The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Manchester, England

27^th March 2007
Jacob Arnold had stopped struggling. His hands, bound behind his back and secured to his own van, prevented him from escaping. His shouts of outrage, and then insults, had been ignored; Major Hosea Agreda had other matters to worry about.
“The Posleen have blasted through the position to the south,” one of the army men said. Arnold glared at him; the Sergeant seemed to be enjoying his predicament. He had known that many army officers regarded the reporters as spies for the enemy, but how could he communicate with the Posleen? Not even the Himmit had succeeded.
“Stand by to repel attack,” Agreda ordered, calmly as always. Arnold would have admired him under other circumstances; his quick orders had prevented the force from panicking, even when three of the tanks had arrived by surprise, moving in to take up firing positions. The soldiers, for a long chilling moment, had thought that they were Posleen tanks.
The roar of the artillery, placed between buildings further up towards Manchester, grew louder as time passed, hurling shells towards the last known position of the Posleen. From the grim conversation of the soldiers, Arnold realised that the Posleen had killed the men who were supposed to be directing the artillery…and the British were firing blind.
“Don’t forget to film this, our last stand,” a soldier said, running up with a heavy machine gun. The Handling Machine, the creepy device that had been building trenches for the defenders, was trundling off into the distance, leaving the defenders to make their stand.
Cowards, Arnold thought, with all the confidence of a man who would be running for the horizon himself, if he wasn’t secured. His camera, mounted on his shoulder, continued to film, although he was no longer sure if anyone was receiving his signal. The noise of the war grew louder and louder, explosions blasted up from the distance, growing closer and closer even as he watched.
“Contact,” Agreda shouted. Arnold couldn’t see them, but the soldiers could; they took up their positions and checked their weapons. Blasts of green and red light appeared, flickering over their position and striking directly at vehicles. An explosion behind him destroyed a car that had been abandoned; Arnold remembered that he was attached to a van and shuddered.
He closed his eyes, wishing that it was over, and then he saw them. The Posleen were moving on, strange horrible aliens, firing madly at the humans as they raced closer. Some of the Posleen were ducking and weaving, others just put their heads down and charged, firing all the time.
“Mines…now,” Agreda snapped, and a massive series of explosions billowed out from under the Posleen. Chunks of gore flew everywhere as the Posleen died in droves…and more of them appeared, running over the bodies of their comrades as they closed in on the human defenders. Soldiers began to fall as Posleen HVMs slammed into their positions.
“Fire,” Agreda snapped, abandoning his attempt to let them get close enough to slaughter. The guns all opened up at once; the artillery gunners lowered their massive cannons to fire directly into the Posleen mass. The Posleen fired back, blasting their way through the defenders by sheer weight of numbers, and then they were through. The human soldiers fought and died in seconds as the Posleen overran their positions.
“No,” Arnold breathed, as a Posleen blasted kill Agreda in a split-second. Under other circumstances, he might have been delighted, but now that meant that he was alone. He never saw the Posleen sighting its weapon on his van…or felt the blast of heat that blew his body into a million fragments.
***

“The SAS recon teams are reporting that the Posleen are pausing to eat the remains of Major Agreda’s force,” Lieutenant Olga Clough reported. Even five years in the army couldn’t keep a green tinge from her face. “They just punched through the defences like they weren’t even there.”

“Not enough defence in depth,” General Amherst muttered. Fighting with Mike O’Neal had been easier. “They’ll have more trouble when they hit Rusholme.”
“I hope so, sir,” Lieutenant Clough said. “Sir, the SAS wants permission to engage the God Kings.”
“Denied,” General Amherst snapped. “They’re needed to do the spotting for the artillery.”
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Clough said, and returned to the field telephone. Amherst scowled as he looked up at the map; the Posleen were far quicker to react than he remembered from Diess.
They must have learnt from us, he thought grimly. The Posleen then had charged the Federation buildings and human defence forces with equal abandon – and paid for it. This time, they were reacting quicker against the threat of human artillery; blasting buildings that might hide spotters and reacting impossibly quickly to laser pinpoints finding their positions.
He scowled again. “What’s the report from the CDC?”
“They’re still moving people out of Manchester,” Lieutenant Clough said. She peered down at the latest email. “They’re having bottleneck problems with train drivers.”
“They don’t want to return to Manchester,” Amherst muttered. He didn’t blame them – much – but he knew his duty. “Have them reminded that under martial law they can be shot for desertion.”
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Clough said. “Incidentally, the BBC would like to complain about the treatment of Mr Arnold.”
“We have more important matters now,” Amherst snapped. The video link from the SAS changed sharply as the Posleen began to move again. “The Posleen are moving.”
“Heading directly into Manchester,” Lieutenant Clough said. She cursed, just as the same thought occurred to Amherst. “Sir, they’re surrounding the city as well.”
Amherst cursed. “All of a sudden, we’re going to need the ACS,” he said. He scowled down at the map. If the Posleen surrounded Manchester, the refugees – and the defence forces – would be trapped inside the city.
“I’ll call the PJHQ for you at once,” Lieutenant Clough said. “They’re holding the ACS on a tight leash.”
***

No one saw who started it; no one ever knew who started the cry. “The Posleen are coming,” someone shouted, and the civilians, the countless people who were unable to believe how bad the situation was, started to run. Panic spread rapidly as they fled, even as the first reports of the Posleen began to arrive. As explosions began from the direction of Fallowfield, the crowds panicked and ran.

