Qetjnegartis looked around and switched off its heat ray. Is that it? Have we destroyed them all?
Nothing, except for a few scattered prey-creatures, were in evidence now. The way to the top of the pass seemed clear. But it had seemed that way several times before this day and it hadn’t been true. And what was waiting on the other side? It activated its communicator. “Commander Valprandar, please respond.”
The response was quite some time in coming, but at last it did. “Qetjnegartis, where are you?”
“Nearly at the top of the pass. I have only four functional fighting machines left. What is your situation?”
“The enemy fights with unusual vigor. We kill them in huge numbers, but I estimate we are still at least a tenthday away from your position. The enemy forces are attempting to escape. You must stop or at least delay them.”
“We shall try. But if our situation becomes impossible, do I have your permission to withdraw?”
“If you position yourself properly, your situation will not become impossible! I am very busy here. Carry out your orders!”
“Yes, Commander.” Qetjnegartis broke the connection and addressed its subordinates. “Continue the advance. Help is coming.”
They pushed on up the pass and nothing else attacked them. Perhaps that was the last of them. But as they neared the top, one of the others gave a warning: “Beware, Subcommander! Something approaches!”
* * * * *
March, 1910, Glorieta Pass, New Mexico Territory
The train was barely moving five miles an hour as it neared the top of the pass. But as the slope leveled out, it picked up speed. Andrew leaned out from the flat car and tried to look ahead, but there was a lot of smoke and some tall trees blocking the view. What had been going on here? Was there anyone in command of that cavalry brigade he could talk to? Maybe he should tell the engineer to stop…
Suddenly the locomotive’s whistle screamed out a shrill note that just went on and on. The train’s brakes slammed on and Andrew had to grab something to keep from falling. An instant later there was a bright red flash and the locomotive exploded in a blast of flame; the boiler ruptured and a huge cloud of steam billowed out in all directions. The cars derailed and Andrew found himself tumbling off into a ditch as the flat car lurched one way and he went the other. Everything rumbled to a stop amid the sounds of screeching metal, shouting men, and screaming horses.
And the buzz-saw snarl of heat rays.
They’re here? Right here? Oh God! Oh God!
They were supposed to be reinforcing some cavalry, not leading a charge! Andrew tried to clear his head and saw that he was in a ditch on the right side of the train. The cars were tilted over to the left, so the wheels on the flat car’s trucks were right over his head. One of the gun limbers had broken loose and was in the ditch just a few yards ahead of where he was sprawled. The road that paralleled the tracks was somewhere over to the left, on the other side of the train. Just to his right was a steep ravine that went down fifty feet or more. He tried to struggle to his feet, but McGill was there and pulled him back. “Stay down, sir! They’re right there!”
The heat ray fired again and the passenger car behind the locomotive erupted in flames. Burning men came tumbling out of the doors and windows, screaming horribly. He lay flat in the lee of the car as the rays swept quickly down the line and he could hear several of the limbers’ ammunition explode.
Something tall loomed up out of the smoke - a tripod walking past. More heat rays and the caissons farther back blew up. And then it was on to the cars carrying the troops.
“Oh God! They’re destroying everything!” moaned White, who was just beyond McGill. Lieutenant Truman was there, too, with several of his gunners. Andrew sat there, frozen in horror as three more of the tripods stalked by. Four of them? Right below the pass? They’ll bottle up the whole army! But that seemed to be the last of them. No more came past and Andrew started crawling under the car to the other side of the train.
“Where are ye goin’ ya bloody fool?” McGill tried to hold him back, but he slipped free and squirmed under and through.
“I want to see!” He heard McGill cursing in Gaelic as he made it through to the other side. He looked downhill and didn’t see anything but the burning locomotive and cars. No other tripods were in sight. He looked uphill and there were the four which had wrought such destruction. Right in front of him was one of the anti-tripod guns which had broken loose from the ropes securing it to the flat car and was lying almost on its side. Andrew scrambled forward to get behind its oversized gunshield. He’d be out of sight there. The whole gun was still warm from where the heat ray had washed over it. His heart was pounding and he was gasping for breath. He looked back and there were McGill and Truman, just poking their heads beyond the side of the car.
What to do? What to do? Things were going to hell in a handbasket. The guns were wrecked, the troops scattered. The repair train would be coming over the rise any moment and once it was destroyed, the rail line would be hopelessly blocked. All Andrew had was his revolver. What the hell could he do? He stared through the gap between the gun’s barrel and the gun shield and one of the Martians was right there, maybe two hundred yards away. He stared at it down the length of the gun…
Believe it or not, just a few years ago we aimed our guns the same way Drake did against the Armada…
Commander Cushing’s words came back to him out of nowhere. We just looked along the barrel and when we thought we were lined up on the target, we pulled the lanyard and hoped for the best.
He jerked his head around and shouted: “Get me some shells! From that limber!”
“What?” cried McGill. “Are you out of yer mind?”
