The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Chapter Twenty-Six: The High Cost of Living

Refugee Camp

Oldham, Greater Manchester

28^th March 2007
Sarfraz held her close and cried into her headscarf. She cried too, holding him tightly, as they embraced. Behind them, the armoured suit looked on, cracked open to allow its user to egress. They had a little privacy, but not enough for either of them to risk being seen being intimate. Naturally modest, neither of them wanted to be exposed.
“Thank your Colonel for me,” Anisa said. “I…I thought I’d never see you again.”
She hadn’t told him about the attempted rape. It would only have upset him.
“I thought that you were dead,” he said, and held her closer. “I was scared that I would stumble across your body in the battle, or that I would see the Posleen eating you.”
“They missed me,” Anisa said. “The driver up north was nightmarish, but without the Posleen in hot pursuit, we made it here and I emailed Brad, who emailed you.”
“I must remember to thank him,” Sarfraz said seriously. “I thought that you were dead.”
“Men are too emotional,” Anisa said, and kissed him. “I wish…”
Sarfraz laughed. He was feeling horny as well. “We’ll get a place in Edinburgh or Glasgow or one of the Sub-Urbs,” he said. “The Posleen won’t get that far north.”
“They said they wouldn’t get to Manchester either,” Anisa reminded him. “The BBC kept lying.”
“They wanted to prevent a panic during the first invasion,” Sarfraz said. He remembered seen holographs of Sameena dying and scowled. The platoon had dunked Tigernuts in freezing water, on that terrible night after the drill, but it wasn’t enough. “That’s what they told us, at least.”
Anisa snorted. “I should have forced him out,” she said, referring to her father. “Instead, we were nearly caught by the Posleen. That was…too close.”
“I know what you mean,” Sarfraz said. He didn’t want to think about it. “How is he?”
“Pretty bad,” Anisa said. “He was old, and now…he’s been through a lot.” She hadn’t told her father about the attempted rape either. “He’s not in good shape.”
Sarfraz let go of her. “I should go see him,” he said. “Reassure him that I’m going to take care of you.”
“Come on then,” Anisa said. She sighed. “As good care as anyone can take of anyone in these times.” She paused and waved one delicate hand at the suit. “What about that?”
Sarfraz tapped the AID at his belt. “Heel,” he said. The ACS clunked to life and followed them as they headed into the main refugee camp, passing tents and bedding without bumping into anything, even with the hatch still open.
“That’s creepy,” Anisa said. She squeezed his hand and giggled. “You inside that, I mean.”
Sarfraz tried to look reproving and failed; a grin burst through onto his face. “It’s just a suit of armour,” he said. “It’s not another woman.”
“Another woman would make more sense,” Anisa said. She stuck her tongue out at him, before stopping in front of a massive tent with a red cross on it. “I think that Miss Suit had better wait outside.”
Sarfraz elbowed her gently. “Stay,” he said to the suit, and it powered down. “He’s in here?”
Anisa nodded and led the way into the dim tent. There were seven beds within the tent, each of them holding a single elderly person. Sarfraz grimaced as he breathed in and caught a whiff of the smell; it was disgusting beyond measure. The elderly hadn’t been given much treatment at all.
They’re waiting for them to die, he realised, and felt sick.
“Dad?” Anisa asked. Sarfraz blinked; he hadn’t recognised his father in law. Gone was the sober tidy beard that met in every respect the now-Thresh Taliban’s requirements for men. Gone was the dignified seriousness, broken by the occasional glint of true humour and decency.
Her father muttered something in Arabic and opened his eyes. Sarfraz shuddered; the eyes were dim and worn. For a long moment, he wondered if he was blind. “Sarfraz,” her father said, in his accented English. “That would be Sarfraz.”
Sarfraz’s blood ran cold. Who did her father think he was talking to? “Yes, it’s me,” he said. Anisa squeezed his hand. “Sir?”
“Sarfraz,” her father said. His voice sounded as if it was coming from a great distance. “Take care of her.”
“I will,” Sarfraz promised. “I’ll take care of her and…”
Her father closed his eyes and grew still. Anisa started to cry. A nurse came in and checked his pulse, comparing it to the device she held in her hand. “I’m sorry, love,” she said. “He’s gone to a better place.”
“I have always known him for a holy man,” Sarfraz said, allowing the anger to leak into his voice. “Why didn’t you save his life?”
The nurse met his eyes. “There are thousands of people here who need medical attention, soldier,” she said flatly. “In a fully-equipped hospital, with all the equipment that we have lost in one day, yes, his life might have been saved. Here, without the medicines we need? We can’t save everyone.”
Sarfraz sighed. “I have to take custody of the body,” he said. “He needs the funeral rites.”
“No can do,” the nurse said. “All bodies are to be burnt at once, by order of the Emergency Commissioner.”
“I’ll argue with him,” Sarfraz snapped. “I won’t let him…”
“There are no exceptions,” the nurse said gently. Two volunteers arrived with a body bag. Before their eyes, they zipped her father into the bag and carried him off. Crying, Anisa leant into his arms, sobbing.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I won’t let them hurt you any more.”
His AID buzzed. “Corporal Sarfraz, you have been ordered to attend an urgent meeting with the regimental planning staff,” it said. “Your attendance is mandatory in twenty minutes.”
“Fuck that,” Sarfraz snapped. “I won’t let you go.”
“You have no choice,” Anisa said. “You go to your meeting.”
“You come with me,” Sarfraz said. “The CDC can arrange for you to move on north.”
Anisa kissed him. “Yes, love,” she said. “I’ll find something to do.”
***

