The Yeomen of England
Christopher Nuttall
The Yeomen of England
(Posleen in England)
Christopher Nuttall
Christopher_g_nuttall@hotmail.com
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
Cover Blurb
When the Galactic Federation makes contact with humanity, warning of the danger from the Posleen, every nation on Earth is thrown back on its own resources. For the United Kingdom of Great Britain – facing the first invasion for years – every resource must be tapped to defeat the Posleen. As the social structure of Britain warps under the preparation for war, every part of British society prepares for the war.
As the Posleen land, rampaging over England and heading for Scotland, only the courage of the Yeomen of England stands between the British people and the Posleen stew pots…
Ordinal Author’s Note And Dedication
As a book set largely in England and written by a British author, The Yeomen of England uses British sayings and expressions, most of which have been footnoted for the benefit of American readers. If there is any confusion, please don’t hesitate to enquire.
Dedicated to John Ringo and Tom Kratman, for their work on the Posleen Universe and other stories.
New Author’s Note
The Legacy of the Aldenata series, otherwise known as the Posleen Universe, was created by John Ringo in his novel A Hymn Before Battle and its sequels, which focused on the Posleen invasion of the United States. Tom Kratman added Watch on the Rhine (set in Germany), Yellow Eyes (set in Panama) and The Tuloriad (set some years after the original series). John Ringo recently returned to this series with Eye of the Storm, which brought Mike O’Neal back from fighting the Posleen and put him up against a far more dangerous threat...
With John’s kind permission, I wrote a novel set in Britain during the Posleen invasion and another set in the Middle East. Exactly how canonical they are is open to interpretation. The details differ from the Posleen RPG for the very good reason that I hadn’t heard of it when I was plotting out the stories.
I do want to rewrite the British story, at least, so all comments and suggestions would be warmly welcomed.
No profit is being made from this.
Christopher Nuttall, 2012
Prologue
The classroom was less noisy than a watcher might have expected, but when their favourite teacher was reading to them, silence was a requirement. Even the noisy students quietened; their reading hour was special to all of them. The boys listened; the girls listened, as Mrs Crandall read the storybook to them.
“No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water1,” she read.
The story, The War of the Worlds, had been a request. One of the children had read an excerpt from the book in a storybook of adventures, and he had asked for the full story. Mrs Crandall, who was a firm believer in encouraging children to develop their interests in reading, had agreed; the story would be their latest classroom read. They would do projects on it…they would draw pictures of the Martians, the boys competing for the honour of drawing the most disgusting image of the Martians feeding; the girls writing romantic stories of love and ponies under the Martian heel. In Mrs Crandall’s world, boys were boys and girls were girls…already, she was planning a field trip to Woking and…
“And strangest of all is it to hold my wife's hand again, and to think that I have counted her, and that she has counted me, among the dead,” she concluded, finishing the story after several weeks. The rapt attention didn’t fade, even after three weeks of reading the story. The walls of the classroom had images of Martians, painting in gruesome red and gold.
Tom Anderson held up his hand. “Mrs, did that ever happen?” He asked. “Did London ever get ruined?”
Mrs Crandall smiled. Children – young children – were often incapable of distinguishing between fact and fiction; only last week she’d been asked if the Space Shuttle could travel faster than light. She believed in answering their questions; the more they knew, the more they would be able to use for their own development.
“No, Tom,” she said. “Britain has never been invaded…”
“What about William the Conqueror?” Polly Perks asked. She was a small slight girl with two long ponytails. The boys enjoyed pulling them from time to time; she was a know-it-all who should have been called Matilda. “He invaded Britain…”
“England,” Mrs Crandall said firmly. “William the Conqueror had a claim to the throne. Since then…”
She described a vast history, trying to catch their imagination. The Dutch and the endless wars during Cromwell’s time, allowing herself to feel a flicker of naughtiness at the time, as discussing Cromwell wasn’t done2. The Spanish Amanda and Francis Drake. And finally…Hitler, and the German invasion that never was.
“If they had succeeded, we would no longer live in a green and pleasant land,” she concluded. “Why not write a story about it?”
The class groaned, but they were good-natured groans, except for Tom’s. “Mrs, what would happen in the future, if Britain was invaded?”
Mrs Crandall paused. Young Tom’s father was known to be a profound hater of the French, a man who had been wounded during the Battle of Oran. On the other hand, the Government was very keen that schools promote European unity; the Soviet Union remained a threat and that didn’t seem as if it would go away anything soon.
“Britain will not be invaded in the future,” Mrs Crandall said finally. “We have nuclear missiles and no power on Earth could invade us without being struck by nuclear weapons.”
Tom’s face twisted, his mind trying to grasp concepts normally alien to a young child. “But…what if someone did?” He said finally. “Could someone not manage to launch an invasion anyway?”
Mrs Crandall snorted. “No one has successfully invaded Britain and no one ever will,” she said, and changed the subject.
***
Tom Anderson was not reassured. Growing up in the seventies, while his peers were discovering the joys of the ecological movement and the opposite sex, he worried endlessly about a possible invasion. Writing stories only developed his fears further; it surprised no one that the Falklands War made him ultra-patriotic and concerned about the constant reduction in Britain’s military. It surprised no one that he joined the British Army, nor that he would be rapidly promoted after seeing service in the Gulf War.
And yet, the senior personnel didn’t know what to do with him. On the one hand, he was the officer who drew up plans for all eventualities, but on the other hand his…blunt expressions on the subject of British defence earned him enemies. Politicians from all political parties respected his ability to explain the military world – a closed book to many of them – but they resented his single-mindedness on the subject. It was the 1990s; war was out, it would never happen again. The international community would punish aggressors…had that not been proven by the Gulf War?
As the 1990s grew to a close, few men even considered the possibilities of a global war, nor did they look to the stars. There had been no trace of any life existing outside the Earth; the world assumed that peace was the constant throughout the universe. Britain was part of NATO, a global organisation dedicated to keeping a powerful military alliance in being. Britain would remain safe under the NATO wing, backed up by the might of American military power, and that state of affairs would continue forever.
