The Great Martian War

by Scott Washburn

  “Gettin’ closer,” observed Sergeant McGill.

  “So it seems.”

  “Wish we knew what was comin’!”

  “Yes. We could really use Selfridge and his damn flying machine today!”

  “Look!” said Bill White, pointing. A swarm of cavalry appeared on the crest of the far rise. Andrew took out his field glasses and focused in on them. The first of the riders appeared to be moving at a brisk trot. But as more of them topped the rise, the followers were moving faster and faster. The last of them were riding at a full gallop and one man turned in his saddle and fired back the way he’d come.

  But then there was something else, a dark object beyond the cavalry. It was just a curved shape, less than half a circle, bobbing along the horizon created by the high ground. He swept his field glasses along and saw a half-dozen more of the things. “Here they come,” he muttered. He could hear the men around him start to talk excitedly, but he kept his attention on the shapes.

  “What do you see?” demanded White.

  “Martians—I think.”

  Bit by bit they rose higher. The partial circles became whole ovals and a red light glared in the middle of each one. There were eleven of them now. Higher yet, and the oval was mounted on a box or a cylinder. Two arms sprouted from the top of the box and three long, jointed legs were attached to the bottom. A pair of thin metal arms, almost like tentacles, were mounted between two of the legs. A ray of morning sunlight escaped the mountains to the south and the metal of the Martian machines gleamed and glittered.

  Andrew sucked in his breath. He’d seen pictures of the machines the British had captured, of course. But that had been like looking at the bones of dinosaurs: old, harmless, inert things. But these were alive! Moving with a strange and unsettling gait. And getting closer with every step; a shiver of fear went down his spine.

  For a moment he thought that General Sumner had made a mistake with his reverse-slope deployment. Due to the height of the Martians, they could look right over the intervening hill! What if they started firing now? Were they in range of the artillery yet? But the Martians came right on; closer and closer. Surely they were in range of the guns now…

  “Firing by section!” screamed the commander of a nearby battery. “Range, 2,500 yards!” The gunners clustered around their pieces while their officer stood, looking through his field glasses, with one arm raised. “Ready!”

  “Fire!”

  The two guns on the right of the battery roared out, a cloud of smoke billowed in front of them, only to be blown back past the guns by the breeze. A few seconds later the left two guns fired, the gun tubes slamming back against the recoil mechanisms and lifting the wheels completely off the ground before falling back into position. The gunners were already reloading; open the breech, shove in the round, and close it again.

  “Fire at will!” Several of the gunners gave a whoop and the men went to work; a steady series of shots shook the air. All up and down the line to Andrew’s right and left, the other batteries were firing too, adding to the impressive racket.

  The guns were the M1897 model, a French design built under license. They were tough and reliable and they were intended for rapid fire. A well-drilled crew could fire off a round every two or three seconds. These crews were veterans and Andrew was quite certain they could maintain that rate of fire if they wanted to. But for this battle they needed accurate fire, not just a lot of fire. So after each shot there was a pause to let the smoke clear and then the gun-layer made a few adjustments to the traversing and elevating wheels before firing again. Andrew guessed they were firing once every five or six seconds. The other men kept a steady stream of shells coming forward from the ammunition chests on the caissons.

  But were they hitting anything? Andrew trotted a few dozen yards to his left to get out of the smoke clouds and trained his field glasses on the enemy. They came into focus and he could see gouts of smoke and dust that were bursting up well behind them, but he couldn’t tell if any of them had been hurt. The gunners were firing directly at them rather than in a barrage, so any shell that missed would fly hundreds or thousands of yards beyond them before bursting. The noise of the exploding shells merged with that of the barking guns to produce a continuous roar.

  “God! What a racket!” shouted White. “But is it doing anything to them?”

  “I don’t know… I can’t see…”

  “There! Over there!” cried Kennedy, barely to be heard above the din. “They hit one of the bastards!”

  Andrew lowered his glasses and looked to where Kennedy was pointing: down toward the left end of the line. He brought the field glasses back up to his eyes and trained them on one of the Martians. The tripod-machine had stopped advancing and was staggering around in a circle; smoke was streaming from a part of the thing’s body. As he watched, another shell hit it and one of the arms went tumbling away. It lurched to a halt and the batteries down on the left zeroed in on it. Two more hits in rapid succession slammed the thing backward and it crashed to the ground, a smoking heap of twisted metal.

  Hurrah!

  A cheer went up from all along the line; thousands of men shouting in triumph. Andrew realized he was shouting himself. We hurt them! But what will they do now? Would the Martians be enraged? Would they come charging forward, heat rays blazing?

  “Look! Look!” shouted someone nearby. Andrew twisted his head from side to side. What? What was happening?

  “They’re running!”

  He stared, scarcely able to believe his eyes. It was true! The Martians were retreating! Falling back!

  As the men realized it, they jumped up and began waving their helmets and hats and cheered all the louder. The artillery continued to hammer away and Andrew thought at least one more of the tripods suffered a hit, but soon they all disappeared behind the high ground. The artillery was ordered to cease fire and the gun smoke slowly drifted away. But the men kept cheering.

