“Yeah, a bit.”
“But I hear the boys talking. Some of them are askin’ what’s the point? The damn Martians will just burn us up before we ever get close enough to throw the stupid bombs. Gotta admit I can see their point.”
“Yeah, it’s true. That’s why were gonna do dismounted drill tomorrow.”
The next day was even colder and everyone was bundled up; which made handling the awkward bombs all the more difficult. Some of the men were complaining. “If you can guarantee the Martians will wait until spring to attack then we’ll skip it,” said Frank, acting more like a sergeant than a lieutenant. “No? All right, snap to it!” He had them ride up close to the fake Martian and then dismount. Every fourth man rode off with the horses of the other three, who were obliged to crawl across the frozen ground until they were close enough to throw their bombs. By the lunch break everyone was tired, dirty, and thoroughly disgusted.
“Why we wasting our time with this?” said one trooper, not caring that Frank could hear. “They’ll still burn us to a cinder before we can get close enough!” He didn’t answer the man directly, but called them all to attention again.
“Okay, I know this might seem pointless to some of you, but the problem with our training is that our wooden Martian can’t move. Out in the field I won’t expect you to ride right up to it and dismount! That would be crazy. But what I will want you to do is get yourselves in its path—a good distance ahead—and then dismount. You’ll find a good spot to hide and then let the bastards come to you. But they might not come directly to you. You need to be ready to move—to crawl—to a better spot to make your attack. When they get close, you pick yourselves up and use your bombs.” Dolfen paused and looked his men over. “If the ground allows it, what I’d like to do is to dismount half the men and when they attack, the Martians will be so distracted that the other half can ride in and finish the job.”
The men looked thoughtful but one of them said in thickly accented English: “Lot of us still get killed, zir.”
Frank walked up to the man and stared him right in the eyes. “You’re right: a lot of us will get killed. But if we can kill some Martians, it will be worth it.” He swept his gaze across all the men. “Get used to that! This is a different kind of war we’re fighting! It’s not like old time European wars! We aren’t gonna fight a couple of battles and then the one king decides he’s had enough so he makes a treaty with the other king and gives him a couple of towns and some gold, shakes hands, and waits ten years to fight again. The Martians aren’t here to take our towns or our gold, they are here to kill us! All of us! If we run away, they’ll follow. They’ll burn our towns and kill our wives and our kids. The only way to stop them is to kill them! So that’s what we’re doing: training how to kill them!”
The eyes of his men were wide, but after a moment Frank realized they weren’t looking at him. He turned around to find that Colonel Berg, the regimental commander, and a small group of other officers were standing behind him. Frank came to attention and saluted. Berg returned it and stood there staring at him.
“Lieutenant,” he said finally.
“Sir?”
“I want you to go and see the adjutant. Tomorrow is soon enough. I want you to describe this training program you are using and have him write it up.”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
Colonel Berg turned to the other officers.
“I want the whole regiment doing it this way as soon as possible.”
* * * * *
November, 1909, Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory
“Good thing you showed up, miss,” said the owner of the livery stable. “Your uncle stopped paying me two months ago and I was gettin’ ready to sell him off. The army is paying good money for horses these days.”
Rebecca Harding smiled as she ran her hands down Ninny’s neck. Her horse looked to be in good health and there was no doubt he was glad to see her, too. He’d whinnied and nickered when their eyes met and he seemed very excited now. “Thank you for taking such good care of him, Mr. Dawkins. How much do I owe you?”
“Well, seein’ as how you’re in the army, I can give you a break. For two months board and feed… twelve dollars.”
She almost gave him an argument. Twelve dollars was nearly a dollar and half a week. Didn’t seem like much of a break to her. Her salary as an army nurse was only ten dollars a month. Dawkins clearly saw it in her face because he added: “The army is buying up all the feed, too. Price has almost doubled since last year.”
“I understand,” she said, digging the money out of her pocket. She paid the man and saddled up Ninny and rode off. The joy of being on her favorite horse immediately drove away the annoyance of what she’d had to pay to get him back. It was worth it! She’d been so glad when Miss Chumley had pulled the strings necessary to get permission for her to keep the horse at the hospital. Of course she’d have to share his use with some of the others, but he’d be hers to take care of - and at least the feed would be free.
They had shifted the nurse detachment back to Santa Fe, and her path to the hospital took her past her aunt and uncle’s house. She didn’t stop. She’d made one short visit when she got back, to let them know she was still alive, but her aunt had been so difficult she left after just a few minutes. The woman seemed unable to grasp what was going on. She’d railed at Becca for running off and threatened to get the sheriff and have her locked up so she couldn’t go back to the army. Becca fled before she had to draw her pistol.
The weather had been turning colder, and this high up in the mountains there would be snow soon. But today was a fine sunny day and she nudged Ninny into a fast trot just because she could. He seemed to enjoy it, too. She knew she was taking a risk ‘volunteering’ him for the army, but he probably would have ended up there anyway, and now she could look after him. “Well, we’ve survived worse adventures, haven’t we?” She patted his neck.