“Just do it! Get them and bring them here! Truman! Get me those damn shells!” The pair disappeared and Andrew moved back and wrestled the breech of the gun open. Then he flung himself to where the hand wheels that aimed the gun were located. When the anti-tripod guns were set up, they had a small telescopic sight mounted for aiming, but during transport those were stored elsewhere to keep them safe. Andrew looked along the barrel of the gun and spun the wheels. The barrel moved, but it couldn’t move far lying on its side like this. But one of the tripods was right there.
He heard movement behind him. “Load!” he screamed without looking back.
“Yer gonna get us all killed, sir, you know that?”
“I know! I know! Load, dammit! Before it moves!”
There were several loud clanks and then Truman said, “You’re loaded, sir!”
“Take the lanyard! Fire on my command!”
“Yes, sir!”
He spun the wheels some more until it looked like he had the gun pointing at the tripod. It was the last one in line as they slowly moved up the pass. He made one final adjustment, then he prayed and cried:
“Fire!”
He leapt back as Truman pulled the lanyard. The gun roared and jumped backward savagely. If he hadn’t gotten out of the way it would have crushed him. Heedless of everything else he stood up, and as the smoke blew away he saw his target lurch, stumble, and fall forward as one leg was sheared off above the thing’s knee joint.
“Yes! Load! Quickly!” McGill, Truman, and another man went to work. He saw White emerge from under the car with another shell cradled in his arms.
He went back to the aiming wheels and looked down the barrel. The other three tripods had turned back to see what had hurt their comrade. It wouldn’t take them long to figure it out. He’d get off one more shot if he was lucky. Could he take out another one of them? He spun the wheels but then cursed when they stopped and wouldn’t move any farther! He’d traversed it as far as it would go and it wasn’t pointing at any of them! Damn!
“You’re loaded!” shouted Truman.
Loaded but with no targets!
Except for the one that’s already down…
He’d studied the drawings he’d helped make of the Martian tripods. Studied every part of them. K
new them like the back of his hand. The one that was down, it was lying there and he was staring right up its underside. From there he could see… Yes! He spun the wheels the other way.
“What are you doing?” demanded McGill. “They’re over to the right!”
“I’m not firing at them! Ready, Truman?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Ready…” he moved the wheel a tiny bit. “Fire!”
The gun jerked backward again and he barely escaped it this time. He heard a loud impact and then through the smoke there was a blue glow.
“Everyone get down!” He screamed it with all his breath and then tackled Truman and McGill.
An enormous explosion blotted out everything; sight, sound, feeling. Andrew was slammed to the ground and blacked out for a moment. When he came to, there were blue spots floating in front of his eyes and a ringing in his ears. McGill, Truman, and White were struggling up and someone gave Andrew a hand and hauled him to his feet, too.
“Saints preserve us!” said McGill. It sounded like a whisper, but Andrew realized he’d actually shouted it.
He looked where McGill was staring, and the place where the tripods had been was just a scorched and blackened patch of ground. Andrew painfully hauled himself up on the flat car and looked around. The rear part of the train had been reduced to flinders. There wasn’t a sign of the Martians. Oh wait, what was that? Down in the ravine there was a mound of wreckage, the remains of something Martian, but it surely was no threat now.
A train whistle drew his attention to the top of the pass. The repair train was just coming over the rise and slowing to a stop. Andrew got down from the flat car and limped forward, dizzy and barely able to keep upright. Behind him he heard McGill say: “Where t’hell’s Kennedy gotten himself to?”
Bill White answered: “I think that’s him pinned under the car.”
“Damn,” said McGill.
Yeah, damn…
He met the boss of the repair gang and motioned to the wreck. “How long to fix that?”
The man looked skeptical. “Oh, two or three hours at least… First we gotta use the tractors to push the wrecked cars down into that ravine and then…”
“In two hours the Martians will be here!” He leaned forward until his face was nearly touching the face of the startled man. “You’ve got forty-five minutes! Now get to it!” The man blinked, looked at Andrew, looked behind him and then looked at Andrew again.
“Yes, sir!”
* * * * *
March, 1910, West of Glorieta Pass, New Mexico Territory
The trains had quickly outdistanced them at first, but then they suddenly stopped, and those on foot and in wagons and on horses caught up and began to pass them by on the parallel road. There were still the usual starts and stops you’d have in any army column, but in general they kept moving forward. Not nearly fast enough in Becca’s opinion. The fighting was clearly catching up with them, and they could see that parts of Santa Fe were now burning.
More alarming was the fact that they started to encounter small groups of men and individuals coming down from the pass who claimed that there were Martians up there, too. But a little later there was a dazzling blue flash from up ahead and an enormous boom rolled down the valley. Becca knew what it was and smiled. And the column kept moving; that was the surest sign that the scaremongers had been exaggerating.
It was well after noon by the time the ambulances and Becca got to the top of the pass and started down the other side. There were signs of destruction everywhere and a repair gang had just finished fixing a section of track. The locomotive whistles blew and the trains started moving again. Maybe the fleeing men hadn’t been exaggerating all that much after all.
But they were moving and that was good. Except that now they were finding wounded men along the road; a lot of them, and more were being dragged down out of the hills. They loaded them into the ambulances and wagons as best they could and kept moving. As they came upon the remains of a little town, a soldier who looked like a cavalryman, waved and shouted: “Hey! Can you help? I’ve got a wounded officer here!”
