Miranda's Demons

by Ian Miller

  Quickly, he ordered his men back into line. One of the benefits of the InterMars Olympics, anticipated by Misako but not by the competitors, was that a large number of men had spent hours and hours training for the distance events. The Mars marathon was a different type of event from that on Earth; it was by no means as tiring, and the optimum strategy, at least in the first contest, had been to take longish bounding strides, leaping over obstacles. For on Mars the event was more a cross-country than a road race. To the initial complaints the response had been simple; the original marathon had not been on roads either. The other major difference was that the running had to be done in a pressure suit, and humidity control was the major problem for personal comfort. There had been a number of improvised adjustments and another benefit was in improved suit design. This experience was now put to use, and the squad bounded off to the east.

  One benefit of the lower gravity was that it was possible for men to run that distance almost as quickly as a tank would cover it, bearing in mind the terrain the tank had to cross. They ran down a trench for nearly four kilometers before Haruhiko called a halt. He had to order a quick rest, because he knew that although the run should not have been very tiring, it would be difficult for these men to be able to shoot straight until their pulses slowed. The rest had to be taken near the top of the ridge, so they could observe the enemy, and hence the men once again had to scramble up a rock face. This time, there was a difference in that the face was solid, and smooth, and the difficulty was to get a good grip. But they reached the top, and Haruhiko ordered the men to lie flat. After a few minutes, during which Haruhiko had observed the enemy's movements, he decided that he could not afford to rest any longer. The enemy had broken into four groups, each of seven to eight tanks, and these were approaching the two groups of friendly tanks in two pincer movements. All Haruhiko could do was to engage the most southerly group of the enemy. This required his men to run another kilometer to the southeast.

  He ordered the men back into line, and they set off, Haruhiko leading. This time he had to keep below the ridgeline, but he also had the problem of footing. The line was spread, and the order was to try to place the foot in the spot where the previous man had landed. This put a great responsibility on Haruhiko's shoulders, but fortunately for him the search for footholds, the judging of the leaps, and the keeping of balance gave him little time to reflect.

  They had almost reached the desired point when there was a cry through the intercom. Haruhiko stopped and almost overbalanced as he lost momentum, only to regain it by grasping with both hands at the bare rock. The rock slid under his hands, then his thumb caught a cleft. Somehow he held, and he moved his foot forward to get a better hold. As the sweat poured from his head, he turned gingerly, and saw that one of his men had lost his footing and was falling in a partial slow motion through the thin air towards the floor of the trough forty meters below. Haruhiko quickly signalled for his men to get to the top of the ridge and take cover. Forgetting his precarious hold on safety, he began climbing, hands and legs moving furiously, slipping, clawing, grasping, up three, down two. But he was going up. The top of the wall was so close that he risked a leap. One outstretched hand reached the top and found firm rock. He pulled with everything he had, and his body arced over the top. As he floated forwards, Haruhiko glanced back at the soldier; he had struck the bottom of the trough, and must have landed on his head. The arms were thrashing, the body was writhing, and the legs flailing; the facemask must have been breached. The white fog streaming from the man's back meant the coolant to the grenades was leaking. Even taking cover on Mars was done in partial slow motion; quicker than on the moon, but frustratingly slower than on the Earth. The men crawled forward as quickly as they could, and had made about five meters when there was a tremendous explosion from the trough; the ground shook, a huge shower of rocks were flung skywards. Mars had its newest small crater.

  The men suddenly became very sombre. They had lost one of theirs, but more importantly they could each remember an incident with their footing, and they each knew it could have been them, but for . . .

