Working the intelligence desk in the naval yard was boring but necessary. It wasn't much different from the editors desk back at the paper. Dull, but at least he felt he was helping, in some small way. He had a rifle nearby, just in case the call came to defend the base but… the thought of going out against the foe still send chills up his spine.
A squeak caused him to raise his head and he smiled as two women entered the cramped office, one in a wheelchair. Other clerks and intelligence staff glanced up briefly, exchanging nods, before returning to work.
"George, latest dispatches. Something's happening in London. No more messages coming through,"
George placed his pen on the writing desk, then took the proffered papers from Beth. He glanced at his wife and smiled, "Thank you. That is… troubling. But there's a lot to sift through, all these anecdotal reports. I swear my brain will leak out of my ears at this rate!"
Beth nodded, then frowned, "Any word on… the North?"
George smiled sadly. They'd heard about the… excursion to the north. And their mutual friend along with it, "No news I'm afraid. But we must pray, Beth. And hope. Nathanial was lost. But David, David's a tough bugger. He'll come back."
The woman nodded, her head drooping, hair cascading to hide her face. He sighed and glanced up at Carrie who returned a sad smile, "Well, good news was that the doctors feel she may regain some function soon, there's feeling back in her legs at least."
Beth straightened, a slightly forced smile on her face, "Can't move them. But can feel them. Not sure if that's better but, God willing, it will happen. These things are sent to try us."
George managed to keep his smile on, not wishing to comment on the nature of a deity that allowed all this to happen.
Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden foghorn wail. The base's siren.
As one the people in the office scramble about, sealing papers away and rushing for the weapons propped against the wall. In the current situation it'd been deemed that it wasn't exactly wise to keep everything in the armoury.
Carrie wheeled Beth behind them and paused as George drew up short in the lobby of the Naval headquarters. The floor here was tiled, with a wide staircase up one side leading to a mezzanine. Above, a Commodore leaned over the banister, shouting orders at the scurrying troops and assorted officers. He saw George and the women and nodded, "Civilians to the shelters. Mr Wells, join your fellow auxiliaries."
"What's happening, Mr Nate?2 asked Carrie, her voice nervous.
The Commodore's smile was tight, "A minor incursion, we're sure. Walkers are probing the outer markers. But we've had a telegraphed report of some sort of aerial vehicles moving in the area. Nothing to panic about, just get yourselves safe ladies."
George turned and kissed Carrie briefly, then reached down to grasp Beth's hand, "Get to the shelters, find a weapon if you can. Carrie, still got that pistol?"
"Of course, not taking any more silly chances, darling."
"Good. Now, don't dilly dally. I'll see you soon. I'm sure it's nothing."
He watched the girls go, heading off towards the back of the lobby, to the rear of the building, where the shelters were. It was a token gesture, he knew. If whatever those things were got past the troops, the navy… well, a steel door and a few pistols wouldn't stop them.
He steeled himself, pushing the fear away. He felt his hands tremble as he gripped the heavy wooden stock of the rifle, aware of the polished grain beneath his fingers. Taking a breath, he stepped out of the double doors onto the open parade square. One way led to the docks and sheds, the other to the main gate. Other soldiers and auxiliaries were heading to the entrance. He jogged to join them, noting a mix of men in uniform and others attired in civilian clothing. All wore satchels and belts stashed with more ammunition, much like the one he had. Personal security was a watchword in the base.
The siren was wailing but he could hear explosions and screams, coming from the town. A sergeant bellowed a command and the jogging troops formed up. A grizzled man, a Royal Marine by the cut of his uniform, strode in front of the ragged ranks, "Alright, you 'orrible shower! Normal I'd have a proper Platoon of Royals for this, but instead I gots you lot. So, don't let me down. We've been over the drills and this is serious. We got bloody walkers coming in, but those aren't our problem. Our problem is them wankers in the city. We gots rioting and fighting. Our job is to quell that. So, no shooting the lilly livered bloody civvies - because you ain't civvies any more, is you?!"
"No sergeant," chorused the men in practiced monotone.
"Lovely jubbly. My lovely lads, we're going to have a ball. Find them buggers out there, who is making a menace for our people. And we give them a harsh bloody kicking, you understand."