Or so they thought…
Chapter One: The Oncoming Storm
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
12th March 2001
The room was cold and grey, a fitting scene for the discussion at hand. They entered the room, in groups or on their own, the military leaders of Great Britain and the politicians who controlled her destiny. The senior MPs of the majority party; the representatives from the backbenches, chosen by lot, and finally the Leader of the Opposition. It was a grim atmosphere; few men understood the purposes of such a gathering, and those who suspected didn’t quite believe it.
After all, the Threat Board was clear; there were no international problems waiting for the attention of the helmsmen of Great Britain, and why would the Leader of the Opposition be invited to a simple Party meeting? No cabinet meeting – except one – would have the Leader of the Opposition present, for many different reasons. The MPs twitched and muttered to themselves; there had been no earthshaking change in the British political situation, no sudden formation of a coalition government. They would have noticed, wouldn’t they? They would have heard about it on the grapevine, long before it made the News At Ten.
They looked around the room. The Prime Minister was standing with his back to them, staring out of the window at the cold dank weather. The military personnel were a mixture of grim resignation or shock, or confusion; the…incident, whatever it was, hadn’t been explained to them. Puzzlement grew, and so did the silence, as all cast their eyes upon the Prime Minister’s famous back.
For his part, the Prime Minister was wondering, his thoughts straying all over the room. Who would agree to support the government in the sudden crisis? Who would refuse to believe, even unto the invasion itself? Who would insist that it was somehow all his fault? The Prime Minister’s famous lips twitched, but he couldn’t summon his famous smile. Deep inside, he wondered; was he fit for the task at hand?
The silence lengthened, broken only by a cough from the Leader of the Opposition. Along in the room, he was immune to the Prime Minister’s wrath, safe from any political pressure that could be brought to bear. The Prime Minister smiled wryly, the expression a flickering horror against the window, and took his seat at the head of the table.
“You may as well show yourself now,” he called. A section of the wall seemed to flicker, changing colour even as they watched, and an alien being appeared from the wall. The assembled movers and shakers stared at it, all those who hadn’t been in the know. The alien’s skin was almost like a chameleons; it pushed back against the wall, flicking in and out of visibility.
“What the fuck?” One of the uninformed military men gasped. “What is that thing?”
At the sound of his voice, its tone harsh with fear and horror, the alien merged completely with the wall and vanished. The assembled politicians stared at the wall, trying to track the invisible entity as it moved around the room, hiding from their view.
“Silence,” the Prime Minister said, keeping his voice calm. “I apologise for the little showmanship I employed…”
“You had better be sorry,” one of the backbenchers3 snapped, interrupting the Prime Minister. “When I think about the effort involved in creating the Party out of the fragments…”
“I believe that I was talking,” the Prime Minister said. He reminded himself to give the assembled group some slack; he’d had a few days to get used to the concept of extraterrestrial intelligence. He’d watched Independence Day and Invasion Earth, but the Himmit made a mockery of such human conceits - and as for the Darhel…
“Himmit Alarlas, please show yourself again,” he said, abandoning his muses. The Himmit faded back into existence, giving an impression of cowering behind the Prime Minister’s chair. Up close, standing still, the Himmit seemed frog-like, with four eyes and two mouths. There was a complex honeycomb formation above the mouths and between wide-set eyes; it could have been an ear or a nose.
“It is always a pleasure to meet such distinguished guests,” the alien piped. Its voice was a high tenor. “I hope that we will be working together through the dark days to come.”
The Prime Minister took a breath. “Five days ago, we were contacted by an alien…well, the Yanks are calling it a Federation,” he began. “For various reasons, the Federation quarantined Earth and refused contact…until now.”
“You are dangerous carnivores,” Himmit Alarlas said. It’s mouths opened and closed in quick succession, revealing strange misshapen flat teeth. “Dangerous, dangerous…”
“Thank you,” the Prime Minister said. The expression on some of the senior MPs’ faces made the aggravation worthwhile. Some of them, peaceniks to a man or woman, found the alien’s judgement offensive. “You may go to the recovery room if you wish.”
He waited until the Himmit was out of the room before continuing. “As I said, I must apologise for introducing you to an alien life form this way,” he said. “There simply is no time for disbelief. We have a serious crisis on our hands.”
“Doubtless the Yanks will sort it all out,” the Foreign Secretary muttered. “I’m surprised they even let that…creature come here.”
“The Americans are in trouble, along with the rest of us,” the Prime Minister said. He gazed around the room. “I won’t go into too many details, as they are included in the briefing folders prepared by the Federation, but the short version of the story is that the Earth is about to be attacked by an alien race.”
There was a sudden silence. The Prime Minister found that more worrying than argument. “They seem to be Mongols in space,” he said. “For reasons unknown, they have been moving across space in an unstoppable mass, taking whatever worlds are in their path. They have been attacking the Federation for the past one hundred years and now they’re coming our way.”
***
The silence grew and lengthened. Finally, Margent Hammond, one of the backbench MPs, broke the silence. The Prime Minister sighed inwardly; Hammond was a firm peacenik, one of the older members of the party, and one of those who had never reconciled themselves to the compromises that had been required to make the party a genuine competitor for the leadership of Britain.
“I do not believe a word of this,” she said. She was an MP whose reputation had never been sullied by being offered a post in Government. “All people know that all people want peace. By the time that a race reaches the stars, they will have achieved a united peaceful state and an ability to empathise with other beings, allowing them to co-exist with the other races in the universe, all of whom will have reached a similar state.”
The Prime Minister wanted to cut her off sharply, but this was no time for a split within the party. “The Federation believes that all races that are…irredeemably hostile destroy themselves before reaching the stars,” he said. “The Posleen, however, seem to have managed to reach the stars – and they’re coming our way.”
