The dreams were strange, fleeting, but oh so vivid. The first night in the hospital, with the sound of seagulls beyond the window, she had seen the tops of trees whizzing by. She had been flying, it felt like; but there had been a sense of fear, of certainty.

The trees had given way to ruined buildings - small figures moved between them, barely visible in the fading light, strange glowing contraptions being erected between the burnt out husks of what had once been houses. Then these too vanished behind.

A vast common and the signs of felled trees and cleared land. The ground pockmarked by ash and craters. Here there were serried ranks of silver coffins and barricades. Tripods moved with silent grace, smaller spidery machines moved huge pallets around. A strange, large disc sat on a large metallic pad as creatures carried cylindrical containers aboard. All was eerie, silent, lending a strange ethereal quality to the scene.

At the centre was a vast crater, within which had once rested a landing-cylinder. How she knew this she wasn't sure, but the sense of certainty pervaded all. Her view descended, bringing the crater into sharp relief. Within was now a set of ramps surrounding a strange ring, flanked by a pair of spheres. Within the ring glowed a swirling, purple kaleidoscope - it looked akin to the water atop a pond, after a child had tossed a careless stone into its depths.

There was a sense of containment or restriction, as if she was being held. But she did not feel the urge to struggle. As she watched, one of the strange globes levitated from its cradle and floated towards here. Behind the singular lense set in it, something moved - an alien eye. But, for another moment, she saw herself reflected.

"No, Nathanial! NO!"

The images fled and she jolted awake, shrieking. Hands gripped her shoulders and there was a flurry of activity as white and blue clad figures flowed around here. There was the muffled sound of voices and the sudden sensation of a needle and the dark took her.

This time she did not dream.

Bradford was crossing Tower Bridge when he heard the foghorn sound. He glanced to the east and frowned - a pair of ships churning up the Thames towards them. The river had been mostly clear of traffic, the Martians having blockaded most of the canals, choking the arteries of commerce with the wider nation.

They were returning from another operation, another strike. The Fenians had revealed a little of the various undertakings between the invaders and the criminal underbelly of the Empire. But it smelled wrong still.

This ship was a freight-steamer, followed by what looked like an Ironclad. By this ironclad had large canvas coverings all over it, masking its shape. He frowned, then about turned and strode back, heading for the Hays Wharf. He kept pace along the water-front as the boat pulled into the wharf. The Ironclad pulled further along and settled against a dock. He could hear the cries of longshoremen and the navvies aboard as ropes were thrown and metal clanged against pontoons.

He entered the wharf and made his way around the cargo crates still being hauled out - fresh food being pushed out to the boroughs where they could, or coal being shifted to stockpiles in the railyard. He noticed a small crowd gathered near to where a gangplank was being extended, and spied a familiar face.

"Moira, what brings you out of your labs?"

The Swiss woman turned and gave him a slight smile, "Ah, Herr Bradford. I am unsure. I was summoned by our… benefactors. Ah, speaking of which."

A man approached from the wharf office - he wore coat-tails and black pressed trousers and carried a cane. His face was still a mystery to Bradford - he wore an opera mask made of varnished wood set in a simple harlequin smile on one side and frown on the other. But his voice was the same gravel-laced drawl. The man raised his cane and tapped the brim of his top hat.

"Captain, excellent. I had sent word, but it seems… unnecessary."

"Will Shen be joining us?"

"That will rather depend on… what happens next."

Bradford arched an eyebrow, "You have the advantage, sir. Keeping me in suspense?"

"Only when necessary. And I think this will be a welcome.. Distraction. Other parts, we are ourselves in the dark about."

They turned and looked up the gangplank as a figure appeared on the main deck. Bradford blinked, then grinned. Moira huffed in surprise.

Colonel Anderson descended the gangplank and offered a salute to Bradford, who hastily responded, "Permission to debark. This is your command, Captain."

"Permission readily granted, Major… or is it Colonel now? I can see some extra gold on there…" Anderson chuckled and dropped the salute and instead extended a hand. Bradford shook it and stared at the man, "Holy hells, you look like you've been through some stuff, Colonel."

