“I heard some rumors that our troops are over the walls and inside.”
“They never managed to do that before, did they?” asked Becca. “So we’re winnin’?”
“Sure seems like it! I’ve been here since the beginning and every other time we never got past the outer wall. Maybe we can beat these sons-o-bitches this time!” He glanced at her and added, “Sorry.”
“Cuss ‘em all you like! I sure do!”
Simms laughed but then straightened up and pointed. “Looks like you’ve got some customers.” Sure enough, an ambulance was approaching, a motor-powered one; they didn’t use horse-drawn ones near the front lines because of the dust problems. Becca didn’t like to think about what the black dust did to horses. It pulled to a stop outside the big receiving tent. Becca ran over to see if they needed help.
The doors opened and she could hear shouting. One voice was high-pitched and unintelligible. Several others, however…
“Hold him down!”
“Trying to, dammit! He’s strong!”
“Well tie him to the stretcher if you have to!”
Several more Medical Corps men crowded into the vehicle and after a bit unloaded a stretcher with a patient on it. Becca had expected it to be some poor fellow, frantic with terrible burns, but she was surprised that there didn’t appear to be any burns on his uniform. A dust victim, perhaps? But wait… the uniform was in tatters and incredibly filthy. The man had long shaggy hair and a thick beard—both against regulation. A puff of wind brought an awful stench to her nostrils. What in the world…?
The man caught sight of her and tried to lurch upright on the stretcher, but his arms were tied to the poles and he couldn’t. He started to scream, “Run girl! Run! Don’t let ‘em get you! They eat us! They eat us!” His voice rose to a shriek.
Becca stood there, frozen in horror, as the man was carried away.
“Saints preserve us!” said Simms coming up next to her. “What happened to that poor devil?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, but she was afraid that she did.
A moment later another ambulance arrived, this one carrying an infantryman with a badly broken leg, and Becca shook off her shock and went to work. It was a compound fracture with the bone sticking out through the skin. She helped one of the surgeons work on it. The man was in a lot of pain and she tried to distract him. “How’d this happen, soldier?”
“Fell off the wall,” he replied through gritted teeth.
“Inside the fortress? Our troops are inside?”
“Yeah… yeah… got a little too excited, I guess… tripped and fell and… but the others are in.”
“Good, good! Well done, soldier!”
“Dunno about that… this sure wasn’t well done!” He gestured to his leg.
“Don’t you worry! We’ll get you fixed up and…”
Before she could go on, an officer dashed into the tent and shouted: “Drop whatever you’re doing and get ready to move! Right now!”
The man turned to leave, but one of the surgeons stopped him. “Move? Why? What’s happening, Lieutenant?”
“Martians! There’s a bunch of ‘em coming down from the north and they’re headed straight for us!”
Chapter Five
Cycle 597,843.8, Holdfast 32-1
Qetjnegartis’ machine shuddered with another near miss. There didn’t seem to be any damage from it, but it was only a matter of time until something did hurt it critically. The situation was growing increasingly desperate and it knew it would have to make some serious decisions very soon.
The respite they had gained from retreating to the far side of the holdfast had lasted longer than Qetjnegartis had expected. First, the enemy had spent time to destroy the defense towers on the redoubt, even though they didn’t really matter anymore. Then, it seemed that the move had put them out of range of the smaller projectile throwers and only the very largest ones had been able to reach that far. Unfortunately, the fire soon became heavier again. The enemy was moving the smaller weapons forward and the bigger ones were finding the new range.
Enemy vehicles and foot warriors were inside the ramparts now and advancing across the open ground toward them. Others were sweeping around the top of the ramparts in both directions, destroying the defense towers one by one. It wouldn’t be long before they were attacked on three sides.
Braxjandar was close now, but unless relief arrived very soon, it might well be too late. What was the proper course? Fighting to destruction would achieve nothing. But if the holdfast was lost with its construction machines, factories, and all their equipment, it would also be a disaster. The prey-creatures had gotten inside the underground sections, but so far had not penetrated to the vital areas. Given time they no doubt would.
The fighting machines had a limited self-repair ability, but they were not capable of constructing other machines. And without access to the holdfast’s central generator, they would eventually become immobilized as their power was exhausted. Forced to flee into the wilderness, the clan would have little hope of building a new holdfast. Even the reinforcements on the way from the Homeworld would be of little help when they arrived since they were carrying primarily people rather than equipment. At best, the Bajantus Clan would have to indenture themselves to some other clan, losing their independence and all prestige. It was a fate little better than destruction.
“Progenitor, the enemy comes within range,” said Davnitargus over the communicator. “May I fire at them?”
What the bud had said was true, foot warriors were getting close and some of the self-propelled projectile throwers not far behind. “Yes. Fire at anything that gets close enough.”
Almost instantly a heat ray leapt from the projector on Davnitargus’ machine. But it was poorly aimed and shot harmlessly into the sky. The bud brought the ray down but was soon blasting the ground far short of where the enemy was moving. “Carefully!” cautioned Qetjnegartis. “And fire in short bursts. If you fire for too long you could overheat the projector.”
