The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

5^th April 2007
Watching the honourable Luaky Commer driven away by the refugees had delighted the Prime Minister, but the news of Liverpool had shocked him to his soul. The MPs hadn’t been happy either; some independent MPs had introduced bills forbidding the use of further nuclear weapons on British soil. They had been voted down, but it had been closer than the Prime Minister liked to think. Absently, he cursed the ITV reporter who’d broadcast images of the dead Posleen, even if many people had cheered the sight.
How long until they come here? He asked himself, and shuddered. There were thousands of refugees in London, utterly overloading the CDC. The streets were policed by reinforced military policemen, and even they had been unable to keep the tensions off the streets. To be fair, thousands of refugees had signed up with the army, but how much formal training could they receive in the time before the Posleen came?
“Prime Minister?” His secretary said. He’d sent his wife up north to the Sub-Urbs, relying on Daniel Morgan to look after her. Morgan wasn’t a bad sort, not in his way; he was confident that he would take care of her.
“Yes, Syeda?” He asked. His Asian secretary smiled faintly at him. “What’s happened?”
“That was the PJHQ,” she said. “Salisbury has fallen.”
The Prime Minister nodded. The Posleen were pushing south, heading down towards the coast through very little opposition as the British forces converged to unite around London. Several isolated units had been destroyed, right to the last man; the Queen couldn’t keep up with all the posthumous awards and knighthoods.
Keep her busy and not scheming to get off-planet, the Prime Minister thought, with a sharp edge to his thought. A lifetime in the Labour party had left him very anti-monarchical, even though it had had to be moderated with the Posleen on the way. Now that Salisbury had fallen, the Posleen could take Bournemouth and Southampton, and cut two more ports from the available destinations for refugees.
“Inform the Emergency Commissioner on the Isle of Wight,” he said. “He probably already knows, but he has to seal the island and take on as many soldiers as he can.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Syeda said, with a little curtsy. “Prime Minister, the two generals are nearly here for their appointment.”
The Prime Minister smiled grimly. The area around the Houses of Parliament and Downing Street had been kept clear of refugees. Buckingham Palace had been converted into a refugee centre at his direct order.
“Send them in as soon as they arrive,” he said, and returned to his work. Even with a united War Cabinet, there was so much to do and he felt…tired. No British Prime Minister, even Chamberlain, had ever presided over such a large disaster, and it would only get worse. He was grimly certain of it; the reports from France and Poland were not encouraging, even though both of them had more manoeuvring room than Britain had. And as for China…
The Prime Minister knew that he was too tired, but what other choice was there?
“Prime Minister, General Mathews and General Armstrong are here,” Syeda said. The Prime Minister blinked; had he dropped off to sleep for a few minutes? It didn’t seem likely, but…?
“Send them in,” he said, and pulled himself to his feet. “Can you bring in extra strong coffee as well?”
He shook the hands of both men and waved them to seats. The coffee came in and both men made appreciative noises; coffee was becoming more and more of a rarity as the Posleen overran the places that grew it. In time, the Prime Minister was certain, the Sub-Urbs would start growing their own, but that would be a long time off.
“What can I do for you?” He asked finally. “Have they started moving on London?”
Anderson spoke first, which was unusual. Normally, anyone from the MOD would let the senior speak first. “England is dying,” Anderson said flatly.
The Prime Minister nodded slowly. “You see no hope, then?” He asked. “We should just blow up the country and call it a draw?”
His tiredness wasn’t unnoticeable, sadly. “England is dying,” Anderson repeated, and ran though the reasons. The Posleen advance across the land towards London, which held a rich crop of…food. The ruined transport network, trapping thousands of civilians near the Posleen. The loss of the industries in the North West. The slaughtered troops and – worse – the lost equipment.
“I know about that,” the Prime Minister said. “What do you think the Posleen will do?”
“Two things,” Anderson said. Beside him, Mathews stirred, not unnoticed by the Prime Minister. “First, I think that they will try again for Ireland. They’re moving too many landers into Liverpool for it to be anything else. If they wanted to challenge the Preston-Blackburn-Bradford-Leeds line, they would be moving them to Manchester.”
The Prime Minister sighed. “What can we do about that?” He asked, feeling despair flickering through him. “Is there anything we can do?”
Anderson nodded. “We can send them some additional anti-lander weapons,” he said. “Several thousand of our troops were evacuated to Ireland, so they can reinforce the Irish defenders. Other than that, there’s very little we can do.”
He tapped the map. “For the moment, the bastards are consolidating their position for a charge at London,” he said. “Although its difficult to be certain, I think they’re moving to cut off further escape, by taking the ports, and then preparing to hit us along a broad front. Sir, they will come…and they will take London.”
