Their Darkest Hour

Chapter Twenty-Two

North England

United Kingdom, Day 25

“We can’t go on like this!”

Gabriel couldn’t face the television set. For the last four days, the BBC had been broadcasting images from the riot in London — and its bloody end. Alien tanks firing directly into the crowd, alien soldiers crushing human skulls under their armoured feet, hundreds of orange-suited prisoners clearing away the bodies and piling them into trucks, the bodies being dumped into massive pits outside the city… the images were firmly burned into his mind. Nothing in Britain’s history, at least that he could recall, matched the sheer horror the aliens had unleashed. God alone knew how many humans had been killed in the riot. The BBC claimed that no aliens had been killed, or even injured.

The news had shocked the country. From what few reports Gabriel believed from the BBC, there had been other riots in Newcastle, Glasgow, Edinburgh and Birmingham. The aliens, however, had managed to cow most of the rioters; their soldiers had quelled the other riots by their mere presence. Most of the insurgency had slipped back to IEDs and attacks on collaborators and alien patrols, although much of it seemed to be random violence. It helped that almost all human communities had a common enemy in the Leathernecks. Violent groups that ran the political spectrum from neo-Nazis to Islamic fundamentalists and ecological pressure groups were actually working together to bleed the aliens.

But the country was bleeding too. The BBC was heavily censored these days, controlled by the collaborator government, but enough was leaking through to worry Gabriel. People were starving, families had been shattered… each disaster might have been tiny, on a planetary scale, but they added up to untold misery. Britain wasn’t supposed to be like that, he told himself, even during the Blitz they’d been spared the suffering inflicted on continental Europe by the Nazis. Britons saw disasters on television and donated money to help the dispossessed. They didn’t suffer disasters themselves. He’d once read a book where an extinct volcano in Edinburgh had come back to life, forcing British emergency services to cope with the disaster. They hadn’t done a very good job.

He sat back in his chair, trying to think. How could they convince the aliens to leave? But the aliens only seemed to respect force — and the entire human race hadn’t been able to convince them to back off. Barely a month ago, the United States had been so far ahead of the rest of the world that it could do almost anything it liked. It was now invaded and occupied, the massive aircraft carriers that had given the Royal Navy fits of envy sunk by rocks dropped from orbit. Russia and China had been crushed, the Chinese suffering the effects of their own nuclear weapons as well as alien KEW strikes. And Europe…

The latest reports, such as they were, suggested that Europe was suffering from famine. France and Germany, the two powerhouses of the European Union, had been crippled, the continent-wide distribution network for food breaking down under the pressure of the alien offensive. Eastern Europe had attracted less attention from the aliens, with the result that millions of refugees were thronging through the countryside, desperately seeking a safety that no longer existed. The war in Bosnia had restarted, with a dozen different groups trying to exterminate their enemies before the aliens decided to intervene. But why would the aliens bother to intervene? Their human enemies were killing themselves off nicely.

And all he could do was sit and watch as his country was taken apart. He stared around the library, at the old books lovingly collected by the library’s owner, and cursed himself for his weakness. His position as Prime Minister was meaningless in all, but name. Even if he were to issue orders, it was uncertain how many people would even hear them, let alone obey. The resistance seemed to be held together very loosely, if at all. He’d been assured that it was the only way to prevent the aliens from uncovering them all if they captured men from one particular cell, but it still felt flimsy to him. How long would it be before the resistance became nothing more than bandits?

A month. That was all it had been — and it felt as if he had been cooped up in his gilded cage forever. He thought, briefly, about the soldiers on the outside, providing security for his august person… did they feel resentment or relief that they were out of the fight? And how long would they stay out of the fight? The collaborators had offered a hefty reward for anyone who brought them Gabriel’s head, preferably not attached to his body. He wasn’t blind to the advantages the aliens would gain from having the legitimate Prime Minister as a collaborator, although he suspected that they wouldn’t find him as useful as they would have expected. The slaughter in London would have destroyed whatever legitimacy the collaborator government had once enjoyed.

But what could they do? The aliens held control over the high orbitals — if worst came to worst, they could pull out of London — or any other city — and drop rocks on it from orbit. He thrilled to the stories of ambushes and IEDs planted in positions where the aliens would run over them, but they could never force the aliens to retreat and abandon Earth. And what would happen if the aliens decided to simply exterminate the human race altogether?

Alone in the library, Gabriel continued to worry. He wanted to do something, to take a stand, but what could he do? His only contribution to the resistance was a second video, one condemning the aliens for the slaughter in London and calling on all loyal British citizens to join the fight. And how many of them would hear him and die because they’d listened to a Prime Minister skulking in a hole?

But what else could he do?

