Warbirds of Mars: Stories of the Fight!

by Неизвестный

  Apache’s shoulder slumped. He lowered his head, his hat covering his face.

  “You don’t know what it’s like, Hunter. To be in there...”

  “Fear’s a powerful motivator,” Hunter conceded.

  “Coming from the fearless hero who terrifies his enemies.”

  “Fearless?” Hunter lowered the gun. “Apache, I don’t know how long you’ve been gone, but know what makes me human? Fear. I’m scared of losing this war. I’m scared of losing the people I care about, and yeah, I’m scared of the Big Heads. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. You think I’m a hero? Look at me.” Hunter tossed the gun to the ground. “Look at me.” Reaching up, he pulled off his hat and unwrapped his bandages. Smearing the makeup off with one wipe, he adjusted his voice. It sounded small against the blazing town, but it pierced across the rooftop gulf more than any growl ever could. “I’m Robert Black. I’m a man pretending to be a freak. That’s my idea of playing hero, Apache. Just like you. I put on the mask, but it’s not who I am.”

  Apache’s hat tilted. Hunter could tell he wanted to look away.

  “This is a chance to be human again, to talk to me. Right now. You come with me, we go back to New York, and we talk about the Fallen Angel...maybe you help us fight him. Maybe you save those thousands of humans after all.” Robert realized he was offering his hand. “Maybe you can still be the hero.”

  Apache’s hat tilted again. Hunter still couldn’t see his face. There was a low sound coming from the black figure as he looked up. His wet eyes glistened. “You still don’t get it do you, Robert Black?” Apache reached up to his scarf and hat. “I’m Felix Edgemar...” Hunter gasped at what he saw, as Apache tossed the hat and scarf aside. Felix’s jaw had half-rotted away, revealing a swath of his face that showed discolored gums, frayed skin, and teeth. Parts of his jaw were replaced with metal, sometimes overlapping each other as new augmentations tried to hold the old ones together, giving him the appearance of a constant grimacing smile. Sores had eaten away at his right cheek, and bits of curved metal had stapled his lesions together, giving his face a patchwork look. His head was shaved in spots, where more metal had been grafted onto his skull to compensate for the wounds he’d taken and the chemicals that had softened his skull. His remaining hair grew haphazardly over the metal, like a forgotten garden fighting to stay relevant in a world of streets, highways, and steel. At the base of his discolored neck was a metal device with a black screen and a red line that spiked violently as Felix spoke, “...I’m a freak, pretending to be a man!” With the scarf gone, there was an artifice to Felix’s words. The hum of the metal box on his throat buzzed with every new word. “Do you see why I can’t go back? There’s nothing left for me.”

  His eyes began watering. “Nothing but what the Fallen Angel has given me, and if I can do this, then it wasn’t all for nothing. Maybe it can still matter.” As a tear rolled down his cheek, Felix’s makeup smudged, revealing another metal attachment just below his left eye. It glittered in the sun, an eternal teardrop imprinted on the man’s face. “You still think I can be the hero?”

  Hunter held his hands up. “I think you and I are two men caught up in a bad situation. I think there’s still a chance you can come over here. If this bad situation is between two sides, us and them?” Hunter held out his hand. “I’d like you with us.”

  Felix’s hands clutched the side of his face. He bobbed forward and backward, like he was trying to dislodge something. His hands moved back over his misshapen metallic skull and gripped the back of his neck. His elbows pointed at Hunter as he breathed heavily, his rasping voice echoing through the disfigured and scarred face. His eyes flicked at Hunter.

  “You know they...they made me to be like you.”

  Hunter allowed himself the smallest hint of a smile. “I couldn’t tell.”

  Felix rasped a choking sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. “There’s something else you need to know.”

  “What?”

  Felix’s eyes sharpened. His right hand dropped to his back shoulder blade. “I never thought two guns were enough.”

  He pulled the hidden Walther Police Pistol from its shoulder blade holster. Hunter flexed the ring fingers on his hands, shooting his arms out straight. The twin sleeve pistols sprung into action under his trench coat, ejecting two derringers down his sleeves and into his palms.

  Hunter fired first.

  Felix’s body slumped lifelessly to the ground as the twin gunshots echoed. Smoke coiled out of the muzzles of the derringers. Hunter stared at his fallen opponent’s lifeless body.

