Species War: Battlefield Mars Book 3

by David Robbins

  Signaling for the others to flank him, Archard maxed his sensors and stalked forward.

  “Above you!” KLL-12 yelled.

  Archard snapped his head back. “Where?”

  “Unsure,” the BioMarine answered. “I heard something. Scratching noises.”

  “Maybe it was a cockroach,” KLL-13 said.

  Archard was beginning to understand why KLL-12 became so annoyed with her. “Focus, all of you,” he said. He swept the wall and ceiling with his motion sensor, but as usual, no targets.

  “Sir!” Private Everett rang out. “To your left, about five meters up.”

  Archard looked but saw nothing. Increasing the magnification, he made out a bump about as big as his hand. Puzzled, he inverted the colors on his holo so that the wall blended into the background and the bump stood out. So did the appendages that radiated outward from the bump, and explained how the Martian was clinging to a flat surface almost as smooth as glass. “Good eyes, Private.”

  ”Want me to do the honors, sir?”

  “Go for it,” Archard said.

  The Kentuckian only needed a single burst to bring the creature crashing down. It landed on its carapace and kicked and flailed.

  Walking up, Archard finished it off with rounds to the brain. As with Earth crabs, the Martian variety’s cerebral center was between their eyes. Unlike their Earth cousins, dissection had revealed their brains were highly developed, in some respects even more so than humans.

  “And that’s that,” KLL-13 said.

  “Do we keep hunting, sir?” Private Pasco asked.

  “We do,” Archard confirmed.

  They spent an hour at it and failed to turn up another otherworldly stowaway. Archard would have gone on searching indefinitely had his commlink not beeped.

  “Captain Rahn,” Lieutenant Burroughs said. “Admiral Thorndyke is on the line. He wants to know what is taking so long.”

  “Patch me through,” Archard said.

  Static sizzled, then, “Captain Rahn? This is the admiral. All the other drop ships have reported they are clean. What’s the holdup at your end?”

  “We were just completing our sweep,” Archard told him.

  “Any Martians left?”

  “No, sir. But…”

  “Good. You are cleared to dock with the John Carter and transship so we can get underway to Earth. I don’t know about you, Captain, but I’ve seen enough of the Red Planet to last me a lifetime, and I didn’t even set foot on it.”

  Archard realized his superior meant that to be humorous but he wasn’t in the mood. “Sir, there’s something I need to talk to you about…”

  “Ring me up once you’ve docked.”

  “But, sir. It’s important. I feel we---”

  “After you’ve docked, Captain. Use a secure channel. Thorndyke out.”

  Static punctuated their conversation.

  Archard returned to the bridge, every nerve in his body screaming that they were making a mistake,

  Smiles of relief from everyone else greeted the news that they were finally able to hook up with the fleet. Trisna Sahir was so happy, she cried, which set her daughter to crying, too.

  Katla picked up Piotr and hugged him. The troopers exchanged smacks on the shoulder, and thumbs-up. KLL-13 beamed and spread her arms toward KLL-12, who shook his head and wagged a finger at her. She laughed.

  The docking was routine. As they emerged into the cruiser’s enormous holding area, Archard was mollified, somewhat, to find a squad of troopers waiting. They had been sent to stand guard over the drop ship. The sergeant in charge told Archard that special TAC teams were going through all the drop ships to make sure every Martian was accounted for.

  An ensign ushered them to their quarters. Archard was given a berth in the officer’s wing. No sooner did the ensign close the door behind her than he was on the horn to the admiral. He figured he might have to wait, but no.

  Thorndyke filled the screen. He appeared tired and worn, and rubbed his eyes. “Captain Rahn. You didn’t waste any time.”

  “You know why I’m calling,” Archard guessed.

  “I do,” Admiral Thorndyke said.

  “I’d like to go on record as opposing our return to Earth.”

  “Give me an alternative, Captain.”

  “Sir?”

  “We can’t stay in orbit forever. Eventually, we’ll run out of supplies. What other options do we have? We can try to retake Bradbury but we both know how that will go. We could land somewhere else but the Martians are found to find us eventually. Or we could strike off into deep space and hope to find a habitable planet. The odds are about the same as winning the lottery.”

