Colony Down: Battlefield Mars Book 2

by David Robbins

  Archard was grateful his small group wasn’t attacked a second time. He suspected that the Martians were busy hitting specific targets, and would pick off everyone else once the colony was under their sway.

  He stayed keyed to the U.N.I.C. channel and overheard an exchange between Major Howard and Private Heinlein. The latter, along with a Private Bova, were in a tank sent to defend the Broadcast Center. Apparently, the privates had engaged the Martians and routed them, and the major congratulated them on a job well done.

  “Let them try again and we’ll burn the bastards, sir,” Private Heinlein crowed. “They go down easy.”

  Archard couldn’t let that pass. “This is Captain Rahn, Private,” he broke in. “Don’t get cocky. I’ve fought these things. They’re not pushovers.”

  “We can take them, sir,” Private Heinlein declared.

  “I like your attitude, Private,” Major Howard said. “Keep pouring it on them. And Captain Archard? Unless you have something positive to contribute, maintain radio silence.”

  With an effort, Archard swallowed his anger.

  “What’s the matter? You look mad?”

  Archard hadn’t realized that Katla had come up, Piotr glued to her leg.

  “Archard?”

  “When we reach the Security Center, I’m taking you and

  Trisna to a bunker on the bottom level,” Archard informed her. All the Security Centers had them. “It’s where emergency supplies are stored. You’ll be as safe there as anywhere.”

  “Nowhere is safe, and you know it,” Katla said.

  “If you keep quiet and stay still, they might not know you’re there. If I can, I’ll come back for you.”

  “You think the colony will fall, don’t you?”

  “There’s no predicting,” Archard hedged.

  They hastened on, neither saying a word, until

  Katla said quietly, “I hated being separated. I missed you. Worried about you.”

  “Same with me,” Archard acknowledged.

  “Where are we, Archard?” Katla said. “I don’t mean here,” and she gestured at the buildings and the street, “but in here.” She touched her chest. “Have we taken it to the next level? In New Meridian, we dated and had feelings. But this is more, isn’t it?”

  “Now’s not the time,” Archard said.

  “Then when?” Katla said. “Our lives could end around the next block.” She squeezed his arm. “I’d just like to know where I stand. Am I making more of it than there is or do you feel about me the way I feel about you?”

  “If we make it out of this, I’d like to go on seeing you,” Archard said. “Does that answer your question?”

  Katla smiled. “More or less.”

  “Captain!” Private Pasco said. “Everett is signaling!”

  Archard had let himself be distracted. Up ahead, the Kentuckian had raised his fist in the air, the sign to freeze. Pasco, Corporal Arnold, and Private Niven already had.

  “Stand still, ladies,” Archard said, and glided to join Everett, who was pointing his ICW up a side street.

  Martians were scurrying out of a building. One held a severed head aloft. It scurried away, and the rest, twenty or so, turned toward the intersection where Archard and Everett stood.

  “Hell,” Everett said.

  Quickly, Archard raised his arm and moved it in a circle, the signal for Corporal Arnold and the others to close-up. They came on the run, the ladies between them.

  The creatures had momentarily stopped.

  “Form a skirmish line,” Archard said. “Everett and I will fire incendiaries at thirty meters. Any that make it through, the rest of you take down.”

  “Yes, sir,” Corporal Arnold said.

  The next moment, the Martians hurtled forward, their eye stalks waving and dipping.

  “Forty-five meters. Forty. Thirty-five. Thirty,” Archard ticked off the range while angling his ICW. “Now!”

  The two incendiaries left their tubes with a loud whoosh.

  Splashes of fire engulfed fully half the creatures. They died writhing and flailing. The remainder came on undeterred.

  Private Pasco, Corporal Arnold, and Private Niven opened up. In the space of seconds, all but one creature was down. The last put on a burst of speed, its grippers reaching for Private Everett.

  Archard and the Kentuckian turned its carapace into Swiss cheese.

  “Head out,” Archard immediately directed. “Double time.” Jogging the rest of the way would tire them, but the sooner he got the women and kids off the street, the better.

