The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

21 March 2001
“Thank you for seeing me,” Margent Hammond said, shaking the hand of the Prime Minister. “I’m sorry to have insisted on such a meeting.”
The Prime Minister nodded grimly. He’d been expecting the meeting, the demand for a private meeting, and he’d put it off as long as he could. “You do understand that I am very busy,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Might we move to the chase at once?”
Hammond nodded. “I had a visitor a few days ago,” she said, and outlined the meeting. The Prime Minister felt his jaw drop open. “Sir, what do you think it could be?”
The prime Minister thought as fast as he ever had in his life. “I don’t suppose that you recorded the conversation?” He asked. Hammond shook her head. “Any thoughts yourself?”
“The telephone number he gave me is American,” she said. “Other than that…it could be a Russian attempt to gain access to Galactic technology.”
“They’ll get a lot of access of their own,” the Prime Minister pointed out. He felt his heart racing in his chest; the information had been a nasty shock. For a long moment, he considered the possibility of deceit, but he dismissed the thought. It wasn’t likely; it would destroy Hammond’s career forever if she lied to him.
“Then who?” Hammond asked. “The Americans? It is an American number, after all.”
The Prime Minister privately disbelieved it. The CIA had its problems, but it would hardly be insane enough to allow its operatives to launch an operation against a friendly power, not during the greatest crisis the world had ever known. Even if common sense had deserted them, they would have known better than to leave an American number. Unless, of course, it was a cunning double-bluff…
The Prime Minister massaged his temples. There was a reason he hated intelligence work. “It could be the Russians attempting to gain more access,” Hammond said. “The contact was purely the same as the KGB used to make, back before the Soviet Union paid the price for hubris.”
She spoke on, discussing how the USSR had failed in its duty to its own people, rotting away from the inside, and the Prime Minister tuned her out. The important bit was simple; Hammond’s loyalties lay with Britain and British Democracy. After all, as a True Believer, she would be second against the wall when the revolution came.
He smiled. “Margent, I’m going to discuss the matter with Sir Robert,” he said. Hammond nodded at the mention of Sir Robert Darter, the Director of MI5. “Would you be willing to open communications with your new friend?”
Hammond nodded grimly. “You want me to see if I can find out who they are,” she said. “I dare say that I can try.”

Chapter Seven: The World At Arms
Houses of Parliament

London, United Kingdom

16^stth August 2001
The secret had lasted longer than the Prime Minister had dared to hope. They’d planned on two months, which would have had the announcement made in May, but the Chinese and the French had insisted on delaying matters. The Chinese, at least, had a good excuse; they were trying to prepare their country for war, which was an almost impossible task. The French, meanwhile, were having political difficulties over the preparations for war; not all of the French government was keen on fighting.
Finally, enough Americans and British had pierced together enough of the secret to make further delay counter-productive. An American newspaper researcher had actually managed to fathom out the entire secret – without the benefits of an insider leak – and published. Fortunately, perhaps, his competitors had rubbished the theory. In Britain, the newspapers had been quieter, very aware that jumping too soon could utterly destroy their credibility.
The Prime Minister smiled. It would be a relief to finally be able to announce the truth to an increasingly-nervous Parliament. Enough of the details of military preparations had leaked out to raise hackles and some suspicions; it had been only through the unwavering support of the Leader of the Opposition that a constitutional crisis had been prevented.
He shook his head as his car swept into the parking space, thousands of reporters flashing their cameras at him as he stepped out. He waved cheerfully, grimly aware that many of them had speculated that he – or, worse, someone completely outside the mainstream – was plotting a coup against Parliament. Someone in MI5 – he didn’t want to know who – had leaked all sorts of fake stories into the ether, just to confuse the issue.
“Prime Minister, this way,” a well-known reporter shouted. “Is it true that you’re having an affair with Big Boobs Horton?”
The Prime Minister actually laughed. His wife would have been less than happy about that comment; Big Boobs Horton was a pop star with a dubious reputation. The questions came thick and fast, but none of them had anything to do with aliens, or space invaders. The Prime Minister was almost disappointed.