"YES! Sergeant."
"Right, that's more like it. BY THE LEFT, Reee AIGHT TER AN!"
The Auxilliares turned as one, their feet stamping not quite in time.
"By the ley-eft. Keee- WIK. Mar… chA!"
They tromped out of the camp heading towards the city. George noted a few other platoons forming up in the base, setting up defenses or running supplies. Clearly his bunch were on policing detail. Which begged the question: what the devil was going on?
Carrie and Beth headed from the HQ, across a small lawn, to where the reinforced shelters were. They were actually munitions storage, or had been, before the HQ had been relocated there. As such they were densely constructed and partially underground.
The rooms were crowded, beyond the barred doors, with non combat personnel huddling and waiting. Most of the occupants were women, but there were a few men there, some wounded, some not. The latter were getting confused and slightly hostile looks from the women. Carrie sighed inwardly - she was expecting one of the matronly sorts to start handing out white feathers any moment.
A pained groan from Beth drew her attention however. The woman was hunched over in her chair, hands clutching the side of her head, "Elizabeth? Are you ok?"
"It… hurts… why does it hurt?" whimpered the woman.
"What hurts, dear?"
"I can feel it… things. Out there. There are things coming, why do I know that?"
"It's the stress, dear. Look, I'll get you some water. I know you haven't been sleeping,"
Beth looked up, eyes rimmed with red as tears trickled, "I still see him. Dragged away. And he talks. He stills talks. Why?"
Around them a few of the others were frowning. One woman leaned forward, "She not right in the head, duck?"
"She's not going to be dangerous is she?" clamoured one particularly foppish looking gentleman. Oddly, that was helpful as every woman in the room turned disgusted expressions on him.
"Oh, yeah, 'cos that's us. Hysterics at the first sign of a naked bloody ankle," sneered one of the girls, a maid. Clearly danger trumped decorum. The man glowered.
"Mind your tone, young lady. If this woman cannot control herself, difficult as I know that can be…"
"Can I slap the prat?" piped up another woman, folding her arms and glaring at the man. She was a big lady, some sort of housekeeper by her stance, and dress, probably a head of the kitchens or some such on the base.
"Do you know.."
"Yeah, some big job in the Officer's mess right? Well, billy big balls, don't rightly care. If them big sods kick the door down, don't think they'll give a rats arse about you. Now pipe down. The girl's not in a good way."
A few of the others had crowded round and were giving Beth some water. Carrie shook her head and smiled, thankfully at the matronly lady, "She lost her husband getting here. She's been doing well, but… you know. It isn't easy."
The woman's expression softened, "I know love. Our Wilf… went up to Horsell, never came back. Still don't know."
The group settled and chatted idly. Time passed, slowly, what seemed hours but could have been shorter. Outside of the conversation no sound could really be heard beyond. And then the ground rumbled. Beth blinked and hissed.
"They're here."
It wasn't exactly as expected. The riots were around the refugee camps. Panic about the incoming aliens, that had been the assumption.
Ten foot tall clay monsters had not been on anyone's agenda.
Explosions from the centre of town, near the Cathedral indicated that the problems were a lot worse than expected. The Sergeant was co-ordinating as best he could, men diving into cover around tents across the common in front of the pier. Gunfire from the fort behind them indicated that fighting had reached the old castle as well. Gunwharf quay was likely being assaulted by something.
The question was how. George wasn't in much of a position to render assistance, but it nagged at him. The aliens weren't exactly subtle. Did they have that many of those unnerving snake-eyed things? And what were those clay things?
All this rattled through his head as he saw the monster swat a man away like he was a toy. The auxiliary tumbled back awkwardly, slamming through a tent, before coming to a sudden, permanent rest. George growled and popped up from his cover behind a stack of barrels, firing at the things centre of mass. He pulled the lever under the rifle, ejecting the heavy shell, then fumbled another into the breach. It locked in and he fired again.
The creature staggered as multiple shots slugged into it. With a warbling groan it sagged, then toppled over. One down, twelve more to go. Or more.
