Counterattack

by Scott H Washburn

  She lowered the rifle and she heard Frank sigh.

  She spun around, brought the rifle up to her shoulder and said: “It’s all yours, sir.”

  * * * * *

  August, 1912, the Martian Fortress

  Colonel Andrew Comstock leaned against the rail of Albuquerque’s bridge. It was slightly deformed thanks to a heat ray, but it had cooled off now and he rested his weight on it. The whole front half of the ironclad was looking a bit deformed and decidedly shabby. All the paint had been burned off and the metal underneath was discolored in those strange patterns that extreme heat could cause. Half the guns were out of action and with the two right side track units damaged, it wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. Repair crews were looking things over, but he suspected it would be weeks - or maybe months considering the lack of facilities - before it was ready for action again.

  Andrew felt pretty much the same as the ironclad. He was exhausted and he could feel his muscles quivering. The non-stop action of the last few weeks, getting to Memphis, fighting the battle there, getting here, and the fighting today, had worn him out.

  But at the same time, an exhilaration filled him. They had done it! They had beaten the Martians in an open battle, driven them off, and captured their fortress. Reports that were coming in said that the whole thing was intact and that they had even captured some live Martians. This was the victory everyone had been hoping for.

  They’d paid a price for it, his eyes went out to look at the still smoldering wrecks of the aircraft which had provide the vital, but so costly, diversion which had allowed the ironclads to get inside. A lot of other men had been killed, too, but nowhere near as many as in past battles. Yes, it was a great victory.

  “Quite a thing, wasn’t it?” asked Drew Harding, coming up beside him.

  “Yes, quite a thing. What do you think of the ironclads now?”

  Drew nodded his head. “They won this fight for sure. They may be what we need to win the war.”

  “We’re building more of them. A lot more. This was just the beginning. The first step on the long road back.”

  A shout from above made them look up. A man - a braver man than Andrew - had shinnied out on the pole which stuck out from the side of the observation platform forty feet overhead, and attached a new line to a pulley mounted there. The heat rays had burned away all the old lines. He threw the line down to two men waiting below and they attached it to the pulley there. Then they hooked something to the line. There were more shouts and then one of the five-inch guns on USLI Albuquerque boomed out with a blank charge.

  All around them on the vast round plain of the captured enemy fortress, men stopped whatever they were doing and looked that way. A bugler started playing To The Colors, and a dozen more joined in, the sweet sound echoing off the walls. The men at the line pulled and the flag ran upward.

  Andrew and Harding came to attention and saluted. Thousands of other men did as well.

  The flag reached the top and the breeze caught it and displayed it. The Stars and Stripes gleamed in the afternoon sunshine, waving over land that was America once more.

  Epilogue

  November, 1912, Washington, D.C

  “The results have come in from Ohio,” said George Cortelyou. “You are reelected, Mr. President. Congratulations, sir.”

  A cheer went up from the crowd in the East Room of the White House. Theodore Roosevelt’s campaign manager shook his hand and then gave way to let all the others do so as well. General Leonard Wood fell in near the rear of the line.

  There was quite a crowd here tonight, far larger than past elections. Roosevelt usually disdained this sort of thing, but it was clear that tonight he was in a far more ebullient mood than in past years.

  That was probably because this had been the toughest election he had ever faced - and the President loved a political fight. And also because the war was going far better than anyone could have hoped just a few months ago.

  The huge defensive victories at St. Louis and Memphis had been followed up with the capture of the Martian fortress near Little Rock and the liberation of that city. Then the enemy had evacuated and destroyed their fortress near Kansas City, and another near Des Moines, and abandoned all that ground without a fight. To all appearances, they were falling back toward the Rockies.

  The news had electrified the country. The peoples’ confidence in Roosevelt had been restored and Nelson Miles’ single-issue campaign based solely on the lack of military progress lost ground steadily.

  Still, it had been a near run thing. The Supreme Court’s ruling that the refugees from the overrun states could cast absentee ballots from those states had seemed sure to give the election to Miles. But the victories had caused a dramatic shift to Roosevelt as those people felt there was hope they might see their homes again soon after all.

  Wood hoped that they wouldn’t be disappointed.

  The road back was going to be long and not nearly fast enough to suit most people. Wood was determined that they not make the same mistake as they had in 1910 and leave their lines of communications vulnerable to enemy raids. The armies were not going to just rush forward to the Rockies. The railroads would have to be rebuilt and powerful fortresses were going to be constructed every twenty or thirty miles along them to keep them safe. That was going to take a lot of time and a lot of effort. Wood secretly doubted they would be ready for a final assault on the remaining enemy fortresses before the 1916 election.

  And it might not happen at all depending on what happened to the north. In September, there had been a serious attack along the Superior Switch defense line. 1st Army had very nearly been forced back. Only by sending every man he could lay hands on to help had the line been held. The British in Canada were reporting alarming concentration of enemy forces along their front.