“Welcome back, Prime Minister,” the doorman said, holding it open for him. The Prime Minister, in his younger days, had once fulminated against the inherent weakness of only one guard in plain sight. Older and wiser, he knew that quick response teams remained vigilant, hiding from the public eye.
“Thank you, John,” he said, nodding politely. The halls of the House of Commons were busier than he’d ever seen them; the Party Whips¹⁰ had been busy. Some of the MPs – believing the stranger rumours – had been reluctant to come, or so he’d heard.
“Perhaps I should have had Big Boobs Horton come and sing for them,” he muttered to himself, and chuckled. It would have amused the public and horrified the House. He nodded once to the Home Secretary and stepped inside the debating chamber, watching as the benches filled out with the MPs. The public viewing galleries were packed, but with members of the press, instead of members of the public.
Leeches, the Prime Minister thought coldly. It hadn’t been long since Princess Diana had been driven to her death by the press reporters, chased along the dark streets of Paris to a fatal accident. The press delighted in rumours and innuendo; they would be shocked by the news that the Prime Minister was about to present.
He checked his watch. It was time to begin. The Speaker tapped for attention. “Honourable members, members of the public, we have been gathered for a momentous announcement,” she said. Her old voice filled the chamber; for once there was relative quiet. “The Prime Minister has the floor.”
Taking a breath, the Prime Minister stood up. He had no notes; his memory alone would suffice. His speech-writers had worked for hours, trying to devise an acceptable speech that would convoy the information, but at the same time convoy firm resolve, command of the situation, and the government’s certainty that the Posleen…problem could be resolved with a minimum of hassle. It didn’t help that everyone who knew about the Posleen knew that it certainly would not be bloodless.
He spoke quietly, but firmly, knowing that the entire speech was being broadcast live to the entire world. Of course, the American announcement would have priority in America and the French in France, but the nations of the world that were unaware of the oncoming storm would be taking their cue from the BBC, and Sky and the French broadcasting services.
“Members of the public, members of the House, we face today a situation that is totally unprecedented in the long history of our nation,” he said. “Five months ago, we – the five permanent members of the United Nations Security Council – were contacted by an alien race, a federation of planets out among the stars.”
He paused to allow that to sink in. Some of the backbenchers would be working out the implications – such as no other nation being aware of the situation until now – and building up a head of steam to be outraged. Others would be putting two and two – or the military build-up and alien contact – together and coming up with a simple answer; alien invasion.
“The aliens brought us a warning,” he continued, wishing that he’d been able to install a video screen in the house. The images of the Posleen crunching their way through alien forms would have really concentrated a few minds. “There is an invasion force of unparalleled scope, coming towards Earth. In five years, perhaps less, the alien Posleen will land on Earth.”
He listened to the gasps of shock and horror. Few of the house truly believed, not yet, but they knew enough not to dismiss it as a trick or as a joke. He’d made the cold hard decision to use five years as a hard line, even though the first scattered landings might ignore Britain altogether. They had to act on the assumption that Britain would be the first target for the Posleen, even though cold logic suggested otherwise.
“We have those five years to prepare for that invasion,” he said. “Some units of our military will be deployed off-world, fighting the Posleen on other worlds, while we will be undertaking the largest military build-up in the history of Britain. The strategic situation is grim; we could be attacked at any moment, anywhere within Britain. We require a large army, the largest that Britain has ever produced, simply to defend ourselves.
“The stakes are higher than they’ve ever been before,” he concluded. “This is not a war against a human foe, but a foe from space, with alien logic and behaviour. Not even the Nazis stooped to eating human flesh, the Posleen can and will. This is a war that will not be settled by a quick duel, like the Falklands, but one that can only end with victory – or defeat.”
He paused. Seeing the chamber struck dumb was something new. “I would like to conclude by reminding everyone of the worlds of Sir Winston Churchill,” he concluded. “He spoke about the fact that Britain stood alone – and we will be standing alone in this new war – and he was defiant. He said that we would fight them on the beaches, that we would fight them on the hills and that we would fight them in the streets and the cities.
“The Germans never came, but the Posleen will,” he said. “I have faith that each and every one of us will stand shoulder to shoulder against the alien menace, fighting to defeat the oncoming storm that threatens to break against our world.”
