Counterattack

by Scott H Washburn

  “Madness!” cried Qetjnegartis, truly shocked. “Even if we could somehow send significant resources home, it would still be vital to reduce the total population!”

  “Yes, the opposition made that argument, but the majority simply said that if the dissenters refused to create new buds then the others would be glad to take their allotment. That silenced them.”

  Qetjnegartis could think of no reply. This was indeed madness. The plan - the plan agreed upon - had been to send people to the target world to carry out the conquest here and prepare the way for the rest of the Race to come also. It would take thousands of cycles to carry out, but each transport which left, each load of people moved, would make the resources left on the Homeworld last all the longer. Calculations indicated they would last long enough to complete the relocation.

  But this! This was mass suicide! Even if the new launch guns could be built and loads of resources delivered, it would at best delay the inevitable for a few hundred or a few thousand cycles. Then when the collapse finally became unpreventable, there would be no time and no resources to attempt an evacuation.

  “I think that many in the Council were worried about the length of time the original plan would take,” continued Tanbradjus.

  “All knew it was a long-term project!”

  “True, but the worry was that those of us who were here would bud and bud and fill up this world before the transfer could be completed. And…” its voice fell again, “there have been some disturbing rumors about… differences in the buds created on this world.”

  Qetjnegartis stiffened, but did not reply. Rumors? Ixmaderna had said it was inevitable the other clans would notice the same phenomena. Apparently some had dared to report this home.

  “So it is true? The new buds have no loyalty to the Homeworld?”

  “Not in the direct fashion such as you and I have but they…”

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes. Buds created on this world have no instinctive submission to those on the Homeworld. But they do have submission to their progenitors!”

  “I was afraid that this was the case. Others at home fear this new development greatly.”

  “I think they exaggerate the danger…” said Qetjnegartis.

  “Do you? And what of our own clan here? Only you and three others remain from the original landing force. You four are your own buds’ - and their buds’ - only links of loyalty to the Homeworld! If you are killed in this war then there would be an entire growing group who could not be controlled! What of that? Our situation may be extreme compared with most, but the same danger exists with them, too.”

  “Perhaps, but the situation is what it is and we cannot change it. I will endeavor not to be slain and spare the elders from a crisis - and you from the burden of command.”

  “I am serious, Qetjnegartis!”

  “As am I, Tanbradjus.”

  They stared at each other in silence for some time, but eventually Qetjnegartis stirred. “Well, no matter how much we might disagree, there is nothing for it but to obey our orders. I will direct Ixmaderna to give some thought to possible locations for a launch gun. It is entirely possible, you realize, that no suitable site might be found in our territory?”

  “Yes, in that case we would be expected to assist those clans who do have suitable locations.”

  “Of course. But of immediate concern is the coming offensive. At least the Council does not see fit to interfere with that!”

  “No. Indeed they insist it go forward with maximum effort on all fronts.”

  “The plans are far along. We need wait only for the buds you and the other newcomers bear to detach. This will also give us time to analyze the images being sent down from the orbiting artificial satellite. Those should prove extremely valuable.”

  “So it was hoped. We must also coordinate our activities with Group 33 to the north.”

  “Yes, Commander Braxjandar is arrogant and can be difficult to work with, but it is capable and aggressive. It has greater strength than we at the moment and I am hoping that its attacks will draw off the enemy’s strength from our front.”

  “It still seems incredible that these primitive prey-creatures are able to mount so much resistance,” said Tanbradjus. “The reports of the first invasion…”

  “Were extremely incomplete!” said Qetjnegartis in annoyance. “Has no one on the Homeworld read the reports that we have sent? The prey are intelligent and innovative and very numerous. Their strength is far greater than our initial studies indicated!”

  “Calm yourself, Qetjnegartis!” said Tanbradjus. “I am not criticizing your actions. But I fear that the elders do not appreciate the difficulties which you face. Perhaps I do not, either. Please instruct me.”