The Prime Minister narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain?” He said. “There is no way to hold London?”
Anderson met his gaze. “Even if we used our entire nuclear arsenal, we would still have problems,” he said. “Not least, of course, with fallout drifting across the land. Quite frankly, even with two million men, we cannot be strong everywhere. And, of course, many of the best units have already been lost. They will punch through the borderlines” – his hand traced movements on the map – “and surround London, assuming that they don’t just charge in and butt their heads against us. Once they seal London…there will be nothing closer than Newcastle that could break through them, and they won’t be there in time.”
The Prime Minister put his head in his hands. “Then there’s no hope,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“There is one thing we can do,” Anderson said. “We have a defence line north, one intended to prevent the Posleen from entering Scotland and menacing the Sub-Urbs. If we concentrate on building Hadrian’s Wall – where the defence line is supposed to be – into a really formidable defence line, one built using everything we’ve learned from Liverpool, Manchester and a hundred other battles, we can hold the Posleen and stop them flat.”
Mathews coughed. “We would be pulling everything and everyone north of Preston into that line,” he said. “We did have a contingency plan for building the line, but it will take months to complete.”
The Prime Minister felt a glimmer of hope. “How long will it be before the Posleen reach the line?”
Anderson coughed. “If the Posleen were fighting in London, perhaps even fighting house to house, they would be delayed. I don’t care how powerful they are; fighting in London would really hammer them and weaken them, and they would need time to gather the…fodder.”
“You want us to hold out in London while the defence line is built,” the Prime Minister said. “The Scottish Parliament is going to love that.”
“We are at war,” Anderson said flatly. His voice became grim. “Some of our best generals are dead; others have been killed before they had a chance to become great. Even if the plan works and Scotland is saved, the death toll is going to be horrendous. The Scottish Parliament, with all due respect, can go to hell.”
The Prime Minister, unexpectedly, laughed. “I’m going to send you to oversee construction of the line,” he said. “Perhaps you could tell them that to their face. Bring in the CDC people who escaped Manchester and Liverpool; conscript the builders in…Newcastle and Carlisle.” He hesitated. “What about the seven Handling Machines in London?”
“They may as well stay here,” Anderson said. “There are five in Preston, and three more that were supposed to have been moved to Newcastle, along with some of the reconfigured tanks.”
The Prime Minister nodded. “Final dumb question,” he said. “What about the ACS regiments?”
“A week of fighting has proven hard on them,” Mathews said. “The 1^st was ordered out of Liverpool by General Amherst and…took it badly. Colonel Yates knocked some heads together and put them back in shape. The 2^nd took heavy losses near Salisbury and is falling back on London. The 3^rd has been based in Scotland and has missed out on the war so far.”
“Keep them for your wall,” the Prime Minister ordered. “Coordinate your efforts with Daniel Morgan; he’ll be the next Prime Minister.”
Both men gaped at him. Mathews spoke first. “Prime Minister?”
“I’m not going to leave London,” the Prime Minister said. “You know what’s buried under London; I have to stay here.”
“Sir?” Anderson asked.
“Later,” Mathews said. “Sir…Prime Minister, are you certain that…?”
“Perhaps I made the wrong decisions,” the Prime Minister said, speaking more to himself than to them. “I could have defied Parliament; I could have dropped the bomb. I chose…to believe that the Posleen were just funny-looking humans, rather than flesh-eating monsters out of bad science-fiction.”
“Sir, no one expected it,” Mathews said. “Sir…”
“My mind is made up,” the Prime Minister said. “Whatever happens, I’m staying in London.”
“It will be a honour to stay by your side, provided it’s in a bunker,” Mathews said. “You’re not the worst Prime Minister we ever had.”
The Prime Minister smiled thinly. “Damning with faint praise?” He asked. “Any Posleen that tried to bite Margaret Thatcher would have broken its teeth on a rivet.”
Anderson sniggered rudely. “Sir, it could have been Chamberlain. He would have tried to appease the Posleen.”
“Perhaps,” the Prime Minister said, feeling his tiredness return. This time, it brought friends; apathy and depression. “General Anderson, ensure that the Irish get what help we can send them,” he said.
“The Type-45 frigates didn’t work out in practice,” Anderson said. “The First Sea Lord was not amused.”
“That man’s a danger to shipping,” Mathews commented. “Sir, we’ll just have to try to keep ships out of the Posleen line of sight.”
“See to it,” the Prime Minister said. He smiled bitterly. “Send the First Sea Load – sorry, the First Sea Lord – to me if he complains. The navy can send the rest of its Marines to join your line, General.”
“Thank you, sir,” Anderson said. He sighed. “Why couldn’t it have been Harry Turtledove’s lizards? We’d have had them in zoos within a week.”