Warbirds of Mars: Stories of the Fight!

by Неизвестный

  Felix wasn’t sure if Kalen Tengel expected a response.

  “We are physically, technologically, and numerically superior. But this guerrilla war?” He wagged one of his elongated fingers like a knife thrower theatrically winding up. “This will go on. We cannot stop it. My companions do not understand that. We will win, but we won’t beat you. And that is where you people come in. I cannot beat the human spirit, but I can control it.”

  He placed his hands on the desk. Two outstretched arms leading up to the head. A pyramid of alien malice. Felix vaguely remembered something about the triangle being the strongest shape in nature, as he looked at Kalen Tengel’s three black eyes at the peak of the pyramid.

  “This is your last chance. Stay, and you commit to serving me. If you follow my commands, then you will inspire hundreds of millions—maybe even a billion—of your species. You will kill scores of Martians. You will be legends in your own time and for generations to come. And you will save more human lives than anyone else in the history of your race.” He stood up straight. “Would any of you like to leave?”

  For a moment, the four humans tried to inconspicuously look at each other, but the risk of actually meeting someone’s gaze was too great.

  “Excellent.” He turned back at the wrapped frames behind him. Four were the same size, but the center frame was noticeably bigger. “Take a look at the future.”

  The human gasps filled the room before the white covers could touch the floor.

  The P-61 Black Widow hummed over New York City. There was no blackout drill tonight.

  “Hey, Jack,” Jack recognized the voice of Errol Gardner over the intercom. Despite the devastating losses, it took until 1948 for the desegregation of the military to become official. Errol Gardner was the first black radar operator Jack had flown with. So far, the only question Jack had about it was why it took so long for Philadelphia to sign the order.

  “Yeah, Errol?”

  “One of the boys was telling me you got this...ah...this spring under your seat. An ejaculator?”

  Jack half-grinned. “Ejector.”

  “Yeah, yeah, ejector. So what I hear is if we’re going down, you pull a cord and you fly out.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “You ever tried it?”

  “Nope.”

  “You ever seen it in action?”

  “Nope. Heard the Krauts got the idea first, but the P-61’s one of the first American planes to try it.”

  “So you got one.”

  “Right.”

  “And Larsson?”

  “Yeah, the gunner’s got one too. Be honest, Errol, I think he’s got the better chance. Most of the tests focus on the gunners because it’s the best place to experiment it.”

  “So if we get shot, I’m staying here.”

  “We’re not getting shot, Errol.”

  “Nice to hear you say that, Jack. I figured it was because you and Larsson are...”

  “Are what?”

  “Well, you know, I’m the only one here who’s...”

  “Who’s what, Errol?”

  “A Red Sox fan.”

  Jack made a sound between an exhale and a chuckle. “Stay focused, Errol.”

  When he took his finger off the intercom, Errol’s voice was already speaking in a markedly different tone. “—headed our way, diamond formation six o’clock.”

  “Larsson, look alive.” Jack steered the Black Widow toward the coordinates Errol fed him. He knew Errol would be adjusting the radar to focus in, while he heard Larson leaning forward in his chair. The night sky suddenly lit up with four distinct flashes ahead. Jack maneuvered out of the line of fire. The glowing green rays shot past the widow, as Larsson fired back. “Errol, two coming in.”

  “I got ‘em” Errol replied, referring to the remote-controlled turret gun that could serve as an aft or forward weapon. Errol fired as the plane wove through the Martian forces. There was a satisfying burst of fire from ahead as Larsson emaciated a Talon. A few seconds later, a second explosion rocked the night sky, as Errol shot down another Talon. “Two down,” Errol said.

  “Best of four,” Jack said, turning to make another pass at the Talons. The Black Widow swerved again as the Talons engaged in pursuit. Jack stared out at the black sky, when the lights appeared again.

  More arrived now, six or seven, then twice that. Larsson swore and Jack violently pulled up. “Where’d they come from?” Larsson asked over the roar of the gunfire.