“You all did very well,” Sergeant Kendrick said. The three hundred survivors of the Civil Defence Corps (Manchester) were too tired to nod. There had once been two thousand of them; that said it all. Some had been killed in the bombardment, others had been eaten by the Posleen, or when…

Brad shuddered. The final moments of the sewers, when the Posleen had somehow set fire to the sewage, had been truly ghastly. In a moment, they’d sealed the doom of thousands of humans and ruined the sewers beyond easy repair. He’d heard that the SAS was still using them, but he didn’t know if that was the truth.
“We also seem to be out of a job,” Kendrick continued, and they chucked dutifully. “We have several options,” he said. “We can join the CDC here – we’re going to have to help with moving people further north anyway – or we can join up with the army. Pretty much all of us have some experience against the Posleen now, which means that they’ll take us without much training. For myself, I’m going to finish the evacuation, and then join up.”
He paused. “You worked for the CDC,” he said. “Legally, you’re exempt from conscription, largely because you’re a back-up force for your home region. However, that no longer…exists.”
Brad felt almost sorry for him. Kendrick had been born in the second-last century, in 1895. In 2001, when First Contact had occurred, he’d been dying in a nursing home, one hundred and six years old. He’d been born in Manchester, but the city had no longer been what he remembered, now that he had his memory back.
“If you want to join the army, now is the time to add your name to the register,” Kendrick concluded. Brad felt Sameena tense beside him, her hand in his. “Unfortunately” – he looked at Sameena and the handful of other medics – “medical people are not supposed to sign up. If you want to talk about it, see me later.”
The meeting broke up. Brad and Sameena wandered out into what had once been a supermarket. Now stripped of the food and supplies it had once shelved, it had been converted into a giant dormitory for refugees. They passed through the small beds, with thousands of people lying there, waiting for evacuation further north, and stepped out into the sunshine. For once, the skies were clear; the rain seemed to have stopped.
Sameena spoke first. “There used to be a school up there,” she said, waving a hand towards a road leading up a hill. “The Blue Coat School, for Christians, but I had a friend who went there. I wonder what happened to it.”
“Converted into a hospital or a command post, perhaps,” Brad said, not much interested. “Sameena…”
“You want to join up,” Sameena said. It was not a question. “Honey…”
“I’m not sure,” Brad admitted. “We did good work in Manchester, but we only trained in Manchester. We’ll be less useful in the future, in anywhere else and…”
“You can still drive, can’t you?” Sameena asked. She frowned. “You’re always useful, honey; you don’t need to prove yourself.”
“But I do,” Brad said. “Sarfraz is fighting, all I did was…”
“You fought in Rusholme,” Sameena pointed out. She sighed. “I know; stupid male pride.”
Brad sighed too. “I know,” he said. “I didn’t want to join the army seven years ago.” He paused. “Has it really been that long?”
Sameena’s eyes glistened with tears. “Getting sick of me already?” She asked. “I’m only twenty-five.”
“Twenty-six,” Brad snapped. “I love you, honey; It’s just…”
Sameena reached out and gave him a hug. “I love you,” she said. “One day, you will be the father of my children. If you get yourself killed doing this, I swear I’ll kill you.”
Brad hesitated, about to ask the obvious question, but he refrained. Instead, he held her close. “I have a few days to make up my mind,” he said. He paused. “Listen.”
A song echoed in the air, sung by one of the entertainers. Brad smiled; that had been one of the better ideas that the Government had ordered. Dozens of singers, actors, sports players and women of ill repute had arrived, including a handful of politicians. He held her close, hearing the song drifting through the still air.
“And whether the blood be highland, lowland or no.

