“Position yourself on the pad there and grasp the control rods,” said Qetjnegartis. “The interface works exactly like the other machines you have been training on, although as you will find, this machine is far more complex. Do not be concerned about errant actions, the machine is on safe mode and will not actually execute any command you might give it.”
Davnitargus did as directed but it was clear that it was having some difficulty reaching the controls. “Progenitor, this is… awkward,” it said. Qetjnegartis was pleased that the bud sometimes called it progenitor instead of by name. It was a sign of respect.
“Yes, this machine was designed for someone who is full grown. We did not anticipate young buds needing to use them.”
“And we are doing so because of the prey-creatures’ attacks?”
“Yes,” replied Qetjnegartis, both pleased that Davnitargus had deduced the reason and annoyed that the reason existed. “We believe that a very serious attack will happen soon. We may need you and the other buds to repel it.”
“Then I shall learn to operate this machine despite the awkwardness.”
“Excellent. We shall begin with something simple. Now grasping the rods, let your awareness…”
They worked together until Davnitargus was showing clear signs of fatigue. “You did well, very well. Now, let us feed and rest for a while. We can work more later.”
Qetjnegartis helped the bud out of the cabin and into a travel chair that moved them from the hanger into a corridor. The faint rumble of the enemy bombardment came through the walls. It was a constant feature these days. It rarely stopped or even slackened. They were concentrating on Sector 9 of the rampart again and a continuous rain of projectiles was making it difficult and dangerous to replace the defense towers, or even repair the outer face of the rampart. After their last failed attempt to breach the rampart with buried explosives, they now seemed intent on simply pounding their way through with their projectiles. And if not interrupted, their attempt might succeed; a dangerous gap was beginning to appear and an attempt to make repairs had led to the near destruction of one of the work machines. Even without a complete breach in the rampart, the outer face might be leveled sufficiently for the enemy vehicles to reach the top - which would be equally dangerous. Things were reaching a critical point and Qetjnegartis felt the burden of command as never before. Still, even simple tasks like feeding needed to continue.
It guided the travel chair to one of the lower levels of the holdfast. The captive prey animals were held there. One large chamber held the intelligent ones while several others held various types of non-intelligent creatures. There was also an extraction chamber, feeding chamber, and a laboratory. Qetjnegartis was not surprised to find Ixmaderna in the laboratory, examining the remains of one of the non-intelligent creatures. Ixmaderna had a great interest in biology and spent any time it was not required elsewhere here, continuing its studies. “Greetings commander, greetings Davnitargus. Have you come to feed?”
“Yes. How go your investigations? You continue to concentrate on the lesser creatures?”
“It seemed the wisest course, Commander. Other holdfasts which are not… which have more resources to devote to study have spent so much effort on the intelligent creatures that it is unlikely I could add anything. But the lesser creatures appear to be restricted by type to specific geographical areas. Many of the ones we are capturing here have not been reported by any of the other holdfasts.”
“I see. This does seem wise,” replied Qetjnegartis, choosing to ignore the clumsy attempt to conceal its comment on the dire situation this particular holdfast found itself in. “But there are not many of any type left in the pens. How much longer can we sustain ourselves?”
“Unless we are able to venture outside the holdfast and gather more, I estimate only another twenty days, Commander. We have no food supply for the prey we capture so I am forced to feed the herbivores to the carnivores to keep them alive for our use.”
“That should be sufficient. If relief does not arrive to lift this siege long before that, food will be the least of our worries.”
“Indeed? And is the relief force on the way?”
“So I have been promised. I am scheduled to converse with Commander Braxjandar in less than a tenthday so I must feed now and be ready.”
“I understand. Allow me to prepare one of the prey for you.” Ixmaderna transferred the controls from the detailed manipulators it had been using for its examination to the larger ones used to deal with the captives. To reduce the chances of infection, the animals were all kept in strict isolation. Speaking of which…
“How is Zastranvis? Is its infection under control?”
“For the moment,” replied Ixmaderna. “The drugs retard the pathogen’s progress, but cannot eliminate it. Given time, it will surely kill Zastranvis, but it should have a replacement bud ready before that happens, and tests have shown that the infection has not transferred to the bud.”
“That is good. It is unfortunate that its new bud will be a replacement body for it rather than a new being, but we knew this would be the case.” It glanced down at its own new bud. As soon as Davnitargus had detached itself, Qetjnegartis had started growing another bud. They had to increase their numbers as quickly as possible. It hoped that this one would also become a new being rather than a replacement.
While they talked, Ixmaderna used the manipulators to seize one of the prey-creatures. The thing tried to escape while making a series of loud noises. Some of the others tried to grab hold of the manipulator or pull the caught one free and Ixmaderna was obliged to use a second manipulator to brush them loose. But finally the selected prey was carried through into the processing chamber. A restraining device held it immobile while the liquefying fluid was fed into its body through a number of tubes. The creature gave off one final burst of noise and then was still.