"Here and there. Giving our guest a jolly good British welcome. And getting some sense knocked into me. Doctor Vahlen, a pleasure to see you again."

Anderson took her hand in his and bowed to kiss it. The Doctor blinked and blushed faintly, but she frowned, "Oh, so you have gerugt - deigned to grace us with your presence?"

Anderson straightened and gave her a sad smile, "Yes, well, fear makes fools of many a man, my good doctor. And experience is a harsh teacher. I am here to try to make amends. And I come bearing gifts."

He plucked his pistol from its holster and the trio, including the benefactor, all gasped.

"Is that…?"

"Yes, my good sir. An intact and functional alien weapon."

"How…?" Mouthed Vahlen.

"Turns out, you knock the buggers out, it seems their toys don't self-destruct," grinned Anderson, "Also, helps if they don't have friends about who retrieve the parts or can destroy them before you get to them as well. And that isn't all."

There was a groan of chain and wood as the wharf crane hefted something from the hold - the carcass of a tripod, laid upon a large pallet. Moira's eyes widened. Her jaw moved. Bradford found his voice first.

"Get. Shen." he grabbed a random worker and thrust him towards the exit, "NOW!"

Anderson glanced at him, "Who's Shen?"

An hour later, the group was ensconced in a converted room within the Tower, with a central table scattered with maps, cups of tea and a few meagre scraps of food. Anderson lounged in a chair having brought them up to speed. Shen sat opposite, transfixed by the weapon. The Benefactor leaned against the mantlepiece of the room whilst Bradford paced. Moira frowned at him.

"You are unsettling me, Herr Bradford. Is this really so fantastical?"

"We destroyed five fighting machines?"

"And approximately a hundred plus of their servitor troops. Not as much salvage. And that isn't the best part," Anderson grinned, "We also have a fully functional war machine…"

That caused Bradford to stumble and Shen to shoot him a frankly disbelieving look. Even the Benefactor coughed. The engineer was first to speak.

"Did you…. Bring it?"

Anderson sighed, "No, the navy locked it down and, frankly, can't blame them. Also, fitting it aboard the ship - didn't want to risk it. It's secure in Portsmouth, got a frankly obscene amount of Royal Society fellows pouring all over it. But, my friend, fear not. I brought something nearly as good," He hefted a satchel onto the table and opened it up. He produced several dossiers from it, which he slid over the table to Shen, "Got the base photographer, new chap, to get some shots. Also, a few of the engineers to do some measurements, document notes, get a few sketches as well. Some rudimentary analysis."

Moira leaned over, "Ogilvy will be enthralled with some of these."

Anderson exhaled, "He's alive then? Well, please do convey to him that his friend Wells still lives. And we have him to thank for a lot of this."

There was some more back and forth on the current status of the war - an uneasy stalemate, with the Martians seeming to hold the initiative. Bradford chose that moment to interject.

"I don't wish to sound ungrateful or… out of turn, Colonel, but… you could have sent this along, remained on the coast?"

Anderson sipped his tea and smiled faintly, "Being shouted at by Admirals who can't find their… well, there's a lady present, so I will refrain from finishing that sentence."

The Benefactor stepped forwards, "I am intrigued, Colonel. I have spoken with General Marter and he commended to me that you are… predominantly the reason Portsmouth still stands."

Anderson offered a modest shrug, "I merely brought together elements still there."

"And that you may have also assaulted an Admiral."

The assembled company exchanged glances. Anderson spread his hands, "There was an emphatic exchange of opinions. I took command of a contingent of Royal Marines and pushed out a few interlopers from the city. And then the rest decided I was best placed to co-ordinate."

Bradford ran a hand through his hair, "Are you here to command?"

Anderson fixed him with a set gaze, "A broad question, Captain. Command what exactly?"

Bradford blinked and gestured around them, "Well, uh… I think that's fairly obvious, Colonel."

