The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Interlude

For either side in the declared war, and the third side in the undeclared war, it was not a time of peace. For the Posleen, reeling from the losses in London, it was a time to consolidate and to prepare for the coming offensive into Scotland, ending the war. For the humans, it was a time to dig into Scotland and to refuse to budge, even for launching small limited probes at the Posleen forces.

For the Darhel, watching the collapse of their operations in Germany and France, the loss of the Tir in London wasn’t a major concern. It would have been…embarrassing if the Tir had been caught, or indeed if he had continued to live. Questions would have been asked; share prices would have plummeted. In the end, the Darhel simply wrote the Tir off, unaware of his true fate.
Across the Earth, an uneasy peace fell, one broken only by the occasional skirmish between the two sides. For France, huddled into a small area near Germany, it was a time of suffering, a suffering that passed unnoticed amid the remaining corridors of power. For Germany, it was a time of cleansing, of preparing for the coming wave of Posleen. For Poland, partly occupied by the Posleen, it was a time of suffering indeed – and it would never end soon.
Tired, like two prize-fighters in a victory bout, both sides took stock of the situation. In England, the Posleen occupied themselves with rounding up and eating the remaining humans, while probing gingerly at the radioactive ruins of London. York fell, after a brief token defence, and the Posleen realised that the humans within the city had fled north. Even as they chased them, the humans fled beyond the Preston line…and beyond that, to Scotland.
In Scotland, the production of weapons continued unabated, arming as much of the population as could be armed. There was no longer any wishful thinking, no longer any reluctance to use the weapons of hell itself, so long as they brought victory. Yet the humans did not attack, fearing defeat and the fate that the Posleen brought, biding their time until the Fleet could be ready…
***

In the bitterness of the winter of 2007, the next wave of Posleen made their appearance. Some on Earth prayed for deliverance, but Admiral Bledspeth knew better. The Posleen wave, sixty-five globes, each composed of hundreds of smaller ships connected for interstellar travel, was simply too great, unimaginably great. And Earth's defending fleet was simply too small.

From his position on Titan Base, he watched as the defending force went into action. A multinational force, under a British Admiral. The starships Lütjens, Almirante Guillermo Brown, Moscow, Genjiro Shirakami and Honshu, ships named for proud wet-navy ships in human history, fought to stem the tide. They fought…and one by one they died. The Posleen pressed on against the battered planet, closing in and separating their units to land on the planet.
Space became a maelstrom of energy as the Posleen landers duelled with the Planetary Defence Centres on the surface. The Posleen died in the thousands, but they fought on, slamming kinetic weapons against the surface time and time again. As humans died, as holes appeared in the defence network, the Posleen landed, falling to the surface in gentle waves of death. France, Germany, China, America and India all received more Posleen, as if there weren’t enough already. The Posleen Net hummed with activity as deals between God Kings were struck; making certain decisions that would affect the entire war.
And slowly, but very surely, two Posleen globes fell towards the British Isles…