“And whether the skin be white or black as the sloe.

“Of kith and of kin we are one be it right be it wrong.

“As long as our hearts beat true to the lilt of the song.”¹⁹

“That’s lovely,” Sameena whispered. The old song seemed to shiver though the air, the deep male voice of the singer echoing. “You had better take good care of yourself, love; I want to grow old with you.”
Brad kissed her. It wasn’t the time for macho comments. “You too,” he said. “I’ll take very good care of myself – I promise.”
***

Sergeant Benton had been annoyed to see Anisa with Sarfraz, but Colonel Yates had agreed to make the arrangements to send her north today, to the military housing centre in Glasgow. The Colonel, who’d lost some of his own relatives in Bath, had understood.

“We have a serious problem,” Yates said. For once, there was no jiving in the ranks; they knew now just how dangerous the Posleen were. The 1 ACS Regiment had started with six hundred and fifty soldiers; now they had five hundred and seventy. Other units, the armoured divisions and the unsuited infantry, had suffered worse; entire units had just vanished under the Posleen boots.
Assuming the Posleen wear boots, Sarfraz thought. Yates had arranged for Anisa to wait in the CO’s office; it would have stirred up more trouble than anyone wanted for her to remain with Sarfraz. Sarfraz understood, intellectually, but he still worried. Anisa, Sameena and Brad were all he had left.
“As you know, several thousand civilians were evacuated to Liverpool before the Posleen cut the escape route,” Yates said. The AID-produced display showed how the Posleen movements, in red, cut off the blue escape route. Tactical icons, the dreaded red skull of a Posleen lander multiplied a thousand-fold, lay spangled around the motorway.
“Shit,” Derek breathed. There was a hum of agreement. Most telling of all, none of the senior officers bit his head off; proof that they agreed with him, at least in part. “They’ll massacre them.”
“Correct, Private,” Yates said. “In addition, General Amherst, who has set up his command post nearby, believes that the Posleen will seek to take Liverpool, just to cut of the line of supplies to the Sub-Urbs in Wales. The bastards are absolutely deadly on the coastlines; they’ll be able to cut the lines of supply. Most important, however, now that the Irish have thrashed their Posleen, we’ve been moving people from Liverpool and the nearby harbours to Ireland.”
“I bet the Irish are pleased about that,” John muttered.
“Silence in the ranks,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. “I said silence, there!”
“They’re not,” Yates agreed. He shrugged. “However, that’s above my pay grade. The Civil Defence Corps and the Royal Navy, what’s left of it, is working as hard as it can, but Liverpool is not very far from the Posleen lines. All they have to do is march along the M62…and Liverpool will go into their mouths. Our mission, should we choose to accept it – of course, the other option is court martial – is to get into Liverpool and slow the Posleen down.”
A Captain coughed. “Will the armoured tanks be moving up along with us?” He asked. “We need anti-lander weapons.”
Yates nodded. The tanks are on their way already,” he said. “General Amherst pushed as hard as he could for them to be rearmed and sent the long way around, and the Marines have some tanks of their own…”
“Ah, the little fishes are in Liverpool,” someone said. “I bet they’ll sail away and leave us in the lurch.”
“No bet,” someone else called, before anyone could say anything. “Some of the Marines know what they’re doing.”
“Silence,” Yates said mildly. “The Marines are reinforcing the perimeter, supported by naval gunfire and several thousand artillery weapons. Unfortunately…naval gunfire will not last past the Posleen getting within HVM range; the frigates and destroyers might have some extra weapons added on, but their armour is sorely lacking. The modified Daring class, of which three will be in the battle, have good armour, but the Posleen have good weapons.”
He adjusted the map. “If everything goes to plan, we’ll be pulling the last of the civilians out in three to four days,” he said. “The trains and buses are doing what they can as well, but we’re having fuel shortages for the buses. Net result; most people will be leaving via ship for Ireland. Our mission is to hold out for a week, which is General Amherst’s own estimate.”
“Easy,” Derek said. “We’ll be back in time for tea.”
Yates smiled. “Are there any questions?”
“How long will it take us to get there?” John asked. The seriousness of his question made everyone chuckle. “My suit is still recharging.”
“We’re due to deploy in two days,” Yates said. “That should give us some time to prepare and run a few simulations, and time for the other units to arrive and join us here. I know – we could be there in a few hours, but they want us to have some chance of success when the Posleen come for us. Any other questions?”
Sarfraz lifted a hand. “Is there any news on reinforcements and replacements for those we lost in the recent battle?” He asked. “We’re going to need more people, sir.”
“There are no more suits,” Yates said grimly. “The three regiments and the special brigades are all we have until the Galactics, which means Fleet, can break back into Earth orbit.” He paused. “What that means, in case you’re wondering, is that if you lose your suit, you will be unarmoured – assuming you survive losing the suit in the first place.”
He smiled grimly. “Several of us have been nominated for the Victoria Cross,” he said. “We’ll have a formal presentation when we get out of Liverpool.”
***