He spoke over Hammond’s protests. “The Federation believes that we have as little as four years to prepare for the defence of Earth,” he said. “Worse, they have…certain requirements of their own. They want – need – us to send some of our soldiers to fight on two of their worlds, ones that we might be able to save from the Posleen.”
“And so we will be weakened,” the Secretary of State for Defence commented. “Why can they not hold their own worlds?”
It said something about the seriousness of the situation that he hadn’t been in the loop beforehand. The Prime Minister hoped that he wouldn’t hold it against him; Hammond alone would cause problems for Britain. This was too important for party politics to play a decisive role.
“The Federation…is composed of races like Margent suggests,” he said. “In effect, one race – the Himmit, which you’ve seen – are cowards, two more cannot fight even to save their own lives, and the final race can launch one attack – and then the person launching the attack goes cationic. They have been hoping for the best, and the best hasn’t happened. What little resistance they have been able to offer in space has not slowed the Posleen at all – and their resistance on the ground, to all intents and purposes, may as well not exist.
“We can go into further detail later,” he said. “Suffice it to say that the Federation would like to trade. They will hire some thousands of our soldiers – ours, the Americans, the other NATO nations, the Russians, the Chinese and whatever other nations have the capability to contribute – to fight on two not-quite-fallen worlds, and perhaps later to defend other Federation worlds. In exchange, they will contribute Federation technology to assist us in preparing for the coming invasion, including a small fleet of ships converted for military use.” He held up a hand. “For the moment, as per the agreement made between the five permanent members of the United Nations Security Council, the Fleet will be a global project, recruiting men and resources from all over the world.”
He nodded at the First Sea Lord. “I expect that several thousand of our RAF and Royal Navy personnel will be slated for serving in Fleet,” he said. “It’s going to be a nightmare, but with the Posleen on their way, perhaps we can make some clear decisions. Unfortunately, Fleet will almost certainly not be ready in time to hold off the first wave of invading Posleen, and it may not be able to stand the second or third waves off from the planet.” He sighed. “So much of this, you understand, is speculation, but its informed speculation. We have to proceed on the worst case…and that means a Posleen invasion on the ground.”
There was a diffident cough from the Chief of the Air Staff, General Mathews. “Prime Minister, with all due respect, how can we hope to hold the ground when the…ah, Posleen will control space?”
The Prime Minister smiled. The Chief of the Air Staff had been involved, right from the start. The Permanent Joint Headquarters, the PJHQ, would spearhead Britain’s military response to the oncoming storm. The question had been planted; the Prime Minister hoped that it would focus a few minds on the problems of survival.
“The Posleen…do not seem to place as much reliance on space installations as we do in our science-fiction,” he said. “In effect, they seem to concentrate on landing and setting up an impregnable position on the ground – impregnable to Federation soldiers, such as they are. They seem to concentrate on seizing the cities, and then eating the population and taking all of their wealth.”
He was dimly aware of Hammond nearly being sick. “We seem to have very little choice,” he said. “We have to prepare for a land war that will make World War Two look like a tea party. This one...it will be fought on the beaches, on the hedgerows and on the streets…and we have to win it, just to keep enough of the population safe.”
He nodded to General Mathews. “My office has already begun to consider our best way to meet the massive task ahead,” he said. “However, I must warn you that the cost will be enormous and it will require total focus with no guarantee of success.”
“God, you’re fun to have around,” someone muttered from the rear.
The Prime Minister smiled ruefully. “Which brings us to the purpose of this meeting,” he said. “We will have to declare a state of emergency when the news breaks out, which it will, sooner or later.”
“People will start leaking,” the First Sea Lord commented. “When are we going to tell the public the truth?”
The Prime Minister smiled. At least they had accepted it as truth, but then, Himmit Alarlas made a convincing argument. He suspected that many others would refuse to believe in the threat, but the men and women in the room had to believe. Between them, they were the directors of Britain.
“The Americans and the French insisted upon a two-month period of secrecy,” the Prime Minister said. “Personally, I believe that that is…unlikely to last that long, as we’re going to be preparing for military operations on a massive scale, but…needs must when the devil vomits on your toenails.”
As he had hoped, the comment drew some chuckles. “We have to form a War Cabinet,” he said, nodding to the Leader of the Opposition. “The normal democratic process will have to be suspended for a while, until we can get a handle on the problem and confront it.”
“That’s why you wanted me here,” the Leader of the Opposition said. For the first time, the Prime Minister wished that his opponents had been able to come up with a more inspiring man; the Leader of the Opposition was a grey man with a grey soul. “You want me to take on the role of Deputy Prime Minister.”
The Prime Minister nodded. The entire Cabinet would have to be reshuffled to meet the new threat. “I need you on the team,” he said. “Three Cabinet posts would be yours, should your party require them as a sign of good faith.”
The Leader of the Opposition smiled. “If you’re willing to go that far, it must be real,” he said. He held out a hand. “Very well; I accept.”
The Prime Minister shook his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “Margent?”
“This is a complete and total fallacy,” Hammond snapped. “This is nothing more than an attempt to distract attention from the economic disasters you are causing by…”
“Margent, don’t be a fool,” one of the backbenchers snapped. “You saw that thing; it was an alien, all right!”
“Shut up,” Hammond snapped. “This is nothing more than a cheap power grab. Now you’ve gotten into power on our backs, you want to throw us true believers out of the party! Well, I won’t go without a fight, you…”
The Prime Minister sighed. “Margent, can I at least ask you to remain quiet about this until the two-month period is over?”
“When you try to force this lie down the throats of the people, they will reject you,” Hammond snapped. “I will watch and wait.”
She left the room. “Well, that went well,” the Prime Minister muttered. Several people chuckled. “If there is anyone else who does not believe, speak now or forever hold your tongues…”
“I saw the aliens,” the Leader of the Opposition said. “On the condition that I have access to the entire process, count me in.”
