Christopher Nuttall - Their Darkest Hour

Brigadier Gavin Lightbridge-Stewart watched, his face impassive, as the Prime Minister’s bodyguards helped him down the narrow corridor. There was a small selection of rooms under the bunker, where he could have a shower and a long sleep — God knew he needed it. The man wasn’t a soldier and hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might find himself on the run; for all the bellyaching about British politicians and the seemingly endless scandals, Britain wasn’t Afghanistan or one of the other countries where political leaders knew to keep a bag packed for flight at all times.

He looked down at the map on the table, trying to force himself to remain optimistic. The situation was grim, but the reports from London made it clear that the aliens weren’t gods. They seemed to have a slight shortage of force fields, directed energy weapons and all the other miracle technology that any self-respecting fictional alien race should possess. In fact, some of their technology looked to be inferior to human tech — although there was no way to be sure. The analysts had taken a look at the images of the alien landing shuttles and concluded that they shouldn’t fly, at least with any technology known to mankind. Their best guess was that the aliens had some form of negating gravity. The shuttles actually seemed to be more fragile than human craft. They’d been hit with Stingers and blown out of the air.

How long do we have ? He asked himself. They’d been spoiled by modern technology. The fog of war, once banished by overhead reconnaissance and satellite imagery, was back with a vengeance. There was no way to know what the aliens were doing — at least until the scouts were in position to start reporting back. And the aliens could presumably track their radio transmissions and direct their aircraft to pick them off…

The Prime Minister had looked as if he was on the verge of collapse. Gavin couldn’t blame him; no one, in their worst nightmares, had imagined an alien invasion. He didn’t want to think about what the civilian population was feeling, looking out into the darkening sky and wondering what would happen to them now that their country had been invaded. Britain had been a good place to live for many; now… now it might become a nightmarish alien-ruled land. Or perhaps the aliens would choose to work through human proxies.

He shook his head. There was no way to know.

Passing command of the bunker to one of his subordinates — who had been commanding a troop of tanks until Gavin had pulled him out to serve in the bunker — he headed for the ladder up to the surface. He could inspect the defence lines and chat with the soldiers, just to see how they were coping with the situation. And he could start laying the groundwork for underground resistance. The PM might swing towards coming to an accommodation with the aliens, but Gavin had other ideas. His country had been invaded.

He wasn’t going to let that pass without a fight.

London

United Kingdom, Day 2

Westminster looked like a war zone.

No , Alan Beresford, Member of Parliament for Haltemprice, corrected himself. It was a war zone. Alan prided himself on his cynical approach to life — it had certainly served him well in politics — but even he felt a pang as he saw the damage the aliens had inflicted on the heart of the British Government. The Houses of Parliament were scorched — by the aliens or their human defenders — and Big Ben had collapsed inward on itself. There had been hundreds of dead bodies scattered about, but from what he’d heard the aliens were collecting them up and disposing of them. He didn’t want to think about how .

At thirty-five, Alan had been in politics for most of his life. His father had been a well-connected MP who had arranged for his son to receive employment within the office of another MP, who had in turn opened up a whole series of doors for his friend’s son. Alan knew little about the world outside politics and cared less. All he cared about was the chance to make money, increase his personal power base and pass his legacy on to his son. He’d dreaded the prospect of an effective Prime Minister in Ten Downing Street for a long time — the thought of someone like Thatcher taking a look at his hidden secrets was terrifying — and he’d done a great deal to keep the position in the hands of a pathetic non-entity. Alan no longer believed in Britain, but then — why should he? The great British population, blessed with the gift of democracy, freely chose to elect men with few real qualifications for government — and then blamed those men for what they did to the country. No one had ever really held Parliament to account for a very long time.

But now… the world had changed overnight. Aliens had arrived, real aliens. Alan hadn’t seen any of the battle at first hand, not when he’d been cowering in his upmarket flat fearing that every second might be his last. He’d believed that it was more likely to be terrorists and the BBC’s increasingly absurd broadcasts just another sign of panic caused by the bastards. The news had only penetrated his skull when his political fixer had staggered in, bleeding from his shoulder, and raving about massive aliens. And then he’d heard their broadcast…

His position as an elected MP was useless now, Alan knew. The British Government was on the run — no one had seen hide or hair of Burley and his ineffectual Cabinet since the aliens had landed. Alan knew better than to assume that Burley could turn the situation around, which meant that it was every man for himself. The aliens, on the other hand, wielded real power. He could make an alliance with them and offer his services in exchange for protection, wealth and more power than he’d ever dreamed possible. Who knew what sort of rewards a race that could cross the gulfs between stars could offer their faithful servants?

He stopped dead as he saw the alien patrol turning towards him. Despite his belief that the aliens needed allies, it took all of his strength not to turn and flee. The massive brutes loomed over him, carrying weapons that seemed too large to be real. Alan had used shotguns and hunting rifles while staying at estates owned by his friends, but the alien weapons were very different. It struck him that the aliens had to be less socially developed than humanity — yet it hardly mattered. They’d crossed the gulf of space to reach Earth and impose their will upon humanity. It had taken them barely a day to crush most of humanity’s defences.

Alan smiled and held up his hands, hoping that the aliens would understand the gesture. Their dark eyes showed no sign of human emotions; their faces seemed curiously immobile, almost as if they didn’t have emotions at all. Or perhaps he was just looking in the wrong place. They might show their thoughts by how their hands moved when they spoke.

“I come in peace,” he said. “Take me to your leader.”

“Follow us,” the lead alien grated. The voice didn’t seem to come from its mouth, but from a small device hanging down below its oversized chin. Alan wasn’t too surprised that they could speak English. They were clearly advanced enough to monitor human broadcasts and decipher human languages. “Do not attempt to escape.”

The area surrounding Ten Downing Street and Buckingham Palace had been devastated. Alien machines were moving through the rubble, pushing it aside and exposing the hidden network of tunnels under Whitehall. A set of alien-designed buildings had already been erected in Hyde Park, allowing them to come and go freely, rather than trying to fit into human buildings. They’d have problems using human vehicles and aircraft, Alan told himself, and smiled. Even he appreciated that the aliens were on the end of a very long logistics chain. They’d be delighted if he could convince thousands of humans to serve their new overlords.