The Texas Front: Salient

by Jonathan Cresswell

  “And it spared him, and told the others, and they knew. He told me, and I guessed the great secret: the Masters must feed, but it does not have to be upon us. It was hard, very hard, to find a way to tell them that we also eat lesser creatures, that we owned ranches, slaughterhouses. And that these creatures were still here after all the humans had fled. But Enrique had found a way. At last, they understood, and being wise, used their last few humans to bring them lesser creatures instead.” He gestured to the calves. “A far greater supply. Others had to be told, commanded, and organized to do the work. And all this I did! They know that I serve them, and they reward me.”

  “They don’t reward him,” muttered one. de Gama giggled.

  “Yes, poor fellow. They have touched his mind many times, and each time, it drives him a little more mad. But it’s a beautiful madness. He sees angels where you see monsters...”

  “What is all this to do with us?” sneered a blocky, bearded man.

  Gorman clapped his hands. “I like you! A man who gets to the point! Do you know what it is you all have in common?” They looked about blankly. “All of you, in the old world, were nothing. Nothing! Bandits, thieves, convicts, outcasts. Like me! And who ruled you? The great and powerful ones. Cientificos, governors, hanciendados... and someday, when they could no longer use you, the rurale policeman who pointed to a ditch and said, Run, so I may shoot you.” The familiar rage boiled up. “Or the high and mighty ambassador who ignored me, left me to rot in a Torreon jail... Now we are all nothing before the rule of the Masters, and in the end, we will all die. But you can choose how you live! To eat steak, not corn. Drink fine wine. And to be powerful! To have a pretty girl for the night, not a hag in a farmyard. To be the boot that kicks, not the face that bleeds. To –”

  Three metallic raps sounded behind Gorman, then a steady clicking. The men’s eyes shifted past him and widened.

  “It’s time to feed them,” said Gorman. He steeled himself, as he always had to, and turned.

  A Master approached in its mechanical, many-limbed chair, steel claws clicking on the floor. Lifted higher than a man, it was still smaller, a shapeless sack of skin draped between tentacles. The huge black eyes were opaque pits.

  Gorman suppressed his shudder and bowed before the creature. There were times he envied de Gama his madness.

  He knew this one. It seemed larger than the others, more heavily limbed, and it moved more quickly and easily than they did. It thrived where they struggled. This made sense to Gorman; after all, he had survived the first period of captivity by being bigger and stronger than most others – certainly stronger than those he’d pushed to the front of the cell when the Masters came for their food. It was simply a law of nature, even for creatures that might seem to be outside nature entirely.

  It walked its chair down the row of men, turning it smoothly to study them. Three were trembling. It rotated back to Gorman and gave a single sharp grunt. Yes.

  Yes. But – yes to feed them, or yes to spare them? Hesitation could bring punishment. Mistakes could bring death. He waved to de Gama and walked quickly to join him. “My friend... please ask it...”

  “No,” whimpered the priest.

  “Please, Enrique. I need to be sure. Just for a moment, an idea. Do they wish food of these men, or work?” He caught de Gama’s thin arm and shuffled him forward. “Easy. Just for a moment.”

  “I... oh, the light!” de Gama’s face turned upward to the Master as to a beacon. Gorman released him gently. He staggered forward a few more steps and stood before the chair. The Master reached out with the fine tendrils surrounding its mouth; they sought out de Gama’s close-shaved skull, settled upon him, squirmed on his scalp. He gasped, then howled, an echoing sound that filled the chamber and set the calves to bucking. Then it released him. He turned, face empty and working.

  “What does it want?” hissed Gorman.

  “Work,” said de Gama. He coughed and swallowed hard. “Much work. A world’s worth of it. All of you are chosen, all are blessed. Rejoice! Rejoice!” He crumpled to the floor and lay shuddering.

  Gorman knelt beside him and rubbed his shoulders. “It’s all over, Enrique. You are a good friend. Thank you. Pedro! Send up the first calf.”

  Two of his trusties led the calf down the wide bay of the chamber to the metal frame adjoining a mass of machinery. They shoved it into the bars, then locked them in place. It blatted and kicked futilely.

