The Texas Front: Salient

by Jonathan Cresswell

  Colquitt looked fondly after her. “Alice is very involved in our chapter of the Daughters of the Confederacy. They’re working on a program to have single households take in refugee families – they can place a white star in the window and get some help with taking care of them. It will help show who is doing their patriotic duty to help their fellow Americans. Of course, it will also show who is not.”

  Lang was suddenly glad he’d signed up and was safe from such attention. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, Governor.”

  “Do you like it? It was hers. Good afternoon, gentlemen... and good hunting.”

  March 1912, Lampazos, Mexico

  Ronald Gorman limped slowly, as a tired refugee might be expected to. It was not entirely an act; the Master’s machine had dropped him off five miles south of the town of Lampazos, and a late afternoon squall had soaked him. His stolen finery had been traded for the plain coat of a prosperous ranchero, and his wet boots squeaked as he walked. The brightly braided scarf around his neck stayed there by necessity.

  The town’s outskirts passed in an hour, and he reached a tavern at an intersection by the dinner hour. After a year in the Masters’ service, it was surreal to bang a coin on the counter and order a drink and a meal. As expected, he attracted glances, and before long a townsman approached.

  “Any news from the south?”

  “Not good,” said Gorman. “It was quiet for a long time, and I thought I could make one more season of grazing for the herd, but then I saw one of those máquinas cross my land and I thought, why die for a few more pesos? I will go back to America. You are all brave to stay here, my friend.”

  “Not really. ASARCO has been holding our pay for a year. They know we won’t leave until we get paid.”

  “There is a mine here, yes? Train yards? They must have defenses.”

  The townsman shrugged. “A few old guns, some security guards to man them – if they’re awake. No one expects a real attack. They would have come by now if they wanted to.”

  “I am sure you are right,” said Gorman, smiling but thinking of the sixty tripods massed twenty miles south, waiting. He kept the smile in place as he lied further. “I may look up someone I met a couple of years ago; I think he lives here now. He was an engineer with the Texas-Mexican Railway, he said he would be working here for some time.”

  “Mendez? Juan Mendez? He lives on Hidalgo, the third house.”

  “Juan Mendez, yes,” said Gorman. “The very man. Many thanks, my friend.” He tossed back his drink, left another coin, and departed.

  Via Hidalgo was a prosperous street; the homes further north near the smelter would be less so, of course. A skilled worker was always treated better. Gorman knocked at the third house, a modest adobe dwelling. A stocky man answered the door.

  “Good evening, Señor Mendez. May I come in?”

  “What do you want?” growled Mendez. He rubbed at one sleep-red eye. “I’m not on shift for hours.”

  “Matters have changed,” said Gorman, easing the revolver from his coat. “Please, back inside. Do have a seat. Señor Mendez, do you live alone?”

  Mendez dropped into a chair in the quietly furnished parlor. “Yes. I’ve no family. What do you want?”

  “Not to harm you, I assure you. If you had a family, I would make sure they were safe as well. Any close friends, perhaps?”

  “I live in this town four days a month. Now, what–”

  “Then that makes things simple,” said Gorman. He unwrapped his scarf left-handed and settled into a chair himself. “As I said, you are safe with me. In fact, this is now the only safe place in this entire town.” He pressed the square detent on the massive metal pendant secured around his neck and leaned back to wait.

  “Do you have happen to have any cigars? I haven’t smoked one in a very long time.”

  Mendez had excellent taste in tobacco; Gorman smoked three of them while they waited. After a few attempts, Mendez gave up asking and sat dully. It was perhaps eight o’clock when the noise began outside: shouts, driving vehicles, then the faint unmistakable sound of heat rays.

  “What is it?” begged Mendez. “What’s happening?”

  “Your new employers have arrived. Now, stay close to me and you will be quite safe. I work for them too.”

  “You mean the Martians? That’s impossible!”

  “I am hoping every other human north of here thinks so as well... We will be traveling a long time. Do you need to bring anything?”

