by Неизвестный
He wanted more. He wanted into the inner circle, the tier of the resistance occupied by Josie Taylor and the mysterious gunman from the alley—a man he now knew to be the legendary Martian fighter, Hunter Noir. More than anything, he wanted entry into the secret headquarters at Coney Island.
Oh, he knew all about the Coney Island base, but just knowing about it wasn’t enough to get him in. That would require something special, a level of trust that wasn’t extended to the common foot soldier. But his patience had served him well thus far, and he had no doubt that soon, very soon perhaps, he would get his chance.
He glanced over at Linc. The young man now cut a confident figure in his uniform, showing no trace of the grief that had shadowed him in those early days in the city. “I heard that Josie Taylor is coming back to the Double R.”
Linc nodded. Evidently, he had also heard that bit of scuttlebutt.
“I’m going to go see her,” Joe continued. “Want to come along?”
Linc broke into a broad grin. “Got your eye on her, don’t ya?”
Joe shrugged. “Looking doesn’t cost anything.”
“I reckon that’s all you gonna get to do. She’s way out your league, soldier boy.”
Joe didn’t rise to the verbal challenge. “So, are you coming?”
“Surely, if only jus’ to see you making puppy-dog eyes at her.”
Joe feigned a chuckle. Linc could ridicule all he wanted, but Joe knew exactly how he was going to get Josie Taylor’s attention…and with it, gain access to Coney Island.
Linc opened his mouth, perhaps to launch into another round of teasing, but was silenced by the shrill wail of a siren. Both young men instantly came alert.
They had heard the sirens twice before—one time had been a drill, the other a false alarm—but one of the first lessons that had been pounded into their heads in training was to treat each alarm as if it was a major incursion, because someday it just might be.
Joe scanned the treetops, looking for movement that might betray the location of a battle-walker in their watch sector.
“There!” Linc shouted, pointing not at the woods below, but at a swarm of specks in the sky, vivid against the blue sky to the west. “Saucers!”
Joe felt a rush of apprehension. He’d only heard about these boomerang-shaped craft—a hybrid of human aeronautic and alien gravity-field manipulation technologies. In the early days of the war, the Martians had relied almost exclusively on their tripod battle tanks, which despite being ponderously slow—at least compared to an airplane—were more heavily armored and provided a more stable platform for their energy weapons. But to reach targets deep inside enemy territory, there was no substitute for an aerial raid.
Joe doubted the attackers would waste their firepower on the sentry towers, and sure enough, in a matter of only a few minutes, the saucers—at least two dozen craft—whooshed overhead without firing a shot. They speared on toward their destination. At almost that same instant, puffs of black smoke began appearing in the sky and the thunder of the anti-aircraft guns echoed from the heavens.
The two young men knew they should keep their eyes on the forest—an aerial attack might be a precursor to a ground invasion—but the drama taking place high above the city was too compelling. Two of the saucers were struck by the fusillade; one of them exploded in a puff of blue-green gas and a rain of black debris, the other remained mostly intact, but spiraled out of control until splashing into the Hudson River.
As the last of the Martian craft passed over Manhattan Island, the AA guns fell silent, but not because the city’s defenders were afraid of what might happen if one of the war machines crashed into the neighborhoods below. The reason for the abrupt cease fire, Joe saw from his distant vantage, was that the Martians now had company in the sky.
A flight of planes—P38 Lightning fighters and B24 Liberator heavy bombers—leapt into the air and immediately closed with the enemy. The twin-engine P38s moved in quickly, engaging at close distance with the Martian saucers, while the larger, more heavily armored bombers moved away from the fray.
The Liberators of Jack Paris’s Wild Hares squadron represented the resistance’s best hope for turning the tide of the war, and the Martians knew it. The destruction of these planes on the tarmac at Floyd Bennett Field was probably a key objective for the aliens. Paris, whose reputation verged on legendary, evidently knew that the big four-engine bombers would be useless in a dogfight, but even as the Liberator squadron moved off, they began hurling .50 caliber rounds across the sky. White tracer bullets streaked out from the Liberators, guiding the gunners toward their alien targets.