  “Very well…”

  * * * * *

  January, 1912, near Donaldsonville, Louisiana

  “Damn,” said Commander Drew Harding.

  “Don’t get your feathers ruffled,” said Lieutenant Mackenzie. “Could happen to anyone. Hell, it’s happened to me more times than I can count.”

  Drew was standing at the bow of his ship and staring down at the muddy waters of the Mississippi. “But we were in the channel! This should have been clear!”

  Mackenzie chuckled in a fashion that Drew found infuriating. “River’s different from the open ocean.” He cleared his throat and spat. “Sand bars like this ‘un move around all the time. By tomorrow it’ll probably be gone - or moved somewhere else. But at least it’s just sand. No leaks reported from below.”

  “Thank God for that. Can we get off?”

  “I ‘spect so. Put ‘er astern and see what happens.”

  Drew frowned and spun on his heel and walked back to the bridge. Astern! Hell, I could have figured that out! If Mackenzie’s such a damn expert on the river, why didn’t he keep us from grounding in the first place? Drew’s relationship with his executive officer had generally been satisfactory, but the man could be really irritating when he wanted. Still, there was no doubt he knew the river, and Drew had to admit if he’d been up on the bridge he might have spotted that sand bar before the Santa Fe stuck her bow into it. However, the man didn’t know a damn thing about gunnery and Drew took some satisfaction in that.

  The bridge of the Santa Fe was exactly that, an open platform sitting atop the tiny armored wheelhouse which projected far out to either side so that lookouts could spot things - like sand bars - in the river. There was a wheel and an engine room telegraph - duplicates of the ones in the wheelhouse - and the ship would normally be controlled from here except in bad weather or in combat. Drew nodded to the officer of the watch, Ensign Hinsworth, a very young man with the peculiar first name of Albustus. Alby, as he preferred to be called, was still learning his job and was obviously very nervous that he had the watch when this happened - even though Drew had been there on the bridge, too.

  “All back one-third,” he ordered.

  “Aye aye, sir! All back one-third!” Hinsworth made fluttering motions with his hand at the man at the telegraph until he moved the handles to the proper position. After a moment, a bell rang from the telegraph.

  “Engine room answers, all back one-third,” said the man.

  “Engine room answers, all back one-third, sir!” squeaked Hinsworth.

  “Yes, ensign, I heard,” said Drew with studied calm. Smoke puffed out from the stack just behind them, and the ship vibrated a bit as the engines went to work.

  But the ship didn’t move. Drew looked about, trying to convince himself that they were moving, but no, they were still stuck.

  “All back two-thirds,” he ordered and after another relay of orders and replies, Hinsworth told him they were all back two-thirds. But they still didn’t seem to be moving. Drew walked out on the bridge wing for a better look. The water at the stern was boiling now, brown with stirred up mud. He put it at all back full, and even though the ship was vibrating strongly and smoke billowed out of the stack in a thick cloud, they still didn’t move. Mackenz
ie arrived on the bridge and came over to him.

  “Got a real suction there, Cap’n. Doesn’t want t’let go.”

  “Any suggestions, Lieutenant?” Drew didn’t quite snarl at the man.

  ‘Have t’twist ‘er loose, I think.” He looked out over the river, squinting, checking for other traffic, Drew guessed. “Put the port screw back slow, the starboard ahead full and give ‘er full right rudder.”

  Drew thought about that for a moment and realized what Mackenzie was trying to do; he nodded and gave the order. The engine room slowed the right-side propeller and then ran it in the opposite direction. The helmsman spun the wheel which controlled the rudder. “Hard over, sir,” he reported after a moment. The ship had been given an oversized rudder to allow sharp turns in the constricted space of a river. Drew hoped it would do the job now.

  The ship was shuddering and the water at the stern was churning, but the boil was off to the right now, instead of dead astern. Between the opposite thrustings of the propellers and the rudder diverting the flow from the right screw, the stern of the Santa Fe was being pushed strongly to the left. But was she moving?

