Breakthrough

by Scott H Washburn

  * * * * *

  Cycle 597,843.9, Holdfast 32-1

  “You are certain?” asked Qetjnegartis.

  “There is no doubt, Commander,” replied Ixmaderna, looking up from its instruments. “You have been infected. But there is no need to be concerned. Our drugs are quite capable of keeping it in check until your new body is grown. It is less than a tenth of a cycle until it matures.”

  “But we are so much in need of new individuals right now. To be forced to use this as a replacement is most inconvenient. The drugs will not suffice until I can grow the next bud?”

  “That would be a very great risk, Commander. It would be over a third of a cycle before the next bud could mature. If the contagion grew suddenly worse, you would perish. Remember what happened to Zastranvis.”

  “Yes, you are correct. Very well then. But now I must go.” Qetjnegartis left Ixmaderna’s lab and returned to the control center. This latest development was annoying, but it was more than balanced by the good news which had come from the Homeworld. Not only were the transports which were soon to arrive carrying mostly personnel as Qetjnegartis had suggested, but five of them had been allocated here! With only half as many transports being launched as the first time, Qetjnegartis had only been expecting two or three. But the Council had allocated them based upon need and few clans on the target world were as needy as the Bajantus! So, no less than fifty new clanmates were on their way. Added to the eight already here it would be a significant force.

  Assuming they had fighting machines.

  Prior to the enemy assault, there would have been no difficulty in supplying the newcomers. But after the battle, they had only ten still in good order. Five more could be repaired, but that still left forty-three new machines which would need to be constructed in less than a tenth of a cycle. Added to the necessary repairs to the holdfast, itself, it was going to be very difficult deadline to meet. Of course, assuming there was no new attack on the holdfast it made little difference if another ten or twenty days were needed to finish them—except for the embarrassment.

  While the news about the reinforcements was very good, it was also an obvious rebuke to Qetjnegartis for needing those extra reinforcements. Only two other clans were receiving so many. It did not know what sort of concessions the clan leaders had to make to the Council to receive this boon, but they were probably substantial and the clan leaders would not be pleased to make them.

  Of course it could be much worse. The three groups that landed on the south polar continent had found so little in the way of resources or food that they were being abandoned altogether. No reinforcements were being sent to them and unless they could discover some way to move to one of the other continents it was likely that all would perish. But they were all from minor clans with little influence in the Council—which is why they’d been assigned those landing sites to begin with.

  And the commander of Group 30 on the continent to the south had recently suffered a major defeat, losing no less than twelve fighting machines—along with its own life. So yes, Qetjnegartis was not the only one to have reverses. Still it was irritating.

  It reached the control center and took charge of one of the construction machines. There was much work to be done.

  * * * * *

  November, 1909, Washington, D.C.

  Leonard Wood had moved operations from his office to the largest conference room which could be found in the State, War, & Navy Building. Huge maps were draped on the walls and tables had been pushed together in the center of the room to support the biggest map of all. Wooden counters representing military formations had been placed all over it and men with long poles were ready to move the counters around as necessary. Dozens of men, and a few women, packed the room, ready to process information as it arrived. Next door there was a fully staffed communications room with telegraph and telephone operators standing ready to receive the information.

  They were waiting for the Martians.

  According to the experts, they should be arriving very soon. None of them could predict the exact date, but they were sure it would be the last week or two in November. So the vast observation network had gone on full alert, the troops were ready to move and this headquarters in Washington was waiting to learn where to send them. Wood had been anxious, and nearly sleepless, for several days, and the President would show up here at all hours, clearly just as restless as everyone else. The tension seemed worse than during the first landings.

  A cry from across the room caught everyone’s attention, but it was just one man protesting that his papers were being blown around when another man dared to open a window to let in some air.

  Wood was about to retreat to his office, where he’d had a cot set up, to try and grab a nap, when Roosevelt showed up again. He felt obliged to at least say hello, even though he’d just seen him a few hours earlier. “Good evening, sir. Nothing to report, I’m afraid.”

  “No, no, I wasn’t expecting anything—you’d have sent word. But Edith was complaining that I’m wearing a hole in the carpet with my pacing.”

  “So you came over here to wear a hole in my carpet, eh?”

  “Exactly! Exactly!” said Roosevelt with a grin. The grin quickly faded. “I’ve always hated waiting.”

  “Really? Who would have guessed, sir?”

  They both laughed and then slowly strolled around the room, looking at the maps and the troop dispositions. “I keep asking myself if there is anything that I can do that hasn’t been done,” said Wood.

  “Yes, I know what you mean. But you’ve really done a magnificent job, Leonard. The observation network is much denser than the first time. If anything comes down we ought to get word of it right away.”

  “Thank God we’ve still got communications with the west,” said Wood, tracing his finger on a map along the line of the Southern Pacific Railroad. This utterly vital artery ran along the southern border of Texas and then west into New Mexico, Arizona, and California. “If they had cut that we’d have no way of knowing what was happening out there.”

