Warbirds of Mars: Stories of the Fight!

by Неизвестный

  Marty tensed. “Hey! I think you owe your girlfriend an apology, jerk.”

  Bobby hopped out of his seat. “Yeah? Is that what you think, you weak little jackass?” Everyone in the theater had twisted in their seats to stare at the trio, all except a mother who ushered her children up the aisle and out the exit after hearing such language.

  Shirley pulled at Bobby’s shirt. “Oh, for the love of Pete, will you calm down. He’s just trying to be a gentlemen. I know it’s not something you’d recognize but—”

  Her hand was slapped away. The action did not harm her, despite the echoing smack of his skin colliding with hers. “You know what? I think you should just find your own way home. Maybe then you’ll realize that you should be a little nicer to me.”

  Before she could reply, a pimply faced usher in a red vest shined a flashlight at them. “There’s been a complaint. You three need to leave.”

  Bobby stormed out, pushing the usher down as he left. Shirley was second, apologizing to the kid on the sticky floor the same way she had apologized to Marty before. Marty left last, helping the usher to his feet without a word.

  Outside, the sky glowed with the blue-gray of evening. Their home was a small city, the sort of place that had all the shopping and amenities of a metropolis without any of the culture or diversity. No tourism. No museums. Not even a Chinatown. Occasionally, a traveling fair came through, yet they were never as exciting as their newspaper ads claimed. Main Street consisted of a series of identical shops and offices where people did their business as quickly as possible, then went home. Even the marquee of the cinema was just dull neon that flickered every time a storm came.

  Just outside of the theater, a construction site renovating one of the city’s few historic buildings had quieted for the day. Bobby fumed and swore, picking up tools the builders had left behind and hurling them against anything solid. He declared that he would tell his father, an important business man, about the injustice done to him.

  Shirley ignored the rant and felt someone tap her shoulder lightly. Marty, his mouth quirked to one side thoughtfully, nudged in the direction leading out of downtown. “Want me to take you home?”

  A sigh of relief deflated her entire body, and she gave the boy a pitying, yet grateful look. Their city was not famous for high crime, but a sixteen year old walking alone at night was just not smart. Marty might not have been much protection against muggers or thugs, but he was better than nothing.

  She felt the air around her whip about, as if a spooked pigeon had flown by. Bobby’s fist interrupted her relaxed moment as it glided toward her gentleman escort. Marty ducked the attack, his glasses slipping and dangling from one ear.

  Shirley protested, attempting to make a grab for Bobby’s flailing limb and shouting the futile words, “Stop it!”

  “You making moves on my girl?” the larger boy roared, sounding more like a mad gorilla than a teenager. He rounded on Marty as the older boy adjusted his glasses, bringing the attacker back into perfect view.

  “You need to cool off, Bobby. Go home!” Shirley pulled at his raised arm, struggling to bring the fist back down to his side.

  “You’re defending this freaky, little chess champion?” The thought brought revulsion to Bobby’s square face. “He believes in Martians, for crying out loud!” His other fist wrapped itself in Marty’s collar. “Come on, Flash Gordon. Fight back.” Marty cringed a bit, and Shirley wondered if he could manage one good punch to the bully’s abdomen before Bobby squished him into tapioca pudding.

  A horrific female screech caught Bobby’s attention and his fingers lost their grip on Marty’s stretched out shirt. The three teenagers focused on a woman pointing at the sky and wailing. Others joined in her panic, their fingers flapping upward at a light overhead. A whirling noise started soft somewhere in the distance, growing louder as the light in the sky descended.

  Light emanated from a flying metal object that spun and descended over the rooftops. The air whipped around the feet of the spectators, forming tiny tornados along the ground, as the saucer floated to Earth. The football shaped spaceship hovered a few feet above the ground. The closer it grew, the more unsteady it seemed. It swayed against the atmosphere.

  “I think it’s having trouble,” Marty mumbled, more for his own benefit than that of anyone around him.

