The Great Martian War

by Scott Washburn

  The Homeworld of that first awakening was much different than the one it would soon be leaving. The air was warm and thick, the water in the canals flowed deep and strong, nourishing vast croplands that grew under the open sky, as did the food-animals that fed off those crops. And the memories went even farther, for it held some of its progenitor’s experiences as well, and they stretched back to times so remote as to be nearly incomprehensible. The vast low deserts which had covered most of the Homeworld even at Qetjnegartis’ first awakening had held seas of water instead. The higher elevations had been thick with vegetation that grew free and un-ordered and held creatures just as wild. No such things existed at the time of its first awakening. Even then, the People had realized that their world was slowly dying and that only by strictly ordering the use of resources could that death be postponed.

  Century by century and millennium by millennium Qetjnegartis had helped fight that losing battle. The croplands and animals had been moved underground as the thinning air made growing them above ground impossible. The cities moved underground as well. The canals were dry except for short periods during the spring melts. The ability of the People to make changes during the budding process allowed them to still survive on the surface, but there were limits even to that.

  As the crisis deepened, logic had been sorely tested. Drawn by some instinct that predated even the most ancient memories, the People had started to draw into groups that had sprung from the same progenitors—clans, the academics had called them. Instead of working for the common good, many had worked for the good of their clan alone, even if that caused harm to others. Illogical. Self-destructive. They all knew it, but few were able to defeat it. It was a hard truth that animal instinct could still overrule their minds.

  From competing for resources, they had eventually started to fight for them. Conflict! Something unimaginable had become reality. Wars had swept the Homeworld. Weak clans were destroyed; stronger clans expanded their numbers to fill the space. Qetjnegartis remembered the novel experience of budding off new beings—offspring—rather than just copies of itself as its old body died. The experience of slaying a fellow being had been novel, too…

  At last a new equilibrium was formed and logic reasserted itself. Further wars would accomplish nothing except to hasten the death of all. The Council of Five Hundred, the heads of the clans, was formed. An uneasy peace returned.

  And it was a peace that could not last for long. Despite all of their efforts, the Homeworld’s ability to support the People had dropped and dropped. The population had to be reduced, and reduced again. At first this was done by culling out the youngest, a certain proportion from each clan. But then the larger and stronger clans began to refuse. They made up their deficits by destroying the smaller and weaker clans. The Five Hundred had dropped to Four Hundred. And then Three. A cycle of new wars, with each interval of peace shorter and grimmer, seemed inevitable. On and on until no one was left. The logic of the situation was all too clear.

  But then someone—and it was so very odd that no one seemed able to put a name to that someone—had proposed a new logic: If the Homeworld was doomed to die, then leave it before it did.

  It was an idea so radical that few listened at first. Oh, it had been known for centuries that the second and third planets supported life, but no one, except a few damaged individuals, had wasted thought on the idea of traveling to them. But imminent extinction made radical ideas seem far less radical. The notion gained supporters and minds turned to the task.

  But it was an enormous task and many opposed spending the vast resources that would be necessary. If the effort was made and then it failed, it would only hasten the end for everyone. Despite this, one clan began to build the machines that would be necessary.

  This very nearly brought on a war in its own right as clans who opposed the idea prepared to use force to prevent it. Qetjnegartis suspected that war, indeed, would have broken out, but then the scientists who had been studying the third planet made the remarkable announcement that the world was inhabited by thinking beings! Powerful telescopes had seen what appeared to be cities. Further observations had concluded that these beings were becoming industrialized at a frightening pace. Weak radio signals were detected. Fear swept through all the clans that the faint hope that so many had scoffed at would soon be lost altogether as these new beings developed the means to defend themselves.

  Caution had been abandoned to panic. All the major clans began to prepare to launch colonization missions. The clan who had started first was ready first and they refused to wait for the others. They launched their mission—which met with disaster.

  But the disaster had brought back the information needed for the following missions to succeed. The third planet was teeming with life, both micro and macro. Ironically, the micro was the more dangerous, although the thinking beings posed a danger, as well. But the scientists said that the change could be used to overcome the threat of the microbes. The engineers said that their machines could overcome the rest.

  And so…

  Qetjnegartis opened its eyes again and regarded its old body. That was certainly different from the hundreds of other awakenings it had undergone. Its old body was not all that old; it would have lasted for many more cycles. But Qetjnegartis would soon be departing for the third planet and it was determined that all those making the journey should begin it with bodies which were as young and strong as possible. It flexed its tentacles and drew in breath.

  That done, it pulled itself toward its machine.

  There was much work to do.

  Chapter One

  November 1907, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  The huge metal box lurched, made a horrible screeching sound, and then ground to a halt, wrapped in a hissing cloud of steam. Lieutenant Andrew Comstock was quite proud of the fact that he was able to refrain from laughing, although one look at Colonel Hawthorne’s face told him it would be a good idea to not even smile.

  “Mr. Schmidt,” said Hawthorne to one of the civilians standing nearby. “The Baldwin Locomotive Works does, in fact, make locomotives, does it not?”

