Ranger Hicks pulled up next to him. As he’d bragged, he was an excellent rider. He also kept a good lookout. The other, Clell Blackwell, had six months’ experience and was learning well; he’d taken to the camp chores with a will. Emmet was just as pleased that the hot-headed Tomlinson had been posted back to San Antonio.
Hicks swigged from his canteen. “Gettin’ familiar with this country. I never had much to do out here before. Mostly Laredo and Piedras Negras; once the Sisters wells dried up, the boomtowns did too.”
“I don’t think there was ever much to do out here. Sort of a whistlestop without the whistle.” Emmet turned to Blackwell. “Let’s keep going southeast for a while. There’s a couple of small ranches about five miles from here; sheep and goats. They’ve been evacuated, but seems like Martians like buildings – sure like burning ’em, anyhow – and around here even a shack amounts to a building.”
They followed tracks and laneways through the scrub for most of the morning at an easy but steady pace, keeping a sharp eye out; but it wasn’t until they’d passed by the second ranch’s outbuildings that Blackwell called out.
“There’s people there! A mile due east. They’re waving at us.”
“I see ’em.” Emmet lifted his binoculars. “Ah, six civilians. Let’s go check ’em out. Don’t quit looking around for any Martians, though.”
He veered off the track and began picking a route through the scrub. At half a mile, they crossed a low rise and he got a better look; there were indeed six men on foot, but another figure lay on the ground. One seemed to be tending to her.
“Hurry up, fellas.” He spurred his horse into a gallop; the others joined him. The nag was no racehorse, but she rode well enough. At the next fence, Emmet signaled with his knees a few feet out and the horse gathered herself and leaped, clearing it easily, landing in a spurt of soil and a rocking, living slide, driving on ahead. For a moment, it was just like 1903; this was why he’d joined, a wide open space with an unknown situation to find out and prevail over. In a few minutes, they reached the small group, pulled up, and swung out of their saddles.
“Thank God you’re here!” called out the crouching man in English; a southern American accent. The rest gathered around; Spanish, poorly dressed, haggard. They had a hard look about them. “We’ve made it this far, but then she collapsed. I don’t know what to do for her!”
“Let me see.” Emmet hunkered down beside them. “Did – I’ll be damned!”
The woman was Jovita Idar.
His first thought was heatstroke, but her forehead felt neither dry nor clammy. Lifting an eyelid showed a normal pupil shrinking.
“What’s wrong with her, Emmet?” asked Hicks.
“I don’t know.” He saw it then; a fresh bruise darkening along her jawline.
He glanced over to the stranger, turning slightly to let his coat slip open over his hip. “Now, friend, you better–”
A pistol cocked just behind his head. “No one move,” said the American. “You will all take your pistols out slowly and drop them on–”
Blackwell shouted something on Emmet’s left. Emmet made a choice and grabbed for his weapon; a grunting movement behind him, and the landscape exploded into blackness.
April, 1912, West of Martian Base, Texas
Ronald Gorman straightened slowly. He surveyed the outcome of his scheme: one Ranger shot twice in the chest; one frozen, livid, at gunpoint; one clubbed unconscious. As he watched, the shot Ranger bubbled blood from his mouth and died.
“You son of a bitch,” said the standing Ranger. “You are gonna be at the hurtin’ end of the biggest manhunt we’ve ever seen.”
“No, we are not. It’s not men who are doing the hunting any more.” He switched to Spanish. “Garcia, collect their weapons.” As his man moved cautiously to obey, Gorman looked over the Rangers’ horses. Nothing special, but they would make sheepherding a little easier... and could be consumed themselves, if the sheep were insufficient.
So could the Rangers, for that matter. Every new body was one more between him and the Masters’ needs...
Garcia rejoined him, hefting a new automatic pistol with delight. “Look what the dead one had! It’s mine by right – I did for him!”