The platoon was fighting on multiple fronts. They'd been marching through the camp, pushing refugees aside, redirecting them to secured portions, hearing them cry out about monsters, when the first of the clay things had appeared - a man melting like wax inside a tent, before he burst forth and charged right over a fleeing woman, crushing her into the soil.
Now, they were fighting and moving, fighting and moving. Part of the camp was on fire and smoke choked the late afternoon air.
Overhead, something hummed past, ridiculously fast. Around them, the tents flapped and loose papers, rags and dust swirled.
"What the 'ell?" bellowed the sergeant. Through the smoke, George spotted a large disc floating above the fort. Then a stream of green bolts blasted down, shredding the ancient edifice. Ammunition magazines exploded and the whole structure blossomed into a column of flame.
"FUCK!" George wasn't sure who shouted it, but he felt the sentiment as he watched the distant conflagration. The strange craft, spun then zoomed across the town, randomly firing down, blasting people and buildings with superheated plasma. The auxiliaries watched as the ship drifted, almost leisurely over the town, firing down. It was far away, a good thousand yards, but still visible. Sometimes it just seemed to dash across the space, moving a great distance in mere seconds.
The Sergeant roused them, "Quit lollygagging boys! Can't deal with it by admiring the bastard. Stand to, let's clear this lot, see what we can do."
Distant blasts indicated the navy were firing, most of the vessels out at sea taking aim at pre-set firing points. Likely as not the Walkers would at least be delayed. Perhaps that was why the ship was here? To distract the navy? Well it wasn't exactly doing a great job.
As if in answer, a second disc appear, descending from on high like an aberrant angel. It floated above the town, its size belying its grace - a good fifty feet wide at least.
Then it shot out to sea, bearing down on a distant frigate. George couldn't see much over the mass of tents, but through gaps that allowed them a view of the ocean he saw the military vessel suddenly turn as it was battered by green light.
"They're trying to destroy the navy?" muttered George.
"Wells! Move your arse. Unless you plan on swimming out there, let the wet-backs sort their own problems. Here and now, lad."
Captain Pickett stood on the bridge of the Enterprise, a relatively ageing Ironclad. It wasn't quite an ironclad, more a jury rigged upgrade of a tall-ship, with steam-powered direct engine and a smoke stack that stuck up between the for and mid mast.. The cannon turrets were an upgrade, from 1868, to four 16 calibre 7 inch guns. Graded for armour, they'd proven effective against the enemy fighting machines.
Pickett was fond of the old girl; she'd been due for sale to some foreign navy as she was well past her prime. But the reality of their current situation meant that any able vessel was being kept in service. So far the southern coast was the safest area of England and a few vessels had plied further north, keeping the enemy from venturing too far from Britain's area of advantage - the sea.
"Captain, we're receiving a dispatch," that was the communications officer. Pickett turned and nodded.
"Go ahead,"
"Portsmouth is under attack, incoming fighting machines. Reports of… aircraft?"
Pickett adjusted his jacket and frowned, "Thank you Nathan. Helm, ahead full, adjust course bearing 325, Portsmouth. Signal Repulse and Lord Warden to adjust heading to match and follow on."
The vessel shifted, engine powering it through the waves. In its wake, two more ironclads, part of the patrol, matched and set.
In the distance, Pickett could see smoke on the horizon and he silently urged the vessel to go faster. He heard his XO enter the bridge and nodded to the man.
"Commander, we have a situation."
The man was tall, bearded and always seemed to have an arched eyebrow ready. This time he was serious, brow set in a frown, "An attack Captain?"
"Portsmouth. Apparently they have their flying machines."
"Plan sir?"
Pickett leaned his head back and clenched his teeth, "Every been on a pheasant shoot, Commander?"
"Can't say I've had the pleasure, Captain."
"Of course not. Too much in the Dartmouth training classes these days. I do need to get you more acquainted with the decorum expected of officers, rather than your usual haunts."
"I dare say that a pleasurable evening with the available and eligible ladies of Dartmouth is hardly a poor use of my time."
Pickett quirked a faint smile, "Hardly. Well, Commander, how do you knock a bird down?"
The Commander frowned, "I don't follow sir."
"You don't aim to hit, you aim at the area you want to hit…." The Captain mused, then turned as the navigation officer spoke up.