The Prime Minister sighed inwardly at the man’s need to play politics, even though he understood it, but nodded. He watched as several other people, then the entire room, made their final agreements and commitments. The process of drawing up a War Cabinet didn’t take long; the process was well-understood, even though it hadn’t been used for nearly four decades.
“For the moment, this will be an unofficial gathering,” he said finally. “Once we make the announcement, we can form the cabinet properly.” He scowled; all the British forces overseas would have to be brought home and prepared to defend their own homes. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming.”
“I wish I could thank you for inviting us,” the Leader of the Opposition said wryly. The Prime Minister chuckled. It would be the last bit of levity they would have for many strange and terrible days.
***
The Prime Minister and the Chief of the Air Staff, General Mathews, hadn’t moved in the same circles before the last election. In their first meetings, when the Prime Minister had ordered RAF units to take part in Operation Desert Fox and British Army units to deploy into several hotspots across the world, both men had come to respect the other, if not outright liking.
“You handled that well,” Mathews said, after the meeting had ended. “Using the Himmit was a stoke of genius.”
The Prime Minister shrugged, “I shall have to make many fulsome apologies to Himmit Alarlas afterwards,” he said. “Still, it was the only way to convince them all quickly, even Margent.”
“A shame about her,” Mathews said. “Should she not be taken into protective custody?”
“No,” the Prime Minister said. “We have other problems at the moment; preparing for war. We have study teams active already, and it’s only going to get worse.”
Mathews nodded. “I think we have to bring Tom Anderson in on this,” he said. “He is the only person who has been thinking about threats to Britain itself.”
The Prime Minister laughed bitterly. His honest belief in the essential benevolence of the universe had taken a severe beating. “We should have listened to him,” he said. “Brief him in, my authority. Have him come up with an overall plan for a campaign within Britain itself, one that preserves the lives of as much of the population as possible.”
He sighed. “Have the teams now working with the Americans copy all of their data over to him and vice versa,” he said. “The Americans, at least, are our allies; God only knows which way the French are going to go.” He scowled, his mind racing everywhere. “Coming to think of it, we’d better stockpile oil as well. The oil suppliers are going to be up shit creek.”
“And it couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch,” Mathews said. The Prime Minister laughed. “Sir, we can stop them.”
The Prime Minister looked up at him. “I hope that you’re right,” he said. “The hell of it, General, is that Margent was right; I don’t see how such a species evolved.”
“Perhaps a evolutionary specialist will be able to provide you with an answer,” Mathews suggested. “Or perhaps…”
The Prime Minister completed the thought. “Or perhaps the Darhel are lying to us,” he said. “They seem to have made contact with us very easily.” He paused. “The Tir reminded me too much of a used car salesman.”
Chapter Two: Believer
Rusholme, Manchester
United Kingdom
12th March 2001
The girl they wanted him to marry was ugly.
Sarfraz Ahmed, an eighteen-year-old student, sat between his parents and his sister, trying to avoid showing any trace of his feelings on his face. It wasn’t that Noreen Ullah was actually bad, at least in the physical sense; it was that he didn’t find her attractive. She sat there, a tentative nervous smile on her brown face, and he knew that they would never get along.
His parents and her parents were taking away in Gujarati; he could follow about one word in five. She followed them, of course; she was a new immigrant from India. If he refused to marry her, she would have to return at the end of her school year; her visa didn’t last for much longer4. She sat there, her eyes decently lowered, and he felt sick. She would go along with what her parents wanted and she wouldn’t care what she wanted for herself.
“Well, are you coming?” His sister asked. Sameena, a girl who wanted to make a life for herself, much to their parents annoyance, smiled at him. “Come on brother, you have to talk to the girl.”
Sarfraz muttered under his breath. He’d never developed the habit of bossing his sister around; he would never have dared. One of her more ‘unsuitable’ friends had introduced her to self-defence, and of course she knew as much about him as he did about her. Mutually assured destruction was alive and well in their family, a mixture of secrecy and hypocrisy that kept them going.
“Come on,” Sameena said, pulling him towards the door. He made a show of resisting, just to keep things proper, and the parents nodded in approval. Sameena had to stay with them, just to guard their honour. Sarfraz snorted; he would sooner swear on the Qur’an to a lifetime of celibacy than spend time with Noreen.
Sameena closed the door behind them; Noreen waved them both to a sofa, every inch the hostess. Sarfraz winced; her mother had already begun to teach her what she needed to be a wife, even one in an extended family. Her demeanour was perfectly shy, the perfect opposite to Sameena, and she took her own seat, folding her legs decently under her skirt. The silence grew and lengthened.
“Well, big brother, say something,” Sameena hinting, elbowing him. The sudden furrowing on Noreen’s forehead was proof enough; she hardly spoke English. “Like; hello, how are you?”
Sarfraz would have blushed, if his skin colour would have allowed it. “Salaam,” he said. “How are you?”
Noreen looked puzzled. She spoke in soft, rapid-fire Gujarati. Sarfraz cursed mentally; he couldn’t understand any of it, even the words he should have understood in a different accent.
“I can’t marry her,” he muttered. Sameena looked understanding. “Noreen” – she looked up at the mention of her name – “do you want to marry me?”
It took a long moment for her to understand; clearly she spoke some English. He was puzzled; just how much English did she speak, after all? She shook her head softly, slowly, allowing her hair to slip out of her headscarf.
“She wasted my time,” he muttered angrily. Sameena looked reprovingly at him. “I don’t want to marry her.”
Without another word, he stood up and left the room, passing through the living room without pausing. The front door was open and he stepped through, nodding politely to her brother as he left. The darkness of the streets swallowed him up.
***
Sameena found him, half an hour later. He was seated in the mosque, staring at the walls. He’d been taught here, by a kindly old Iman who’d later died in a traffic accident. The mosque had always been comforting, far more comforting than one of the newer mosques, the ones built with Saudi oil money in a desperate attempt to buy the love of Allah.