“There’s a great deal about this we don’t understand,” Linux said. Brigadier Gavin Lightbridge-Stewart — who was, as far as he knew, the senior surviving British military officer — nodded. Computers might have been extremely useful, but he didn’t pretend to understand what went on inside them. “But the alien computer network is actually surprisingly primitive.”

Gavin gave him what he hoped was an encouraging look. Linux — and his friends — hadn’t joined the army in the traditional manner, let alone worked their way through the Combat Infantryman’s Course at Catterick. They’d been computer hackers who’d gotten their kicks by breaking into secure databases, at least until they’d been caught and offered a blunt choice between working for the government or spending a number of years in jail. They did have some sense of social responsibility, yet they had no sense at all of military etiquette. It was sometimes refreshing to chat to them, but not now. The entire country was under enemy occupation.

“It seemed so odd that we were convinced they were screwing with our minds,” Linux continued, cheerfully. “They can travel faster-than-light, their starships are several kilometres long and they clearly have at least some form of antigravity system — their shuttles couldn’t fly without something along those lines. And yet they are oddly primitive in some areas. Their precision weapons aren’t very precise and their computer networks are surprisingly crude.”

Gavin nodded, although he had his own theories about alien precision weapons. From what they could see, the aliens seemed less inclined to worry about accidentally hitting their own troopers as well as enemy positions — and they showed a frightening lack of concern for civilian casualties. If they hadn’t had the political impetus to design smarter and smarter weapons, maybe they simply hadn’t bothered. Besides, the aliens didn’t seem to bother with inventing justifications for their invasion of Earth. They’d come, they’d seen — and they’d invaded.

“They do have wireless networks comparable to our own, but their security technology is several generations behind ours,” Linux continued. Two SAS men had slipped close to a major alien base to establish a passive listening post linked directly to the resistance’s computer geek headquarters. They’d been monitoring alien traffic ever since. “One thing we can confirm is that the aliens are definitely top-down commanders. Orders flow down from the starships or the command base in London and the poor grunts on the ground do as they’re told.”

He grinned. “It took a week to find a way to slip into their networks, but we’re finally starting to pull files out from their systems for examination elsewhere,” he added. “We stumbled across another puzzle almost at once. Our translation software isn’t very good, but theirs seems to be better than ours — even though their computers are less capable. But it isn’t as good as it could be.”

Gavin frowned, considering the puzzle. The aliens hadn’t done much with the civilian population, but one thing they had done was take over a number of computer-related colleges and research labs. If the alien computers were primitive, maybe they were intent on absorbing human technology into their own society. But why were they primitive in the first place? Gavin could accept that they wouldn’t be so concerned with producing precision weapons, yet why didn’t they have superior computers? They certainly should have possessed computers equal to mankind’s best designs.

“One of the programs we pulled out and studied was definitely designed for English,” Linux informed him. “The others, however, aren’t for any recognisable language. You’d think they could speak French or Russian or Chinese, but they don’t seem to have programs for those translations. I assume that they might not bother to outfit a force landing in Britain with such systems, yet it’s an odd oversight…”

“Very odd,” Gavin agreed. It struck him a moment later. “There are other aliens out there!”

“So it would seem,” Linux said. “At least six, unless the translation programs are for other Leatherneck languages. We have different languages on Earth — why shouldn’t they have something comparable on their worlds. Unfortunately, we were unable to locate any files on the other alien races. But we’re still looking. I’m afraid they didn’t bother to design any search engines for their computer networks.”

“Or maybe you haven’t found those yet,” Gavin said. “Tell me something. Can you alter their files? Twist the data they’re gathering on our people? Slip records into the registries…?”

“I don’t think so,” Linux admitted. “I told you the system was crude — well, it’s very crudeness provides some protection from people like me. We can read the files — hell, we’ve managed to download terabytes of data we can study without having to remain linked to their network — but altering them would certainly be noticed. Their core memory systems are ROM — ah, Read Only Memory. We can’t change them without physical access to the system.”

“Which we’re not likely to get,” Gavin agreed. He patted the young man on the back. “Good work.”

“The intelligence staff are working their way through the dump,” Linux added. “They’re finding it slow going — if there is a listing or filing system, it isn’t one that we recognise. It used to be possible to lose files inside computer networks unless one happened to know its precise location. I have a feeling that their superior officers probably have their own files concealed from everyone else. Who knows? Maybe they all gather dirt on their fellows for advancement.”

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me more about their society,” Gavin admitted. “I don’t suppose you pulled something like Wikipedia out of their database?”

