It wasn't that he was unaccustomed to reveille at an unreasonable hour - it's that he felt he should be entitled to more than just two hours of sleep before people started battering on the door. He'd answered it to find a Corporal with a bandaged head, red in the face, barely coherent, telling him he was needed at the Headquarters in Whitehall.

A rushed fifteen minutes later he was trundling along in a carriage whilst the dim light of early early morning filtered over the buildings. He spared a glance out at the packed streets. Down Bywater Street, then Upper Thames street, along the river.

Even at this time of day it was clogged with barges and drifting hulks. Less now than a few weeks ago, but still there. Canal boats were roped together, forming floating islands, sanctuaries from the noisy streets. Or what should have been noisy streets. Canvas tents were strewn and set up in a mish-mash pattern; men and women clustered around braziers and open wood fires. There was a pall of tiredness and a grey tinge to everything. Soot and grime clung to the clothes of the people he saw from the carriage window. People in the crowd parted, listlessly as they rode through.

He saw a man, slouched against a fence, elbows resting on knees. The man was in a suit, dusty from the road. But his eyes seemed vacant, staring into the middle-distance. It was an image repeated as they trundled through Temple, past the crowded park where ever more refugees fought over scraps of space and locals tried their best to avoid them. Children huddled near parents, faces streaked with tears, marking rivulets through the dust on their faces. Dogs snapped and snarled in the streets, then sprinted away as hungry men chased them with sticks.

Anderson shuddered and leaned back. Surely it wasn't so bad that people were hunting dogs?

But of course, he was sat in a comfortable mess; the Army would be provisioned first. And that then led to more thoughts - how did a city like London keep on going without the constant stream of coal, meat and perishables? No wonder the martians hadn't attacked - they could likely starve them out given time. They needed a push now. Something.

Hopefully that was what this summons was for, despite the ungodly hour.

The main room in the War Office in Whitehall was a bustle of activity - clerks from all the departments were rushing too and fro, corporals and junior officers likewise headless. Anderson was ushered quickly through the hubbub to the central meeting room. It was a fairly grandiose affair - dark wood panels and a large table, inalid with leather. Maps were strewn across it, with others mounted on stands around the room.

The company gathered within was auspicious - representatives from the Imperial General Staff - Military intelligence, Military Operations; elements of the Adjutant General's staff, medical chaps most likely; the Quartermaster-General's staff were also in attendance. But more worryingly, so was Prince George, all red brocade and expansive grey moustache

General Marter spotted him and approached.

"William, glad you could make it. It's all… rather gone pear shaped."

Colonel Anderson approached the table and looked down at the various markings and projection lines across the maps. He blinked in surprise then looked up at Marter,

"All the way to Andover?"

"It seems so. They attacked three hours ago. Only heard due to some chaps letting pigeons go. And then a Telegram. But seems like they're wise to that little trick too and pulled down the poles."

"My God."

"Who's this Marter? Your pet project?"

That was the Prince. 2nd Duke of Cambridge, Prince George. Field Marshal of the British Army. And absolute bane of creative thinking.

Marter nodded, "Colonel Anderson is seconded to a joint venture, exploring means by which we can counter…"

"Balderdash. He's a bloody nuisance who you sidelined into some… infernal Prussian sponsored scheme. By all rights I should have him marched out of here."

Anderson spotted a familiar face near to the Field Marshal. Colonel Tasseter - the bounder who had been at odds all those weeks ago. No doubt exhibiting fine honour and judgement by trying to kibosh their whole venture. Anderson clasped his hands behind his back and looked at the Prince.

"Indeed, your Highness. However, I would like to request that we donate all materiel seized from our successful operations against the invaders. Seeing as I am sure that the good Colonel Tasseter there is able to furnish you with adequate surplus. I am sure that, if Bismark were sponsoring this little venture that he would be interested and I wouldn't wish for them to gain an advantage."

The Prince bristled and Anderson noted Tasseter's glare, "What? What's that? What could we possibly learn from these heathens?"

General Marter took this opportunity to step in, "Your Highness, Colonel Anderson's team have, to date, struck successful and successive blows against the enemy. We have not seen anything from other units so far. I would also like to remind you that it was Colonel Anderson who rallied the defence of Portsmouth and, arguably, prevent damage to a key military port."

"Codswallop! What rot!" that was Tasseter, "Any of those Jacks on their tubs could've gotten an ounce of sense to aim the guns inland to give them a few hundred pounds of British negotiation."

Marter's stare silenced the man, "Perhaps. But how many vessels would have been docked, unprepared whilst their confounded machines stamped all over them?"

