Christopher Nuttall - Their Darkest Hour

He wasn’t sure who was in command right now, not after the humans had taken down the transport carrying two superior officers and their mobile command network. The threat of human-portable weapons had clearly been underestimated, part of his mind noted, cursing Intelligence under his breath. Several units had been shredded, leaving him as the senior officer within eyesight. He didn’t even know half of the troopers who had been drawn into his orbit. All he could do was keep them moving forward and hope that the tankers sucked up most of the incoming fire.

A pile of rubble allowed him a chance to slip under cover, just as one of the troopers saw what looked like a pile of metal discs on the ground. The’Stig was just a second too late in ordering him to stop; he picked the discs up and an explosion blew him into bloody fragments. Even their body armour couldn’t protect them against such an attack. The’Stig scowled and inched backwards, eyes scanning the piles of rubble and peering through the smoke in hopes of seeing the humans before they saw him. The entire area could be mined, but he doubted that he’d be able to get a team of experts to come down and remove the mines safely. Reporting their presence to his superiors — once they were appointed — would only mean that they’d be told to be careful. They needed to take the human leaders alive.

Something moved , right at the corner of his eye. Instinct sent him jumping backwards, just in time to avoid a knife thrown at him by a young male human. The human was wounded, he realised, and it had still attempted to take his life. Was the entire species insane? He fired a burst towards the human and watched bright red blood splash on the rubble. They looked so fragile and yet they could kill and kill and kill…

And they could hide. Hindsight, always clearer than foresight, showed him just what had happened. He’d ignored the human’s hiding place because it was too small for one of his people. If he’d taken a longer look, he might not have been surprised so badly. And some of the other troopers who’d been ambushed might have remained alive, if they’d been more aware of what the humans could do to them. They’d have to learn quickly on this world.

He motioned for his troopers to hold their positions. The tankers were coming up behind them and more reinforcements were on the way. Let the tankers take a few bullets — which would only glance off their armour in any case. His troopers needed a rest before they pushed onwards — and besides, the humans were trapped against the river. They’d have to break through the assault lines to escape and that wasn’t going to be easy.

“They’re sending in their tanks, sir!”

Major-General Sir Alan Robertson nodded, sharply. After some thought, he’d established his command post in the Houses of Parliament, assuming that the aliens wanted to take Parliament relatively intact. They didn’t seem to be that concerned about many of the other historic buildings in Central London, but it made sense. It would have been easy for them to take out the civilian government from orbit if they’d simply wanted them dead.

But his force was in an untenable position — which, he admitted to himself, he’d known about long before the aliens actually landed. The aliens seemed to be bringing in more reinforcements and their supplies of Stinger missiles were running low; it seemed that the aliens did have some form of effective countermeasure. Besides, he didn’t want to shoot down another craft and see it crash in London. The team he’d positioned in the London Eye had reported that fires were spreading out of control from where one of the alien transports had crash-landed.

“Send in the Javelin teams and tell them one shot each,” he ordered, sharply. The British Army had ordered thousands of Javelin missiles, but most of them had been stockpiled in the countryside or deployed to Afghanistan. No one had thought to equip the Household Division with more than a handful of antitank weapons. Who in their right mind would have considered that they’d be needed? “And then tell them to head for the tunnels. They’re to get out of the city and link up with the rest of the army.”

The ground shook violently as the aliens started bombarding Whitehall. Alan swore under his breath, realising that the aliens were clearly using orbital or drone surveillance assets to track his men. Their advance was almost unstoppable now, particularly not with what remained of his two companies. There was no point in getting more men killed for nothing.

“Sound the retreat,” he ordered. He keyed his radio and issued the command. “Get the lads out of here…”

High overhead, an alien drone detected the signal, locked onto his position and fired a single missile. Major-General Sir Alan Robertson died before realising that he was even in danger.

“We’re to get out of here,” a sergeant was yelling. “Move, you stupid…”

Chris picked himself up, just as the alien advance broke through one of the makeshift defence lines. He fired a quick burst from his SA80 in the hopes of slowing the aliens, just as he realised that they’d blocked him from reaching the tunnel that should have led down into safety. Before he had a moment to think about it, he turned and ran towards the embankment, jumping down into the Thames. The river would carry him downstream and he’d be able to link up with what remained of his unit once he got out of the water.

Behind him, London burned.

London

United Kingdom, Day 1

“My God.”

From his vantage point, Robin had been able to see some of the fighting — too much of the fighting. What he’d seen had left him silently grateful that he wasn’t close enough to see the rest of it. The aliens had landed in force — two of their transports had been shot down, including one that had crashed into the other side of the Thames — and taken Whitehall. God alone knew how many soldiers had been killed in an ultimately futile last stand.

He looked down towards the streets. They had been emptying with remarkable speed as people fled the battle, heading towards their homes in the hope that they might find safety with their families and friends. Robin suspected that there was going to be no such thing as safety in London for the next few weeks, if not ever. What the hell did the aliens want? Part of him refused to believe that there were aliens, but the evidence was undeniable. The flames and smoke rising up in the distance suggested that the world had indeed turned upside down.

“Sergeant,” one of the other policemen said, “what the hell do we do?”

Robin silently cursed him for asking that question. In truth, he had no idea what they should do, because the Met had never seriously considered that London might be invaded. The last time the British police had considered the question had been back during World War Two, when — if he recalled correctly — they’d been ordered to maintain public order, but avoid giving any help to the Germans. But the Germans had never invaded and the plans had never been put to the test. What would the aliens do now they’d won themselves a city?

His radio buzzed, suddenly. The jamming seemed to have stopped, suggesting… what? Logically, the aliens would have wanted to keep the police and military forces fragmented, but perhaps their own communications were affected by their jamming. Or perhaps they were going to be hunting down any remaining soldiers and hoped that some of them would be foolish enough to use their radios. Or perhaps… he pushed the thoughts aside as a cold voice, utterly inhuman, echoed out over the airwaves. The aliens were finally making their demands known.