“You fool,” Gorman said tiredly. “Do you think this is the only patrol? And the others cannot spot buzzards? Then they find a dead Ranger with bullets in him that no Martian ever fired. If they ever figure out what we are, we’ll be shot on sight.”
Garcia looked away and scratched his neck. “We could bury him.”
“Did you bring a shovel? I should make you do it, Garcia, with your bare hands! But just lasso the corpse to your saddle and drag it. He won’t mind the ride... ” He looked down to Idar as she mumbled something. “I will carry my queen. I must apologize to her for such brutality – it was a foul blow – but I hoped it would save lives in the short term. I suppose it still will; that dead Ranger goes first.” In English he called out, “You! Carry your sleepy friend until he wakes up. We’re marching east, but it’s only a few miles.”
The balding Ranger glanced up from where he crouched beside the unconscious one. “What? That’s straight toward the Martians! Are you nuts? Once they spot us on foot–”
“Oh, I am quite sane.” Gorman loosened his scarf. “This pendant is their work, and it will admit us to their dwelling. There are marvels there. Come, this is your great chance to see them up close. Very close.”
The group proceeded back along with their reluctant guests; Gorman rode last, with Queen Idar draped across his saddle. Two miles from the mine, a Master’s tripod loomed up, sauntering across the landscape from the north. It looked them over, then continued on its patrol. Gorman noted that while the two Rangers did not quail at the sight of it, they did seem... uncomfortable. The taller one had woken fairly quickly, considering how hard Gorman had struck him.
His queen awoke too at that point. His apology was not accepted – decidedly not; she jumped down from horseback and stamped along beside him. As they passed through the cut in the berm which admitted the rail tracks, Gorman realized he would need to make better amends. The answer came to him in a flash. Once their new guests had been made secure, he instructed his men to water the horses – one must care for one’s stock – and repaired to his private car to join her. In the companionway, he paused to obtain a gift before he entered.
“I trust you’re better? Again, my sincere apologies.”
Idar was perched on the settee, holding a wet cloth to her jaw. She did not look around. “Did you know those men were there?”
“No, to be quite honest. I did not think anyone foolish enough to come so close to a Masters’ nest. You seemed quite interested in them, I may say.”
“I’m tired of all your ugly faces; these were new.”
“Hm. Perhaps. Of course, they cannot be allowed to leave. But we did obtain several sheep. I’m more a man of high finance and scientific knowledge than a stockman, but judging by the size of them, all of your associates have gained several weeks of existence by your cooperation.”
“I’m not cooperating with you! Or those things!”
“Of course you are. And for the best of reasons.” Gorman moved closer. “As with all things, it goes in steps. Those scum out there adapted very quickly – but they are nothing. A person of worth takes time. I spent a long time in that jail, and longer at Zacatecas... But I have realized that confining you here in this car is unjust and unhealthy. A queen should be free to roam her domain, as I am. Please, look.” He held out a pendant – twin to the one he still wore – in both hands, as though presiding at a coronation.
She turned and recoiled. “Like you wear? I’ll have none of it!”
“Please, I insist. A monarch must have a crown, after all.”
“I would simply bolt from here!”
“Then a Master would track you down, at my priest’s bidding, and bring you back to me in the gentlest of embraces... Oh, the hell with this.” Gorman feinted
left, and lunged. He pinned her to the settee with his weight and wrestled the pendant past her flailing hands to her neck with infinite care, ignoring her blows. The physical proximity, the contact, and scent, were... intriguing, and hinted at future possibilities. Then the pendant clasped itself into an unbreakable band, and he released her and stepped back. Both them were breathing hard, he noted. Steps, steps...
She clawed at the object. “Take this cursed thing off me!”
“But it’s your color.” Indeed, the pewter gray did complement her black hair. He’d remembered his manners again.
“Just – just get out of here.”
“I would never abandon you in distress. But I shall give you room to recover.” Gorman moved off to the car’s far end, studied the view outside while she wept, and smoked a cigar.
