Counterattack

by Scott H Washburn

  Qetjnegartis watched the creatures for a while. They were taking blocks of plastic and arranging them in different ways according to diagrams projected on a screen. Verbal instructions were being given at the same time. At one point, one of them made a mistake and knocked over a nearly complete construction. The bud overseeing the training issued a command and all the creatures twitched in apparent pain. Then, to Qetjnegartis’ surprise, all the others struck the one who had made the mistake several times and knocked it to the floor. “What just happened there?”

  “We have observed that punishing the whole group for the mistake of an individual results in improved performance for the whole group.”

  “Interesting. So what is your evaluation of this project, Ixmaderna? Do you believe success is possible? Can these creatures be trained to serve us?”

  “All the data so far indicates that it may be possible. But there is still much work to be done and I cannot guarantee the results. There are still too many unknowns.”

  “Understood. But you shall continue with this project as your duties allow. Now I must go. The next wave of transports from the Homeworld will be arriving soon and I must make plans for the new offensives.”

  * * * * *

  December, 1911, New Orleans, Louisiana

  “Standby to launch!”

  The cry was repeated down the length of the slipway and the construction teams leapt to their tasks. Drew Harding looked on in satisfaction and no small amount of nervousness as the USS Santa Fe - his ship! - was about to take to the water for the first time. Involuntarily, his eyes were drawn to the sleeves of his jacket. They sported a first, too: the three gold bands of a full commander. Along with a ship, he had received a promotion. It had amazed him; in peacetime he would have had to wait until he was well into his thirties to reach such a rank. But these days…

  “Ever seen this done before?”

  Drew turned and saw his executive officer standing beside him. Caleb Mackenzie must have been nearly twice Drew’s age. He had a wrinkled face, browned by decades of work in the sun, and a perpetual squint, as if warding off light reflecting from the waters. There was no sun to bother him today, and in fact, a light rain was falling. He wore the uniform of a senior grade lieutenant about as naturally as Drew would have worn a pair of lady’s knickers. Mackenzie was - as he’d proudly told Drew - a river rat, born and bred. He knew ships and he knew the river, but only the urgent needs of a country at war would have ever put him in the navy.

  “Not a sideways launch like this, no. A couple of stern-first launches, though.”

  “No room for that here.”

  ‘Here’ was the Ingalls Shipyard on the south bank of the Mississippi, just across from New Orleans. The yard was owned by the huge Bethlehem Shipbuilding Company and was brand new. There were several other new yards along this stretch of the river, but most of them were turning out wooden river barges or similar auxiliary vessels. Only the Ingalls yard was building armored warships. But Mackenzie was correct; despite the width of the river, there was no room to send a new ship rushing backward out into the ship channel. A sideways launch would keep the ship safely close to the shore.

  One of the shipyard workers, a foreman named Andy Higgins, dashed up and said: “We’re just about ready, sir! You should come up to the platform!” Higgins was even younger than Drew, but in the few weeks he’d been here, it was clear the man was a human dynamo. He’d been an enormous help in learning his way around his ship.

  He and Mackenzie followed Higgins up to the bow of the ship, where a wooden platform had been erected for the launching ceremony. A small delegation from the local community was there, holding umbrellas, along with a much larger group of the construction workers and their families clustered around to watch. Drew went up the three steps to the platform, while Mackenzie and Higgins remained behind.

  The manager of the shipyard was there, a harried-looking man named Wachman, along with his teenage daughter, who would do the actual christening. He introduced Drew to the other men who were local politicians; councilmen or aldermen or dogcatchers or some such. Drew smiled and shook hands and immediately forgot their names. Wachman made a mercifully brief speech, thanking the workers for their efforts; and the politicians made somewhat longer speeches, cursing the Martians, praising the navy, and reminding everyone to vote for them next November. The rain was much heavier now and turning cold.

  Finally, it was Drew’s turn and he simply thanked the workers and assured them that their efforts would soon result in dead Martians. They seemed to like that and applauded lustily.

  The girl, whose bright dress and flowers were starting to wilt rather badly with the dampness, stepped up holding a bottle. The navy had used a lot of different liquids to christen their ships over the years, ranging from wine to water from lakes or rivers close to whatever state, town, or city the ship was being named after. In recent years Champaign had started to be used. Since no one had wanted to make a thousand mile round trip to get a bottle of water from the Rio Grande, Drew wasn’t sure what was in the bottle the girl wielded. But she stepped up and said in a surprisingly strong voice: “I name this ship, Santa Fe! May God bless her and all who sail in her!” She whacked the bottle against the bow and it shattered as it was supposed to, but splashed liquid all over her arms, as it wasn’t. The crowd cheered and the girl beamed and laughed at the mess.

  Shouts rang out all along the length of the ship and the launch crew went to work, knocking away the last of the braces holding it in place. Then with a squeal and rumble, it was moving. It lurched sideways and rushed with frightening speed into the river, throwing up a huge splash of water. Heavy chains were attached to it and these rumbled out after the ship, slowing it down through weight and friction. After a moment, the Santa Fe was at rest a few dozen yards from shore. A small tugboat moved in to push it up against a nearby dock.

