Darkest Hour 1: Their Darkest Hour

by Christopher Nuttall

  Ra’Sha reached for the handle, lifting his weapon into firing position. The reports from some of the other units had claimed that the humans were very good at concealing themselves – aided by the fact that they were smaller than the average Eridian. It was quite possible that one of their soldiers was hiding inside, waiting for the right moment to come out of hiding and attack them from the rear. He caught hold of the handle, pulled it open…

  …And the world went away in a wash of fire.

  ***

  “Well, damn me,” Chris Drake muttered to himself, from where he’d been watching events. “I wasn't sure if that was going to work.”

  The aliens seemed to be learning – and they were moving faster as they realised that the British defenders were running out of tanks and antiaircraft weapons. They didn’t seem to be learning as quickly as British and American forces had done in Afghanistan – indeed, there was still an oddly-robotic aspect to their performance – but they were definitely learning. He smiled at the fire in the distance before he started to crawl backwards. That alien patrol would never have a chance to report its findings to superior authority. The aliens seemed to be tougher than humans, but he doubted that any of them had survived the explosion. He’d gone to some trouble to ensure that the blast would be as nasty as possible.

  There were no more aliens in the town, as far as he knew, but he kept to the shadows as he ran westwards. The RV point wasn't far away, yet there was no way to know how long it would be before they pulled out, leaving anyone who hadn’t made it in time to get out on their own. If the aliens pushed forward faster than expected, they’d have to leave, just to preserve what was left of Britain’s fighting men. Upwards of five thousand men had fought on the defensive line. God alone knew how many had survived the experience.

  He saw the flash of light and hurled himself to the ground as the world seemed to come apart around him. The aliens weren't taking any more chances with the town, even though they’d chased out the sole human defender. When he pulled himself to his feet and peered back to the east, most of the town had been blasted into smoking ruin. Any remaining surprises – he didn’t think that there were any, but they’d been operating on a strict need-to-know policy – would have been destroyed. The aliens would make one sweep through the wreckage and then continue heading west. Any humans caught up in their advance would be lucky to escape with their lives.

  Shaking his head, he started to walk west. They’d be waiting for him, he told himself, and if not he could probably make his own way to one of the dumps. And then he would carry on his part of the war. He wondered, just for a second, how the PM and Prince Harry – no, King Harry – were coping, before he pushed the thought aside. They’d all have to learn to cope in the forthcoming days.

  ***

  “They broke though the final defence line, sir,” Major Foster reported. The tiny command post had been carefully hidden, but his deputy’s command post had been equally well-hidden – and the aliens had dropped a missile on their heads. “Colonel Bannerman is requesting permission to start Exodus.”

  Brigadier Gavin Lightbridge-Stewart hesitated. His instincts told him to keep fighting, to keep bleeding the aliens – and they had bled the aliens. It was difficult to be sure, but he was certain that they’d killed upwards of a thousand of the oversized bastards, perhaps more. They’d certainly adapted their tactics, he acknowledged. After several tries at engaging British troops in house-to-house combat, they’d pulled back and dropped rocks on the fighting positions. It was clear, no matter how much he wanted to hide it, that further open conflict was no longer an option.

  The thought was a bitter pill to swallow. Ever since the development of modern communications, British commanders had been in control of their forces at all times – sometimes to excess. After all, performance in the field was rarely improved by having a distant superior with an imperfect grasp of the tactical scene issuing orders that were impossible to obey. But now the British Army – what was left of it – was going to fragment into a thousand tiny partisan groups, each one operating with minimal oversight from higher authority. God alone knew how it would work out. Outside of the Special Forces – the SAS, the SBS, the SRR and a handful of other units that were still highly classified – they’d never planned for insurgency warfare. The possibility of having to fight one in Britain itself had never been envisaged.

  Clearly our imagination was somewhat limited, he thought, sourly. It would be very difficult to produce weapons, or bring in supplies from overseas. God knew that many civilians were already starving, unable to feed themselves or their families. Far too many of them would start collaborating with the aliens if it was the only way to keep their families alive. How could he blame them, let alone start issuing orders for the cold-blooded murder of collaborators…?

  “Pass the order,” he said. “All units are to execute Exodus immediately. And tell them I wished them good luck.”

  The field support team was already stripping down the mobile command post, removing all the sensitive equipment and preparing it for transfer to hiding places in the north. They’d have to abandon the vehicles themselves – there was no way to hide them from prowling alien aircraft – but at least they could leave a few surprises behind for the alien soldiers. A handful of grenades had already been set aside for improvised IEDs.

  “Brigadier,” Lieutenant-Colonel Jean-Luc Baptiste said. Gavin hadn’t even noticed the Frenchman until he spoke, if only because he was lost in thought. There was no longer any point in giving orders. They’d have to rely on their own men in the field. “I think it’s probably time for us to go.”

