Bradford stared into his pint, lost in thought. He wasn't used to the beer here; well, ale really. It was sharp, dark and bitter. And also pretty warm. Back home, his local taphouse had an ice-cellar where they kept the kegs. It was catching on quite a lot. But here, nope - room temperature and strong enough to knock you off a bar stool two pints in.

Someone had said they had it that way to hide the taste of the water and he had half a mind to believe them.

Right now he was taking some respite in a small pub next to Hays Wharf. He'd visited Shen who was engrossed in more manufacturing - leather overlay suits, some sort of ceramics as well. Plus he had a whole array of rifles that he had the various engineers remodelling - from what Bradford had seen, to be able to take magazines rather than breach loading.

Moira was far too busy going over the autopsy of their recent interrogation. He had read the transcript of the meeting but had not bother reading much on the methodology. He'd seen Moira's eyes - not the haunted look he'd expected, but thoughtful, calculating. Kind of scary, really. Shen had merely shrugged and commented that the "subject" had been fairly resilient.

However, it appeared that, after initial methods had been applied (He'd smelled an unpleasant burning, which he assumed was the after effect of some of Shen's other engineering tasks, but he'd wondered) apparently the subject had been fairly pliable. He closed his eyes and thought over the words, the information.

Infiltration specialists, they are also expert cartographers and serve as a form of junior commander and coordination specialist for early stages of the invasion. The subject commented they operate a form of… thinking-engine aboard their ships. However, the invaders have exhibited no form of naval capacity. If they have naval forces, we advise the Royal navy be put on full alert, as a seaborne invasion may be pending.

These thinking-engines are of interest, similar perhaps to the prototypes produced by Mr Babbage and the various analytical machines used in certain accounting and trading firms. Shen has requested we acquire samples or objects of this type, both terrestrial and invader for suitable comparison. Doctor Vahlen concurs and wishes to have an in depth break down of any mathematical or technological developments identified.

The brief had not gotten much in the way of disposition or deployment - it appeared these invaders operated on quite a silo'd approach, broken down into various "Areas of Operation" under the overall command of a sub-commander, who in turn reported to a regional commander. There was the hint that there were one or two of those on the planet, but the creature hadn't know or just had refused to state where.

He took another sip of beer and grimaced. The door of the pub rattled and a young soldier pushed his way in. His face was grimy with soot and sweat - probably recently returned from the West of London. He spotted Bradford and limped over.

"Sorry to bother you sir, Sergeant says to come at once."

"Oh yeah? What's up?"

"Buggers are falling back. Something spooked 'em proper like. I was just walking to the billets before I got yelled to come get you."

Bradford glanced sadly at the beer then, with a shrug, chugged it in one go. He wheezed and blinked, then stood and followed the soldier. The pair walked steadliy over Tower bridge and met the Sergeant Hackett just outside the southern gate and saluted as Bradford approached. He returned the salute, uncomfortable that he still lacked a decent uniform.

"What's going on Sergeant?"

"Strangest thing sir, tripods just up and retreated. They were pushing hard down through Ealing, trying to punch up into Shepherds Bush. We'd blown some warehouses, so they're scared of crossing buildings in case we've mined them. So they had their little arseholes scuttling about, checking for traps. Then, just as they were about to push, we saw them pull back. Outriders and Cav reported by pigeon, looks like they've given up twelve miles. Way outside our artillery, but beyond their own as well."

"A… retreat? Why?"

"Well, not sure. We've got spotty communications. Some short message about a drive against Portsmouth but haven't heard much from the navy-boys. Got a runner down to Greenwich to talk to the HQ there, see if they;ve heard anything."

"Good man. Best we try to consolidate. Anything from general Marter?"

"Last I heard he's had a few of the Regiments try to secure strategic points along their line of retreat, make sure they have a hard time getting back in."

"Is he here?"

"No sir, Horseguards, managing the rest of the wider Army."