  Except for the slap of their feet and their heavy breathing, they put another block behind them in silence.

  Private Pasco broke it by pointing straight up and exclaiming, “Sir! What are those?”

  Above the dome, something moved. A great many somethings. They flitted and darted and performed aerial circles. Now and again, one would try to alight on the dome but couldn’t find purchase. The nanosheath was as sheer as glass and as slippery as ice.

  “Flyers,” Archard said. A new tactic on the Martians’ part. They hadn’t used flyers at New Meridian.

  “What are they doing, sir?” Pasco said.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Can they breach the dome?” Katla asked.

  “Let’s hope not,” Archard said. The explosive decompression would be devastating.

  Soon, they came upon two bodies lying in the street, a man and a woman missing their heads, their arms, and legs arranged as they always were.

  “Damn weird,” Corporal Arnold muttered.

  Out of nowhere swelled the sound of thrusters, and a RAM 3000 flew in over them, and hovered. Lieutenant Burroughs tilted the battle suit’s oversized helmet to smile down at Archard, and raised the suit’s huge right fist in a thumbs up. “I’m on my way to the other dome. Buzz me when you’re airborne.”

  “Will do,” Archard promised.

  She rocketed away, a human-shaped metallic meteor of Promethean proportions.

  “Give those ugly things hell, Lieutenant!” Corporal

  Arnold shouted after her. He chuckled at Archard. “You, too, sir, when you get up there.”

  “I intend to,” Archard said.

  Kralun the Martian---Winslow was getting the hang of thinking of himself that way---stared down in fascination as the Hryghr charged the tank. The blue warriors were fierce and implacable, and Kralun felt a surge of pride that such a sentient was a brother in the Unity.

  The tank opened up with its machine guns. Slugs peppered the ground in a direct line toward the Hryghr and then struck the warrior’s carapace. Unlike Kralun’s carapace, which wasn’t thick enough to withstand small-arms fire, the Hryghr’s was so hard and thick that most of the rounds either ricocheted off or barely penetrated.

  The tank operator realized his machine guns weren’t having much of an effect and switched to his flamethrower. A gout of flame burst toward the warrior, and the Hryghr slowed. The heat was so intense, nothing could long withstand it. Swerving clear, the warrior kept coming.

  The tank operator switched to his ion cannon.

  A tremendous explosion blew the Hryghr onto his side. Instantly surging erect, the warrior narrowly evaded a second cannon shell.

  Kralun worried that the Hryghr would be struck head-on by the next round. But the warrior was no fool. Abruptly speeding toward a house module, it plowed through the front door as if it were so much paper, and disappeared inside.

  The tank’s motor revved and the tank turned to face the house. In quick succession, it fired three cannon rounds, obliterating the front of the structure.

  Kralun thought the same thing that the tank operator must have thought, that he had killed the blue warrior, because the tank stopped firing.

  Quivering in anticipation, Kralun waited to observe the outcome. So much dust was in the air around the house that he couldn’t see a thing.

  The soldiers in the tank gave voice to cries of victory.

  Kr
alun felt a stir in the Unity, as if every Gryghr who had witnessed the battle was preparing to rush the tank in retaliation.

  “Stay still,” Nilista’s sentience told him. “It is not over.”

  How did she know? Kralun wondered.

  The tank’s operator was swinging the tank around to cover the street.

  Out of the building next to the demolished house hurtled the blue warrior. The Hryghr had crashed through an inner wall to escape the cannon, and was renewing its attack.

  There was a startled yell from the tank. The turret swiveled and the MASER went into action.

  Worry gripped Kralun. As he well knew from his former life, a MASER could kill anything. It ruptured every organ, every blood vessel.

  The blue warrior darted left and then right, but the turret gunner kept the MASER on him. There was still too much ground to cover before the warrior could reach the humans.

  The Hryghr suddenly changed direction, streaking toward an office building. Smashing through a window, the warrior once again disappeared.

  The trooper in the turret cursed.