  “Well, it didn’t sink,” he heard Mackenzie say to Higgins. “A good start.”

  Drew looked over his command and smiled in satisfaction. The Liberation class monitors were basically scaled-down versions of the old Amphitrite class. They were two hundred and twelve feet long, fifty-six feet in the beam, which made them considerably shorter than the Amphitrites but a little wider, giving them a rather pudgy look. But this allowed them to draw only about eight feet of water so they could go much farther up the tributaries of the Mississippi. Full load displacement would be about three thousand tons.

  The ship’s small size had allowed its construction to be nearly completed before launching. The superstructure was almost finished so all that was lacking was the mast and the armament. This consisted of four eight-inch guns in a pair of turrets mounted fore and aft, and four four-inch guns mounted singly at the corners of the superstructure. The Amphitrites carried ten-inchers, but Drew had been assured that the eights were more than sufficient to destroy a Martian tripod.

  The ship’s crew, which numbered one hundred and forty, would be arriving in the next few weeks. Aside from Mackenzie, Drew hadn’t met any of them. He had no idea how much experience they would have. So the next few months would be a frenzy of work to get the ship fully operational and the crew trained to work as an efficient team.

  He made his farewells to Wachman, his daughter, and the local dignitaries and went down the steps and over to his first officer.

  “Well, let’s get to work.”

  * * * * *

  December, 1911, northwest of Memphis, Tennessee

  “It’s no good, sir! We’re gonna have to turn back!”

  Lieutenant Harvey Brown, Commander of A Troop, practically had to shout into Frank Dolfen’s ear to be heard above the howling wind. It was the fourth day after Christmas and the third day since the squadron had set out from Memphis on another scouting mission. The first and second days had been sunny and fairly warm, but by the evening of the second day there were some ominous clouds building to the northwest. A cold wind had been shaking the tents by midnight. In the morning, the f
irst flakes of snow were whipping past and now, by midmorning, the storm had hit with all its fury.

  “You think it’s that bad?” he shouted back at Brown.

  Brown just stared at him, only his eyes visible between his hat brim and a scarf wrapped around his face. It was a stupid question and they both knew it. Yeah, it definitely was that bad. He couldn’t see twenty yards and the snow was already six inches deep on the ground. He’d seen some bad storms during his times in the Dakotas and he’d heard the old-timers’ tales about the Winter of the Blue Snow in ‘86-‘87. This one wasn’t quite that bad, but it was certainly bad enough.

  “If it gets much deeper, the vehicles are gonna get stuck!”

  That was a fact. The horses and men might be able to push on, but with over half the squadron dependent on trucks and motorcycles… No, there wasn’t any choice.

  “All right! Pass the word that we’re turning around! Make damn sure everyone gets the order, we don’t want anyone getting lost!”

  “Yes, sir!” Brown waved a gloved hand near his hat by way of a salute and spurred his horse toward the head of the column.

  It took a while and there was a great deal of shouting and confusion, but eventually they were all turned around and heading southeast. This put the wind at their backs and everyone felt much better. Dolfen hated like hell to have to abandon the mission - especially since the Martians didn’t seem to suspend their operations because of the weather. But to keep going wouldn’t accomplish anything except probably lose a lot of horses and equipment to no good purpose.

  They struggled on for a few more hours until they reached the ruins of Jonesboro, which was near where they’d spent the previous night. Dolfen ordered a halt and they drew up the vehicles in the spaces between the least damaged buildings to create a windbreak. The men and horses clustered in the lee and built fires and pitched tents as best they could.

  The wind continued to howl all night.

  * * * * *

  December, 1911, near Memphis, Tennessee

  Rebecca Harding pulled her hat down to conceal her face as Captain Dolfen rode by. She couldn’t imagine how he’d react if he discovered she had stowed away on this expedition. He’d be mad as hell, she knew that, but what he might actually do, she wasn’t sure. She still couldn’t quite believe that she was doing this. She’d asked Frank to talk to his colonel about taking nurses along on his scouting missions and he’d said that he had done so, but no decisions - or permission - had been forthcoming. Had he really asked, or had he just told her he’d done so to put her off? It hurt to think he’d do something like that. Of course with the army it could take months for even the simplest thing to get done…

  But when she heard Frank was heading out again, she had acted on impulse - just like when she and Pepe had gone to find the shooting stars so long ago. She’d asked Miss Chumley for a leave of absence, and since she hadn’t taken any time off in over two years, Chumley had granted the request without a problem. She’d found a man’s uniform that fit her well enough, packed a medical kit, gotten her horse Ninny, and just sort of tagged along with the two regular medics when the squadron moved out. The medics had discovered that she was a woman the first day, but they just laughed and made no trouble for her - which was probably more luck than she deserved.

  So they hadn’t turned her in and she had managed to avoid Frank so far. Her original plan - as far as she had one - was that if and when they got into a fight and she had to tend wounded, by that time it would be far too late to send her back so it wouldn’t matter if he found her out. And she’d prove she was so useful that he wouldn’t get too mad and he’d allow her to stay. Simple, right?