Anderson sighed, "I am somewhat Adrift… John. I am not a Garrison commander sort of chap. I am a man of planning and, I realise, of action. Marter mentioned pushing back and reclaiming London, but that seems… a tad presumptive. But, and here is my other point, I do not see the point of usurping a command if it is already underway. I do not wish to be that disruption."

The group exchanged glances and Bradford chuckled, "Frankly, Colonel, I feel pillar to post. As you say, you know your limits. I know mine. I'm a man who can run a Company, can do your tactics and collate. But running a long term strategy? I'll be honest… I never wanted this and I can see why you didn't either. I'm good at getting intel, analysing it."

Anderson glanced at the Benefactor then back at John, "I remember being a Captain. Wondering why the Brass seemed so inept. And for the most part, you have it right. But that's what leadership is - confidence bordering on arrogance. You just hope it's confidence born of competence!"

The Colonel stood and walked over to one of the maps pinned to a corkboard on the wall. Moira adjusted herself in her seat, "And which do you have?"

Anderson stared at the map, then spoke without turning, "The enemy has shown the ability to deploy assets remarkably swiftly. On the coast we have wireless transmission and communication lines to the Continent - the situation there is equally dire. Paris is under siege and the Prussians are holding ground. Russia is dark. America… we don't know. The invaders have capabilities beyond just walking metal monsters; their black smoke is a potent chemical weapon that has an unpleasant unique side effect. Three days after exposure, corpses re-animate and adopt a hostile demeanour towards any animate creature within proximity. Corpses removed from the proximity of impact sites don't seem to exhibit the same level of animate response but congeal and liquify rapidly, creating a potent toxin for soil and water in the vicinity. The enemy exhibit preternatural abilities of the mind, able to confuse and counter our organised strikes. However with all that, we are able to hold and outmanoeuvre them. They underestimate elements of our military and our people."

He turned, face fixed in a grim expression. Moira blinked, "The dead?"

Anderson shrugged, "They also apparently feast on our blood. I swear, they're like a bad children's horror story brought to life. But we know their forces are ill equipped and beatable. They have technological superiority but have been delivered a resounding knock and, as such, appear to be adjusting their strategy. Captain, from what I understand and see from this map, you have been fighting a holding action, a reactive war. Frankly, we all have. Do you have a proactive plan?"

Bradford frowned, "Well, that seems to say we've done nothing!"

Anderson shook his head, "No, Captain, I'm asking what's next - because so far, no one seems to know much beyond 'we win.' No one can tell me how we win beyond vague ideas of a valiant charge and British pluck. I've seen too many men wasted on poorly planned charges or vainglorious thrusts at the enemy's so called black heart. Do you have a plan?"

His voice held no accusation - it was a genuine question. And Bradford found he was at a loss. The Colonel nodded slowly as the Captain sighed, "Not much of one… find out more about them was the main gist."

Anderson smiled, genuinely, "And it's a damn good start. But it's a method, not a strategy. We could win every battle against them and potentially still lose if we don't understand them. They have chemical weapons, heat rays and a seemingly ever expanding menagerie of horrors. But what we need is a thread, a goal," He slapped his hand against the map, over the initial impact site at Horsell Common, "An objective. Not just engage the enemy where they come at us but to work towards them. And to do that we need to be able to counter them enough so that we don't bleed ourselves dry in the attempt. We need to shift the battlefield to our advantage."

Shen frowned at the group, "You want to transform the entire British Army?"

Anderson shook his head, "No. I fear we have no time for that. But we can tip the balance to the war so the Army has a change. If we can neutralise the advantages of the enemy. Pick our methods of engagement to maximise our chances. I did that at Portsmouth, using their hubris. And I think we can do that with the tools here. Bradford, Vahlen, you asked me once before, and I failed to step up to the wickett. But the scales have fallen from my eyes. I am afraid, but that fear is countered by certainty. If you feel I cannot command, I will not and will lend aid elsewhere. But you had faith before. Could you again?"

Moira and John exchanged glances. Then they smiled and looked at the Benefactor. The man straightened and nodded.

"Welcome back, Commander."