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Armageddon

Hadrian’s Wall, United Kingdom

18^th December 2007
The UKADR radar network that had once protected the British Isles had been destroyed beyond repair by the Posleen, who had occupied most of its sites and blasted the others from orbit, but there were enough sensors scattered around to allow the commanders to see what the Posleen were doing. There was no question that the Posleen were finally coming, even as the shape of two separating globes appeared on the display.
“They’re coming for us,” Colonel Baxter said, as the sky streaked with light as the battle went on. The ground shuddered as a kinetic bomb slammed into a PDC, not too far away from them. “Why couldn’t they have landed on Ireland?”
General Anderson scowled at him. The second Posleen attempt on Ireland had been defeated, allowing the Irish time to prepare, but they also held thousands of English refugees. The Posleen had made the serious mistake, in both battles, of coming over the seas, rather than trying to land directly on Ireland. If a globe had landed on Ireland, Anderson knew that it would have devastated Ireland from one end to the other.
“We need their food,” he reminded Baxter. Despite the cries of many Irish farmers, the development of the Irish farming infrastructure to allow them to grow thousands of tons of food had been accelerated by the support of refugee farmers from Britain. “Without that…”
“We have more mouths to feed too,” Baxter said grimly. It was an old argument. “If we didn’t have the Jews…”
Anderson ignored him. The globes were finally settling down to a final landing zone. “Where are they landing?” He asked. “Do we have a projection?”
“Bradford and…near Manchester,” the sensor tech said. “Sir, it won’t be long before they reach us.”
Anderson did a quick calculation. Two globes meant that eight million more Posleen had been dumped on Britain. These Posleen might have survived prior battles on Federation worlds; they might be smarter and more dangerous than the ones they’d fought before, the ones who’d practically kicked them out of England.
“The Preston Line won’t stand,” he said, and knew that it was true. The Posleen had hammered the Preston Line twice, but now they had the force to simply overwhelm it. “Order Colonel Rhoden to fall back.”
“Aye, sir,” Baxter said. Another stream of lights fell from the sky, heading further north. “Sir, they’re going to hit the big line.”
Anderson nodded. “I know,” he said. They’d spent seven months building the line, one solid line of defences from Newcastle to Carlisle, both cities they could ill afford to lose. Newcastle, because it was a port, and Carlisle because it was a major railway hub. Losing either of them would hurt.
“Contact the Prime Minister,” he said. Daniel Morgan had been confirmed as Prime Minister, under the pre-Invasion rules, until the invasion was defeated. “Inform him that I am placing the defence forces on red alert. Now they have more Posleen, I’m sure that they will come north.”
He looked up at the map again, his mind spreading out to cover the distance. The Preston Line could never be held with eight million Posleen – and God knew how many from the first invasion – bearing down on it. It had only survived as long as it had because of the Posleen determination to capture London, and then their determination to mop up the remaining humans below Preston.
Mentally, he cursed the Darhel. If they’d had ten years to prepare, they would have beaten off the Posleen in space and Britain would never have been invaded. If the Darhel had been frank with them…
He shook his head. Such worrying was counter-productive. Instead, he tried to work out how long it would take for the Posleen to confront their main defence line, and failed. A human could have driven there, in the days before the war, in a matter of hours. He suspected that it would take the Posleen a little longer…but how much longer?
The telephone rang. “Anderson,” he said, picking it up. “Yes, Prime Minister?”
“This is it, then?” Morgan asked. The new Prime Minister, at least, had more determination to win, whatever the cost, than his predecessor. “They’ve finally come to hunt us down?”
“I’m afraid so,” Anderson said. He remembered, so long ago, reading the War of the Worlds. Had the characters then felt the same sense of crushing helplessness? “They’re going to hit the line.”
“And then…what?” Morgan asked. “Should I issue evacuation orders?”
Anderson laughed, bitterly. “Where is there to go?” He asked. Sweden, Norway and Finland were busy taking in Germans and Frenchmen. Iceland was a possibility, Canada was even more possible…but there would be nowhere for the fifteen million surviving British to run to, nowhere to hide.
Fifteen million, he thought, and shuddered. The Posleen had a lot to answer for. “Prime Minister, we may have to implement Armageddon.”
“They’ll crucify me,” Morgan said wryly. “You have full launch authority, General; don’t fuck it up.”
“No, sir,” Anderson said. It was night; how long would it be before the day rose? He glanced at his watch; it was nearly three o’clock. “It will be dawn in six hours,” he said. “Prime Minister…”
“General, it was a honour to be serving with you,” Morgan said. “Whatever happens, make sure the Posleen know what it means to be English.”
Jokes about being what you ate bubbled to the top of Anderson’s mind. He forced them down. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said. “We won’t lose here, sir.”
***

Anisa lay on her back, sleeping uncomfortably. Sarfraz lay beside her, one hand gently placed on his wife’s swelling belly. Her child – their child – was growing well, according to Sameena, and it wouldn’t be long before Anisa gave birth.