  “No radar,” Errol said over the intercom. “They ain’t showing up here.”

  “Narrioch, NARRIOCH,” Jack spoke into the radio, using the code name for Coney Island, the original Lenape Indian name, “this is Night Thunder, taking heavy fire and requesting immediate assistance.” Something shook the side of the plane. “Narrioch, do you copy?”

  No response.

  “They’re jamming the radio,” Jack said.

  “That ain’t good,” Larsson said, his face momentarily lit up by the glow of a laser coming within spitting distance.

  Another shake.

  “I just lost the controls,” Errol said over the intercom.

  “I’ll take over, just guide me to a safe spot.”

  An explosion rocked the plane. The smell of burning oil filled the fuselage.

  “What safe spot?”

  “We just lost engine one,” Larsson said.

  “Where’d they come from?” Jack muttered.

  Jack veered to see a Talon coming straight for him. Before Jack had a chance to respond, the Talon exploded. A new hail of gunfire flew in, scattering the Talons.

  “Where’s that—” Larsson was cut off by a roar of laser fire careening by, followed by a new ship. Jack tried following the ship.

  “They’re scattering,” Errol’s voice announced. “They’re leaving. Who’s the new guy?”

  “You tell us,” Jack said, pivoting around. “Where’d he come from?”

  “Radar doesn’t see him. They’re leaving, Jack.” It was true, Jack could see the ships flying back to the ocean where they could lick their wounds.

  “Pretty nasty cut you boys got there,” a voice said over the radio. As Jack pivoted back to Coney Island, the plane came into view flying parallel to him. Through the smoke, Jack tried to look at the ship.

  “Who are you?” Jack asked.

  There was a quiet laughter. “Better be careful next time you wanna walk down a trap street. I may not be around to rescue you.” Jack thought he could make out a vague salute from the cockpit before the vessel sped out of sight.

  “Remember,” Mr. Yoritomo said. “Low. Low.” Mr. Mask watched the middle-aged man towel off, rubbing his balding head with a rag. Inside his suit, under his gasmask, Mr. Mask sweltered. It had been a tough workout. Akira Yoritomo was five feet, two inches, perhaps one hundred and thirty pounds, and demure. He was one of the last Judo masters on the planet.

  “Your strength is good. No problem.” He put the towel down and looked at Mask. “But all your power comes from down here.” He smacked his gut and made a pushing motion. “You keep it focused. More difficult to throw. You stay in control. Control yourself, and you control the fight.” He began walking toward the stairs. Yoritomo owned one of the finest restaurants on the West Coast. With the Heartland under Martian control, the primary source of meat in America now came from the ocean. Akira Yoritomo was an expert chef, adept at preparing everything from crab to lamb. He had started an urban garden project, trying to turn the rooftops of abandoned buildings into gardens, to grow whatever food they could in the San Francisco climate. Above his restaurant was a sparse dojo. As Yoritomo entered the restaurant, he looked over it. Comfortable chairs. Lights that still held electricity. “Walk with me,” he said to Mr. Mask.

  “Papa,” a voice said, and Mr. Mask turned. There was a girl there with a tray. Two plates of rice were piled high with two grilled ungai—eel—behind them. There were two teacups and a teapot in the middle. Mask could see the steam trickling up
through the spout of the pot. There were two rice cakes on the back of the tray as well. “I thought you would be hungry.”

  “Thank you, Miu.” He looked at Mr. Mask. “My daughter. You remember her.”

  Mask looked down through his tinted goggles. Miu looked away.

  “Later, Miu. We are going to take a walk.”

  “It will be here for you when you return.”

  “Mm.” Miu bowed before Mr. Mask and her father. Mask customarily bowed as he left, following Yoritomo as he turned and walked outside. Electricity was flowing through the streetlamps tonight, making it a good evening for a walk. Mask looked around as Yoritomo walked down the street. Buildings needed repair. Garbage pickup was rare, and when the sewage system didn’t run, the neighborhood would stink.

