“I’m sorry.” Archard put a hand on the boy’s shoulder but Piotr shrugged it off. “All right. We’ll leave you alone.” Picking up the head, he stepped to a storage locker and placed it inside.
“Poor kid,” Pasco said.
“Stay by him,” Archard directed.
“Like his shadow,” Pasco said.
Archard returned to his seat. The dome was in sight, glistening golden in the pale Martian sunlight.
“Another couple of minutes and we’ll find out what’s going on,” Private Everett said.
Archard couldn’t wait.
23
Chief Administrator Levlin Winslow was confused. He’d tried and tried to contact Governor Blanchard on their private line but the governor didn’t answer.
Thinking a storm must be to blame, Winslow got on the horn to New Meridian’s satellite people and they informed him the skies over both colonies, and in-between, were clear.
Winslow clicked off and sat at his desk glaring at his screen. If it wasn’t the weather, then it must be an equipment glitch. Normally, he would ring maintenance and have them fix things. But most of the maintenance staff were in bits and pieces down in sublevel two.
Winslow needed to keep a clear head and think things through. It was important that word be relayed to Earth, that they be made aware it had finally happened.
Winslow was so engrossed in mulling his options that when his computer chirped, he jumped. He accepted the call and felt a wave of anger at the image that resolved. “Captain Rahn! Where the hell have you been? You should have been back hours ago. I’ve been trying to reach you—”
“And I’ve been trying to reach you,” Rahn cut him off. “We’re fifty meters from the main airlock. I was finally able to get through.”
“I trust you have a good explanation for why I couldn’t raise you,” Winslow indignantly began, but once again the captain rudely interrupted.
“We followed the things that killed the Zabinskis from their farm to Albor Tholus. As incredible as this will sound, there’s an entire underground city. These aren’t just animals. They’re Martians. Intelligent, like us. With their own civilization, like us. We were forced to engage, and lost Sergeant McNee.”
“You’ve seen a Martian city?” Winslow said. The cat was out of the bag in more ways than one. He wondered how the bigwigs back on Earth would take the news. Fully half a minute went by before he realized Rahn had gone quiet. “Captain?”
“What the hell?” Rahn said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know about them.”
“What?” Winslow said, his voice rising. “No. Of course not. Not before today.”
“You’re lying.”
“How dare you?” Winslow said. “You’re talking to your superior.” Anxious to divert the officer’s suspicion, he quickly went on. “And for your information, those farmers aren’t the only ones the Martians attacked. Rachel Adams and most of her maintenance crew were slaughtered a while ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that straight away?”
“Damn it, Captain. I’m extremely rattled here. We’ve got real, live Martians, and dead colonists, and I haven’t been able to get through to Bradbury or Wellsville.”
Archard seemed to bend into the screen. “You’re telling me that New Meridian’s communications are down except for intercolony?”
“Evidently,” Winslow nodded. “And no one knows why.”
“If the weather isn’t a factor, and our equipment is working, that leaves…” Rahn blinked a few times.
“Yes?” Winslow said.
“It sounds as if we’re being jammed.”
“Jammed?” Winslow repeated as a horrifying possibility occurred to him, an idea so terrible, an invisible fist closed on his chest.
“We’re being denied satellite access,” Rahn was saying. “I can’t think of anything else that would account for it. But who would jam us? And why?” He sat straighter. “We’re at the lock. Meet me at the Maintenance Center.”
The screen went dark.
Winslow didn’t move. He quaked and said under his breath, “God, no. God, no. God, no. God…”
24
At first glance, New Meridian appeared normal. Businesses were open. People moved about as they usually did. A mother and her little girl smiled and waved at the tank. A man poked his thumb at the dome as if to say ‘Keep up the good work.’
Archard directed Private Everett to make straight for the Maintenance Center. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that a disaster was in the making unless he dealt with the Martians quickly.
Craning his neck, Archard regarded the scientific marvel that protected them from the elements and enabled them to exist on a hostile planet. Nothing could penetrate that dome. Or so the experts claimed. But no one had given any thought to a colony being invaded from below.
Private Pasco piped up from the bay seat, “Sir, shouldn’t we strip out of our EVA suits?”
“Not yet,” Archard said. “We might need them.”
“Inside the dome?” Pasco said incredulously.
“You heard me.” Archard was concerned about an atmosphere breach. Granted, the creatures had undoubtedly burrowed into New Meridian, and not gotten through the dome itself. But he must keep every contingency in mind.
“We’re here,” Private Everett said, and braked. “What about McNee? And the boy?”
“Leave the body for now,” Archard said. “Pasco, bring Piotr.”
The front door wasn’t locked. Except for the hum of machinery, the whole place was quiet. No workers were anywhere to be seen.
Archard proceeded to the office. He noticed right away that an unusual number of monitor screens were black. Most of the sublevel cameras, it turned out, were out of commission. The exceptions filled him with unease.
There were five access hatches to the sublevels, located throughout the colony. Surveillance cameras, and lights, were positioned near each. And those five cameras were the only sublevel cameras still working. They showed the adjoining tunnels were all dark. Every sublevel section, except directly under the hatches.