"Heading adjusted captain, we're five minutes out."
"Thank you, Mr Westly. Commander, let's head to the observation tower, see if we can't appraise things."
The tower was a raised platform above the bridge, affording a superior vantage point. The Captain peered through binoculars and frowned.
"Looks to be two craft. The fleet is pinned in the Solent, too close to effectively engage."
"I see sir, note it's using their inability to rotate turrets and find firing solutions. Damn, it's fast."
"I can count five ships aflame, two ironclads clearly in need of repair as well. It's ripping them apart," Pickett couldn't help but feel shocked and a little awed. The pair turned away and descended, a thoughtful look on the captains face.
"Commander, I want the batteries to cut fuses on the shells, set to… three seconds. Pass the message to Repulse and Lord Warden, Mr Nathan. They are to commence firing on our mark. Angle forward battery up forty degrees and increase as we approach Pass it along! Helm, ahead full."
The Commander nodded and pulled a speaking tube from the wall to communicate with the battery, whilst Mr Westley adjusted the wheel and speed lever. A bell rang and the ship lurched as it increased speed and Mr Nathan tapped out a message on the
"Batteries set, Captain."
Pickett watched through the forward window, frowning as the jinking, twitching vessel came into view.
"Mr Nathan, transmit I want a converged spread across a thirty degree arc to the front of our advance."
"Message relayed sir. Awaiting your mark."
The Captain waited, the burning ships and flitting silver craft, hovering impossibly ahead of them. It didn't appear to have seen them, too focused on sowing confusion amidst the Solent fleet. He tilted his chin and set his jaw.
"Engage."
There were more than just clay monsters. There were humans fighting. Or what seemed to be humans.
Soldiers with blue shield emblems stitched to crude uniforms, accompanied by men in brown coats and welding goggles. They fought alongside those strange, besuited creatures. It seemed the tall-men were officers of sorts, directing these raiders to sow chaos.
His platoon had advanced from the common into a cobbled housing area, where the enemy were setting fire to buildings and targeting civilians. Corpses littered the street and his platoon had been trying to uproot an entrenched group of the enemy, the remnant of their initial force. Seven hostile creatures, holed up in what had probably been a family home. The thought made George's blood boil
"Right, you three, head round the side, cut 'em off. Can't leave this lot behind us if we're pulling back to the base. You four, firing line. George, take the rest, advance, flush them bastards out."
The group broke cover from behind the edge of a whitewashed home, the expanse of the common behind them, the narrow cobbled street ahead. Immediately, their fire support opened up, shattering windows and keeping the enemy pinned. He heard more gunshots from the rear as their flanking group pinned the buggers in.
Trembling,he and his fellows fumbled bayonets into place. He felt sick in his stomach, a roiling mess coupling with the rage. He was a journalist, a man of letters. He'd wanted to avoid war, expose the truths of mans folly, make changes with a stroke of a pen and changing the minds of his fellow man.
But these were not men; they were monsters. No truth could shift their conviction, no appeal to rationality, reason or decorum.
With a bellow, his group rounded the front of the squat cottage. A man booted the door in and staggered back, chest spurting with blood as yellow and green bolts stitched him. Another man pulled him back, futile as that was, whiles the rest fired blindly in through windows and the door. Too-human cries and shrieks came from within, and the firestorm wavered.
That gave them their opening. Inside they charge and the firefight became a melee. A goggled face loomed in front of him, but fell away as an auxiliary clubbed it aside with his rifle but. A red-haired man was fumbling with something attached to a crude bandoleer. He went down with a high pitched shriek as a bayonet sank into his gut. Another man felll face caved in by a point blank shot from a rifle. Another goggled mask, partly shattered to reveal an unnaturally large eye, fell away, streaming yellowed blood.
And then the sinuous form of a tall man was in front of George, the things jaw unhinged too far, its baleful eyes focused on him. It wielded something that looked like a syringe crossed with a knife and it lunged forwards.
He moved with instinct born of self preservation and ducked the thrust, pushing the butt of his rifle forwards. He heard a crack as it hit the creature's knee. The thing stumbled but stayed upright. Its movement was restricted but it didn't look like its kneecap had shattered.
