Darkest Hour 1: Their Darkest Hour

by Christopher Nuttall

  The Brigadier frowned. “Prime Minister...in recent years, we have had to operate on reduced logistics that have, quite frankly, cost lives. Normally, we would be able to draw ammunition, fuel and spare parts from our deports on the mainland, although we could never afford the stockpiles that we believed to be necessary for modern warfare. Military units burn through their supplies at terrifying speeds, even under the best of circumstances. Right now, our logistics train has effectively been destroyed. I imagine that we will become unable to operate the tanks within the next week. And, of course, they have eyes in the sky. They’d be able to detect us moving the tanks and blow them away from orbit.

  “What that means is that our best chance for actually hurting them badly is now,” he added. “From what we’ve seen of their armour in London – we managed to get pictures from the battle – we should be able to give them a rough reception. Our tankers have been given orders to hit the enemy hard, then fall back and abandon their vehicles. We should be able to make them more careful about advancing into unsecured territory while we prepare our fallback option.”

  Gabriel shook his head slowly. Yesterday, he’d been thinking about the economy. Now he was forced to think about war raging across England’s green and pleasant land. It should have been unthinkable. He rubbed the side of his head, feeling a headache pounding inside his skull. How could anyone come to grips with what was tearing the country – the world – apart?

  He looked up at the military officer. “And what do we do after they’ve smashed our tanks?”

  “The only thing we can do,” the Brigadier admitted. “We fight an underground war – an insurgency – until they decide that humans are too dangerous to keep as slaves.”

  “But...” Gabriel stopped, unsure if he should believe his ears. The thought of waging an insurgency against the invaders was romantic in the abstract, but in the real world he knew it would be horrific. God alone knew how the invaders would react to insurgents – human history showed a wide range of possible alternatives. Hell, for all he knew the invaders had technology that would allow them to read human thoughts or track human soldiers by their scent. “Can we hope to win?”

  “I don’t know,” the Brigadier said. “All I can say is that it seems to be the only alternative – unless we want to raise the white flag and surrender.”

  Gabriel settled back into his chair, feeling the strength flowing out of his body. Surrender? Winston Churchill had rejected the very idea of surrender, insisting that Britain would fight on the beaches and fields and streets – but Churchill had known that invading Britain would be a monumental task for Adolf Hitler. Would his attitude have been different, Gabriel asked himself, if the Nazis had actually landed? Europe had seen bitter fighting in towns and cities, but Britain had been spared. But now...the aliens had succeeded where a long string of enemies had failed. They’d landed in England and the remains of the British military was on the run.

  And yet...what did the aliens have in mind for humanity? He’d wracked his brains, but he hadn't been able to come up with one solid reason for an advanced alien race to invade the Earth. All they could take from Earth was humans – and surely if they were advanced enough to cross the gulf between stars, they were advanced enough to make machines that would replace slaves. Maybe they were just mindless monsters, intent on exterminating all other races, but then they could have just dropped rocks from orbit. Or maybe there was something he was missing. If only he wasn't so tired...

  “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. He cursed himself a moment later, for forgetting the one thing that should have been a priority. “What’s happening with the civilian population?”

  The Brigadier’s expression hardened. “The aliens have come down in force around London, Manchester and a dozen other cities,” he said. “From the reports we’ve had, they’ve been refusing to allow anyone to leave and they’re backing up that refusal with live ammunition. Other parts of the country have seen riots and unrest – I think that they’re only going to get worse as people realise that the government has been crippled. We’re trying to get reservists out of the cities, but...”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s going to get worse, Prime Minister,” he added. “It won’t be long before we see starvation. God alone knows how many people are going to die.”

  Gabriel silently cursed his predecessors – and himself. Over the years, Britain had become increasingly dependent upon food imported from overseas – upwards of fifty percent of British food came from outside the country. And with the global trading network shot to hell by the aliens, there were likely to be shortages very quickly. The damage the aliens had inflicted on Britain's road and rail networks wouldn't make distributing what was left any easier. There had been calls to establish a national strategic food reserve that would allow the government to feed the people, if necessary, but successive governments had chosen to avoid the issue rather than pay for the necessary precautions.

  “We never planned for this sort of global outrage,” he admitted. Perhaps, he added to himself, because the prospects were so horrifying. “What do we do about it?”

  “I don’t think we can do much about it,” the Brigadier said. “I think that we will have to hope that the aliens choose to feed our population – we sure as hell can’t do it for ourselves.”

  Gabriel tried to find some of Churchill’s determination within himself, but it seemed impossible to believe that there was any hope of victory – or even survival. His position as Prime Minister was meaningless...

  “Have a rest,” the Brigadier advised. “I have teams working on our long-term plans – it’s possible that the aliens will give us enough time to lay the groundwork for a long-term insurgency.”