"Anything for us?"

"Advice only, sir. Permission to speak plainly?"

"Go ahead."

"Maybe get some lads down there, do some spotting, grab whatever bits and bobs look a bit, well, foreign. Can't have too much. Plus we've had some Royal Society wallahs walking about demanding access to bits. That Doctor Vahlen was beating them off with a stick. But…"

"Go on, Sergeant, I said you can."

Hackett shifted, "Maybe I may have contacts in the less salubrious segments of this fair city."

Bradford gave him a deadpan stare, "You're a Sergeant. I was expecting you to be running most of the criminal elements near your barracks."

"I'm wounded sir," grinned Hackett, "But I have… family connections. Bit of Irish, bit of other. You know how it is. Anyway, they have some… extra contraband that maybe the wider Army won't be sparing us, due to our rather odd political status, know what I mean?"

"Which'd cost us money which we…" Bradford trailed off and blinked, "You want us to sell the surplus bodies?! And metal?"

"Well, we can, short term. Can't do much else with it, except burn it, store it. And storing bodies for what? By the sounds of it, there's a ready supply. And better we're supplying it and getting some ability to, maybe, self fund."

"You're part of the British Army man!"

The Sergeant sighed, "Yeah, the same Army that makes Ruperts buy their own uniforms; the same Army that makes sure certain types can't get into certain regiments 'cos of uniform costs. And makes us lot pay for worn boots and our own kit repair. So, 'scuse me for finding an alternative."

Bradford rubbed the bridge of his nose, "And these.. Society fellahs? They'd pay?"

"Half are gentlemen with too much money and a hobby; the rest are rich from their royalties. And they're the ones interested. Worth a shout, surely?"

It was true - their own detachment was meagre and mostly conscripted men, the odd volunteer refugee and Shen's crew. The Army had given him a garrison but most of that was tied up running the HQ. He hadn't got much in the way of a mobile force. And their armoury was pretty basic - the standard rifles, a pair of Maxim guns and maybe a canon or two. He sighed.

"Go on. Set it up. I'll let Vahlen and Shen know. And I need to find Marter. Let me know if you hear what happened in Portsmouth. And whether that's what spooked the bastards."

He strode into the fort pondering this sudden shift in fortune and necessity. Was this breathing space? A move towards victory? Or just the waves retreating ready to crash anew on their broken beach?

They'd not been captive long,but a fair bit had happened. Shortly after being thrown into the stockade, they'd heard the "thump thump thump" of a war-machine. From their prison the little gathering of humans had watched the trees sway and caught a glimpse of one advancing south. Through the trees other shapes had scampered and run forth, a veritable army of grey and tall-men. But there had been other, stranger shapes. Hulking shadows shouldering through the brush. The sound of the flying horrors. And some other, skittering shapes, too fast to catch glimpses of through their strange prison of light.

The little group had formed a huddled ring around the artilleryman who had dug a small shell-scrap with his hands. He was now sat back, panting, sweat beading on his fore-head. The march of the monsters had passed hours ago and the afternoon sun was waning into evening. In the distance came the sound of thunder, though clouds did not darken the sky.

George was sat near the entrance and was watching the few beasts that had remained in camp. Clearly the invaders had a low opinion of them - a single tall-man and three of the grey-monkeys. One of the greys was going through a crate that had a stack of clothes within. It was sifting and checking, as if fascinated. It reminded George of the Chimpanzee at London Zoo when given a strange object.

The creature gurgled and chittered as it analysed a dress, then a shirt. Then it hefted the Artilleryman's rifle, carried here for some reason by one of the tall-men. Goerge noticed the creature was swaying and he saw it also seemed to have blotches across its normally-uniformly grey skin. Something to note perhaps.

The thin creature that seemed to be in charge, the tall man, approached and snatched the rifle away. It inspected it, turning the weapon over it its thin fingers, eyes roving across the surface.