  Kralun felt a sense of unease among the onlooking Gryghr. The attack on the golden eggs wasn’t going as smoothly as they had hoped. The change in tactics to reduce casualties wasn’t working. Already scores had perished. The Blue Worlders were more tenacious and resourceful than their leaders accounted for.

  Once, Kralun would have been proud at how bravely and well the Earthers fought. Now, he felt only dismay that the gathering would take longer to complete, and cost many more Martian lives.

  Nilista must have felt his sadness because she said, “You become one of us more and more, bindmate.”

  “If these Blue Worlders only knew the happiness we offer them,” Kralun lamented.

  “They are not of the Unity, as we are. They do not experience the Source of All, as we do.”

  “Nor can they, as they are.”

  “We came to the same conclusion after our scientists dissected and studied their bodies. Their biological organisms are quite primitive. Only the most basic of functions.”

  “And they are fragile compared to us,” Kralun noted.

  “Very much so, yes. If not for their machines and their weapons, we would gather and convert them without hindrance. Their technology in that respect is superior to ours.”

  “But that’s the thing,” Kralun said. “Our biology is superior to their technology. In the end, we will prevail.”

  “Listen to you,” Nilista said, her sentience laced with amusement. “Praising us over them.”

  Down below, the tank operator had turned the vehicle so it covered the building the warrior had gone into.

  Kralun was pleasantly taken aback when the Hryghr burst out of a building behind the tank, on the other side of the street. The explanation, Kralun realized, was that there must be a tunnel under it, either dug by the drillers or a maintenance tunnel.

  The turret gunner heard the crash of glass and the splintering of the module, and with his three hundred and sixty-degree field of view, whipped his head around and saw the warrior. He yelled to the tank operator even as he began to turn the turret. As quick as he was, though, he wasn’t quick enough.

  The Hryghr rammed into the rear of the tank like a rhino into a rival. The impact lifted the tank off its wheels and it nearly went over. Only its weight saved it. Slamming back down, the tank was now broadside to the Hryghr. The warrior smashed into it, causing the turret gunner to grab for support.

  The tank’s operator threw the tank into reverse. Tires squealing, it sped back a good twenty meters and braked to a stop with its front end again pointed at the warrior. Its machine guns cut loose, the flame thrower belched fire.

  The Hryghr threw itself at its mechanical foe. Carapace lowered, it withstood the withering lead-and-fire storm.

  If Kralun still had human vocal chords, he would have cheered.

  The blue warrior’s iron-hard grippers shattered the tank’s windshield. The operator yelled and must have tromped on the gas because the tank’s wheels spun furiously. Only this time, the warrior had hold, down near the undercarriage, and through sheer strength, held the tank in place.

  The turret gunner popped the turret and leaned out, an ICW to his shoulder. He fired at the Hryghr’s broad back, his rounds having no more effect than a pea shooter on a turtle shell.

  With a prodigious effort, the blue warrior tore the front of the tank open. Like an antique can opener opening a can, the warrior peeled the alloy apart wide enough for it to suddenly lunge and seize the driver. The man screamed as the warrior’s grippers sheared through his uniform. Flesh and bone were reduced to pulp.

  Scrambling out of the turret, the gunner sprang to the back of the tank, jumped down, and raced pell-mell toward the Broadcast Center.

  An impulse swept the Unity. As one, Kralun and the other Gryghr scrambled from the buildings, and gave chase. His thoughts were the same as his new kindred’s.

  The Blue Worlders would be converted whether they liked it or not.

  CHAPTER 28

  Climbing into the battered and dented RAM 3000 was like reuniting with an old friend. Archard gave the open chest plate an affectionate pat, scaled the last couple of rungs on the massive frame that held the battle suit at the ready, and eased into the gigantic exoskeleton.

  The Robotic Armored Man-of-War was first used in combat on Earth decades ago. Since then, it had undergone continuous modification and improvement. When it was announced that the United Nations had decided to send a RAM to each of the colonies on Mars, the decision was met with widespread derision. What use was there for the ultimate fighting machine on a planet where there was no one to fight?