  The north was Wood’s biggest worry now. They knew that the strength of the Martians was determined by how many Martians they could produce, not how many machines. They’d killed a hell of a lot of Martians from the two landing groups in the United States and both groups were weak now. But they knew that there were at least two more groups in Alberta and Alaska, and one more in Greenland. None of those had been involved in much fighting. How strong had they grown? Would he awake one morning to find news that ten thousand tripods were coming down from the north? If even a tenth of that number appeared, it could derail any plans for a drive on the Rockies. Still, the recent victories gave them a chance even if the worst happened.

  “Good evening, Leonard.”

  The voice at his elbow made him turn and there was Elihu Root, the Secretary of State. “Good evening, Mr. Secretary, how are you?”

  “Well enough, well enough. A great night for sure. And you? How goes the war?”

  “As well as can be expected, sir. We’ll be consolidating for the winter, but building up for offensives in the spring. How’s the rest of the world?”

  Root shook his head. “Confused is the only word that comes to mind. The British are holding on all their various fronts. The Japanese have occupied a lot of China’s coastal cities and are holding them. China is a mess, as always. We’re getting some very strange rumors from Russia. They’ve lost Moscow but seem to be holding on to Ukraine and the areas around St. Petersburg. And Poland is in revolt. We aren’t sure what the Kaiser is up to in South America, he’s playing things very close to the vest there. And the French… well, that’s why I wanted to talk to you. What are you hearing from Funston down in Texas?”

  Wood stiffened. Fred Funston was a very touchy subject these days. Roosevelt and he had secretly decided to relive him once the election was over. “He’s destroyed a small Martian stronghold down near Corpus Christi and stabilized his lines. We still don’t have reliable rail connections with him. We’re hoping to rectify that in the spring.”

  Root frowned. “The reason I ask is that we’ve been getting some rather… disturbing rumors about diplomatic agreements being made directly between the French and Governor of
Texas.”

  “Supposedly there were some French troops involved with the attack on the stronghold…”

  Root’s voice fell to a near whisper. “And have you heard that there was a referendum on the ballot down there? A referendum, which if approved, would give the state legislature the power to secede from the Union?”

  Wood snorted. “Didn’t they try that once already? Didn’t work out so well as I recall.”

  “It’s no laughing matter, Leonard! If they throw in their lot with the French, it could be a real mess. Other western states could get the same idea.”

  “Well, the surest way to avoid that is for us to reopen the railroads and give them the support they need.” Wood didn’t mention the fact that he had argued strongly against giving them the support they needed, nor that it had been the right decision at the time. “We’ll be making that a top priority next year.”

  “Next year might not be soon enough. Isn’t there anything you can do…?”

  “Elihu! Leonard! Good to see you!” Without his noticing, the line had advanced and they were now at the head of it. There was Roosevelt beaming and booming. He grabbed their hands and shook vigorously.

  “Congratulations, Theodore,” said Root.

  “Congratulations, Mr. President,” said Wood.

  “And congratulations to both of you! We wouldn’t be here but for all of your hard work! You both have my thanks.”

  “There’s a lot more hard work ahead,” said Wood.

  “True! True! But tonight at least we can relax and pat ourselves on the back. The work can wait until tomorrow!”

  * * * * *

  December, 1912, Washington Navy Yard

  “And it is the unanimous finding of this inquest, that the loss of USS Santa Fe was due to enemy action in the course of carrying out its assigned duties. No blame for her loss can be assigned to any person. This proceeding is concluded.”

  Commander Drew Harding let out the breath he’d been holding. He sprang to his feet as the panel of officers left the room and then accepted a handshake and congratulations from the lieutenant who had acted as his counsel for the hearing.

  That hadn’t been nearly as bad as he’d feared. His friend Andrew had been right: with the war going well, no one needed to look for scapegoats and they’d been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Still, it was a hard thing. He’d lost his ship and no one would ever forget that. Nor that somehow he’d been the sole survivor. And even if everyone else did forget, he wouldn’t. He’d been writing letters to the families of his men for weeks.

  He left the hearing room in the big headquarters building and headed toward the personnel offices which were in a wing on the opposite side and two floors up. He trotted up the stairs, not at all troubled by his shoulder or his ribs; they were all pretty well mended. He walked down a hallway to a specific room and rapped on the frame and then went in.

  Inside he found a navy captain at his desk. The brass plate on it said: Winthorpe. He looked up and smiled. “Well, Harding! Good to see you. I assume all went well?”

  “Yes, sir. As well as could be expected.”

  “I assumed that by the fact that you are here and not in the brig,” Captain Winthorpe laughed. The smile faded. “So now you come to me looking for work.”

  “Yes, sir, I need a new assignment.”

  “Well, you had your own ship, so I can’t very well assign you to another one in a subordinate role. But we don’t have any ships in need of a captain just at the moment. In a few months something might turn up. In the meantime, I can give you a desk assignment somewhere. You were in the ordnance bureau a few years back, weren’t you? Maybe I can find a posting there.”