  “I don't know. Where...”

  “Splendid, a man who travels light. Then let us see who else has been recruited.” Gorman rose, tipped over one of the kerosene lamps on the sideboard, and tossed his cigar butt into the pool. He ushered Mendez out as the flames flickered up. The sky glowed red as Lampazos burned; it seemed wrong to leave this one house aside. The Masters did enjoy combustion so.

  Mendez yelped and stumbled back. “It’s all right,” said Gorman, putting a comforting arm about his shoulders and glancing up at the looming metal machine, red-licked by the fires. And, indeed, the tripod seemed to crouch protectively above them, scanning its heat ray about for any threats. “These beings have need of you. They will not harm you. Unless you disobey, of course. You will see presently what that means.”

  They walked in the tripod’s lee for a mile to an open square where perhaps fifty people had been gathered – herded, like the cattle they were. Machines hulked on all sides. A few had the cargo baskets fitted which could carry humans – perhaps ten living, or twenty dead.

  There was no need to fill them all tonight. “Everyone!” shouted Gorman. He dangled his revolver at his side. “We are looking for skilled workers. Who has worked on the trains or in the mines?”

  “Don’t tell him anything!” shouted an older man. “Can’t you see, he’s working for those horrors!”

  “Quite so. Well, I have no way to compel you to speak. So who is not skilled?” He pointed to a woman crouched at the edge of the group. “You! Have you ever worked on a train crew?”

  “Of course not,” said the woman. She dragged a shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  “Thank you for your honesty, chica.” Gorman shot her in the chest. As she fell, he turned and walked a pace closer to the group. Mendez stumbled along beside him. “I am not a cruel man! If you cannot work for the Masters, you will feed them. The process is an ugly one. I can make it a quick one... Mendez, here, has already joined us. Why not join him?”

  “Mendez, you dog!” spat a man. “You’ll be damned if you do this!”

  Gorman fired again. “Another honest soul. Why, this is an honest town! I have an engineer. Anyone else who can help him, walk to me!”

  After a pause, two men shuffled forward to join him. Others jeered at them while a few wept. It was always a difficult time when the Masters applied their will.

  “Please drag those three bodies over to us,” directed Gorman. He gave Mendez a shove.

  “What do you mean, three–”

  He shot a portly man who might have been the town’s mayor. Three corpses that size should suffice for a week’s rations for the Masters. More would become... unpleasant after a time. There would be further opportunities.

  “Bring them over here.” Once the recruits had dragged the bodies close, Gorman tapped the detent on his pendant.

  Heat rays sawed out from the machines, annihilating the remaining group with scarcely time for screams. At point-blank range, there was nothing really left of them. Another machine stooped, sliding manipulators under one of the corpses Gorman had shot. It lifted and flipped the body neatly into its cargo basket.

  Mendez doubled over, retching. Gorman patted him on the back. “You’ll grow accustomed to this. Now, which is the best engine in the train yards?”

  “The...” Mendez coughed and wiped his mouth. “The Pacific on the western siding. That’s my engine.”

  “And we will need some of the freight cars the mine uses.”

  “Those are twenty-ton hopper
cars...” The breeze shifted and brought a scent of burned meat. Mendez retched again.

  “Let us take twenty to be sure. And a first-class passenger car... perhaps a private one?” Mendez blinked up at him. “Well, why not?”

  “You can’t shift that many cars with a handful of men!” protested Mendez.

  “Two of these machines can pick them up and set them down as needed, my friend. You are part of something marvelous, now.”

  The corpses had been loaded; now a machine gathered its manipulators under Mendez and picked him off the ground, while another seized Gorman. Mendez began screaming as they were borne swiftly toward the train yards through billowing clouds of smoke. It took him quite a while to calm down.

  Cycle 597,845.1, Prey transport system, River 3-12

  Taldarnilis’ fighting machine crouched in its lowest loading position within one of the prey’s transport cars, half-hidden behind the metal sidewalls. Outside it, the night landscape moved steadily past, illuminated only by a crescent of this world’s satellite. The gentle clunks of the prey’s transport machine were transmitted faintly into its cabin.

