“Think you’ll be there long?”
“Hard to say. The rumors have been flying. Seems General Funston is waiting for heavy artillery before he tries to crack the Martian fort at Gallup. But other are saying there’s trouble up in Wyoming or the Dakotas and they may send us there. Probably won’t know until they start loading us on trains.”
She handed him a slip of paper. “This is my Aunt’s address. You could write to me.”
“I’ll try.”
“Thank you for everything, Sergeant.” She came over, stood on tip-toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, Miss. Take care.”
She nodded, but didn’t smile and then turned and walked off down the street.
* * * * *
April, 1909, Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory
Rebecca Harding forced herself not to look back—at least until she got to the end of the block. But when she did look, there was no sign of Sergeant Dolfen. What? Did you think he would come running after you? You’re just a silly little girl and he’s a grown man! And quite a man he was, too! She often thought that her father and grandfather were tough men and she supposed they were, but she’d never met anyone like Sergeant Dolfen. She’d be long dead but for him.
She shook her head and continued on her way, asking a woman who was sweeping her stoop how to get to the part of town where her aunt lived. The woman looked at her very oddly, but told her what she needed to know. It was quite a walk, which gave her time to think. Part of her very much wanted to go to her aunt’s house. A place with a door where she could shut out the world. A place with a bath! Hot food! A soft bed! She was sure it would be very pleasant—at first. But then what was she going to do? What would her aunt and uncle let her do? They would be her legal guardians and have exactly the same authority over her as her parents had had. They could send her to school in Connecticut, they could make her sell Ninny, they could make her do anything they wanted!
But what do you want to do, girl?
She didn’t have an answer for that. Well, she knew what she really wanted to do: fight the Martians. She wanted to be a soldier and fight Martians. But they didn’t have women soldiers. Even though she had killed a Martian face-to-face, they wouldn’t let her be a soldier. To even suggest it would bring laughter and mockery. If she really tried to insist, it could get her locked up in the attic of her aunt’s house like some senile old woman. So of the options possible for her, what did she want to do? She had no answer.
Her path took her past the railroad station. The tracks were filled with trains. Some taking troops and supplies to General Funston’s army, others going the other way carrying… carrying what? She stopped and watched one train where there were many people clustered about and lots of small enclosed wagons with big red crosses painted on the sides.
Wounded. Trains full of wounded.
The Martian heat rays didn’t leave many wounded, but she supposed there must be some. And with any large army there would be men hurt in accidents or men who got sick. Apparently they were being brought here, to Santa Fe.
Rebecca moved closer and saw men carrying the wounded out of the train on stretchers and putting them in the wagons, the ambulances. But there were women there, too! Women wearing what looked like uniforms. They had khaki tunics just like the men and long khaki skirts. They had white aprons and white hats and armbands with the red crosses. Nurses!
She came right up behind one of the women and watched as she helped settle one of the wounded men. The man had bandages over most of his face and he was moaning quietly. The woman finished and suddenly turned, almost colliding with Rebecca. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Watch out, girl!”
“I’m sorry,” said Rebecca.
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
Rebecca looked her up and down.
“I want to help.”
* * * * *
April, 1909, Washington, D.C.
Major Andrew Comstock walked down E Street toward the bridge leading back to Fort Myer and his quarters. Colonel Hawthorne walked along with him. It was as beautiful a spring morning as you could ask for, which is why they hadn’t taken a car, but Andrew didn’t notice the flowering trees or the birds singing. “Colonel, I don’t think General Wood really understood what I was saying about the Martian construction machines.”
“Well, he has an awful lot on his mind, Andy.”
“But this is so important, sir! The moment I saw what was happening I knew I had to get the word back! You understand, don’t you, sir?”
“Yes, I think I do. It does change the equation quite a lot. Remember that conversation we had a long time ago about the Indians and the Europeans?”
“Yes I do, sir. I think about it often.”
“I said if the Indians had simply worked together, gathered their tribes into a huge force, they could have wiped out each tiny colony as they appeared. But if those colonists could have been building muskets and cannons and machines to build forts as soon as they stepped off their boats. Well, I’m not so sure about the Indians’ chances.”
“Yes! Exactly! So what do we do, sir?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? But honestly, even if Wood fully appreciated the danger, understood it all as you and I do, what could we do that we’re not already doing? Destroying the enemy bases would still be a priority even if they didn’t have the construction machines. You’ve been away for a couple of months, Andy, you haven’t seen what’s been happening around here.”
“What, sir?”
“People are waking up to the fact that this is all for real. Some still don’t believe it, but more and more do. The country is mobilizing its strength like it never has before. Men being trained, factories working around the clock; even the Civil War is going to pale next to this sort of effort. We’re a strong country and we will be putting all our strength into this.”
“I hope you’re right, sir.”
They walked in silence for a while. Andrew looked around and had to admit that there had been changes, even in the time he’d been away. There were men in uniform everywhere; the streets were filled with them. When his train had arrived in the city he had passed through lines of fortifications under construction and there were huge military camps everywhere. There were even posts with men and weapons right here in the city. Field guns guarded the bridges and machine guns were posted atop many of the buildings.
“Victoria missed you terribly while you were gone, Andy,” said Hawthorne suddenly. “She was disappointed that you went right to headquarters without even stopping to see her.”