  “If that’s all that’s available, sir.” He didn’t much like the idea and it must have shown on his face.

  “Or…” said Winthorpe slowly, “there is another possibility.”

  “Sir?”

  “I understand you got a close up look at the army’s land ironclads out at Memphis this summer. What did you think of them?”

  “They’re small, cramped, and mechanical nightmares. But there’s no denying their effectiveness, sir.” Where was Winthorpe going with this?

  “Well, as it happens, the navy is building its own version of the contraptions.”

  “So I’d heard, sir.”

  “And we need commanding officers for several of them. It’s proving hard to find men willing to take the posts.”

  “Really? After Memphis and Little Rock, I’d have thought they’d be lining up for the positions.”

  “Ha! Well you’d be wrong. Too new, too different, the experienced officers are afraid of what a posting like that might do to their careers. And I’ll be honest with you, Harding, taking command of one of these things might be a bad career move. If the war ends soon, you’ll be in command of a white elephant which nobody wants.”

  But I’ll be in command of something. Something that can hurt the enemy.

  “I understand, sir, but I think I’ll take my chances with that. If the position is available, I’d like it very much.”

  * * * * *

  Cycle 597,845.5, location unknown

  Qetjnegartis watched the prey-creature writing mathematical equations on a black panel with some sort of white stick which left marks on it. It had taken only the briefest amount of study to realize what the marks meant: basic numbers using symbols for one, two, three, and so forth. Surprisingly, the creatures used a base ten system just as the Race did. The operational symbols had taken a bit more study to unravel: addition, subtraction, multiplication, division. They had used actual objects to make the connection between the symbols and what they represented.

  More difficult to puzzle out was just why they were doing this. Eventually, the only answer Qetjnegartis could arrive at was that they were trying to communicate with it.

  When it had first been captured, it had expected a quick death, either deliberately or accidentally, as these creatures experimented on it. But they had been very careful, and while some of the examinations had been unpleasant, none had proved lethal. Five other clan members had been captured along with it on that disastrous day at the holdfast. Three had been badly wounded and died within days. One of the others had clearly become mentally unhinged by the ordeal. It had stopped eating and died soon after. The last one had been taken elsewhere after twenty days and it had not seen it since.

  Qetjnegartis had been alone after that with little to do but contemplate its fate and watch the prey-creatures make their symbols. They were feeding it; blood from some non-intelligent animal it assumed. But it wasn’t being filtered, and between that and the close contact it was having with the prey-creatures, it expected to become ill with the local pathogens sooner or later. A bud was growing in the sack on its flank, and if it lived long enough to do so, it planned to transfer its consciousness to the bud at the proper time. It had no intention of creating a new member of the Race under these circumstances.

  Another option was to cease eating and simply die as the other one had done. There were certain attractions to that path, and it would remain open, but it would not take it yet. It supposed that this could be considered a chance to learn about its captors. A shame Ixmaderna isn’t here instead of me. It would have welcomed the opportunity.

  It wished it knew what had happened to the others. Had they escaped? Were the other holdfasts still surviving? How was the overall course of the war going? The reverses suffered by the Bajantus Clan did not mean the war was being lost on all fronts. But there was no way to find out. It was completely cut off and isolated. It was very unsettling to be kept in such ignorance.

  It was also becoming boring. Boredom didn’t come easily to the Race. With memories stretching back thousands of cycles, there was always something of interest to contemplate. Even so, the enforced inaction was difficult. The desire to work was an integral part of every individual.

  The prey-creature was standing very close to it now, holding out the white sti
ck and shaking it. Was it annoyed at the lack of response? Qetjnegartis looked at the black panel. The creature had wiped away all the other writing and only one equation remained. It recognized the symbols from earlier sessions:

  1+1=""/p>

  The Race did not make a lot of use of written records. The perfect memory of each member and the ability to pass on information and even memories to new buds meant that nearly everything of import was remembered by multiple individuals. There was a written language, too, and all items of basic knowledge had been recorded in the event of some great catastrophe, but it was rarely necessary to refer to those records.

  But for these prey-creatures, such record must be utterly necessary. It remembered Ixmaderna’s lecture about the short lives and inability to pass on information to offspring and their long maturation period. To them, these written symbols were vital.

  The prey-creature came closer. At first they had kept Qetjnegartis at bay and sometimes even restrained, until they realized how physically helpless it was. Now they simply placed it on something flat. There were always armed warriors present, of course.

  The prey-creature was making noises. They were always making noises and this was clearly how they communicated with each other. Qetjnegartis doubted that it would ever be able to decipher whatever passed for a language, and was certain it could not reproduce the noises. But communication through symbols, that might be possible.

  Possible, but was it desirable?

  What can I learn from them? More important, is there anything they can learn from me?

  That was clearly why they were doing this: in hopes of learning something useful. But they could only learn things of use if it decided to give them to them. I control that.