  The pointing fingers started to wave frantically as some people scattered into the doorways of shops. Others stood rooted to the sidewalk while three openings appeared at the bottom of the saucer. Spindly, yet sturdy metal legs extended from the vehicle, leaving it hovering over Main Street like a deformed spider with three toes on each foot. Then, slowly, the entire ship sank down upon the tripod until the base stood only three feet from the ground. Oval windows at the top of the craft opened, and the entirety of the city’s downtown area went silent.

  Out of the saucer came a creature unlike anything they had seen in the comics or on the screen. Its body resembled that of a boxer, broad shoulders, toned muscles, and legs like those of an Olympic athlete. Its massive palms held only three stretched fingers each. As the eyes of the gaping humans traveled up the creature’s body, some women blushing at the ornate briefs that were its only cover, they all gasped at the sight of the face staring back. Positioned upon a short neck reigned something more insect-like than humanoid. The head was flat and broad in the front, then formed a round point at the back of the skull. Three black, pupil-less eyes the size of baseballs mimicked the townspeople’s expressions of curiosity. Two slits served as its nose, and its mouth was carved into a pair of cartilage-like fangs hanging over a cleft bottom jaw.

  “Everyone stay back,” a man from the crowd bellowed, trembling in a doorway to hide his wife behind him.

  “Is it dangerous?” someone murmured.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask it?”

  “Maybe this is one of those Hollywood promotional stunts.”

  “Somehow I seriously doubt that Orson Welles is behind this one.”

  A few people ran for help or simply out of fear. Most just continued to stare, wondering if the “thing” spoke English. Only one person in the crowd broke the awe of the moment.

  Bobby sauntered toward the alien. “Hoe-lee cow.” He whistled loudly. “What’s the matter, rocket man? Your flying soup bowl not working right, and now you’re lost?” He snickered as the alien tilted its head quizzically.

  “Bobby, you moron! Get back over here,” Shirley pleaded. She thought to chase after him, to pull him back to the supposed safety of the sidewalk. Her muscles ached as she realized that her legs had forgotten how to work.

  Bobby turned back to his girlfriend. “Shirl, don’t be scared. Come shake hands with Dopey over h—”

  Bang! The boy’s body went rigid for a split second after everyone heard the sharp noise cut through their quiet Main Street. He crumpled onto the sidewalk, his dead eyes staring up at the night sky. Everyone’s attention fell upon the alien who held up a gun for all to behold.

  A shrill noise emitted from Shirley, a noise she found unfamiliar. She stepped back against Marty. The heels of her shoes felt taller and less stable. The movie-theater marquee lights behind her were blaringly bright. Her stomach did a little flip. Despite the guilt, shock and the nausea all surfacing within her, a wicked little voice in her brain pointed out, “At least you won’t have to break up with him now.”

  A police car pulled around the corner with the siren blaring. A man in blue moved hesitantly out of his driver’s seat. At first, he noticed only the alien, the towering mass of muscles. Then, he noticed Bobby’s corpse lying at the stunned Shirley’s feet.

  The officer held out one shaking hand, either to calm the strange creature or himself. “Hold it right there!” The alien spun around to meet with the government issued pistol as the human added, “What the hell are you?”

  The alien did not answer. Another bang, followed by a scream from the crowd forming on the street. The cop had been shot as simply as Bobby had
been. People started to scurry, rats escaping a sinking ship. The alien opened fire and chaos overtook Shirley’s small city world.

  She could hear Marty shuffle behind her, feel him pushing at her to run as well. He should run, she thought. He could get hurt. And I should probably do something—anything. Her brain jumbled into a knotted ball of anger. A creature came to her town and started killing, without explanation or warning. For the first time, something exciting had happened and it was horrible. A part of her mourned for the simple life she lived only minutes before.

  From the construction site behind them, Shirley grabbed a nine inch long, hollow pipe with both hands. Her knuckles whitened as she furiously griped the object. Marty moved to stop her, but quit. A cry seemed to die in his throat as though he thought yelling would bring the alien’s attention back upon them.