The Martians had deliberately left the access ladders well lit.
Why? Archard asked himself. So the Martians could see anyone coming down? Unlikely, since the creatures had shown they were perfectly capable of getting around in near-complete darkness.
Archard could think of only one other explanation. The lights were on under the hatches to lull humans into a false sense of security. Which implied the Martians were using psychological warfare tactics. And that implied a lot more.
Shaking his head, Archard said to himself, “What the hell are we up against?”
“Looks like everything is secure, sir,” Private Everett said. “The hatches are still sealed.”
Archard didn’t point out that the Martians didn’t need the hatches; they could dig up through the foundation. He buzzed the hospital, asked for Dr. Dkany, and requested that she come over. “I’ll explain when you get here.”
Next, Archard tried to contact Chief Administrator Winslow but he didn’t answer. “Damn him, anyhow.”
“Sir,” Private Pasco said. “Mind if I ask what the plan is?”
“In a very short while,” Archard enlightened him, “we’re going down into the sublevels and kill every Martian we find.”
“Outstanding,” Private Everett said.
25
Few people ever impressed Archard as much as Dr. Katla Dkany. Physician, surgeon, scientist, she always wore a white lab coat while on duty. Her long blonde hair, habitually in a ponytail, and her lake-blue eyes, appealed to his Germanic nature.
But it was her dedication to her job, and especially how efficiently she carried it out, that appealed to him more.
Archard liked order and discipline. He was a soldier, after all. He liked things to run smoothly. He liked people who ran smoothly, too, as it were. And no one he’d ever met was more on top of their game than Katla Dkany.
When she swept into the Maintenance Center, stepping quickly as was her wont, Archard couldn’t help but smile. A tingle of pleasure rippled through him as he recalled their recent night together. “Dr. Dkany. Thank you for getting here so quickly.”
Her eyes twinkling, Katla leaned in close to whisper, “Your teeth are showing. Be careful or your men will suspect.”
Both Everett and Pasco were staring at him quizzically.
With a cough, Archard introduced them, then motioned for the latter to step aside. Behind Pasco stood Piotr, slumped in misery.
“What in the world,” Katla exclaimed. Squatting, she raised the boy’s chin, and gasped. “What’s happened to this child? Who is he? He appears to be in shock.”
Briefly, sticking to the essentials, Archard related the attack on the farm, and the aftermath.
Katla’s astonishment was evident. “Martians? The Zabinski’s dead? Sergeant McNee, as well? Why hasn’t an alert been sounded? The other colonists need to know.”
“I was going to have Winslow do that,” Archard said, “but he hasn’t shown up.”
“I’ll go to the Broadcast Center and see to it personally,” Katla said, rising with an arm around Piotr. “Right after I drop this poor child at the hospital.”
“Good. Then my men and I can get to the sublevels.”
“Finally,” Private Everett said.
Katla hesitated. “Although by rights I should go with you.”
“How do you figure?” Archard said, thinking she was worried for him.
“Have you forgotten?” Katla said. “My primary specialty is medicine. I also minored in exobiology.”
“Too dangerous.”
“I might be of help,” Katla persisted. “My training, my insights.”
“What about the alert? And the boy?” Archard took her by the elbow and Piotr by the shoulder and guided them out of the office. “Have everyone stay inside and keep their EVA suits handy.”
“If it must be,” Katla said reluctantly. She made as if to kiss him on the cheek but caught herself. “Be careful. All of you.”
“Goes without saying,” Archard said. He held the door and as soon as they stepped through, he unslung his ICW and returned to his men. “We’re not waiting for the C.A. any longer. Lock and load.”
At a jog, Archard led them to the access hatch. The privates covered him as he opened it. Lying flat, he poked his head down. Except for the patch of light directly below, the connecting tunnels were pitch black.
Swiveling on his belly, Archard lowered his legs, placed them on either side of the ladder, and slid down rather than climb. At the bottom, he crouched and splayed his spotlight right and left. Nothing showed on infrared, which was par for the course. He tweaked his audio gain as high as it would go, with the same result.
At his gesture, Everett and Pasco quickly joined him, and the latter said, “Do you think they’re out there, watching us?”
Archard was about to reprimand him for breaking silence when distant rustling and scrabbling filled his earphones.
The Martians were there, all right, rushing to the attack.
26
“Back to back,” Archard ordered. “Everett, cover right. Pasco, left. I’ll support.”
They obeyed, standing straight and tall, the epitome of professional soldiers. No fear showed on either.
The scrabbling noises were louder.
“Semi-auto, unless we’re pressed,” Archard said. “If we can’t hold, we go back up the hatch.”
“Wish I wasn’t wearing this EVA suit,” Pasco complained. “It slows me a little.”
“Focus, trooper,” Archard said.
And then there was no time for anything except trying to stay alive as Martians burst upon them from both sides in a coordinated attack.
Thunder filled the tunnels as Everett and Pasco opened up.