  But now, the terrible winter weather had forced them to turn back, and barring any serious cases of frostbite, she’d have no chance to prove her worth. So she had to keep hidden. Fortunately, that same weather made it entirely unremarkable for her to be so bundled up that no one could see who she was. She’d used a blanket to disguise Ninny, too. The snow had finally stopped falling, but the wind was still bitter.

  They crested a tiny rise and there was the river laid out in front of them, the city of Memphis on the far shore. It was late afternoon and the sun peeked out for a moment, painting the buildings and the fortress walls a rosy pink. Frank came riding back and he shouted to the men: “Move it along and I’ll have you back in camp in time for the new year!”

  New Years! It was true, tonight was New Year’s Eve. She’d completely forgotten. The Year of Our Lord, Nineteen Twelve. It didn’t seem possible.

  But what sort of a year would it be?

  Chapter Six

  Cycle 597, 845.0, Holdfast 32-2

  Qetjnegartis watched as Tanbradjus maneuvered its travel chair into the consultation chamber and sealed the door. It had arrived the previous day with the new wave of transport capsules. It was senior-most of the newcomers, indeed, it was senior to all except Qetjnegartis. It said that it had important orders to relay from the clan leaders and the Council of Three Hundred on the Homeworld. Qetjnegartis had been speculating on what those order might be ever since it was informed. Surely not orders to replace me, or they would have sent someone senior. They both had the same progenitor, but Tanbradjus was far junior in order of budding. Even so, it was now the second highest member of the Bajantus Clan here on the target world.

  “I trust you have recovered from your journey and the revival from hibernation?” asked Qetjnegartis once Tanbradjus was halted.

  “Mostly, although this gravity is very irksome! How do you tolerate it?”

  “One become used to it quickly. And after a transference or two, one hardly notices the difference.”

  “Indeed? I hope you are right. My next bud will be ready to detach soon, but I don’t relish enduring this for another quarter cycle until I can transfer.” It touched the sack on its side with a tendril.

  “Hopefully, you won’t need to transfer even then.”

  “Really? I had heard that to avoid the contagions which infest this place it is necessary to transfer on every other budding.” Tanbradjus appeared apprehensive; was it that afraid of the local disease organisms?

  “Every other, or every third, seems to be the average for a new arrival. But with time, the chance of infection grows less - just as our scientists had hoped. I have only had to transfer once so far. But do not worry, we can test you for infection at frequent intervals and there will be no danger.”

  “I was not worried.”

  “Of course not. But come, you spoke of a very urgent matter. What message do you carry that could not be transmitted directly?” Qetjnegartis could not fail to notice that Tanbradjus was not extending a tendril to allow a mental link. Why? What did it have to conceal?

  Tanbradjus hesitated before answering. “This chamber is secure? From being overheard, I mean.”

  “Of course. But what secret do you carry that could be so dire?”

  Tanbradjus looked from side to side and its voice sank so far as to be barely audible. “Qetjnegartis, I fear that our leaders have gone mad.”

  “What?! Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Tell, me, why did we - I mean the Race - come to this planet?”

  “Why? To avoid extinction, of course. The Homeworld is dying, all recognize that fact. To stay would mean the eventual death of the Race. We will conquer this world and relocate our people here. That was always the plan…” Qetjnegartis focused on Tanbradjus. “Are you saying that this has changed?”

  “Yes, the Three Hundred debated this for half a cycle before this last wave was launched. Many objected to the new plan, but the vast majority endorsed it.”

  “What new plan?”

  “There will be no relocation.” Tanbradjus quivered in its chair.

  “What? Then… then what are we doing here?” Qetjnegartis tried to conceive some logical argument to support this decision, but failed utterly.

  “The new plan is that those of us who are here will send resources back to the H
omeworld to stave off the long extinction.”

  “But… but that’s…”

  “Insane? Yes, just as I said.”

  “It’s not practical!” said Qetjnegartis, not quite daring to use the word insane. “The launching guns would need to be impossibly huge to overcome this planet’s gravity and we would be firing… uphill, outward from the sun, to reach the Homeworld! The payloads we could hope to deliver would be absurdly small!”

  “Yes, so the minority argued. But the rest would not listen. The elders are unwilling to leave and they command the rest. The orders I carry - and the orders we must obey - direct us to finish this war with the prey-creatures as quickly as possible…”

  “Which we are already directing all our resources to do,” interrupted Qetjnegartis.

  “Yes, but we must also – simultaneously - begin preparations for the new directive. We must scout out locations for the launching guns we must build and start preparing plans and gathering resources.”

  Qetjnegartis waved its tendrils in dismay. Tanbradjus was right: this thinking was insane! “Perhaps… perhaps once the Council sees how truly impractical this is, they will reverse their decision…”

  “Unlikely, and they have already taken steps which will make re-adoption of the relocation plan more difficult.”

  “What steps?”

  “They are creating new buds to replace those of us who have left to come here.”