  But there were gardens too, gardens on every rooftop and filling every abandoned lot. There was no shortage of fish to eat, and most of the families had jobs. The children could play in the street during the day. It was more than some free communities had.

  “Last week, a man from the Marines stopped by. He wanted my help. Start training the Marines how to use Judo to fight the Martians.” They turned left. “We made a good life here. Even a gaijin could come in. Settle here and live a happy life, leaving to work with the Marines.” Mask didn’t respond, but kept walking. For a moment Yoritomo said nothing, then looked down at Mask’s armored abdomen. “You keep your strength up because you don’t believe. You still don’t trust yourself. You know to use your enemy’s strength against him, but you don’t trust yourself enough to let go. It is not submission. It is letting them advance and keeping yourself secure. They move. You don’t.”

  As they reached the end of a fence, a young man walked around the fence, nearly bumping into them. He had a collared shirt on, and olive pants. “Sensei,” he said, bowing.

  “Henry,” Yoritomo said, smiling. “You remember Mr. Mask?”

  “Yes.” Henry looked into Mask’s unblinking eyes.

  “I was just discussing the healing going on in our neighborhood.”

  “Since escaping the camps, you mean.” Mask had heard how the Japanese internment camps were run, and he knew many of the Americans fled the camps after the devastating first wave. The Japanese-American residents were forced to escape and march back to their homes. In the case of Japantown, many of those homes had been taken.

  It had not been a peaceful homecoming.

  “Henry, you have more in common with Mr. Mask than you think.”

  “Forgive me, Sensei. I was on my way over to ask Miu—”

  “That will not be necessary.” Henry Kojima looked at Mr. Mask. “Henry,” Yoritomo said, slightly harder. Mask had heard that tone many times. “Who is the enemy?”

  “Martians.”

  “And where is the real enemy?”

  Henry lightly slapped a palm across his heart. “In here.”

  “Good.”

  A scream cut through the night air.

  The three men ran, Mr. Mask and Henry Kojima taking the lead as Yoritomo came close behind. Mask unholstered his sidearm. He held it out to Henry as they followed the screams. Lights came on in nearby buildings. The scream came from behind a tall wall. Henry took the gun, running for the gate. With one quick motion, Mask unslung his rifle, nimbly ascending the wall. He surveyed the scene.

  They turned on him, guns ready.

  Mask leapt off, spinning in the air and driving his legs into the closest Martian. Landing, his gun came up and aimed at the closest Martian. With pinpoint accuracy, he fired three bullets, one into each eye. The third Martian came from behind him. Mask turned with the rifle, but the Martian beneath him had recovered. It grabbed one of Mask’s legs in a powerful grip as the second one came closer. Mask pointed his rifle at the Martian under him, but the creature wrenched powerfully, dragging Mask down.

  On the ground, Mask shifted his weight. The invader was bigger and stronger. It grabbed onto Mask’s arms, looking for a way to get to his neck. Mask had to dispatch the creature quickly. As the shadow of the other Martian loomed over him, gunshots suddenly rang out. The third Martian staggered back, the bullets impaling first his body, then his head. On his knees with the other Martian, Mask assessed his opponent. Shifting his weight, he reached back for his sword. The Martian came closer, and with one swift movement, Mask brought the sword out, slicing down like a fan blade, severing the Martian’s head.

  As Mask stood up, Henry Kojima stepped in, smoking gun glinting in the moonlight. He looked at Mask. No words were spoken between them as Akira Yoritomo followed by the gate. Mask wiped the blade and sheathed it. Yoritomo backed up as a deep growl emanated behind him. The silhouette of another Martian filled the gate. Far away there was another scream. “Miu,” Henry said.

  Yoritomo cast a look at Mask “Go.”

  Henry bent down, grabbing Mask’s rifle, “see to Miu.”

  Mask looked at the Martian for a fraction of a second, then left. He scaled the wall and ran back across the block in the direction of Akira’s restaurant. There was another scream.