“I… I needed to report in,” he replied, suddenly flustered. “I’ll go see her as soon as I can get changed. With your permission, sir.”
Hawthorne chuckled. “You always have that, son. And we’ll expect you for dinner tonight.”
“Thank you, sir.” The desire to see Vickie suddenly grew very strong in him. And was Hawthorne hinting that if he did ask her, he would have his blessing? Sure sounded like it… “What… what do you think I’ll be assigned to next, sir?”
“Do you mean will you be staying in Washington for a while?” said Hawthorne, grinning. “Hard to say. Of course just writing your report ought to keep you here for a month! And if I haven’t said so before, that was a hell of a job you did, Major! I think you’ll be getting that medal Wood mentioned.”
“I lost some of my men, sir; saw an awful lot more get killed. Somehow medals don’t seem quite so important as they used to.”
“That is the way of it, isn’t it? Well, in any case, I think we’ll be able to find you some work that will keep you back east for a while. It’s clear the tanks need improvements if they’re to be of any use in offensive operations. Guns need to be improved, we need to get Tesla in gear on his contraptions, and the Wrights need to improve their flying machines. Oh yes, they’ll be plenty of work.”
“Yes, sir. But I’m still worried about what the Martians are doing. If they can build
more of their tripods as quickly as it seems they can…”
“It’s a worry for sure,” agreed Hawthorne. “But the one hopeful thing I see in your report was those dozen tripods you saw just standing in a row inside the fortress. Why weren’t they out doing things?”
“Uh, I was assuming it was because they were for the new offspring the Martians were growing.”
“Yes, that was my thought, too. And if that is the case then we may be in better shape than we think. Every destroyed tripod we’ve been able to examine has had a Martian in it. They have to have an operator for each one! They can’t operate automatically.”
“There were dozens of those heat ray towers on the wall of their fortress,” Andrew pointed out. “The ones that hurt General Funston’s army when they tried to attack. They must have been under some sort of automatic control, sir.”
“True, but that’s a different situation. The immediate threat is their tripods. Every cylinder that’s been found, the ones in England and the errant one that fell near Memphis a few weeks ago, they all carried only three Martians. If it takes a Martian to control a tripod, then the defining factor of their strength is not how many machines they can build, but how many Martians there are to run them.”
“Yes, sir. It’s a shame there was so little left of the one we captured by the time we could get it on ice. We need to know how long it takes to grow a new Martian and how long it takes them to mature to the point that they can control a machine.”
“Yes,” agreed Hawthorne. “If we were dealing with humans, we wouldn’t need to worry. Nine months to be born and then a dozen years at least until they could fight. But with the Martians, who knows? If they can produce a new one every six months and if the thing can fight in a year or less then… well then we may be looking at a very long war, Andrew.”
“Yes, sir. A very long war.”
Epilogue
Cycle 597, 843.7, Holdfast 32-1
Qetjnegartis watched as the bud pulled itself free of the growth sac and flopped on the floor of the birthing crèche. Of necessity, the crèche was a crude place, tunneled out of the rock beneath the holdfast and, for the moment, lacking in most of the usual facilities. Still, it would do.
It was a long time since it had done this and it was an interesting sensation. The new member of the Race had been given the basic set of knowledge during its final days of gestation and its intellect, which had been rudimentary up until then, had expanded enormously in just that short time. Communication between the bud and Qetjnegartis had not only become possible, but nearly incessant during that time.
Leaving the growth sac had severed that communications and clearly the bud was distressed by this. It stretched out its tendrils toward Qetjnegartis and it reached down and grasped them, re-stablishing the link.
Where are we?
On a new world which the Race has marked for conquest. There is much work to be done.
Can I help?
Indeed yes. You were created to help.
That is good, is it not?
Yes.
This bud and the others were essential. The unexpected losses both in battle and on the still missing cylinder had put the group at considerable risk. Only five of the original fifteen members remained. While the holdfast’s defenses had been improved to the point that they could repel a minor attack, they were far from complete. The war machines were essential to the defense, and it would be at least a quarter cycle until the new buds would be able to pilot them. Even then, there would only be ten instead of the expected thirty.
Worse, Zastranvis was exhibiting the first signs of the microbial infection which had destroyed the first expedition. The new drugs were keeping it in check, but its next bud would have to be a replacement body for itself instead of a new member. None of the others had shown any symptoms yet, but it was inevitable that they all would. This would lead to additional delays in expanding their strength.
Fortunately, Group 33 to the north was still at full strength and would soon have thirty war machines in operation. The Conclave had given it orders to drive south and link up with Qetjnegartis’ group. If no major attack came between now and the link-up, they should be safe.
And overall, things were going well. The lands to the south had been nearly overrun. Large sections of the land in the opposite hemisphere had been subdued as well. And nowhere—except here—had any significant setbacks been experienced. Much remained to do, but the next wave of cylinders was due to be launched soon. When they arrived, a large offensive could start which would break the last resistance. Yes, success seemed certain.
Qetjnegartis moved toward the door and pulled gently on the bud’s tendrils. Come, you must be hungry. We shall visit the feeding chamber. After feeding I will show you the rest of the holdfast. We have great tasks ahead of us.
The End
About the Author
Scott Washburn is an architectural designer by profession, an avid reader of military history as well as long time re-enactor and wargamer. He has written several SF&F books that are being published by Zmok Books
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