Archard triggered lead to the right, swiveled, and sent more into the pack coming from the left. He’d noticed that the humps in the middle of the carapaces seemed to be a weak spot. It took less ammo to bring them down when they were hit there. He shouted to let the others know but didn’t know if they heard him.
The Martians streamed up and over their fallen, showing no regard for their wounded fellows. Or so Archard thought until he glimpsed a wounded creature being pulled away by others even as the main tide washed over it.
A creature leaped, and Archard riddled it before it could reach him.
He had the illusion he was staring into a sea of waving eyes and grippers. Three times he slapped in new magazines, and still they came, a seemingly endless ocean of alien forms.
Archard realized he and his men would run out of ammo before the Martians ran out of number. And if they were overwhelmed, the colony lost any hope it had of surviving.
Quick decisions. They were key to being a good officer. Even more importantly, they were the key to staying alive in the heat of combat. Archard made one now. He tapped the selector on his ICW to switch to grenades and then tapped again to go from frag to incendiary. He fired a round down the tunnel on the right, spun, and fired another down the tunnel to the left. “Incendiaries!” he shouted. “Get down!”
All three of them dropped low.
Explosions lit the sublevel, and chemical fires converged on their position. Martians were fried in their shells, and the shelves consumed.
For several heart-searing moments, Archard thought he had miscalculated and the fire would reach him and his men but the flames stopped meters short.
Everett and Pasco drilled several charred, twitching creatures, and the tunnels became still.
It wouldn’t stay that way for long. “Up the ladder,” Archard barked. He saw that Pasco’s leg was bleeding, and amended his order with, “Private Pasco, you first.”
At the limit of his suit’s range, Archard’s display showed motion. A second wave was coming. “Move it!”
Pasco’s leg nearly buckled. Everett had to help. They climbed much too slowly.
Archard’s motion sensor was going crazy. He needed to delay the Martians. Switching from incendiaries to frags, he angled the ICW so the trajectory would be just right, and let fly to both sides. Throwing threw himself against the wall, he pressed flat just as the first grenade went off. The wall moved, or seemed to. The second blast almost blew out his eardrums; he should have lowered the volume on his helmet.
By then, Pasco was through the hatch and lending Everett a hand.
Archard flew up the ladder, his hands and feet barely touching the rungs. No sooner was he out than he ordered it shut and sealed.
They stood there, catching their breaths.
“This isn’t good, is it, sir?” Pasco said.
The understatement of the century, Archard thought. “It’s a disaster in the making.”
27
Chief Administrator Levlin Winslow couldn’t get the word out of his head. Jammed, Captain Rahn had said.
At first, the idea seemed preposterous. Why would Governor Blanchard authorize such a thing? The answer leaped out at him like a splash of cold water.
Now, on his way home instead of going to the Maintenance Center as Rahn wanted, Winslow kneaded his hands in his lap and told the chauffeur to go faster.
After the slaughter he’d witnessed in the sublevel, he wasn’t about to go anywhere near maintenance.
Winslow would do whatever was necessary to survive. It didn’t bother him in the least that he was turning his back on those he had been appointed to watch over. When it came to self-preservation, it was everyone for him-or-herself.
Night had fallen with its typical suddenness, and stars sparkled high above the dome. Winslow never could get used to how different Mars’ sky was from the night sky on Earth.
They arrived at his house and the chauffeur came around to open the door, Winslow surprised her by saying as he climbed out, “Tamika, I won’t need you the rest of the evening. Take it off and do as you please.”
“Why, thank you, sir
. That’s kind of you.”
The house was quiet. Winslow hoped that his wife was in bed. She relished her ‘beauty sleep’—Lord knew, she needed it—and usually turned in early. He hastened to the living room, to the west wall, to a wide space between a chair and a silly painting his wife liked. He raised his thumb to the concealed scanner and spoke the confirmation code aloud. The recessed door hissed wide and he was about to descend when the sound of ice tinkling in a glass caused him to stiffen and turn.
Gladys was in her nightgown, her hooch halfway to her mouth. “What the hell, Levlin? You never told me that was there.”
“Go back to bed, dear,” Winslow tried.
Ignoring him, as she always did, Gladys came over. “I live here, the same as you. What is this?” She peered down. “Where does it lead?”
“Come with me and I’ll show you,” Winslow said to spare himself from having to provide a long explanation.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me this was here? A secret stairwell, in my own house!”
At the bottom was a massive access door with a keypad. There was also a turn-wheel in case the electricity went out.
“Why, it’s a vault of some kind,” Gladys marveled.
“The proper term is Survival Shelter,” Winslow set her straight. “In the old days, they were called panic rooms. It was where someone would go to be safe if their house was broken into.” He smiled and patted the impregnable door. “The company had it installed. Only three people on Mars have one of these. Myself. Chief Administrator Reubens at Wellsville. And Governor Blanchard at Bradbury.”
“How come only you three?”
“That should be obvious.” Winslow puffed out his chest. “We’re in charge. We’re important. The company wants to keep us alive.” He tapped the sequence of numbers to open the door.
Gladys snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. To them you’re just another cog in their machine.” She paused. “Hold on. Why are we down here?”
Battlefield Mars Page 6