  The Master had returned to its duties – researches, amusements? Who knew? – beside the same assembly. It made motions over controls with its tendrils. Metal arms reached out from the machinery, then with a snakelike speed, impaled the calf. It thrashed, wailed, then fell limp. Fluids moved visibly under its skin. Feeding had begun.

  With the calf silent, a rhythmic hooting could be heard; the sound of the Masters feeding.

  “Such hymns they sing,” said de Gama. He struggled up to his knees. Gorman rose and stepped back. This would be a show.

  “What is it, Enrique?”

  “It is communion! Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh. This is my body, that I may pass to the angels’ use! This is my blood, that I may nourish thy hearts!”

  “Shut him up,” said the tallest man in the row. His voice shook.

  “Why?” beamed Gorman.

  “This is blasphemy!” The man fumbled out a crucifix from his shirt.

  “The sun feeds the corn. The son feeds the father! Blood of my blood! I am the Master and the Master is I! We are–”

  “This is a sick heresy! I’ll have none of you!” The man spun on his heel and walked away. He made four steps before the trusties seized him. “Let me go, curse you!”

  “It’s all right,” said Gorman. He walked toward the group. de Gama had fallen silent. “He’s a man of principle. Admirable! He chooses not to work for the Masters, and I respect that.” He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder approvingly, then drove his other fist into his belly, doubling him over.

  “So he will feed them.” He gestured with a thumb. The trusties hauled the gasping man to the frame and secured him. He managed a few shrieks before the mechanical arms closed in.

  Gorman folded his arms. “Perhaps there are others who have principles?”

  Heads shook, eyes slid away from his.

  “Then we are agreed. Welcome to the service of the Masters! You two, help my dear friend de Gama. Bring the calf; we’ll feast tonight. We have much work to do!”

  Behind him, the contented hoots rose again.

  Chapter 3

  SS Espagne

  September 1911, Port of Veracruz, Mexico

  Lieutenant Henri Gamelin leaned on the upper deck rail, careful of the coal dust that coated it. Along with a throng of other passengers, he watched as smoke-belching tugs nudged the liner SS Espagne into her dock, completing the two-week voyage from Le Havre. Henri’s own journey had been much longer; he had left Saigon, and command of a river gunboat along the Mekong Delta, two months ago. It seemed bizarre to transfer a naval lieutenant halfway around the world when there were Martians in the Far East to fight already; but Henri was philosophical, and he had enjoyed the trip aboard the Espagne.

  He shifted back from the rail and caught sight of a familiar face further along. “Felipe!” He waved. “Felipe! Here!”

  Colonel Felipe Angeles turned, smiled, and eased his way through the throng. “Henri! I thought you would be at the head of the gangway already.” He spoke Spanish by their mutual agreement. His own French was flawless after five years living in France; Henri’s Spanish needed polishing. They had met at a formal dinner aboard ship; Angeles’ Mexican Army dress uniform sported a Chevalier de Legion d’Honneur medal, which caught Henri’s attention. He was delighted to learn that Angeles, an artilleryman, had worked on the final details of the ‘75’ artillery piece; that he considered himself of Indian rather than Spanish heritage; and that he had been effectively banished on a study mission with the French army for the crime of speaking his mind too often u
nder the rule of President Diaz.

  “My luggage is being brought up, still,” explained Henri. “May as well sight-see.”

  “It is a magnificent port.” Felipe looked over toward the ancient stones of Fort St. Juan de Uluan looming over the harbor. Henri wondered how long it would withstand Martian heat rays. But the French and British light and protected cruisers anchored awkwardly throughout the harbor, wherever their guns would bear, would surely see to the defenses.

  There was more than the ancient fort to protect, of course. The entire port was busy with freighters. Some – United States flagged and others exiled from Central and South America – were bringing food for the hundreds of thousands of refugees who swelled the city and filled temporary camps on its outskirts. They might leave crammed with them as well. Others transported war material from France. After an agreement with the Mexican government in 1909, an entire French corps had landed at Veracruz – now the de facto capital of Mexico, after Mexico City was overrun – and taken on the defense of the port and its relocated government. Once the Mexican federal army was re-manned and re-equipped, trained and provisioned, its dependence on the French force should lessen. At least that was the theory...