  “Well, that was easy,” said McGill. “Cowardly set o’gits, aren’t they?”

  “I wonder if they are going to use their black dust weapons,” said Andrew uneasily scanning the skies. “They used them against the British artillery the first time.” His hand brushed the canvas bag on his chest to make sure it was still there.

  But minutes went by and nothing more happened. A short while later, some riders began leaving General Sumner’s headquarters and galloped up and down the lines. The army will advance! they cried. General pursuit! The infantry formed up and started moving forward; the horse teams came forward and the gunners hitched their guns to the limbers. The cavalry, which had retreated back behind the lines during the fighting, were now sending out scouts toward the high ground. Andrew looked to his men and grinned.

  “Well, gentlemen! Let’s get the wagons and go claim our booty! Coming, Mr. White?”

  “Oh yes! Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

  * * * * *

  Cycle597,843.5, East of Holdfast 32-1

  Qetjnegartis considered the situation with irritation and no small measure of alarm. One of the war machines destroyed and its operator killed. Two other machines lightly damaged. This was entirely unexpected. The reports from the first expedition, while fragmentary, indicated that the weapons of the prey-creatures were largely ineffective. There had been a warning to avoid large bodies of water because the creatures did possess vessels of impressive size that could be quite dangerous, but their land armies were discounted, although one report did admit to a war machine being destroyed by a random shot from one of the large projectile weapons.

  Nothing had prepared it for what had just happened. The prey, instead of being demoralized by the appearance of eleven war machines, had stood their ground and opened a heavy fire with over thirty of their projectile throwers. The things seemed ridiculously primitive, relying on an explosive chemical to hurl metal objects. But hurl them they did, and with considerable force and accuracy. Franjandus’ machine had been hit seriously, and before it could withdraw
to safety had been hit several more times and wrecked. All contact with Franjandus had been lost and it was assumed to be slain.

  And while every member of the Race was completely expendable for the common good, the situation here was different. There were still so few of them on this world. None could be spared until more buds were created. The loss was so surprising that Qetjnegartis had ordered a retreat to consider the situation and make new plans. They had put the high ground between themselves and the prey and were safe for the moment.

  What to do? To attack again would expose all to more of the enemy’s fire. The effective range of their projectiles was well in excess of the heat rays—another surprise! They would have to pass through that gauntlet before they could get close enough to strike back. More machines and their drivers might be lost and they could not afford that.

  The first expedition had carried a toxic particle weapon delivered by a long range rocket. It could cover a large area with a lethal cloud. It would be perfect for this situation. But the Conclave that planned this second venture had considered the weapon wasteful of resources and unnecessary. None were included in the current expedition. The devices could be manufactured, of course, but not in time for the current engagement.

  So what was to be done? Maneuver against the prey? They were deployed in a long, straight line. Perhaps turn a flank; hit them from a direction where only a fraction of their large weapons could fire? Reduce the risk and concentrate against a smaller number? But there were swarms of individual prey there, too. Did they pose a threat? It seemed unlikely, but unlikely things were already happening today. Qetjnegartis felt the weight of its responsibilities as never before. A serious error could see its whole command wiped out. That must not be allowed to happen!

  Retreat? Fall back to the Holdfast? Its defenses were still almost non-existent. Could they be put into any sort of shape before the prey came and launched their own attack? To have the Holdfast overrun now, to lose the constructor machines, would be a disaster. No, retreat was not a good option. They had to fight. But what was the optimum…?

  “Commander! The enemy advances!”

  Qetjnegartis regarded the images being relayed to it by one of the other war machines. It had raised a vision pick-up just high enough to see over the ridge. Yes, the prey were coming toward them. But wait, look how the large projectile throwers were moving! They had been connected to some sort of vehicles being hauled by draught animals. How incredibly primitive! More importantly, they clearly could not be operated in that position. They were vulnerable. How long would it take them to become operational again? If they could just be drawn in close enough…

  “All attend!” Qetjnegartis commanded. “Lower your machines to the loading position.”

  “But commander…” protested Hlaknadar.

  “Obey! They will not see us here until it is too late!”

  * * * * *

  February, 1909, Thoreau, New Mexico Territory

  “Come on! Get that thing moving!” Andrew shouted at one of his wagon drivers. The man was still so clumsy with the vehicle he didn’t deserve the honorific teamster. The whole army was on the move now—forward in pursuit of a beaten foe. The mood of the men around him was just incredible. There had been a tension in everyone for weeks that only grew with each mile they advanced. The fear of the unknown. How powerful was the enemy? How bad would the fight be? Could we really win? But now! Victory! They had hurt the enemy and they were on the run! It was hard to believe, but it was true. The army had done a wonderful job.

  But now it was time for Major Andrew Comstock and his little band to do their jobs! He was leading his detachment through the swarms of troops toward the still smoking remains of the downed Martian machine. They had to get there and secure it before any souvenir-hunters made off with something important. He also wanted to get some photographs of the untouched wreck so they could try to document the exact effect of the artillery fire on the machine. He had a Kodak Brownie camera for the job. He also had some sketch paper. He was a fair draftsman and wanted to make some diagrams with notations. He was already mentally composing his report for General Crozier.