“Move to the station, slowly,” Brad shouted through a megaphone, and knew that it was futile. If the people had had cars, the situation would have been even worse than it was, but instead the great mass of humanity fled down towards the centre of town.
“Attention, the Posleen are within ten minutes of this location,” the speakers announced, and the panic only grew worse. The noise of the invasion was thunderous – the shape of a Posleen lander could be seen in the distance, advancing towards them – and the crowd fled.
“I think we’re going to have to join the defence,” Sergeant Kendrick snapped. “We have to hold them long enough for them to reach the buses and the guards there to sort everything out.”
Brad thought of the handful of buses remaining – a number of drivers had refused to drive back into Manchester – and of the reports that the Posleen were moving to surround the city, and knew that they couldn’t hold long enough. Sergeant Kendrick handed out the addition weapons – missile launchers and some weapons of dubious origin – and ordered some of them to assist the artillery officers.
Oh, Sameena, he thought, and wondered where his lover was. Sameena had been assigned to work in the medical centre at the universities, where the evacuation buses were, and he shuddered at the thought of her being stuck there. Briefly, he wondered what had happened to Anisa; the buses were packed up along the roads, hundreds of buses trying to escape the city.
“Take your positions,” Sergeant Kendrick bellowed. “Colonel Abernathy has command!”
Colonel Abernathy, a dour man wearing a uniform Brad didn’t recognise, looked at them and shook his head. He muttered a command to Sergeant Kendrick, who began organising them into defensive positions behind some of the barricades. Colonel Abernathy seemed more interested in the large artillery cannon behind the barricades, a design that looked as if it had come out of a science-fiction novel. It moved on its own, Brad noticed, only slightly chilled by the sight.
“The next people – the next monsters – who come down that road, I want you to kill,” Colonel Abernathy bellowed at his men, and Sergeant Kendrick echoed him for the CDC men. The line, he knew, was built all around Rusholme, a carefully-prepared line that would either stop the Posleen, or bleed them so hard that even God Kings would wince at the cost of taking the city.
“Sir, yes, sir,” the soldiers shouted, and the CDC people echoed them.
“Special weapon, take your target,” Colonel Abernathy ordered, and the strange cannon moved to sight on the B-Dec moving in on their position, ignoring the sparks as isolated soldiers and militia fired on it with their weapons. To the massive ship, even a heavy machine gun was a popgun.
It’s a bloody good thing they don’t coordinate those with the infantry Posleen, Brad thought grimly, as the Posleen grew closer and closer. The handful of fleeing humans dwindled to a stop, screams from the distance, heard even over the fighting, showed what had happened to them.
“Fire,” Colonel Abernathy snapped, as the first Posleen arrived in the distance, advancing down the road. The strange weapon fired once, firing directly at the B-Dec, and it exploded in mid-air, falling down on top of the advancing Posleen. The explosion billowed out, shattering parts of Rusholme as the shockwave passed over it, but they were alive.
“Here they come,” Sergeant Kendrick said. The Posleen didn’t seem to care that untold thousands of them had just been baked alive by the destroyed B-Dec. They came on, spreading out to present less of a target, and Brad fired with the other humans. They killed and killed, but still the Posleen came on, bringing up other landers.
“Kill those fucking lander craft,” Colonel Abernathy shouted, and the strange gun went into action again, firing at the Posleen who were now aware of its existence. Brad lost track of time as the killing went on and on, the Posleen reached the first line of defences, only to be swept away by the soldiers firing madly into their bodies at point-blank range.
“Stand by to retreat,” Sergeant Kendrick said, in a voice as cold as iron. Brad came back to himself with a jerk, seeing for the first time how the Posleen were slicing them to bits, using their missiles and heavy weapons to hammer the humans before they advanced. The landers had killed the heavy weapon, but there was another further into Manchester, preventing them from coming to close…
A wave of heat passed over them as a plasma blast came too close for comfort. “Move,” Sergeant Kendrick snapped. “Back to the next line!”
Brad crouched low and ran, followed by the rest of the CDC men, even as the newcomer soldiers fired to cover their retreat. Brad jumped for the line, made it to the next position and turned…to see the Posleen falling back. He stared, unable to believe his eyes, and saw that it was true. The Posleen were retreating!
The cheer was spontaneous. “We did it,” a soldier shouted. “We finally hit them hard enough to make them take notice!”
Sergeant Kendrick looked up at Colonel Abernathy. Somewhere during the battle – Brad was astonished to discover that it had taken over three hours – the colonel had been wounded; his left arm hung uselessly from its socket.
“Sir,” he said, “should we pursue?”
Colonel Abernathy wasn’t listening to Kendrick. Rather, he was listening to the radio, and as Brad watched, his face went grey. “No, Sergeant,” he said, and his voice held despair. “They’ve surrounded the city, and they’ve trapped the refugees in the city. They can’t take the city, so they’ve decided to starve us out.”
Brad thought of Sameena, trapped within the city, and of the limited food supplies held within the city, and shivered…