War of the Worlds

by Adam J. Whitlatch

  “Oof!” O’Brien exclaimed.

  Shah grinned. “And don’t forget your breathing.”

  “Now you’ve gone and done it,” O’Brien roared. He lashed out at Shah, swinging the sword like a bat.

  Shah stepped back, dodging and deflecting each of O’Brien’s blows with ease. “My friend,” he said, “you will always fail if you are driven only by your passion. You must focus.”

  “Focus, my arse!” O’Brien snarled.

  The Irishman swung horizontally, and Shah crouched beneath the blade’s arc, taking the opportunity to strike O’Brien across the stomach. O’Brien grunted and doubled over, clutching his gut. Shah stepped deftly behind him and swatted his rump with the blade of his bokken.

  “Exactly,” said Shah.

  O’Brien stumbled forward into the wall. He turned, his mouth curled into a snarl of rage as his eyes fell on Shah. “Why you—”

  Shah crouched and flipped his sword so that the blade rested along his forearm, ready to defend should O’Brien try to rush him.

  Instead, a grin split the Irishman’s face. “You got lucky.”

  Shah relaxed and returned the smile. “Of course, my friend. As you say.”

  Shah offered his hand and helped O’Brien to his feet. The corporal tossed his bokken aside with an air of disgust.

  “This is rubbish,” O’Brien said. “What’s the point? We’ll never get close enough to a bloody Martian to fight like this.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that,” said Wells.

  Wells and Carter approached. Wells’ bokken was tucked into his belt while Carter slung hers over her shoulders. O’Brien took advantage of her posture to admire the way her sweat-soaked shirt clung to her curves.

  “We need to be prepared for any possibility,” said Wells.

  “Listen to your captain,” a gruff voice behind them said.

  The squad turned. Captain Sakai and his second-in-command, a stern Korean officer named Lee, stood stiffly, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. These were not wooden. On the contrary, the blades were forged from Martian alloy, tempered to near diamond hardness and sharp enough to split hairs.

  Sakai smirked. “A true warrior must be prepared for anything, but a brute on the other hand need only be prepared to die for his superiors.”

  O’Brien clenched his fists. “Why you—”

  “Calm down, Corporal,” Wells said.

  O’Brien gritted his teeth.

  Sakai’s smirk widened into a grin. “You train your dogs well, Captain Wells. I’m impressed.”

  Wells glowered. “That’s enough, Tadeo.”

  Sakai frowned at the informal use of his given name, but did not comment. He turned to leave, and Lee followed.

  “That’s right,” O’Brien taunted. “Keep walkin’, you yellow coward.”

  Sakai turned and drew his katana. He raised the blade over his head and took three long strides toward the Irishman.

  “O’Brien, look out!” Wells shouted.

  Sakai brought the blade down, and O’Brien held up his hands in a futile defensive gesture. The corporal squeezed his eyes shut, but the blade never struck him. Instead, he heard the clash of steel against steel. When he opened his eyes, Shah stood between him and the incensed officer, his serpentine keris held high to block the sword. The longer blade rested in the depression of one of the dagger’s nine curves, called luk in Shah’s native tongue.

  “Please,” Shah said, “control yourself, Captain.”

  Sakai stepped back and pointed his sword at the Lieutenant. “Step aside!”

  Shah shook his head. “I cannot.”

  Sakai took his sword in both hands, holding it out in front of his body in challenge. Lieutenant Shah crouched in a deep stance, his hand clutching the keris like a pistol, his index finger resting along the wooden grip. Sakai slashed, and Shah deftly deflected the blow. Sakai’s augmented sword might have destroyed any conventional weapon, but the keris’ blade, traditionally forged from choice metals and meteorite, had been reinforced with the same alien alloy. This was no mere ceremonial symbol, but a devastating weapon, particularly in the hand of a skilled panglima—a warrior—which Shah most certainly was.

  “Shah, be careful!” Carter called out.

  When the samurai brought the sword around for a second attack, Shah dropped to the ground and wrapped his legs around Sakai’s leading knee. Shah twisted, and Sakai shouted in surprise as he fell to the grass. Before he could raise his sword in defense, Shah sprang to his feet and stepped onto the blade, pinning it to the ground. In a flash, he brought the point of the keris to Sakai’s throat. Behind them, Lee drew his jingum halfway from its scabbard, ready to strike Shah down if ordered.

