The vessel rumbled and lurched. There were shouts of surprise and shock, as well as muttered curses. Hackett leaned against a wall and felt his stomach churn. His head throbbed and he could feel his vision blur. Again.
A hand rested gently on his shoulder and he hunched slightly, looking back at the concerned face of Jiayi.
He blinked, feeling the cloying thoughts of them at the edge of his mind. Subservient. Accepting. Wheedling. Suggestive. Vindictive.
His mind brought an image to the fore - an old memory. From when he'd been a fresh face lad, shipped off to some god-forsaken patch of soil in the Empire. The Corporal had been a weasely sort, rail thin, always with a sneer for the men, a boot to be planted and a backhand for any chat. The man had conned them out of wages, cheated at cards and beaten the younger recruits when he got the chance. But when the sergeant or officer swept past for an inspection he was all smiles and jovial. Laughing with the boys, slapping backs, acting like the stern parent who secretly has a soft spot for you.
Nasty to the core. Shame about the asagai he'd caught in the gut.
Really mysterious as there weren't any Zulu about in Egypt.
The thoughts were similar. Opportunistic. And despite their stature, the little grey bastards were, apparently old. And practiced. So, that wheedling, that cloying sense, that subservience was close to a mask.
They were waiting for him to slip up. To seize control. But nothing overt. That craven sense that you could read in their body language saturated their minds. He couldn't articulate it, couldn't explain the feeling of engaging with the horrors. It wasn't a conversation, more an exchange of concepts. He wasn't the most emotionally honest of people, or approachable. His own joviality was as much for the boys to keep them grounded as himself.
So being so exposed was alien. And wrong.
The human contact, strangely, helped. Her face, wracked with concern. Well, as much as she deigned to express. But he could feel it and thus could suddenly note the tiny expressions - the tightness around the eyes, the faint crease in the forehead. And there was…
Guilt?
She felt bad? Responsible? She had suggested, practically told him to do this, despite being a soldier to his Sergeant.
"What is happening, Sergeant?"
That was Zhaojie. He was stood across the room of what they were calling "the bridge". There was a central room to the vessel but it felt more like a passenger cabin, or suite, despite its lack of any form of furnishing. This room at the fore was clearly some sort of command area, as indicated by their surprisingly helpful Hybrid. It was he who had steered the compliant Insectoid things to positions in front of consoles that, to the rest of the team, appeared blank.
But to Hackett it was a riot of colours, coruscating into an almost blinding display as soon as the squat little horrors had stepped in front of the terminals.
Except it wasn't light in his eyes. He'd squinted but the glare stayed. It permeated his mind. Information flowing into him, both from the screens and from the squirrely bastards they'd hooked up.
He'd thrown up rather violently.
So, they'd re-attached the crowns to the creatures, led Hackett outside and given him a brew. Then Zhaojie had begun making plans for finding a boat.
To which Hackett had replied "Fuck that for a game of bloody soldiers, you bastard."
So, now, three hours later, he was swaying on his feet. But he'd gotten some of the gist of things. All the troops were on board, seeing as he'd managed to get the little grey shits to listen and float the craft up thirty feet, then set it back down. Turned out he didn't need to fly it himself. Just give the grey aliens generic orders. It could be specific, yes, but that was… unpredictable. The things reacted to unconscious thought. Which was why the roof was missing from a nearby building - an errant thought of shooting an alien had trigger a weapon to fire, blasting the stonework apart.
That had caused a bit of a ruckus.
But now he'd made sure everyone was aboard. He turned his face to Zhaojie, "Teething problems. Need to focus, Zhang. These things are co-operating…. But only just. I slip and I think they'll try something nasty."
The Hybrid nodded, then croaked out a word, "Grey ones. Sadists."
Zhaojie frowned at the pair of them. "They made them into cruel creatures and then let them guide their vehicles?"
The hybrid shook his head, "Always… cruel. But…. malleable. Pliant. Evil."
Zhaojie shuddered and Hackett could feel his gorge rise again. Even the thoughts of the creatures, such as they were, had unpleasant undertones. Like shades of colour, or a smell just on the edge of your senses. They weren't memories, really. More like the echo of memories. Flashes that conveyed emotion. Like remembering the idea of a summers day. Except these were twinged with senses of pain, torment. Hideous satisfaction.
He steeled himself and rolled his shoulders, "Due respect sir, let's get a move on and we'll let the Doc have at this. Before I lose what little lunch I have left."
Zhang eyed him for a moment then nodded, giving Jiayi a glance. At the rear, Corporal Essex chewed his lip, "We're all loaded, everything we could grab that didn't look torched."
Hackett had walked through the communication structure with the hybrid and, between the pair of them, had selected what looked like semi functional machines, which the lad had then ripped out and piled into the ship. That had been when he was "taking a break" from trying to steer a ship using the mushy grey bits of a pair of horrible little monsters.