  “Neither did I,” he responded.

  The newscaster’s voice was solemn and somber as the footage rolled. “Tens of thousands lined the streets of New York to pay respect to the honored dead.” The footage showed the parade walking down the streets of Manhattan. Four caskets, each draped in an American flag were the centerpiece of the procession. “...As the bodies of the Last Outlaws are laid to rest in a funeral today with full military honors.”

  The footage showed stoic soldiers, weeping children, and mourning women.

  “The heroic sacrifice of these four individuals is now know nationwide, and among all the free peoples of the Earth.” Footage of the Last Outlaws now, cribbed from various newsreels in the past, a highlight reel of heroism and daring-do. “As the four heroes died destroying a hidden Martian base in Mexico, the world will remember them for their sacrifices.”

  A quick shot of a burning Aragones.

  “Though some questioned their history and their motives, the deaths of these brave four souls have unquestionably inspired millions around the world to keep fighting against the Martian menace.”

  A shot of a mural in New York City being unveiled, a picture of Earth from space, guarded by the Last Outlaws. They stood fiercely at the ready, immortal against the shadowy threats looming just along the edges of the picture.

  “An inspiration to us all, the heroic deaths of the Last Outlaws were not in vain, nor will they ever be forgotten.”

  A shot of a poster, featuring the profiles of the Last Outlaws, all looking up into the sky as the free planes soared over the land they had protected. “Yes, let us remember them. Let us be inspired by them. Let us never forget what they have done to help the human race against its deadliest threat. In our darkest hour, four candles were able to light a spark that will one day burn the evil from our world, long after their own glow has been extinguished.”

  Kalen Tengel strode down the remainder of the hall alone, pushing open the doors to his office. He walked to his desk and sat down. Interlocking his fingers, he rested his face on his knuckles. To his right was a recently intercepted newsreel that had already been distributed widely. It was labeled “Last Outlaws’ Funeral.”

  His powerful muscles tensed.

  On the desk in front of him were toys, comics, movie posters, records, pulps, paperbacks, and religious books.

  With a single blow, he could have smashed the desk to splinters with his inhuman strength.

  To his left was his modified pitchfork, held on the wall with invisible fastenings.

  A growl built deep in his lungs.

  To his right were four photos of the Martian Killers, occupying the edge of his desk like a cat waiting for its prey to lose focus.

  Kalen Tengel closed his eyes.

  The growl built.

  He opened his eyes, and they fell on a game board he’d set up by a bookcase. He had been studying this game, this chess, to learn more about his opponents. Two sides. One dark, one light.

  His eyes flicked back to the newsreel.

  He inhaled, closing his eyes.

  Exhaling, he felt his muscles relaxing. The growl died into nothingness.

  “Not bad,” he conceded out loud.

  And in his secluded office, the Fallen Angel began thinking of his next move.

  “Hey, Mask,” Jack waved a package to get Mr. Mask’s attention. Another package was tucked under his arm. “This came,
figured I’d bring it to you.” Mr. Mask turned away from his conversation with Hunter. They were on the rooftop of the Brooklyn 60th Police Precinct. Nightfall had come an hour ago, and the city bustled with the heartbeat of New York.

  Jack tossed the package at Mask, who reached out and grabbed it. He opened it as Jack walked up to Hunter. They nodded at each other.

  “How you doing?” Jack asked.

  “Peachy,” Hunter growled. “You?”

  “About the same.” Jack stuck his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket. “Ah I never come up here on the rooftops. Be a good place to take Josie sometime, you know?”

  Hunter didn’t answer.

  Their voices fell silent, as the sounds of the city welled up from beneath them, carrying the sound of horns, laughter, engines, footsteps, trains, and nightclub music up to the heavens.

  The sound of ripping cardboard intruded. Hunter and Jack turned around. “Mask, what you get there? Chocolates from a girl back home?”

  Mr. Mask stared down at the object in his hand. Turning to his friends, he held out the twin Eskrima sticks he’d ordered.

  “Nice,” Jack said.

  Mr. Mask nodded before walking back to the rooftop entrance, carrying the sticks with him. Jack and Hunter looked at each other. “No Josie tonight?”