  “Or they won’t,” Gabriel said. He pulled himself to his feet. The room seemed to be spinning around him and he was suddenly aware of the people covertly watching him. He had to be strong for them, he told himself firmly. It didn't help. “If we can't beat them, Brigadier, what’s the point of even fighting?”

  ***

  Brigadier Gavin Lightbridge-Stewart watched, his face impassive, as the Prime Minister’s bodyguards helped him down the narrow corridor. There was a small selection of rooms under the bunker, where he could have a shower and a long sleep – God knew he needed it. The man wasn't a soldier and hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might find himself on the run; for all the bellyaching about British politicians and the seemingly endless scandals, Britain wasn't Afghanistan or one of the other countries where political leaders knew to keep a bag packed for flight at all times.

  He looked down at the map on the table, trying to force himself to remain optimistic. The situation was grim, but the reports from London made it clear that the aliens weren't gods. They seemed to have a slight shortage of force fields, directed energy weapons and all the other miracle technology that any self-respecting fictional alien race should possess. In fact, some of their technology looked to be inferior to human tech – although there was no way to be sure. The analysts had taken a look at the images of the alien landing shuttles and concluded that they shouldn't fly, at least with any technology known to mankind. Their best guess was that the aliens had some form of negating gravity. The shuttles actually seemed to be more fragile than human craft. They’d been hit with Stingers and blown out of the air.

  How long do we have? He asked himself. They’d been spoiled by modern technology. The fog of war, once banished by overhead reconnaissance and satellite imagery, was back with a vengeance. There was no way to know what the aliens were doing – at least until the scouts were in position to start reporting back. And the aliens could presumably track their radio transmissions and direct their aircraft to pick them off...

  The Prime Minister had looked as if he was on the verge of collapse. Gavin couldn't blame him; no one, in their worst nightmares, had imagined an alien invasion. He didn't want to think about what the civilian population was feeling, looking out into the darkening
sky and wondering what would happen to them now that their country had been invaded. Britain had been a good place to live for many; now...now it might become a nightmarish alien-ruled land. Or perhaps the aliens would choose to work through human proxies.

  He shook his head. There was no way to know.

  Passing command of the bunker to one of his subordinates – who had been commanding a troop of tanks until Gavin had pulled him out to serve in the bunker – he headed for the ladder up to the surface. He could inspect the defence lines and chat with the soldiers, just to see how they were coping with the situation. And he could start laying the groundwork for underground resistance. The PM might swing towards coming to an accommodation with the aliens, but Gavin had other ideas. His country had been invaded.

  He wasn't going to let that pass without a fight.

  Chapter Nine

  London

  United Kingdom, Day 2

  Westminster looked like a war zone.

  No, Alan Beresford, Member of Parliament for Haltemprice, corrected himself. It was a war zone. Alan prided himself on his cynical approach to life – it had certainly served him well in politics – but even he felt a pang as he saw the damage the aliens had inflicted on the heart of the British Government. The Houses of Parliament were scorched – by the aliens or their human defenders – and Big Ben had collapsed inward on itself. There had been hundreds of dead bodies scattered about, but from what he’d heard the aliens were collecting them up and disposing of them. He didn't want to think about how.

  At thirty-five, Alan had been in politics for most of his life. His father had been a well-connected MP who had arranged for his son to receive employment within the office of another MP, who had in turn opened up a whole series of doors for his friend’s son. Alan knew little about the world outside politics and cared less. All he cared about was the chance to make money, increase his personal power base and pass his legacy on to his son. He’d dreaded the prospect of an effective Prime Minister in Ten Downing Street for a long time – the thought of someone like Thatcher taking a look at his hidden secrets was terrifying – and he’d done a great deal to keep the position in the hands of a pathetic non-entity. Alan no longer believed in Britain, but then – why should he? The great British population, blessed with the gift of democracy, freely chose to elect men with few real qualifications for government – and then blamed those men for what they did to the country. No one had ever really held Parliament to account for a very long time.

  But now...the world had changed overnight. Aliens had arrived, real aliens. Alan hadn’t seen any of the battle at first hand, not when he’d been cowering in his upmarket flat fearing that every second might be his last. He’d believed that it was more likely to be terrorists and the BBC’s increasingly absurd broadcasts just another sign of panic caused by the bastards. The news had only penetrated his skull when his political fixer had staggered in, bleeding from his shoulder, and raving about massive aliens. And then he’d heard their broadcast...

  His position as an elected MP was useless now, Alan knew. The British Government was on the run – no one had seen hide or hair of Burley and his ineffectual Cabinet since the aliens had landed. Alan knew better than to assume that Burley could turn the situation around, which meant that it was every man for himself. The aliens, on the other hand, wielded real power. He could make an alliance with them and offer his services in exchange for protection, wealth and more power than he’d ever dreamed possible. Who knew what sort of rewards a race that could cross the gulfs between stars could offer their faithful servants?