  “Our prospects are bleak, I grant you,” Archard said.

  “I’m going to ask you a question, Captain,” the admiral said. “Answer honestly.”

  “Always, sir.”

  “You have more experience with the Martians than anyone alive,” Thorndyke said. “Based on that experience, what would you say the odds are that a few Martians are still alive on some of the drop ships?”

  “Ninety-nine-point-nine percent.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Admiral Thorndyke said, despondently. “But it doesn’t make a difference.”

  “It most surely does, sir!” Archard disagreed. “We can’t take those things back to Earth, no matter how few there are. There’s no telling what will happen. If they find a way to multiply…” He didn’t finish. There was no need.

  “You think I’m not aware of the risk?” Admiral Thorndyke grew more haggard right before Archard’s eyes. “I’m also responsible for the lives of over two thousand personnel. And I refuse to consign them to certain death. Which is how all those other scenarios would end. And you know it.”

  “We’re talking two thousand against the lives of everyone on Earth,” Archard said.

  “You don’t know that. Not beyond any shadow of a doubt. Don’t claim that you do.”

  Archard stayed silent.

  “I’ve been in contact with the secretary-general and he agrees,” Admiral Thorndyke said. “We’ll return to Earth, place the ships under quarantine, and hope for the best.”

  “Damn,” Archard said.

  “I know. Sometimes we have to roll the dice whether we want to or not. Thorndyke out.”

  The screen went blank.

  Archard switched it off and sat back. He was suddenly bone-tired. He was about to lie on his bunk when his door chirped. Rising, he opened it, and Katla was in his arms, her lips on his.

  “Here you are! Trisna and I are on the next level up. She’s watching Piotr to give us some time alone.” Katla smiled and rubbed the tip of her nose against his. “I could use a shower? How about you?”

  Despite himself, Archard smiled. “I suspect you’re trying to seduce me, madam.”

  “Oh really, Sherlock?” Katla laughed and kissed his cheek. “Are you as excited as I am to put all this behind us? To be safe once again?”

  Captain Archard Rahn listened to the thrum of the spaceship’s engines and gazed out the porthole at the world that the ancient Greeks had called Ares, after their god of war, and the later Romans then called Mars, after their own war god. The Chinese named it the Fire Star and said it was a harbinger of grief and war. Subsequent generations came to refer to it simply as the Red Planet. Fitting names, he reflected, one and all.

  “Think of it!” Katla exclaimed. “To live out the rest of our lives without ever setting eyes on another Martian. How great is that?”

  “One can only hope,” Archard said.

  FINI

  Read on for a free sample of War Of The Worlds: Retaliation

  PROLOGUE

  THE SUDAN, 1898

  Lieutenant David Beatty had had a bullet rip through his helmet and nearly had a ship’s magazine explode right under him at Hafir. Neither of those near-death experiences filled him with the sort of horror the enormous, alien machines did.

  A shudder went through him as he s
tood on Fateh’s gun deck, watching the three-legged metal monstrosities stomp across the desert. They had to be a hundred feet tall. He pressed his hand against the boat’s rectangular, wooden bridge to keep it from shaking as he recalled the dispatches from London that spoke of the devastating heat rays. A stab of nausea plunged into his stomach, imagining the agony of his body being set afire.

  How about killing them before they kill you.

  Beatty turned away from the advancing Martian machines. “Sergeant,” he called to the burly man standing by the six-pounder. “Bring all guns to bear on the enemy. Wait for my command to fire.”

  “Sir,” blurted Sergeant Ellison, the royal marine in charge of gunnery. He barked out orders to the Egyptian gun crew, who swung around the big cannon in quick order. His next shouts carried across Fateh’s deck to the other gun crews, who quickly brought their weapons to bear on the Martians.

  Beatty smiled. Ellison had drilled the men well.

  “Morrison!” Beatty shouted up to the signalman atop the bridge.

  “Sir.”

  “Signal the Nasir and Metemma.” He gave Morrison the same order he’d given Sergeant Ellison.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Beatty leaned toward the railing, staring past Fateh’s length to the other gunboats trailing him up the Nile. Beyond them was a lump of a ship laden with crates and dozens of refugees from upriver. The transport steamer Blackwood, making all of three knots.

