Species War: Battlefield Mars Book 3

by David Robbins

  “Very little.”

  “The humans did a good job with us. You have to admit.”

  “We are as we were designed,” KLL-12 said. Levering his toe into a gap, he resumed their climb. “We should try to reach the top before the Martians send more flyers.”

  “Fine by me,” KLL-13 said, “although it was fun kicking their asses.”

  KLL-12 flowed upward, moving as fast as ever. He could feel his flesh reknitting itself, feel new scales sprouting to replace those lost.

  KLL-13 effortlessly kept pace.

  Not until they were within fifty meters of the top did KLL-12 stop. “Do you need to rest before the next phase?”

  “Be serious,” she said. “We’re BioMarines.”

  “It has been a long climb.”

  “And we’re not even winded. Have to hand it to those humans, don’t we?”

  “What do you keep bringing that up?”

  “Because you seem to have forgotten we wouldn’t exist if not for them.”

  “I would prefer not to be reminded,” KLL-12 said.

  To forestall her from continuing to carp about their creators, he put on a burst of speed and reached the rim. It turned out to be ten meters wide. Moving to the inner

  edge, he peered into the darkling depths of the volcano.

  “Spooky,” KLL-13 said.

  “We’ll use our membranes,” KLL-12 said.

  “This will be fun.”

  Ignoring her, KLL-12 raised his arms straight up, closed his eyes, and concentrated. He felt a slight tug, and when he opened his eyes, he found that both membranes had snapped free from under his arms and along his sides.

  KLL-13 had imitated him and giggled. “Do you know what these remind me of?”

  “Glider wings,” KLL-12 said, since that’s what they were.

  “Squirrels,” KLL-13 said.

  “You’re comparing us to tree-climbing rodents?”

  “Flying squirrels have membranes similar to ours. I sometimes wonder if that’s where our creators got the idea.”

  “The tensile strength of ours is that of organic steel,” KLL-12 said. “We’re superior to those rodents in every way.”

  “They’re better at collecting nuts,” KLL-13 said and winked. “Or maybe not.”

  “By nut do you mean me?”

  “If the shell fits,” she said.

  KLL-12 launched himself over the edge. Her laughter followed him as he banked at the proper angle for a controlled descent. The push of air against his membranes was considerable. His arms fluttered a couple of times but he maintained control and

  swooped in a spiral that would take him steadily lower.

  They had a long way to go. According to intel gleaned by Captain Archard Rahn and passed on to U.N.I.C. headquarters on Earth, the Martian warren was two kilometers underground.

  The caldera itself was wide---thirty kilometers across. Updrafts were frequent. So were crosscurrents that threatened to upend them.

  “Isn’t this glorious?” KLL-13 said over their commlink.

  “Radio silence, if you please,” KLL-12 said.

  “They know we’re here. We just killed a bunch of them.”

  “Perhaps those we slew weren’t able to alert the others.”

  “Who would have thought that deep down you’re an optimist,” KLL-13 said with her usual laugh.

  Their enhanced sight enabled them to see in the dark as if it were the brightest day. Consequently, KLL-12 spotted the dark cloud roiling up out of the volcano’s depths when it was still a great distance below. “More flyers.”

  “Must be a hundred or better,” KLL-13 said. “How will we handle that many?”

  “Follow my lead,” KLL-12, and tilted his body to increase his speed.

  17

  Miles Hermann was in a bad mood. His boss, Governor Blanchard, was being a horse’s ass. All because the United Nations Security Council had appointed General Constantine Augusto as Supreme Martian Commander for the duration of hostilities. Civil liberties had been curtailed. Emergency sanctions---a polite term for martial law---had been imposed, and Governor Blanchard had been relegated to the status of a glorified errand boy.

  Predictably, the governor was taking his spite out on everyone around and under him, including Miles.

  Half an hour ago, a call had come in from the Water Conversion Plant, a problem of some kind that the plant manager insisted required Governor Blanchard’s personal attention.

