Bradford slapped another report on the desk and sighed, "Another one from the front. Seems it's worse'n the papers said. Lucky we had our own boys out there. Plus some of your friends in the Regiments who didn't buy the Prince's BS."

Anderson looked up from the lists, requisitions and map extracts he was studying and frowned, then took the report, "Surely not?"

Bradford shook his head sadly, then looked around the office. It was in one of the rooms set off from the main central hall of the Keep and Anderson had claimed it as a Commanders' planning room of sorts. The walls were festooned with recent snippets of information as well as some of Vahlens' scarily detailed diagrams of the aliens themselves, "Yeah, we lost too many. But the regiments left regrouped and have managed to push into some parts of enemy territory. They've gotten the Martian's attention, drawing them out in the way we want. There's more than we expected but… well one bit of good news, there aren't as many as we were planning for in the worst case scenarios."

Anderson sagged back in the chair, which creaked slightly and ran a hand through his hair. He knew he was greying now. A few months ago it'd been a strand here or there. Now, he reckoned it'd be full grey in another year, "Lucky we got the Specialist Heavy Infantry Vehicles out. Shen does good work on budget it seems. And the prototype weaponry?"

"Doing well. Need to that Vahlen again. We've issued it out to some of our troops in town too - in case those Extra-Terrestrial Command goons turn up and try a number while the army is away. Who'd have thought. Guns that shoot lightning. Portable mortars. Explosive bullets. Madness. Damn, what the guys back at West Point would do for shit like this."

"Language, Major," chuckled Anderson. The man just grinned back and stroked his beard - he'd let his facial hair grow out and he looked more like a longshoreman now, with overcoat and thick brown beard.

"Well, remind me to thank her, sir. Where is she?"

Anderson moved his jaw and smiled slightly, "I believe she returned to the lab."

Bradford quirked another grin and arched an eyebrow, "Don't know? Didn't watch her go?"

"I was not compos mentis, Major."

"And a gentlemen never tells?"

Anderson gave an exasperated sigh, half a mind to berate the man for his inappropriate chatter. But Bradford was a good sort. And a funny bugger when he put his mind to it. Instead he rolled his eyes and gave a theatrical sigh, "She gave me my marching orders, told me to drink some tea and get on with things. That is all…"

"Yeah, I'm next in line for the papacy, sir. But she's good people. You're good people. I just want to make sure we're all in good form, y'know?"

"Indeed, Major. So, anything else?"

"Some weird reports on the perimeters. Refugees being shifted by Smytheson's boys a fair bit, concentrating them more."

Anderson frowned, "Why?"

"Asked for an update but the perimeter guys aren't sure. Those India Company guys are a weird bunch, not chatty. Something about "reducing the footprint".

"Hm, makes some sense. Can't afford to be spread too thin. But it does mean we're putting all our proverbial eggs in a narrow branch of baskets."

There was a sharp knock on the door and both men looked to see a Private, panting heavily, "Sirs, Mr Smytheson, in the courtyard. Urgent news apparently."

The pair shared a glance and Anderson mused, "How timely. Right, Bradford, let's go have a chat."

Outside the keep the courtyard was a hive of activity - men setting up mortars, soldiers going through drills repeatedly and stacks of crates being checked in and out by a mix of labourers and troops. A real "people's army" in action. It masked the general unease that was always present: their fear of running out of food, of ammunition. Shen's tricks and connections were alleviating some of that, what with covered greenhouses, the slaughterhouse district down the way and various black market deals. But it was always a concern.

Their most reliable supporter, Smytheson, clad in his usual suit, cloak and bowler hat, was stood behind the barricade that had been set up at the southern gate. He looked peevish, an expression that rarely seemed to leave his face despite his expressed enthusiasm for the cause. Surprisingly, General Marter was with him. Along with about ten of the brown trench-coat soldiers that seemed to accompany the East India Man all over the place.

Anderson nodded to the Soldiers on duty as he and Bradford approached, "All clear, Corporal. You should recognise the General."

"Aye sir, just not registered in the log book. And the General's office usually send a runner beforehand."

Anderson had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach as he surveyed the group, "Apologies General. Procedure. To what do we owe this visit?"