The ground rumbled again and the humans tensed. A machine entered the clearing from the North, unlike any they'd yet seen - it looked like one of the fighting machines, but squat, with four legs rather than three. George was reminded of a beetle by its shape. Ot sported a set of flexible looking manipulators to the front and atop the vehicle was a vast metal cage. He gasped as he realised that, inside, were people. They were crammed in, lying atop one another. Some were clearly dead, their stillness the unnatural framing of death.

A few groaned and whimpered, which turned to sobs as the cage rose on hydraulics. A pair of hatches opened on the sides of the machine and, from either side, emerged a strange, squid-like… thing… of metal. They defied the natural order as they floated up and lifted the cage, which seemed to float on a glowing ring set into its base. The squid-things guided it away from the beetle-machine, then set it down on a patch of open grass.

A sound cut across the forest, a distant wail: UULLAALAA

The effect was electric - the aliens were suddenly attentive, looking around wildly.

"The voice of the devil is heard in our land!" A figure was clambering up the side of the cage, "Hear them draw near, in their search for the sinners! DEMONS! DEMONS!"

A figure in a pastors vestments stood atop the cage, waving the crucifix hung around his neck.

"No, Nathaniel, NO!" a woman tugged at his leg. One of the squids surged upwards and gave a lazy flick of a tendril, which sent the pastor sprawling down, back into the cage, eliciting shouts and groans of pain.

"What's up?" the Artilleryman, who George had finally found out was called David, had sidled up.

"More prisoners. But something's going on. New machine as well."

The soldier peered at it and hummed to himself. They watched as the forward hatch opened and a grey creature clambered out, "Maybe we can steal it."

George sighed through clenched teeth, "Well, when you've finally excavated that bunker and can find a way to get past them, that could be a viable option. Know how to drive it, do you?"

David frowned and nudged his shoulder, "Quite the grump without your missus, aren't you."

George sagged, "I fear we are to die here."

"Bugger that. No, mate, digging is a mugs game, with this soil. And no shovel."

"Then why the devil…"

"We just have to make 'em think we're digging…. And then trap 'em."

"I don't follow."

"You will, just keep a weather eye out, see what they do and shout if they wander hereabouts."

The man went back to his scraping and George watched as the aliens began to pull people from the cage. The squids dipped in through the top and pulled people free. George hissed a warning as several were unceremoniously dumped on the ground. One of the squids hefted a pair and floated over to the stockade, dropping them within.

Slowly, the aliens worked through their meagre captives. The dazed parson and the woman with him were pushed towards the stockade, along with another three. Four corpses were stacked like kindling near a set of the strange coffins and the last three people were left, huddled near the cage.

And then, for the first time, the humans saw the aliens feed.

The Thin-man approached a coffin set apart from the others. He tapped a few symbols on the side and the thing rose partially upright and hissed rose out and the canopy slid aside. Abruptly, a squid gripped one of the three, a woman dressed in a torn dress and her hair matted. It dragged her across the turf to the coffin.

She screamed and hollered; her companions pushed forward to try to save her, but the second squid simply wrapped itself around one of them who began to gasp for air. A pair of grey-monkeys tackled the other man and held him down. One of the monsters yanked the mans hair.

It was making him watch.

The woman fought, but the metal squid pushed her into the was the sound of clamps clicking into place and the canopy slid shut. Even closed they could hear the muffled noises of whining machinery, high-pitched like a mosquito. There was the faint crunch of cartilage and a damped shrieking, undulating with pain, which suddenly cut out with a gurgle. The coffin churned for a moment, bubbling and making horrific sucking noises. From the side, an unseen aperture opened and a canister emerged. Within was a dark red fluid. George felt his gorge tighten and bile rose in his throat. Behind him men whimpered and someone vomited. The smell of urine filled the cramped stockade.

