The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Chapter Twenty-Four: Spearpoint

Manchester, United Kingdom

27^th March 2007
Sarfraz quickly finished drawing power from the power truck and stepped away from it, allowing another ACS soldier to step in. The scene ahead of them was one out of hell, with fires and explosions blasting all over Manchester. The black shape of Posleen landers, engaging the human defenders, could be seen, firing even though the rain.
“We need some proper rain,” Derek muttered. “Enough to slow them down.”
“Do they get slowed down in the rain?” Sarfraz asked, checking the heavy plasma rifle he’d been issued with. The British-designed suits had internal weapons, but using them drained the power supplies faster than normal use. “The unarmoured infantry would certainly be slowed down.”
“Lazy sods,” John commented grimly. The King’s Regiment had headed in to confront the Posleen and had lost nearly half of its soldiers in the first half hour. The remainder of the force was still fighting grimly, a blunted spear that had been intended to plunge into the Posleen.
“Attention,” Colonel Yates said. “We finally have a mission, people, and it’s going to be tricky.”
A map appeared in front of Sarfraz, within his internal displays. “The Posleen have prevented the armoured tanks from punching through their defence line on the ring road,” Yates said. “We have to punch through ourselves.”
Sarfraz listened as the orders were detailed. It was basically simple, he realised; there were only a few possible variants on tactics. The heavy guns – the 5^th Royal Artillery – would start concentrating their shells as the ACS advanced, and then the ACS would punch through the remainder of the enemy, holding open a path for the refugees.
Or at least that’s the plan, he reminded himself. “Platoon, form up,” he commanded, as soon as Yates had finished talking. “Sir, 1^st Platoon reports itself ready for action.”
“Move out,” Sergeant Benton commanded. The ACS began to walk forward, marching out of the forward base, heading towards Manchester. Sarfraz allowed the suit’s AID to do most of the motions, concentrating on his plans for engaging the Posleen directly. Ahead of them, explosions began to focus on the Posleen lines, even as they passed tanks that were engaging landers and Posleen groups.
“They’re blunted, all right,” Derek muttered. The wreckage of twelve tanks could be seen, some of them still burning after the Posleen HVMs had struck them and blown them apart. “I think the armour needs work.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” John commented. “Sir, I think we should stand by and…”
The roar of artillery shells nearly deafened them, even though the suits. Ahead of them, the Posleen lines exploded, devastated as thousands of shells rained down on two miles of their lines. He could see Posleen, moving in the gloom, trying to escape the explosions that were tearing them apart.
“This might encourage them to get their own artillery,” he muttered. He hefted the plasma rifle, feeling the systems in the gun interface with his suit. “How long is this going to go on for?”
“Five minutes,” Sergeant Benton said. “Stand by…”
The roar of explosions suddenly ceased. “That’s the shelling finished,” Yates snapped. “All platoons…attack!”
Sarfraz ran and the suit ran with him, boosting him along at a speed the Posleen could hardly comprehend. A leap brought him over the Posleen lines, his rifle already firing, controlled by the control units in the suit. The handful of Posleen lucky enough to survive the artillery fell before them; some of them were even wandering around, shocked.
“Incoming,” Derek snapped, as a hail of HVMs raced over their heads. Sarfraz cursed; a God King and a horde of Posleen were moving from the inner siege lines, heading out to meet the humans. The God King was firing massive lasers from his saucer, clearly reluctant to lead his horde to the attack. Normally, God Kings were smart enough to stay back from the lines.
Must have been trying to stay between the fires, Sarfraz thought. He felt no pity; the God Kings were hardly human, hardly worth considering with pity and compassion. This was a far worthier jihad – despite the proclamations of certain so-called scholars in Mecca – than anything else in Islam’s history; there could be no doubt about the Posleen appetites, none at all.
“Kill the God King,” Benton snapped, and seven plasma rifles flared as one, blasting the God King before the saucer craft could carry him – it – out of danger. The Posleen soldiers lurched around, looking for orders, and the humans cut them down.
“Fire on these targets,” Yates snapped, sending orders directly to the 3^rd Royal Artillery, which was moving up behind the 5^th Royal Artillery. Shells started to land from short-ranged guns, hammering away at the Posleen, making the breech in their lines wider and wider. “Break them!”
***

Sergeant Katie Tierra grinned as she realised what the noises meant, even before the intelligence officer in General Amherst’s office updated the situation map near their positions. The Posleen were being hammered; the advancing troops were forcing them to turn and face the attackers - which meant that the defenders might have a chance to turn the tide.