  The tanks had noted the dust cloud of the explosion, and they turned towards the squad. The hatches of the leading two tanks were open, and men in pressure suits were scanning the terrain. Haruhiko took his rifle, adjusted the telescopic sight, and fired an old fashioned bullet. He hit the leading observer, and as the bullet tore through the pressure suit, Haruhiko had a glimpse of the man's face bloat up before the body fell forward. The second tank driver sensed the danger and he quickly dived down and closed the hatch. Then two infantry squads detached from the back of the tanks, while the tank guns began firing random, exploratory shots. Two of Haruhiko's men had managed to hurriedly fire grenades, but all this accomplished was to generate two plumes of dust several metres to the right of the tanks. The tanks now stood back and directed a withering fire towards the squad. The ground erupted around them. Three of his squad were killed immediately, and on these, two of the grenades began leaking. Haruhiko bounded towards the grenades, grabbed them, and threw them with every amount of force he could muster. The grenades curved through the air, still spewing gas, then meters from the ground, exploded. They were well short of the enemy infantry, but the power of the explosions had a stunning effect. The enemy infantry immediately dived for what cover they could find, and also began firing. Both sets of men were still quite distant from each other; both sets of men had become aware of the fact that there was no wound on Mars; a ruptured pressure suit meant a quick but an extraordinarily painful death and hence nobody was prepared to expose themselves sufficiently to be able to take good aim at their enemy.

  The tank fire, however, was threatening. Haruhiko realized that even if nobody was directly hit, sooner or later rocks would break the seals on the grenades. It was also obvious that the men were feeling the tension. They were firing what they could, but their aim was almost non-existent. Worse, they were beginning to panic. Haruhiko knew he had to do something, and preferably get his men out of there. He signalled to the remaining men to fall back down the trough. This, they were only too pleased to do, although one more man was struck by a bullet in the back. They then ran as quickly as they could along the slope, to re-emerge two hundred meters to the north. The enemy had realized that the returning fire had ceased, and had begun advancing towards the ridge. Haruhiko ordered his remaining men to spread out, and fire. The grenades soared towards the tanks. At that range, a direct hit was difficult, but Haruhiko had decided that the grenades were of more danger to them while the enemy had them pinned down. He had little hope, other than the hope that by drawing this force away from the rest of the battle, he was doing enough.

  They had some luck. Two grenades struck one of the tanks, which was flung to its side, a twisted mess of metal. Another grenade landed close to a small group of infantry, and the men were flung in several directions as yet another tiny crater was formed. The remaining grenades sent their spectacular plumes of dust into the thin air but only succeeded in generating cover for the enemy. Then one of the remaining enemy tanks found their new position and the fire began again. Two more soldiers were killed immediately. One panicked and ran as fast as he could towards the valley. He slipped on one bound, when the ground collapsed beneath him, and his head dived towards a jagged rock. The face shield cracked, and again the body twitched as the red smears bubbled through the cracks in the visor. The position seemed hopeless; Haruhiko began to feel the sweat form on his hands. He had to decide whether to attack, whether to hold ground, or whether to retreat. His squad was too small to mount a significant attack, and now most of the grenades were gone. To stay where they were resolved nothing, as they would sooner or later be destroyed by the enemy firepower. But to retreat meant climbing down the trough, and this time the enemy would realize that the trough was there; all they had to do was to run along the ridge and annihilate them. Perhaps he should retreat along the ridge top, but then they would be in the open. There seemed no opti
on.

  * * *

  Baxter cursed again. He was perched on the turret of one of the four tanks under his command that had been shipped from Earth. These tanks were marvels of engineering complexity; so much so they were almost impossible to drive. As an example of one fundamental difficulty with them, the Terran engineers had forgotten until the last minute that the crew would be in pressure suits, and could not speak to each other. Radio would be a security risk, so communications were carried out by speaking through cable intercoms. Everybody kept tripping over the cables, and particularly Baxter's. Apparently nobody had expected the commander to ride up top; presumably nobody had thought the commander might like to view the field!