After a time, she calmed herself and was once again his regal queen, smoothing stray hairs into place. She rose and walked back to stand before him, bearing the pendant with dignity and grace, as he’d known she would.
“You were right. I have met those Rangers before. And I have a certain debt to repay them. It has to do with a newspaper in Laredo.”
Gorman bowed. “I am all attention.”
April, 1912, East of Hebbronville, Texas
Emmet’s headache began to fade soon after they’d arrived within the fortified wall, but his fury stayed. Partly at himself for being so easily fooled – seeing Jovita Idar had thrown him for a complete loop – but also at the bastards who had them captive.
The car they were brought to was a dilapidated passenger car, half-filled with boxes. Two other men kept to themselves, barely able to look at the Rangers. They didn’t seem part of the gang that ran this place, but they obviously obeyed them and were ashamed of it. One babbled nonsense from time to time. But at least those two were free; Hicks and Emmet were cuffed to a long chain that ran across the car’s aisle from the rear door. Someone had thought this out; it allowed a couple of guards to unlock one end of that chain and take them outside to relieve themselves without much chance of overpowering anybody or bolting more than a couple of yards.
“You’re lucky,” said one guard who wandered in after an hour. “The cattle over in that car? They lie in their own filth. But Señor Gorman wants you under better guard. And some of us won’t go in there. We have standards!”
Once they’d had a chance to watch the coming and going of the gang members, and with that glimpse outside of the fortified dirt wall, Emmet and Hicks began quietly talking.
“Collaborators,” spat Hicks. “I can’t believe it. Wouldn’t we have heard about this by now? These bastards can’t be the first ones!”
“I don’t know about that,” mused Smith. “A government or army wouldn’t want word getting out that the Martians don’t just kill or eat everyone outright; if people thought they could surrender, they’d not fight as hard. Anyone who found this going on would likely just kill ’em all on the spot and swear his men to secrecy.”
“That’d suit me fine.”
“Hicks, we don’t know how much time we’ve got. They fed us, but I don’t want to think much about why. If we can get out of here and get a fast look around, it’ll be the best scouting any Ranger’s ever done... if we can survive to get back. Get to thinking on that.”
“Okay.” Hicks looked worried, but steady. Blackwell might have grown into that sort of a Ranger, if he’d been given time. Another reason to loathe these men; but Emmet wouldn’t let it get in the way of clear thought.
The car’s front door opened; another gang member entered along with Miss Idar. Emmet waited, watching as they approached–
“Damn!” cried Hicks. “What’s she doing with one of those things?”
“Hm?” Emmet twisted to look at him.
Hicks pointed with his chin. “That necklace thing! Their leader has one. It talks to the Martians or somethin’. He was braggin’ about it. Look, you don’t think she...”
The guard looked on with obvious amusement as Idar walked up to them.
“Where the hell did you get that?” blurted Emmet. “You didn’t... couldn’t...” He couldn’t finish. She leaned in with a fierce glare.
“Callarte la pinche boca! These men speak no English, they think I am haranguing you. Know this. Gorman says these creatures are digging ore out of the ground. They need it for some vital reason, you rinche bastard! They came all this way for it! There are ten other people captive here, in the next car. They will all die! You will too! But there are a few weeks before the creatures grow hungry again.”
Emmet realized what she was doing. He had no difficulty in feigning an enraged expression. He snarled back, “You damn bitch, I’m listening!”
She stamped her foot. “We have no chance to escape from inside this fort! But once the train is filled with ore, it will leave for Mexico. You must be ready then. I can protect us from the creatures in their machines with this pendant – you must deal with these traitor men. Devise a way to free yourselves, but wait for my signal. Wait, you swine! Rinche cabron! We have to get past Laredo and over the river. Do you understand?”
“Damn right!”
“Stinkin’ cow!” chipped in Hicks.
“And don’t be such a fool next time!” She spun and stalked off; the guard fell in beside her, chuckling.
“I continue to be impressed by that woman,” said Emmet truthfully. “Well, we better not get lazy, but until you or I come up with a better plan, let’s go with hers.”