He took a breath and closed his eyes. He wasn't certain whether it was necessary but right now it helped. Jiayi's hand was still on his shoulder, strangely. But it helped.
Up.
The ship lurched again and the surprised shouts from the back echoed through as soldiers crowded around the shielded entrances.
Maps?
An image appeared. It took him a moment to register it as a map of the entire globe. The Hybrid had not had much to offer here, having only briefly travelled on these ships, but his connection to their strange psychic mailing structure allowed him vague insight. They would understand his intent, but he had to understand an element of how the things worked. And that had involved asking the horrors for an explanation.
Which they had dumped straight into his brain. Which had resulted in a second round of vomiting and loss of motor control in his legs.
But now he got an element of it.
Rise to navigation…. Altitude. Set course for… Urban Site - PRIMARY.
What he'd actually thought was "Go up til we're safe then get us to London." but there seemed to be some sort of parsing going on, automating the translation. He wasn't sure where that was happening. Maybe the creatures just took his meaning and overlaid their own references? It was all a bit beyond him.
The craft lurched again and the shouts became more intense. In his mind's eye he saw the city below grow smaller as they rose. And they kept going. Impossibly high. Now there were clouds. The horizon was vast, the sky shifting from blue to near black now. Pinpricks dotted it and he realised they were far above, now on the cusp. He wavered and felt a gentle probe from one of the horrors. He slapped it down mentally and felt his legs tremble.
Arms gripped him under his armpits, holding him steady. A gruff sigh escaped his lips, a huffed thanks. He couldn't talk, not properly.
Then the craft shuddered again and the ground below flashed by. There was a brief sense of weightlessness as the vessel began to descend. London was just there. He had no real sense of time - it'd been fast, but perhaps not as quick as he'd thought. Still, people were swearing, shouting, in the back of the ship.
For a moment he just stared, seeing London in a way no human had ever before.
Then he looked again.
"Oh bollocks… Zhaojie!"
The thing about London isn't that it's a centre of commerce, of culture, of the monied class. It isn't that it has fantastic settings like the Mall, or Trafalgar Square; nor is it the proliferation of Wren Churches, or St Pauls Cathedral. No the thing about London, the real thing is that, when you get down to it, is that it's a real rats nest of a city.
Alleyways, side streets, narrow roads, bridges and tunnels, looming buildings and pervading smoke from factories. Even now, with things grinding to a halt, the back streets are a mess of litter, obstacles and dark corners. Any sensible army would keep to main boulevards and streets when invading.
But then you get into the real problem of urban warfare - every building is a bunker, a firepoint. Then it becomes a slog.
So the aliens pushed forwards, every single fighting machine thundering across the city, bearing towards where one of their weapons had fired.
Except they stalled as rockets shrieked from rooftops, or from adjacent windows. A pair of machines wailed as metal screeched and split under assault, collapsing into buildings, where they jammed, unable to right themselves.
Others had to bunker down, trying to orient to fire their salvo of Black Smoke rockets. Except entire buildings erupted with scattered fire from pistols, shotguns and rifles. Bottles of spirits were lobbed from above, spreading burning fluid across the machines hulls. Barrels of gunpowder rolled into the streets and exploded, blasting the legs of the walkers out from under them.
A sensible commander would mitigate the threat to armour via careful deployment of infantry. And to the alien's credit they tried. Except having your swarms of soldiers dashing down alleyways after shadowy assailants often ended up with them bottled up in narrow quarters, with people above on balconies or leaning from windows ready to unload firebombs or bullets on the now-vulnerable invaders.
Plasma weapons were deadly, but only if they hit. And Hybrids went down to pistol rounds just as easily as people. Mutons burned with enough distilled alcohol poured onto them from on high. Cryssalids suffered without room to take advantage of their numbers.
But still they came, the weight of numbers allowing a hefty bulk of the forces through. The aliens were bogged down across the city, fighting indiscriminately - it seemed their assault had fractured slightly, now becoming about doing as much damage as possible to their immediate area, whilst a forced prong scythed across the city towards the Tower.
Anderson walked the walls, shouting commands, rallying the men. Gunfire crackled as attackers took pot shots from the covered of the burned out buildings. High above, the battleship was withdrawing from the theatre of operations, trailing smoke and fire from the wound in its side. Not a mortal blow, but they weren't risking it. Which indicated, perhaps, the aliens own limited arsenal.
A pall hung over London, the dust from the impact of the abductor cargo vessel, which was still burning in the distance. Even with the battle around them, the raging battles across London could be heard as men and women fought and died, holding back the invaders. There were retreating combatants falling back to the areas around the tower, forming another line beyond the walls. The risk of infiltration was there, so taking stock would have to wait until after they survived.
If they survived.
"Commander! We got five Walkers eight hundred yards out, crab walking our way, north north west!"
