now, isn’t it,” Weston said grimly.
“For the moment, Madam,” the sensor tech said. Weston studied the display and shuddered; the red icons of the Posleen were drifting down all over the world. “There have been no extra emergences for thirty minutes.”
“Perhaps we’ve seen the last of them,” Weston muttered. “Sharon, I need you to attach the spare box launcher.”
Sharon, bless her, didn’t argue. “Yes, Madam,” she said. “I’m on my way.”
Weston drew in great shuddering breaths as time passed. Onboard sensors worked to track the enemy, and her EVA team, watching carefully for other Posleen ships. She listened as a problem appeared; a warped clamp in the box launcher.
“We need all the launchers, Commander,” she said, when Sharon asked her about changing it. “Sorry.”
She winced at the tiredness in her voice, knowing that the entire crew was equally tired. “That's fine, ma’am,” Sharon answered, without arguing. Weston knew that she was grateful for that alone. “That was my call as well. Bosun?”
“I'll break the clamps out of stores, mum,” the Bosun said. Weston smiled; the crew looked on Sharon O'Neal as a surrogate mother. She grinned, and relaxed, and then…
“Emergence,” the sensor tech yelled, startled out of a fatigued half doze. He rattled of the contact details quickly. “Angle two-nine-four, mark five!” His eyes bulged at the distance reading. “Four thousand meters!”
Weston felt horror pumping through her system as the icon spangled onto the display, right in front of her, a massive Posleen Battle Dodecahedron translating out of hyperspace. It hung there, larger than life and twice as deadly, spinning slowly towards them at knife-range.
“Fire,” she snapped, automatically. Microseconds later, she realised the mistake. “Belay that order!”
It was too late. The weapons tech had been on duty for eighteen straight hours and fire orders were a reaction that bypassed the brain. His thumb had already flipped up the safety cover and depressed the switch. A pyrotechnic gas generator fired as the clamps holding the missile flew open. The gas pushed the eighteen-foot weapon far enough away from the ship that it was safe for it to kick in its inertial thrusters and antimatter conversion rocket. Safe for the ship, perhaps; but not safe for the weapon installation team; Sharon and her team died without knowing what had hit them. Or the pod of antimatter missiles they were installing.
Microseconds later, Agincourt was blotted from the sky by the blinding white flash of an antimatter detonation. The Posleen ship, unaware and uncaring, turned its course towards Earth. There was no longer anything that could prevent it from landing on Earth and unloading the hordes of Posleen within its landers¹⁶.