  The sensation was peculiar. Vantarsilas would probably be intrigued by it...

  There was always a possibility that Vantarsilas had agreed to this expedition in order to dispose of those it felt threatened by – the most innovative members of the group. Taldarnilis thought it unlikely, but it was a risk; small compared to others involved.

  One of those risks was the likelihood that the prey had taken steps to reduce their ineffectiveness at night. It was still worthwhile to time attacks for low illumination, but additional surprise was a useful factor. Thus, nine of Group 31’s fighting machines had arranged themselves onto components of the prey transport they had procured for the final approach to a likely defensive position. Two other cars were loaded with drones, although they would not be needed as yet. The rest of the expedition’s fighting machines followed a quel behind, concentrated tightly. Already the terrain was opening out as they approached the large watercourse that marked the northern limit of their group’s territory. As the rod system curved gradually to the left, Taldarnilis could see – past the cloud of combustion products emitted by the propulsion machine – a spindly, raised construction that carried the rods high over the watercourse. It did not look strong enough for this world’s gravity, but presumably it had been used before.

  Beyond that was a minor habitation center. Taldarnilis studied the near side of that and the rising ground leading up from the watercourse. Small, isolated fortifications were visible, but nothing like what other groups had reported encountering. Attack did not seem to be expected here.

  They proceeded across the construction and approached the far side. Small lights winked, a few prey moved about, and narrow sticks deployed across the rod system’s path. Taldarnilis ignored that; firing at it could risk hitting the propulsion unit. Instead, it opened fire at the nearest ground fortification.

  Immediately other heat rays opened up in turn. Firing to both sides, they raked the defensive positions, some of which did not even protect the prey inside them from such lateral attacks. Secondary explosions burst out as the heat rays found projectile-throwers. Those targets were quickly left behind without any returning fire, and Taldarnilis scanned ahead for new ones. Behind, the following fifty machines crossed the watercourse and clambered up the northern bank, taking occasional shots of their own.

  The stealthy approach had done its work; the prey’s defenses had fallen without a single loss of the attackers.

  “All machines resume normal locomotion,” Taldarnilis ordered and raised its own machine gingerly to half-height. It reached a limb out over the transport car’s side and drove it downward, transferring the machine’s weight outboard in one step and swinging the other limbs clear. A moment later, it was striding normally beside the car. It scanned behind; a few of the other machines had not disembarked so cleanly, but all were now moving ahead on their own.

  “Advance one telequel ahead of propulsion unit, engage targets of opportunity.”

  They fanned out northeastward, firing occasionally. Although individual machines were thrifty with energy, there were enough firing that the illumination level quickly rose from structures undergoing combustion. Prey scuttled in the light, most fleeing eastward.

  “Arctilantar, detach your group to invest this area. Remember, if that watercourse construction is destroyed, our return path will be interrupted. You have full authority to carry out disruptive attacks up to four telequel from this point.”

  “Acknowledged, Expedition Leader.” The nine machines dedicated to that task dropped behind and set about reducing the habitation center to a more defensible state.

  Targets soon ceased to appear. The landscape here was more open, but no structures were visible. “Machines with detection apparatus, advance on lead element and commence search for energetic elements.”

  The empty terrain nagged at Taldarnilis. It had expected a larger prey population in this area. While anything that suggested this area was a neglected one was good, they had consumed the prey already obtained for nutrition. Returning to the riverside habitation center would take time, and they might be vulnerable to interception once the prey grew organized again. They would grow hungry in the several tendays to come. There were already so many demands on their limited capacities...

  Ahead and to the south, it noted low structures, many laid out in rows. Lesser habitations? On impulse it strode closer. A few prey were visible around the small structures; more spilled into view as it watched.

  “Groups Three and Four, rendezvous my position. Prey-creatures are available for harvest.”

