The Great Martian War

by Scott Washburn

  “If they could actually bring them to bear,” snorted Sumner. “From what I’ve heard, the damn things can barely move under their own power. The one thing we do know for sure about the enemy is that their machines are highly mobile. I will not have my army tied down to a lot of dead weight! If your tanks can catch up and get into the fight, all well and good. But I will not wait for them. We will start our advance in the morning as scheduled!”

  He could see that there was no use in further argument, so he shut up. He left the meeting feeling depressed. He’d spent the last two years helping the Army get better weapons to use against the Martians and yet now, on the eve of battle, they were using exactly the same weapons they’d had years ago.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The Army did have six armored cars. The stop-gap program that had been started to provide something to fill in until the tanks were ready had yielded some results. After a lot of shopping around, the Army had selected the bizarre eight-wheeled ‘Octoauto’ made by the Reeves Pulley Company in Indiana to be the basis of the design. They had added an armored cabin on top of the chassis and put mounts for two machine guns. The result was a very strange beast, indeed. But the Reeves Company had built several other autos and the Octoauto had a reputation for ruggedness and the mere fact that all six were still with the Army showed that the reputation was merited.

  A strange, but oddly familiar roar, suddenly reminded him that there was another new thing. Tom Selfridge had his flying machine unpacked and assembled! He followed the noise over to an open field west of the town in time to see the ungainly contraption take to the air and circle once before heading west.

  “How far can he go?” he asked one of the mechanics.

  “His record is about forty miles and back, sir.”

  “Eighty miles without landing?”

  “Yes, sir.” Andrew whistled in appreciation. He continued to watch until the machine was a tiny speck in the distance. He decided to wait until it returned and have a word with Selfridge.

  He was still waiting two hours later, long after the machine would have run out of fuel.

  * * * * *

  Cycle597,843.4, Holdfast 32-1

  Qetjnegartis regarded the constructor in operation. Some of its manipulators were drawing raw materials into one end, while finished parts were emerging from the other. A second constructor was taking those parts and using them to assemble an excavating machine. One excavator was already at work, shoving mounds of dirt into a wall to create the holdfast’s ramparts. The inner surface would be vitrified while the outer side would be left as rubble to impede the movement of any intruder. That was the first step; the wall would protect the inside of the holdfast from observation or direct attack. Then defensive weaponry would be installed along the rim of the wall, relieving the war machines from protective duty.

  Once the defenses of the holdfast were complete, the real work would begin. Burrowing machines would carve out the underground chambers where the mines, refineries, and manufacturies would be created. Storerooms for raw materials; holding pens for food animals; feeding chambers; laboratories for research; in time it would resemble a holdfast on the Homeworld.

  Budding would take place and then the buds would have buds. The population would grow and then new expeditions would embark to secure more areas and create new holdfasts. Step by step the planet would be conquered.

  A shuddering vibration from its side made Qetjnegartis pause and look to examine the bud growing there. The lump was quite large now, being over halfway to the time it could detach. Distinct features like the manipulating tendrils could be discerned beneath the protective flap of skin. It now seemed certain that the bud would be a new being rather than a replacement for Qetjnegartis’ body. There was still no sign of infection among any of its group. The new techniques were proving effective. It had been thousands of cycles since the last time it had been permitted to bud off a new being. It was an interesting experience and it looked forward to doing it again.

  A signal from one of its subordinates demanded its attention. “Commander, I have urgent information.”

  “Report.”

  “The prey-creatures are continuing to mass to the east. There are now many thousands of them and they are clearly warriors. They appear to be preparing to advance against us. Also, I have just now observed and destroyed a flying machine operated by the prey-creatures.”

  Qetjnegartis twitched in surprise. Nothing of this nature had been reported by the first expedition. “Are you certain? There are flying animals on this world, could that be what you saw?”

  “No, Commander, it was clearly a machine of some sort. There is no doubt. I will transmit a recorded image.” It did so and Qetjnegartis had to admit that it was certainly as its subordinate had reported: an artificial construction which could fly. The fact that a mere brush of the subordinate’s heat ray had set the thing ablaze and caused it to tumble from the sky did not diminish the fact that this was an unexpected and unsettling discovery. The planned defenses of the holdfast were not designed for defense against things which could fly. Still, the image showed a device which appeared incredibly fragile and clumsy. Perhaps it posed no real threat.

  This mass of prey-creatures to the east was another matter.

  Qetjnegartis briefly considered just letting them come on and destroying them near to the holdfast, but quickly discarded that plan. With the defenses incomplete, there was too much danger of the prey-creatures slipping past them and attacking the construction machines. They were not designed for combat and could be easily damaged. That was to be avoided if at all possible.

  So, they would give battle farther east. One war machine would be left here for security and to oversee those activities which could continue without supervision. The other eleven would advance and deal with this situation.

  Qetjnegartis issued its orders.

  Chapter Seven

  January, 1909, Ramah, New Mexico Territory

  “Well somebody has to pay for all this!”