  “Not tonight,” Jack said. “A shame, I’d like to enjoy tonight with her.”

  “Beautiful night,” Hunter said. “Beautiful girl.”

  “You’re right.” They stared at each other again. “They made a Devil of a family, didn’t they, Hunter?”

  “In every sense of the word.” He looked back at the city. “I guess we do too.”

  “Guess so.” Jack opened the second package. “You know, Hunter...”

  Noir looked back. Jack was focused on the package. He opened it up to reveal a paperboard package of six beer bottles. “...there was a time when I really didn’t like you at all.”

  The telltale sound of a beer bottle being cracked opened joined the symphony of New York nightlife as Hunter took the open bottle Jack was offering. “What changed your mind?”

  Jack opened his own bottle. “Changed?” he asked.

  Hunter let himself give a small laugh. He and Jack clinked bottles and drank quietly under the night sky.

  The light illuminated the small cell. As the door opened, Josie Taylor slipped in, carrying a tray with the evening meal. Lillian looked at her.

  “Any luck with the request?”

  Josie came in, placing the tray down on the small desk next to Lillian’s single bunk. “The first thing you ask me about is shoes.” She looked at Lillian. “Are you trying to give the guys more joke material?”

  “I was just asking,” Lillian said.

  The door closed shut behind them. The two of them were alone in the eight by twelve in the deepest part of the hidden base that had served as Lillian’s home for the past week since their return. “Nothing with shoelaces yet, Lillian. Not after last time.”

  Lillian’s hair drooped low. The scars on her face had healed well enough, but the newer scars would take longer to heal. “Why are you here, Josie?”

  “Why do you think?”

  Lillian laughed, letting her hair fall back. The scarring on her right side was bad, but even with the scar tissue she was still beautiful. “To get more information out of the biggest Jezebel in human history.”

  “You think that’s really why I’m here?”

  “It was fun being you.”

  Josie reached out to put her hand on Lillian’s. Lillian recoiled. “You don’t know what it’s like in there, in the territories. For a girl.”

  “Help me learn.”

  “So that’s why you’re here.”

  “No,” Josie sighed. “Not many people get what it’s like.” Josie rubbed her hand through her thick black hair. “Lillian, I don’t know why I’m here. All I know is I see another woman who was in a really tough spot for a long time. I see a girl who did some things and said some things she didn’t really mean, to try to make the best choices for herself and the people she cared about. I see a girl who might want to talk. And if you want to tell me that talking, just sitting here and the two of us talking, isn’t going to help? I don’t buy it.”

  Lillian grabbed the pillow next to her and hugged it. “What do you want to talk about?”

  Josie sat down. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Do you love Jack?”

  Josie smiled. “Okay, kiddo. Jack and I care about each other deeply. Did you love Adam?”

  “He made me feel like a person again.” Lillian put the pillow aside, shifting towards Josie. “He’s paying attention to you. The Martian Killers? You’re the Fallen Angel’s focus.” Lillian shifted closer to Josie. She stared at the food. “He likes to talk.”

  “About?”

  “Everything,” Lillian grabbed the water. “I’ll tell you everything I remember.”

  “That’d be good,” Josie said.

  Lillian went to sip the water. She held the glass close to her lips. “And after that...after that will we still talk?”

  Josie looked at the girl’s blue eyes as Lillian sipped the water. “Girls gotta stick together, right?”

  “Stick together,” Lillian replied. “Like a family.”

  “Like a family.”

  “We wear the mask that grins and lies,

  It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

  This debt we pay to human guile;

  With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

  And mouth with myriad subtleties”—Paul Laurence Dunbar

  SURPRISE

  By Stephen M Irwin

  Don’t trust a guy who drives a Citroën.

  That doesn’t say much for the French, but after they let the Krauts run over them in ‘forty, and then Les Grosses Têtes make Paris their Southern European pantry in ‘forty-eight, I don’t think anyone has much to say about the French. If there are still any French, that is. Poor bastards. They couldn’t design a reliable car, so what chance did they have of fighting off the Greens after four years of jackboots? Also, I speak from experience. I had a French car. It was, strictly speaking, more truck than car, having been modified sometime in the mid-‘twenties to run tequila from Nogales to Tucson; it had a false floor nearly eighteen inches higher than the under-panels and could hold (so the old half-breed who sold me the thing up in Ganado, told me) more than two hundred fifth-gallon bottles, or sixty chickens. Which explains why the thing always smelled drunk and gutless. Or maybe that was me.