“I understand, Commander.” It could sense the bud’s frustration, but Davnitargus ceased fire, waiting for a moment, and then fired again. This time its aim was better, but still not very good. All the others were firing now, too, and the adults swept their rays across the lines of foot warriors. Some were slain and the others dove for the cover of the rocks. The defense towers on the rampart started to fire too, and the area to their front soon became an inferno.
But the enemy was firing back. Small projectiles from the foot warriors were bouncing off the machines’ armor and the larger weapons on the enemy vehicles joined in. The distant projectile throwers rained down in a growing storm. One of the defense towers right behind Qetjnegartis collapsed in ruin and the others were taking damage. Not being able to move like the war machines made them particularly vulnerable.
Despite its warning, Davnitargus managed to overheat its ray projector and had to cease fire until it cooled. Two of the other buds had done the same and all three fell back behind the adults.
Explosions to the right and left revealed that the enemy forces moving along the top of the ramparts were closing in. They only had to engage a single defense tower at a time and could quickly overwhelm it.
A heavy blow made Qetjnegartis’ machine stagger back as a projectile struck it. One of the enemy vehicles had moved in closer through the smoke. It focused its heat ray on the machine and left the beam firing until the enemy exploded. But more vehicles were coming forward.
Suddenly, Zastranvis gave a strange, inarticulate shout over the communicator and its machine charged forward, directly toward the enemy. Its bud followed along, stumbling awkwardly. Qetjnegartis instantly ordered them to come back, but neither obeyed or even responded.
“What is happening?” asked Utnaferdus. “Why don’t they obey?”
“It must be the illness,” said Ixmaderna. “It had been getting worse and the strain of battle may have unhinged it.”
The pair advan
ced so quickly that the prey-creatures were taken by surprise. The war machines were in among them before they could react. Heat rays stabbed out and one vehicle after another was destroyed. Six of them were left burning in moments. But then the enemy recovered and fire hammered the two machines from all sides. Even the foot warriors were emerging from their hiding places and hurling explosive bombs. The bud’s machine fell first, its inexperience with controlling the machine making its situation hopeless. An explosion blew off one of its legs and it toppled over with the other two limbs flailing helplessly. More explosions ripped through the control cockpit and the machine disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
This seemed to send Zastranvis into an even greater frenzy. It spun about, the heat ray blasting in all directions, its manipulator tendrils seized prey-creatures and flung them into the air. But more enemy vehicles and warriors were closing in.
“Can we not help it?” asked Namatchgar.
“We would only share their fate,” said Qetjnegartis sternly. In truth it wanted to help, to charge after Zastranvis, but duty demanded it not give in to those feelings.
Zastranvis continued to fight, but its machine was being heavily damaged. The heat ray stopped firing and one of the manipulator tendrils was torn loose. Suddenly the machine was enveloped by a crackling blue globe of energy which was followed by an enormous explosion.
The power cells! Was that due to damage, or did it do this deliberately?
The blast engulfed everything for a hundred quels in every direction, consuming vehicles, foot warriors—and Zastranvis.
When the smoke cleared there was a burned and blackened circle on the ground and the half-melted remains of enemy vehicles. Several more vehicles outside the circle were burning, too. Other transports and swarms of foot warriors were drawing back, but more were still advancing in the distance. Zastranvis’ sacrifice had won them a respite, but it wouldn’t last long. And there are only eight of us left now…
“Commander Qetjnegartis, respond at once.”
The voice coming over the communicator was so unexpected, Qetjnegartis froze for an instant. Braxjandar!
“Yes! This is Qetjnegartis! Commander Braxjandar, where are you?”
“We have arrived. We are on the high ground north of your holdfast. I can see that you are under attack. How can we best assist you?”
The immediate instinct was to have Braxjandar bring its forces directly to where Qetjnegartis and its people were huddled. But was that the wisest course? Bring them into this cauldron of fire? No! It was the enemy’s long range projectile throwers that were the biggest danger!
“The prey-creatures have a large number of projectile throwers positioned to the east of the holdfast. They are all pointed against us here. If you could move on them quickly you may be able to destroy them before they can turn to face you. Once they are destroyed you can come into the holdfast to assist us further.”
“Very well, Qetjnegartis,” replied Braxjandar. “We shall do this.”
“My thanks. But move quickly before the enemy can redeploy to face you.”
“Understood. Moving now.”
Qetjnegartis felt a relief pass through it unlike anything it had ever experienced before. Perhaps they would not die today after all.
“Progenitor, are we saved?”
“We can hope so, Davnitargus. But we must hold here for a while longer.”
* * * * *
August 1909, North of Fort Wingate, New Mexico Territory
“Crap!” snarled Sergeant Frank Dolfen. “The idiots haven’t even turned the guns!”
“There’s gonna be hell to pay now, Sarge!” said Corporal Urbaniak.
“What the hell have they been doing? The couriers should have been here at least half an hour ago!”
