Christopher Nuttall - Their Darkest Hour

“Don’t get angry at them,” a soft voice said. She looked up to see a policeman, staring down at her. There was something damned and suffering in his eyes. “Just be grateful they’re letting us handle this.”

Fatima opened her mouth to deliver an angry retort about collaborators — and then she swallowed it, knowing that it would do no good. What choice did they have? And what choice did she have? She had opened herself to charges of collaboration by coming to help the wounded, even though most of the wounded were humans. And to think she’d wondered why Iraqis had had so much trouble deciding which side to support during the war…

She pushed the thought aside and returned to work. There was an unending stream of casualties to tend to, and hopefully save. And then perhaps she might find something else to do with her time.

From his vantage point, Alan Beresford watched as the plume of smoke slowly faded away. It had been nearly four hours since the blast and the emergency services had worked like demons to cope with the damage. There was no threat to any other building, at least as far as they could tell, and they had a preliminary list of the dead. And as far as they were concerned, Alan knew, they’d done an excellent job. It was a pity that there was nothing left of the bomber, but the blast had been powerful enough to bring down a fairly large building. The bomber himself would have been reduced to atoms.

But that wasn’t the important point, Alan knew. The aliens didn’t share details about their security — or their long-term objectives — with him, but he did know that they had taken a handful of losses recently. Small, compared to the casualties they’d suffered during the invasion itself, but irritating. And all the more irritating because they’d trusted Alan to provide security for their people. They’d given him power and responsibility and all they’d asked was that he kept his word. What would happen to him, Alan asked himself, if they decided that they no longer wanted him to control the country for them? Somehow, he had no doubt that the aliens would simply kill him and put an end to it.

The thought was intolerable. He’d risen high in pursuit of power — he wasn’t going to let it end without a fight. And if the aliens decided that he was expendable… no, it was unthinkable. He wasn’t going to look as ineffective as the British Government had looked against the IRA, or the more recent threat from Muslim fundamentalists. He’d show them that Alan Beresford was still a good investment. And if a few innocents got mashed in the gears, well… one couldn’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.

He turned and faced his small Cabinet. And small it was. Many of the ministers who’d served Prime Minister Gabriel Burley — wherever the hell he was — were dead, or in hiding. It seemed unlikely that they would be able to remain undiscovered forever, but that was small comfort. He’d had to promote a handful of his cronies, a number of men who owed him favours, and the senior surviving police officer in London. Some of them followed him because they believed in him, others followed because of the dirt he had on them… and at least two were there because they had nowhere else to go. But that could change, Alan reminded himself, savagely. How long would it be before one of them realised that they could make their own deals with the aliens? And then how long would Alan last?

“We have a problem,” he said, addressing his Media Officer. Catherine Stewart knew where the bodies were buried, sometimes literally. Alan had once heard a joke about how many people would attend the funeral of a world-famous columnist, just to make sure that the old bat with the poison pen was finally dead. It applied just as much to Catherine, whose blonde good looks concealed a razor-sharp mind and a complete absence of scruples. “The scrum who did this killed innocent Londoners. They have to be found. I want you to make sure that that party line gets out there right away, without any dissent. Try and prevent the internet from taking any other line.”

Catherine nodded. It hadn’t taken her more than a week to start building her own empire — but then, she was the only source of employment for countless spin doctors and muckrakers who no longer had anywhere else to go. They’d make damn sure that the media toed the line, or he’d have some of them shot to encourage the others. And he wasn’t joking either. Given enough time, he was sure that they could shut down most of the internet in Britain, but it seemed different to do without taking down what remained of the government communications network. The aliens had refused to allow them to use the alien network.

“Of course, sir,” she said. “How do you wish us to proceed?”

Alan’s temper boiled over. “I expect your fucking subordinates to do their jobs,” he snapped. “I want pictures of the dead and wounded — the younger and sexier the better. I want sob stories on who died and how much promise they had in front of them before they were assassinated by the wretched terrorists. I want total media coverage — interviews with the survivors and relatives, talking heads on how some people just cannot forget the past, and tearful interviews demanding that the legitimate government do something about them. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Catherine said. She lowered her eyes, but Alan wasn’t fooled. There was nothing submissive in her nature. “I shall see to it personally.”

“Now go do your damned job,” Alan snapped, and waited for her to leave the room. She was too smart for her own good, at least in a world he controlled — as long as he pleased the aliens, of course. Given time, he was sure that she would be the one to challenge him. The woman was just too ambitious for her own good. “Chief Constable — give me some good news, please .”

Chief Constable Gerald Rivers hadn’t been Chief Constable for very long. His predecessor and his deputy had been killed when the aliens took out Scotland Yard and Rivers’ only real qualification for the job was that he’d been the senior police officer to agree to serve the aliens and keep the peace. He was a short man, inclining towards stoutness, but there was a hard edge underneath him that Alan had no difficulty recognising. It was a shame that he genuinely believed that the only way to protect the public was to work with the aliens, rather than allowing ambition to drive him forward… Alan shrugged. One couldn’t have everything and Rivers wasn’t likely to try to unseat him.

“We did manage to repair most of the CCTV network nodes over the last few days,” Rivers said. London had had the greatest number of CCTV cameras per person in the world — until the aliens had arrived and wrecked a few hundred when they’d taken out Central London. “I’ve had crews working on the footage — we did manage to trace the van back to its base. And we got some good pictures of the bomber himself, but we think he had at least one accomplice. The explosives used in the blast were military-grade.”

Alan scowled. The Household Division had put up a vicious little fight in Central London — and the aliens had been certain that they hadn’t rounded up all of the surviving soldiers. Some of them had been killed trying to get out of London, but others had clearly stayed inside the city — and had been planning to carry on the war against the aliens. He cursed them under his breath, even as he tossed a few ideas around in his head. Perhaps there was a way to escape blame for the disaster… no, the aliens wouldn’t be interested in excuses. From what he’d heard, they were only interested in results.

“I assume the bomber blew himself to fuck,” he said, flatly. The swearword felt good on his lips, even though he had been careful not to swear in public before allying himself with the aliens. The Leathernecks, as some were calling them. “What about his accomplice?”