The Tall-man inserted the canister into a silvery apparatus that he detached from the side of the coffin and then held it to his neck. It made a hiss and the fluid drained. It seemed to shudder, then relax, then it placed the canister back into the aperture. It slid back inside, then re-emerged, full again. The creature reaffixed it to the syringer-gun and administered a delivery to closest grey-monkey. It did it three more times for the others present, then replaced the equipment. It then nodded and approached another set of coffins nearby. These were different, more silvery in colour. With a wave, the two men were hauled to them. Both hissed open and the men were forced inside, yelling and gasping. Then, with a his and click, the coffins closed over them and the sound vanished. There was no sound of butchery, just silence and a faint, hissing gurgle.

The Tall-man approached the stockade and smiled, "Behave. Or else. Yes."

Then, with slightly bow, it marched back over to their salvaged equipment and began to sort through. The grey-monkeys returned to their maintenance of the new-machine and the squids reattached the cage, before settling back into their holding-pods.

David wheezed a sigh then looked at George, then at their wounded constable friend, "Right, that's it. We're getting the hell out of here."

"How can we escape? Our sin is too strong. They feed on the power of our fear and the evil within us," the Parson staggered forwards and pointed at the Tall-man, who ignored them, "They walk among us. Demons! Just waiting for a sign from him."

The woman gripped his arm, "Nathanial, hush. This isn't like you! We trusted you, people came to you for help. Surely, surely there must be something worth living for?"

The man sagged, "I don't believe it's so."

David looked him up and down, "Then I don't fancy your chances mate. You dog-collar buggers are all fire and brimstone right up until its your arse in the fire. So, either pipe down and help or just effing pipe down. Or I'll lamp you one, alright?"

The parson glared at him, "Once I believed, without hesitation, that good would conquer all. But what good is truth and love against all Satan's might?" he gestured wildly at the machine beyond.

"If just one man can stand, there must be hope. There are some things worth fighting for, my love." the woman touched the Parson's face and George felt a pang of longing himself, tinged with fear. A cold pit sat in his stomach. Better she is dead than forced to endure this. Better dead than devoured by these horrors.

The Artilleryman shrugged, then beckoned to the others, "Right, get scraping, while they're occupied. We need it deep, but not too deep. But enough soil to cover a man, right?"

George frowned, but the parson interrupted, "I told them, told them to exorcise the devil! But… but Satan gave his signal and destroyed the world we knew!"

"No, that's not it Nathaniel. They're not devils, they're Martians."

The man continued to rant, which began to draw the attention of the aliens. George twitched, then stood. He strode across and swung his fist. The parson staggered and fell, eyes rolling back, dazed. The woman gasped and stared at George. He spoke with gritted teeth.

"My pardon, madame. Your, um… vicar needs to compose himself. And I do not wish the tender mercies of these devils because he cannot comport himself with the dignity expected."

"That was…" the woman stood and squared up to George, "Lay another hand upon him and I will make you rue the day, sir."

George looked at her and couldn't help but chuckle, a sound that shifted into a full belly laugh. He sank back to the turf, tears beginning to run. The woman looked confused, "My apologies, madame. It has, as you can imagine, been a trying few days. You… you remind me of my wife."

"A woman I trust, who would not tolerate your recourse to violence, sir." her voice was still soft but admonishing.

"Perhaps. Or maybe she would have been the one to throw the punch. It's a strange time. But, please madame, your…"

"Husband,"

"Oh, indeed? Well, in that case you have my condolences also! He is distressed and sometimes we cannot be gentle or indulge that. If we survive this, feel free to find me for redress or compensation."

The woman eyed him, then glanced at the huddled others, "Beth," she said, extending a hand.

"George. You've met David. That's Sergeant Halstead of the local constabulary.." he introduced the others, their motley crew.

"So, you have a plan?"

"Mayhap," that was David, "We'll see."