  He had been given the northern sector to patrol, and he was perched with the hatch up, searching the terrain through his viewer. Had the original defensive plan worked, Baxter mused, he would have been irrelevant. Had the enemy approached from the north, he would have been hopelessly outnumbered. As it was, he saw the enemy regroup. What could he do? If he launched an attack with four tanks against at least a dozen, all he would succeed in doing was to lose four tanks. On the other hand, he could hardly sit out the battle, concealed.

  When he had been given the command, he had felt so elated. Then had come the realization that he had a responsibility. He knew nothing about tank battle tactics, but he could learn. Baxter was nothing if not studious. He had sat for hours and hours at a computer terminal studying the tactics used in the tank battles of the western desert and of the Russian campaign until he felt certain he thoroughly understood tank warfare. Now, as he became gripped with a strange paralysis of the mind, he began to realize that the various concepts such as concentrating forces, digging in, the use of mobility, penetrating the weakest point and encircling, tended to be either too abstract, or even contradictory. The fact was, a good field commander derived his inspiration from the situation, and not from some kit-set of ideas. He could see the field, but inspiration refused to come.

  His stomach began throbbing, and a dull nauseous ache began to grow at the back of his throat. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was almost as dry as the sand outside. The commanders on the other tanks were looking for a signal and he could feel the glances from his crew boring into his back. He peered around the landscape, searching for inspiration. Gently undulating country; highly suitable for tank battles. Except when you were outnumbered.

  Then he saw a chance. To their right, there was a small ridge. He signalled his three tanks to go behind this ridge. At first, they refused to move. He gesticulated angrily, but all they could see was their commander waving his arms. They had no idea what he wanted, so one of them waved his arms back. Finally, in desperation, he had to get out of his tank, run across the broken ground to the nearest of the others, plug into their communication system, and tell one of the crews what he wanted. When this tank set off, the others followed.

  As soon as these three tanks were well under way, Baxter turned his tank to reverse, swung the turret around, and began to drive towards the enemy. When he got close enough for long-range shots, his gunner engaged the rather cumbersome sighting system and selected a target in the middle of the enemy. The first of the projectiles were fired into the cluster and Baxter was disappointed to see a cloud of dust erupt. He fired again, and this time there was a hit. There was a spectacular flash, and the tank lurched to a halt. It was then the enemy saw him, and began firing, but the range was too great for their weapons to be effective. Again Baxter fired, and this time there was a grazing hit on a front wheel.

  It was then that Baxter's plan became more effective. The enemy saw one tank firing at them, and so four tanks were detached to deal with this irritant. Baxter quickly engaged forward, and as he retreated, he continued firing. The enemy kept coming, and Baxter followed his planned route. As the four tanks swept around the ridge in hot pursuit, the three concealed tanks opened fire at almost point blank range. The enemy tanks were destroyed almost immediately.

  Baxter was elated. He had dug in, and he had broken up the enemy to attack a small group with concentration and surprise. The book worked! He swung the tank around, and drove furiously back along his tracks, intending to re-emerge and try the same trick again. But when he re-emerged, he noted that the enemy were moving rapidly westwards. Reluctantly, he signalled for the remainder of his force to follow, and as soon as he had received an acknowledgment, he set off. Not only would he have to try something else, but the enemy would now see the exact size of his force.

  He drove his tanks at maximum speed. He had no idea what he would do when he arrived, but at least he knew that getting there was his first objective. The tanks rattled furiously, then a problem arose. He felt a tugging at his side, and the driver was gesticulating furiously at some dials. Baxter looked but saw nothing. Just dials. The driver was still gesticulating, and pointing to Baxter's cable. It had pulled from his first jack point, but as he reached for another, the tank hit a bump, and Baxter was flung against the steel turret. He groggily pulled himself to his feet, grasped a handhold, and plugged in.

  The problem was simple. All the shaking had begun to damage the fuel cells. The tank was suffering serious voltage drops with load. Baxter nodded, and clambered back towards the turret. Again he tripped over his cable. How he would love to strangle the fool that thought of that system! He climbed up, and was surprised to see the battle almost upon him. He was driving straight to disaster. To the left was a small rise, and he led his squad to drive to the top.

