Battlefield Mars

by David Robbins

  The yellow Martian touched him for a considerable while. Finally, it lowered its arms and turned to the blue creature. For several minutes they were motionless, although other Martians in the chamber moved quietly about.

  Winslow was unprepared when the blue thing unexpectedly let go. He sprawled flat, hurting a wrist. Struggling to regain his senses, he sat up. His thumb throbbed. He would give anything for a pain med. “What did I do to deserve this?” he said to the basalt floor.

  The four creatures that had brought him from New Meridian were suddenly next to him. He yipped in fright as they seized his arms and legs and hoisted him between them.

  “What are you doing?” Winslow mewed.

  Eyes waving, they scrabbled toward an opening across the way.

  “Where are you taking me?” Winslow hoped it was a cell. He would try to set his thumb and pray, pray, pray that the U.N.I.C. came to his rescue.

  The quartet bore him along dark passage after dark passage. He noticed that, weirdly, their eyes moved in synchrony. When one looked right, the others looked right. When one turned its eyes to look behind them, they all turned their eyes.

  Winslow didn’t try to figure out why. Nothing about the Martians made sense. Their physiologies, their minds, were too strange. They didn’t have faces, or nostrils, or, now that he thought about it, mouths. They must have some way of eating, but he really didn’t care. He just wanted out of there. He wanted to be home safe in New Meridian, and to get the hell off Mars on the next ship to Earth.

  The four creatures veered into a chamber with a high ceiling, and halted.

  Winslow was so astounded at what he saw, he barely noticed when they released him and he fell to the ground.

  There were over a score of Martians in the chamber, a new kind. Umbrella-shaped carapaces topped four-meter tall bodies no thicker than Winslow’s leg. Their eye stalks were short, barely a hand’s-length. Some were clustered around various basalt bowls and benches, others moving about.

  At Winslow’s entrance, they stopped what they were doing, and turned. He saw that one of the things held a greyish object that it was about to place into a wide bowl filled with a viscous green fluid.

  “What in the world?” Winslow gasped.

  Rock shelves lined the walls on either side. He glanced over, and his mind reeled. On the nearest shelves were rows of human heads. Heads he recognized as fellow colonists from New Meridian.

  Winslow screamed.

  The four creatures that had brought him pounced. He was too terrified to resist as they pinned him on his back with his arms and legs spread-eagle.

  One of the new kind approached. Its umbrella-shaped carapace bent and its eyes regarded Winslow.

  “You don’t want to do this!” Winslow sobbed. “I’m important, I tell you. My government will trade for me. Whatever you want.”

  The Martian’s rock-hard fingers closed on his neck.

  “Please! No!”

  Winslow experienced a tearing sensation, and dark drops flew past his eyes. He tried to speak, to plead for his life, but his throat and mouth were filled with warm liquid.

  Blackness descended. So did total silence. Strangely, Winslow felt as if cool air were on his skin, yet he couldn’t feel the rest of his body. He was conscious of movement, and then the strangest thing of all occurred. A faint green light enveloped him, and for some reason, he felt wet.

  36

  Katla Dkany broke out in gooseflesh.

  A second eye appeared next to the first. The twin stalks separated, one eye moving right, the left, then came together again.

  Katla tensed to make a break for it. Before she could move, Piotr lunged and grabbed a stalk. With a sharp outcry, he squeezed and yanked.

  The Martian’s grippers lashed down and seized the boy’s wrist.

  “No!” Katla shouted as Piotr was torn from her grasp. Darting out from under the desk, she turned.

  The Martian was poised on top of it, holding Piotr at arm’s length. Piotr had let go of the stalk and both of the eyes were roving up and down his body. The creature seemed more curious than angry.

  “Don’t hurt him!” Katla said. “He’s just a child, damn you.”

  An eye swiveled toward her and back to Piotr.