  “Well of course, Colonel…”

  “Then why is this… device, not locomoting?”

  “Colonel,” replied the man, his face a bit redder than the sharp November wind could account for, “this is an entirely new type of vehicle! You have to expect minor setbacks. I’m sure our people will have this fixed in no time.”

  But despite Mr. Schmidt’s assurances, the Baldwin mechanics who swarmed over the vehicle were unable to get it running again as the morning slipped by. All Andrew could do was stamp his feet to try and keep from freezing to death. Finally, Schmidt admitted defeat and suggested that they return the next day and try again.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Hawthorne in a voice as chilling as the wind. “We’ll be taking the train back to Washington. I have a conference with my superiors tomorrow. I had hoped to be able to report a success here today.”

  “Colonel, we will get this working! We just need a little more time.”

  “Time? You’ve had what? Two years? I fail to see why this is proving so difficult for you. Steam engines have existed for a century. Railroad locomotives for nearly as long. Steam powered tractors that don’t need rails are no new thing, either. Even the system of caterpillar tracks is not new. As I understand it, the basic design of this is based on the Holt Steam Tractor, which has been around for years. Why can’t you put all of those things together and make them work, sir?”

  Schmidt’s face was getting red again. “It’s not just a matter of putting the components together! We have to keep them within the size limitations which you have established. The weight of the components—and the armor you’ve insisted on—puts a huge strain on the driving mechanism. An unprecedented strain!”

  “I’ll remind you that the design also calls for mounting a three-inch quick-firing gun and all of its ammunition. If your machine can’t handle the weight
now, how will it handle that addition?”

  “We’ll make it work!”

  “I sincerely hope so.” Hawthorne shook his head. “Very well, we will return next week. Perhaps you’ll have your… your… tank working by then. Come along, Lieutenant, let’s go.”

  They left the huge Baldwin plant, which was located in the northern part of Philadelphia, and caught the street car heading south on Broad Street. Some of the other passengers took note of their uniforms, but none of them said anything. Once away from the plant, the street was lined with once-fashionable brownstones, now looking a bit sad and worn. The city’s well-to-do had moved their residences a mile or so farther north these days. The street, which was indeed very wide, as its name indicated, was crowded with horse-drawn carriages, delivery wagons, and even an automobile or two. The very impressive city hall rose up ahead of them.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” said Andrew. “I’m sure they’ll get their tank working soon.”

  “Their what?” asked Hawthorne, looking at him in confusion.

  “Tank, sir. It’s what you just called it.”

  “Did I? Well, it’s a good name for the thing.”

  “A lot easier than ‘steam-propelled, armored gun tractor’, that’s for sure.”

  “Yes,” chuckled Hawthorne.

  They had expected to spend considerably longer at Baldwin, so their train wasn’t for some hours yet. The colonel decided to take the street car all the way to the end of its run, which was at the naval shipyard on the Delaware River. William Cramp & Sons was building the new battleship South Carolina there and Hawthorne wanted a look at it. It was of a new design, larger and more powerful than any previous class. The British had just completed a similar ship, which they were calling Dreadnought. Sadly, work had not advanced that far and there was little to look at except the nearly completed hull and huge piles of steel plates.

  “The sister ship, Michigan, is being built across the river in Camden,” said Hawthorne. “They’ll each mount eight twelve-inch guns, Andy. Imagine what that could do to a Martian fighting machine.”

  “Blow it to smithereens, I’d expect, sir. Assuming it could get close enough to hit it.”

  “Yes, that’s the thing, isn’t it? The navy can go anywhere and beat anything as long as there’s enough water to float their boats. But beyond that, they’re helpless. While we, on the other hand, can’t even get a tank capable of moving itself, let alone a gun! I’m telling you, Andy, if it does come to another invasion, we will be depending on guns. Guns that can get to where they are needed and which can survive long enough to get the job done. The old notions about masses of infantry and cavalry and horse-drawn field guns will all be in the dust bin. The British found that out in the first invasion.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s shame we can’t put wheels on battleships.”

  Hawthorne laughed. “Not a bad idea, that! Perhaps you should suggest that at the meeting tomorrow!”

  “Not me, sir! General Crozier would bite my head off!” Which, sadly, was probably true. The chief of the Ordnance Department had no sense of humor at all that Andrew had ever noticed.

  They headed back to the station and caught the train south to Washington. It was dark by the time they passed through Baltimore and they bought sandwiches for dinner from a vendor at the station there. Hawthorne paid for Andrew’s dinner and he was grateful for that. A second lieutenant’s pay didn’t go very far, and he was already sending a portion of it to his mother. On their way again, they rode in silence for a while. He was about ready to doze off when the Colonel asked: “So how do you like the job, son?”

  “Oh!” he said coming awake. “It… it’s fine, sir.”

  “More interesting than drilling a platoon of infantry at some fort in North Dakota?”

  “Oh yes, sir! Much! Thanks so much for getting me the assignment.”