  Sergeant Frank Dolfen wearily stared at the angry shopkeeper and restrained himself from shooting him. They had been stuck in the town of Ramah for several weeks now and some of the missing townfolk had begun to return. Many people had been killed when the Martians had swept through, but others had managed to flee into the surrounding hills and hide. Now they were coming back to try to pick up the pieces of their lives. Unfortunately, one of them was the man who owned the general store where Dolfen, his men, and the other refugees had set up their quarters. He didn’t seem happy that they had not only helped themselves to his place of business, but also to the goods which the business held.

  “Sir, there happens to be a war going on. My men, and these other people we are protecting, need food and a place to stay. I’m sorry about it, but that’s just the way things are. If you make up a list of what’s been taken, I’m sure the government will repay you for your losses.”

  “The government! The government! That could take months! If it ever happens at all!” He turned and waved his hands around his shop, which was currently filled with people and bedrolls. “And how long are you going to stay? How can I run my business with you people camping out in here—eating my food and drinking my liquor?”

  “Your business?” snorted Private Urbaniak. “Who you doin’ business with? The Martians? Ain’t no one else around now.” Some of the men laughed.

  “Hey, Sarge,” said Private Cordwainer, “isn’t trading with the enemy treason or something? Maybe we ought to confiscate all these here goods.”

  “I’m not trading with the Martians!” sputtered the shopkeeper. “But this is all my property! A man has to make a living!”

  “A living! A living!” cried Rebecca Harding, suddenly a few feet away from the surprised man. “How dare you worry about making money when people are dying? My whole family was killed and my home destroyed by the Martians! These men saw all the rest of their regiment killed by the Martians! And you stand here begrudging them a
roof over their heads and a few sacks of flour! How dare you!” The fury on the girl’s face shocked everyone into silence.

  The man took a few steps backward until he bumped into a barrel. He looked from face to face. “That true?”

  “Yeah,” said Urbaniak, every trace of humor gone from his face. “And Miz Gordon there and her boy and Mister Kershaw lost their homes, too. Hell! What about your own neighbors, man? You’re doin’ pretty well compared to some, so count your blessings and stop actin’ like a damn fool.”

  The man’s face turned red and he muttered something inaudible and then he stomped outside into the snow. Apparently he had a house somewhere else in town. The tension in the room vanished and the men started making jokes again. The girl looked a little embarrassed by her explosion of anger, but then smiled and sat down.

  A little while later Urbaniak came over to him. “So what do you think, Sarge?”

  “About what?”

  “About us getting moving. The snow’s been melting a bit and we’ve been here over three weeks now.”

  “Really?” He’d sort of lost track of the days. “Can’t be that long!”

  “S’true. It’ll be February on Monday.”

  “I’ll be damned. Guess we were getting a bit too comfortable, weren’t we?”

  “Yeah. But I’m wonderin’ what’s going on out there. Back at Wingate and all. Can’t stay here forever.”

  “No, you’re right. Looks like it’s gonna rain tomorrow, but maybe we could get moving after that clears out.”

  “Sounds, good, Sarge. Wouldn’t want to leave any sooner or it would look like the old pinch-purse drove us off!” The both laughed.

  So that became the plan. The soldiers would get moving, and somewhat to his surprise, the civilians said they wanted to go, too; even some of the townspeople—although not all. He hadn’t counted on that, but he could hardy refuse to take them. So the civilians would come—including Rebecca Harding.

  Lately, the girl was following him around like a puppy. She’d even started cooking meals for him. Well, she and the other woman, Mrs. Gordon, were cooking meals for everyone, but somehow Becca always had a plate made up special for him. He found the situation irritating. The last thing he needed was some infatuated girl latching on to him! It was ridiculous, he was old enough to be her father! And what would Stella think when they got to Wingate? If she’s even still alive…

  The thought of what might have happened at Wingate and the nearby town of Gallup was spurring the sudden urge to move. The forces they’d left behind there would have no more hope of stopping the Martians than the regiment had had four weeks earlier. He could only hope that those couriers the colonel had sent off had gotten there and spread a warning. Maybe Stella had gotten out in time. Time to find out.

  It did rain hard the next day, but stopped by nightfall. They decided to wait one more day to let the ground dry and then they would go. That morning, Dolfen was taking a turn at the lookout post when the girl climbed up the ladder with a cup of hot coffee for him. “Good morning, Sergeant,” she said, handing him the cup.

  “Morning. Thanks.”

  “So we’ll be leaving tomorrow?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “And we’re going that way?” she pointed to the northwest.

  “Yeah. About the only way we can go. South’s no good if that’s where the Martians are comin’ from. If we could head east we could get to Albuquerque, but there’s no getting over those mountains.” He pointed to the imposing mass of Mount Sedgewick and the adjoining ridges; high, rocky, and deeply buried in snow at the moment. “Goin’ west would just take us through a lot of very empty miles all the way to Flagstaff. So if we can go northwest we can see what’s happening at Fort Wingate and Gallup. If things… if things aren’t good there, we can still get past these mountains and turn east and head for Albuquerque.”

  “I’m glad you’re leading us, Sergeant.”

  “Hmmm. We’ll see.”