  Four years earlier, I’d come home from Eisenhower’s take-back-Europe picnic somewhat of a different man. Very different from the college grad who’d learned to fly at Ryan Field, Tucson, who’d learned to drink tea at RAF Debden, learned to shoot straight in the skies over Western France, and learned to fly in a whole new way when I hit the silk on a lovely Sunday in September of ‘forty-four and one of the two 109s that downed my Mustang decided to take potshots at me on my way down. He missed me but plugged an unwelcome number of holes in my canopy, enough so that I hit a Dutch road with enough speed to turn my ankles into two sacks of ivory marbles. I spent the next six months in a convalescence hospital where there was not one pretty nurse. I was on a steamer that smelled of coal oil and urine on the day the invasion was announced, and come the Fall of ‘forty-five, I was sitting with my feet up on the coffee table in my old house in Surprise, outside of Phoenix, Arizona.

  Surprise. The place lived up to its name, given I returned to a house notable for its astonishing lack of wife, and an almost complete absence of furniture. Only a chair and a coffee table that I loved and Carol hated, remained. I hobbled to drop my ass in the chair, lifted the tin-man shackles that I would have to wear strapped to my calves for the rest of my life up onto the coffee table, and wished hard that Uncle Sam had let me keep my Colt 1911. Hanging myself with these iron legs of mine was going to raise an unpleasant sweat. Wishing, I’ve discovered, is like dehydrated water
, and good for just as much. Anyway, I had no rope, but I did have a bottle of T.W. Samuels, so I got started on what I do now quite well.

  Now, in the Arizona of the post-war, newly invaded USA, there wasn’t a whole lot of money to be made drinking cheap whisky, and if I wanted to keep doing it—which I did, if only to take my mind off how much those metal cages burned in the summertime—I needed another job. So I sold the house and hopped a Greyhound up to Ganado, to cold-call on Chuck Reynolds, a corporal from my squadron whose father owned a furniture company. Turned out Chuck had been shot down over Okinawa, and when his body never came home, his family had moved to Connecticut. So I found the cheapest car lot in Ganado and bought the cheapest car in it—the French bootlegger I christened Marseillaise. I got a job with the Postal Service taking and picking up from towns and places that really shouldn’t exist. The work was barely more occasional than rain, but enough for a guy who slept on a bedroll. For two years it kept me in bourbon and my Gallic truck in gas. Then, of course, the Big Heads came and the rulebook got eighty-sixed, and suddenly it was every man for himself.

  But being a guy who was the only man for himself, the post-invasion changes for me seemed minimal. I hadn’t so much as seen one of the Greens. Folk kept telling me the area I drove was smack along the border of the Free West, but there were no Martian ships in the big blue skies of Western Nevada, and on the dry plains and baking mesas I saw only the odd, thin sheep and the occasional ogan. When the postal work dried up, I kept myself in food and booze by running bootleg tobacco to Tohatchi Navajo. I returned with illegal peyote I sold to a druggist in St Michaels, named Maestes, who used it for who-knew-what. Old Marseillaise had never run better for me; she seemed to feel that she was doing what she’d been born to.

  One afternoon I was on a service route, south of Shiprock. A road, by any other name, would smell as dusty and break your spine to boot. Summer rains and year-long neglect had turned it into a corrugated, potholed goat track that had the car trailing a rooster tail of yellow and had me so shaken I was seeing double. The afternoon sun was in my eyes, and I had the window half down for the heat, so dust kept sneaking in. I was trying to watch Marseillaise’s temperature gauge, the fuel needle, the pot holes, and my own hand as I lit a Fatima, and so I came within a bee’s whisker of hitting a huge rock in the middle of the so-called road. I dropped the smoke and swerved. Then faster than a Willie Pep one-two, I heard the bang of a front wheel hitting a pothole and another bang of the sidewall popping. I yelled similar words to those I sent at that Kraut 109 pilot, then pulled the flopping car over to the side.