The Yeomen of England by Christopher Nuttall

Author:Christopher Nuttall [Nuttall, Christopher]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Science Fiction
Published: 2011-04-11T23:00:00+00:00

“Do you think that it’s the time for dealing with the Darhel we have resident in London?” Sir Robert asked, breaking into his thoughts. “He is rather a…nuisance.”

“I would have thought that you would have an opinion on that,” the Prime Minister snapped. “Intelligence work is your bailiwick.”

The ground shuddered violently. “A strike on HMS Belfast, from orbit,” an aide called.

“It’s not safe here,” Sir Robert snapped. “Prime Minister, I have one opinion, and that is that you are risking yourself up here. Some Posleen are still in orbit, preparing to descend to God knows where.”

“Very well,” the Prime Minister said, and headed for the emergency shaft to the bunker. “What is your opinion?”

“Keep him for now,” Sir Robert said, falling into the Prime Minister’s stride. “We might have an opportunity to feed the bastard enough information to lure the Posleen into a serious mistake. Hammond can help us to ensure that nothing…unfortunate happens to the information.”

The Prime Minister stepped into the elevator. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “I hope that you’re right.”

Manchester, England

27th March 2007

Jacob Arnold had stopped struggling. His hands, bound behind his back and secured to his own van, prevented him from escaping. His shouts of outrage, and then insults, had been ignored; Major Hosea Agreda had other matters to worry about.

“The Posleen have blasted through the position to the south,” one of the army men said. Arnold glared at him; the Sergeant seemed to be enjoying his predicament. He had known that many army officers regarded the reporters as spies for the enemy, but how could he communicate with the Posleen? Not even the Himmit had succeeded.

“Stand by to repel attack,” Agreda ordered, calmly as always. Arnold would have admired him under other circumstances; his quick orders had prevented the force from panicking, even when three of the tanks had arrived by surprise, moving in to take up firing positions. The soldiers, for a long chilling moment, had thought that they were Posleen tanks.

The roar of the artillery, placed between buildings further up towards Manchester, grew louder as time passed, hurling shells towards the last known position of the Posleen. From the grim conversation of the soldiers, Arnold realised that the Posleen had killed the men who were supposed to be directing the artillery…and the British were firing blind.

“Don’t forget to film this, our last stand,” a soldier said, running up with a heavy machine gun. The Handling Machine, the creepy device that had been building trenches for the defenders, was trundling off into the distance, leaving the defenders to make their stand.

Cowards, Arnold thought, with all the confidence of a man who would be running for the horizon himself, if he wasn’t secured. His camera, mounted on his shoulder, continued to film, although he was no longer sure if anyone was receiving his signal. The noise of the war grew louder and louder, explosions blasted up from the distance, growing closer and closer even as he watched.

“Contact,” Agreda shouted. Arnold couldn’t see them, but the soldiers could; they took up their positions and checked their weapons.

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