  Wells drew the Mauser C96 from his hip holster and trained it on Lee. “That’s enough!”

  Shah’s eyes darted back and forth between Wells, Sakai, and Lee. Lee sheathed his blade and relaxed. Wells stood over Sakai.

  “Captain Sakai,” he said. “Be advised that I will be filing a report with General Kushnirov about this incident.”

  Sakai’s nostrils flared.

  “Let him up, Shah,” Wells ordered.

  Shah nodded and stepped back, keeping the keris drawn. Sakai stood, sheathed his blade, and glared at Shah, Wells, and O’Brien in turn before turning to stalk out of the courtyard. Lee followed close behind.

  “Jay-sus,” O’Brien said. “Crazy son-of-a—”

  Wells holstered his weapon and jabbed a finger into O’Brien’s chest. “That’s enough out of you, Corporal,” he snapped. “I believe you have duties to attend to… in the latrine!”

  “Me?” O’Brien said. “What’d I do?”

  Before Wells could answer, Shah stepped forward. “Captain, if I may? Tempers were high, and Corporal O’Brien was provoked.”

  Wells sighed. “Maybe you’re right, Shah. That mouth of yours is going to get you killed someday, O’Brien. Lieutenant Shah might not be there to save you next time.”

  O’Brien stared at the ground.

  “We’re done for the day,” said Wells. “Get some sleep. I want everyone sharp in the morning. Dismissed.”

  O’Brien waited until Wells was out of earshot, and then turned to Shah. “Bloody English think they own the world. The captain may rule my days, but my nights belong to me, boyo. I expect to get bloody pissed.”

  Shah smiled and sheathed his dagger. “All things in moderation, my friend.”

  O’Brien scoffed. “Moderation is for monks.”

  Chapter Four

  Eric Wells sat on his bed in his shirtsleeves, a boot in one hand and a brush in the other. As he buffed the boot’s toe, the opening notes of “Coming Home to A.R.E.S.” drifted from the other side of the wall. It was a particular favorite among the enlisted men, and could often be heard in the barracks or the halls. The music was tinny and faint, but Wells sang along, his voice barely over a whisper, “Will I be coming home to A.R.E.S., a-broken and a-beat? Or coming home to Mary, still standing on my feet?”

  His mood softened as he worked. The incident with O’Brien and Sakai in the courtyard was just one more problem he didn’t need. He’d spent the afternoon filling out paperwork and explaining to Kushnirov exactly why he shouldn’t throw the petulant corporal out on his ass. All things considered, O’Brien was lucky. If Shah hadn’t intervened, Roosevelt would have shipped the Irishman home in a pine box with a letter to his mother.

  O’Brien may have been a colossal pain in the neck, but he was a damn fine engineer, the best Wells had ever seen. Clearly, the man had issues with authority and an inherent hatred for the British, but Wells couldn’t fault him for that. The Irish had plenty of cause to resent the crown, but if he ever hoped to make the crew of the Goliath a well-oiled fighting machine, he needed to find a way to rein the hothead in without breaking him.

  Wells had reached out to O’Brien numerous times over the past two months, but to no avail. The corporal was guarded, suspicious—even more so than usual. What
was O’Brien hiding?

  Through all the chaos of the past few months, Shah had been a rock. Had Shah been assigned to some other squad, Wells wasn’t sure he could keep the group together, let alone his own sanity. Shah was impeccable, disciplined, and competent. O’Brien could stand to learn a thing or two from him… if only he could pull his head out of his ass and tear his eyes away from Carter’s for more than five seconds.

  Wells had never served with a woman before, but if he had to have one under his command, he was glad it was Carter. The lieutenant was tough, calculating, and a crack shot with any weapon. It didn’t matter if it was a slingshot or a heat ray; Carter was lethal. Not only that, but she was beautiful. It had taken every ounce of discipline Wells could muster to keep his mind on their sparring match.

  He shook his head. It was childish infatuation, nothing more. He was an officer, and needed to conduct himself as such. But, damn, that woman didn’t make it easy.