Yates had, very quietly, allowed Sarfraz and Anisa some private time together in a private room. Their fears for the future had had an effect, pulling them together for the first time in too long. Sarfraz smiled as he looked down at her naked body; almost all of the regiment was out on the town or spending time with their loved ones, just before the deployment.

She smiled shyly up at him. “Was it good for you?”
“Magnificent, superb, fantastic…and that was just me,” Sarfraz said. She poked him in a delicate place. “You, on the other hand, were beyond compare.”
Anisa giggled, remembering their wedding night. They’d both been virgins; it had been a minor disaster, the first time. It had improved since, fortunately. Her body seemed to glow as she lay under him, feeling his body pressing against hers.
“You need to cool down,” she said, and giggled. “What now?”
“Another time?” Sarfraz asked, feeling his body stir. “Or do you mean for us?”
Anisa smiled. “Both,” she said, and opened her thighs. Afterwards, she pressed the question again. “What now for me?”
“You’re going to Edinburgh,” Sarfraz said. “Brad has relatives in Edinburgh who have agreed to take you in, for the moment. You’ll have to live with non-Muslims, but they’re good people.”
“So is he,” Anisa said seriously. “You’re not going to object to Sameena marrying him, are you?”
“Not more than formally required,” Sarfraz said. He grinned. “She’d kill me for daring to object.”
He smiled. He was, Islamic-speaking, Sameena’s guardian. Practically speaking, he could no more have stopped her from marrying Brad than he could have survived facing the Posleen stark naked – and he would have preferred the Posleen. They would only have eaten him.
“My new sister-in-law,” Anisa said. “You have better come back to me, husband – or our child will be fatherless.”
Sarfraz gaped at her. “What?” He asked. “What do you mean?”
Anisa sighed. “I felt that one hit the spot,” she said. “You’re going to be a father.”
Sarfraz frowned. His mother had once told him, in the lectures she’d given him before introducing him to their choice for a wife, that a woman could tell if she was pregnant. He’d thought that Anisa was on protection, the coil or the pill or an implant - he’d thought that…
“That’s wonderful,” he said, and meant it. “You had better take good care of yourself, understand?”
Anisa kissed him. “I understand,” she said. “You had better take good care of yourself as well, husband.”