"But the soil here…"

"Too thick. But we've got a decent hole here and we know we can probably dig under the barrier if we get deep enough. Which is why I've been digging on the side away from the bloody aliens. Near the edge. Need a bit give, see, enough for a man. And enough to cover another bloke if we can't get under."

George shook his head, "Ruddy hard to keep up, I'm sorry."

The artilleryman grinned and winked, "You'll see."

The ground rumbled and began to shake. In the distance, trees crashed down. As they watched, a fighting machine thundered through the trees, knocking several down in splinters as it came. It staggered into the clearing, spewing smoke and sparks, before juddering to a halt. The humans stared, none having been this close to one of the metal beasts. It stood, lopsided, gears turning beneath torn metal. Shreds of red gore hung from one shattered canopy and two of the three legs look half melted and bent. It stood like a hunchback whilst the aliens gawped in shock.

The humans as one cheered, earning them a glare from the Tall-man. The aliens ran towards the fallen machine, with one of the greys hanging back after a wave from the Tall-man held it firm.

One of the greys clambered into the squat walker and steered it towards its larger comrade. Secondary hatches opened and small spheres emerged, each with four appendages ringing the main core. The group of tiny automata rose and began to emit blue light across the surface of the tri-pod. Sparks flew as they began peeling metal and assessing damage.

"Well, I'll be," hissed the Artilleryman, "Maybe we aren't buggered. Right, enough lollygagging. Get to digging while they're staring."

They set to, feverishly hauling dirt until the soldier gave a hushed "Yes!" They'd made a hole under the barrier and, to their delight, the field only dipped into the soil slightly, They carved out more space and the Artilleryman looked about.

"Right, probably want to see if we can get women out first, smaller see…"

Beth shook her head, "That thing… it's faster than it looks. Chased us down across a field. And those… flying things are made for just capturing people it seems. No, we'd make it maybe fifty yards before we just got caught… and probably… mulched."

David cursed, "Right, so, we need to get out, kill five armed aliens and maybe a tripod. With this lot."

George frowned, "What was your plan B then?"

David shrugged, "Lure them in here, let them see the hole, jump 'em."

"So, let's try the old divide and conquer, shall we?"

David frowned then grinned, "Yeah, lets."

George laid out the plan….

The grey alien turned at the sound of fizzing electricity and shouting. A pair of the humans seemed to be having a set to, making noise. It blinked, owlishly, and began to amble over. As it stood close by it idly counted the humans in the pen. It hadn't taken note of the numbers before now, but there did seem to be fewer in the pen.

Of course that wasn't its current directive - it had been told to "guard" not to "process". There were no active orders being transmitted to it, no engagement commands so it was, essentially, running through the motions of functionality - the small, still firing slivers of free thought took interest in the arguing, noisy pink animals.

Then it noticed the earth pile. The creature's head cocked and it suddenly flicked its gaze to where its commander stood, distant.

Then the world went black as a rock caved its skull in.

The young man gulped and dropped the rock. Then he patted the naked creature down. Inside the pen, George hissed, "Any luck?"

The man, one of the prisoners small enough to get through the hole, shook his head, "No ruddy key."

George cursed, then looked at the body, "Drag it over."

"What?"

"Just do it."

The man nodded, dumbly, then hauled the body closer. The shield suddenly flickered out, opening the side of the stockade up. The humans all looked at each other, then as one erupted from the cage, heading for the trees.

The Artilleryman cursed, but didn't try to stop them. Instead he sprinted over to where the aliens had left their equipment.

They heard a shriek and looked towards the tri-pod. The Tall-man was standing, arm raised, pointing at them. Its mouth was open and it was screaming.

The remaining greys turned and hissed, then scampered to cover behind fallen trees. The huge beetle-machine began to turn sluggishly.

George stood, frozen for a moment, then looked down at the alien corpse at his feet. He noticed that the wrist weapon it wore was intact. Part of his mind pondered that. On a whim, he hefted the body up and gripped the creature's arm, aiming it like he would a pistol. Then he noted a little clip on the side. He pressed it and the device detached from the monster's arm. He dropped it and heard the thing give out a groan - still alive!