The battle was surprisingly short-lived. At first, the opposing forces seemed evenly matched. A Martian craft was destroyed for every resistance plane that fell, but it quickly became evident to Joe that the attackers had lost whatever advantage their surprise attack had given them. At least a third of the saucers had been shot down, and although several of the P38s had gone down, more planes—Lightnings and P51 Mustangs from nearby Fort Dix—were joining the fight and reinforcing the resistance presence over the city. More importantly, all of the Liberators had weathered the storm. By any measure, the Martian attack had been a disaster, and as quickly as they had come, the invaders turned tail and fled.
Joe and Linc watched in mute disbelief as the boomerang-shaped fighter craft came together in a loose formation, like a flock of geese assembling behind their leader, and veered away from the city.
“They’ll pass right over us,” Linc breathed.
Joe saw that it was true, but before he could comment, the AA guns began thundering again, delivering a parting insult to the Martians. Black eruptions appeared like storm clouds all around the fleeing saucers, each detonation throwing out a spray of deadly shrapnel. The lead craft shuddered as an airburst exploded directly in its path. Almost immediately, a finger of dark smoke began to trail out, curving into an arc as the warbird fell from the heavens.
The two young soldiers ducked instinctively as the stricken alien craft loomed large in front of them. Joe felt certain that it would crash right on top of them, but while its doomward course brought it right over their heads, it missed them by at least a hundred feet. Nevertheless, when it crashed into the pine barrens, only a few hundred yards from their sentry post, Joe and Linc were nearly thrown off their feet as the ground shuddered beneath them.
Joe stared out across the treetops to the dark smudge of smoke and settling dust that marked the crash site. After a few seconds, he saw the outline of the Martian craft—surprisingly intact—at the head of a deep furrow and a long swath of broken trees.
Linc grasped his shoulder. “Let’s go have a look.”
Joe was surprised at the suggestion. They weren’t supposed to leave their post, and situated as they were on the edge of enemy territory, there was no small degree of risk involved. Even if there weren’t Martians in the area, the aliens would almost certainly dispatch a patrol to recover their downed craft and rescue any survivors.
And yet, if he and Linc got there first…
Joe had visions of striding into his commander’s office and presenting some unique bit of Martian technology or information about the enemy…of being invited into the secret base at Coney Island, perhaps even meeting the General himself.
He nodded to Linc. “Let’s go.”
They raced down from the tower and headed for the trees. At ground level, the forest canopy eclipsed the plume of smoke, but they knew approximately where the craft lay, and the smell of disturbed earth and burning wood kept them on course. A few minutes later, they entered the newly created clearing where the broken warbird had come to rest.
They stopped at the tree line and scanned the wreck. There was no sign of movement within, but as they moved forward cautiously, both young men kept their carbines at the ready. The craft was unlike anything they’d seen in the arsenal of the resistance. Although it had the general profile of an airfoil—like the wings of a Liberator bomber—the
warbird’s skin was completely smooth, without a single seam or rivet; it looked more like a glass sculpture than a machine made of metal. Where the wings came together, like the peak of a chevron, there was a transparent bubble-like protrusion, and when he moved around to get a look at it, Joe saw that it had cracked open under the force of the impact. Beyond that breach, still secured to his control seat, was the Martian pilot, still very much alive.
As Joe’s stare met the Martian’s three-eyed gaze, his face twisted in a mixture of recognition and dread. He knew who this was.