  The public didn’t know what the powers-that-be knew. That Mars was inhabited, and the things that inhabited it might take exception to the intruders from another world.

  Archard nodded down at Private Everett, who was at a console below, and Everett began releasing the clamps on the frame.

  Private Pasco was over by a dolly he had used to wheel in magnetic bombs and flamethrower canisters. “You are locked and loaded, sir.”

  “Thank you, Private.” Sliding his arms into the suit’s arms, Archard pressed an inner stud in the huge left hand to close the massive chest plate. He pressed another to lower the helmet and seal it. Fully encased, he activated the helmet’s holo display and initiated a systems diagnostic.

  Over by a wall, Katla stood watching. She was wringing her hands, her lovely face a mirror of worry.

  Their arrival at the Security Center had been uneventful.

  No one was there. Lieutenant Burroughs was off in the other RAM 3000. Major Howard and Sergeant Kline were out in a tank, Privates Bova and Heinlein in another.

  Corporal Arnold and Private Niven had wasted no time in firing up the third and gone off into the shadowed streets to aid in the colony’s defense.

  “Private Everett, Private Pasco,” Archard said through his speakers. “Once I’m outside, secure the ramp door. It’s your job to protect Dr. Dkany and Ms. Sahir while I’m gone.”

  “But sir,” Pasco said, “shouldn’t we be out in the streets with the rest of you?”

  “Someone should be at headquarters,” Archard said. “Consider yourselves our reserves in case the worst comes to pass.”

  “And if it does, sir?” Private Everett said.

  “Abandon the colony.”

  “Not again,” Private Pasco said.

  “You can’t fight the Martians alone,” Archard said. “There are other rovers besides the tanks. Take one, and the ladies and the kids, and do what you can to stay alive long enough to be rescued.”

  “By who?” Private Everett said. “Do the bigwigs at Bradbury know we’re under attack?”

  Archard hadn’t thought to ask Chief Administrator Reubens if he had contacted the governor. Even if Reubens had, it could well be another blackout had been imposed to prevent the colonists at Bradbury from learning about the Martians. Archard wouldn
’t put anything past their so-called leaders. “I have no idea,” he admitted.

  “Different planet, same FUBARs,” Everett said.

  The last of the clamps disengaged. Archard took a couple of steps away from the frame, the battle suit’s enormous boots coming down with ponderous thuds. He raised and lowered the RAM’s arms a few times, testing. Everything appeared to be functioning as it should, an assessment confirmed by the diagnostic. He thought to check the internal maintenance log and discovered that Lieutenant Burroughs had been working on repairs before the Martians attacked. The RAM 3000 was good to go.

  “Open the ramp door,” Archard commanded. As it rose, he turned and smiled at Katla. “I expect to be gone a while. Stay safe.”

  “You too,” Katla said, and swallowed.

  Archard tried to lighten her mood. “I have help this time. Burroughs is in the other RAM, and there are three tanks, not just one.”

  “Will it be enough?”

  “Cup always full, remember?” Archard said.

  Katla smiled, albeit half-heartedly. “Yes. That’s you to a T. You never give up.”

  “Booyah,” Archard said, and was immediately echoed by

  Everett and Pasco. Clomping up the ramp, Archard monitored the suit’s gyros to ensure the stabilizers were working as they should. He had worn the battle suit for so long on the thousand-kilometer-plus trek from New Meridian to Wellsville that it seemed more like a second skin than a machine.

  Archard strode into the open. The light from his helmet and his chest plate lit up his surroundings brighter than day. He switched on his spotlight and swept the area for a hundred meters around.

  No Martians.

  “Close the ramp door,” Archard said. Only when it thunked shut did he kick in the thrusters and go airborne.

  Ascending in a wide spiral, Archard rose until he was only a dozen meters below the dome. Amplifying the RAM’s input feeds, he was immersed in a visual and audio spectacle of utter bedlam.

  Martians were everywhere. Damaged structures showed jagged holes. Debris littered many of the streets. So did more than a few bodies. A shriek pierced the night, and in the vicinity of the Administrative Center a tank cannon boomed.