Greetings fellow humans and others, this little scribble was started in a response to a question many months ago regarding other sci-fi worlds meeting SSB. With my creative juices being decidedly slow-moving, this short view has taken a while to put together. However, here we are. This is based off the "Scarlet Traces" series, set in a world after the War of the Worlds by HG Wells. It's not intended to be taken overly seriously, but if you want more, or have ideas for it, please feel free to comment. It's always a delight to read constructive feedback.

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“Plots bearing Red 45, speed high, numbers… 40… 60… 120….200 plus!”

The plotting room, deep within the bowels of the Olympus class station hanging over the asteroid field that once was the planet Mars was a thrumming hive of activity as plotters recited the information buzzing through their headphones, their long sticks guiding blocks across the smooth surface of the plotting table.

Overhead grim-faced officers were already calling the patrol fleets to action stations, a tight beam signal already hurtling towards Earth with the news. After almost 70 years since the destruction of the Martian menace with the British Commonwealth still dominant both on Earth and above it, a new foe had appeared.

“This is the BBC Home and Commonwealth Service! We interrupt our scheduled programming to bring you this special news bulletin. This morning at 7:35 am Greenwich Mean Time, an unidentified fleet entered the Solar System, this force was immediately picked up by our early warning system and by the Olympus Class station “Hades” stationed in the Mars belt. While the fleet is not Martian, their intentions have not been made clear. Patrol fleets are moving to intercept."

"All regular and territorial personnel are hereby ordered to return to barracks and await orders. The Prime minister will make a special address to the house at eleven o’clock."

"In the meantime, all civilians are urged not to panic but to hold themselves in a state of readiness, Civil Defense and Royal Observer Corps volunteers are ordered to report to their stations.”

Slashing through space, the first long-range interceptors of the 72nd Interceptor squadron sought out the visitors, their senses on a knifes edge as their scanners showed them getting ever closer to the mysterious fleet.

“Any sign of an armada yet?”

“Nothing yet, just miles and miles and miles of… the fuck?”

“Oh, fuck me, who let the bricklayers up here?”

“Shut it! All of you! Blue Seven, are you getting a good look for control?”

“Roger that Blue Leader”

“Bandits incoming! Above and below!”

“Break! Break! Broadcast First Contact Packet!!”

​

“Three interceptors down sir!”

“Fuck! How many of theirs?”

“Unknown sir, pilots report missiles having limited effect due to countermeasures, heat rays proving effective”

“Very well, get me through to ground command, about time the ground pounders finally got some in!”

“Right… yes sir!”

“Corporal, commence Operation Wheat”

“Yes sir!”

Across the myriad of asteroids throughout the former Martian orbit, lights and signals suddenly began broadcasting, broadcast waves suddenly blasting dozens of voices across every signal, a formerly apparently sparsely populated defence and mining zone suddenly heaving with life. Or at least, that’s how it would seem to anyone listening or watching from a distance.

Closer inspection however would show the buildings were simply metal shells, the radio signals prerecorded messages. But underneath all the noise and shiny lights, a few genuine mining colonies and research stations were quickly and efficiently evacuating, boarding transports with as much raw material as they could carry and fleeing via pre-planned routes towards Earth.

​

Many nations had at best laughed and at worst, accused the Commonwealth of warmongering in the years since the end of the Great Martian War. The constant drills, vigilance and maintaining of a formidable astronomical navy, coupled with the Commonwealth's blunt refusal to share technology had even earned it commendation from some of the more powerful nations of Earth over the years.

Their whining however had little effect, especially from Britain itself, many of its older citizens having parents or grandparents who had survived the Martian invasion in 1896, some of whom had even borne witness to the Martian’s atrocities. With the end of the Great War on Mars in 1944, and the eventual government revelation that the Martians had been attempting to breed their newer generations to look passable as humans in order to populate the earth, the commonwealth's resolve had simply hardened.

In the years since then, the combined strength of the commonwealth had simply increased, turning what had once been the largest empire in human history into a centralized economic and industrial powerhouse, aided a great deal by its almost complete monopoly on space travel and its total monopoly on asteroid mining technology.

Even all these years later, in the opening decades of the 21st Century, only the German Empire, the Russian Confederation and the Japanese Empire had managed to get anything of any consequence into orbit. The United States was also well on its way to developing its own orbital programme in order to join the other major powers, but its economic and social upheavals had held it back from such an expensive enterprise until only the last twenty years.

Naturally, these powers' ambassadors in Manchester (the British capital), Ottowa (The Commonwealth capital) and Auckland (The Commonwealth Astronomical Fleet headquarters) had been alerted to the rapidly approaching threat.