  Katla’s intuition screamed that something dreadful was about to happen. She cast about for a weapon and spied an antique snow globe on the desk. She remembered that it belonged to Sharon’s great grandmother, and that Sharon brought it to Mars because it reminded her of her family back on Earth. Snatching it up, she struck with all her strength at the only part of the Martian she might be able to hurt: an eye.

  The Martian dropped Piotr and exploded backward off the desk, landing meters away. Its whole body shook and its eyes waved wildly about.

  “So you can be hurt!” Katla gloated, but her elation was short-lived.

  The creature stopped quaking and turned its eyes on them. Its rock-hard digits opened and closed menacingly.

  Grabbing Piotr, Katla retreated until her back was pressed to the wall. She had nowhere else to go. If she went around the desk, the Martian would be on them in a heartbeat.

  Piotr pressed close and said in her ear, “I don’t want to die.”

  Neither did Katla. She still had the snow globe. It wasn’t much but it would have to do, and she raised it, prepared to fight.

  The Martian sprang. Simultaneously, a burst of auto-fire rang out. Leaden hail smashed the creature to the floor.

  Framed in the light of the hospital entrance was a soldier in a military EVA suit, his weapon trained on the Martian.

  “Archard!” Katla exclaimed in relief.

  He came toward them, and Katla flew around the desk, spreading her arm to embrace him. “Oh, Archard!” To her amazement, he pushed her aside and stepped in front of her as if to shield her with his body. Then she saw why.

  More of the creatures were scrambling out of the former blood pressure patient’s room.

  “On the floor!” Archard shouted, and his finger flicked on his weapon.

  Katla barely flattened when an explosion rocked the hall. Most of the Martians were blown apart, but not all, and more were streaming from the room after them.

  “To the doors,” Archard yelled, “but stay close!”

  Katla understood. Heaving upright, she kept an arm against his broad back.

  Archard sent burst after burst into the Martians but still they came.

  Katla envisioned being overwhelmed and torn to pieces.

  Another soldier charged through the entrance, his own weapon blazing. Between them, the onslaught momentarily stopped. Instantly, Archard turned to the newcomer, whom Katla recognized as Private Everett.

  “Get them into the tank!”

  “Sir!”

  Katla had nearly forgotten that the lesser Martian gravity enabled humans to perform feats they couldn’t on Earth. Such as now, as Everett plucked her and Piotr up in one arm and bore her out of the hospital with an ease and speed he never could back home.

  She breathed easier when she was in the military’s rover, and Everett, with a kindly smile, lowered her and Piotr onto a seat.

  “Good to see you again, kid.”

  A third trooper, Private Pasco, was manning their turret gun. He hollered, “Here they come!” and there was a low thrumming followed by a series of sizzling sounds that made Katla think of bacon frying in a pan.

  Pasco yipped with glee and yelled, “Take that, you ugly suckers!”

  Archard hastened in. He slapped the large button that closed the bay door and came over. Gently reaching out, he touched her chin, a rare display for him. “Thank God we got to you in time.”

  “Where do we go? What do we do?” Katla asked. More importantly, “How can we stop these things from overrunning the colony?”

  Archard did something else that was rare for him. He worriedly looked her in the eyes and admitted, “I don’t know that we can.”

  37

  Archard was caught between
the proverbial rock and a hard place. To go rushing around New Meridian searching for Martians was pointless. He didn’t have enough men to withstand an all-out assault. Not when the Martians could break in from underground anywhere they wanted. It was grimly ironic that the colony’s defenses had been breached by an attack from the one direction the experts never expected an attack to come from.

  He needed time to strategize. “Headquarters, and step on it.”

  “What about me, sir?” Private Pasco asked from the turret.

  “Stay where you are. Burn any Martians you see.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Archard wearily sank into the front passenger seat. He had been on the go for so long it was taking a toll. Shrugging the fatigue off, he tried, yet again, to raise Wellsville and Bradbury. Predictably, neither answered.