  Yes!

  There was no doubt, the stern was swinging around! Degree by degree, the stern moved left and the bow twisted right. They were pulling free!

  “Ease ‘er off a bit,” said Mackenzie. “Don’t want t’run ’er up on the shore once we’re loose.”

  Drew ordered reduced speed on the engines, but before the engine room even answered back, the ship lurched and then swung clear. “Rudder a-midships! All ahead one-third!” cried Drew. Santa Fe slowed, stopped, and then moved forward again as if nothing at all had happened.

  “There y’go, Cap’n. Yer gettin’ the hang of things.”

  * * * * *

  February, 1912, south of Kansas City, Missouri

  “Bloody hell, there’s another batch of the blighters!”

  Major Bridges’ exclamation made Frank Dolfen whip his head around so fast it hurt his neck. “Where?” he demanded.

  “Almost due west. Still eight or ten miles off, I’d guess. A lot of them, though.”

  Dolfen squirmed around on his belly in their hiding place and focused his field glasses to the west. He quickly saw what Bridges was talking about: a cluster of dark shapes on the horizon. Martian tripods. And yeah, there were a lot of them. He tried to count, but at this point they were just silhouettes and they kept moving in front of each other, confusing his count. There had to be at least thirty of them. He watched them for a while until he was sure they were heading for the nearby Martian fortress and not coming for them. Then he rolled over on his back and rubbed his eyes. Bridges kept watching.

  “I count forty of them, I think. Mostly the regular ones, but a few of the smaller scouts. And most seem to be carrying stuff on their backs, too.”

  “Those cages they’ve been using for captives?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. They’re different.”

  Groaning, Dolfen rolled back and looked through his glasses again. The Martians were a lot closer now, only three or four miles away. He saw what the Englishman was talking about, but he couldn’t figure out what the tripods were carrying. “Cargo of some sort, I guess. I suppose they must need to move stuff from one fortress to another.”

  “You’re probably right, old man. But forty more of the damn things! That’s how many we’ve seen arrive so far?”

  “Forty more would be… nearly two hundred.” Dolfen whistled. “They must be planning something for sure!”

  The 1st Squadron of the 5th Cavalry was a long way from its base in Memphis. Word had come down all the way from 3rd Army Headquarters that things were happening up north. The newly formed 6th Army near St. Louis couldn’t get any scouts through a thickening screen of Martian pickets, and bad winter weather had grounded their aircraft for long periods. So they’d asked if 3rd Army could slip someone in from the south to have a look. Dolfen and his men, veterans of several missions into Martian territory, had won the prize. The reward for a job well done: a tougher job!

  They’d started out at the beginning of the month and traveled well over three hundred miles to reach this position near a newly built Martian fortress. It was now the end of February and they’d been watching the place for over a week. There was no way the armored cars or artillery could make such a journey so they and the supply trucks and half the motorcycles had been left behind. They’d been forced to rely on pack horses just like the old days. But they’d made it undetected and Dolfen now had a half-dozen outposts around the fortress making observations. Still, he was worried about what would happen if they were forced into a fight. Without the armored cars or the artillery they could be in real trouble. They had been issued a few of the new rocket launchers, ‘stovepipes’ everyone was calling them, but he had no idea if they would be of any use. And with the weather and the distance, he couldn’t count on any help from Selfridge or his aircraft. No, they had to avoid a fight if at all possible.

  A gust of wind penetrated the thick clump of bushes they were using for cover and Dolfen shivered. It was almost March, but the winter still lingered here in the plains. They didn’t dare to build a fire and he was getting chilled to the bone. He glanced at the sun, but there were still several hours until nightfall when their relief would arrive and they could retreat to where the rest of the squadron was waiting in the ruins of the town of La Harpe.