  “One of the converters is probably on the fritz,” Blanchard had said to Miles after taking the call. He’d shaken his head, and swore. “I doubt they really need me there. You tend to it, Miles.”

  “Me?” Miles had bleated. He’d been to the plant a few times but knew next to nothing about how the Martian water was extracted and converted for human use. He was in admin, for crying out loud, not a scientist or a technician.

  “Yes, you,” Governor Blanchard snipped and wriggled his fingers to speed Miles on his way.

  Now here Miles was, approaching the Water Conversion Plant on foot since he didn’t have the nerve to ask Blanchard if it would be all right to use the limo.

  Miles became aware that passers-by were stopping and craning their necks and pointing. Coming to a halt, he bent his own head back.

  Drop ships were descending from the fleet. Like so many hornets leaving their nest, they separated from their mother craft and literally dropped---hence their name---toward the colony’s golden domes. Troopers and armaments and more, coming to their rescue.

  Miles supposed he should be as happy and excited as everyone else but he was too upset at being treated like a gofer by the governor. Five years he had worked for that man. Five years, getting his coffee and seeing that he always had a water bottle in his second drawer on the left. Five years! And it counted for nothing.

  Grumbling at how unfair life could be, Miles reached the plant entrance and punched the code to open the door. The facility was crucial to the colony’s survival, which was why only the staff and certain higher-ups, like Miles, were allowed free run of the place.

  The door chimed and clanged, and the halves swung inward. Entering, Miles crossed to the partition to the main office. He would have to sign in, as required by the regs.

  With a start, Miles realized no one was on the other side. Which was odd. There was always supposed to be someone there. “Anyone home?” He rapped on the glass.

  “Hello?”

  When no one answered, Miles pounded harder, and shouted, “This is Miles Hermann. I’m here on the governor’s behalf. Where is everyone?”

  There was no reply.

  No one came out to greet him.

  Puzzled, Miles stepped to the partition door and opened it. “Hello?” he said again. “Someone reported some kind of problem?”

  Miles stopped short in consternation. The entire office staff was gone. Wondering if it might be their break time, Miles hastened along a short hall to the break room. No one was there. Strangely, several trays of food and drink were on the table, as if people had been eating and left their meals in a hurry.

  “What in the world?” Miles marveled out loud. He went through the break room and out the other end and down another corridor to the double doors to the plant proper. As he pushed on one, he hollered the manager’s name. “Mr. Timmons! You called for assistance. Where are you?”

  Again, Miles drew up short. Before him stretched the warehouse-sized heart of the operation, consisting of huge tanks and pipes and banks of equipment. Workers should be engaged in a variety of tasks, but other than the drum of the machinery, the place was dead.

  “Mr. Timmons?” Miles yelled.

  His footsteps seemed unnaturally loud as he headed down an aisle between two of the giant tanks. They were transparent, and the rust-colored Martian water that was being chemically treated to render it suitable for the human body looked like so much sludge.

  “Mr. Timmons? Where in the world are you?”

  A metal ladder leadin
g to a crosswalk above a tank gave Miles an idea. From up there, he would be able to see most of the plant.

  Laboriously climbing, Miles came to the crosswalk and moved along it, searching. He yelled for the manager, for anyone at all, only to be mocked by silence.

  “This is damn weird.”

  Leaning on a rail, Miles absently stared into the chemical stew. He was thinking he should report this to the governor. Having made up his mind, he straightened and went to retrace his steps but stopped on spying a smear of some kind on the plant floor about thirty meters off.

  The smear was red.

  “Surely not,” Miles said.

  A bubble rose to the surface of the tank and burst with a loud pop.

  Miles paid it no mind. He was worried and wanted out of there. Pivoting, he hurried toward the ladder.

  More bubbles were rising and popping.

  Glancing over, it took Miles a few steps for him to realize that the bubbles were rising in a straight line---and the line was coming toward him.