Even as the politicians bustled to and fro on Earth, the huge grey hulks of the Royal Commonwealth Astronomical Fleet (RCAF) were gliding out away from earth. The pride of the fleet, HMAV (Her Majesty’s Astronomical Vessel) Thunderchild, a dreadnought of the Dashwood Class, taking up position under the command of Admiral Nahjeet Nijjar.

As the Home System Fleet arrayed itself in defensive positions, defences across the Commonwealth slowly swung skywards, relay cannons, heat-ray projectors and missiles formerly hidden in the depths of New Zealand fjords, the Australian outback, the Canadian tundra and even sea-based defence platforms fed a steady stream of targeting information by the long-range rangefinders on the moon, systems reporting green, one by one sending their confirmation signals to the hidden headquarters simply known as “Avalon”.

On the bridge of the frigate “Kingston”, lieutenant Wilfred Jones kept one ear pointed at the comms post, a small knot of seamen and officers gathered around the station, suggesting various methods for communicating with the Alien fleet still thundering towards Earth, the Kingston being one of a number of frigates shadowing the fleet just outside their apparent range.

So far, tight and broad beam radio signals were not being responded to, and neither was the rather optimistic attempt with the brand-new holographic technology. Either the fleet was simply refusing to talk, or they were using completely incompatible technology.

Glancing around the rest of the bridge, Jones sighed, he was so used to being able to read his crew, but now, with their faces hidden behind the visors of their survival suits, he only had their hunched and tense body language. These men and women had been brought up with the horrors of the Martians taught in schools, in family histories, in the interviews and anniversaries of veterans every year in the media. Not one person on this ship was willing to let the same fate befall their loved ones. By the same token, these ships bore no similarity to the Martian cylinders or other craft, their purple brickish shape giving little to no clue as to their identity or intentions, though their ambush of the 72nd interceptor patrol squadron was not a promising start.

Suddenly the man was jerked from his thoughts, a deep, booming yet suspiciously feminine voice suddenly blasting from the coms station. “… ire! This message is on behalf of the Shil’vati Imperium to all citizens of Earth! You are ordered to stand down and submit to the Empress's divine will! Lay down your arms and you will be spared and uplifted as citizens of the Empire!”

With a loud curse, the coms officer swung the volume down to a more acceptable level, the message repeating on loop as the fleet hurtled onwards.

After a few minutes of the message repeating, a horrendously fake French accept piped up from the far end of the bridge, “Ehh I will ask ‘im but es already got one you see!” A chorus of snickers at least eased some of the tension as even Jones’ lips quirked up in a slight smirk.

“Sparks? You got any way of responding?” he attempted to bring everyone back to focus, “See if you can get any acknowledgement of the first contact packet.”

Mere seconds later the on-loop message abruptly cut off, replaced with a heavily accented voice that sounded like a German and a Russian had got drunk and were trying to speak like the queen. “Vis is ze Impervial Dveadnaught Divine Vill! Do vou vish to sur... sah…Sssuurvenda?”

Stunned for a few seconds by the sudden and somewhat bizarre response, Jones only just remembered to respond.

“This is Her Majesty’s Astronomical Vessel Kingston! We are attempting to confirm your reception of our first contact broadcast and ordering your fleet to hold position! You are currently in Human territory and infringing on our borders! Any further progress will be taken as a hostile action and will be met with defensive force”

​

The silence which reigned throughout the bridge following the Lieutenant’s address was so thick it could’ve been spread on toast and classified as a meal for six, Jones quietly signalling Sparks to relay the broadcast towards the home fleet.

His hopes weren’t particularly high for peace, however, as the fleet showed no signs of stopping, a small notification chiming in his helmet to let him know the admiralty had activated “Operation Drake”

Hidden amongst the asteroid belt around Saturn, a little over one hundred seemingly derelict ships suddenly shuddered to life, lights and systems blinking on as engines slowly started their activation sequences.

Devised as an effective distraction system, Operation Drake also provided a useful way of disposing of old space vessels without the other powers of Earth getting their hands on the technology.

Each ship, ranging in size from a twenty-man corvette all the way through the decrepit dreadnaught Olympus, was packed with shrapnel, explosives and a huge quantity of cavourite, the blasts designed to blow the deadly contents forward of the ship, ensuring the vessels didn’t even need to reach their target to cause catastrophic damage, while also ensuring that should a ship be prematurely detonated, the explosion wouldn’t wipe out the rest of the remote-control fleet. The Cavourite on board these vessels was humanity's secret ace. A material developed during the Great Martian war, and the reason the upper crust of Mars was now floating as an asteroid belt in orbit above the red planet. A gooey material, it had the unique property of repelling itself away from other cavourite while being impossible to remove from any surface it stuck to. The result was a gel that when launched at anything from earth to armour plate would cause even warships to tear themselves apart with violent force. If it wasn’t for cavourite, humanity might very well have lost the Martian war, a fact made all the more obvious by the smouldering crater that used to be London.