  The Martian tripods disappeared inside the walls of their fortress off to the northeast and there was nothing more to see. Sometimes there were tripods walking sentry or out hunting, but today there were none in evidence. Dolfen put away his field glasses, wrapped a blanket around himself, and wished for coffee. He knew it was slightly stupid for the squadron commander to be out scouting in person, but there was still a lot of sergeant in him, and he hated being off in the rear while his men were out in front. Besides, this was still more interesting than doing paperwork.

  “I say, old man,” said Bridges after a while. “How much longer do you plan to keep us at this lovely exercise?”

  “Our orders say to stay here until another unit shows up to take our place - as you well know. The 3rd Cavalry is supposed to be here in two days, but I’ve got no idea when they’ll actually arrive.”

  “Or if they’ll arrive, eh? Perhaps you could use the wireless.”

  “Weekly transmissions only, you know that. The Martians come after us the moment we start sending. I don’t want to have to relocate the camp again. So we’ve got at least two more days.”

  “Very well.”

  Dolfen shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position and cursed when something sharp dug into him. He reached around and pulled out a rock. He was about to toss it away when he paused and looked closer. There was a red patch on the rock the size of a dime. Red Weed. Damn. He glanced around to make sure there was nothing which could see, lit a match, and toasted it. “You see much of this stuff in India, Major?”

  “A bit, but the Martians never got a foothold in India proper. And the locals are very good about getting rid of it when they find it. They think it’s some sort of devil weed - which I suppose is true, now that I think on it. But they’re very protective about their farmland over there, y’know. They set the children to work rooting it out. It’s worse up in the mountains, in Afghanistan and the Western Frontier, though. Fewer people and much rougher land. Still, they’re probably better off than any poor blighters still trying to hang on in Siberia. I’ve heard tell that there are places there where it covers thousands of square miles.”

  “We can’t let that happen here.”

  “Hard to do anything when there are Martians about, old boy.”

  “Yeah.”

  They, and the two troopers they’d brought with them, huddled there shivering until well after nightfall when the relief arrived. Then they stumbled back through the dark to the gully where the horses were kept. At least the hike got Dolfen’s blood moving again, although his feet still felt like t
wo blocks of ice. They mounted up and rode back to La Harpe, still keeping a careful watch for the enemy. Unlike them, the Martians had no issues with seeing in the dark.

  They made it there without incident and gratefully accepted cups of hot coffee in the warm and cozy headquarters which had been set up in the basement of the ruined courthouse. His aide, Lieutenant Lynnbrooke, was there and Dolfen asked him for the status of the squadron.

  “All good, sir. The men are staying out of sight and the pickets all have good positions. They’re pretty bored, but I rotate the pickets frequently enough that they don’t complain much.”

  “Good. Any messages on the radio?” While they didn’t dare to transmit, they could pick up messages from outside.

  “Just the usual traffic and confirmation that the squadron from the 3rd is still on its way and ought to be here to relieve us on time.”

  “Good, good. Anything else?”

  Lynnbrooke hesitated and then said: “Uh, we did pick up a group of refugees today, sir.”

  “Really? Where are they from? Did you question them about enemy activity?” Dolfen was a bit surprised. They’d encountered no one so far on this trip. The land seemed empty.

  “They said they were from Iola. Been hiding there for the last year. They saw one of our pickets and came here to check.”

  Dolfen nodded. That was only five or six miles west of La Harpe. “Did they say anything else? If they’ve been here this long, they must have seen something.”

  “Some of them were pretty sick, sir. I turned them over to… uh, to the medics. Figured we could question them later.”

  “Were all of them sick?”

  “No, but they were worried about the ones who are.”

  Dolfen frowned. “I want to know if they’ve seen anything.” He got up from his chair with a groan.

  “Can’t it wait until morning, sir? You must be tired.”

  “I’m up. It should only take a few minutes.”

  “But sir…”

  “But what?” Dolfen turned to face Lynnbrooke. What was the matter with the man? Couldn’t he realize that their safety here depended on having the best information possible?