I’m going to be a father, Sarfraz thought, with a mixture of joy and astonishment. He remembered being young and without a girlfriend, then he remembered being introduced to Noreen – who now existed, he was certain, as Posleen digestive by-products. Anisa was special; being with her was like being complete.
His AID chimed an alarm. Sarfraz shuddered; they’d heard about the battles in the outer solar system. “Lieutenant, the Posleen have landed in Britain,” it said. “You are ordered to report to the Regiment HQ.” It paused. “In addition, I have taken the liberty of booking your wife a seat on the evacuation train, leaving in half an hour.”
Sarfraz used a word that would have made his father reach for his belt. “Thank you,” he said. It had been Anisa who’d been charmed by the idea of a computer with a personality. She’d spoken to the AID for ages, helping it to grow into a person, even though it was imprinted on Sarfraz.
“Love?” She asked now, opening her eyes. She’d been taking courses as a nurse, but as her belly grew, she had been offered a place in the Sub-Urbs, a place that should have been hers by rights from the start. Like dozens of other wives, she’d been billeted with her husband in the defence line.
“It’s time,” he said. “They’re coming.”
Anisa sat up slowly, heavily. “She’s nervous,” she said, feeling her belly. “She wants out.”
“You want her out,” Sarfraz said. Anisa was confident that their child was a girl. “You have to get dressed quickly.”
He had been wearing his underclothes anyway, something that had been declared mandatory when the Posleen had re-entered Earth’s solar system. If they’d come down directly on top of the line, he would have been woken well before now. That he hadn’t suggested that they had some time, but not enough for a final sexual act.
There was a knock at the door. “Who’s there?” He called. “Who are you?”
“Me,” Sameena snapped. “Brad’s with me. Brother, we have to move!”
“I know,” Sarfraz said. He sighed. “Come on in.”
He smiled as Anisa gasped, and then at the red flush that spread out over Brad’s face. “For the record, you are a bastard,” Brad said.
“Speak for yourself,” Sarfraz said, pulling on his army trousers. They’d been designed to go with the ACS, but they were uncomfortably tight.
“I am,” Brad said. “I’ve been ordered to the defence line,” he said. “You’re to go to your headquarters.”
“And I’m going to help Anisa get out of here,” Sameena said. “After which I’m going to slap you a few times.”
Sarfraz winced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Honey, I have to go now.”
“Come here so I can slap you,” Anisa said, staggering to her feet with Sameena’s help. She leaned over and kissed him firmly on the lips. “You had better come back to me,” she said. “Your daughter needs her father.”
Sarfraz gave Sameena a peck on the cheek and shook Brad’s hand. “I love you all,” he said sincerely. “Brad, take care of her. Sister, marry the guy.” He kissed Anisa once more, feeling tears welling up in his face. “Stay safe,” he said, and left the room before they saw him cry.
***

The Preston Line held for a grand total of ten minutes, the rearguard fighting madly against a swarm of Posleen that seemed to have no end. Finally, a force of landers moved on overhead, raining down death from above, and the final defenders died. The Posleen charged into the town, only to be met with explosives; every building within the city had been rigged with one heavy explosive charge. Eager for loot, the God Kings sent their troops into the buildings…until several thousand Posleen had died.

The human forces fled north and the Posleen followed…
***

SAS Sergeant Robin Clark crouched in his hidden position in the signal box, watching as the Posleen came on and on. They’d passed through the Lake District with ease, tramping over any possible opposition. The civilians who had chosen to remain behind either fled into the hills, hiding from the Posleen, or were caught and eaten. The Posleen never broke step, never slowed down, heading north and covering the hills like a blanket.

“Control, I hope you’re getting this,” he subvocalised into his microphone. A Posleen fired a burst of energy at a bird, blasting the inoffensive creature out of the sky. Its burned body fell to the ground and was promptly devoured by one of the Posleen.
What the hell was that about? He asked himself. It seemed that every Posleen in existence was tramping over the hills, heading for his position. As he watched, the first Posleen drew closer and closer to his hidden weapons.
“Control, I’m engaging,” he said, and tapped the button on his control. Half a mile away, mounted on tripods, four automated machine guns opened fire, raking the Posleen hordes. Mines and semi-automated weapons, some of them captured from the Posleen, opened fire, pouring death onto the Posleen ranks.
“Bugger,” he said mildly, as a God King fired a HVM directly into the machine guns, triggering the explosives stored underneath them. The explosion blasted into the sky and the Posleen swarmed on, hunting down the other weapons. Clark tapped a second switch and the mines activated, blowing great chunks out of the Posleen, but still they came on.
The entire structure shuddered as a Posleen launched a missile into it. It was weak enough for the missile to punch though without detonating. “Goodbye,” he said quickly, as a second missile detonated against the signal box and blew it – and him – into very tiny pieces indeed.
***

Anderson scowled as the third holding position fell. He’d considered the idea of using tanks and the ACS to try to slow the Posleen up, but there simply weren’t enough of them to hold the Posleen, not without prepared defences.