She rode over and halted Ninny next to a man lying on a blanket. He looked badly battered, but not badly burned. There was a bandage on his head and one leg had been crudely splinted with some sticks. She bent over and looked closer…
“Sergeant Dolfen!”
“He’s a lieutenant, Missy,” said the man sternly. “And he’s hurt! He needs help!”
“And he’ll get it! Clarissa! Bring your wagon over here!”
* * * * *
Cycle 597,844.1, East of Holdfast 32-1
Qetjnegartis came to its senses and immediately realized it was badly injured. It wasn’t certain how badly, but badly enough. It also realized that its fighting machine was a complete wreck. Nothing was working and the only light was from a jagged hole in the hull of the control cockpit. What had happened? One of the fighting machines had been damaged. They went to investigate and then… then it had regained consciousness here.
It managed to shift itself enough that it could see out the hole. It appeared to be lying at the bottom of a steep slope. But at the top there were prey-creatures. A lot of them. No sign at all of its subordinates, just a seemingly endless column of foot warriors, draught animals, and equipment marching past from west to east. Some of the transport vehicles on rails moved by at intervals as well, filled with equipment, large projectile throwers, and the fighting vehicles.
Clearly, the attempt to block the prey-creature’s line of retreat had failed and they were escaping through the pass to the east. This went on for a very long time, and the day was nearly over before the flood dwindled to just a few. And then there was nothing moving at all until it was nearly dark.
Finally, there was movement again and Qetjnegartis was relieved to see fighting machines at the top of the slope. Eventually someone came down and found it. It was transferred to a transport pod and carried up the slope where Valprandar was waiting.
“You still live, Qetjnegartis,” it said. “This is good. We have found three others of your group who also live.”
“Good news, Commander, but the prey-creatures have escaped in large numbers, you must begin the pursuit immediately.”
“There will be no pursuit. Our losses have been heavy and our expenditure of energy extreme. Most of my force needs to return to the holdfast to recharge their power cells. Many, like you, need medical attention. We will repair and heal ourselves and begin the pursuit when we may.”
“The enemy may escape us, Commander.”
“If that is true, so be it. We have done all we can for now and even the Colonial Conclave cannot ask for more. This is still a great victory.”
“As you say, Commander.”
Chapter Sixteen
April, 1910, Washington, D.C.
“You were right and I was wrong, Leonard.”
General Leonard Wood knew Theodore Roosevelt well enough to realize just how hard it was for him to make that simple statement. He didn’t want to make him feel any worse—but he wasn’t going to let him off the hook, either.
“That doesn’t matter, Theodore, what matters is what we do about it.”
“And what do you plan to do about it?” Roosevelt was sitting behind his big desk in the White House. Wood had requested that this meeting take place in private.
“We are going to have to fall back to the Mississippi…” he raised his hand to cut off the President’s inevitable protest. “There simply isn’t any choice, Theodore.” He got up and moved to one of the maps Roosevelt kept in his office. It wasn’t as big or detailed as the Big Map, but it would do. “We’ve been hurt too badly to make a stand anywhere further west. The V Corps up in Montana and the Dakotas has been all but wiped out. They were too scattered, trying to cover too much ground, and the Martians just encircled each division and chopped it to bits. If we try to form a line at the Missouri River, the enemy will only outflank us to the north. They could be in Minneapolis
before we could even get a line formed.
“But, their sacrifice wasn’t in vain. The rest of First Army, I and IV Corps, have successfully pulled back and should be able to make it back to the Mississippi. Your two boys will be okay, Theodore.” Roosevelt made a strange jerking motion with his head in acknowledgment. “Combined with Third Army and the other new forces we’re activating, we should be able to form a solid line along the Mississippi and over to Lake Superior. The navy is sending what shallow draft vessels it has up the river and they are starting construction of a powerful flotilla on the Great Lakes. Given the time we should be able to build a very strong line along the river. Naturally, we will hang on to any towns like St. Louis which are on the west bank of the river.”
“What about Funston’s forces?”
“I’m going to leave him and his Second Army headquarters in Texas. What had been his II Corps, however will be reattached to First Army and fall back to the Mississippi. We’ll have to send Funston whatever troops and equipment we can spare to hold Texas and Arkansas.”
The President shook his head. “What a mess! Good God, what will the country say?”
Wood was silent for a moment. Yes, the country was going to be mad as hell. Explanations for the cause of the defeat, and the sound military logic for the retreat, was not going to satisfy the man in the street. The people would want simple explanations and the assurance that someone would pay for the disaster. Some people were already demanding payment; congressmen from the abandoned states, and men looking to take advantage of Roosevelt’s misfortunes. Some, like retired General Nelson Miles, were hinting they would challenge him for the presidency in 1912.
Finally, Wood nodded and said: “Let’s be honest, Theodore, the country is going to want someone’s head to roll for this. We can’t do without your head, but I’m prepared to resign if that’s what’s necessary. There’s no denying that a great deal of this is my fault, too.”
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