  Breaking glass.

  Mask’s boots slammed on the concrete as he turned a corner.

  The sound of Martian rays.

  More screams.

  A small explosion.

  Miu.

  Drawing his sword, Mask turned onto the street and slowed his pace. Akira’s glass windows were broken. Across the street, a car burned, flames billowing in the night. Miu was on the ground, half-inside her father’s restaurant, her black hair hanging over her shoulders. There were three Martian bodies on the ground, dead.

  Standing down the street was a figure with his back toward Mr. Mask.

  He was huge, a broad back with clear, hard muscles moving under the tank-top he wore. His arms were long and solid. Mask could tell he was looking at a prime physical specimen. The man half-turned to look at Mask, but didn’t completely turn around. He was a predator, an animal focused on his prey, perking his ears at the presence of a new predator. In each hand he held a metal rod with splotches of Martian blood decorating the sides.

  The Skull.

  Mr. Mask watched.

  The figure was still.

  With a decisive movement, the figure slid both of his metal sticks into carefully modified holsters on his thighs.

  Mask felt the weight of his sword in his hands.

  The figure turned around. The mask the man wore was a new one, modified from what was in the film. It was thicker, more form-fitting to the contours of his head, with added protection. It wasn’t a crude leather facade anymore; it seemed to be made of some more flexible metal or very thick plastic. The face was a black and white detailed mask of a human skull now.

  The two stared at each other across the street. Miu moved in the doorframe. With a simple move, the Skull reached into a pocket and held something out. It was thin and loose, blowing lightly in the wind. Mask squinted momentarily to look at it before the Skull dropped it on the pavement.

  Miu pulled herself up to her feet. Mr. Mask heard the sound of gunshots and the death-groan of a Martian behind him. The Skull and Mr. Mask looked at each other behind their unfeeling eye sockets for another moment, then the Skull turned and left.

  “Mask,” Miu said, standing and stepping into the street. Mr. Mask walked over to her, lightly offering his hand to her. She took it, steadying herself. He picked her up. “They came... Then he arrived. I thought he was you for a second. I thought you...” she looked up at him. “I thought you came back for me.”

  Footsteps thudded down the street. Mr. Mask turned, still holding Miu. “Miu,” Henry Kojima yelled as he and Yoritomo stepped onto the street. They increased their pace. Mr. Mask gingerly handed Miu off to her father. Henry offered Mask the rifle back. “What happened?” Kojima asked.

  Mask ignored the young man’s question, walking to the middle of the street. He stared at the artifact the Skull had dropped.

  It was a mask.

  Old, faded, almost threadbare in p
arts. It looked like a derivation of the mask the Skull had worn in the film. Looking closer, Mr. Mask saw there was something different. In the middle of the forehead, faded and dusty, was a small symbol.

  A Martian skull and crossbones. The Martian Killers’ symbol. Faded and worn out, the symbol stared back at Mr. Mask as he thought of how the old façade had been replaced by a newer, stronger, more versatile, and more powerful mask.

  “Bird” Cooper seldom left the club anymore. A man in a wheelchair was an easy target. He made himself a comfortable little nest on the third floor and stayed there. Bird could afford to stay closed in.

  “Stardust” played in the background as the man in the black suit guided Josie through the floor of The Last Dance. It was bigger than the Double R, though not by much. Maybe a little cleaner too, though Josie knew the Double R never was as selective as some of the other clubs she’d performed in. Everyone was welcome in the Double R. At The Last Dance, Bird had final say. In an insulated world, where Bird still reigned as king, not everyone got in.

  Or out, Josie supposed.

  She felt her heels click along the dance floor as the man in the black suit guided her through. All around, Josie heard the whispers.

  “...singer at the—”

  “Boyfriend’s an ace fighter, shot down—”

  “—Bird’s new girl.”

  “Had her boyfriend shipped to the front.”

  “His bedroom…”

  She heard them and walked on.