“We should have expanded the lines,” he said grimly, and scowled. There simply hadn’t been time for everything he’d wanted to do. The Posleen were coming on, poisoning the very land with their presence.
“The hills are alive with the sound of Posleen,” Baxter said. “Sir, what about the shells?”
“Not within range yet,” Anderson said. “We don’t want them to know that some of our guns can indeed shoot that far.”
“Yes, sir,” Baxter said. The Posleen were too close to the line, Anderson knew; too close for some of the other weapons to be used. “Sir, we still have the feed from the automated sensors.”
“Good,” Anderson said. “Keep a constant update to the artillery, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Baxter said. “Sir, the Posleen will be on us in an hour at this rate.”
“Signal the alert,” Anderson said. He shuddered; from west to east a wall of Posleen was proceeding, with two major threats developing. One would hit Carlisle, one would hit Newcastle – and isolated units would hit the line all along its length.
“Smart God King,” he muttered. He paused. Where were the landers?
“I don’t know,” Baxter said, when he asked. “Sir…”
“They’re not very good at coordinating, but they usually combine the two attacks,” Anderson said. “So, where the hell are they?”
***

“This is the situation,” General Yates said. His command, perhaps the smallest in the remains of the army, was the most capable; one thousand five hundred armoured combat suits, every last one in the British inventory. There were more with the British units in Fleet, of course, but the Darhel kept a stranglehold on them.

He tapped the map. “The bastards are finally hitting us a big one, the largest we’ve ever faced. They have two main attack prongs, several dozen smaller ones at nearly ten thousand each, and they’re going to hit the line in an hour, perhaps less.”
Derek coughed. “Sir, where are the landers?”
“That’s a very good question,” Yates agreed. Sarfraz nodded; the skull shape of a lander – any lander – was missing from the map. “We don’t know; we’re not tracking them at all.”
“Perhaps its just infantry,” John mused. “Don’t they always send in landers?”
“They found out that it worked, so they always repeat it,” Yates agreed. “Which is worrying, as I’m sure you will agree. All I can tell you is that we can’t see the bastards, which means they’re still on the ground where they landed.”
“Perfect opportunity for some nukes,” Derek commented.
“Out of range,” Yates snapped. “Our mission is simple; we’re to split up into the three regiments and support the three main targets of the Posleen attack. It may become necessary to use nuclear weapons to break up the Posleen attack, in which case our task will be to clear the remains of the Posleen.”
John smiled. “Won’t the radiation do them in?”
“These would be straight fusion weapons,” Yates said absently. “That was a good question, John.”
John, who would probably never make above lieutenant, nodded. Sarfraz, who knew that Sergeant Benton was trying to hammer sergeant skills into John’s head, smiled grimly. John would make a good sergeant; he had the right combination of disdain for superior authority, particularly know-it-all officers and sheer genuine competence. Rote obedience could not be permitted in the ACS unit.
“Move out,” Benton snapped, at Yates’s nod. “Armour and arm up, then move out to the designated locations.”
“Yes, sir,” Sarfraz said, and checked the AID on his belt. His suit was working properly, the AID reported; all of the weapons and ammunition were ready for use, and the power cells were fully charged. Quickly, carefully, he climbed into the suit and sighed. He wanted to tell Anisa that he loved her, one more time.
***

“Where the hell are the landers?” Anderson demanded, as the Posleen overran Penrith. The small town had been abandoned months ago, its population inducted into the army or assigned a space within the Sub-Urbs. “What are the Posleen doing with them?”

Baxter shook his head. “Sir, I don’t know,” he protested. “We’re watching for them, but its like they’re keeping them on the ground.”
Anderson frowned. “They might be making another stab at Ireland,” he muttered, and dismissed the possibility. If the Posleen intended to fly over to Ireland again, they would have been seen moving. “How are the PDCs holding up?”
“Fairly well,” the Fleet liaison officer said. “The Posleen have been challenging them, on and off, but they seem to be concentrating on the PDCs covering France and Germany and perhaps Russia.”
“Not our problem then,” Anderson said grimly. It was odd; the Posleen were normally very stupid, so what was making them act differently? They could innovate, from time to time, but this was the very opposite of innovation.