She arrived at the hospital and put Ninny in the pen they’d built for him. Then it was back to work. There weren’t all that many wounded left in the wards almost three months after the battle, but with the cold weather they were seeing more cases of pneumonia and influenza, and as with any large grouping of people, dysentery and even typhoid. They were kept busy.
When her shift ended she went to the mess hall, which was the warmest place around. They were slowly replacing the tents with wooden buildings, but most of them still had canvas roofs and they got very chilly at night. The mess hall had a real roof and several large iron stoves for heat. She got her dinner and found a place close to a stove to eat it.
Week by week and month by month she’d become friends with the other nurses and orderlies. The shared experiences of work and battle and retreat had forged a real bond between them. She was the youngest of them, but they treated her like an adult instead of a child and she liked that a lot. There were times when she’d think about her father and mother and grandmother and that place she’d called home before this all happened, but the memories were becoming distant. She had a new family now who seemed much closer than the old one she’d lost.
She finished eating and then sat down with Clarissa Forester. The woman was probably the closest in age to Becca, although she was still quite a bit older. They chatted about the day’s work and also about the arrival of Ninny. They shared some gossip about another nurse and the orderly she was supposedly carrying on with and both ended up giggling. “So have you found a boyfriend?” asked Clarissa, smirking.
“Me? No! Not yet, anyway.”
“Really? What about Sam Jones? You seem to talk with him a lot. Good looking fellow even if he is a little odd.”
“Sam? No, no, we’re just friends. And he’s not odd, he’s just… shy.”
“If you say so. Well, I’m going to get some sleep. See you later, Becca.” She got up and left.
Clarissa’s comment left Becca puzzled. Why in the world would she think she was sweet on Sam? He’d made up the name of ‘Jones’ to use officially an
d he was now one of the hospital’s orderlies. Becca would talk to him from time to time, but neither had ever done the slightest thing that would make anyone think they were anything but casual acquaintances. Had they? If Clarissa could think so, were others thinking it, too? Would Miss Chumley hear about it and object?
As she sat there, Sam came in and got his dinner. He glanced at her but sat down at a different table. Becca had wanted to talk to him, but now, she felt incredibly awkward doing so. Still, it was important. She forced herself to get up and sit down next to him. “Hi, Sam. How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
“Sam, I’ve been thinking.” She paused to let him ask thinking about what? But he said nothing and kept eating. “Sam, you need to tell someone about what you saw in the Martian fortress.” She was whispering now.
“No.”
“Sam! It could be important! The generals need all the information they can get to beat them!”
“No.”
“What if I could arrange it so they wouldn’t know who you were?”
“How could you do that?”
“Last winter I met a major in the Ordnance Department. He and his men were the ones who rescued me. It’s his job to find out stuff about the Martians. He’s a good man. If I explained the situation maybe he could come here and talk to you alone. Once he had what you could tell him, he’d leave you be. I’d suggest just writing everything down and sending that to him, but I’m sure he’d have questions.”
Sam frowned and stopped chewing. He sat there for a long time. “Gotta think about this.”
“Okay, Sam, okay. Take your time.”
* * * * *
Cycle 597,843.9, Holdfast 32-1
“Why are you no longer in command?” asked Davnitargus. “You have explained this to me, but I do not comprehend.”
Qetjnegartis regarded the nearly-grown bud with concern. “Truly? You cannot sense it?”
“Sense what?”
“Valprandar’s dominance.”
Davnitargus was silent for a long time, but then said: “No. Or at least I sense nothing I can identify as such. I clearly sense your dominance and that of the other three adults who were here when I came into being. I sense the… submission of the other three buds to me. But the newcomers…”
“Yes? What of the newcomers?”
“They are… indistinct. Different.”
“In what way?”
“I… cannot describe it.”
Qetjnegartis’ concern multiplied. Was there some defect in the bud? The hierarchy of dominance and submission within the clan was the fundamental pillar in the Race’s social structure. Each member instantly knew its position within the hierarchy and obeyed those above it and commanded those below it. To not be able to sense this was… very disturbing. It thought back to its first awakening, had there been any uncertainty such as Davnitargus described? No, it could remember nothing like that.
“The other buds report similar experiences,” said Davnitargus.
“You have discussed this among yourselves?” asked Qetjnegartis in surprise.
“Yes, the others are as confused as I. Can you explain the system again, Progenitor?”
“Very well. Each bud owes obedience to its progenitor. But this extends beyond the immediate generation. You owe obedience to me, and I to my own progenitor. But you also owe obedience to my progenitor, and its progenitor. Any bud you might have in the future would owe its obedience to you, to me, and to my progenitor, and so on up and down through the generations. Do you understand?”
“Yes, this much is clear.”
“The link of obedience thus runs through the generations. But it also runs within the generations and this is based upon the order in which the buds were created. For example, I was the third bud of my progenitor. Thus I owe obedience to the first and second buds of my generation and all of the buds of prior generations within the clan.”
“So then all of the Race owe obedience to the very first member of the Race?” asked Davnitargus. “Does such a one exist?”
“Not anymore,” replied Qetjnegartis. “Whether any such individual ever did exist is a matter of much speculation and debate. No one knows if all of the Race is descended from one individual or a group of individuals. This would have happened long before any history was recorded.”