Chapter 13
Cycle 597,845.1, Minefast 31.01, South Texas
Taldarnilis settled itself both mentally and physically within the compartment of its fighting machine. The past tendays were the longest duration it had spent in the machine, with only brief breaks to obtain nutrients and expel waste. Rather than a sense of confinement, it had grown to feel one with the machine, appreciating every extent of its agility and power.
It would need all that skill and determination very shortly. The imminent threat was daunting. Yet the decision was not its alone. It opened a communication channel to make contact with Group 31’s holdfast and requested an audience.
Group Leader Vantarsilas replied almost immediately. “Greetings, Taldarnilis. It is not yet time for your regular report. Has the situation changed?”
“Yes, Group Leader. Raqtinoctil has obtained imagery from the mapping satellite. It made a pass over this region six days ago.” Taldarnilis added the image to their communication.
“But that data is apportioned by clan status. We are not eligible for it yet. How did it obtain...” Vantarsilas’ transmission stopped as it absorbed the image.
“Raqtinoctil was able to simulate Level Four access temporarily. It developed this skill some time ago, but it insists that it only be used when there is great–”
“Taldarnilis! There is a considerable prey force assembling to attack you!”
“That is our conclusion as well,” said Taldarnilis dryly. “The lack of activity on the prey’s part despite our proximity indicated much preparation, and this imaging confirms it in approximate detail.”
“You are seriously outnumbered. You must withdraw immediately with as much of the equipment as you can bring. They have reacted much faster than you predicted!”
“May I remind the group leader that we have not completed our mission yet,” said Taldarnilis, ignoring the implied criticism. “The amount of compound 92-12 extracted is only enough to power the holdfast for less than half a cycle. If we are driven out now, Group 31 will almost certainly fail.”
“But if the prey destroy your mine, we fail as well and with greater losses.”
“We do not intend to allow that. I request authorization to carry out an immediate attack on this assembled force within the next day, and disrupt it before it may fully attack us.”
The group leader was silent for a considerable time. Finally, it said with some hesitation, “This level... this level of risk was never anticipated.”
“It was never nec
essary before. Yet I submit that it is now.”
The group leader hesitated. And hesitated...
April 1912, IX Corps HQ, Alice, Texas
Willard Lang surveyed the command center. General Wade’s staff had done good work before his dismissal; the telephone and telegraph desks were ranked along one wall, clerks’ stations to the other side, and the large map table was illuminated by electric lamps hung from the ceiling – necessary, as it was three o’clock in the morning.
The attack on the Martian base was about to begin. Lang felt as charged as the glowing filaments in the bulbs above him.
General Funston accepted a mug of coffee from a clerk and joined him by the table. He’d slept for the previous two hours; Lang too had a veteran’s knack for resting when he could, but he was amazed that Funston had managed that. Out there in the darkness, fifteen miles west, four divisions were moving up to their jumping-off lines, ‘uncommon stiff and slow’ as per Kipling’s poem. The 83rd, 80th, and 49th divisions were regular army; the 7th Volunteer mostly Texans. Cronkhite’s 80th was a veteran of the battle of Albuquerque, and with its losses long since made up, was the prime striking force. Funston had assigned most of the corps tank battalions to Cronkhite; Lang had begun calling it the ‘tank division’.
All the formations were concentrated far tighter than they would have been in defense so that the highly mobile Martians couldn’t strike at any isolated unit. The Martian base, from the glimpses they’d gotten of its defensive wall, was only about a mile across. That seemed smaller than ones they’d encountered before. It also made things crowded for multiple divisions to advance, to say the least – like hitting a nail with a sledgehammer. Brigadier General Dougherty of the 7th had nearly demanded the honor of leading the assault; Funston had obliged by giving him the right wing. The 49th had the left. Once they’d engaged the Martian defenders, the 80th would move up and strike.
The Texas Front: Salient Page 17