Martian war planners had made a careful study of their enemy, and in so doing, developed an admiration for certain figures in human history. To the aliens, most humans were sheep, beneath contempt, but there were a few Earthlings who had shown the kind of courage and initiative—and perhaps most importantly, ambition—that the Martians had once believed unique to their own species. For reasons that weren’t quite clear to Joe, several senior officers in the alien military had adopted the personae of their human heroes. The supreme commander of the invasion force had taken to calling himself “the Kaiser,” an homage to the bellicose emperor whose attempt to take over Europe had thrown the entire world into war. The Martian Kaiser had customized his battle-dress and helmet to resemble the uniform and ornate pickelhaube worn by the Prussian king. Others had chosen to imitate Alexander of Macedonia, Genghis Khan, Napoleon. The senior commander of the Martian warbird corps had chosen to pattern himself on the legendary German flying ace Manfred von Richtofen.
Unlike his hero, the Martian could not alter the color scheme of his aircraft—Joe thought maybe paint wouldn’t stick to the strange material that comprised the skin of the craft—but he had affected certain other mannerisms attributed to von Richtofen, including a long scarf, a covering for his flying helmet that looked a little like the boiled leather headgear worn by the German ace, a long, razor sharp cavalry sabre worn at his hip and most striking of all, a ribbon around his neck from which hung a cross-shaped medal—the Pour le Mérite, more commonly known as the Blue Max.
Staring through the shattered viewport of the warbird, Joe saw all these things and knew that he was looking at the Martian Red Baron.
Joe’s carbine came up in flash, but before he could pull the trigger, Linc swatted the gun barrel away. “Don’t do that. You know who that is? The bloody Red Baron hisself. We take him back as prisoner, that’s a great big feather in our cap.”
Joe’s gaze flickered toward Linc for the briefest instant before returning to the Martian pilot’s three, unblinking orbs.
Linc was right; a living Martian prisoner of war would be a huge accomplishment. It would almost certainly guarantee his entry into the inner circle at Coney Island.
And yet this wasn’t just any Martian; this was a senior war leader, with unparalleled knowledge of the invaders’ war plan…
The farmboy had never imagined that he would face a situation like this. Two choices, each neither right nor wrong, but once the decision was made, it would be immutable. There would be no going back.
Linc leaned in toward the Martian. “I’ll cut him free, and then we can tie him up. You keep that gun on ‘im, and if he tries anything, go right on ‘head and plug him.”
Joe raised his gun again, aiming it at the Baron’s top eye. He felt his finger on the trigger, and he thought about just how much pressure it would take to fire a single round. It would be easy to explain the discharge; “the Baron made a move on Linc,” or “my finger slipped.” It wouldn’t matter that much; when all was said and done, he would simply be the brave soldier who killed the Red Baron.
And the alternative? Would his superiors approve of his decision or chastise him for failing to accomplish the mission?
He didn’t know the answer to that question, but he knew one thing with crystal-clear certainty. The Red Baron could not be delivered alive into the hands of the resistance.
The farmboy took a deep, steadying breath, swung the carbine’s barrel to a new target, and then pulled the trigger.
Linc’s head rocked as a .30 caliber round punched into the back of his skull and burst wetly out the other side. Gore sprayed the interior of the warbird and struck the alien pilot in the face, but the Red Baron did not move; he simply stared ahead in mute incomprehension, as if curious to see what would happen next.
Joe lowered the carbine. He quickly drew something out of his pocket—a control box, identical to the one he’d taken off the Martian that Josie and Hunter Noir had killed in the alley, so many weeks ago. He caught a flicker of recognition in the Baron’s eyes—just showing the device was probably explanation enough, but he depressed the crystal anyway.
There was a crackle of static as the air around Joe’s entire body began shimmering like an electrified mist. After a moment, the mist faded, and the farmboy—whose name had never really been Joe, but something unpronounceable to a human tongue—stood unmasked before the alien pilot.
“You are one of the spies,” the Baron said in their shared language.
The farmboy nodded, a habit he’d picked up quickly during his time spent among the humans. “We have to get you out of here.”