He sat down and nodded to the Leader of the Opposition, who stood up. He spoke quickly, confirming the existence of the Posleen and informing the house that the Opposition – being the loyal opposition – had agreed to take part in a War Cabinet. The Opposition would be delighted to work with the Government, in order to meet the Posleen threat fully, while reserving its right to act in the interests of Britain.
The Prime Minister smiled. The doublethink was not unexpected; the Opposition would want the chance to back out if the government really made a serious blunder, just to ensure that they – and thus continuity in government – were not shattered along with the original government. It was curious; unlike America, the British governing system didn’t allow for two parties ripping one another to shreds, but for some cooperation. It was very rare that one party could rule by fiat.
“We have a great deal to do and very little time to do it in,” he said, when the Leader of the Opposition had finished. “Towards this, I ask for Parliament to activate the Defence of the Realm Act, and authorise the formation of a War Cabinet, so that the Posleen threat can be met.”
“I second that motion,” the Leader of the Opposition said. He would become Deputy Prime Minister under a War Cabinet. “I also propose that we move directly on to voting.”
“Seconded,” an Opposition MP said quickly.
The Speaker hesitated. The Prime Minister understood; these were mucky waters and he understood her reluctance to dive into them. Unlike him, she held her position by consent of the House at large; annoying too many MPs would be fatal to her position – and almost certainly to her career.
“Is there anyone against the motion?” She asked finally. There was an immediate hubbub. “I call upon the MP for Blackburn, Lancashire.”
Luaky Commer, the MP for Blackburn, Lancashire, stood up, adjusting his suit as he stood. “Would the Prime Minister please be so kind as to give me the details on what he has been drinking?” He asked finally. There was a general round of chuckles. “Aliens. An invading army. Exactly how much of that are we supposed to believe?” He looked around the room, inviting the MPs to share the joke. “Should we not be worrying about committing the Prime Minister to an insane asylum, rather than an imaginary army? I’ve not heard such a load of rubbish since I left the Green Party.”
The Prime Minister waited patiently for the sniggers to subside. “Himmit Alarlas, if you would show yourself, please…”
The little alien materialised near the centre of the room. Instantly, it was the centre of attention, silencing the entire house for the first time in living memory. The Himmit moved forward slowly, its body moving and flexing in a way that no CGI or man in a suit could duplicate. It was clearly not human; no man could have fitted inside and operated the suit.
When it spoke, it spoke with two mouths speaking at once, blending into a single inhuman voice, high and piping. “We are quite real,” Himmit Alarlas said. The alien performed a complicated dance movement, remaining on the same space of ground. The security guards smiled to themselves; the Prime Minister had let them in on the joke. No one would have laughed if the Himmit had been shot down by the guards, even though the Prime Minister suspected that the Himmit have managed to slip though the defences.
I will have to have that fixed, I suppose, he thought, as the news sank into the house’s collective mind, no matter how many people might have denied that such a thing might exist. The deathly silence grew and lengthened as the Himmit looked around, its sets of eyes blinking and clicking as it peered around the room.
“This is not a joke,” the Prime Minister said quietly. “The aliens are real.”
***

The recordings of the death of the first contact team at the hands of the Posleen – assuming that Posleen had hands – stunned the House, and through them the public. The BBC, grateful for its near-total access to the defence planning, had spared no effort at convincing the public of the seriousness of the situation. Detailed defence planning, they assured the public, was already underway and would be continued; nothing would be overlooked by Parliament.

The Prime Minister shook his head. It was politics, politics at their worst, rousing thousands of humans to the defence of health and home. It was disgusting; to think that the survival of Britain depended upon Parliament’s approval for the defence measures, but it was the source of their strength. A democracy, in the long-term, was almost unbeatable; it had a feedback system built in.
He watched as the results of the first polls came back. There had been only a few incidents of panic, directed against the police and some of the ethnic minority communities, or from the ethnic minority communities. Some community leaders – the people who said things like ‘don’t use the weapons in the cupboard to which the key is there on the table, no, not that table; that table’ – were loudly proclaiming their loyalty to Britain; others decrying it as a government plot.