Chapter Fourteen: The Cost Of War

Fredericksburg, Virginia

11 November 2004
General Anderson watched as the snow drifted down across a field from hell, hiding the signs of the Posleen invasion that had rampaged across the city, heading for Washington. He shook his head sadly; the war was over for the moment, but he knew that it was only the beginning. The Americans had taken ghastly casualties in the Battle of Fredericksburg, enough to turn even a politician’s hair white.
One such politician and his assistant walked the field. Anderson watched as the German Bundeskanzler and his aide wandered though the field, talking to one another in dazed voices. They were stunned; echoes of their conversation drifted across to his ears.
“I didn't say, my young friend, that we were alone in our guilt,” the Bundeskanzler said, his voice cold as ash. Anderson wandered away, heading towards the space where a memorial would be placed, leaving the Germans to talk. There was so much that had to be done, and none of it could be done quickly, neatly^th.
He sighed. Humanity hadn’t done badly in the first major clash with the Posleen; some of the invasion forces had been wiped out. The forces that had landed in America had been destroyed, except for a few scattered survivors. The way Posleen bred meant that there would be dangerous hunting for a few years, but that was far better than armed and armoured Posleen. In Iran, a brave commander had made a desperate stand, holding the line long enough to break a Posleen charge.
But in India, it was a madhouse; the Posleen were dining on Indian men and women with as much gusto as Anderson had once tucked into a curry. No one knew exactly what was going on there, and Africa was worse, if that was even possible. The Posleen were expanding their territory, crushing the suddenly leaderless humans – the tyrants and kleptomaniacs who had ruled the poor countries having fled to the Caribbean or other nations where they thought that they might be safe, leaving the people to be eaten by the Posleen.
If they’d had the common sense to recognise that Africa’s rulers were the real problem, he thought bitterly. His one and only girlfriend had been one of those who had protested against international debt, and she might have been right, except that the tyrants kept the people down. How could they possibly grow when every little burst of independence was ruthlessly crushed?
He shook his head absently. It didn’t matter; all that mattered was holding off the Posleen. The force that had landed and wrecked so much havoc in America was only the first scattered showers; the real storm was yet to come.
“General?” Anderson turned to see Colonel Yates. The commander of the 1 Armoured Combat Suit Regiment looked pale and worn. “General, will this happen here?”
He meant in the United Kingdom. “Almost certainly,” Anderson said. “We have…less room to evacuate people before the Posleen land. It’s going to be a nightmare.”
“Do we need the BBC along?” Yates asked, waving a hand at the cameras. “Don’t they get enough of their jollies from Aberdeen?”
“They have to convince everyone that the threat is real,” Anderson said. “The films of Posleen dining at Chez Human will be very convincing.” He shrugged. “There are always people who don’t believe in the lightning until it strikes them, but we have to convince enough people to ensure that they’re not dangerous.”
“I see, sir,” Yates said. “I’ve been talking to some of the American ACS units here; they’re instructing us on tactics, including the ones that failed.”
“Learn from their mistakes,” Anderson warned. “We don’t have time to learn from our own.”
“Like that plan to place guns everywhere,” Yates agreed. Anderson winced; the armchair generals occasionally came up with a good idea, but that hadn’t been one of them. One of them had devised the concept of placing small cannon everywhere, armed with antimatter warheads, hoping to break up a Posleen swarm before it could land. Unfortunately, no one in their right mind would permit the use of antimatter warheads so close to the ground.
He smiled suddenly. The tanks were armed with tiny antimatter warheads, intended for use against landers, but the odds were highly against them. The Posleen didn’t have to fear British tanks, not like the Iraqis or the Argentines.
“Or the plan to build thousands of missiles,” Anderson said, discussing a different idea. The Posleen would have very little trouble hacking them out of the sky. “Have the Americans taught you anything about infantry?”
“Don’t let them break,” Yates said. He waved a hand at the various teams; the British had loaned the Americans medical staff in exchange for the tactical information. “If they break and run, the Posleen say yum and have them for lunch. Also, don’t leave bodies piled around, unless we come up with a magical poison for them we can feed to humans.”
“Invasion Earth,” Anderson said absently. He’d consulted for that series. “It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now.”
“Blast,” Yates said mildly. “What about radioactive contamination?”
Anderson swung around to look at him. “If you value your career, don’t mention that to anyone,” he said sharply. “There’s already enough debate over the plans to use nukes as a final resort; don’t add to it.”
Yates nodded reluctantly. “We have the modified tanks,” he said. “We’ll keep refining the design. We might end up with an effective anti-Posleen vehicle.”
“Perhaps,” Anderson said. A group of Americans were digging something up. “What’s that?”
Yates picked up his binoculars and peered across at the Americans. “I think it’s a Posleen body,” he said. “Let’s go see.”
***

The alien’s body lay buried in the ground, its sides already cut and gashed by the American recovery team. No one knew for certain if the Posleen had no viruses that were dangerous to humans, so extreme care was taken, even though the Darhel had scoffed at the thought.

“My God,” Anderson breathed, as the corpse became visible. The Posleen was massive, a centaur-like creature, clutching a weapon to its chest as it had died. Yellow blood – there were no flies on it, even though it was cold and so it proved nothing – had frozen around the alien, even though the blood still seemed to be moving. A trick of the light, or something else?
“The face of the enemy,” Yates said. “How was it killed?”
“Gut shot,” the American doctor said. He rolled the body over, pointing out the massive holes in the Posleen’s chest. “The bullets punched through its natural armour and killed it.”
“I wonder if these things were bred as weapons by someone,” Yates muttered. Anderson looked sharply at him, but said nothing. “Who got this one?”
“Impossible to say,” the American said. “Could have been a civilian; they fired on the aliens with enthusiasm. Could have been the Guard. Could have been someone from Tenth Corps, or Ninth Corps. Could have been one of the shell heads.”
“The Armoured Combat Suit units,” Yates said, his voice carefully neutral. Anderson smiled grimly. “They really did a number on this one.”
“We’re going to face them next,” Anderson said. “I wonder – did the Posleen raid libraries and computer servers?”
“Not that we know about,” the American said, as soon as he realised that the question had been aimed at him. “They seem to have rampaged over the cities, eating their fill, and then we counter-attacked and wiped them out.”
“So they might know stuff about us from the libraries,” Anderson said. “I suspect we’ll never know what they found.”
“If they found anything,” Yates said. “For the moment, all we can do is train, train, train.”