“They’re pretty upset,” Sameena said, sitting down beside him. He smiled; if the mosque hadn’t been empty, someone would have made a fuss. A boy and a girl sitting together? Horror of horrors!
“How’s she taking it?” He asked. His parents could wait and hers could go to hell for all he cared. “What did she say?”
“Oh, we had a short talk,” Sameena said. “She was very shy, but she didn’t want you either.”
Sarfraz smiled wryly. “Anisa would have killed her anyway,” he said. “I wish that I could introduce her to my parents.”
“Try talking to mum,” Sameena advised. Anisa was his girlfriend; something that would have made her automatically suspect in his parents’ eyes. “She’s more understanding than you think.”
“I’m sure that she gave you the talk on things us men aren’t supposed to know about,” Sarfraz said dryly. “Dad, well dad…”
He shook his head, unwilling to recount the entire episode. Both men had found it a trial; his father’s attempt to explain the birds and the bees had been a minor disaster. It wasn’t something that could be passed onto the local Iman; they always made a mess of anything that didn’t involve prayers.
“I can’t marry someone who doesn’t want to marry me,” he said firmly. “So, what happened in the end?”
“Oh, mum was upset and her mum was upset, so they clung to each other and sobbed about how horrible men are,” Sameena said. “Naturally, I agreed with them, of course.”
Sarfraz snorted. “Of course,” he said.
“And the fathers had a talk and decided that naturally you were not suitable for her, and vice versa, and its off,” Sameena continued. “You’re a free man again, brother.”
“Up yours,” Sarfraz said. “They said they would give us loads of duas.”
“I dare say that we’ll survive without them,” Sameena said. Thousands of prayers had seemed like such a small price for Sarfraz being married to someone he hardly knew. It was an unpalatable truth of the Asian marriage market; boys and girls had their marriages arranged to pay off favours, in some cases for simple financial gain. “So, you coming for dinner?”
“I have been thinking about my future,” Sarfraz said seriously. “I don’t have a very promising future ahead of me, do I?”
“I won’t deny that it could be improved,” Sameena admitted. He scowled at her. “You really need to do something with yourself.”
Sarfraz nodded. “I’m thinking of joining the army,” he said. Sameena gaped at him. “They’re looking for young recruits.”
“You might die,” Sameena said. “Are you certain that this is a good idea?”
Sarfraz shook his head. “No, but how many other options do I have?” He asked. “I could go on the dole, except I still have my pride. I can’t really go to university with my qualifications, but the Army will take me.”
“Young and dumb,” Sameena said. “I don’t want to lose you, you know.”
“I’m rather attached to my life myself,” Sarfraz said. “Will you come with me?”
“You want me to join the army?” Sameena asked, astonished. “I don’t think they’ll want me, you know.”
“I meant will you come with me to the recruitment centre,” Sarfraz said. “I think that you can read all of the papers and make certain that I don’t sign away my soul as well.”
Sameena hesitated. “I trust that you will at least agree to informing our family,” she said finally. “Once you’re committed, at least.”
“Very well,” Sarfraz said. He stood up, dusting imaginary flecks of dust off his trousers. “Come on, sister; let’s go get something to eat.”
***
Two miles nearer to the centre of Manchester, late in the night, BBC reporter and investigator Charlene Jackson entered the office of the Head of Programming, Manchester Section. Edmund Robertson, Head of Programming, smiled up at her as she entered, admiring her as always. For her part, Charlene was wondering why she’d been summoned to his office so late. She hadn’t done anything really…disastrous lately, which meant that he wasn’t going to be angry with her, and she hadn’t had any new scoops recently, which meant that he wasn’t going to be pleased with her.
“Thank you for coming,” Robertson said, without preliminaries. His deep tenor voice sounded…off, as if he was deeply worried. “You’re my best reporter, presenter and researcher, all rolled into one.”
Charlene smiled at the flattery, her mind working as fast as it could. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and she meant it. Whatever else one could say about Robertson – and his detractors said a lot – he had never used his position to get her into bed, or to force young naive interns into compromising positions. He was a decent man in a world where decency was almost non-existent.
“I apologise for calling you here at this time,” he said. His face creased with worry. “I have been…requested to offer you an…extremely unusual position, a place on a classified governmental project, which will be declassified soon.”
Charlene blinked. “That’s odd?” She asked. “What is this project?”
Robertson scowled at her. He didn’t suffer fools gladly; in fact he didn’t suffer them at all. “I just told you that it was classified,” he snapped. “You will be taken to a government centre somewhere, I think it would be Hack Green, and there you will be briefed.” He paused. “Something odd is going on, Charlene; a lot of late night sittings at the House and a lot of people have been quietly informed that they will be called back to the colours, mainly army people.”
“Perhaps it’s a drill,” Charlene said. “Perhaps we’re about to go to war with Russia.”
Robertson made a face. “Perish the thought,” he said. “Now, I cannot force you to accept this position, but are you interested? Do you want the post?”
Charlene thought for a moment. “I won’t say no,” she said. “However, I would like to know more about it first.”
Robertson tapped the intercom. “Colonel Gore, you may come in now,” he said. Charlene lifted a single eyebrow as a well-dressed military man in civilian clothes entered the office. “Charlene, this is Colonel Gore, who will brief you.”
“I must warn you that disclosure of any information I give you will be regarded as a breach of a verbal agreement to keep it classified,” Colonel Gore said. Charlene smiled inwardly; he should have been called Colonel Bore. His voice was as dry as dust. “If you do not want to accept that obligation, you must clearly say so now.”
“I accept,” Charlene said crossly. “Now, what is this all about?”
“I can’t tell you everything,” Colonel Gore said dryly. Charlene realised with a shock that Robertson was out of the loop. “What I can tell you is simple; you will be working with a classified military-civilian team at an undisclosed location, and you will be sealed in for the duration of two months, perhaps less. While you will be permitted to write to friends and relatives, your letters will be read and censored if necessary.”