He grinned. Dozens of retired generals – mainly paper-pushers who hadn’t been called back already – were pontificating on the need for deep shelters and civil defence drills. He supposed that they were right about the drills, but shelters would be useless against the Posleen. They had avoided the word ‘conscription’ so far, even though the information made it clear that it would be required.
“Give it a couple of days for it to really sink in, and then there’ll be trouble,” he muttered, and turned to face his guest. “Any progress?”
Sir Robert Darter shook his head. He was a holdover from the last government and the Prime Minister had never really trusted his loyalty to him, although no one doubted his competence and loyalty to Britain. His grey hair was going silver; the Prime Minister would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so serious.
“Not enough to have any idea who John Griffin works for,” he said. “Nick Fury and James Bond aside, the real spymasters rarely show themselves to the public eye, let alone go to foreign countries. The odds are very likely that Griffin is working for someone, but who?”
He drew in a breath. “We traced the number back with some difficulty,” he said. “It goes directly into a telephone centre in Arkansas, and then vanishes somewhere in their computers. That suggests that someone in the centre is aware of it, and seeing it goes through American satellites, we can’t tap into the communications. We’re poking away at it – it would be a lot easier if we could ask the Americans for help.”
The Prime Minister shook his head. “We’ve been over that before,” he said, even though he was disappointed. “We have to learn what we can before we ask the Americans, or anyone else for that matter.”
Sir Robert Darter nodded grimly. It was a constant among intelligence personnel that all countries carried out operations on other nations’ soil. MI6 had carried out intelligence operations against IRA supporters in America. The French Secret Service had carried out operations against Greenpeace, one that had exploded in their face once. Basically unrepentant, as hypocritical as always, the French hadn’t cared about the global reaction.
“And our contact at this end?” The Prime Minister asked. “How is Margent handling it?”
“Surprisingly well,” Sir Robert admitted. “I would have expected hand-wringing and much sobbing.”
The Prime Minister nodded. Hammond, whatever else could be said about her, was practical and devoted to democracy. In the long run, any support from ‘unnamed elements’ could – no, would – weaken her party considerably, particularly since no one knew who was behind it.
“And what has Griffin said?” He asked finally, placing his worries aside. “Anything that might be helpful in identifying him?”
“He’s slipped Margent some money,” Sir Robert said. He met the Prime Minister’s eyes. “He’s slipped her nearly five million dollars.”
“We must be able to track that amount of money,” the Prime Minister snapped. “What does he want her to do with it?”
“Concentrate on building up a coalition,” Sir Robert said. “Five millions dollars – that works out to over three million pounds – and we can’t track it through a complex web of banks and building societies covering half the world.”
“We might get a better look in when the economic shock hits,” the Prime Minister commented. “All of the banks are suddenly going to get hit; we’re going to have to bring back rationing, for God’s sake.”
“Will the nations that send us food still do it under the Posleen foot?” Sir Robert asked. “Can we store enough to survive?”
“That’s none of your business,” the Prime Minister snapped, knowing that it was one of the larger problems that the coping teams faced. “Now…who’s behind it?”
“Suspicion is starting to fall on the aliens, or on the Americans,” Sir Robert admitted. “Do the alien embassies that are about to be set up have diplomatic immunity?”
The Prime Minister nodded grimly. “How would they know how to contact Hammond?” He asked. “If it is them, how many others might they have contacted?”
Sir Robert shrugged. “It’s impossible to be certain,” he admitted. “However, those AID devices of theirs are clearly capable of moving through our best firewalls, and I never believed that they just stumbled across us six months ago. They never had any problems learning English, did they?”
“Watch this very carefully,” the Prime Minister snapped. “Nothing is to go on any computers, anywhere.” He scowled. “We might as well let Margent build up anyway; always a good idea to know where the enemies are.”
“That’s what we think they’re for,” Sir Robert said. “Subversion; an attempt to provide themselves with a way to pressure us into doing what they want.”
“But why?” The Prime Minister asked. “What do they have to gain?”
“Why do the Posleen invest, invade and eat entire planets?” Sir Robert asked dryly. “They’re aliens. They don’t have the same basic…conceptions as we do about how the universe works. Whatever reason the Darhel have for what we think they’re doing, its almost certainly not one that we could understand.”