  “Did you get your final assignment yet?”

  Felipe nodded. “The cable just arrived. I will be training officers and crews in the 184th and 241st Artillery Battalions, just inland. We hope that in six months we will be able to fully operate with the new artillery pieces you have given us. I never did express my thanks for that, Henri. When the Martians defeated our army, the loss of life was bad enough, but the material... we barely salvaged anything. It is bad enough to have lost Mexico City. It would be horrible to see the Martians sweep over Veracruz state and have no way to stop them until they came under the guns of these ships.”

  “You speak as though you were there,” said Henri.

  Felipe smiled grimly. “I read enough in letters. And it must be bad if they are letting me come back! It has a whiff of desperation, no?”

  “I shall take the next ship back out again. But... Felipe, a word of warning. I do not think France’s help comes without a price. Do not waste any time getting ready... for anything.” Henri glanced aside as the gangway rattled into place. “I hope to see you again.”

  “And I.” Felipe shook his hand warmly then disappeared into the crowd of bustling passengers.

  Henri had hardly expected to be hurled into fighting upon arrival. But Veracruz began to take on an air of unreality after a time. From disembarkation, to meeting a white-jacketed orderly on the dock, to the private car sent for him, and finally the busy downtown streets that only showed by the vast number of uniformed men that anything was amiss; it all seemed rather unwarlike. The hotel he was to stay in was a towering masonry castle of high whitewashed colonial archways; his room was luxuriously appointed. Henri appreciated it; he had slept on the metal deck of his gunboat on many sweltering nights.

  However, no one seemed to know what to do with him.

  He was supposed to be Rear-Admiral Favereau’s liaison to the army corps deployed around Veracruz; at least, his orders said so. But next morning, the admiral’s shore office sent him to the Mexican Army headquarters in the colonial district; and in the afternoon, they sent him to the office of General Charles Mangin, commanding the 12th Division of IV Corps.

  Henri was arguing with a staff officer and two clerks simultaneously when the general thrust his head out of his doorway. “What is this infernal noise?”

  Henri saluted. “Lieutenant Gamelin, sir. I am to be the naval liaison to your corps. But I have not been able to –”

  “Whose idea was this?” Mangin was a stocky, scowling fellow. He rubbed a hand through a bristle of black hair.

  “I was told in Saigon that the Office of Central–”

  “They sent you from Saigon?” rasped Mangin. “Who are you supposed to be representing to me?”

  “Admiral Favereau.”

  “I don’t give a shit what Favereau does. If the Martian monstres drive us back close enough to the coast for his pretty ships to shell them, I will already be dead... Look, young fellow. Do you want a staff position or a fighting command?”

  Henri swallowed. “A fighting command, sir.”

  “That’s better. I can send you to Tampico, the oil terminal, north along the coast. The Navy is terrified of putting a foot ashore there, they want to please the British too much. Baron Cowdray wants the oil there for his king and his pocketbook. Do you care about that?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “I suppose you’re a republican like Favereau?” Henri nodded. “Well. It is forgivable in one so young. There are some gunboats stationed on the canal, and they have been bothering me for officers for them. I leave it to you.”

  “Thank you, General!”

  “Oh, and wait.” Mangin ducked into his office, then returned holding two tickets. “These are for some damned dinner affair. I have no time. You go; it will amuse me to have the Mexicans feed you instead of our commissary.”

  “I... very good, General.”

  Mangin huffed and returned to his office. Henri blinked down at the gilt-edged tickets: a state affair, tomorrow evening at the Imperial Hotel.

  “I’ll draw up your orders, Lieutenant,” said one clerk. The others had already turned away in disgust. “Lucky bastard,” muttered one.

  Henri figured that he could find a girl easily enough – a fine dinner, and who knew what after? – but then a grin spread over his face.

  “What are you smirking about?”

  “Corporal,” said Henri with some dignity, “please place a call for me to the 241st Mexican Artillery Battalion.”