  “Look yonder, sir,” Private Everett said.

  The tank was turning onto another street. Bathed in its headlights, a torso on its back with the arms and legs placed to either side. Otherwise, the street was empty.

  “Wonder who it was,” Everett said.

  “Keep going,” Archard directed. By rights, they should identify every victim, but that would have to wait. If they survived the night, if they drove the Martians out, and if they could secure the colony, then, and only then, would they take up the task of identifying the dead.

  Archard boosted the audio but he didn’t pick up so much as a hint that anything out of the ordinary was taking place.

  “It’s too quiet,” Everett said. “Could they have killed everybody already?”

  Archard doubted it. More likely, the colonists were doing as he had instructed and were holed up in their habitats. He wished the tank had been fitted with side-scan radar. In common military and police use on Earth, it could see through walls. So far as he knew, only the U.N.I.C. squad at Bradbury had one. More cost-cutting by the bean counters.

  The tank made another turn. More lights glowed in the windows of several homes.

  Archard took that as a good sign. There were colonists left, and it was his duty to save them.

  As if Private Everett was reading his thoughts, he said, “What are we going to do, sir? There aren’t enough rovers to evacuate everyone. Even if there were, we’d never reach the other colonies.”

  Up in the turret, Private Pasco remarked, “We have to kill the Martians. That’s the only way.”

  “All of them?” Everett said skeptically. “The captain says there are thousands of the things.”

  “For all I know,” Archard said, “there are millions.”

  Pasco said out of the blue, “I guess one of us will have to put the RAM 3000 to the test.”

  Archard had been thinking along the same lines but had kept it to himself for the time being.

  “I officially volunteer,” Everett said, with a hopeful glance at Archard. “In that baby, I could kill Martians like there’s no tomorrow.”

  Katla cleared her throat. “Pardon my ignorance, but what’s the RAM 3000?”

  “A battle suit,” Archer enlightened her. “The latest in a line of combat armor that stretches back a century and a half. Specifically designed for use on Mars.”

  “What does it do?” Katla asked.

  Private Everett laughed. “Ma’am, that baby turns your average grunt into a one-man army.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Katla said. “Has it been used a lot in war?”

  “Well, actually, no,” Everett said. “We haven’t had any wars up here to fight.”

  Katla stared pointedly at Archard. “So whoever puts it on to hunt the Martians down doesn’t really know if it will perform as it should?”

  Everett shrugged. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

  “There’s another?”

  “Sure,” the Kentuckian said, and laughed. “For the fun of kicking Martian ass.”

  38

  The United Nations Interplanetary Corps headquarters building in New Meridian had three levels.

  On the upper floor were their personal quarters. Each trooper was assigned a room, a luxury in the U.N.I.C., since on Earth single soldiers lived in barracks. The behavioral scientists had insisted it was better for morale. A common kitchen and entertainment area were also provided.

  The ground floor consisted of Archard’s office, a ready room, the motor pool that housed the tank, and a state-of-the-art gym with aerobic machine, weights, and more. Keeping fit on Mars required more effort than on Earth. Mars’ lower gravity weakened human muscle mass and bone density and adversely affected the circulatory system. In order to stay at peak health, a daily exercise regimen was required.

  HQ’s sublevel served as storage. Extra weapons, ammunition, arms they didn’t ordinarily use, and other special equipment were kept under lock and key.

  In a large room with its own airlock access to the surface via a ramp, the RAM 3000 hung suspended off the floor in a reinforced frame. The battle suit weighed over a ton. It was powered by a miniature version of the EDM propulsion system that enabled spacecraft to travel from Earth to Mars in an eighth of the time it took using conventional rocketry.

  RAM was an acronym for Robotic Armored Man-of-War. Nearly four meters high and three meters wide at the shoulders, it brought to mind a gigantic suit of medieval armor. Essentially, it was a massive, reinforced exoskeleton, bristling with armaments. To gain access, the operator opened the chest cavity and slid down in.