“Line up for an advance,” she shouted, as the orders started to flicker in. Her men obeyed her at once; she’d led them out of the Posleen trap the day before. Even as the rain grew heavier, falling from the sky and reducing visibility, she waited for orders, feeling the weapon in her hand. The rifle was loaded with bullets that had been configured to punch into the Posleen…
“We’re to advance,” the communications tech shouted, picking up his own weapon and racing towards the lines. “In five minutes…”
“Why five minutes?” Tierra demanded. Her Latino features twisted into a scowl. “We can move now!”
A hail of shellfire leapt up from Manchester, from the guns positioned in the centre of the city, slamming down amid the Posleen. The massive explosions sent hails of shrapnel and high explosive through the Posleen lines, devastating them. Tierra whooped with glee; the Posleen were caught between two fires.
“Does that answer your question?” The communications tech asked dryly. Tierra didn’t bother to answer, watching instead the explosions. Suddenly, as quickly as they started, they stopped. A handful of tiny explosions flickered as ammunition detonated, or the Posleen fired on imaginary targets, and then it was over.
“Advance,” Tierra shouted, and led the charge. She ran out of cover, ducking and weaving, and charged towards the Posleen. The massive aliens seemed shell-shocked- perhaps their leader had been killed – and they melted before the humans. She fired madly, tossing grenades around at the Posleen as they staggered away, breaking before them, and then she saw the finest sight in her life.
It was humanoid, painted a shiny silver colour, but shadowed with a holographic field. She smiled as she saw the armoured suits rushing forward, waving to them as the Posleen lines shattered…and she never saw the Posleen that fired at her. A screaming pain broke though her leg…and she saw it literally blown off.
“Where the hell’s my fucking leg?” She demanded, just before the pain hit and she fell over, or was it the other way around. One of the armoured troopers bent over her, checking her out. She wondered if he was really looking at her bleeding leg, or checking out her breasts.
“It’s damaged beyond repair.” The ACS trooper said. “The waltz is never going to be danced again, I’m afraid.”
“Fuck,” Tierra swore. “They’re beaten, right?”
“We’ve broken through into Manchester,” the ACS trooper said. “They’ll counter-attack, of course, but we have the time we need to pull everyone out.”
“Thank God,” Tierra said, and fainted.
***

“All right,” the driver shouted. “We have a path out!”

The cheers were deafening. Anisa joined in. The bus started its engines and started the long drive towards the ring road, moving at a respectable pace. She squeezed her father’s hand, even as the bus kept moving slowly, past the armed soldiers and the CDC people.
“According to the radio, the army has torn a two-mile wide hole in the Posleen lines,” the driver said. “We’re due to pass through in ten minutes.” An explosion flickered in the distance. “The Posleen will, of course, be trying to close the gate,” he continued. “Please, don’t panic; I have to concentrate.”
Anisa closed her eyes and started to pray. The bus jerked once, and she opened her eyes again, wishing that she could sleep. She didn’t dare try, not after so nearly being raped. Absently, she wondered what had happened to the would-be rapist; had he been shot, or had he run into the Posleen lines? There was no way to know.
“We’re breaking the law here,” the driver said, conversationally. Anisa smiled; all of the traffic on both lanes was heading north. Three abreast, the buses and coaches were heading out of the city. “Stay alert for the policemen.”
There were some chuckles, which quickly became nervous giggles. “We’re about to pass through the defence lines,” the driver said, as they reached the end of the city. Anisa watched as the entire line slowed, passing through a hole opened in the blockade.
“It’s a bloody bottleneck,” someone whispered. The buses could only pass through one at a time; several breakdowns were shoved out of the way without any concern for recovering the vehicles.
“They’re making the gap wider,” someone else pointed out. Anisa nodded; several bulldozers were working hard on making the gap bigger. The defence lines, however, had been built by Handling Machines – one of them could be seen trundling north near them – and weren’t giving in easily.
“Here we go,” the driver said. The bus passed through the gap, heading along a motorway that had been devastated by the fighting. The bus, which wasn’t designed for rough transport, shook violently as it passed over potholes and rubble on the ground.
“Brave lads,” an elderly woman said. Anisa winced; three tanks lay there, utterly ruined. One of them had had a hole punched right through the frontal armour. “Very brave lads.”
Anisa muttered a prayer under her breath. An explosion flickered off in the east; the dark shape of a lander could be seen. The collective indrawn breath should, by rights, have tipped the entire bus over, but fortunately it didn’t.
“That’s us through the second line,” the driver said. The engine revved powerfully. “It’s now time to run for the refugee centre in Oldham.”
The cheers shook the entire bus. “We’re safe, dad,” Anisa said. Her father smiled tiredly at her. “We’re safe.”
***