It was Smytheson who spoke, "The General asked me to attend and escort him here. He's concerned there is a… spy," Bradford looked from Smytheson to the General, who had still said nothing. The man looked nervous, glancing behind them. He then fixed his gaze at Smytheson. The man gave a shrug, "I'm afraid he's been twitchy since Whitehall. Hasn't said a word on the ride here, beyond directing me and mine. Is Doctor Vahlen around, perhaps she can shed some light?"

The man sounded genuinely worried, a feeling that crept over Anderson. He could hear the sincerity. He found himself nodding, "Yes of course, come in."

"We have some additional supplies. Do you mind if my staff bring it in? Not safe on the street, even close to the Castle. And Doctor Vahlen?"

"Not here, unfortunately. We'll have our on site medical staff have a look and see if a transfer is required."

"Ah of course, so we will have to make do. Can catch up with her later…" muttered Smytheson. He smiled and Anderson noticed he still had that exhausted look - pale skin, dark shadows under the eyes. His smile looked manic.

Behind him his men filed through the checkpoint, shadowing them as they walked towards the keep. A pair of carts rattled along as well, with about a dozen men in overalls fussing over them. The horses seemed spooked, nostrils flaring and Anderson felt that unsettled feeling in his stomach.

"So, could we go to the Keep? Keen to get in and secured, of course," chuckled Smytheson. It wasn't a pleasant noise. Anderson frowed, about to say "yes", but something stopped him. He glanced at Bradford, who seemed to have glazed over slightly.

"No, not right now. Sensitive documents and don't want to disrupt the staff, seeing the General out of sorts."

Smytheson twitched and frowned at him, "I must insist. We need to be secure…"

Anderson felt the urge to agree. But it was like another voice in his head, "And I must refuse, Mr Smytheson. We will ensure the General is sequestered and treated. Thank you. But you know I cannot allow you into secure Military locations."

Bradford seemed to be waking up, a frown creasing his own face. Anderson noticed in his periphery that the guards with Smytheson had spread out around them, ostensibly securing them. But they were inside the keep. The wagons had been moved but seemed to have blocked the gate. He looked back at the East India Man and cocked his head.

Smytheson glared, looked around, then sighed, "Well, we're inside at least," he looked Anderson square in the eye, "I'm afraid I have bad news Commander."

Anderson felt his stomach tighten further and his hand twitched, "Oh?"

"I am relieving you of command. For the sake of you men and this city. Stand. Down."

Bradford stared at the man, "What the hell?" he drawled.

"The British Army is routed, the Navy will not be far behind. This city will fall, soon. It can be an easy transition. For the sake of England and her people, surrender to me."

The pressure was there, although it wasn't an overwhelming feeling. Just a nagging presence now that Anderson was aware of it, "What are you playing at Smytheson? The Council haven't revoked my command and if this is another stupid power play…"

"The Council are irrelevant. My men are tracking the Speaker. And the General."

Anderson was confused. Then he watched as Smytheson stepped away from the General. The old soldier seemed to ripple and his flesh sloughed like runny porridge. The man gave a gurgling groan and hunched forward, "Surrender Commander, or your men will suffer," Smytheson's grin was a near snarl and he flourished a pistol from under his cloak and levelled it at Anderson, "How the tables are turned, eh old man?"

Then he went down like a sack of potatoes as Bradford leapt forward and planted one hell of a haymaker on the man's jaw. Smytheson dropped, dazed.

And then all hell broke loose.

First, Smytheson's guards spun levelling weapons. Then one died as a nearby soldier opened up with his own sidearm. That distracted the rest as they found themselves suddenly the focus of the attention of soldiers and workers. Anderson himself had his pistol out and had shot one man point blank. He stared as the goggles on the man's face shattered, revealing a malformed face with eyes that were too large.

Then he spun and fired again. And again. The India-guards scattered, diving for cover as Bradford pulled his own sidearm and began firing.

The General let out a roar and lurched upright. Gone was the soldier, his clothes, anything recognisably human. Instead a 9 foot tall mishappen clay-like figure towered over them.

"Bloody hell," hissed Anderson as he stumbled backwards. Beyond, the pair of wagons rippled and figures leapt from their covered interiors. More India-guard. Accompanied by Tall-men. But these were not clad in suits. No, they wore form-fitting black armour and carrier green rifles and blades. Around them, the workers rippled and lurched, growing in stature into more of the clay-men.