  He thumped a fist against the bridge, cursing the slower ship’s presence. Now wasn’t the time to crawl through the river. He needed all the speed his gunboats could muster. But he wasn’t about to abandon an unarmed transport with terrified civilians.

  Beatty turned back to the tripods. They had to be a half kilometer away. Still out of the range of his guns. What he wouldn’t give to be back on the battleship Trafalgar, with its big guns and thick armor. Certainly, it would be more than a match for the Martians.

  We’re not exactly helpless. He looked at the Fateh’s guns, then at the enemy machines. He pushed down his fear, his anxiousness. It wouldn’t be long before the Martians were in firing range, then he’d show the monsters what—

  A yellow flash came from the lead tripod. Beatty tensed at the sizzling sound in the air. Something streaked to his right.

  Nasir vanished in a geyser of flame and smoke. Beatty jerked at the crash of the explosion.

  Metemma’s guns thumped. One of Fateh’s six-pounders fired.

  “Cease fire!” Beatty shouted, waving one hand. “Cease fire! You’re wasting ammunition!”

  Sergeant Ellison also yelled the order. The six-pounder fell silent.

  Metemma continued shooting. Plumes of smoke and sand kicked up far from the tripods.

  “Morrison. Signal Metemma to—”

  Another heat ray streaked from the lead tripod. A fiery explosion consumed Metemma.

  Beatty clenched his jaw. Two gunboats were destroyed, and they hadn’t so much as nicked the aliens. His eyes drifted to the Blackwood. Some of the refugees and crew gaped at the tripods in frozen horror. Others jumped over the side and swam to shore.

  Letting out a slow breath, he looked back at the Martians. His insides went cold. This was it. One shot and he and his crew were done for.

  “All guns!” he shouted. “Open fire!” Wasting ammunition didn’t matter now. He may as well show the Martians they would go down fighting.

  Sailors repeated the order throughout the Fateh. The guns boomed. Beatty watched the shells burst hundreds of feet from the tripods, throwing up clumps of sand. He clenched his fists, praying just one bloody shell hit those bastards before the end.

  A heat ray flashed over the desert. Beatty closed his eyes.

  A quake rocked the Fateh. Beatty cried out as he fell to the deck. Hammers of pain slammed into his back.

  He blinked. My God, I’m still alive. Loud pops came from the boat’s stern. Ammunition detonating. Smoke wafted above him. Tortured screams reached his ears.

  Beatty grimaced, pushing himself up. Ellison and his Egyptian gunners lay in a heap on the deck.

  “You all right?” Beatty called to them.

  “Fine, sir.” Ellison bared his teeth and rubbed his shoulder. Two of the Egyptians nodded to him.

  Beatty clawed at the bridge, rising to his feet, then slipping. Fateh listed to port. Flames consumed the stern.

  “Abandon ship!” he hollered. “All hands, abandon ship!”

  He threw open the door to the bridge, ushering out the crew. Beatty ran below decks and into a cloud of smoke. His eyes burned as he checked for any sailors.

  “Abandon ship!” Smoke stung his throat and lungs. “Aban—” A coughing fit rocked his body. He searched around him, his eyes narrow, watery slits. Beatty could barely see a foot in front of him.

  The deck shifted under him. Beatty slid into the wall. A bolt of pain went through his shoulder. He thought about turning around and getting off this burning wreck.

  Can’t. Not until I know everyone’s off safely.

  At least, everyone who’s still alive.

  Two large forms burst from the smoke. Beatty grunted as they clipped his shoulder.

  “Who’s that?” asked a gruff voice.

  Beatty recognized the man. Moffat, the Scottish civilian engineer, who serviced the boilers.

  “Captain? That you?”

  “It is.” Beatty could barely keep his eyes open.

  “You’d best get off this boat,” said Moffat. “She’s done for.”

  “Is anyone else belowdecks?” Beatty’s face twisted in disgust from the stale taste of smoke.

  “I doubt it.” Moffat shook his head. “Fire swept through right quick. I barely got out of the boiler room with this poor bugger.”

