Darkest Hour 1: Their Darkest Hour

by Christopher Nuttall

  Another series of explosions ran through what remained of the convoy, followed by an uneasy silence, broken only by the sound of fire. Chris barked an order and his men held fire, staring down at the wreckage. Most of them had seen action in Afghanistan, but even the Taliban hadn't been able to wreck so much devastation on a British convoy. The training and equipment of Coalition forces had given them an advantage. He looked down for a long moment, and then nodded to the rest of his platoon. Carefully, weapons at the ready, they headed down towards the convoy.

  Up close, there was something eerie about the alien vehicles, something that suggested that their designers worked from different ideas about how the universe worked. Their armour didn't seem to be quite up to human standards, although Chris was uneasily aware that once they ran out of antitank missiles, it was likely to be a great deal harder to inflict losses on the alien vehicles. He glanced inside one and saw a set of charred alien bodies, blackened and burned by the heat. The stench was appalling. He had to fight to keep himself from throwing up his lunch into the alien vehicle.

  “Look for prisoners,” he bellowed, although he had no hope of finding any. The alien soldiers had been caught by the mortars and shredded. He moved from vehicle to vehicle, glancing inside and shaking his head at the carnage. Judging from the remains of some of the human trucks, they’d been transporting food rather than weapons. He couldn't blame the aliens for being reluctant to arm their collaborators. Who knew when a collaborator might change his mind?

  The final vehicle – an alien troop transport – had been tipped on its side. Most of the aliens inside were clearly dead, but one was alive – if badly wounded. A human wounded so badly would need immediate hospital treatment – he flashed back to waiting on Afghanistan’s plains for a medical chopper, knowing that the Taliban would shoot if down if they could – yet he had no idea if the alien could be saved. He met dark expressionless eyes and shivered, studying the alien’s wounds as dispassionately as he could. Inky dark blood was leaking out of gashes in the leathery skin and spilling onto the ground. It didn't seem to be congealing like human blood.

  “I’m sorry,” he told the alien, as he pointed his Browning at the alien’s face. It seemed to sigh and bow it’s head, an oddly-human motion that tore at his heart. He pulled the trigger once, putting a bullet right through the alien’s brains. Oddly, the alien skull seemed to take the shot better than a human skull. He hesitated for a moment, and then scrambled out back onto the motorway. The sound of approaching helicopters could be heard in the distance.

  He glanced back at where they’d hidden the IED. There was now a colossal hole in the motorway, leaving a major problem for the aliens to solve if they wanted to continue sending trucks to London. Their own hover-vehicles wouldn't have any problems navigating if they just shoved a small pile of earth into the hole, but any human-designed vehicle would have to be very careful. He scrambled up the embankment, hearing the sound of helicopters approaching from the west growing louder. The enemy tank that had withdrawn from combat – although the statements on the internet would say that it had fled – had clearly summoned reinforcements. He smiled as he saw the two helicopters finally come into view. They were moving slowly, dancing about as if they expected to run right into a trap of their own. Maybe they’d managed to spook an alien commander...

  “Time to go,” he said. Most of the unit had already bugged out, leaving only his platoon behind. He did have a pair of soldiers with Stingers to cover their retreat if the aliens decided to forget caution and come after them with everything they had. Hopefully it wouldn't be necessary. They had fewer Stingers than he would have liked. “We did good work today.”

  ***

  Tra’tro The’Stig dismounted from the transport and ran towards what remained of the convoy, hunting for survivors. At first glance, it seemed that there would be none, but orders from his superiors insisted that the effort be made. It didn't take a genius to realise that someone higher up was starting to wonder if there had been too many casualties on Earth, even though it had only been a handful of days since they’d landed. Given a few months or years, long before the first reports reached the State, they’d have pounded the humans into submission.

  Or at least forced them to expend their advanced weapons, he thought, ruefully. This part of the world didn't seem to be as heavily armed as some others. The Russian humans seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of weapons, while the American humans seemed to have scattered weapons everywhere. Some parts of America had been crushed without the need for further fighting, but other parts were too far from the population centres to be brought under their control. At least Britain was small enough that the bases could support each other – although that meant less than it seemed. A planet was big.

  His radio buzzed. “Report,” an insistent voice demanded. The’Stig snorted, quietly enough not to be heard. No doubt it was someone senior enough not to be out on the front lines. “How many survivors have there been?”

  “None,” he reported, after a moment. There was a long pause, allowing him a chance to spy a couple of human bodies amid the wreckage. He tried to tell himself that they were human insurgents, but it seemed more likely that they were collaborators. The human insurgents seemed determined not to leave their bodies behind. “I cannot find any bodies.”

  “Understood,” the voice said. “Please stand by...”