  She crept up to the creature, who lingered over its latest victim with its gun raised, inspecting the blood flowing across the sidewalk. With one quick swing, she batted the weapon out of the alien’s three fingered hand. The metal skidded as she whacked the gun a second time causing it to vanish under car. The alien turned on her and screamed in anger as its weapon spun out of reach. Shirley cut off the noise with a crack of the blunt object across the sunken cheeks. The pipe bent.

  Her anger blew away, replaced by the realization of what she had done. “Oh dear,” she breathed, tossing the pipe behind her as she turned to run. Each lift of her knee hit the inside of her straight skirt, nearly tripping her in the process. Blonde locks whipped at her line of sight.

  The alien pursued. People on the street watching cried out as she and the monster passed them. The warmth of the massive body behind her felt nearer. Shirley realized it would be a matter of seconds before it would catch her. She honestly never imagined she would be killed by a creature from another world.

  As Shirley ran, one young man moved away from his position near the cinema. She watched as Marty scooped up the gun from the fallen police officer. Her world seemed to move in slow motion. She watched him handle it awkwardly, wasting a precious second to adjust his hands and position his finger near the trigger. He aimed and took deep, unsteady breaths in and out. His glasses were jammed onto his face, cutting against his nose to make certain they would not shift while he steadied the sight.

  The hammer clicked. He breathed in.

  He exhaled. He fired.

  The bullet spun down the road, chasing the thing that chased Shirley The bullet penetrated the back of the skull. The alien continued its hunt for another full second before its legs buckled. Its entire body slumped against itself, then descended to the street, cartilage striking stone sounded like a melon bursting. Its face landed slightly upturned, giving the watching public a view of its three baseball-sized eyes as the light left them.

  Some of the spectators approached the massive form, poking at it to check for life. Others ran for help or to inspect the ship still awaiting its pilot’s return. Most took their first safe opportunity to check on the wounded, pressing their hands against blood-stained shirts, and feeling grateful for any sign of life.

  Shirley stopped.

  One man clapped Marty on the back. “Good job, son. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Mayor gave you a medal for this.”

  With an awkward sideways step, Marty escaped the man. “Uh, thanks,” he muttered. A panting Shirley started to walk toward him. Instantly, she recognized the mix of embarrassment and pride upon Marty’s face. He was pleased that she had heard the man’s words.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as he jogged to meet her half way.

  Shirley straightened the pleats in her skirt, squared her sweater over her shoulders, and lifted her head high. Taking his arm and checking him for his own signs of disarray, she made a request. “Marty, would you please take me home now?”

  Marty seemed to wait for the usual pitying looks or half smiles she so often gave him in passing. Instead, her rattled expression displayed complete confidence in him.

  He grinned like a giddy school boy. “Gladly.”

  SOUTHERN CROSS

  By Jeffrey J. Mariotte

  Anyone looking at the Antilles on that October night would have seen a rust-pocked, barnacle-encrusted, leaky, stinking excuse for a ship. A freighter registered out of Nicaragua, she had first been launched in 1922 as the S.S. Warren, a Hog Islander, commissioned to help ease a shortage of American ships during World War I. But as with the other Hog Island ships, she had been finished too late to participate in the war effort, and since she’d always had engine troubles, sometimes barely able to push her displacement of 8400 tons, she had been sold and resold twice within her first decade of service. By 1948, she had well over 200,000 nautical miles to her credit, and everyone who had ever captained her would have been surprised to know she was still afloat.

  But afloat she was, carving through the midnight waters of the South Pacific with the Southern Cross glowing overhead, carrying a human cargo of more than 800 refugees. The passengers, crammed into the cargo hold and every other available space, were fleeing the Sino-Japanese War—which, since the Martians had sided with the Japanese (taken over the Japanese, some said), had become more like the Sino-Japanese Massacre. The Antilles was bound for San Francisco, in the Free West. Once the passengers had disembarked, the ship’s captain, a German expat named Bruno Hoff, would refuel her, take on whatever cargo was headed for China, and go back for another load. The refugees couldn’t pay much and the crossing was dangerous—more so every day, it seemed, as the Martians preyed upon the shipping channels—but if he carried enough passengers and didn’t get sunk, he could still turn a profit.