  “I wonder why they haven’t cut it?” said Roosevelt. “We’ve had sightings of the Martians on the other side of the Rio Grande. And there’s nothing much to prevent them from coming north.”

  “Well, we can hope they are stretched thinner than we are. And they clearly use wireless telegraphy; they might not realize how dependent we are on wires strung on poles.”

  “The wireless sets—some are calling them radios now—are getting better.”

  “But they’re not good enough yet for cross-country communications.”

  They continued to make everyone in the room nervous for another hour or so before Roosevelt went back across the street to the White House and Wood went to his cot.

  It was an hour before dawn when Captain Semancik shook him awake. “We’ve got sightings coming in, sir.”

  “Where?” demanded Wood, shoving himself upright.

  “Arizona and Nevada so far.”

  “Nothing in the east?”

  “Not so far, sir.”

  “Get word to the President.”

  “A messenger is on his way, sir.”

  “Good.” He pulled on his boots, buttoned up his tunic, and headed for the command center. The scene that met him was far different from the one he’d left hours earlier. Everyone seemed to be talking at once and people were running here and there. Messengers were bringing in reports from the communications room almost continuously.

  He went over to a table where several ballistics experts were plotting the sighting data on maps. Wood looked over their shoulders but didn’t ask any questions. They’d tell him when they had anything. Roosevelt arrived a few minutes later, wearing an overcoat and carpet slippers. “So what have we got?”

  “Sighting from observers in Arizona and Nevada, sir. Bright shooting stars heading east.”

  “But nothing actually in the east?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  They watched as the experts drew line
after line on their maps and then yet more lines as new reports came in. There were a few errant lines, but the majority seemed to intersect in northwest New Mexico and in an area close to where Utah, Colorado, and Wyoming met. Dawn was creeping in the windows by the time they stood back from their work.

  “So that’s it?” asked Wood. “These two areas?”

  “Based on the current sighting, yes, sir,” said the senior officer.

  “It appears they are reinforcing their existing forces rather than making new landings,” said Wood.

  “Yes. So what do you plan to do?” asked Roosevelt.

  “We’ll wait a few more days to make certain this is the lot of them,” said Wood. “And if it is, we start sending our boys west.”

  Chapter Ten

  Cycle 597,843.9, Holdfast 32-1

  Qetjnegartis carefully piloted its fighting machine over the holdfast’s wall and headed west. The seven other clan members followed. The transport capsules bringing reinforcements from the Homeworld were about to arrive. Indeed, they were already entering the target world’s atmosphere and decelerating after their long journey. It was a relief to know that fifty more beings would soon be defending the holdfast—even if there were fighting machines available for less than half of them. It would be enough to safeguard the place until the other machines were ready. It had been a harrying time after Braxjandar and its people had left. If the prey-creatures returned in force it was doubtful the holdfast could have survived another assault.

  But there had been no sign of them. Scouts had been sent out and by all the evidence which could be found, it seemed that the prey-creatures had fled the vicinity. As an extra precaution, Qetjnegartis had ordered that the transport lines they used be destroyed for almost forty telequel to the east. The enemy had missed their chance and they would not be given another one again.

  “Progenitor, I see something,” said Davnitargus.

  Qetjnegartis looked and saw what the bud was referring to: a bright light in the west. Instruments in the control cockpit confirmed that this was one of the transport capsules—not that any confirmation was necessary. The landing site was calculated to be two telequel to the northwest—very good navigation.

  “Should we proceed to the site?” asked Davnitargus.

  “Patience. We shall wait until all five have landed. It is possible that one or more of the capsules will land in some dangerous location and need immediate assistance. We will wait until all have landed before proceeding. In any case, it will take some time for the passengers to come out of hibernation.”

  “I understand.”

  The light was growing brighter and spurts of flame jetted off to the sides as the landing brakes came into play. It appeared to be coming almost directly at Qetjnegartis, but then, at the last moment, it became clear that it was coming down a distance away. The fireball slammed into the ground with a force that was actually quite shocking. We survived that? I am glad I was still in hibernation!

  The impact threw up a cloud of dust and debris as the capsule plowed a long trench in the ground. It finally came to rest almost completely concealed by a mound of soil and rock piled up around it. The dust slowly settled and wisps of steam rose from the capsule.

  “A second one comes,” said Davnitargus. “It appears to be coming down farther away.”

  “Yes, but not too far.” The second transport landed twelve telequel to the north. Qetjnegartis could not see it once it was down, but the telemetry indicated there were no problems. The third landed nine telequel to the south and the fourth flew directly over the holdfast and landed amidst the remains of the enemy’s camp. The fifth came down between the first and the second. All were within easy reach. The operation had been executed very well.

  Qetjnegartis dispatched four of its clanmates toward the first transport, while it and the other three proceeded to the next closest. Each of the fighting machines carried a basket capable of holding three people to bring the newcomers quickly back to the holdfast. Construction machines would later salvage the transports themselves for resources.