The ground shook violently, and a small child fell into the sewage. Brad swore and shouted for everyone to stop moving, grateful that the sewers had stopped having their waste pumped along to the reclamation plant.

“Here, take my hand,” he said, reaching out to the small girl. “What’s your name?”
“Bonnie,” the girl said, through tears. “My eyes are stinging.”
“Don’t swallow anything,” Brad snapped. “Take my hand, now!”
The snap of command in his voice must have had an effect. The girl grabbed onto his hand, almost pulling him into the muck himself, and allowed him to pull her out. Her impractical dress was totally ruined, damaged beyond repair. The ground shuddered again and he stumbled, somehow avoiding falling in.
“What’s happening?” A woman demanded. Her cry was taken up rapidly by others. “What’s happening?”
“There’s a battle going on above our heads,” Brad said. The lights flickered and the gasp of panic was audible all along the line. Hundreds of people, pressing themselves against the wall, trembling in fear of the dark. The Posleen must have heard; did the aliens hear? He couldn’t remember.
“We have to get out of here,” the woman protested. “We have to move…”
Her gaze lighted upon a hatch in the roof. They were midway along the way to the exit point; if they came up there, they would be in the middle of the Posleen. The Posleen would doubtless be delighted at the unexpected lunch; Brad wasn’t so keen on it himself.
“We have to reach the defended end,” he said, and to his surprise the panic abated – slightly. “Come on!”
He led them as fast as he dared, knowing how dangerous it would be if anyone slipped in again. He kept a tight hold on Bonnie; she would have to be hosed down once they reached the end. Finally, they saw the light at the end of the tunnel.
“Is that you, Brad?” One of his co-workers, Travis Lindsey, shouted.
“Yes, its me,” Brad shouted. “Hurry up and get a hose ready.”
“Don’t wanna be hosed,” Bonnie said, very definitely. “Don’t want to be…”
“You’re getting hosed down before you catch something,” Brad said flatly, as they reached the end of the tunnel. Even the overcast skies were a delight to see after the tunnels. “Travis, what’s the situation?”
“The army has opened a tunnel,” Lindsey said. “It’s pretty bad out there, Brad.”
“And…?” Brad asked, refusing to even form the question. Lindsey smiled, recognising the problem. “Is she…?”
“She’s fine, working here at the medical lab,” Lindsey said. “Go see her, now, before the Sarge finds us something else to do.”
***

General Amherst had moved his mobile command post to Moston, his only concession to the needs of retreat. They’d moved thousands of civilians – more than a few had elected to walk rather than wait for a bus – but there were thousands more, and the Posleen were starting to catch on.