  Miles broke into a run. He was badly out of shape. He only ever exercised to pass his yearly exams, but he forced his legs to work and was only a couple of meters from the ladder when something---a whole lot of somethings---scrambled up out of the tank and over the top.

  The red, crab-like Martians.

  Miles shrieked in terror. He couldn’t understand how the creatures had gotten into the Water Treatment Plant. Then he remembered that the water was pumped up from under the ground---which was where the Martians lived. He guessed that they had come up through the pipes and ducts.

  Miles continued to shriek as the Martians swiftly overtook him. He shrieked louder as he was seized, louder still as his arms and legs were torn from his body. Then one of the creatures seized him by his head and there was a terrible tearing sensation followed by wet warmth all over his neck. His shriek faded to a gurgle as the world around him faded to black.

  18

  The BioMarines were genetically engineered to be the ultimate lethal weapons. That they were also biologically enhanced so they could survive in environments no human could endure was secondary. Whether it was the scorching inferno of a desert or the deepest depths of the ocean, or another planet, their bodies adapted superbly so that they could perform their primary function; to kill and kill again.

  Billions were spent on their development. The cream of the human scientific crop was induced to participate. The “prototype,” as they dubbed the first of the hybrids to emerge from the nutrient vats, exceeded every expectation.

  “Do you realize what we’ve done?” an excited scientist said to the generals who witnessed the historic event.

  “Yes,” one of the generals replied. “We’ve just usurped God.”

  Their lethality and adaptability wasn’t quite enough, though. Another element was added. Psychological conditioning. As another general once remarked, “We can’t go to all this trouble and expense only to have them think they have minds of their own.”

  So while the BioMarines were still in their vats, they were subliminally conditioned, hour after hour, week after week, month after month, to perform as they

  were told---whether they wanted to or not.

  Not that many would refuse an order anyway. They were bred to fight. The joy of combat was in their blood. When told to kill, they did so with relish.

  None of them questioned the command imperative. Until KLL-12 came along.

  He learned the full degree of his conditioning shortly after he emerged from the vat. He was instructed to enter a pen of sheep and slaughter them. To him, it seemed pointless. He had never seen sheep before but they were plainly timid, harmless creatures. He made bold to ask the major who gave him the order why he must slay them, and the major replied it was so he could familiarize himself with “the blood and guts of warfare.”

  KLL-12 had decided he wanted no part of it and turned to go. Or tried to. Because to his extreme bewilderment, he discovered he couldn’t walk away. He had to do as he was told, his own feelings be damned.

  As if his body had a mind of its own and he was only a spectator, he tore the sheep to pieces.

  Was it any wonder, then, that he had such a low opinion of his makers?

  He remembered those sheep as he swooped toward the rising cloud of Martian flyers, and thought of how he would much rather be back on Earth swimming in the base pool or listening to music or doing anything other than what he was doing.

  But here he was, plummeting at six hundred kilometers an hour, his membranes taut, the air whistling past his scaled form. He shifted his right pupil to the side to check on KLL-13 and saw her grinning in delight.

  For her sake, KLL-12 put everything else from his mind. They had been paired for this mission, and he owed it to her to be the best he could be. He must watch her back as she would watch his. Together, they could prevail. Or so their human masters told them.

  “Density at max,” KLL-12 said.

  “Already am.”

  KLL-12 concentrated. The change occurred almost immediately, the hardening of his muscles until they were practically as dense as rock. The shifting of his scales was particularly noticeable; he itched all over. Lowering his head to protect his face, he dived at the center of the swarm.

  The Martians were spaced so close together, it was a wonder they didn’t collide. The foremost had their spikes extended, like knights of old with their lances.

  “Remember,” KLL-13 surprised him by saying. “One hundred and eighty seconds.”

  As if KLL-12 would forget. Their ability to change their density had a drawback. The drain on their bodies was so severe, they could only sustain the state for three minutes. Any longer, and they risked a debilitating fatigue that would leave them vulnerable to their enemies.