  Archard placed a hand on a huge boot and looked up at the oversized helmet. The RAM was touted as the most lethal killing machine ever invented. He could only hope that the big brains who designed it knew what they were doing.

  “Merciful heavens.” Katla Dkany was gaping in amazement. Beside her, his hand in hers, Piotr stood stupefied. “I had no idea.”

  Private Everett had climbed a ladder so he could reach the chest plate and was going through the mandated systems check. “So far all the readings are green, sir.”

  Private Pasco was glued to an eReader, paging through one of the RAM’s tech manuals. “I found what you wanted, Captain.”

  “Let me hear it,” Archard said.

  “The operational range varies according to power consumption.” Pasco recited. “At full power under combat conditions the range is estimated—”

  “Estimated?” Archard interrupted.

  “That’s what it says, sir,” Pasco confirmed, and continued. “At full power under combat conditions, the range is estimated to be two hundred kilometers. To extend the range, it is recommended that lower power settings be used. At half power, the Robotic Armored Man-of-War should have a range of four to five hundred kilometers.” Pasco stopped reading.

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No mention of how far the suit can go at its lowest setting under non-combat conditions?”

  Pasco consulted the manual again, then looked up, confused. “No, sir. I don’t get it, though. Non-combat conditions? Why does that matter?”

  “It might,” Archard said. He didn’t elaborate. But a germ of an idea had taken root.

  Up on the ladder, Private Everett called down, “Systems check completed. You’re good to go, sir.”

  Rungs on the frame enabled Archard to climb high enough to turn his back to the suit and ease into the chest opening. There was minimal cushioning. Comfort wasn’t the main consideration.

  Once he was in, Archard lowered the helmet. The controls were voice activated. He said simply, “Power up”, and the RAM came to life. He told the inboard computer to close the chest plate, and once he was sealed in, he flexed the RAM’s fingers, getting the feel.

  Private Everett, meanwhile, had descended the ladder and rolled it away and was now activating the winch that would lower the heavy frame to the floor.

  Private Pasco went to the airlock panel and waited to open it.

  Archard felt a slight jar as the RAM’s boots thumped the floor. He scanned the helmet holo display, familiarizing himself. He’
d only used the RAM once, briefly, as part of training.

  Everett disengaged the frame and swung it aside. “You’re free and clear, Captain.”

  Archard lifted one foot and then the other. All systems were indeed functioning. He looked down at Katla and their eyes met. Then he carefully turned, the RAM thunking with each step.

  “Let’s do this.”

  39

  The moment Archard was out of the airlock, he powered up the EDM drive, kicked in the thrusters on his back, and went airborne. In a few giddy blinks of an eye, he was hovering near the top of the dome. The thrusters weren’t entirely silent; even in stealth mode they made a slight hiss. He didn’t care if the Martians heard him. Let them come. He was in the RAM for one reason and one reason only—to kill every Martian he could.

  Archard held his arms out to either side and looked down at the giant exoskeleton in which he was encased. He raised his left knee and lowered it, then his right knee, and marveled at the ease with which the RAM responded. It didn’t feel like more than a ton. It felt no heavier than a set of winter clothes, except for the boots. They were reinforced to bear the RAM’s weight, and comparatively speaking, felt three to four times heavier than regular boots would.

  Archard turned his attention to the holo display, which was projected in the space between his face and the helmet’s faceplate. He could look right through the readings, and out the helmet. The first time he’d used the RAM it had been distracting, initially. But he’d quickly gotten used to switching from close up to far away. He did it a number of times now to acclimatize himself.

  Next, on visual, he ran through the entire electromagnetic spectrum. He hiked the audio sensors, too. Not surprisingly, the colony appeared perfectly peaceful.

  Archard had one last system check and then he could get to it. “Private Everett, do you read me?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Prep the tank, as I instructed. The extra food, the extra water, everything.”