The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Rusholme, Manchester

14^th July 2005
Winter faded slightly as the effects of the Posleen bombardment of Earth wore off, allowing Britain to bask in a reasonably warm summer. Months passed and it grew warmer, allowing the people some holidays near the beaches, those that hadn’t been mined in preparation for a possible invasion. For those who had been conscripted, the summer provided them with a chance for a holiday, a chance to remember what the world had been like before the first wave of Posleen had arrived.
Sameena pulled herself out of bed with an effort, turning to look at Brad’s naked form lying beside her. Grinning, she reached out and poked him neatly in the chest, then tickled him.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” she whispered into his ear. “It’s time for the Civil Defence meeting, remember?”
Brad jumped up, nearly banging his head into hers. “What?” He snapped, coming awake with the ease of one who had been practicing for the past three years. “What drill…why you little…”
Sameena laughed and fled as he chased her around the room, finally cornering her in the shower. Their mock-struggle became something more as the water washed down over them, bringing them to the brink together, then plunging over into glorious ecstasy.
“I love you,” Sameena whispered into his hair. She washed herself quickly, stepping out of the shower, and pulled on a robe. Neither of them had been morning people, in the world before the Posleen came, but they’d learnt to get up. As CDC employees, they were entitled to orange juice rations and she poured them both a large glass of juice.
Brad stuck his head out of the shower. “You are a rotten swine, you know that?” He asked, clearly unhappy at having been woken on his day off. “Come here so I can spank you.”
Sameena stuck her tongue out. “Someone, who will remain nameless, naturally, promised to take me to Blackpool today, remember?” She asked, passing him the glass of juice. “Didn’t I just make it worthwhile?”
“I was drunk at the time,” Brad protested, drinking the juice. Sameena pouted. “All right, all right,” he said. “What’s on the telly?”
Sameena picked up the remote and turned the telly on. Scenes of a riot outside an army base appeared in front of them, with marching policemen being attacked by the rioters. A protest sign, reading “friendship to our alien brothers,” came smashing down across the head and shoulders of a policeman.
“Shit,” Brad breathed. “Where the hell is this? Fort Churchill?”
“This is Sennelager, Germany, 14 June 2005,” the female reporter said. A sign at the bottom identified her as CHARLENE JACKSON, BBC. “Here, rioters protesting against the formation of the 47^th Panzer Korps, otherwise know as a resurrection of the dreaded SS, are clashing with the police.”
Sameena relaxed. The thought of Sarfraz being attack by protesters was too painful to consider. “Alhamdulilah,” she breathed. “What’s happening?”
“And now, there are soldiers appearing,” Charlene’s voice said. The camera focused in on a number of men, leaving the base and wearing…what the hell was that? Charlene didn’t know; it wasn’t conventional riot gear.
“Protective masks,” Brad commented. “They don’t want to be identified.”
“What the hell are they doing?” Sameena asked. Of itself, her hand sought and found Brad’s, pulling them into an embrace.
“The SS men are moving closer and closer to the crowd,” Charlene said. A lone unarmed SS man strode ahead of them, singing with his men and marching with his fists held high. “They’re closing in on the crowd.” She coughed. “The crowd has defeated the police in open combat.”
“That Ullah bastard, Noreen’s cousin-father, would have been shocked,” Sameena commented, her eyes drawn back to the spectacle. Strange German words rose up as the SS troopers closed in, a song that, oddly, she knew better than the vast majority of Germans.
“Shit,” Brad said, as the first SS man went down under a hail of protesters. They gasped as a bare-breasted woman tore open her shirt, just before he fell, and then the SS charged, waving their clubs and using them as weapons. The protesters seemed to pause for a moment as the SS slammed into them, using their weapons liberally, and then they broke. Their singing faltered – both sides stopped singing – as the violence exploded, countless protesters crushed under the SS heel.
“Those bastards,” Sameena said. Charlene had given up trying to comment, merely allowing the live broadcast to speak for itself. The protesters, greens and socialists and people who had merely come for a good time, fled before them, leaving grey-clad men holding the field.
Brad held her close. “I want to forget about that,” he said. “I want to forget…”
“That was the scene at Sennelager, Germany,” the BBC presenter said. “Despite official protests from world governments and Jewish groups, the German government has declared its intention to continue with the reactivation of certain SS groups. The Germans have assured us that no real villains have been rejuvenated – and indeed most of the real villains were hung – but the concerns of Jewish groups remain unabated.
“The British Government has not issued a comment on the events at Sennelager, Germany, but it is expected that, in the wake of the Posleen actions in America, that effective action will be minimal. Despite the official stance of the French Government, some senior French army officials have refused to consider the possibility of cooperation between French units and the SS.
“In other news, the Posleen forces in Africa are believed to have ended the Darfur genocide by eating all of the participants,” the reader continued. “Although information is sparse, the government in the Sudan and Egypt pretends high confidence and…”
Sameena clicked the television off. “Let’s go to Blackpool,” she said. “I really don’t want to think about the SS right now, or even the Posleen.”

Chapter Eighteen: Final Moves