  As his tank stopped on the flattened summit, he saw the battle before him. It was a scene of utter confusion. There was sand everywhere, with blazing flashes of light and scattered here and there the upturned remains of other tanks. Immediately below him two of the settler's tanks, which were trying to protect two small infantry platoons, were fighting a desperate rear-guard action against eight approaching tanks. The dust was erupting around the soldiers, who in their retreat had not noticed the rise. Baxter brought his tanks up in line, got them into whatever depression they could find, then he ordered them to remain stationary and fire.

  The first salvo was strangely ineffective. The gunners had been in too great a hurry. But the next salvo was better directed, and two hits were scored. Baxter looked down and saw the infantry below begin to take heart. They were regrouping, and were fixing grenades to their rifles. Then the dust began to erupt around him as the enemy finally noticed where he was. Suddenly he felt his feet being pulled down, and as he fell towards the floor, the hatch lid closed. His driver grinned through his suit, and pointed out that since the tank was now a stationary weapon, he was not needed up there. The guns kept firing, then the tank shuddered as they sustained a glancing hit on the turret. No significant damage was done, and Baxter finally gave a grudging vote of thanks to the Terran engineers. The tanks might be cumbersome, their power supplies too fragile, communications hopeless, but the armour worked.

  The guns kept firing, the dust flew, showers of rocks hit the tank, and he felt so totally helpless. There he was, trapped within a laminated cocoon, with very little to do except keep out of the gunner's way. Communications with his other tanks were again dead. Baxter looked through one of the tiny slits, but all he could see was dust. Again, he crawled up to open the hatch. Through the dust, Baxter saw that two of his other tanks were disabled, and five of the enemy were bearing down on him from the right. He was about to dive back for cover, when he looked up, and almost fell back in surprise. There, directly above him, was a giant bat.

  * * *

  Once again the fog had left the Valles Marineris system and the great doors to The Belfry began to swing open. The aircraft began to be towed towards the entrance, this time secure in the knowledge that the fuelling had been carried out methodically, and had been triple checked at the end. The craft then began taxiing towards the runway. They seemed so flimsy, they should fall to pieces, but they did not. The initial design had incorporated long thin wings, but these had been abandoned at a very ear
ly stage when it was finally decided that the concept of an aircraft alone was not adequate for war. These aircraft cheated; they had downward thrusters at the centre of gravity below the fuselage, and although the wings did provide lift, they were more designed to increase manoeuvrability, and also to carry fuel.

  The bats lumbered towards the end of the runway, then seemed to sit around for an eternity. Finally the aircraft began lumbering forward. Clouds of white steam formed behind the craft as they sped across the ground, later to fall as tiny snowflakes. When the speed had reached the desired point, the downward thrusters were fired and the craft were soon airborne. The flight headed up the great canyon, then banked to fly around a great island mesa, the wind eroded shapes and coloured bands of which seemed strangely beautiful in the crystal clear air. The sun and shade, red and black; Arizona deserts sometimes gave the shapes, and hinted at the colours, but there was nothing there remotely like the starkness and vastness of the Martian valleys.

  They came around the great butte, then the flight began diving gently towards the Coprates Chasma. Faster and faster they flew, skimming the ground, clearing the highest ground by less that twenty meters, and staying no more than fifty meters from the southern cliffs. To the North, the Groza dust trails could be seen clearly, as could the dust cloud that was now forming on the tableland. Shelley waited until she was level with the beginning of the dust cloud then she pulled back on the joystick. The bats began to climb, helped in part by the adjustable downward thrusters, and when they reached the level of the tableland, they banked slightly and began a great looping flight across the Coprates Catena. Behind them the great vapour trails cut a sharp white contrast to the Martian red. They gained altitude, and Shelley knew that now, at least in principle, the vapour trails could be seen by those on the far side of the chasm.