The Prince watched the exchange then focused his grey brown eyes on Anderson, "Well done that man. But I'm not sure I fully endorse what I do hear about your… activities. Chinamen and Boer tactics it sounds like. What are we if we corrupt our methods?"

Alive, was what Anderson wanted to say. Instead he nodded, "I completely understand sir. My core command and soldiers are British through and through - men of the Empire. If we pick up volunteers to pad that out, to keep this City, this Country safe, I will, sir, not turn them away. Better to die on one's feet than in the gutter," he gestured to the map, "And we have pressing concerns, sir. My men are at the service of the Empire, the Queen."

The Prince harrumphed and Marter took the opportunity to shift the conversation, "Gentlemen, we all know the events, but let me remind you all. Three hours ago, the invaders pushed through our lines at three key points after deploying a previously unknown asset - flying devices that appear to be able to project firepower. These differ from their previously observed… aviation. These are more flexible than our own limited observation balloons and have an unknown range. At this point, we should consider the entirety of the United Kingdom at risk from the skies."

A mutterring swept the room and men started to gesticulate. Marter held his hands up for silence, but the Prince interjected, "Sound far fetched. Surely some form of artillery, or these supposed walking engines I keep being told about."

Anderson wasn't surprised the man didn't believe in the concept of the Fighting Machine. He was staunch in his opposition to change, to reform. The concept that an enemy could outmanoeuvre or out-think them was alien to the man. Anderson had a sinking feeling in his stomach - he could see how this would play out.

"Sir, we have the reports. For now, we can take them under advisement, but should consider the real possibility that we are at risk."

The Prince looked at him and shook his head, "Frankly, the breakthrough is likely due to poor command and control - a lack of officers of decent standing to inspire the men. Good leadership, Marter, is in the blood and bone. The men are well drilled, we know, so the only flaw could possibly be in their disposition in the field."

The man looked about the room; several infantry Brigadiers shied away from his gaze, a few Colonel's studiously took interest in the maps before them. Marter ground his teeth and huffed under his breath, his own moustache twitching faintly, "We know that our artillery, far behind the lines, was hit first. So, if the weapon is artillery then its range exceeds even our own heavy guns. Add to that the already-established heat-ray weapon and our infantry in the open field is outmatched. Cavalry have reported success in engaging their smaller deployed elements and being able to outrun the ray in terms of angling alongside lone machines. However, they are insufficiently equipped to engage the machines themselves."

Tasseter piped up, "That has yet to be conclusively proven. My boys in the Dragoons can push through if we attack here and here, infantry drawing…"

Marter slapped the table, "With all due respect, Colonel, we are not in an easy position to counter their forces in the field. I have had a report that there have been regroupings to the north and south, but our command and control is limited. If you have a way of easily communicating a strategy to the field, then please enlighten me."

"I have an idea," Anderson was surprised that it was he who was speaking. He looked around at the room. Until now, he'd been a Major, usually just depositing notes into meetings like this before beating a hasty retreat - an "overpromoted tea boy" as he'd once referred to himself as. But that was a Staff HQ for you - like a loop in ones career cycle, reach the top only to find it's the bottom of another pole.

"Speak up man," that was the Prince, a bored expression on his face already.

"There's a wireless Telegram unit in Portsmouth, as well as a Royal Marine Contingent. We could have them move to link up with the Southern line, with the device. Instant communication, allows us to, ah, ensure the men are in the correct dispositions."

The Prince shifted and eyed him then nodded, "Sensible, sensible."

Anderson continued, "I understand that my Adjutant, Captain Bradford, has also delivered an intelligence brief on the layout of their defensive line?"

Tasseter sneered, "Your Colonial lapdog. Or does he hold your le-"

"Oh do shut up, you melodramatic tart," sighed Anderson. The Prince blinked and guffawed.

"He's got you bang to rights Phillip. Pipe down." The Dragoon Colonel reddened but fell into silence.

"So, with those defensive elements, we know where to shell them. Move some artillery into position, hit them, that may spook them into pulling back. A counter attack that means we don't need to engage them in the field."

The Prince frowned, "Sounds like you want to run from a fight, Colonel."

Anderson inhaled, "No sir. But to fight them on our terms. As you say, our men are drilled. But spread out, split across the countryside? We can't engage them very well with our superior ah… training. We hit them in their house, as it were, gives our own men time to regroup and we can bring them to bear. And it even gives Colonel Tasseter a chance for his men to attempt their own manoeuvres."