  He stood at the wheel—he was a hands-on sea captain, not some manager who made others do all the real sailing—and chewed on the remains of a cigar that had gone out more than an hour ago. Tobacco flecked his lower lip, which a Portuguese prostitute had once told him looked like a piece of a tire hanging from his mouth. Hoff was not, he readily admitted, a handsome man. Besides his dark, rubbery lips, he had a bulbous nose, his eyes were too small, and his forehead bulged out over his brow. His black hair was thick and coarse, and his beard came in heavy but patchy. He would never be Clark Gable, or even Clark Gable’s ugly brother, but as long as he had a few coins in his pocket and he spent most of his shore time around docks, where working women were easy to find and none too picky, he didn’t worry about that. They weren’t much to look at, either. And he saved his real love, his most longing gazes, his only deep attachment, for the sea. The sea was a hell of a mistress, demanding and fickle, downright treacherous at times, but so seductive that once a man had tasted her, he couldn’t turn away.

  Tonight, she was dark and choppy. There was no moon, only the light from the Southern Cross and the Centaurus constellations reflecting off the waves, tipping them with silver. A warm wind blew steadily out of the east, and the ship’s engines chugged unevenly as they pushed the ship into it. Hoff smelled diesel and grease, his unlit cigar, his own sweat, and of course, the salty scent of the sea.

  He held onto the wheel with one hand and used the other to take his cigar from his mouth. His thick, red tongue probed a stray tobacco fleck. His eyes narrowed as he saw—or thought he saw—a wave breaking where it shouldn’t have. Was there something in the dark water? A raft? Some refugees had been so desperate to escape the fighting that they’d braved the Pacific in jerry-rigged vessels that had no hope of making the crossing. He took a step toward the wheelhouse door.

  And that’s when the explosion came.

  The impact knocked the captain off his feet, and when he scrambled up and dashed to the rail, he smelled fire and he saw smoke. The ship was already taking in water and listing to starboard. He ducked back into the wheelhouse, hit the emergency klaxon, and then ran back to the rail and called out, “Abandon ship!”

  His first mate, a Dutchman named Vander Tuig, came running toward the wheelhouse with his tongue showing at the corner of his mouth. His hair was thin and light, and he was buc
kling his belt as he ran. “What was that?” he asked as he approached.

  “Torpedo? I don’t know.”

  “How bad?”

  Hoff pointed toward the bow. “Starboard. Hole below the waterline, I think. Big one, maybe.”

  “Can we make it to shore? An island?”

  Hoff shook his head. Maybe she could be saved, but he didn’t think so. “We need everybody off. I don’t want another Lusitania on my hands.”

  People had just started to billow out onto the decks, voices raised in near panic, when another explosion sounded, somewhere amidships.

  “Another torpedo?” Vander Tuig asked.

  “A boiler, I think.” Hoff tried to radiate calm, but beneath the surface, his mind was racing. He doubted the Antilles could have survived the first hit, but with two, the sinking would happen for sure, and twice as fast. “The lifeboats,” he said.

  Vander Tuig stood there, blinking. Hoff slapped him across the cheek. “Lower the boats! Quickly!”

  The Antilles didn’t have enough lifeboats on board to hold all the refugees—she was a freighter, not a passenger liner, and the lifeboats were only sufficient to carry her usual crew and a few more. But they could crowd on, and some lives might be saved. The rest? Well, they’d have died if they stayed in China, sooner or later, so no great loss there.

  No, it was the ship Hoff would mourn, cantankerous tub that she was. The Antilles, and himself. A captain went down with the ship, or so tradition dictated. With the lifeboats so wretchedly inadequate, he supposed that in this case, the tradition would hold.

  He wondered, briefly, as he watched the refugees streaming onto the decks, if that Portuguese whore would miss him.

  Getting onto the boat had not been a problem for Benjamin Lee.

  He had been born in Los Angeles to second-generation Americans. Raised mostly in Santa Monica, he’d attended college at UCLA and grad school at Princeton. But he had Chinese features, and during his time in the country he had laid in some sets of Chinese clothing, the kind the peasants wore, in case a surreptitious escape became necessary.