The device in his hand unfolded, producing a pistol grip. Some form of… modular weaponry?

He didn't care. He levelled the strange pistol and fired. A trio of green bolts flew across the clearing. The first two went wide. The third connected, burning a hole in the Tall-man's throat. It went down with a hissing screech, clawing at its ruined neck. George stared dumbfounded, then shook his head and dove for cover.

Sergeant Halstead was crawling into cover and pulled his discarded pistol from the looted equipment box. He checked it and grimaced.

The Artilleryman ducked down behind the silvery coffins and growled, "No fair, George, why'd you get the new toy!"

"Beginners luck, old boy!"

George popped up and squeezed off another salvo, which set fire to one of the fallen trees. The grey beyond it squealed in frustration and tried to reposition itself, but fell as a well placed round from the Artilleryman's rifle knocked it down.

"Balls, that was my last round."

"Didn't know you had any left at all,"

"Always keep one in a pocket…"

"Fun though this is boys, what about that?" hissed Halstead. The beetle had turned and was advancing. The hatches on the side slid open and the squids emerged, tendrils coiling menacingly. One seemed to stare right at George, mandibles to its front opening like a moray's jaw. Then the pair of squids shimmered and vanished.

"Oh you're ruddy kidding me"

George felt his blood rising, his teeth clenching. The sheer bloody cheek of all of this. First his friends were driven off, maybe even killed. Then he was forced out of his house and forced to traipse across the land. Then his wife was stolen away and she could be dead too.

He watched the air and saw a shimmer, levelled his pistol and fired. There was a mechanical whine and a squid shimmered into existence pinwheeling over and over. It flailed tentacles and exploded in a shower of sparks.

There was a shriek behind them and George looked at his comrades. "It's gone after the others!"

David swore, "Right, you go stop it. I'll see what we can do with… this thing. Halstead, need you to get to cover mate. Still another little grey bastard about. And maybe the driver of the big bastard over there."

Halstead grunted and shuffled along behind cover. The Beetle advanced, slowly, almost cautiously - the driver now without a commander, it was unsure. Task programming vied against the fact it was in a pure combat situation.

George glanced back as he dashed into the treeline, and saw David vaulting the coffin and charging the beetle. He paused for a moment and saw the man slide under a swiping claw. The soldier tumble and scrambled to his feet and then clambered onto the side of the machine. George shook his head as he watched the Artilleryman hammer on the side of the machine with the butt of his rifle, then turned and dashed into the woods.

A short way along, he found the squid, wrapped around a figure. He paled as he realised it was Beth. Her eyes were closed and her tongue was starting to loll. George raised his pistol and was about to fire when suddenly there was a shriek like that of a man possessed.

The parson emerged from the trees, swinging a branch like a club. It cracked against the faceplate of the squid, which gave a electronic whine of protest. Tendrils unfurled and it reared back, letting Beth fall to the floor.

"Satan! Why would you take one of your own? She was one of you! A devil!" The man was ranting, confused, he face swollen when George's punch had landed, "I renounce you! I CAST YOU OUT! BEAST!"

The air around him seemed to swirl slightly, though there was no breeze. George flinched as his felt a sudden surge of pain.

The squid paused, it's flailing turning to gentle undulation. It dipped low to the ground and circled the parson, spiraling slightly. Then it shot up and lunged. The vicar gasped as he found himself restricted. His eyes met George's for a moment and he saw fear mixed with sudden certainty.

"I am...Chosen."

The squid shot up into the air and angled away, darting through the trees, heading West, away from the fight. George blinked, then dashed to where Beth lay. He checked her and gritted his teeth - she was limp. He checked her pulse and breathing and sighed - still alive, barely. Gently, he lifted her and carried her to the shade of a tree. There was a sudden crash nearby and he saw the beetle. It crunched through the undergrowth the sagged and collapsed. The canopy hissed open and the Artillery man stumbled out, face bloodied and one arm hanging awkwardly.