  Gavin frowned. He wanted to tell them to stay, but he understood their position. France had been invaded too, and they wanted to join the French Resistance – if there was a French resistance. They’d barely been able to make contact with isolated French units before the aliens had started their push west. Baptiste and his men would be risking their lives walking to Dover – being careful to give London a wide berth – and then trying to find a boat to take them across the Channel. And after that…? Baptiste had been honest enough to admit that he didn’t know. France had been hammered just as hard – perhaps harder – than Britain. It was quite possible that no political authority had survived the Battle of Paris.

  “If we can’t convince you to stay,” he said, and held out a hand. Baptiste took it and they shook hands firmly. “Travel with one of our detachments heading towards London, at least at first. They’ll give you some cover if you need it.”

  “We’d be better on our own,” Baptiste disagreed. Gavin didn’t really blame him. He’d had to detach a number of Londoners to try to slip into the city in hopes of producing up-to-date information, but he knew that the odds were stacked against them. Every man was a volunteer, yet that didn’t make it any easier. He’d never had to order men into a position where he expected they would die before now, before the world had turned upside down. “We’ll meet again after all this is over.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Gavin said. The last French Resistance had been aided by Britain – and it had never come close to forcing the Germans to leave France alone. Now…Britain was invaded too, as was America and the rest of the world. How long could they keep an insurgency going when there were no outside sources of supply? “I wish you the very best of luck.”

  ***

  “Time to pull out, lads,” the burly Royal Marine Sergeant said. No one argued with him. They’d expected nearly a hundred soldiers, but only thirty-seven had made it to the RV point. Some of the brief stories they’d exchanged in whispers had been horrifying. No one was really surprised that higher command had finally ordered them to leave. “Let’s go.”

  Chris marched with the others, hearing the sound of thunder in the distance as the aliens continued their advance. If they were lucky, they’d escape the aliens and reach a place where they could build shelters and hide from the advance. And then they’d return to the fight.

  Chapt
er Fourteen

  London

  United Kingdom, Day 6

  “You have to give the bastard credit,” Constable Richardson muttered to Robin. “How many people does he have here, do you think?”

  Robin scanned the school’s assembly hall and frowned. Someone had definitely been busy; a set of tables had been lined up, with chairs, laptop computers and a handful of coffee machines bubbling merrily away in one corner. The men behind the desks were civil servants, the epitome of evil to most British citizens – which probably explained why so many had agreed to serve the aliens. Their families would be starving if they refused, Robin knew, but the cynic in him wondered if the civil servants cared. They certainly spent most of their time creating red tape for the harassed coppers on the beat.

  “Twenty here,” he said. They’d opened dozens of makeshift registration halls, converting schools, gyms and warehouses into places for their collaborators to work. Robin had spent a few minutes puzzling over why they’d only used large buildings before realising that the aliens would have problems in smaller human dwellings. But then, they’d certainly shown no reluctance to remodel human buildings with high explosive. London had spent six days shivering on the edge of anarchy and only fear of the aliens had kept it in check. “There could be thousands in London alone.”

  The thought was a chilling one. Hundreds of thousands of people had worked for the British Government. Many would have been killed in the fighting or the chaos that had gripped parts of the city, but many more would have survived – and grown hungry. The aliens were offering them food and drink and Robin couldn't blame many of them for agreeing to serve the aliens in any way. Their families would have starved otherwise. The thought kept mocking him. His wife might starve if he refused to serve the aliens. And yet...where did collaboration end?

  There were thirty policemen in the building with orders to keep order – and use whatever force was necessary to remove trouble-makers. The aliens had converted London’s stadiums into makeshift detention camps and – according to rumour – they’d established much larger holding centres outside the cities. Anyone who caused trouble was to be removed to the detention camps and no one knew what would happen to them afterwards. The aliens had caused so much damage to London that Robin suspected that one of the jobs assigned to prisoners would be clearing up the debris and clearing blocked roadways of ruined cars.

  The policemen were unarmed. Robin cursed the Home Office under his breath, even as he silently remembered the weapons they’d hidden in the city. The aliens had insisted that all weapons be surrendered – and they’d had the records to see how many weapons were unaccounted for. Robin was privately astonished that they’d accepted that several hundred pistols and rifles could go missing – or be reported destroyed – and it made him wonder if the aliens had already penetrated his little cell. Maybe they were only waiting for the policemen to be surplus to requirements before they dropped a hammer on their heads.