It came forward again, stabbing low. George pushed the rifle down, knocking the blow, then he pushed forwards staggering the creature into a wall. It scrabbled, trying to bring its blade up, when suddenly it wailed. A man had stepped up next to George and plunged his rifle forward, sinking the bayonet into the monsters gut. There was a loud boom and George staggered backwards, white powder smoke clouding his vision. The creature slide down the wall, leaving a green smear against it, along with cracked plaster where the discharged round had torn through and into the wall.
George nodded at his companion and surveyed the scene, then staggered for the door, "All clear Sergeant!"
"Men coming out, hold fire! Reform lads, we've got to get back, reinforce the barracks."
The troop moved off, collecting the enemy weapons and trudging as fast as they could back home, muttering to each other about humans fighting them.
Above, one of the alien craft did another pass, heading out to see. They watched as it bore down on a hapless ironclad. So far, none of the naval vessels had done anything. They'd seen some try to get distance to bring weapons to bear, but the two aircraft harried them, forcing them to remain near the coast. Clearly trying to keep them occupied for the walkers… if they arrived. So far, nothing.
Suddenly the air around the craft was filled with explosion of black. Was it the dreaded black smoke? Was the craft deploying it?
The platoon stopped and stared. No, those were shells. Airbursting around the craft. It jinked, trying to clear itself, but the sky was suddenly full of explosions, unpredictable and mixed.
Something flashed and the disc listed to one side, descending in a lazy spiral. The second craft zoomed overhead, heading for the new interlopers, but found itself suddenly engulfed in similar straights. With one ship down, the rest of the fleet had been able to draw down on it over the city.
Above them, a shell exploded and George saw the shrapnel tear rip something off of the craft. Far over the sea, the first ship had smashed into the water. A pair of naval boats were powering forwards, to sink it or seize it, George wasn't sure.
The ship above them was wobbling, spinning. It wasn't crashing, but seemed to be trying to land. George noted its direction.
"It's headed for the base!"
As one, the platoon began to run.
Another crash shook the room, sending dust flying and people sprawling. The fop was whimpering, muttering something about "They're right on top of us!"
Carrie picked herself up off the floor and saw that Beth's chair had toppled over. The woman was sprawled nearby, clutching her head.
"Beth! Are you ok!" around them , women were crying or cursing, moving to help each other. Some had weapons, the wounded men hoisting rifles and levelling them at the door.
So when the ceiling exploded inward, it caught everyone by surprise. Brick dust rained down and rubble sent people cowering. Soldiers swarmed in, wearing brown coats and yelling in some strange language. Carrie scrambled back, fumbling for the pistol on her belt. A soldier turned his face towards her and she got a glimpse of eyes that were too large on a human face. Other soldiers were coming in, these ones more human looking. Herding people trying to grab the women.
Hostages?
The alien soldier saw her weapon and raised its rifle.
"Get away from her!"
The voice was Beth's. But it had a strange reverb to it. Like it was both spoken and felt. Purple light washed over the room and the soldier slammed away, blood exploding from him like he'd been pierced by a bolt.
Everyone froze. The aliens looking around in confusion, their human allies just frozen in shock. And then one of the wounded managed to get his act together and fired. The effect was immediate - an alien went down with a "Balat!" Another few gunshots felled more of the enemy.
The aliens tried to bring guns to bear, but seemed confused, panicky. The women charged with a roar, leaping from all around the room where they'd scattered. There was the clang of metal on meat as they brought whatever bits of masonry and abandoned pots they could lay their hands on in this disused shed.
It was fast, the tables having turned in an instant. Carrie looked around, dumbstruck, at the dead or concussed enemy. A few of the human foes were now pinned to the floor, their own weapons pushed hard against their temples by some very angry scullery maids.
With a start, she turned to check on Beth.
And stopped.
The woman wasn't on the floor.
She was… floating? Her toes trailed on the floor and her eyes glowed purple. She smiled, almost drunkenly, at Carrie.
"His gift. He wasn't supposed to. They hurt him. But I think I know. Some of it. His last gift. It may be part of their plan. All is in flux."
"...Beth. What… is…?" Carrie was dumbstruck. The supposedly injured woman nodded and gestured up.