  He stopped dead as he saw the alien patrol turning towards him. Despite his belief that the aliens needed allies, it took all of his strength not to turn and flee. The massive brutes loomed over him, carrying weapons that seemed too large to be real. Alan had used shotguns and hunting rifles while staying at estates owned by his friends, but the alien weapons were very different. It struck him that the aliens had to be less socially developed than humanity – yet it hardly mattered. They’d crossed the gulf of space to reach Earth and impose their will upon humanity. It had taken them barely a day to crush most of humanity’s defences.

  Alan smiled and held up his hands, hoping that the aliens would understand the gesture. Their dark eyes showed no sign of human emotions; their faces seemed curiously immobile, almost as if they didn't have emotions at all. Or perhaps he was just looking in the wrong place. They might show their thoughts by how their hands moved when they spoke.

  “I come in peace,” he said. “Take me to your leader.”

  “Follow us,” the lead alien grated. The voice didn't seem to come from its mouth, but from a small device hanging down below its oversized chin. Alan wasn't too surprised that they could speak English. They were clearly advanced enough to monitor human broadcasts and decipher human languages. “Do not attempt to escape.”

  The area surrounding Ten Downing Street and Buckingham Palace had been devastated. Alien machines were moving through the rubble, pushing it aside and exposing the hidden network of tunnels under Whitehall. A set of alien-designed buildings had already been erected in Hyde Park, allowing them to come and go freely, rather than trying to fit into human buildings. They’d have problems using human vehicles and aircraft, Alan told himself, and smiled. Even he appreciated that the aliens were on the end of a very long logistics chain. They’d be delighted if he could convince thousands of humans to serve their new overlords.

  One of the aliens held up an oversized hand to stop him in his tracks, while a second waved what looked like a metal wand over his body. A security check, he realised, and allowed his mobile phone to be confiscated without demur. He hadn't been able to get a signal to call anyone – the landlines seemed to be badly damaged, or perhaps the staff just hadn’t reported in after the aliens had landed – and he made a mental note to suggest to the aliens that they restore mobile phone communications as soon as possible. It would go a long way towards allowing them to win hearts and minds.

  The interior of the alien building was oddly disappointing. It seemed more like a giant tent than anything else, with dozens of aliens working on small consoles and barking orders – or at least he assumed they were orders – at their subordinates. A massive image of Britain was displayed against one wall, covered with red and green markers that appeared to surround most of the larger cities. For the first time, Alan allowed himself to doubt the wisdom of his course of action. The aliens seemed to have won the war in the first day. Perhaps they wouldn't need him...

  His escorts opened a door in the side of the building and pushed him into an oversized office. It was easy to believe that it was a power office, like the rooms favoured by CEOs he knew, but perhaps it was just normal for the aliens. They would need more living space than humans – a large human office might be uncomfortably cramped for them. A single alien was half-crouching in front of a desk, tapping away at what had to be a computer terminal. He – Alan decided to assume that it was a male, at least until it was proven otherwise – wore a simple black uniform, decorated with golden writing. Assuming the aliens prized gold as much as humanity, he was looking at a senior officer. He stepped forward and did his best to place an interested expression on his face. Who knew how the aliens would react to a man offering to help them?

  “I am Ju’tro Oheghizh,” the alien said. Alan assumed that Ju’tro was a title of some kind – General, perhaps, or Leader? It was unlikely that the supreme commander of a force invading the entire planet would be based in Britain. “You wished to talk with me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Alan said. Perhaps the alien wouldn't understand human respect, but there was no reason to take chances. “I am a high official in the government of this country. I wish to offer you my services.”

  There was a long moment as the alien’s unreadable eyes bored into Alan’s face. “We know who you are,” the alien said, finally. Alan’s mind raced; he hadn't seen them communicating, but who knew what they might be able to do? They m
ight have communications implants in their skulls. “You will assist us in bringing humanity into the State.”

  “Of course,” Alan said, quickly. He allowed himself another smile. “I would be happy to serve.”

  ***

  “You know,” Sergeant Singh observed, “I was rather hoping that it would be a nightmare.”

  Robin nodded in agreement. They’d found their way to a police station, hidden most of the weapons in what he hoped was a secure hiding place, and then gone to sleep in the station’s dormitory. A handful of policemen with families had gone to their homes to check on their loved ones. No one had attempted to dissuade them. Robin had considered trying to slip out of the city and make it to his house – and his wife – but the aliens had blocked all of the roads out of London. He had kept trying the telephone, only to hear nothing, not even a dial tone.