  The’Stig snorted again and started to issue orders to the rest of his unit. They’d scout around and secure the area, maybe pick up on the human trail before they had a chance to go to ground. And then maybe they could extract a little revenge. Maybe...

  Because if losing convoys became a habit, they were going to start running short of supplies. And if they had to start using shuttles again, they would risk losing them...

  And then their ultimate victory would be in doubt.

  And that would risk bringing in other powers.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  London

  United Kingdom, Day 21

  “How many people are down there?”

  “At least five thousand,” Gerald Rivers said. The Chief Constable looked uneasy. His policemen were out there, without any weapons more dangerous than water cannons and CS gas. The aliens had forbidden weapons even for those guarding their collaborators. “There will be more when people realise that the aliens aren’t going to do anything to stop them.”

  Alan cursed. Down below, outside the security perimeter he’d had erected around his headquarters, thousands of protesters were gathering. The raids and arrests had galvanised large sections of London, bringing thousands of people out onto the streets. He couldn't help, but remember how crowds had toppled a number of regimes across the Middle East – or how they’d pressured the British Government during the run-up to Iraq. And the crowd below transcended racial or religious borders. The first series of arrests might have been targeted on Islamic families, but the next series had been equal-opportunity repression.

  But there was no choice, he told himself, desperately. The poorer parts of London were becoming hotbeds of resistance activity. Young men, men who had had little hope of rising out of poverty before the invasion, were actively targeting the police – and even the aliens themselves. A dozen had died only yesterday in the wake of a failed petrol bomb attack on an alien patrol. And London wasn't even seeing the worst of the violence. Manchester had been consumed by a riot that had torn through Moss Side before the police had finally managed to restore order.

  He shivered as the crowd’s chant grew louder. As an MP, he’d seen the reports from the security services on radical trouble-makers who enjoyed infiltrating protest marches and causing havoc. A number with ties to London’s criminal underworld were down there, arming the protesters with gas masks and even crude weapons. There might even be resistance fighters with the crowd, ready to take out a handful of collaborators. And what would the aliens do, he asked himself, if the crowd broke into his headquarters and lynched him? Perhaps they�
�d simply sit back and drop rocks on the crowd, thrashing the survivors into submission. Or...there were too many possibilities and none of them were pleasant.

  “Give us back our children,” the crowd demanded. “Give us back our wives!”

  The roar grew louder as the words spread. It was simple enough to understand; dozens of wives and children, apparently innocent, had been swept up by the raids. No one knew what had happened to them, at least no one outside the alien garrison where Ten Downing Street had once been. Alan knew that they’d been taken outside the city, but then...? The aliens had refused to tell him anything, which suggested that they might simply have been killed.

  But that didn’t make sense either, he tried to tell himself. What was the point of punitive executions if they didn't inform the country that they’d been carried out? But the aliens were aliens and something that made sense to them might appear strange to the human mindset...he looked down at the crowd again and shuddered. He’d wanted power, hadn't he? And yet he was quailing at the thought of what he would have to do to keep hold of that power, to keep the population under control and the aliens happy...

  He looked up at Rivers. “Disperse the crowd,” he ordered, sharply. “Get rid of them. Now.”

  ***

  Robin felt sweat trickling down his back as the noise grew louder. The crowd had blurred into a single mass of humanity, screaming and shouting all along the barricades. Robin knew that if they decided to push forward, a lot of people were going to be hurt. Mobs lost all sense of proportion or civilisation; if they caught a policeman, he was likely to be trampled to death. And if individuals wanted to get away from the mob, they would find it very difficult, almost impossible. The mob mentality sucked in individuals and turned them into mindless automatons.

  And yet, part of him wanted to throw away his uniform and join them. The mob was right – they had arrested hundreds of people without due cause. Sure, some of them had deserved arrest – one firebrand preacher deserved worse, but the pre-invasion government had been reluctant to take the political flak for arresting him – but others were innocent, their only crime being related to the suicide bomber and his friends. And some had been scooped up for no reason that he could see. They’d become worse than the Nazis in a far shorter space of time – and to think that the Met had once prided itself on its ethics. How far were they willing to go to collaborate.

  He glanced behind him, seeing the same doubts written on the faces of his fellows. Some of them, at least, had been reluctant to follow orders and even join the police force blocking the way to the building housing the collaborating government. Others, on the other hand, seemed almost delighted at the prospect of violence, the ones who had learned to hate protest marches during the summers of rage, where it had been politically impossible to hand out the thrashing many of the protesters had deserved. They’d never done a day’s work in their life, they’d argued, and yet they deserved to be fed and clothed at taxpayer’s expense. Many policemen had little sympathy for protesters. If they put the energy they put into their protests into bettering themselves instead, they would actually find that there were other options than permanently living on the dole.

