Their Darkest Hour

by Christopher Nuttall

  “They don’t have many resources left to throw at us,” J’tra Mak’kat pointed out. He’d served with Oheghizh in previous campaigns and didn’t bother to mince his words. The State didn’t approve of officers being too familiar with their subordinates, but Oheghizh found it hard to care. “They’re burning up what they have left rather than abandon it. And many of our troopers haven’t been in combat before. They’re making mistakes through simple unfamiliarity with the alien landscape.”

  Oheghizh couldn’t disagree. In hindsight, it was clear that the humans – who hadn’t started uniting themselves, unlike almost every other race in their stage of development – had plenty of experience fighting each other. The sociologists were still trying to discover exactly why the humans hadn’t advanced into space, but it was clear that space-based forces hadn’t played a significant role in their internal struggling. They’d have had a much better appreciation of how badly they were outmatched if they had, he told himself, although it was a case of not being grateful enough for what they had. A space-faring race would have been a far tougher morsel to digest.

  “Order our forces to take extra care,” he said, slowly. “And pass me the figures on their advanced weapons. Let me see what they have left.”

  The planners were right about one thing, he thought, as he studied the figures and compared them to their projections. It was clear that the humans were running out of advanced weaponry. Their tanks were holding their ground rather than falling back – as their own tactical doctrine ordered – and the advancing spearheads were reporting fewer and fewer contacts with human armour. The aircraft backing up the ground forces, after a handful of embarrassing losses, reported that the humans had been reduced to deploying portable antiaircraft weapons rather than the sophisticated weapons they’d deployed in the opening hours of the invasion. And soon enough they’d run out of those too.

  He watched through a set of advancing sensors as yet another human habitation was carefully explored. The humans had a whole series of unpleasant surprises for the troopers that first entered their dwellings – and a nasty sense of humour. He didn’t want to think about the hundreds of injured or dead troopers that would have to be reported to the Command Triad. They would look down from high overhead, see the amount of casualties he’d suffered taking a relatively small area, and draw unpleasant comparisons with the Land Forces in the region the humans called the Middle East. It was hardly his fault that the terrain in the desert was far better suited for land warfare – and that the humans there seemed to have no idea of how to fight properly.

  It could be worse, he told himself, dryly. The Chinese humans, after what looked like a successful opening strike to the invasion, had fired nuclear rockets at their own cities to destroy as many Land Force units as possible. Most of their primitive missiles had been knocked down by point defence units, but a handful had got through the network – and several more tactical nuclear weapons had been deployed by enemy ground forces. They didn’t seem to care about the suffering they were inflicting on their own people, or the fact that they just couldn’t win. At least the humans in Europe and America seemed smart enough to refrain from using nuclear weapons. The Conquest Fleet had gone to considerable trouble to decapitate the enemy command and control systems to prevent one or all of them authorising a nuclear strike.

  Or they could be waiting for us to get into position, he thought, grimly. Who knows what these humans will do?

  ***

  Yunt Ra’Sha watched in astonishment as humans fled their habitations, swallowing down the urge to hurry them on their way with a few rounds from his cannon. They’d been told to try to avoid engaging humans who weren’t part of their military, but how was a lowly Yunt meant to tell the difference? Some of the smaller humans were clearly younglings, yet they seemed willing to throw rocks at the invasion force – and their seniors had all kinds of nasty surprises up their sleeves. His unit was still reeling after the death of their commander – killed by a human who’d driven a vehicle right into his position. They’d killed the human, but that hadn’t brought their commander back.

  “Ugly creatures,” one of his fellows muttered. It was true. The humans seemed to half-run, half-walk wherever they went…and they were covered in fur! At least they had the decency to wear clothing rather than show off their strange bodies, moving in ways that no civilised race could ever duplicate. “We should just kill them all and leave their bodies piled up high.”

  “Better not let Ha’She hear you say that,” Ra’Sha said. Orders were orders – and the lowly sluggers who did most of the work weren't allowed to question their orders. “He thinks he’s officer material, the fool. Just because his father has a medium-ranked position in an industrial combine he thinks he walks on water. Maybe the humans will kill him and that will be an end to it.”

  He braced himself as they advanced on the first human dwelling, a two-story house surrounded by an oddly-shaped garden. The houses they built were too small for him to feel comfortable, even the rooms that were large enough to house a fully-grown trooper. They just made him feel claustrophobic, even restrained – while the damned humans had complete freedom of action. The beasts could nip down corridors that were too thin for him and set up their next ambushes by the time they finally reached their lair. And then they’d just keep falling back, and back…

  They’ll run out of country soon, he told himself firmly, trying not to think about some of the injuries he’d seen on the other wounded. The humans seemed to prefer to wound rather than kill, although some of the wounds he’d seen would probably have killed a grown human. But then, they didn’t have any experience with other races. They were probably still thinking in terms of killing their fellows, rather than bigger tougher aliens with excellent medical technology. He snorted at his own thoughts as he slipped up to the human house and peered through the glass window. If he started thinking so deeply, he’d probably qualify for officer material himself. Not that there was any hope of promotion, of course. The officers looked after their own first and foremost, with newcomers only accepted if they were a cut above the rest. And all he wanted was to survive the war and return home in time for mating season.

  The interior of the human habitation looked empty, but he threw an explosive pack inside, just in case. It exploded with a satisfying flash and he leapt inside, holding his weapon at the ready as he scanned for threats. There was nothing, apart from piles of smashed furniture and a handful of fires. He ignored the heat and checked the rest of the house, pushing his way up tiny staircases that creaked alarmingly under his weight, and allowed himself a moment of relief when he found nothing. The remainder of the patrol inched outside and waited for him. There was still the rest of the human village…

  They checked two more houses before coming up on what looked like a human shop. Small piles of canned food lay everywhere, suggesting that the population had made a hasty departure. He caught sight of a half-opened packet of meat and had to resist the urge to taste it. The scientists swore blind that there was nothing on Earth that could kill them – at least they could eat everything the humans could eat – but it might have caused him to fall sick. And the penalties for rendering oneself unfit for combat were severe…

  “Look,” May’tha said, pointing to a large white container. It was smaller than the smallest member of the patrol, but it was clearly large enough to hold an adult human – maybe two, if they were very friendly. Adult Eridian didn’t like being crammed so close together, yet the humans seemed to enjoy it – at least if the sociologists’ interpretation of some of their videos was accurate. Or maybe they were nothing more than the human version of sexual movies. He’d enjoyed watching many of them when his childhood scales had started to fall off, revealing the adult skin below. “Do you think one of them could be hiding there?”

  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.

  Chapter Fourteen

  London

  United Kingdom, Day 6

  “You have to give the bastard credit,” Constable Richardson muttered to Robin. “How many people doe
s 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.”