Their Darkest Hour

by Christopher Nuttall

  Chris laughed. He'd missed laughing and joking with his comrades before an operation, or telling great lies about female conquests...anything, but taking about the coming battle. They’d prepared carefully and rehearsed as much as they could, yet the tension would continue to rise until they were actually moving out and heading towards contact. The only thing that would make it settle was actual engagement.

  London wasn't what he remembered any longer. Even Basra or Kabul at their worst didn't match what the aliens had done to London. Chris would cheerfully have killed every last one of the aliens for what they’d done, both for the damage they’d inflicted upon London's monuments and for the fear that pervaded the lives of ordinary citizens. There was no longer any faith in the law, or the police; the police served the aliens and the law was a joke, unable even to protect those who had spent their entire lives following it. Many people had been arrested by the aliens after being denounced by their neighbours out of spite, or because the neighbours wanted to pay back old grudges...no one trusted anyone any longer. Chris imagined that Moscow under Stalin or Berlin under Hitler would have had the same aura of fear, of mistrust and suspicion, that seemed to have settled over London like a shroud.

  No amount of joking could convince him that things were normal, or that they would ever be normal again. One of the guys he’d met during the briefings had commented that the discovery of alien life alone had changed the world, and it would have done so even if the aliens had been friendly, or indifferent to poor struggling humanity. And if the latest intelligence on the internet was to be believed, there were at least six other alien star-faring races out there. Humanity was a very small fish in a very large pond.

  He looked down at his SA80 and shook his head. He’d already checked, cleaned and rechecked it twice in the last two hours. They should be resting and preparing themselves, but he’d never been able to rest before an operation. Some of the others didn't share that particular problem. They were sitting against the wall, snoring loudly. Their comrades would make sarcastic remarks later.

  “Don’t worry,” Bongo said. “It’ll be alright on the night.”

  One of the other soldiers managed to twist his voice into a shrill falsetto. “It’s all right, dear,” he said. “We’ll try again in a few minutes. Just take a look at some of these naughty pictures...”

  Chris glanced at his watch, again. Would zero hour never come?

  ***

  Robin had had some difficulties in altering his duty schedule to fit the operation’s requirements, but by calling in several favours he’d been able to have himself and four others assigned to the force guarding the collaborator government’s headquarters. It helped that Beresford was something of a micromanager, intent on keeping as much as possible of his government’s operations under his thumb. The old Civil Contingencies Centre had been destroyed during the alien invasion of London, but a new command centre had been set up under Beresford’s headquarters and outfitted with the latest in communications and surveillance equipment. Many of the officers who worked there had become more tainted by collaboration than anyone else.

  There was no difficulty in getting through the security checkpoints outside the building, not with police uniforms and ID cards. Robin was almost disappointed. Part of him thought that he was being treacherous to men he’d known and worked beside for years, even though they were serving the aliens – and he’d been serving the aliens until recently. But there was a fine line between doing what they could to keep the public safe and actively helping the aliens achieve their goals and many of the operators had crossed that line. And if there was an element of hypocrisy, even self-hatred, in that thought, Robin no longer cared. It was time to put an end to it.

  They walked down the stairs and into the canteen, where they would wait until ten minutes to zero hour. The police had been getting more and better food lately, a bribe to keep them on the streets in the face of public hatred and near-constant attacks from gangs of resistance fighters. He poured himself a cup of tea and waited, glancing from time to time at his watch. They weren't meant to go on duty for another hour, but the collaborator government didn't approve of lateness. Even a few minutes late was grounds for a reprimand.

  He tried to push his thoughts out of his mind as the seconds ticked down. In truth, he didn't expect to survive the next few hours. The aliens had their own guard force on duty by the gates and if they weren't taken out in the opening moments of Operation Hammer, they would certainly respond to rogue policemen. Operation Hammer, even the small section he’d been told about, had simply too many working components for everything to come off perfectly. Years of experience in the police force had taught him that the more moving parts in a particular operation, the greater the chance of something coming apart at the wrong moment. The day they’d had to arrest nearly fifty suspected terrorists across Britain had come alarmingly close to being unglued.

  His watch vibrated a warning and he nodded to his allies, standing up and heading down to the lockers. He’d stuffed the briefcase in the locker he used as a matter of course, just to keep someone from trying to open it too early. Between them, they were carrying assault rifles, grenades – and one large briefcase that had been converted into a makeshift IED. Picking up the final briefcase, Robin headed to the lift and down towards the bunker. It had started life as a corporate gym, but the collaborator government had lost no time in installing the latest computers and assigning operators to watch over the city. Robin had done a few shifts at Scotland Yard before the aliens had destroyed it and he had to admit that the collaborators had been very efficient. If they hadn’t lost so many CCTV cameras over the past few weeks, they might realise what was going on before the operation began.