While the fluid did its job, Qetjnegartis and Davnitargus moved into the feeding chamber. The young bud moved close to the transparent barrier and examined the prey creature closely. “They do have some measure of intelligence, do they not?” it asked.
“Yes, to some small degree. They are able to construct tools and machines. They have some sort of society which permits them to cooperate.”
“And they must communicate with each other somehow.”
“It must be assumed so. Perhaps those noises they make.”
“Would it be possible for us to communicate with them?”
“To what end? They can never be anything but prey to us.”
Davnitargus fell silent and Qetjnegartis made no attempt to continue the conversation. The young bud would come to realize that only the Race mattered. After a short while the extractor signaled it was finished. The prey-creature’s body was now little more than its outer hide stretched over its skeletal structure. They each inserted a feeding tube into their mouths. The nutrient solution which had been created was fully sterilized and Qetjnegartis ingested it with no pleasure. The entire process was much different than the normal methods used on the Homeworld. It wondered what the bud thought of it since it had never experienced the old ways but did carry some of Qetjnegartis’ memories of them.
When they were finished Qetjnegartis said: “You should rest now. I must converse with Commander Braxjandar. When I have finished, we will resume your training.” The bud acknowledged the command and Qetjnegartis took the travel chair to the command center. On the way there it passed a maintenance machine patching yet another leak in the corridor walls.
It reached the command center and after a brief status update from Namatchgar, who had the watch, it moved to the communications station. It positioned itself in front of a large display screen and grasped the control interface. It sent out the signal requesting contact and then waited. And waited. The agreed upon time came and went and still it waited. There was no doubt that the signal was getting through…
Braxjandar deliberately makes me wait. It is trying to establish its dominance.
“Greetings Qetjnegartis of the mighty Bajantus Clan,” came the reply. “What assistance can we render to you?”
More insults. It knows perfectly well our situation!
“We are under attack by very strong forces of the prey-creatures. We need your assistance or we may be destroyed. The Colonial Conclave has already agreed that you should render us this assistance. I need to know when the assistance will arrive.”
“Yes, the Conclave’s directive,” said Braxjandar. “We have received it and of course we shall obey. However, that directive also acknowledges that we are not required to take any action which would put our own… interests in peril. Considering how very dangerous you have proven the prey creatures to be, I am not sure how much force I dare send so far into your territory. What if we are suddenly attacked while our rescue force is off assisting you?”
“Have you discovered strong enemy forces moving against you?” demanded Qetjnegartis.
“No, not at present, but I would hate to find myself drawn into a trap—as you were.”
“Then the sooner you assist us here, the sooner your forces can return to your own territory.”
“Perhaps. But it is a great distance. If the distance were less, perhaps…”
Now we get to it.
“What do you want, Braxjandar?”
“I believe that moving the boundary between our territories south five hundred telequels would be sufficient to address my concerns.”
“Five hundred!” exclaimed Qetjnegartis. It had been expecting a demand of this nature, but not that large! “That would make your territory nearly twice as large as mine!”
“Our clans’ territory,” corrected Braxjandar. “Surely you are not claiming the territory for yourself, Qetjnegartis?”
“No, of course not. But five hundred…”
“You are having such difficulty defending what you currently hold, it would be illogical to burden your clan with more. I am quite certain the Conclave would agree.”
Qetjnegartis hesitated. Did that mean the Colonial Conclave had already agreed in secret? Prior to the launch of the expedition there had been extensive negotiations in the Council of Three Hundred about where each clan would land and where the boundaries of its territory would lie. The powerful clans laid claim to what they thought would be the most desirable areas. But it was acknowledged that these boundaries might need to be adjusted once the actual conditions on the planet were discovered. They had devised a Colonial Conclave whereby the clans on the target world could coordinate their efforts. Its authority did not supersede that of the Council back on the Homeworld, but it could not be ignored, either.
“If you do not agree,” continued Braxjandar, “you can wait for the reinforcements which will soon launch from the Homeworld. But of course they will take an eighth of a cycle to get here and if they arrive too late, then in all probability the Conclave would direct me to take charge of all the territory once assigned to the Unfortunate Bajantus Clan. Tragic, but necessary.”
Qetjnegartis’ tendril clutched the interface more tightly. Braxjandar held every advantage and they both knew it. If Braxjandar failed to render assistance it might face the criticism of the Conclave, but that would not change the fact that Qetjnegartis and the others, along with the Bajantus Clans’ presence on this world, would be no more. As a further reminder, a strong tremor ran through the control center as another prey-creature projectile struck overhead. No, there was no choice.
“Very well. I agree to these conditions. When can your assistance arrive? And how much will you send?”
“Excellent,” said Braxjandar and there was no mistaking its satisfaction. “I knew that you could be counted on to act wisely, Qetjnegartis.”