Charlene started to object. Colonel Gore held up his hand and continued. “You will be given full access to everything within the project, which will place you in the forefront of reporting when the lid comes off and the world sees everything. In addition, you will be granted interviews with the majority of the scientists involved, and you will be offered the chance to write the official history, later on.”
He seemed to find that very funny. Charlene didn’t know why. “In essence,” she said carefully, “you want me to work with your people on this…project, and report on it afterwards.”
“You will be involved in presenting it to the public,” Colonel Gore said. “It reflects considerable interest in your career at the highest levels. You have a high public-trust rating, certainly the highest for any media reporter. You have worked with military units before. You have some common sense, which is rarer than you might suppose.”
Robertson coughed. “Oh, you have no idea,” he said dryly.
Colonel Gore snorted. “I think I do,” he said, grinning. It was the first spark of character the man had shown. “If you are still interested, please say so now.”
Charlene nodded. “Very well,” she said. “What now?”
“You are unmarried and currently not involved with anyone,” Colonel Gore said. The way he said it convinced Charlene that he wasn’t guessing; he had researched her life thoroughly. “You will write a letter to your parents, your friends, and anyone else who might be concerned, explaining that you have been offered a post at short notice abroad. Once that is done, you will join me for a short car trip to the base.”
Charlene blinked. “I thought that the government could never do anything fast,” she said. “I thought that…”
“Tonight, yes,” Colonel Gore said. “We simply don’t have time for leisure.”
Robertson smiled. “Good luck,” he said. “I’ll reassure everyone here.”
“I’ll write to you as well,” Charlene assured him. “Colonel Bore – ah, Colonel Gore – I…”
Robertson laughed. It broke the spell. “Everyone makes that mistake,” Colonel Gore said. “I can’t think why.”
Charlene blushed. “I’ll just get my overnight bag packed,” she said. “How much will I need?”
“Enough for a week’s wear,” Colonel Gore said. “Everything else you could possibly need will be provided on the base.”
“Then let’s go,” Charlene said. “I can’t wait to find out what the hells going on.”
***
An Asian5 extended family could consist of hundreds of members, spread over an entire city. Everyone was related to everyone else, and everyone knew their place. To Sarfraz, it was at once both a source of strength and a major problem; every member of the family saw it as their duty to police the behaviour of everyone else. This applied even more to the men than the girls, contrary to popular impression.
When Sarfraz and Sameena arrived home, they were unsurprised to see several of their aunts and uncles gathered in the parlour, discussing the same old issue time and time again. Sarfraz felt a flicker of envy for the English; they didn’t have to face such interrogations.
“She didn’t want to marry me,” he said, hoping to get that on the table before anyone could start accusing him of anything. Several aunts began chatting away, commenting upon him, Noreen, and what a pity it was that his parents hadn’t raised him properly.
“Allah commanded us not to marry anyone against his or her will,” he said, demonstrating his piety. One thing that any Muslim learnt quickly was that belief was nothing, compared to the pressure to conform, no matter how un-Islamic it was6. “She did not want to marry me, and I will not marry her.”
“But she will have to return to the motherland,” an aunt said. Some people hid their smiles; Auntie Ji spent most of her time complaining about the English weather, an English habit she’d picked up upon within one week of her arrival, normally mixed in with demands that she return to India. “She will…”
“Doubtless find someone else,” Sarfraz said. He allowed himself a brief flicker of humour; his harsh comment had shut the entire room up. “I have a career in mind.”
There was a burst of comment, mainly about how ill brought up he was. The hypocrisy shocked him, seeing it clearly for the first time. All of them had their sins, but as long as they remained hidden, they acted as pure as the newly-fallen snow. Three different languages echoed around the room, a confusing cacophony designed by the aunts to confuse anyone else, anyone who didn’t know them.
He took a breath. “I have to build a career,” he said. “I’m going to join the army.”
The reaction was immediate. “I forbid it,” his uncle Ackbar snapped. Sarfraz’s father, who wasn’t fond of his brother in law, glared at him. “No man of my family is going to…”
“And who are you to forbid him anything?” Sarfraz’s father asked sharply. “I do the forbidding here.”
Sarfraz shook his head and left the room, knowing that the chatter would follow him up the stairs and into his room. He smiled suddenly as he passed Sameena, who was talking to her boyfriend, and winked at her, imaging the reaction of the cackling hens downstairs to that news. Girls had to remain pure for marriage – and Sameena was anything but.
“It went about as expected,” he muttered to her. He rather approved of Brad7 – his sister’s boyfriend – even though he did question his sanity. “Tell him to make a honest woman of you before its too late.”
“At least they haven’t disowned you,” Sameena said. “Brad says that you can stay with him if they do.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” Sarfraz said. “Tell him I said thank you.” He sighed. “I’m off to bed, sister; wake me up for morning prayers.”
Chapter Three: Cassandra
Permanent Joint Headquarters
Northwood, London
United Kingdom
13th March 2001
As he had done for the past three years, Colonel Tom Anderson pulled himself out of bed with an effort, cursing the politicians who had placed him in the spot he held. His small flat, near London, was a mess; all the signs of a bachelor on the way downhill. Even as he showered and shaved, he knew that going into work was pointless; no one would care if he took the entire day off. He cursed as he shaved the stubble off, cutting the side of his cheek, and wiped the blood off with a paper towel. He didn’t look in the mirror; it was too depressing.
His ablutions done, he paused long enough to grab the sandwiches he had prepared earlier, and headed out of the door to the train station. The only good thing about his hours what that he missed the local rush hour; he left for work just after it had finished. The trains were still packed, but they were not packed to bursting. A nasty look, a man who still knew how to fight, kept the young toughs away from him, which he felt was a pity. Some extreme violence would have lightened his mood.
He wasn’t important enough to deserve a private car, something he was privately grateful for. His extreme views on the use of the army made him unpopular; each man who drove an important officer around, he felt, could have been in a better position fighting for God, Queen and Country. He reached the Permanent Joint headquarters a little after ten, stamping inside with his usual disdain for formalities.