  He strode through the chamber and up to a set of lockers assigned to senior personnel. One of them belonged to a detective-inspector with a habit of using the same combination for everything, a combination that he shared with some of his assistants who needed to use the locker. Robin opened the locker, cautioning himself to act normally and not make any moves that might attract attention, and placed the briefcase inside the locker. He had a cover story planned, but it wasn't necessary. People had a habit of assuming that anyone inside a secure perimeter had been cleared to be there. Closing the locker, he walked back out of the compartment and up the stairs to where his allies were waiting. The timer was ticking down the final minutes to zero hour. He took his rifle, pistol and a handful of grenades and led the way to the stairs. They were at the third floor when the building shook, violently. The IED inside the briefcase had detonated and taken out the command centre.

  “Come on,” he snapped, as they broke into a run. The emergency procedures insisted that everyone had to abandon the lifts and take the stairs, which meant that they would find it harder to get up while everyone else was heading down. He winced as the security alarm started to sound, even though it would add to the confusion. The procedure for security alerts was to remain where you were and wait. Panic would start sweeping the building.

  The hardcore of dedicated collaborators were on the twentieth floor; men and women who had completely dedicated themselves to the alien cause. Some of them were intent on their own people, others had tastes they wanted to indulge – tastes that made Robin and his allies sick at the mere thought of such people being allowed out of jail and left free to prey on an innocent population. He kicked open the door and led the way into the first conference room. The collaborators looked up at him in shock, saw the weapons, and started to babble helplessly. Robin pointed his rifle at the closest man, shot him through the head, and then moved onto the next. They would decapitate the entire collaborator government before they were done.

  A woman – blonde, with long legs revealed by a very short skirt – ran for the other door. Robin hesitated, but one of the others didn’t, putting a bullet in her back. She collapsed, blood leaking onto the carpet, as Robin turned his attention to the remaining collaborators. They were trying to run, or begging for
mercy, but it was far too late. They were gunned down and abandoned, left to die like so many of their victims. Robin remembered the guilt and shame he’d felt when he’d served the aliens and refused to feel sorry for them. They’d chosen to serve the aliens and deserved to pay the price.

  He kicked open the next door and ran into the office. A personal assistant – one he knew had been hired for her looks rather than her brains – took one look at him and started to scream. Robin ignored her and checked the next room, almost running straight into the Director of Human Resources. He’d always hated Human Resources departments – personnel departments had been much more friendly – but this one had served the aliens, turning humans into their servants. Cleaning the debris one day, burying the dead the next...they’d been shamelessly intent on selling out the entire human race. Robin hit him in the chest, knocked him down and then put a bullet through his head. Behind him, the assistant continued to scream.

  All the alarms were going off now, deafening him. The people downstairs would be probably running now, despite security procedures. He headed back to the stairwell and ran up to the top floor, leaving the others behind to finish off the rest of the collaborators. It had once belonged to a rich businessman, but the collaborator-in-chief had taken it over to serve as his living space. God alone knew what had happened to the original owner. Far too many people had gone missing in the chaos since the aliens had landed. He kicked open the door and stormed into the penthouse. It was time for the bastard to pay for his crimes.

  ***

  “What’s that noise?”

  Alan snorted, rolling over in bed. “I’m not paying you to talk,” he sneered, through his yawns. He’d planned a late morning after a night spent enjoying himself with one of the whores his assistants had found for his pleasure. Prostitution was a buyer’s market these days, particularly when one had access to real food and drink. The girl was young, barely legal age. Indulging himself with her was a sign that he had truly arrived.

  A moment later, the alarms shocked him awake. The emergency panel beside his bed was buzzing, reporting...an explosion? Every alarm seemed to be going off at once, demanding his attention. And had the entire building shook just now? If something had exploded down below, would it bring the entire building down...?

  The girl looked over at him. “What’s happening?”

  She sounded frightened. Alan couldn't really blame her. “This building appears to be under attack,” he said, as evenly as he could. Crisis...it was a crisis, but he knew how to deal with a crisis. The secret was to remain calm and alive. Everything else came second. “Get down on the floor and stay there...”

  He heard the sound of someone breaking down the door in the next room and swore. If someone was intruding on his privacy, it almost certainly wasn't someone friendly. He’d made the point to his allies time and time again – he wanted his privacy while he slept. Desperately, he tore open the drawer and removed the pistol he’d hidden there, despite the alien edict against human firearms. The door burst open and he swung around, lifting the gun and pulling the trigger. It kicked in his hand, just as the intruder fired at him. There was a brief moment of pain, and then he fell into darkness.

  ***

  Robin hadn't expected Beresford to have a gun. The collaborator’s bullet passed through his chest, just above his heart. It felt as if someone had stabbed him with a red hot poker. The pain was so great that he almost fainted, before dropping to his knees and pressing one hand to the wound. Blood was spilling down, warm against his hand – and he knew that he was dead. It hurt to move, but there was no choice. He had to know that Beresford was dead.