"Infamy! Betrayal! Sound the alarm!" bellowed Anderson as he and Bradford fell back towards the keep. He levelled his pistol at Smytheson who was just starting to sit up, but had to duck as a flash of green whizzed past. When he looked again, the weasley man had vanished.

Bradford grabbed his arm and practically dragged him up the wooden stairs and into the keep proper. A pair of soldiers were at the door, firing with bolt action rifles into the melee in the courtyard. Men on the parapets were firing down, or locked in close combat with the enemy. The Tall-men moved through the battle like ballet dancers, slicing and stabbing, taking shots like men on a clay-pigeon shoot - deliberate, aimed and deadly. The huge monsters lurched about with pendulum steps, swinging tree-trunk like arms, scattering men and equipment like toys.

Inside the keep, the soldiers slammed the door shut and proceeded to bar it, moving to windows where other troops had already set up firing positions. Anderson looked at Bradford, "What the devil just happened?"

"I think we've been compromised."

The Commander shook his head, then paled, "They control most of the interior security for London. Which means…"

Bradford groaned, "Which means they likely gave free passage for the enemy to move troops into the city. And they've corralled the refugees."

Anderson managed a grim smile, "Good job we didn't tell him everything. Now, we have to weather this. You!" he pointed at a nervous young soldier, manning a bank of field telephones, "Get the word out. East India Company soldiers are kill-on-sight, compromised assets. London is no longer under siege: we are invaded. I want perimeter contingencies ready to go. Artillery enclave commanders are to be ready for the go signal. Any troops who can reconvene on the tower, get them here. YOU!"

A young woman in cover-alls and an ammunition belt twitched to an approximation of attention, "Sir?"

"I need runners over the wall, to Shen and Vahlen. Tell them the same - but get them bunkered down and to secure their sites. Everyone else, I want information on where these bastards are hitting: troop movements, sightings. Get the observation balloons on the horn, obs posts on the rooves, signal them with mirrors if you have to. Trust the garrison to hold these bastards at bay. Get to it."

The room froze, then buzzed to action. Men scampered upstairs to vantage points and to the signals relays that communicated with the various balloons floating over London as observation points. Some headed to gunner positions on the Keep's roof or upper windows. The woman headed off, grabbing another pair of soldiers, dragging them towards another doorway.

There was a loud thump at the main door, followed by a gurgling roar. Bradord shouted and a squad of men ran up, tipping over a pair of tables for cover. One brought up what looked like a Maxim gun, but covered in copper wires and with a faint blue glow to a set up tubes atop it.

The door creaked and burst open, revealing one of the mud-monsters. Immediately, the soldier fired the strange gun. A bolt slammed hard into the creature's chest and it rocked backwards, gurgling angrily. Then the air crackled and a lance of electricity jumped from the rifle to the bolt. The stench of barbequing flesh filled the air as the creature howled and toppled backwards, over the railing of the steps that led to the door. There was a muffled thud as it hit the ground, leaving only the smell of charred flesh and a drifting cloud of smoke.

Beyond the open door came the cries of battle, the crack of gunfire. Anderson looked at the room, "Stay at your posts! Guards, to arms. Bradford, hold the fort…" he paused, then grinned maniacally, "Literally! To arms all, to arms!"

A brown-coat wearing soldier appeared in the door frame, then jerked like a puppet with its strings cut as five rifles barked at it, rounds jinking him left and right. The British inside crept towards the door, men covering from the windows. One man reported a sharp "Clear!" and a group of men set to barricading the door again.

Outside the walls appeared to be holding, but the Tall-men were wreaking havoc. Men lay dead and dying on the ground and Anderson swore.

"This cannot get any worse."

He surveyed the scene and barked orders. A crack from high up sent a Tall-man sprawling as one of the roof-top snipers took it down. The rest of them scrambled for cover, sacrificing mobility for security of stone and wood. Anderson growled then gestured to his men, "Let's take it to them. We can't manage the fightback with a compromised command post. With me men!"

He vaulted the makeshift barricade at the door, six men behind him, including the man hauling the electro-rifle. He dashed down the stairs, sword drawn and bore down on where one Tall-man was sheltering behind scattered crates. The man-thing saw him and tried to level its rifle, but Anderson fire his pistol as he ran forwards, forcing the thing to duck. Another creature moved to take a shot and vanished in a cloud of green gas as it exploded from the force of a sniper round.