  Wells was under tremendous stress; if the Goliath crew failed to perform as a cohesive, effective unit, then the entire endeavor was at risk. Kushnirov and Roosevelt were likewise under pressure from the international community. Not everybody saw A.R.E.S. as a necessary institution, and troops were being recalled daily. If things kept up the way they were, A.R.E.S. would be forced to disband, and its weapons sold off to the highest bidders, where they’d be turned against human beings instead of the Martians as intended.

  Wells set his boot on the floor and grabbed its mate, resuming his chore as the phonograph in the next room played on.

  “Coming home, we’re coming home,” he crooned. “Coming home to A.R.E.S. in the morn—”

  There were three knocks on the door. Wells looked up.

  “Come,” he called.

  The door opened, and Abe Douglas stepped inside. “Good evening, sir.”

  Wells smiled. “Sarge, you don’t have to address me as ‘sir.’ We’re off duty. Cap, or even Eric, is fine.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Wells sighed and grinned as he resumed buffing his boots. Douglas was a good man, dependable and a stickler for the rules. Like Carter, the man was a superb gunner, and they made a formidable team both in and out of a tripod. A ten-year veteran of the Canadian Army, he was the most experienced of the squad. He was also a family man with a wife and two beautiful little girls. Wells had the pleasure of meeting them over dinner at their home in Harlem shortly before his trip to Cape Cod.

  “What brings you by, Abe?”

  “A bunch of us are going to the Green Man to let off a little steam,” Douglas said. “Care to join us, sir?”

  “Thanks,” said Wells, “but I have a few things I need to look over before tomorrow’s war game.” He gestured with his brush to the desk on the opposite wall, which was cluttered with papers and rolled charts.

  “I spoke to Lieutenant Carter,” said Douglas. “She asked if you were coming.”

  Wells stopped buffing and looked up. “Oh, she did?”

  Douglas nodded.

  “Well,” said Wells, “I guess one beer wouldn’t hurt.”

  Douglas smiled.

  *****

  Raucous laughter, clinking glasses, and loud Irish music filled the smoky air of the Green Man Pub overlooking the East River. Not a single table sat empty. A.R.E.S. soldiers sat in their segregated groups, just as they had earlier in the auditorium. It made Wells uneasy.

  Several of the enlisted men stood, singing a humorous take on a traditional Irish drinking song. O’Brien sang along as he weaved his way through the crowd, his hands clasping the handles of four large mugs of beer.

  “As I was goin’ over the Cork and Kerry mountains, I met an ancient wand’rer a-sittin’ on his wagon,” he sang. “I then produced my pistol and then produced my rapier.” O’Brien struck a dramatic pose, holding two of the mugs up high. “I said, ‘Stand and deliver, or the devil he may take ya!’”

  Wells and the others laughed as beer sloshed onto the floorboards.

  O’Brien set down the mugs and waved his hands at his squad mates, beckoning. “Sing!” he bellowed.

  Wells stuttered over the chorus, coaxing a laugh from Carter. “Musha ring… dum a do dum a da? Wack for my daddy-o?”

  Carter regained her composure and joined in, but was again reduced to giggles as she sang, “Wack for my daddy-o! There’s a Martian in the jar-o!”

  “Aye!” O’Brien shouted. “There were no pretty pennies, a jar was all he had. With a pickled tentacle a-floatin’ up inside!” O’Brien picked up his mug and scrutinized the amber brew with a quizzical expression. “He said it was a Martian, all chopped up in a jiffy. Into a hundred portions, all soaked in jars of whiskey!”

  O’Brien laughed and clapped Shah on the back. Despite O’Brien’s protests, Shah had politely, but firmly, refused to imbibe alcohol with them, opting instead for a cup of Earl Grey. Tea splashed onto Shah’s chin as the boisterous corporal led the squad through the second chorus.

  “I took the weird bottle and went to see my Heather.” O’Brien playfully slapped a passing barmaid’s bottom and received a warning glare. “We had some slap and tickle, and then we had some liquor! Now some men like the fishin’, and some men like the fowlin’, but, hell, we love the whiskey that comes with pickled Martian!”

  At this declaration, many of the pub’s patrons held up their glasses and cheered. The song ended in an ear-piercing refrain, and O’Brien slumped into his chair, feigning exhaustion. The squad applauded while O’Brien bowed and took a long pull off of his foamy mug.

  “Well done, Patrick,” Shah said, raising his cup to the Irishman.