"The work isn't done. George will need help. There are more, in the ship," the woman descended, the purple glow fading slightly. She wobbled on her legs a little, but stayed standing, "I can feel them, Carrie. There's minds there, strong minds. And strong forms. I can help."
Carrie only took a second before she straightened and nodded, then looked at the door. The creatures hadn't come through that way - too obvious. Hence the roof.
"Can we go out that way?"
Beth glanced at the door and smiled, "We can now. They won't see us."
Carrie nodded uncertainly and strode to the door. The foppish mess manager looked at them both, "You can't! They'll shoot you… and then they'll find us."
Beth looked at him and frowned, "They know we're here. Fear doesn't suit you. You can be brave…. Tell him, and maybe it will help."
The man blanched and Carrie looked between the two, confused. Beth turned away and unbolted the door, pushing it open.
Outside was a dust filled maelstrom. Part of the HQs roof was missing and, nearby, the cause was apparent. A disc like ship sat nearby, where the laws met the edge of the parade square at the corner of the HQ. The ship had come down hard at a steep angle, taking the roof and some of the wall with it.
A group of beings stood next to it - two of the tall men horrors, three mutons and a gaggle of six of the grey horror. Beth seemed to snarl when she saw them. Carrie was about to speak when Beth cocked her head and murmured something that Carrie only just caught.
"They're not devils… they're martians. One and the same, really."
The air thickened above the aliens. And suddenly a swirling mass of purple engulfed them. The creatures all cried out in shock as something swirled and tore at them. The six little grey things scattered, but only two escaped the maelstrom. One vanished around the edge of the building, the other headed straight for Carrie. She didn't hesitate. The pistol was in her hand and she cracked off two shots. The thing slumped and skidded to a halt at her feet.
Behind her she heard movement and turned to see a group emerging from the shattered shelter complex. The wounded soldiers, led by a few of the women from inside. They were carrying the alien weapons. Carrie looked them up and down.
"Are you confident in your ability to handle those?"
One girl grinned, "My dad was a poacher. Learned how a shotgun worked… can't be much different."
Carrie smirked, then nodded, "Let us get to it. Beth?"
Ahead of them, the strange maelstrom had subsided. The tall men were down, save one, who seemed to be near mortally wounded. The mutons were dazed but upright. Beth stared at one and it jerked, then turned to its companion and smashed its rifle over the other mutons head. The creatures bellowed and grappled.
The third turned their way, clearly sensing a greater danger. This one was different. It was red. Its fists encased in large gauntlets studded with blades. It beat its chest, bellowed, and charged.
Carrie stepped to the side and shouted, "Aim! Fire!"
The women weren't stupid. Scared, but not stupid. They went down on one knee and sighted. The fire was irregular, ill disciplined. But it staggered the beast, a good third of the shots from the purloined alien weapons hitting their mark. The thing stumbled, confused, trying to pick a target.
One of the mutons disengaged from the grapple and grabbed up a discard plasma rifle. It turned and fired, hot plasma splashing against the back of the beserker. The red beast howled and spun, charging back towards its comrades. Which meant the next burst of rounds sliced into its back. It howled again and turn, this time receiving th shots to its chest, neck and head. It stumbled, wavered, then collapsed.
The two remaining mutons were still fighting, until one grabbed the other in a chokehold and twist its opponents head, hard. It turned towards their motley group and took a step. Then it shuddered as a salvo of bullets hit. Hard. The thing toppled to one side as a platoon of soldiers jogged around the corner, rifles ready.
"Carrie!"
She smiled wanly as her husband moved over, dropping his rifle. His hands went up her arms as he looked her over, "Better late than never, dear," she admonished, gently. Then she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him.
George looked shocked, as a few of the lads behind him wolf whistled, "Um, well…"
"We're fine darling. Better than."
George seemed to just noticed Beth and he did a double take. In the distance came the sound of heavy guns - the naval ships opening up on something - likely the walkers. If they were still coming - it seemed unlikely now, now the fleet wasn't going to be distracted.
"Beth are you.. Ok?"
The woman turned to George and smiled, "I'm fine George. I think… I think I'm where I need to be."
And with that, she fainted.