Anderson looked down at Bradford who was shouting up at him, hands cupped around his mouth.
"Roger! Get the artillery to re-zero, prep Shen's pop gun on top of the keep. Any word from the crazy bastard?"
"No sir! Not been able to get troops to the ship, it's gone quiet."
Anderson cursed. He hoped that the crew of the ship had fared better than those outside. And that Shen wasn't among the casualties. That would be one hell of a blow.
He heard a crash from a few streets away, followed by a rising column of dust. One of the machines closest began to rise through the smoke, breaking cover. He could hear the high pitched whine of its main gun charging.
There was a whistle and white smoke exploded all around the machine, blinding it as the phosphorus shells burst. That would buy them some time.
"Mortar teams, zero in! Don't let the bastard fire!"
More "thunks" and explosions peppered the cloud. It was far off, a good five streets away. There came the Uuuulllaaalllaaa wail, mournful this time, followed by some more "crump crump" sounds. Flashes blossomed in the smoke cloud, followed by a deafening boom as something inside the walker cooked off and overheated. He heard the machine tumble and crash to the ground.
"Well done lads! Prepare for an infantry wave. They'll try to keep us occupied, buy the rest of their heavies time to get into position. Mortars…"
"Low on shells sir!" came the response. Anderson cursed. They'd have to hope the distant artillery still had surplus. Or some rockets spare. He heard Bradford shouting again and turned back.
"Commander! We're lost five more batteries, aerial strikes from their disc craft, as well as more mini-discs pinpointing our outer guards. South bank under siege. We've got another ten walkers further out. And reports from the outer markers that the alien troops from Horsell are advancing. We've got them pinned with the boundary protections but some will get through!"
It just got better and better.
"Any good news, Major?"
"We're killing them faster than they can reinforce…. For now."
"I'll take it. Right lads! Reload, get what explosives you can. Check your weapons. Sergeants, carry on."
He turned, watching the frightened, filthy faces of the soldiers around him, skin blemished by powder burns and smoke residue. White eyes in masks of grime. Men and women, the latter looking so out of place. But so necessary. No time for pretensions of normality here.
He strode from the wall, patting shoulders, offering words of encouragement. He knew he didn't look like an officer "should". His uniform was torn, his own face marred by bruises and dirt. Bradford met him at the base of the stairs and shook his head.
"We're holding but they're pushing back. Gonna be corpses enough to build a wall at this rate. Got refugees heading to the docks to the East. Some reason the aliens haven't flanked too far south of London and come up north."
"They're trying to funnel us. And they made us spread ourselves thin, then punched past our defences. They put everything on that… air drop. This feels like a do-or-die assault."
"You think?"
"Well, I think they meant it to be a killing strike. And now they're committed. Except we've made it into a meat grinder for them. As I said. Let's make the bastard bleed."
They walked across the grass of the keep, troopers ferrying the few ammunition crates they had left to the walls. A couple of corporals were inventorying the remaining mortar shells whilst a work detail hauled the corpses of flying aliens, cryssalids and snake-men into piles, ready to be disposed of. Bradford shook his head, "Damn. This war ain't like anything I've ever seen."
"And let us hope we never see its like again after it's over."
A signaller jogged out of the keep and descended the wooden stairway to meet them, "Sirs, reports from the north. A couple of company strength units assaulting the alien advance northern flank. Looks like reservists and a few Regimental remnants."
Bradford and Anderson exchanged glances, "Who are they?"
"Observers say its a mixed force."
Anderson nodded slowly, "Could be Marter. He's a sensible chap. He's have withdrawn once Westminster was compromised, taken the troops. And if he'd avoided a trap like the one Smytheson tried with us…"
"Unless that thing we killed was Marter?"
Anderson shook his head, "No, that thing was a puppet. I'm sure of it. Regardless, this gives us a bit of breathing room. That gun ready?"
Bradford nodded, "But don't know how effective. Shen said it needs to charge. And we may not get many shots out of it. Or the one south of the river. Especially if we get Tripods breaching the Hays Wharf."
"We need to keep them away from the Ironclad if we can. They may try to focus on it, which will give us a better chance to take them out."
As if on cue, the gun atop the keep fired. The noise was more a vibration than a sounds, followed by a static feeling in the air and a strange tang on the teeth. Blue light flashed and a distant explosions sounded. There was a cheer from the walls and Anderson's grin was feral. Bradford snorted, "Sounds like another walker down."
"Let's hope they stay cautious. Means we can hopefully…"
Gunfire began along the walls - the wave of infantry had apparently arrived. Green bolts sailed above the keep, thick and fast. The two officers hurried inside. There was an explosion behind them and they turned only to stare.
A shell had landed inside the keep and had begun to pump out an oily black smoke.
"Steam! Steam now! Get water hoses on that thing! Masks, everyone! MASKS!" bellowed Anderson.
Clearly the gloves were off.