“How the hell do these people think?” He demanded, of no one in particular. “What do they think they’re doing?”
“They’re alien,” Corporal Loomis reminded him. “They don’t think like us.”
“They’re testing the defences of Rusholme,” Amherst snapped. The display changed alarmingly. “No, they’re hammering their way through the defences.”
“Most of the soldiers were pulled out,” Corporal Loomis said. “The others…”
“Cannot break contact under fire,” Amherst reminded her. He scowled; the remaining defenders in Rusholme were dead, they just hadn’t been killed yet. Other Posleen were moving, nearly a hundred landers proceeding around the city, heading to seal off the escape route.
“God doesn’t like me,” he muttered. The Posleen had clearly decided to reduce the city, developing new angles of attack; three, four prongs heading into the city. Now they’d decided they were willing to take the losses they would suffer, Manchester would fall within an hour at most. It was ironic, even to him; if the escape route hadn’t been opened, the defence lines would have been stronger.
“Orders to all units,” he said finally. “Those that can break contact and fall back on the pumping station are to do so. Those that cannot…are to remember that the British Army stands between the civilians and the Posleen, always.”
Corporal Loomis didn’t bother with any false expressions of sympathy. “Yes, sir,” she said. “The ACS will hold the line for as long as they can.”
“Order the evacuation teams to speed up, even sending people on their feet,” Amherst ordered, feeling the weight of his responsibilities crashing down on his shoulders. “We’re running out of time.”
***

Sarfraz watched dispassionately as the Posleen came on, their yellow shapes glistering with the rain. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain, he thought absently, firing from his concealed position. The Posleen were good at tracking his blasts, but they were concentrating on battering their way through the defences by sheer force of numbers.

“Kill that God King,” Yates ordered. A display flashed up in front of Sarfraz; a targeting display illuminating the God King. He fired a single long burst of plasma, overloading the God King’s saucer and sending it plunging towards the Earth. Two landers appeared and a tank killed them, three more appeared to take their place.
“The tanks are running out of anti-lander shells,” a voice on the radio said. Sarfraz cursed; the ACS suits were tough, but none of them could stand up to a direct hit from a lander weapon. A hail of HVMs struck out at one of the ACS platoons, blasting through their barricade and damaging the suits.
“Platoon seven, get out of there,” Yates snapped. “Regiment, stand by to fall back towards Oldham.”
“Sir, there are still civilians crossing the line,” John protested. Sarfraz understood; he didn’t want to leave them either.
It was a mark of Yates’ own concerns that he didn’t bite John’s head off. “I understand,” he said. “However, we have little choice.”
Sarfraz scowled, watching as artillery rained down on the Posleen. The enemy seemed to be getting smarter; they used their HVMs as mini-artillery of their own, blasting through barricades with determination, if not skill. The human artillery was becoming the target of lunging attacks by landers, forcing them to run or look to their own defences.
“That’s the tanks out of ammunition,” Yates said, as a lander crashed to the ground, exploding on top of a horde of Posleen. “All units; fall back.”
Sarfraz jumped backwards, seconds before three HVMs slammed into the barricade he’d been hiding behind. He moved back, firing madly, even as the Posleen closed in. A hail of HVMs slammed into the refugee vehicles, the last few vehicles, blasting them to bits. He smiled bitterly; at least even the Posleen would find it hard to eat people who had been blown into their component atoms.
“I’m calling down the artillery now,” Yates snapped. The massive wall of artillery, the units that had been brought up to assist the attack, fired as one. For a moment, even the Posleen seemed stunned by the carnage, and then they pushed forward again. Scenting victory, the landers hovered closer and closer, unaware yet that the humans had no more anti-lander weapons in the battlezone.
Mike O’Neal took out a lander with an antimatter mine, Sarfraz thought suddenly. The regiment had met the American hero once. Three C-Decs, the most powerful landers, were closing in…and he had no antimatter weapons to make them pay. How many landers did the Posleen have in England? He wondered. More than the British had of anti-lander weapons?
“Ahmed, put your butt in gear,” Sergeant Benton roared. Sarfraz didn’t hesitate; he turned and ran as fast as he could, falling back towards the defence lines at Oldham. Behind him, the Posleen fell on Manchester…and the huddling soldiers and civilians remaining within the city.
I hope you choke on them, you bastards, Sarfraz thought, and ran harder.