  By the time they reached the transport, the occupants had awoken from hibernation and opened the vessel. They quickly climbed or were helped into the baskets and carried away. The newcomers were eager and excited to be on the new world, although all were having difficulties with the thick air and high gravity, but that was to be expected. One thing immediately caught Qetjnegartis’ attention: the newcomers all had well-developed buds attached to them.

  “You carried buds through the voyage?” it asked one of them.

  “Yes, one of the other clans did so in the first wave and there was only a fifteen percent loss rate. It was deemed worth the risk to have a new batch available more quickly.”

  “Interesting. I hope it works out as expected.”

  Collecting all of them took almost half a day, but at last, everyone was safely in the holdfast. When the last group was delivered, Qetjnegartis parked its machine, lowered it to the loading position, and then debarked. Everyone, new arrivals and old, gathered round. It would address them all, welcoming them here and outlining the tasks ahead…

  “Qetjnegartis.”

  Someone called to it and the voice sounded familiar. It looked as one of the newcomers pushed through to the front. “Qetjnegartis,” it said again.

  With recognition came surprise. “Valprandar… what are you doing here?”

  “I would think that would be obvious, Qetjnegartis: I am here to take command.”

  * * * * *

  November, 1909, Albuquerque, New Mexico Territory

  “Frank, what the hell are you doing?”

  Second Lieutenant Frank Dolfen turned to see his commanding officer, Captain Lou Pendleton, standing behind him. “Uh, I’m training my men, sir.”

  “Is that what you call it? What the devil is that thing?”

  The thing the captain was referring to was a collection of lumber, telegraph poles, and various bits and pieces of wrecked railroad locomotives which Dolfen’s men had found (or stolen) and then hammered together under his direction. “It’s supposed to be a Martian tripod, sir.”

  Pendleton opened his mouth, closed it again, scowled, and then slowly walked around the object. It was nearly forty feet tall and was located in an empty field to the north of town. Finally, the captain stopped and scratched his head. “I’ll be damned. It does sort of look like one, doesn’t it?”

  “That was the idea, sir.” He gestured toward where the men of his troop were waiting. “I was thinking that we could get the men—and the horses—used to the damn things. And practice using the dynamite bombs.”

  “Wouldn’t that sort of blow the thing to bits the first time?”

  “We wouldn’t use the real bombs, sir. For practice we’ll use duds. Get the boys used to throwing them and getting them attached to the right places. Although I’d sure like to let the men set a few of them off. To get them used to lighting the fuses and the noise they make and all. Be good for the horses, too.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Pendleton again. “Where’d you get the idea?”

  “Dunno, sir. Just came to me. Seemed to make sense.” Frank paused, but then went on. “To be honest, sir, me and a lot of the boys are gettin’ damned tired of having to run away—or chase—these bastards without being able to hurt ‘em. We need to figure out some new way of fighting.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” growled Pendleton. “Well, let me know how it works out. We may have to build some more of these things and train the whole squadron this way. Carry on, Lieutenant.”

  Dolfen acknowledged the order and Pendleton walked off about fifty yards, but didn’t leave. Quite a few other people, attracted by the fake Martian, had gathered to watch. Frank didn’t like that; it made him nervous. But he called his men to attention and explained what he wanted them to do. At first it was just riding around the Martian and then underneath and between its legs. They did it at a walk to begin, but then they increased the pace to a t
rot, and then finally did it at a full gallop. It was simple stuff and they did it well—even the men who had been raw recruits just a few months earlier. Then he had each squad come in at a different angle. This was harder since they had to avoid running into each other as well as the Martian. There was some confusion at first but eventually they got the hang of it.

  Then it was practice with the bombs. The standard bomb being issued to everyone consisted of four sticks of dynamite arranged in two pairs. Each group of two was held in a waterproof canvas bag. The two bags were connected by a three-foot long leather strap. This allowed them to be wrapped around the target or thrown like a bola which would hopefully entangle some part of the enemy machine and hold the dynamite close until it went off. There was a fifteen second fuse which was ignited by a friction igniter attached to a ring. The whole thing would be stuffed into a bag which could be worn around the waist or over one shoulder. So, the drill was: pull the bomb out of its bag, light the fuse, and then throw or somehow attach the thing to the Martian—and then run like hell.

  Frank had taken a few dozen bombs and had the dynamite and fuses replaced with wood to give the same weight but eliminate any risk of explosion. So the afternoon was spent on having men on their horses, pull the damn things out, get the strap untangled, pull the ring, and then throw it—all without falling off. It wasn’t easy. The only good part of it was that the work kept the men warm. A sharp breeze had come up and the sun was clouding over and it was getting cold. Winter was on the way.

  During a break, Jason Urbaniak—who was adapting to his new rank a lot more easily than Frank was—came over to talk. “Making some progress… sir.”