Marter nodded slowly, "We do know where they've reinforced. Field Marshal, as of now we are playing to their tune and have been defensive in our own country. I propose a move in the other direction. This particular assault seems to be designed to break us, to isolate and destroy our forces."

The officers exchanged glances around the table. Even Anderson shifted uncomfortably. But the Prince nodded slowly, "You think them capable of this, General?"

"Not in its entirety, no, but I know from evidence from our Medical Regiments, Logistical Divisions and so on that our ability to operate has been severely diminished. And the worrying reality is that these invaders seem to offer no quarter, no parley. Sir, we have the reality that London is packed with refugees, our supplies are failing and our ability to rearm has been stymied by the loss of the North."

The Prince glowered and shifted, "We have no-"

"No word for over a week, no ability to establish communication, no new refugees for several days. Sir, if it is not lost, then it is misplaced in a way we cannot ascertain. Our ability to wage an engagement depends on our ability to leverage."

The older man gave a grunt and nodded, "I concede the point."

Marter nodded in return, "I believe we should expand on Colonel Anderson's nascent idea. Take advantage of our strengths and push the enemy into an engagement on our terms - we do need to learn the lessons of the Boer War. And the Zulu war."

The conversation went on, stilted, awkward, as politics laced with planning. The Prince was averse to dramatic tactics, or divergence from established methods. Every suggestion had to be couched in terms he was content with; Cavalry as the spear to sweep away the enemy; a refusal to quite engage with the reality of the threat of the Fighting Machine; a discomfort with the reality of the casualty projections trotted out by the medical and ordinance representatives.

Tasseter had delivered another barb, asking where Anderson would be throughout. He'd smiled and said "Wherever needed. And you? In the fray I trust?"

The man had bristled and demanded the Dragoons be put in one of the more advantageous striking positions in the south… provided their little corps of Marines was able to round up the regrouping troops across Hampshire. Rendezvous points were all well and good, but most planning only had two contingencies. The speed at which the Martians moved meant they were having to draw fallback lines in pencil.

As they were leaving, after several hours of intensive planning and less intensive arguments, Anderson had been called to a halt. The Prince hadn't looked up as he'd delivered the line.

"Of course, we'll need to requisition your men for this, Anderson. And I doubt we'll need what your little mad house is cooking up either."

He'd swallowed and frowned, "Sir?"

The Field Marshal, 2nd Duke of Cambridge looked up and gave him a faint nod, "You've done well considering. But we need British brawn and determination for this. Your idea is sound, but all hands to the pump, what. I'm minded to let you keep the rank, though, despite your lack of… inherent connection. We'll find a spot for you hereabouts. Training, perhaps. I'm sure there's a desk spare these days."

The man gestured and turned his attention back to the map. Marter glanced over and Anderson saw a look of indecision and confusion on the man's face - no immediate help there. Sounded like Britain was in the process of abandoning the project… which was akin to pulling the bottom 7 from a house of cards. Anderson gave a crisp salute to the oblivious room and marched stiffly out. The smug, self satisfied grin on Tassters face stuck with him until he was outside in the fresher air.

The sun was over the buildings now and the city was more awake; it never really slept. Butchers, bakers, stallsmen, even in Whitehall you could hear the clatter of carts and the sound of mercantile industry.

The signs of refugees and the crisis gripping the nation were muted here; no wonder the absolute nincompoop of a Field Marshal was skeptical. Anderson sagged as he clambered up into the carriage. It trundled back towards the Tower and he stewed all the way.

He stepped down as it passed into the main courtyard of the Tower keep then stalked towards the mess. He was halfway towards reaching for a bottle when he stopped himself and drew a breath.

That would not help.

He turned at a cough. A corporal, the same one from that morning, head still bandaged. He held an envelope in his hands, which he passed to the Colonel. Anderson unfolded it and read:

William,

Apologies for the informal note. A reminder that we require all able-bodied men, as per your nominal roll to report to their relevant Regiments or to the Horse-guards Barracks for deployment and mustering by 6 of the clock tomorrow.

Have spoken with HRH DOC - you are to remain in command of the Compound at the Tower as a bastion rearguard. All other volunteers and injured soldiers are under your care and disposition, again as per nominal roll.

I understand there are several matters you need to pursue before we can close down the function. I have explained and signaled that you be allowed to investigate these things before being reassigned.

Yours sincerely

Richard

Anderson was about to ball up the paper and throw it into the fireplace but he paused. Then he chuckled.

"Corporal. Go find Bradford. And fetch me the nominal roll for the EXALT personnel lists, if you would… chop chop now, time is of the essence."