“Is not our history recorded within each of us?”
“Within limits, yes. But over so vast a time, things have become lost. For while we have the means of prolonging our existence indefinitely by budding replacement bodies, we may still be slain through mishap or violence. The Race has fought wars against itself many times.”
“If there was a single leader, who all must obey, how would it permit such a thing?”
“Any such leader was lost long ago. For while the link of obedience through the generations is strong, the link within the generations weakens with the time between individuals. So while the five hundredth bud of an individual would have a strong link to its progenitor, the link of obedience to the first bud of that same progenitor might be very weak. If the progenitor was slain, and perhaps many of the intervening buds of that same generation, the link between first and five hundredth could be broken. That is how the different clans came about. Gaps appeared in the chain of obedience which could not be filled.”
“I think I see,” said Davnitargus. “So you and Commander Braxjandar of Clan Mavnaltak might have once had some link of obedience to a common ancestor, but those links became broken and the separate clans were formed?”
“Yes, although these breaks happened very long ago. The exact details are now lost.”
“And your relationship to Commander Valprandar?”
“It is from the prior generation of our clan, the same generation as my progenitor, although fourteen buddings separated in time. I must obey it and so must you. You truly cannot sense that?”
“No, I cannot. But I will obey as you direct. But the other forty-nine newcomers, I do not wish to make any errors in dealing with them. Can you explain their relationship to me?”
Qetjnegartis did so, even though it took quite some time. All the while it pondered this mystery. How could all four of the new buds lack this basic sense of order? And yet Davnitargus said that its sense of hierarchy among the surviving eight members of the first wave was intact. The hierarchy was affected by the generations and it was also affected by time. Could it somehow be affected by place? Would the fact that the buds were created here on the target world instead of the Homeworld be having an effect? It seemed unlikely, but it could not be discounted. And the consequences were very disturbing. If all the new buds created on this world felt no ties of loyalty to the clans on the Homeworld, what would be the result? With time they would outnumber the ones created on the Homeworld by a factor of thousands…
When it finished it added: “It would be best if you and the other buds did not discuss this with anyone.”
“As you wish, Progenitor.”
“Good. Now, we must go to the meeting chamber. Valprandar has scheduled a meeting of us all and it will begin shortly.” They mounted a travel chair and went from their work area to the meeting. As they went, Qetjnegartis felt the new bud on its side moving. It was nearing maturity and soon the transference must begin. There were still no gross effects of the contagion in its existing body and it was very tempting to allow this bud to become a new individual, but no, the risk was too great. Qetjnegartis would transfer to a new body.
They reached the chamber where all the others were gathered. Valprandar was on a raised platform where it could address them. “New instructions have been received from the Colonial Conclave,” it said. “In recent days we have suffered a number of serious setbacks. In the northern part of Continent 4, the northern and southern areas of Continent 2, and in the mountainous southern regions of Continent 1, our forces have been defeated with heavy losses.” It paused and looked at Qetjnegartis. “And here on Continent 3 we have also had setbacks. In each case th
e defeat was the result of an ill-considered attack with inadequate forces against a prepared force of the prey-creatures. This cannot be permitted to happen again.
“Therefore, for the immediate future, no additional major attacks will be undertaken. We shall concentrate on repairing the holdfast, producing enough war machines for ourselves and the next generation of buds, and preparing for future offensives. Is this understood?”
All answered in unison: Yes Commander!
Chapter Eleven
December, 1909, Washington, D.C.
Major Andrew Comstock took a seat at the conference table and marveled at how far he had come in just a few years. From a nervous second lieutenant whose duties were little more than carrying papers and serving coffee, he had become an important part of General William Crozier’s Ordnance Department staff. His opinion carried weight and important men sought it out. He was quite sure that part of that was due to President Roosevelt taking a shine to him, but only part. He did his job and did it well.
There was a cold wind rattling the windows and clouds of snowflakes whipped by. In three days it would be Christmas and he still needed to find the right gift for Victoria. They were living in Colonel Hawthorne’s house and Mrs. Hawthorne had gone all out decorating for the holiday. He wished they had their own place, but he was gone so often it was better for Victoria to have her parents close by.
The rest of the staff, including Colonel Hawthorne, came in and found seats as Crozier called the meeting to order. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “we are making progress on several fronts, but there are a lot of people asking why we aren’t making more. What do we have and what can we expect for the New Year? Colonel Waski, can you start with your report on the land ironclads?”
“Yes, sir,” said Waski. “Baldwin and William Cramp have got their plans nearly completed for a prototype machine. The upper works are actually very straightforward and it would be constructed like a navy warship. The difficulty - as we expected - is the caterpillar tracks which would allow it to move on land. They are an order of magnitude larger than anything even conceived of before.” He paused and rummaged through his papers until he found one and pulled it out of the pile. “Well, that’s not exactly true, sir,” he said, looking at the paper. “Years ago there was a proposal to use similar vehicles to transport ships across the Isthmus of Panama and avoid the need for a canal. But it was nothing but a pipe dream.”
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