  “Didn’t even need none o’ them bloody tanks,” said Sergeant McGill.

  “No,” agreed Andrew. “The general will probably be disappointed about that. But we only actually destroyed one of them, remember. We might need the tanks later. See to the wagons, Sergeant, I’m going on ahead.” He spurred his horse into a canter and guided it toward the wreck. Bill White, the reporter, followed along. As he got close, the horse became increasingly skittish and he was obliged to stop about thirty yards away and dismount. A couple of his men, including Corporal Kennedy, had accompanied him and he handed off his reins to him. White did likewise, staring intently at the wreck.

  “Careful, sir,” cautioned Kennedy.

  “Right.” He unsnapped the flap on his pistol holster and advanced cautiously on foot. Up close, the machine actually appeared smaller than it had from a distance. Sort of like those spiders that looked so enormous, but then shriveled into a tiny ball once you squashed them. Andrew shivered; he hated spiders and he wished his imagination hadn’t come up with that particular comparison. He drew his revolver. He was surprised to notice that White had a pistol as well.

  “You might want to stay back a bit, sir,” he said to him.

  “Not a chance, Major! This is news!”

  “All right, let’s take a look.”

  The machine’s ‘head’ appeared to be the main part of it. It was basically spherical in shape, but squashed down so that the sides bulged out in a projection that formed a lip or rim that nearly circled the head. In the front, there was a flat area that formed a sort of face with a central hub surrounded by small recesses and projections. The central hub was where the red light had been. But the light was dark now and Andrew could not see where the light had been coming from; there was a spot in the exact middle, but it appeared to be metal just like the rest of the machine. He’d been expecting it to be glass or something transparent. The whole head was about fifteen feet in diameter. The boxy structure underneath was only about seven or eight feet in each dimension. The top part of it actually was a box, but the bottom was nearly a cylinder. The two thick arms he had seen were mounted to the box, just below the head. One of those arms had been torn off by a shell. A few wires and tubes protruded from the stump. He saw now that there were three of the smaller tentacles rather than two as he’d first thought. The three legs and the three tentacle-things were all attached to the lower cylinder. He was reasonably certain that this was not an exact duplicate of the ones the British had captured. There were differences. An improved design?

  He’d have to have the men find the missing arm. But the other arm was still there and it was the one holding the heat ray device. He looked at the deadly thing closely. It was about six feet long and three feet tall and two feet thick. It looked rather like his Brownie camera of all things. The legs were as thick as a man and about twenty-five feet long, not counting the odd ‘hip’ mechanism. Walking slowly around the machine, he saw that it had been hit at least a half-dozen times by the artillery. In addition to the lost arm, there was a gaping hole in the head from which a gray smoke was wafting. There were several other gashes in the head’s metal where shells had hit but not penetrated. And one of the hips had been shattered, nearly severing the leg. Only a few cables still connected the pieces together. That must have been what brought the machine down in a heap.

  “The artillery really blasted it, eh?” said White.

  “Yup, did a good job on them.”

  A glittering of sparkly dust on the ground caught his eye and he squatted down to see what it was. It turned out to be hundreds and hundreds of tiny pieces of metal. He picked one up and saw that it was a perfect hexagon, about the size of the nail on his little finger. It was as thin as a piece of paper and he gasped when he actually cut himself on the edge of it. What the hell was it? Looking up, he saw that one of the gouges
in the metal head was just above the glittering pile and that more of the pieces were scattered nearby. Closer inspection showed that at the point of impact there were many more of the little hexagons exposed. There were layers of them, one on top of the other, almost like the scales on a snake or other reptile, but only around the gouge. Farther away, they merged into a seamless whole with no individual hexagons visible at all! This was amazing, but there had not been a word of anything like this in the British reports. Was this new, or were the damn British just keeping it a secret?

  “What have you got?” asked White.

  “Not sure. Seems like the metal is made up of these little pieces that somehow combine to make a whole. Not a big metal casting like we’d do. Beats me how it holds itself together, though.”

  “Well, this one didn’t hold itself together, did it?”

  “No. It looks like a big impact—like a shell hitting—will cause it to come apart. Boy the scientists are gonna have a lot to study on this thing!”

  “But this head is way too big to fit on your wagon, Major. Unless you figure out some way to take it all apart.”

  “We might have to be content with the smaller pieces. Maybe when we repair the rail line up to here we can figure a way to get it aboard a rail car.”

  “Anyone home, sir?”

  Andrew looked over his shoulder and saw that McGill had arrived with the wagons and the rest of the men. The army was moving past the site and many of the men were pausing to point and gawk at the wreck, despite the shouts of their officers and sergeants to keep moving. A limbered battery of artillery was struggling up the slope, the drivers whipping the horses on; he could see that the cavalry was nearing the crest of the rise. A couple of the armored cars chugged by, backfiring noisily.

  “You mean inside here? Not sure. But the thing’s other arm is over that way somewhere; have a couple of men try to find it.”