  “My pleasure. And you’ve been a big help. Frankly, I’m not as young as I used to be and all of this running around the country is starting to wear me out. Once you become a bit more seasoned, I might start sending you on some of these inspection trips on your own.”

  “Really sir?” exclaimed Andrew in genuine surprise. “That would be grand, sir… if you think I could do the job…” Doubts welled up in him.

  “You just need to learn to growl properly. You saw how I growled at Schmidt there today, didn’t you? Nothing to it!”

  “If you say so, sir. But I’ve been taught that second lieutenants don’t growl, they get growled at. A first lieutenant on the other hand… that might have some real growling potential, sir. Or even a captain.”

  Hawthorne guffawed. “Andy, you are quite the wiseacre, aren’t you? You try to hide it, but it pops out every now and again.”

  “So I’ve been told, sir. The Commandant at the Academy told me that several times—although not quite so politely.”

  “Hence all those demerits.”

  “Uh, yes, sir. The Commandant did not appear to appreciate my sense of humor.”

  “Yes, Howze is a bit of a curmudgeon. He tried to dismiss that entire class over a simple hazing incident, didn’t he? But I did look at your records before I made you the offer, you know. Your grades were not bad at all; it was all the demerits that dragged you down.”

  “Yes, sir, my father pointed that out a number of times before…”

  “Well, out here in the real world, we don’t worry so much about demerits. What matters is that a man can do the job. What I’ve seen of you in the last five months makes me think that you can. First lieutenant, eh? Something might be done, I suppose. I’m due to be promoted to full colonel in a few months, and a colonel really needs an aide of appropriate rank.”

  Andrew didn’t know what to say. He’d just been joking, but if a promotion was offered, he surely wouldn’t turn it down! “Thank you for all your kindness, sir.”

  “Just doing my duty to a fallen comrade. How’s your mother these days?”

  “She took it very hard at first, but I think she’s recovering. My aunt thinks so, anyway.”

  “She’s staying with her now, correct? In Lynn?”

  “Saugus, sir,”

  “Ah, right. Well, the next time our duty takes us up to Boston, you make sure to see her, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” Andrew had no desire to talk about his mother or his aunt, so he said: “Why do you think the Martians haven’t come back, sir?”

  Hawthorne took the change of subject in stride. “Hard to say. But these days everyone thinks things have to happen quickly. If they were here last year, they’ll certainly be back by next year; and if they’re not back by next year that must mean they aren’t coming at all. Nonsense! Remember your American history? The first English colony was established in Roanoke in 1585. It vanished, of course, but the next attempt at a colony wasn’t until 1607, twenty-two years later. And the Pilgrims didn’t reach Plymouth until thirteen years after that. Perhaps to the Martians, crossing the space to Earth is like crossing the Atlantic was to our ancestors. And those first colonies were all private ventures, too. Maybe the invasion in England was like that first Roanoke Colony, just a private venture which failed. It might be a while before they try again. But I’m certain they will try again. And we have to be ready.”

  “I never really thought about it in those terms before, sir. So… so you’re equating us with the Indians?”

  “Well, I’d never say so in public,” snorted Hawthorne. “But that’s about the case. Think about it: the first Europeans to arrive here had muskets and cannons—terrifying and magical weapons to the Indians—metal armor, ships, horses, and all the poor Indians had were stone-tipped arrows and spears. Now think metal fighting machines and heat rays against rifles. Seem similar?”

  “A bit…” conceded Andrew, not much liking the comparison. “So do you think we’re destined to go the same way as the Indians, sir?”

  “Who can say? But we do have one advantage that the Indians also had—but never made use of: our numbers. Each of the
European colonies started out as tiny things. If the Indians had recognized the danger and just cooperated, they could have massed thousands of warriors against each colony as it arrived and wiped it out. Their inferior weapons wouldn’t have mattered all that much.”

  “At least we do recognize the danger, sir.”

  “Some of us do, but far too many won’t admit that it exists until those cylinders start landing in their gardens. But until we can understand the Martian machines and learn to build our own, we need to do what the Indians didn’t: use our numbers to stamp out each colony as it lands. Don’t allow them to get established!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Of course, that’s the job of the General Staff. Our job is to make sure that our men have the best weapons that we can provide.”

  “The new guns, the things that Mr. Edison and Mr. Tesla are working on, the… uh, tanks.”

  “Yes, exactly,” said Hawthorne. He took a deep breath and gave off an enormous yawn. “But it’s been a long day. I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

  * * * * *

  Cycle 597,842.7, Guerkadan

  Qetjnegartis regarded the massive construction in satisfaction. Through the observation blister, it could see ten huge cylindrical tubes stretching up the side of the ancient volcano, the largest on the planet. One of the ten appeared somewhat sand-worn compared to the other nine. That was the one first built by the now-extinct clan which had made the first failed attempt to colonize the third planet. The other nine were new and represented an outpouring of resources and effort not seen since the cities were moved underground an age ago. As satisfying as the accomplishment might be, Qetjnegartis could see the argument of the naysayers: if this attempt failed, it could dramatically hasten the downfall.