  “You’ve been in the army for a long time?”

  “Quite a while, yeah.”

  “I wish I could join the army.”

  “What in blazes for?”

  “So I can fight. Pay them… pay them back for what they did.” The girl was staring out over the plains with a frightening intensity. No teenage girl should ever look like that!

  “Well…” Dolfen didn’t know what to say. “You ought to be getting back to…”

  A low rumble that actually shook the building they were on slightly jerked both of them around. It was coming from the north, the mountains, and it didn’t stop. It just went on and on.

  “Is… is that thunder?” asked the girl.

  “No! That’s artillery! A lot of it!”

  “What’s happening?”

  “A fight’s goin’ on beyond the mountains. A big one!”

  “The army?”

  “Well, it sure can’t be the navy! God, I wish I knew what was happening!”

  “Are… are we still leaving tomorrow?”

  “Yes! We need to get moving!”

  * * * * *

  February, 1909, Thoreau, New Mexico Territory

  “Looks like this is the real thing, sir.”

  Major Andrew Comstock nodded his head. “It sure does, Sergeant. And it’s gonna be a hell of a show.”

  The army had advanced from Grants and had now reached the even smaller hamlet of Thoreau. But it appeared that this was as far as they were going to go without a fight. Cavalry scouts had reported ten or twelve of the Martian war machines coming this way at a rapid pace. So the infantry was shaking itself out into a battle line and the artillery was taking up firing positions.

  The army was facing almost due west in a flat valley between two lines of mountains. Several miles to the north was Mount Powell, which consisted of a series of very steep escarpments almost a thousand feet higher than the valley, their sides glowing with a red sheen in the morning light. To the south, the mountains were closer. The land did not rise as sharply there, but it continued in a series of slopes and mesas up and up to a formidable, snow-covered ridge that stretched completely across the southern horizon; the north faces still in dark shadow. Andrew’s map said that one of the peaks was called Mount Sedgwick, but he wasn’t sure which one. Directly to the front, the ground sloped up very gently to a low rise about a mile and a half away. They couldn’t see anything that lay beyond, although they had cavalry scouts well in advance of that. The position had been deliberately chosen with a restricted view. There was no hard information on the effective range of the Martian heat rays and they didn’t want to risk being caught in a situation where the enemy could hurt them without the artillery being able to hit back. So if the Martians came close enough to fire at the army here, the guns would definitely be in range. It was a classic ‘reverse slope’ position like he’d read about at West Point.

  General Sumner had set up his command post on the flat roof of one of the buildings in Thoreau. Andrew had parked his detachment nearby in hopes of getting a good view, and perhaps news of any destroyed enemy machines that he might try to salvage. The place, like the other habitations they’d passed through, was deserted; the residents fled east. Andrew idly wondered if the place was named for the famous poet and naturalist and how that had come about?

  The troops had been deployed in an entirely conventional formation, one infantry brigade to the north of the road, and the second to the south. Each brigade had its two regiments lined up side by side, each with two battalions forward and one in reserve. The battalions had two companies deployed in extended order on the firing line with the other two companies acting as supports. Andrew noted that it played out just like the 1904 Drill Regulations he had used at West Point. The cavalry were on the flanks and the artillery batteries were spaced fairly evenly along the whole line, although several hundred yards behind the infantry. A scattering of machine guns were also sprinkled along the line with the infantry. Three of the armored cars had been placed
on each flank. The whole thing was about three miles long from end to end. Some of the infantry and guns were digging in, but most were just watching and waiting. Andrew noticed that none of them appeared to be wearing their breath masks. He looked down at the canvas bag hanging from the strap looped over his neck. His own breath mask was in there. He was already wearing leather gloves against the cold and his leather riding boots should give as much protection as the men’s leggings. The black dust the Martians had used in England was lethal if inhaled, but it could also poison a man just by contact with the skin. He hoped they wouldn’t use the stuff today.

  He looked up as Bill White, the newspaperman, rode up. Not only had he acquired a horse, he also had a breath mask. They exchanged greetings. “It appears we are about to have a battle, Major.”

  “Yes,” agreed Andrew. “And soon.”

  “Mind if I tag along with you?”

  “Suit yourself, sir. But you’ll probably learn more if you stay with the general.”

  “Too many of my esteemed colleagues hanging around headquarters; like a flock of vultures. Whatever I see there will be reported by dozens of others. But if you are successful in your mission, Major, I might get a unique view of some Martians, close up.”

  “If we’re lucky.”

  “Speaking of luck, it’s a damn shame about Selfridge, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, he was a good man. I wonder what happened?”

  “We might never find out, I suppose.”

  They had been waiting nervously for over an hour when a strange buzz-saw sound came to their ears from off to the west. Corporal Kennedy was just handing him a cup of coffee he’d boiled up and he jerked around, slopping half of it on the ground. Andrew thought he saw a flicker of red light reflecting off the still-shadowed hillsides to the south, but he wasn’t sure. After a few minutes, a smudge of dark smoke wafted up in the distance but quickly dissipated. Only a short while later, the buzz-saw snarled twice more, louder than before.