  A hundred meters separated them from the swarm.

  Then it was fifty.

  Twenty-five.

  KLL-12 heard KLL-13 let out a whoop just as they impacted with the creatures. They were moving so fast, they tore through the flyers like fists through thin air, smashing everything in their path. Carapaces folded like paper. Wings crumpled like tissues.

  KLL-12 made the mistake of opening his mouth and nearly gagged when part of a wing slid partway down his throat. Hacking, he spat it out.

  The impacts slowed them but not enough to prevent them from passing completely through the swarm and out the other side.

  The moment they were in the clear, KLL-12 banked to regain speed. He also relaxed to spare his body the ravages of his density change.

  KLL-13 materialized at his side. She was spattered with gore and Martians body bits, and grinning. “That was fun.”

  KLL-12 grunted.

  “Tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

  The caldera was brightening, the result of some sort of natural phosphorescence. Far below, arches and shapes appeared.

  “We’re almost there,” KLL-12 said.

  “The Martian city!” KLL-13 exclaimed. “Imagine. We’ll be only the second and third people to see one.”

  “Are we people?” KLL-12 asked before he could catch himself.

  “What else would we be?”

  KLL-12 had no time to reply. A vast cavern had unfolded before them.

  A cavern filled with thousands of Martians.

  19

  Dr. Katla Dkany was worried. She hadn’t heard from Archard since early morning when he headed off for a meeting with Governor Blanchard at the Admin Center. He’d promised to ring her as soon as it was over, but he hadn’t been in touch.

  Katla swiped at a loose strand of her blonde hair and rubbed the back of her neck to relieve a slight cramp. She was almost done with her chemical analysis of Martian blood swabbed from the RAM Archard wore during their arduous trek from Wellsville to Bradbury. The last day of their journey, they had been set upon, and during the battle, the RAM was splashed with gore and gouts of blood.

  Katla had been given the job of analyzing the residue. As a preeminent exobiologist, s
he was the logical choice.

  Now, after weeks of testing, Katla and her assistants were about ready to wrap things up. They had done everything from atomic absorption spectroscopy to electrophoresis, from X-ray microscopy to resonance-enhanced multiphoton ionization. In short, every conceivable type of analysis.

  Katla sat back on her stool, closed her eyes, and wearily rubbed them. She had been staring into the microscope for so long, her eyes hurt. Sliding off, she smoothed her smock and made for her office at the rear of the laboratory, which was on sublevel two in the Science Center.

  She should be thinking about the report she would submit but she couldn’t stop fretting about Archard. Their ordeal had brought them closer than she ever imagined when they first dated. Just last night, after a pleasant meal, they had stretched out on the sofa and discussed the prospect of tying the knot upon their return to Earth.

  Katla grinned to herself. She came to Mars for the adventure of a lifetime, not to find a husband. She’d planned to serve out her tour, go home, and then, maybe, find someone she was willing to spend the rest of her life with.

  Her grin evaporated at the sight of the mountain of clutter on her desk. She had so much work to do. It would take several days to correlate all the data and summarize the results.

  Dropping into her chair, Katla brought up an MRI image on her computer. She shook her head in amazement.

  Granted, Mars was a different planet. Granted, it was logical to expect that native organisms would deviate in various respects from organisms on Earth. The Martians deviated greatly. So much so, they defied long accepted scientific tenets.

  Their blood alone had proven to be an almost insurmountable challenge. There wasn’t a single point of similarity between theirs and human blood except both were liquid. Theirs possessed a dynamic viscosity less than a third that of water, at a temperature of 1° Celsius. By rights, their blood should be practically frozen in their veins. Yet it flowed at a rate of three meters per second, compared to less than a meter for human beings.

  Then there was the other matter, the most troubling of all, as far as Katla was concerned. Taken in total, her multitude of tests hinted at the disturbing possibility that---