George stared, "What?"

The Artilleryman sagged and leaned against the machine, "Bugger… wouldn't let me drive."

"What."

"Well, cracked the glass. Then Halstad got into a fight with that other Grey bastard…. And it gets a bit blurry. Then this bastard tries shooting me but steers the whole thing into the tripod… oh that…. That's broken now too, again. More'so.."

"What?" He approached the soldier and checked his head, "Concussion, if I'm any judge. Sit down, take a breath." He walked back to where Beth lay and lifted her gently, carrying her to lay her next to the Artilleryman, "huddle up, stay warm, that'll stave off the shock."

"How… how'd y'know?" slurred the soldier.

"Done my share of sporting events where people get hurt. Even a bit of camping."

"Heh, bet you were useless."

"Not far off."

He helped the Artilleryman settle and checked Beth again, then spared a glance att the ruined corpse of the grey thing in the canopy. The inside of the machine was, actually rather spacious, clearly room for passengers or crew, with weird seats arrayed in a semi circle to the rear of the "head" of the machine. It was tall, just slightly taller than an omnibus, not counting the cage, but slumped down it looked diminished, with the "head" lollin revealing he seated interior. He didn't look at the controls too intently - seeing only dials and strange glass panels, as well as levers and pedals.

"Oi! Give me a hand!"

George glanced around the hulk and saw Halstead limping their way, using a branch as a crutch. George hurried across the debris and helped him along, "Still alive then?"

"Oh aye. No thanks to your maniac friend. Clearings damn near burned to a crisp after he tried to ride that thing like a fairground attraction. Bloody tripod exploded, sent those floating balls with it."

"You're… unharmed? Any more than before I mean."

The policeman chuckled, "Had a little grey sod try to do something to me. It had a clear shot at me but just touched its head instead and I felt woozy. But then I got a spurt on, managed to tackle the little bastard and gave it a good seeing to."

"Anything left of the camp?"

"Just those queer coffins and some crates."

They were distracted by a whirr and they tense. A single sphere was drifting lazily along, sparking gently. It ignored them and floated up to the fallen Beetle. Blue light played across the hull and the thing began to repair the machine.

They watched in silent amazement as the smoke faded and sparks dimmed. Then, with an electronic whirr the Beetle came back to life, lurching slightly as it straightened its legs. The drone hovered over the machine, then slotted back into a dock on the beetles back.

Halstead and George exchanged a glance, "Maybe he had a point?"

The policeman grinned, "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

It was evening and the watch was just changing. A commotion from the watchtowers sent men scrambling and sirens wailing. Artillery and ships canons were raised, men tensed. The commander was sent for.

Anderson climbed the tower for the second time that day, grumbling at inconsiderate aliens and their lack of respect for allowing a good nights sleep. At the top an officer handed him a set of binoculars and pointed him at the forests edge.

"Incoming there sir, new configuration. Ready to fire by flare command. We have the area zeroed in for three vessels and local artillery."

Anderson watched. Then he blinked, rubbed his eyes and squinted, trying to adjust for fading light. He chuckled. It extended into a full belly laugh, then he handed the binoculars back.

"I don't think the aliens know what a white flag means, Lieutenant. Nor have I seen them let people ride atop their machines, nor their machines driven so badly. Get some chaps out there to help those fellows into town. I think we're about to hear a tale or two."

On the ridge line trudged a squat, metal beetle of a machine. Behind it, it dragged a metal pallet stacked with coffins and crates. A small column of people followed, whilst atop it stood a man in tweed, waving a white flag on a branch.

At the sight of Portsmouth, George had to swallow. He hoped. He prayed. He wanted to stand tall.

Safety? Carrie?

He hoped.