Dolfen was sitting on his exhausted horse staring down at what could soon become a disaster. Off to the right was the enemy fortress and it seemed to be completely wreathed in smoke. Masses of troops and horses and vehicles were milling around the outside and he could catch glimpses of more up on the walls or even down inside. They had finally managed to break through the defenses—but at the worst possible time.
The 5th had spotted the Martians two hours ago and almost thirty miles away. Couriers had been sent back with a warning immediately and then the rest of the regiment deployed to delay the enemy to give the army time to get ready.
Unfortunately, the Martians refused to be delayed.
Against a human enemy, cavalry was just the thing to delay them. They could dismount and form a skirmish line across the enemy’s line of march. The enemy might outnumber the cavalry a hundred to one, but they still couldn’t ignore them and just keep marching or the cavalry would pick them off like rabbits. No, the enemy would have to deploy troops to deal with them and that would take time. And as soon as they got too close, the cavalry could hop on their horses and ride away—and then do it all over again a few miles down the road. It was a tried and true tactic which had been used for centuries.
The 5th Cavalry tried it today. A skirmish line was formed with two paces between each trooper, every fourth man holding the horses of the other three a hundred yards to the rear, the machine guns set up at intervals. All by the book. But the Martians hadn’t read the book. They just kept coming. The 5th fired away with their rifles and machine guns, but the bullets merely bounced off. The ungainly-looking tripods with their strange but surprisingly fast gait simply walked right through the 5th’s line without a pause. Oh, they’d fired their heat rays as they moved and a number of men had died, but the Martians paid them no more heed than a man swatting gnats as he walked. If they’d only had some of those dynamite bombs! They punched through the line and left the cavalry behind. All the cavalry could do was mount up and follow.
Last winter, Frank Dolfen had been chased over half the territory of New Mexico by Martians, so it was novel to be doing the chasing for a change. But it didn’t alter the fact that the cavalry had failed in its mission. Instead of giving the army hours or days warning of the enemy’s approach, all they were going to be able to give was minutes. And looking down now from the ridge, it seemed that even what little warning they had been able to give had been for naught. The army’s attention seemed totally focused on the Martian fortress—not the new enemy coming down on their flank.
The fifteen tripods paused for a moment and then headed down the slope. Not toward the fighting going in and around the fortress, but toward the army’s rear area. “The bastards are going for the guns!” cried Urbaniak. And so they were. The army had amassed a huge collection of artillery, everything from the standard three-inch field guns to huge eight and ten-inch monsters that must have been stolen from the Coast Artillery. They, and all their support equipment and ammunition stores, had been set up in a long arc behind the trench lines which paralleled the east side of the enemy fortress.
But they were all facing west and the enemy was coming from the north.
Some of the field guns could be turned quickly enough and Dolfen could see that many of them had already been moved from their revetments, apparently to get them closer to the fortress. They were out in the open field with their horse teams at hand, they were fairly mobile. The heavier guns, though, they would take a lot more time to be turned. And they weren’t going to have that time.
The field guns got off a few scattered shots and to Dolfen’s delight, one of the tripods actually went down. But the rest kept moving and then the Martians were in range and the heat rays began to stab out. Immediately, explosions erupted as ammunition caissons blew up. Gun crews scattered and horse teams broke loose and bolted. The tripods kept on moving, right into the mass of guns, killing and burning as they went. The artillery couldn’t shift its aim quickly enough at such close quarters and shots went screaming off in wild directions. A round whistled over Dolfen’s head and exploded a few hundred yards behind him.
“Where are the damn tanks?” cried Urbaniak.
“All inside the fortress, I guess.
”
“God have mercy. What do we do, Sarge?”
What could they do? The regiment was all scattered after the pell-mell pursuit. He didn’t know where Captain DeBrosse had gotten to—or if he was even still alive, for that matter. Dolfen had a dozen troopers around him and there were a lot of others in the vicinity, but what could they hope to do now that they hadn’t already tried to do before?
“If… if this gets as bad as it might, the army is going to have to retreat. Maybe we can help cover it.” He looked around and spotted what he was looking for. “Bugler! Sound the rally! Come on! Follow me!”
* * * * *
August 1909, Near of Fort Wingate, New Mexico Territory
“Hurry up! Get those stretchers aboard!” A dozen voices all seemed to be shouting the same thing. Rebecca Harding didn’t need to be told! Ever since the warning about the approaching Martians, all the medical personnel, including the nurses, had only thought of one thing: get the wounded out! There hadn’t been any great influx of new wounded yet, but the tents had several hundred others from earlier mishaps and skirmishes. They needed to be moved out. They pulled the walking-wounded from their cots and sent them off on foot toward the railhead. The others were put on stretchers, almost heedless of their injuries, and bundled aboard ambulances, wagons, or anything else with wheels and followed those on foot.
Fortunately there were several trains with steam up on the sidings; the army’s insatiable demand for supplies and ammunition meant that trains were coming and going almost constantly. Unfortunately, the trains currently there were meant for cargo and not wounded. No matter! Crates were ruthlessly dumped out if the cars weren’t already empty and the stretchers loaded aboard. Box cars, flat cars, it made no difference; every square foot of space was taken up with this new, groaning cargo.
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