“I don’t think they’d want Wikipedia if they could support it,” Linux said. “Or Google, for that matter. Or any of the other computer programs that put power in the hands of the users, rather than systems administrators and the big corporations…”

“I think they have more problems right now,” Gavin said, dryly. He had a relative who had worked for Google Ireland. The Leathernecks had largely ignored Ireland, apart from bombarding its military bases and destroying the fragile truce between Ireland’s various factions. After the remaining British soldiers had been pulled out, Ireland had degenerated into fighting between different factions, with thousands of refugees trying to make it to Britain. Perhaps the aliens would intervene if they thought there was something in Ireland worth taking. Or maybe they had too many other problems on their hands. “What can we do with the access we have? And can they block us out if they realise that we’ve hacked their systems?”

“I rather doubt they can block us unless they’re willing to cripple their networks,” Linux said. “But if they do have enemies out there, they may have security tricks we haven’t seen ourselves. Maybe their enemies have a cunning plan to hijack their wireless computer networks and render their fleets helpless. And then sexy androids will rule the galaxy.”

He saw Gavin’s face and cleared his throat. “Sorry, anyway… we may be able to piggyback on their network to send messages to our own people,” he added. “And seeing that they all radiate wireless signals, we could probably start tracking their movements. Or… we could rig up a sensor and link it to an IED. When the signals reach the right intensity, they trigger the IED and it explodes in their face. Or…”

Gavin held up a hand. “Good thinking,” he said. “Let me know if there’s anything else we can do…”

Linux hesitated. “It might be possible for us to interfere with the network,” he said. “We might be capable of taking it down completely for short periods of time, cutting their small detachments off from higher authority. The result would be absolute chaos… but they’d know what we’d done. God alone knows how they’d react.”

“I see,” Gavin said. “I’ll have to give that some thought.”

He scowled. After the slaughter in London, they needed to find a way to hit back at the aliens, one that would convince them that slaughtering humans would draw a massive response. But how could they do that without revealing what few aces they had in their hand? And what if the aliens decided to destroy the entire human race in response?

“Panda Cola,” the logistics officer said. He tossed a can at Chris, who caught it neatly and scowled down at the label. “All kept nice and cool for our gallant fighting men.”

“Piss off,” Chris said. Panda Cola was included in the British Army’s Horror Bags — the packed lunches that were served to soldiers on duty. It was generally believed that it was produced by forcing a Panda to drink ordinary Coke, then bottling their urine and passing the cans to soldiers, who would then have to drink the foul liquid. Chris had heard during his training that the Ministry of Defence allocated 47p to procuring each can of Panda Cola, which raised the question of precisely what happened to the remaining 42p. “You’d think we could get better rations now we’re living off the land.”

He scowled around the resistance base. Calling it a base was really too much; they’d built shelters under the trees, trenches just in case the aliens stumbled over their position and a latrine some distance from the sleeping rolls. Some units, he’d heard, were living in civilian homes, but the aliens were getting better at running random patrols through seemingly-deserted hamlets. The base was safer, apart from the possibility of poisoning themselves by drinking army-issue Coke. He opened the can, braced himself and took a swallow. It tasted just as bad as he remembered.

“At least we’re eating rabbits,” one of the other soldiers pointed out. It was true; hunting skills they’d been taught were actually coming in handy. The woodland was full of small animals and vegetation that could be eaten, although they were being very careful with the mushrooms. If one of the soldiers managed to poison themselves, they wouldn’t be able to get them proper treatment. “We could be eating that foul muck they served us in Edinburgh.”

“I told you that you should have taken the pizza,” his friend pointed out. Chris felt a pang for the comrades he’d lost in London. They’d all been jammed together from various units that hadn’t made it out intact, but some of them had known each other beforehand. “When has the Army ever fed us well?”

Chris snorted. The Army Chefs — the Ration Assassins — had the hardest training course in the British Army. It had to be — no one had ever actually managed to pass, or so the soldiers joked amongst themselves. Now, he almost missed them, even though fresh rabbit stew was surprisingly tasty. Despite himself, he found himself wondering how they were going to cope when winter finally came along. It would be much harder to find food then — and the aliens, the crafty buggers, were being careful about what they doled out to the civilians. It would be easy to see if certain civilians were eating more than they should.

He pushed the thought aside, remembering the horror stories that had floated up from London. They’d have to make the aliens pay for that, but how? It had to be something spectacular… absently, he remembered the interior of the alien vehicles. Humans probably couldn’t drive them without major effort. But they did have collaborators driving their vehicles…

Slowly, a plan started to come together in his mind. It would be risky as hell, but they were used to that by now. And they might just have a chance to inflict major damage on an alien base. Perhaps they could even shatter the ring of steel around London.

Absently, he reached for a notepad and started jotting down ideas. The pad would have to be destroyed, of course, but by then he should have a solid concept. They’d have to link up with other units. They couldn’t do it alone. He smiled to himself. It would be good to know that they weren’t alone.

And the aliens were in for a very unpleasant surprise.