The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Pyramid Heights

London, United Kingdom

14 September 2001
Margent Hammond’s life had changed remarkably in the space of a few months. In many ways, she was seen as the leader of the real opposition, the force that opposed conscription and the steady process of preparing for a war to be fought within Britain itself. She knew better; the Posleen were real and they were on their way, heading towards Earth with bad intentions.
And they had to be fought. Margent Hammond understood the feelings of organisations like Mothers Against The Bomb and other groups, ones that didn’t want to risk going to war over nothing, like 1914, or Vietnam. She understood the feelings of those who had proposed that British students should resist the draft before 1939; they had lived through terrible bloodletting on the Western Front.
Finally, of course, there was the dreadful fear of dying for a cause that few believed in, or for a bad cause. Many would fight for Britain, to protect their families, but few wanted to fight and die for foreign dictators. The newspapers had revealed the evils of Kuwait, or of Saudi Arabia, and the British troops had fought on their side against yet another tyrant. Who had wanted to die for white supremacy in Rhodesia? Who had wanted to die so yet another tin-pot dictator could purge democracy from their people? After Vietnam, Iraq and Algeria, the West – safe and well behind its professional armies – had developed a horror of fighting a long war.
She shook her head. Griffin’s money had come in very handy, building a political network that she would have been very proud of under normal circumstances, but these were hardly normal circumstances. Griffin’s motives – even his true identity – remained a secret, at least from her. Cold logic suggested that MI5 was also ignorant; irrational hope prayed that they did know who he was and whom he was working for.
The man himself sat across the room from her, smiling faintly. His face was handsome, she saw, and yet it was faintly sinister. He seemed quite prepared to wait for her to speak, and apart from an exchange of pleasantries they’d said nothing to one another. Hammond smiled faintly to herself, and broke the silence.
“I trust that you had a pleasant journey,” she said, hoping that he would reveal something of his origins in his reply. Griffin smiled and said nothing. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m merely here for a progress report,” Griffin said. Whoever had taught him English had been very precise indeed; his vowels and pronunciation were too good to be a native speaker. “You have spent a great deal of my associates money, Miss Hammond.”
“Mrs,” Hammond corrected him. She spoke bluntly. “Who are your associates?”
Griffin shrugged. “Merely people concerned about Earth’s future impact on the galaxy,” he said. “Humans are so good at fighting that dealing with the Posleen won’t take long at all, and then you will have interstellar ships and the desire to colonise.”
Hammond considered. “That would make sense,” she agreed. “What exactly do you want from me?”
“We wish to avert Earth becoming heavily armed and well…warlike,” Griffin said. “Humanity must not become devoted to war, or it will devastate the galaxy.”
“That’s not an answer,” Hammond said, suddenly tired of the game. “What exactly do you want from me?”
“Two separate things,” Griffin said. “First, we want you to discuss, in general terms only, your government’s long-term plans for the war. Second, we wish you to use the influence you’ve spent our money on building to prevent your culture from becoming dominated by your military.”
Hammond thought quickly. The odds were very likely that Griffin was American; he spoke of Britain as if it were a foreign country. While some peaceniks did act like that, she didn’t see Griffin as that stupid. She smiled to herself; this was also a chance to gain some information.
“I would be more than willing to use my influence,” she lied smoothly, “but I cannot possibly consider sharing information without some guarantee that we’re on the same side.”
Griffin lifted one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “I was under the impression that we were on the same side,” he said. “We are interested in limiting the military build-up; you are interested in limiting the military build-up. We are allied.”
“And the enemy of my enemy is my friend?” Hammond asked dryly. “Mr Griffin…”
“John, please,” Griffin injected.
“John, the simple fact of the matter is that I know nothing about you,” Hammond said. “You could be anyone.”
“I – we – have invested nearly six million pounds in you by now,” Griffin said mildly. “Is that not a sign of our commitment?”
“Pocket change,” Hammond said bluntly. “Ranting and raving aside, such funds are pocket change to anyone with your organisation’s goals. I don’t know who you work for, Mr Griffin; you could be from one of my enemies in government.”
Griffin seemed amused. “I thought they didn’t like you there,” he said.
“They don’t,” Hammond said. “Under these circumstances, the British Government would think nothing of spending six million pounds to get into a position to round up all of my supporters. If you want me to share information that could get me cooling my heels in a jail cell, Mr Griffin, I want to know whom you work for. I want to know who I’m dealing with.”
Griffin seemed to hesitate. “For the moment, you would have no problems acting against the build-up,” he said. Hammond nodded; whatever happened, she didn’t want Griffin breaking contact with her. “I will communicate with my superiors; perhaps a meeting could be set up with them. I assure you, however, that they only have your best interests at heart.”

Chapter Ten: The Sleeping Policemen

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

21^thst November 2001
I knew things were going too well, the Prime Minister thought, skimming through the Chinese paper again. They had been going surprisingly well; the first industries for heavy guns were producing their weapons, primitive, but effective against the Posleen. The Armoured Combat Suit units were in training, and the first supply of suits was expected soon, unless…
“Explain it to me,” he said. “The Darhel are doing what?”
“They don’t have an industry as we understand the term,” General Mathews said. “Instead, they build modern technology like we used to build…well, chairs, or Spinning Jennies, rather than mass-production.”
“I see,” the Prime Minister said. Discovering that the Federation was based partly on sweatshops had not endeared the Darhel to him. The Chinese, curiously enough, had been very detailed in the information they’d shared with the rest of the UNSC; the Darhel were stalling slightly, deliberately. “What implications does this have for us?”
“For the defence of Earth?” General Mathews asked. “We are mainly relaying on GalTech in space, so the Fleet may not be ready in time. If they decide that they will suffer further…delays, then the Earth itself might fall to the Posleen.”
“But why?” The Prime Minister demanded. “We’re their only hope.”
“If the Darhel are the ones who have contacted Hammond, then we might as well take the reason they’ve given her; that they’re scared of our effect on the Federation at large,” Mathews said. “The Federation is based on slavery and the Indowy cannot revolt, but we can. They can’t even think about crushing a Darhel neck; we can and we would even enjoy it.”
“Balls,” the Prime Minister muttered. “We don’t have time for this. Insure that the Foreign Office gives our full support to withholding troops until the Darhel pay up; our priority has to be to our own defence. The fewer items of GalTech we have around, the harder it will be to hold them off the surface.”
Mathews smiled. “It’s good to know that you read my briefing papers,” he said. “The alien scientists, such as they are” – he smiled; Earth had had none until the Darhel arrived – “are studying the problem as we speak, but it suggests that they will want as much of our population on Earth reduced as possible, just to prevent us from breeding out from under their control.”
“And we’re going to be sending children to safety in the Federation,” the Prime Minister said grimly. “I wonder if we should stop that.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Mathews said. “The Posleen will eat them if the British Isles fall.”
“True,” the Prime Minister said. “Keep me informed, particularly on the Hammond situation.”
“Yes, sir,” Mathews said, and left the room. The Prime Minister remained behind, thinking furiously. Was there a way to force the issue somehow? Hammond’s little network was growing – its size and scope well known to MI5 – and of course she was sharing everything with them anyway. Still, by its very nature, there were some people who would slip through the cracks, such as the Manchester Against Conscription group. The group was planning a series of marches against conscription, ones that were attracting known troublemakers.
“Bastards,” the Prime Minister said, and placed a call to MI5. The prospect of a riot in the centre of Manchester was not to be tolerated. The problem was that everything was legal, even though DORA did allow them to ban the march. Stamp on it…and the opposition would go underground. Don’t stamp on it and…