And then Anderson was on his target. It bright its rifle up to block his downward sword strike. But Anderson just shoved his pistol into its gut and fired. The creature doubled over with a gurgle and Anderson reversed his grip on his sword, then drove it down through the creature's hunched back. The armour was tough, but he pushed down after his initial thrust and the blade pierced through. Then he took stock.

The clay-men were tough but slow. Most had been felled by concentrated fire and one was just a walking column of flame, wailing as it flailed madly. It seemed mad. What had they hoped to achieve? But he realised they nearly had. And possibly still could. If they had reinforcements on the way from across London.

The India-guard were fighting with some sort of automatic rifles, doing a good job of suppressing most of the men on the walls or in the courtyard. But this seemed too few men to take on a whole garrison - had they hoped to kill or capture the main command staff? Disrupt enough to gain an advantage? Or was this their endgame?

His eyes were drawn to the carts Smytheson had brought. His eyes narrowed as he saw metal glinting within; a greenish glow emanating from the bed of the cart. How one was positioned right in the gate. The other near a munitions store.

Oh no.

He wheeled to his men, "Get me a bloody sapper, to those carts now. Don't let anyone near them, and find Smytheson. They're explo-"

He didn't finish the sentence as the one near the store explode, violently. The blast picked him off his feet and blew him ten feet backwards, where he landed on the cobbles hard. The wind was knocked from his lungs and his ears wouldn't stop ringing. Burnt fabric and molten stone rained down, rattling against the ground. He could hear screams and gunfire, but it was muffled. Miraculously, the second wagon hadn't gone up. But two of his men were down. He couldn't tell if they were dead or not. But a third was already heading back to the keep.

Arms gripped him and hauled him to his feet. Anderson looked up and saw one of his men hauling him back into cover. Two others were squatting down, covered in dust, checking weapons. The nearest man had to shout into his face to be heard.

"Only five of them left sir. Tall-men vaulted the walls and retreated. Just India boys and two of the walking-candle wax monsters."

"Set to, let's clear them out, secure that gate."

"Aye sir. Stay down."

The men rounded the cover and headed in the direction of the gunfire. Anderson's vision swam as he steadied himself. He checked the battlefield, for what good it did. The courtyard near the keep was a mess of burning debris and smoke. Figures could be seen in the smoke staggering blindly. Flashes showed where guns spat and arcs of electricity flashed as Shen's more advanced weapons came to bear. They seemed to have the Aliens on the back foot, at least here. But damn if it wasn't a shock.

"You can't win," the voice came from near him and he spun. But there was just empty air behind him, near the clustered buildings that flanked the edges of the keep courtyard, "We will win this day. And I will be Chosen! Not just made to bend the knee. I will make you bend yours."

Pain spiked in Anderson's head and he hissed. The pistol dropped from his hand and he winced, "Smytheson. Where… where are you?"

"You old fool. You should've taken the easy way. Now we have to do this the painful way. But I'm glad. I get to pay you back for making me put up with those ditherers and fogeys who made me apologise. To a relic like you. This is the way of things now. The future!"

A figure came into view, stepping through the smoke. Smytheson. But he was different. A strange purple aura surrounded his head. It was weak, but it was there. Anderson could see a strand, like smokey string stretching from Smytheson to… him?

"What.. .what are you doing."

"Oh you're strong, didn't think someone from the Army would be. All 'yes sir, no sir, put my arse in the air for you sir?' aren't you? Maybe you're just stubborn. But now… now with your brain all rattled… well I can just take you out so easily."

Anderson found his knees sagging and a strange wave of fear swept over him. He looked up and saw the barrel of a pistol levelled at him. And suddenly he found a groundswell of courage, "So, working for them. But they don't let you play with their toys eh?"

Beyond the pistol he saw Smytheson's sneer turn into a snarl. Then the pistol was whipped across his face. He felt the impact and knew his cheek was split and bleeding, his face numb from the impact, "Shut up. You know nothing. We have your whole organisation on the ropes. Across the world, cities fall to us. The Americans are lost, they jumped on board as soon as they saw a chance at power. The Russians are doomed. Hindenburg's little attempts at resistance will be crushed."

"But you don't have General Marter. Or the Council. We'll just start again. We'll keep fighting. Bleed you dry. So. Shoot me. More will rise. I've shown your little friends can bleed. And die. And scream for mercy. You saw Vahlen's labs. They're running scared. Think they'll save you?"