  Beatty glanced at the man leaning against Moffat’s side. One of the foreign firemen, he assumed.

  He turned back to the corridor. An orange aura glowed through the smoke. The Scotsman hadn’t been joking about the fire spreading quickly.

  “Go. Go.” He pushed on Moffat’s arm, urging him to get topside. Beatty looked over his shoulder, biting his lip. If anyone below remained alive, he couldn’t reach them.

  Guilt clawed his soul as he raced up the ladder, pressing against the wall to keep his balance. Fateh listed at forty degrees.

  He made it topside just as Moffat and the wounded fireman plunged into the Nile. Beatty half-ran, half-slid past the six-pounder and hurled himself into the water. He kicked away from the sinking gunboat, eyeing a nearby shoal covered in bushes. Sergeant Ellison and two of his gunners pulled themselves out of the river and crawled into the vegetation.

  “The shoal!” he shouted to the survivors, jabbing a finger at the miniature island. “Get to the shoal!”

  Beatty stroked and kicked so hard his muscles started to burn. He didn’t stop until he reached the bank. Ellison waved him over to his hiding spot. Beatty checked around him. The brush seemed thick enough to prevent the Martians from seeing them.

  He twisted around, peering through the branches. Moffat and the wounded fireman emerged next, the Scot dragging the foreign worker into the brush. Beyond them, smoke billowed from the sinking Fateh. Beatty’s face tightened. He’d lost his ship. He didn’t care that it wasn’t a true warship like the Trafalgar, just a converted paddleboat with some guns stuck on it. It was his ship, and it had gone down with hardly a fight.

  “Good Lord,” Moffat stammered.

  Beatty looked to the Scotsman, then followed his wide-eyed gaze.

  The tripods were a quarter kilometer from the river. His mouth fell open. Their sheer size awed and terrified him at the same time.

  The Blackwood floated into view, its deck devoid of people. Some of the refugees and crews swam for shore. Others had already climbed out of the water and run into the desert.

  The tripods waded into the Nile. Beatty’s eyes flickered between the enormous war machines to the people still in the water.

  Faster. Faster!

 
A tentacle whipped out from the lead tripod. It snatched a man out of the river. Beatty barely suppressed a gasp as it lifted him high into the air and dumped him into a globular basket on the tripods rear.

  More tentacles shot into the water, quick as a frog’s tongue. Every time they came up with a struggling man or woman.

  Tears stung Beatty’s eyes. He pounded the ground with a fist. He couldn’t do a damn thing to help those poor souls. Never in his life had he felt so helpless.

  When all the swimmers had been plucked from the water, the Martians marched onto dry land, pursuing the remaining crew and refugees from the Blackwood. Beatty prayed at least some escaped those tentacles.

  The tripods soon vanished from sight. Beatty and the others remained in the brush, tending to the wounded fireman, a Maltese named Grima. Half the man’s face and torso were covered with dark scorches and bloody wounds. Beatty grimaced at the rank smell of copper and burnt flesh emanating from the man. Still, he ripped off the sleeves of his soaked uniform and used them as bandages. Ellison and one of the Egyptians did the same. Grima softly moaned the entire time. Beatty’s chest tightened. Could they get him to a doctor in time?

  Are there any hospitals left in the Sudan?

  The small group remained hidden in the brush until nightfall. During that time, Grima passed. With no means to bury him, Beatty conducted a very short, impromptu service, and then led the others to the western bank of the Nile.

  “So what do we do now, sir?” asked Moffat.

  Beatty stared at the Scotsman. Good question. But he was in charge. He had to come up with some sort of plan.

  “We find other survivors from the army or navy, and keep up the fight.”

  “How the bloody hell do we fight those things?” Moffat threw his arms out to his sides.

  “We’ll find a way,” said Beatty. “We damn well better if we want to live, and when I say ‘we,’ I mean all of mankind.”

  He folded his arms and stared at the ground, thinking. Heading back to Atbara was out. The Martians burned the city to the ground. They could continue on to Shendi, twenty-five kilometers south. But what guarantee did they have the town wouldn’t—or hadn’t already—suffered the same fate?