  O’Brien returned the gesture and grinned.

  In the relative quiet after the song’s end, Wells could hear Richthofen regaling a group of rowdy Germans at the next table with the tale of how he’d startled the morning commuters in his Valkyrie. The Germans laughed and clinked their glasses together loudly, sloshing beer.

  “So, Lieutenant,” O’Brien said, his voice drawing Wells’ attention back to their own table, “is it true your father owns a railroad?”

  “No.” Carter took a drink of beer and held up two fingers. “He owns two.”

  Lieutenant Shah smiled and sipped his tea.

  “My old man was a glassblower,” O’Brien said.

  This surprised Wells. “Really?” he asked.

  O’Brien nodded. “Every night, he blew the foam off seven or eight glasses.”

  He grinned and looked back and forth at his squad mates, letting the joke sink in. Carter groaned. O’Brien let out a hearty laugh and elbowed Douglas in the ribs. The sergeant shook his head as he sipped his beer.

  O’Brien leaned across the table and smiled at Carter. “So tell me, darlin’, what’s a rich bird like you doing in A.R.E.S.?”

  Shah coughed and sputtered into his tea.

  Wells frowned. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Corporal.”

  O’Brien glared. “Why don’t we let the lieutenant decide what is and isn’t my business? Captain.”

  Wells pushed his chair back and began to stand.

  Carter placed a hand on his arm. “Hey, it’s okay.” She looked at O’Brien. “My father viewed me as his… property. To be what he wanted. To marry whom he wanted. I saw things differently.”

  Wells didn’t know much about Carter’s private life, but rumor had it she’d been engaged to the spoiled heir of an oil fortune when she was eighteen years old. Carter left the young man waiting at the altar and joined the Army, first as a nurse because that was all they’d have her for, but then she learned about A.R.E.S., where she quickly rose through the ranks as a tripod gunner.

  “I’m glad you did, love,” said O’Brien. “Just the sight of you brightens my day.”

  Douglas rolled his eyes and raised his glass to his lips. Suddenly his gaze widened, and he shot to his feet, snapping to attention. “Atten-hut!” he barked.

  Every soldier in the room rose and faced the door. Roosevelt stood in the op
en doorway. He stepped over the threshold and removed his coat.

  “Please,” he said as he crossed the room, “at ease, folks. Sit. Enjoy yourselves. Tonight, I’m not the Secretary of War. I’m just an old soldier named Teddy who could use a drink with friends.”

  The soldiers sat and resumed their conversations, but now in more hushed tones. Many eyes were on Roosevelt as he approached Goliath Squad’s table.

  “May I join you?” he asked.

  Wells smiled. “Of course, sir.” He signaled the barmaid. “I’ll get us another round.”

  Douglas remained standing. “Thank you, Captain, but I’ll pass. I told Tessa and the girls I’d be home early.”

  “My best to the family, Abe,” said Roosevelt.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The others said their goodbyes to Douglas as he left the table. When their drinks arrived, Roosevelt turned to Wells, his expression somber.

  “This business in Europe is no good,” Roosevelt said. “The Balkans about to go to hell… countries mobilizing against each other. Even our own troops are at each other’s throats. Unless we’re united, mankind is done for.”

  “Humanity will rise to the occasion,” said Shah.

  Roosevelt cocked an eyebrow and lifted his glass. “You think so?”

  Shah nodded. “It is my hope and my prayer. If it is our destiny, only God knows.”

  “Wisely said, sir.”

  The two men drank, leaving it in God’s hands.

  “So, tell me, O’Brien,” said Roosevelt, “does it bother you to serve under an Englishman?”

  O’Brien grinned and pounded his chest with one meaty fist. “I’m an Ulsterman from the North, sir. My loyalties are to the crown.”

  Wells and Shah exchanged dubious glances at the Irishman’s statement.

  The door opened. A blond man in a heavy woolen coat and knit cap stepped into the bar. O’Brien’s eyes fell on the new arrival.

  Roosevelt arched a brow. “Oh, really? I heard your brother was I.R.A.”

  “My brother’s his own man, Mr. Secretary,” O’Brien said. “As am I. I’ve not seen him for three years. Besides, he’s harmless. He’d walk over ten naked women to get to a pint.”