  Somehow, drawing on his every last ounce of determination, he managed to stagger towards where the collaborator had fallen. Beresford’s dead face, twisted with agony, looked back at him. He was barely aware that there was someone else in the room until he saw the naked girl jump up from where she’d been lying and run towards the door. Robin wanted to call out to her, to warn her that she was running right into danger, but his mouth refused to cooperate. The pain was growing stronger and stronger, threatening to drag him down into the same blackness that had swallowed Beresford.

  Should have had someone come with you, he thought he heard, at the back of his mind. It seemed to take hours before he managed to sit upright, keeping one hand pressed to his wound. It felt as if the bullet had lodged itself in his body rather than coming out of his back. He could hear the sound of alien weapons in the distance, demanding his attention, yet he was so tired. His other hand reached for his pistol and tried to pull it from his belt, but it refused to come free from where he’d stashed it. It was all he could do to pull one of the grenades free as he heard the sound of heavy footsteps clumping up the stairs.

  His vision was starting to blur, but somehow he managed to keep his eyes open until the first alien form lumbered into the room. They’d killed his fellows, then, or forced them to retreat...it hardly mattered. All that mattered was that he was dying – and that he wouldn't die alone. He pulled the pin from the grenade and looked up at the aliens as they advanced on him. They hadn’t realised the danger. Perhaps they hadn't even realised that he had turned on them. They’d probably thought of him as a very loyal servant.

  He thought, briefly, of his wife. They’d said that she was safe, somewhere to the north. He hoped that she would understand one day, and find happiness with someone else. There was no reason anyone had to know that her husband had been a collaborator, if only for a short period. And besides, he’d turned on the aliens. That had to count for something, didn't it? But that would depend on who wrote the history books. Humans – or Leathernecks? The winners always wrote the history books to please themselves.

  “Fuck you,” he managed to say, and jerked the grenade free. “Fuck you, you...”

  The aliens jumped back, but it was far too late.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  London

  United Kingdom, Day 55

  “If this fails...”

  “It won’t,” Abdul said. “Have a little faith in your fellow man.”

  Chris nodded, watching from his vantage point as the alien patrols headed towards their checkpoint. They were very careful with their routines these days, even though he was sure that there was a pattern in their movements. He couldn't blame them for that, or their decision to exclude human vehicles from their bases. The resistance had attempted to capture and drive a handful of alien vehicles, but the experiments hadn't been successful. They’d found the alien vehicles difficult to operate with human drivers.

  The alien base loomed over London, a brooding metal shape that mocked humanity’s pretensions to historical monuments. They’d built it on the remains of Buckingham Palace, just to illustrate the fact that the Earth belonged to them by right of conquest. Chris had heard that they’d done the same with the White House and the Kremlin, knocking them down to make room for their buildings. Perhaps it made sense from their point of view, rather than waving a red flag in front of the human bull. They’d certainly shown no particular willingness to give a damn about what humans thought. There was a certain blunt honesty in their actions that contrasted oddly with human political thinking. All the politicians who’d talked about not giving offense to people who harboured terrorists intent on killing British troops...

  Abdul tapped his shoulder. “The policeman should be moving by now,” he said. “Two minutes left. You ready?”

  “Yes,” Chris said. He glanced back at his team. They looked ready, even though they knew that challenging the aliens on their own base was incredibly dangerous. The aliens might just cut their losses and start dropping rocks from orbit. “Get the Javelin teams into position.”

  The laptop buzzed once. They’d spliced it into one of the underground telecommunications links that had made up the backbone of the British communications network before the aliens had arrived, using it to link into the internet. The final countdown had begun. All over the world, countless computers were being
linked into the alien communications system, attempting to hack into it and bring it down. Chris wasn't sure if he believed any of the more extreme promises, but they should certainly disrupt the alien response. It was all they’d need to get in, hit the bastards and get out again. The final seconds ticked down to zero.

  He clicked his radio. “Go,” he ordered. The snipers positioned on nearby rooftops opened fire, picking off the aliens within view. Their patrollers fell to the ground or dived for cover, trying to bring their own weapons up to return fire. They’d have some problems spotting the snipers, Chris hoped. “Javelin teams – go!”

  The Javelin teams ran forward, taking up position to launch their antitank missiles directly at the alien gates. Chris had seen them used before to take out bunkers and other fortified positions, but as far as he could recall no one had ever used them to take out a gate. The missiles were fired before the aliens had a chance to react, blasting down towards the alien positions and slamming into their heavy gates. Chris watched as the gate he could see personally toppled inwards, squashing a couple of aliens who had been behind it when the attack began. The alien defences had been crippled.

  He keyed his radio again. “Mortar teams, go,” he ordered. “Fire at will.”

  The sound of mortars started to echo out over London as the teams opened fire, lobbing shells into the alien base to force the defenders to keep their heads down. Other teams all over London would be assaulting alien patrols, hoping to prevent them from turning and charging to the rescue of their leadership. In the early hours of the invasion, human military and police forces had been badly scattered, their command and control networks broken down and fragmented, leaving them facing their individual nightmares. Now the boot was on the other foot. The aliens were going to have to deal with an unfolding crisis as individuals.