  He felt dirty as the bell finally rang and they opened the doors. The aliens had been broadcasting the same message for days – using their so-called Prime Minister Beresford as the speaker – ordering all of London's residents to present themselves for registration. Anyone who failed to register within the week, they’d warned the public, would be arrested when they failed to produce a registration card and face indefinite detention. In truth, Robin had no idea just what the aliens intended to do with humanity in the long-term. Slavery seemed unlikely for a race that could cross the interstellar gulfs of space. But unless there was a hope of victory, he didn't dare start to fight back.

  “Form lines,” he ordered, silently praying that no one would start anything. Many of the people waiting outside looked desperate. They would be hungry; London’s shops had been looted and there hadn't been much of anything brought in from outside the city. “Remain calm and form lines – you will all be dealt with in time.”

  Some of the citizens were staring at the policemen with sullen, angry faces. Others seemed too nervous to care, or were perhaps even relieved that they were dealing with human police, rather than aliens. Some probably didn't even believe in the aliens. The internet – what was left of it – had included a conspiracy theory that suggested that there had really been a military coup and the whole story of aliens was intended to keep the British public quiet while the Generals took over. Robin might have been tempted to believe the story if he hadn't seen the aliens. They were chillingly real.

  The lines snaked towards the civil servants, who started processing the citizens with bland indifference. They’d been told to bring ID – driving licences or passports – which suggested to Robin that the aliens had managed to capture almost all of the government’s records. There would be no chance for anyone to change their name and identity in the chaos, not if the aliens – and their collaborators – had anything to say about it. Robin silently prayed that everything would go perfectly, without him and his men having to intervene. God alone knew how the aliens would react if they had to run the city on their own. They could simply leave the civilian population to starve...

  “Here,” one oversized man bellowed, suddenly. “How am I supposed to eat this, you dozy cow?”

  Robin started towards him, one hand dropping to the truncheon at his belt. The man was staring at a package of food from the piles behind the tables, food produced by the aliens. Robin had had a taste and wondered if anyone could actually be induced to like the stuff – it tasted faintly of leather, at best. The aliens insisted that the semi-bread was good to feed a family for four for several days, but Robin knew better. If nothing else, eating the same bland food for more than a few days would be severely demoralising.

  “You cut it up and you put it in your mouth,” the civil servant repeated in the same bored tone. She’d been working for the Department of Transportation before the aliens had arrived, just another pen-pusher in a department that had more pen-pushers than it had drivers or engineers. “It’s perfectly simple...”

  “It’s muck,” the man proclaimed, loudly. There was a murmur of agreement from several in the crowd. The lines were starting to jostle. “I can't feed my family on this shit!”

  Robin caught his arm. “That’s enough, sir,” he said, trying to project a mixture of stern warning and the promise of excessive violence into his voice. They’d been told that appearing confident and unmoveable would prevent people from trying to pick fights with the police. Personally, Robin would have preferred a year of hard labour for each yob who thought he could get away with chucking a beer bottle at a hard-working policeman. “The lady’s just doing her job...”

  The man swung around and threw a punch at Robin, who jumped back automatically, whipping out his truncheon. A lady – a sad, beating-looking mother of two kids – tried to hold her husband back, but he shrugged off her arm and came after Robin. Robin didn't hesitated; he carefully lashed out with his truncheon, hitting the man in the chest. He folded over and hit the floor with a terrific crash. It would have been a media circus in the old days, with reports of police brutality hitting the airwaves faster than light, but now...he shivered as he realised that they could get away with almost anything, as long as they obeyed the aliens. The thought was terrifying. He knew dozens of coppers who would have liked to take the gloves off and just teach young hooligans some respect the hard way. What would they do without restraints?

  He pushed the thought aside as he used a plastic tie to secure the man and then dragged him into a corner. “Don’t worry about him,” he said, to his wife. She was on the verge of either crying or lashing out at him herself. He couldn't really blame her for either. “I’ll try to see to it that he gets back home ok.”

  The lines moved quicker now that the police had shown that they were ready to deal with any challenge. It didn't get any easier. Crying children constantly drowned out every other sound, despite the frantic attempts by their parents to calm them down. Older children looked around, bemused by what they were seeing, while their parents
were clearly terrified. Robin understood just how they were feeling. The world – the world they’d grown up in – was no more. All of the old certainties were gone.

  He caught sight of a dozen different ethnic groups and winced inwardly. Indians and Pakistanis, Arabs and Jamaicans...some from communities that had a long history of confrontation with the police. He had to wade in to stop a Pakistani man from attacking one of the civil servants, apparently outraged because he’d been told that his wife had to remove her veil. The mood in the building rapidly turned ugly, but he resisted the urge to call for backup. An alien patrol with live weapons would arrive and probably shoot a few dozen innocent citizens to restore order. That was the last thing he wanted.