  March 1912, Fort Sam Houston, Texas

  Daylight filtered in through the windows of the Situation Room that Lang had set up the previous month in a dining hall. The reports that he’d filtered in turn over the past four hours were just as wan and shifting.

  It was clear enough that the 3rd Texas Volunteer Division based at Laredo had been overrun. Telephone and telegraph reports had flooded in during the predawn hours, ranging from terse to panicked to bizarre; claims of fifty tripods, or a hundred, or two hundred; most admitting to barely a shot fired by the defenses; a few claiming a downed machine but without details as to its location. As telephones jangled and clerks ran in and out of the Situation Room, more information trickled in.

  General Funston had dismissed the largest reports. “That’s panic talking. A night battle always seems worse than it is. So, perhaps a hundred tripods. That’s a considerable force – much more than they’d have needed just to take Laredo.”

  “The 608th Tank Battalion tried to probe into the area an hour ago,” said Lang. “They lost six tanks before withdrawing. The Martians are definitely still in Laredo, but we don’t have a good estimate yet of their strength.”

  “I doubt they’ve halted there,” said Funston grimly. “Find out where they’re going!”

  In the next hour, more reports arrived, as well as Governor Colquitt, who’d been driven two hundred miles from his home in Dallas after receiving the first call in the early hours. Lang admired his nerve, although losing the governor to a broken neck in a car crash wouldn’t have helped matters in the least.

  Haggard and unshaven, as they all were, Colquitt studied the map table. “What are our losses so far, General?”

  “I’m afraid elements of the 3rd Volunteers and the 608th sustained heavy casualties at the town. Units stationed further up and down river have been able to withdraw without much loss, although a few have attacked without orders, and at least one infantry battalion was wiped out doing so.”

  “I suppose it’s not good military sense, but I can’t blame them,” said Colquitt. “Not in the least... Civilians?”

  “The town is nearly destroyed already, but several hundred survivors managed to flee. We’re estimating four hundred dead there.”

  “There is a refugee camp just east of the town, isn’t there?” aske
d Colquitt. “Another thousand people there at least.”

  “The Martians have definitely raided it, although we’re not sure why – there were lots of people in Laredo for... for their purposes. Some survivors from the camp have contacted the 3rd Division, and they say it was more of a scattering than a slaughter...” Funston seemed to brace himself. “Governor, we simply couldn’t stop them. I’ll admit to concentrating our forces heavily toward Santa Fe and the northern line in general. There was so little activity to the south in Mexico, we didn’t expect –”

  “That’s enough of that,” said Colquitt sharply. “Our planned offensive there made perfect sense and you couldn’t have known they’d strike here first. But now that they’ve taken Laredo, what are they doing there? Or are they advancing further? They could hit San Antonio by this afternoon! Or Houston by tomorrow.”

  “It’s unlikely they’re rolling north up the Rio Grande; we’d have heard from the 7th Division by now.”

  “And nothing from the Guard or Rangers in Brownsville either,” said Colquitt. “I don’t see them being content with just Laredo, General.”

  A clerk gestured at Lang; he ducked aside and took the telegraph paper from him. “Just in from the train station at Hebbronville, General. MARTIAN TRIPODS ADVANCING STOP ESTIMATE THIRTY STRONG STOP MOVING DUE EAST STOP TRAIN MOVING WITH THEM STOP ESTIMATE NOW FORTY... the message ended there, sir.”

  “I can guess why,” said Colquitt. “That was a brave man.”

  Funston checked the map. “Due east indeed. Corpus Christi next, then... or Houston. We’ve got to get more depth!”

  Lang shook off the oddity of a train accompanying a Martian invasion; the operator must have mistaken a train fleeing from the attack. “Sir, I can contact the next station on that line, see if they have spotted the Martians yet. That’ll give us more information on the speed of their advance.”

  “Good. Do it. Governor, we may need to evacuate the cities and towns in their path. But... I need to move military units into those cities. That must be the priority for the railways. I know it’s a difficult choice for you...”