“Morning, Colonel,” the guard said. He was the only visible sign of any defences around the most vital military command base in the United Kingdom. “I need to see your card today, sir.”
Anderson was puzzled. It was a change in routine, and he was old enough to understand that any change in routine was dangerous. It might have been something that he had been urging for years – and he had a sneaking suspicion that the guard paid more attention to him than anyone else – but it was odd, unexpected.
“Here it is,” he said, wishing that he’d shaved better. His identification photograph made him look like a serial killer, and at the moment he probably looked very much like his photograph. “Any wise comments and I’ll belt you.”
“Threatening the guard is a bad move,” the guard said, giving the ID a very careful check indeed. “Yes, Colonel; it looks like you.”
Anderson scowled at him. “What the hell is going on?” He snapped. “Has someone finally been reading my memos?”
“I honestly don’t know,” the guard said. “All I know is that the Chief ordered a major security alert and I obeyed orders. There’s an entire SAS squad on alert, even now.”
“Must be a terrorist alert,” Anderson muttered, and passed through the security gate. The various clerks and officers who ran Britain’s peacetime military ignored him, talking together in hushed voices. Anderson ignored them back, making his way through the vast building, decorated with pictures of Britain’s great military history, until he reached his office.
“Well, at least nothing’s different here,” he said. It was false comfort; he took his seat and started to read the folders the secretary had brought for him last night. It was busywork, and he was smart enough to admit that to himself; busywork meant to keep the army’s dirty little secret busy. He looked up from a folder describing the postings to the Falklands Islands to look around his room; it wasn’t one that the politicians were ever shown.
He scowled. A single bookshelf, a single table with a coffee cup and a kettle, both needing washed, a fridge and a telephone that never rang. He’d once dared to hope that he would be called back into service, but instead he was trapped in his half-life. Not quite employed, unable to give anything, but the best…and never appreciated for his own work and the skills he brought to the military.
The telephone rang.
Anderson gaped at it, feeling his mouth drop open. It rang again, insistently, pounding against the beginnings of a headache. He jumped to his feet and lifted the telephone from the hook, suspecting that it was a joke; a cruel practical joke played by one of his many enemies.
“Colonel Anderson, Strategic Planning,” he said, and knew the words were…not quite a lie, but certainly not exactly the truth. War plans were not considered important in the era of peace and love; the most important piece of work he’d done had been the plans for a second deployment to Iraq in 1999, when Saddam had rattled his cage again. He’d warned them at the time that leaving the bastard in power would have led to an endless commitment, but the current American President was feckless and…
“This is General Mathews,” the voice on the end said. “You sound like shit.”
Anderson felt a hot flash of anger that burned away the headache. General Mathews had believed in him, if not enough to ensure that his reports and work were considered with the respect they deserved. General Mathews had also been responsible for keeping him in his half-employment, never certain if he was going to be employed tomorrow or not.
“I feel like shit too, sir,” he said. General Mathews rated some politeness, but not much. “What can I do for you?”
General Mathews hardened his tone. “You can get your ass to my office, at once,” he snapped. “Now!”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Anderson snapped, coming to attention at once. He put down the phone and jumped into his small toilet, checking his appearance with practiced skill. A quick comb, passed through his hair, ensured that he looked reasonably presentable; he put his cap on his head and headed out the door at walking pace. It didn’t do to keep generals waiting, but at the same time, it didn’t do to arrive sweating. It was one of the reasons why military bureaucrats became so important during peacetime; they were better at keeping the balance between looking good and punctuality.
***
In person, General Mathews made an impressive figure. His craggy face, lined with worry lines, hid under a peaked cap, his grey hair cut into a neat military hairstyle. He inspired confidence in the men he had commanded, before being passed on into the heights of the British establishment. A knighthood had been offered to him, but he’d declined it.
“Tom,” he said, as Anderson entered. “How are you feeling?”
Anderson blinked. “About as well as can be expected,” he said. “The latest round of busywork should be finished by the end of next week.”
He didn’t bother to hide his bitterness. Mathews nodded in understanding; he had been one of those who’d arranged Anderson’s post in PJHQ; one of endless work that would never serve a practical purpose.
“It’s been cancelled,” Mathews said. Anderson gaped at him. “You may have noticed that something is up.”
Anderson nodded, feeling a glimmer of resentment at being left out of whatever it was. The entire base was on full alert, but he wasn’t being asked to do anything. He knew that it was stupid, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Yes, I have,” he said. “Are we about to be attacked by the IRA?”
Mathews shook his head. “I wish,” he said. “I would sooner return to Belfast then face the sudden new menace.”
“We’re finally about to kick the European Union in the unmentionables?” Anderson guessed hopefully. “Sir, what’s happened?”
“You are still a serving officer in the British Army,” Mathews said. He held up a hand to forestall comment. “Yes, I know; the government and the senior military establishment has treated you like shit, for reasons that seemed good at the time.”
“I’m sure they did,” Anderson sneered.
“Yes,” Mathews said flatly. “You are being recalled – reassigned, I should say – to active duty as part of a special task force. In addition, we will be recalling everyone who has ever worn a uniform for Britain in a war.”
Anderson blinked. Part of his job was to keep track of every former serving military officer. “Sir, with all due respect, anyone from before the Falklands will not be suitable for service. That was eighteen years ago, sir; anyone from before then will have been out of uniform for over twenty years. They won’t be healthy.”
Mathews grinned at him. “Yes, they will be,” he said. “They’re going to be recalling veterans from Korea, even World War Two.”
Anderson ran out of patience. “Sir, just what in the name of hell is going on here?”
“I was waiting for you to ask that,” Mathews said. “Read this.”
He passed a small folder across the table. Anderson took it and examined it thoughtfully; it was small, but fairly well detailed, broken down into its component sections. He skipped forward to the THREAT section...and swore.