The younger man puffed up, "Your death will show them that even tigers are mortal."

"We aren't tigers, Smytheson," Anderson's eyes flickered to the right slightly, then focused on the man again, "we're wolves."

There was the loud crack of a pistol and Smytheson jerked to the side with a shriek. His hand went to his side where blood blossomed from a wound. He tried to raise his pistol from his slumped position, but Anderson was on his feet. He swung his sword and knocked the weapon flying, then returned the tip to point at Smytheson's throat. The purple aura had vanished and was flickering intermittently as pain blossomed on the man's face. Footsteps clacked on the cobbles and a figure stepped into view.

"Wie gehts, Herr Anderson?"

"I fear my relaxation period was rendered moot, my dear Doctor. But I am all the better for the timely rescue," he glanced at Vahlen and inclined his head. The woman smirked and glanced at the pistol in her hand. It was not a small thing - a revolver that looked rather intimidating. The woman was wearing her usual attire of blazer and functional skirt. Behind her swarmed a veritable company of EXALT troops and Civilian militia.

"You are most welcome...liebchen… your runner told us to bunker up and my staff objected. Who am I to stand in the way of patriotic fervour, ja?"

Anderson looked down at the groaning Smytheson, then looked back at Vahlen, frowning at her. She appeared to be wearing a strange tiara, "Off to the opera?"

She tutted, "Nein. This is a...schranke… a barricade against the enemy's mind tricks. We have a few made, thought it best to try them out if they were infiltrating. And why is Mr Smytheson trying to kill you?"

Anderson looked down at the man and smiled unpleasantly, "I think the enemy got to him first. And I think he'd be of interest to you, my good Doctor."

Smytheson looked up, blinked, then looked at Vahlen. The woman had a strange glint in her eye as she cocked her head. Then she nodded. A pair of soldiers jogged up and she gestured at the fallen man, "Take him. Sedate him. Secure him. And… put a dome on him."

The men nodded and advanced. One produced a syringe from a pouch. Anderson stepped back and limped over to Vahlen, "thank you, again, Moira. I think I was rather done for…"

She lifted a hand and gripped his chin, fixed his eyes with hers, "I told you, keine gefahr. But NEIN. You charge out. You push yourself to be at the front, I bet. And now…"

He blinked. Her eyes were moist. On impulse he dropped his sword. The clang gave her pause. Then his hands were on her shoulders and his face came forwards.

The world seemed to stop, the kiss lasting for an eternity. They broke apart. Moira blinked, surprised.

"Vielen danke, Moira."

"...Ja…" she breathed out. He smiled gently then winced at the pain in his face. Her frown returned and she tutted. Her hands gripped his arm and she towed him towards the Keep, "Insufferable, stubborn…" she muttered as they walked. But he just grinned.

They entered the command room and she dragged him to his office. Bradford was still marshalling the staff, conveying reports and directing efforts. He glanced over and shared a sardonic look with Vahlen, who just tutted again. A medic trailed in after them, pulling out clean rags and a small vial of medicinal salve. Vahlen watched, arms folded as the soldier cleaned up the commander, then watched him as he shifted under her stare.

"So, we've been attacked. How're things at the hospital."

"Secure."

"And Shen?"

"Over with the Ironclad."

He looked at her, "You are upset?"

She blinked at him, "Confused."

"Well it's rather simple. We've been atta-" She was suddenly right in front of him, glaring at him, "Oh. yes, well."

Her eyes searched his, then she nodded and smiled, "Good. We can discuss this more over dinner perhaps."

"Sounds… perfect," he managed, weakly.

Then the window glass, what was left of it, exploded and their air was filled with a foghorn wail that blanketed the city. Anderson crouched, shielding Moira and winced as he stood up, then gawped as he stared out of the window of his office.

Above the west of the city hung a vast thing. A blocky grey shape covered in green light. It was clearly a couple of miles away from them, maybe more. But it was massive. And as they watched, smaller shapes began to stream from it, flying through the air like a cloud of smoke.

And from below, things began to drop. Familiar, three legged things, falling to earth so hard the impact could be felt through the ground even there. He heard Vahlen breath out as she clutched him tightly and his arms wrapped around her instinctively.

"Scheisse."