“When?!”
“Patience. I will send fifteen fighting machines—my entire reserve. They will arrive in between five and ten days. The area between us is unexplored so it is impossible to precisely predict the travel time. Can you hold out that long?”
“We shall have to.”
* * * * *
August 1909, Baltimore, Maryland
“Ah, he’s waking up, I think.”
“He woke up earlier today, but wasn’t really coherent. He should be doing better now that the fever’s broken.”
Leonard Wood could hear the voices. He’d been hearing voices on and off for what seemed like ages, but they had never been this clear. He could understand them now. One sounded very familiar…
“Come on, Leonard, open those eyes. You’ve been sleeping long enough!”
Roosevelt.
He made an enormous effort and cracked open one of his eyes. The room seemed dazzlingly bright, but one enormous figure was standing at the foot of the bed and slowly came into focus. Yes, it was him, huge teeth revealed in an equally huge grin, bristly mustache above, and two eyes crinkling in delight behind the pince-nez glasses. “Well! There you are!” he boomed. “Welcome back to the land of the living! You gave us a nasty scare there, you know?”
“What… what happened…?” he managed to croak. “How long…?”
“Almost two weeks! You go off and leave me to run the war all by myself, Leonard! Not at all fair!”
“Two weeks? But the doctor said…” His eyes drifted across the other figures in the room and finally came to rest on Doctor Cushing.
The man shrugged. “The operation itself went fine, but you came down with a bad infection afterward. As the President said, we nearly lost you. How are you feeling now?”
“Tired. But all right I guess.” He paused and wiggled his hands and feet under the sheets. “No numbness, no tingling. A definite improvement.”
“I’m not surprised. It was a sizeable tumor and pressing on the brain significantly. With its removal your symptoms should not recur.”
“When… when can I get out of here?” Two weeks! He didn’t want to even think about the amount of work that must have piled up!
“With anyone else I’d want them to remain here for another week. But I know perfectly well that you won’t agree to that, General. So, if you continue to improve, I can release you in two days. But you will have to take it easy for a while.”
“Yes, and you need to rest now,” said Roosevelt. “I just wanted to drop in and see you for a bit. We’ll talk again once you’re back to Washington.”
“Theodore… Mr. President, wait,” said Wood reaching out his hand. “What’s been happening? Has Funston launched his attack?”
Roosevelt looked to Cushing who shrugged in resignation and said, “Just a few minutes, if you please, sir.”
“Very well then,” said Roosevelt, taking a chair, reversing it, and sitting down next to Wood. “Funston hasn’t attacked yet, but he promises that he will in just a few days. He’s very confident of success.”
“Good, good. Has anything else critical happened?”
“Oh, there’re mountains of things for you to go through when you’re up and about, but… only one thing that’s really critical.” The President paused and his face grew serious.
“What’s happened, sir?”
“Well, Leonard, just as we feared, with Mars approaching opposition, they’ve started launching cylinders again.”
“Dear God. How many?”
“Three salvos of ten so far. They started three days ago and naturally we don’t know how many more they plan to launch.”
“And they’ll be here in four months?”
“It seems likely. The astronomers mostly agree and it’s what some of them predicted.”
“So we need to get ready for another invasion.”
“Yes. Get well soon, Leonard. We need you.”
August 1909, Washington, D.C.
Andrew Comstock ducked his head slightly to pass beneath the arch of crossed sabers held by a dozen fellow officers. Victoria, clutching his arm and pressed close, didn’t have to worry. The look of absolute delight on her face filled him with a matching joy. The addition of the President to the guest list had transformed their wedding from a modest thing that was to be held in the Fort Meyer’s chapel to a gala event held in St. John’s Episcopal Church on Lafayette Square just a block from the White House. The church had been designed by the noted architect Benjamin Latrobe and had been used by every president since Madison. But it wasn’t a huge church and much of the crowd of guests, onlookers, and newspaper men had spilled out onto the sidewalks and across 16th Street.
Beyond the rows of officers were more well-wishers, many of them friends of Victoria, who threw handfuls of rice at them. Andrew had always thought this a rather stupid tradition, but the barrage largely bounded off his tightly buttoned dress blue uniform. Victoria’s frilly wedding gown had vastly more nooks and crannies to catch the grains and he imagined she would be picking rice out of her dress for weeks. Perhaps tonight he’d help her with that…
They were quickly past the rice-throwers and saw their carriage waiting for them at the curb. President Roosevelt and his family were also waiting, Roosevelt beaming as though it was his daughter who was getting married. His own carriage waited just behind the one for the new Mr. and Mrs. Comstock. Andrew helped his bride aboard and seated himself beside her, and after a moment they were off. A squad of cavalry preceded them and another brought up the rear, behind the President’s carriage. Quite a mob of people were lining the streets, waving and cheering. The whole thing was beginning to feel like a fairy tale.
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