“Sir; is this some kind of joke?” He asked. “Sir, aliens don’t exist!”
Mathews chuckled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I would have expected you, of all people, to have drawn up a plan for fighting extraterrestrials.”
Anderson returned to the front pages of the document and read quickly. The Galactic Federation had warned of the oncoming Posleen, which would land on Earth in…five years. The humans had that long to get ready to hold them off, or the human race would be eaten alive – literally.
He shook his head. “I have plans for an invasion by Europeans,” he said. “It’s not quite the same, sir.” He paused. “What’s to stop them just hammering us from orbit?”
“They don’t seem to build space stations,” Mathews said seriously. “Read the THREAT assessment section.”
Anderson read though it three times; once to get the general idea, once to read all of the details, and once to re-assess the high points. It was grim; the Posleen seemed to concentrate on landing a powerful force on the surface of the planet, and then advancing against the areas they were particularly interested in. He shuddered; the Posleen were interested in cities, industrial centres and other centres of population.
“I’m surprised you didn’t reference my paper on the subject for O-Level8 exams,” he muttered.
“We would have if we’d known about it,” Mathews said seriously.
Anderson snorted. “I really hope that that was a joke,” he said.
“It’s not quite as bad as it seems,” Mathews said, changing the subject. Anderson looked at him. “We will have access to some Galactic technologies, including rejuvenation and medical technology that will allow us to bring back people who have served as far back as World War Two; perhaps even earlier. In exchange, some of our units are going to serve off-planet.”
“That’s worse than sending troops to Singapore,” Anderson snapped. “If I’m reading this correctly, once the Posleen arrive the surface of the planet will be sealed off from space…”
“We’re going to be building planetary defence centres,” Mathews injected. “A lot of the Earth-wide defence measures are going to be agreed through NATO, and we’ll be contributing through a complex network of shared information. Naturally, politics will be playing a role.”
“And no one had any idea about this since Roswell?” Anderson asked dryly. “It would be just like the Yanks to keep something like this to themselves.”
“Roswell never happened,” Mathews said. “The Federation apparently was asked about that by the French.”
Anderson laughed. “They really don’t like the Americans, do they?” He said dryly. “How many ships do we get?”
“Fleet – the unified organisation – will control the ships,” Anderson said. “Don’t ask me to explain Federation budgets; they make balancing our budget look easy and simple. In essence, we will be paid by the Federation for the services of our men, which will be used for paying for Federation goods and supplies to build defences.” He paused. “The deployment of new technology will be handled through Fleet and a series of collective groups; I expect that we’ll be working with the Americans and the Europeans.”
He coughed significantly. “You’re the Cassandra,” he said. “You’re the one who said that we should keep our plans and drills updated. I want you – Tom – to come up with the war-fighting plans we need to hold Britain.”
Anderson snorted. “General, how long has it been since we fought a real war?” He asked. “We haven’t bothered with civil defence since 1960, sir; the population will run around like headless sheep. Apart from the IRA, I don’t think we’ve had a real armed attack on our soil for a very long time indeed.”
“That’s why you are going to plan our response,” Mathews said firmly. He waved a hand at a collection of other folders. “This is Most Secret, by the way, so don’t tell anyone.” Anderson nodded. “Meet me back here at 1400hrs; we have a war to plan.”
Anderson blinked; surely the plans couldn’t be worked out that fast. “Sir, what is the legal situation?” He asked. “When are we going to tell the people?”
“You can’t tell the people,” Mathews said wryly. “The current plan is to go public in around two months, so we have that long to make preparations. Once we go public, the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition have made certain agreements and the Defence of the Realm Act will be invoked. In effect, we will have total authority.”
Anderson smiled. “I’ll be back to you in three hours,” he said.
***
Three hours later, Anderson faced Mathews across the main table in the room, feeling dread and a strange sick excitement; the excitement of a man who has seen his dream and his nightmare come true. He spread hastily-marked maps out on the table, marked with red and green lines in pen and pencil.
“We’re in serious trouble,” he said flatly. “The smallest enemy landing craft, the globe, carries around four million Posleen, all of whom will be combat soldiers. If we take the worse case scenario – so far – and conclude that the Posleen will send seventy globes in the first wave, which is the maximum the Federation has observed so far, they will drop seventy times four million Posleen on the planet, which is…two hundred and eighty million Posleen. That two hundred and eighty million Posleen, in the first wave alone, will be reinforced by further waves, around five if we don’t count the scattered showers, which means that in three or so years there will be one thousand and four hundred million9 Posleen on the surface of Earth.
“Now, we would be very unlikely to face all of them on British terrain,” he continued. “By the law of averages alone, I would expect most of them to land in Europe, Russia and China, as well as America. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to operate along the same lines as we do, so predicting exactly where they would land is impossible.”
“We might have to hire fortune tellers,” Mathews said.
“I do hope that that’s a joke,” Anderson said. “Sir, with all due respect, we might end up clinging to islands like Britain, and the Posleen holding all of the rest.”
“I hope not,” Mathews said grimly. “Options?”
“The Americans and our liaison personnel will be discussing the use of Galactic technology in a meeting in a week,” Anderson said. “For the moment…we’re in serious trouble. For a start, the RAF will be grounded.”
“Most of the pilots are slated for transfer to Fleet,” Mathews said. “However, we were hoping to use helicopters…”
“Nowhere near the Posleen,” Anderson said grimly. He tapped a red circle on the map, centred between Edinburgh and Glasgow. “If the Posleen land here, sir, they will utterly interdict air travel and aircraft between the Highlands and the Midlands. Hell, sir; some of their weapons are capable of taking out targets in orbit from the ground.” He sighed. “Point is, sir, all the money we spent on the Eurofighter was wasted.”
“Bother,” Mathews said mildly. The famous combat jet hadn’t even taken one flight off the ground before it had been cancelled forever. “I suppose the same goes for the aircraft carriers?”
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