  But they had their orders. The crowd had to be dispersed. Even now, other policemen would be setting up barriers, using them to push the crowd back and block off several lines of retreat. They’d be forced away from the building complex, pushed all the way back to where they’d come from – and any who tried to fight back would be arrested. Or at least that was the plan. Robin knew that many of the protesters would have come armed, intent on picking a fight – or merely intent on preventing a humiliating retreat. And the police had been denied firearms. The protest organisers might be better armed than themselves.

  He braced himself as the loudspeaker crackled on. “ATTENTION,” the speaker said, loudly enough to be heard over the crowd. “THIS IS AN ILLEGAL GATHERING. YOU ARE ORDERED TO DISPERSE. YOU ARE ORDERED TO DISPERSE.”

  The crowd started throwing objects towards the police lines. There had been no order, as far as Robin could see, merely a shared desire to hit back at the collaborators. Some of them were throwing rotten fruit and vegetables, others were throwing stones and empty bottles. Those made him wince, remembering the petrol bombs that had been thrown at the aliens had even some policemen. If they’d been filled with petrol and set alight...no flames enveloped the police lines and he allowed himself a moment of relief. A handful of policemen had been injured, but their comrades were already helping them back towards the emergency treatment centre they’d established in the corporate gym. Robin hadn't been able to believe just how many amities they’d managed to fit inside their buildings. It was a wonder that they ever went home for the night.

  There was a hiss as water cannons came on, spraying furious gusts of water towards the protestors. The water was drawn from the mains, this time, providing a nearly infinite source of freezing cold liquid. Many protestors, drenched to the bone, would have thought better of being in the protest moments after they’d been hit, but the ones behind them wouldn't let them retreat. The water started to push them back, sending many protesters falling to the ground as they tried to seek shelter from the water. He allowed himself to hope that they'd succeeded in breaking the protest...

  He saw the objects flying through the air before he quite realised what they were, too late. The grenades detonated beside the water cannons, blowing them and their operators apart in brilliant explosions. A great blast of water roared into the sky, leaving drops falling on police and protesters alike....the protesters howled and roared forward like a single living entity. He caught sight of young teenage girls caught up in the crush and felt a moment of pity, until they lunged forward at the police. The policemen fell back as their lines fell apart; it wasn't until he happened to glance towards where the Captain had been that he realised that someone had shot him. There was a sniper on one of the surrounding buildings, picking off the police commanders one by one. They hadn't even heard the shot over the sound of angry protesters scenting victory.

  “Fall back,” Robin yelled. The police lines were wavering. Few had been really enthusiastic about facing the protesters and it was clear that they were losing control. Several policemen with only a few months experience had taken to their heels and fled. “Get back to the second lines, now...”

  The mob surged forward and he found himself facing a young man with a shaven head and a pair of knuckledusters. He lashed out with his baton, sending the man crumpling to the ground, before the protesters trampled over his victim and kept coming. It was all he could do to back away slowly, rather than turning and joining the others in flight. He'd never faced such a situation in his entire life. Behind him, he heard the sound of gas being deployed and grasped his mask. He’d had one sniff of the gas during training and that had been quite enough. But somehow he doubted that it would be enough to stop the protesters...

  His nerve broke and he turned, running for dear life. The next set of lines might be enough to stop them, or it might fall...and then the protesters would be able to pour into the buildings and rip the core of the collaborator government apart. And then the aliens would have to govern London on their own.

  Somehow, he didn't think they would let it get so far.

  ***

  “Get everyone up to the helipad,” Rivers ordered. Alan barely heard him. The attempt to disperse the protesters had failed badly, not least because someone was clearing their way, picking off police commanders. He found himself looking at the other buildings, wondering which one held the sniper – or snipers. There might well be more than one. “Sir, we have to evacuate this building.”

  As a child, Alan had been frightened of heights and reluctant to enter tall buildings. That old fear came back to him as the building shook, suggesting that the protesters were breaking in through gates that were supposed to be sealed. Perhaps the police had fallen back deliberately, allowing the lynch mob a chance to gain entry and wipe out the collaborator gov
ernment. He looked over at Rivers, wondering if the Chief Constable had ambitions to take over, before dismissing the thought. Rivers could have turned the police against him without needing to stage a riot.

  “Come on, sir,” Rivers said, catching him by the arm and half-dragging him towards the door. The CEO who’d owned the building had placed a helipad on top of the massive skyscraper, allowing him to fly in and out each morning without having to drive through London. Alan’s government had planned to use it to keep certain movements out of the public eye. “We don’t know how long it will be before they get up here.”