As Jones was just about to resend his broadcast, the radio suddenly pinged again, the same voice rumbling through the speakers.

“Veception ov Firzt Contact Packet convirmed! Any attempt to shtop ze Empervesses Vill be tseen as a declarvation of Var!”

​

Realising this was well and truly above his paygrade, Jones checked to see if the message had been received by the home fleet and the admiralty. A response was not long in coming, a simple four-letter signal in traditional morse code buzzing through his helmet, the sudden stiffening of his crew telling him the message had been sent to every last member of Her Majesties Royal Commonwealths Astronomical Fleet, the message simply reading “Fire”.

The next few seconds shattered the silence, gunnery officers clamouring for the Kingston to get closer in order to launch missiles, anti-fighter gunners yelling about incoming interceptors, communications officers attempting to feed him orders from the commodore of the squadron.

As the helmsman swung the ship into a performance of evasive manoeuvres, chaff was launched from the back of the frigate, the commodore ordering all ships to harass the enemy fleet and fighters as best they could. Jones following the order by ordering the activation of anti-fighter automated turrets as well as the missiles, strapping himself into his seat hurriedly as one unfortunate rating suddenly found herself floating up out of her chair as the artificial gravity switching off, power rerouted to more vital systems.

A sleek purple craft silently hurtled past the viewport, the expressionless yet surprisingly humanoid-shaped head of its pilot visible for the briefest of seconds before disappearing out of view, the gunnery officers reporting several hits with no kills as yet.

​

As the first real engagement of the war was getting underway, the low mournful wail of warning sirens rose above the streets of towns, villages and cities across the Commonwealth, soldiers piling out trucks and barracks as police set up roadblocks. Ministry of Survival personnel scrambled to their stations, their movements almost automatic as they followed their training, the blast doors of shelters rumbling open as people hurried to their local shelters. In the hours since the initial warning broadcast, the airwaves and viewing screens of the Commonwealth were filled with government safety precautions, urging calm and consideration.

“Be sure to pack only the essentials in your single allocated suitcase! Necessities such as food and medical supplies will be provided at your shelter! Do not attempt to bring pets to the shelter! If you are a member of Civil Defense, Observer Corps, Emergency Prevention Services or National Services, do not attempt to enter a shelter, your family is entitled to priority entry once you report to your designated stations!”

Looters attempted to make the most of the unique opportunity only to find themselves fired upon by patrolling soldiers and police, their bodies all but evaporated by the invisible hand-held heat rays issued to the security forces.

“The Defense of the Realm Act is now in full effect! Make sure to follow all instructions from military or government personnel! Keep calm and ensure your family’s and neighbours' safety! Do not rush, do not push!”

Within a matter of hours, it was estimated that almost 63% of the Commonwealth’s population was safely sealed in their shelters, the Ministry of Survival reporting hundreds of shelters were having to be sealed due to being at full capacity, anyone left outside being directed to the nearest available shelter.

Casualties were already estimated to be in the thousands as panicking civilians found themselves involved in crashes, rioting outside sealed shelters, or crushed by frantic crowds despite the efforts of the authorities, the slow wail of the sirens a lament as rockets thundered skywards, the dazzling lances of spite carrying the tools and blood of war towards the field of battle.

​

Up in the void of space, a silent explosion briefly flashed as the Kingston’s hull was eviscerated, torn asunder by missiles, a few of her turrets still firing for a few brief moments after her hull split, flinging debris and crew into the vacuum of space. With no opportunity to pick up survivors, her sister ships were forced to continue their mission, slowly drawing the interceptors and picket ships dispatched after them further and further away from the main Shil fleet. The crews of the ships pretended to block out the beeping of survival suit distress beacons, knowing the suits had only 12 hours of oxygen, and hoping that the time was time enough.

As the main Shil fleet sped towards the waiting home fleet, there was a disturbance observed towards the rear of the fleet, long-range scans revealing almost one hundred plots coming into range behind the invading fleet, the enemy seeming to be shocked as the ships stormed towards them. Cold smiles curled beneath survival suit visors as the audio files for each ship were activated, flooding all communication frequencies in that area of space with the single most tortuous sound the commonwealth could bring to bear, the sound of football and rugby club chants blasting at full volume as the first of the ships came within range of the enemy guns, first one ghost ship then another falling to the enemy fire. Throughout it all, the plots on the screen edged ever closer, so close some were almost touching as two winked out, then another two. The enemy fleet might not be destroyed, but the shrapnel and loss of even a few ships demonstrated one thing to every observer.

They might not know much about these invaders, but they knew the only thing that mattered.

They could bleed.