  * * * * *

  Evening found Henri at the Imperial Hotel. The main ballroom was magnificent: two stories tall, colonnaded arches on each side, and a table laid with gold and pearl settings that stretched nearly the length of the entire chamber. Chandeliers blazed with light; glittering uniforms, black coats, and evening gowns circulated. Feather boas seemed to be in vogue. Henri could see why Mangin would have none of it.

  The maître d’s eyebrows lifted to his hairline when he saw Henri in his lieutenant’s uniform, but he admitted him and his companion and showed them their seats near the table’s foot. The name card read Gen. Mangin; the maître d’ whisked it away.

  “Well, this is interesting,” said Colonel Angeles. “I could catch up with so many people, if any of them would speak to me.” But he was smiling as he studied the crowd. “I see General Huerta got his divisional sash at last. If anyone would be promoted after losing half the country, it would be him. He is a dangerous man, Henri.” Henri glanced at the short figure with the strange, white-sheened eyes and did not disagree.

  “You must recognize President Diaz.” Henri nodded; he did, if only by the currents in the figures surrounding him – the rock in the river. Leonine, white-haired, erect... but some of those figures stooped close to shout in his ear. He must be growing deaf. “Next to him is Finance Minister Limantour. He may be the next president. Or one of the generals may be, if they can only win. But who knows? Diaz keeps us all guessing.”

  “I suppose you are not fond of him,” said Henri.

  Felipe shrugged. “Another ruler with his power might have had me quietly killed. He is not a bloodthirsty man, I will give him that... Those prosperous men in their frock coats are the cientificos. You would say, industrialists? Cronies? But with money. Railroads, mines, oil. He, and they, changed Mexico so much. Progress is good, Henri, but so much of our country has been left behind by it. And now left to the Martians. This,” he waved at the room, “is all beautiful, but does it not feel desperate as well?”

  Felipe inclined his head toward the United States ambassador, surrounded by eager petitioners. “You saw all this before, in Vietnam, didn’t you? The local... potentates... trying for the favor of the colonial power. It is all familiar.”

  Henri clapped Angeles on the shoulder. “No, my friend. It
will be different now, I am sure.”

  Felipe smiled thinly. A bell rang in the lobby; the figures stirred and made for their places. Henri followed Felipe to theirs.

  The meal brightened Henri’s mood again; grilled meats, seafood, some with delicate flavors, a few mouth-searingly spiced. The champagne was excellent. To Henri’s left, a Mexican Army colonel explained some of the dishes helpfully, and they fell to conversation.

  “Does anyone know what goes on in the interior?”

  “There is nothing in Mexico City but rubble and looters,” said the colonel dejectedly. “General Huerta made a probing assault there six months ago, but he was driven back immediately. Brigadier-General Diaz, the President’s nephew, was killed leading a charge – he still grieves. Tripods stalk the streets. Do you suppose they know what it does to us, to have lost that city?”

  “I do not think they understand us that well... but who knows?” Henri drained his glass and held it up to a passing waiter.

  “We should take it back,” muttered the colonel. “A pack of peasant rebels claim to still be fighting there. And our army is not! If they are there, it is an insult.”

  “I think General Mangin is willing to fight alongside you,” offered Henri. “You will not be alone the next time.”

  The colonel snorted. “From a looter to a butcher, then?”

  Henri set his glass down carefully. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Angeles’ hand settled on his shoulder. “Henri, you’ve had a lot to drink.”

  “I had not,” said Henri. “Haven’t not.” He reverted to French in momentary frustration. “Espagnol passé stupide... No, I merely wish to hear this man’s opinion.”

  “I meant no offense,” said the colonel. “But everyone knows how General Mangin got his promotion to divisional command. When he was in Algiers, his native infantry brigade was deployed against two Martian tripods that had become unmovable – lamed. He attacked all day – again, again, again. They finally brought them down, using only rifles and machine guns, and destroyed them. Yes, a great victory. But he started with four regiments of infantry, and ended with one. Do you know what he said after? ‘There were only two machines, but I could always bring up more men.’ That was when they started to call him ‘The Butcher’. He did not count the cost of sending the Algerians. Perhaps he will not count it when he sends us?”