The Baron indicated his agreement and returned to the task of freeing himself from the damaged warbird. The farmboy quickly lent his assistance. Years of hard labor on the farm back on their home planet had toughened and strengthened his muscles, and he pulled the crumpled composite bulkheads away as if they were no more substantial than pieces of cardboard.
The Baron heaved himself out of the stricken craft, limping tentatively on an injured leg, but otherwise unhurt. He stood at arm’s length from the farmboy and sized him up for a moment. Then he motioned to the control box. “I heard about the spy program, but I was unaware that the device had been perfected. How does it work?”
Despite the urgency of the situation, the farmboy knew he dared not challenge someone of the Baron’s authority. “The device creates a plasma field around me and then projects the image of a human onto it in all directions. Although I am larger than a human, it completely hides my true form, even from someone standing very close. It is also equipped with a voice modulator that more accurately simulates human speech. It even releases human pheromones to hide our scent and fool their patrol dogs.”
“And you have been among them for weeks?”
“Yes. I was close to gaining access to their secret base.” He said it as if apologizing. He’d done well in fulfilling his mission up to this point, but now all that was gone. There would be no introduction to the human general, no invitation to Coney Island…and perhaps worst of all, no opportunity to possess Josie Taylor and impregnate her with his seed. “But that is unimportant,” the farmboy continued. “There will be other patrols coming soon. We have to get away from here. You are too important to be killed or captured by the humans.”
But the Baron would not be rushed. “Their secret base? I would know more of this.”
The farmboy held up the control box. “Everything I saw and heard is recorded here. You can study it at your leisure once we’ve returned you safely to the high command.”
The Baron pointed a long, black finger at the box. “Everything? The device recorded everything?”
“Through a neural link.”
The Baron’s three eyes glinted thoughtfully. “So I would need only to hold the device myself to access the record of your mission.”
“Yes.”
“And if I turned it on, I would appear as you did? Exactly the same?”
The farmboy’s alien brow wrinkled in consternation. Why was the Baron asking these questions? Didn’t he understand that time was running out? But then he saw what his superior was driving at; instead of fleeing back to their base and abandoning the mission, he wanted to use the device to get them back into the city, perhaps to strike a blow at the heart of the resistance. And then he remembered the other control box, the one he’d taken on the night he’d first seen Josie Taylor. It was hidden in his footlocker back a
t the barracks.
“Yes,” he said at length. “But it can only work on the individual who holds it. It wouldn’t be able to screen the both of us. However, if we can keep you hidden, I have an idea—”
But the Baron had an idea of his own. There was a flash of silver as he drew the sabre from its scabbard, and in one fluid motion, swiped it at his rescuer’s head.
The farmboy felt himself falling. He tried to throw his hands out to catch himself, but in vain. He had no hands any more…or rather, he was no longer connected to his hands. His head hit the ground with a thump that was oddly not at all painful, and he rocked back and forth for a moment…a moment in which he saw the Baron pluck the control box from the nerveless hands of his own decapitated body as it tottered and fell over to lie beside his head.
A gray fog began to swirl in from the edges of his vision. He was vaguely aware of the Baron—except it wasn’t the Baron anymore, but rather a very familiar looking human with a face that he had seen reflected back at him in mirrors and store windows for several weeks—leaning over him, placing the sword belt and the medal on his own naked torso, snugging the odd flying helmet onto his detached head, but with each passing second, his ability to make sense of any of it slipped away into the darkness until darkness was all there was.
The farmboy craved adventure. He knew there had to be more to life than simple toil and misery. He had heard about the war, and he wondered if he might not find fortune and acclaim as a warrior.
So he left behind the fields where he had been raised—the fields of toil and futility—and set his eyes and heart on the field of battle...
He learned to be a warrior. He learned to be a spy. And then he was sent out on the greatest adventure he could imagine. He left his homeworld behind and journeyed to another planet—the planet that would, when the war was done, become the new homeworld for his race.