Christopher Nuttall - Their Darkest Hour

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.