Upslope on the trail ahead, a man in a scuffed white uniform stepped out of cover, holding a rifle. “Show us your hands, my friends!” he called out in Spanish.
Emmet glanced behind. Four more riflemen back there... He mentally kicked himself for walking across a ridgeline. It was the most direct route, and the Martians and their collaborators were long gone... No matter. They halted and waited for the soldiers to gather about. He said as the first man approached, “We’re just peaceful travelers.” He noted sergeant’s stripes. Regular army? That was better than bandits, although no guarantee. But the uniforms didn’t look right.
“There is no peace in Nuevo Leon province. You appear to be coming from there.” As the sergeant spoke, others pointed and nudged one another. He frowned in turn. “Chica, what is that?”
Idar placed both palms on the pendant as though to hide it. “Jewelry! Are you robbers, then?”
“We are not. But I’ve never seen anything like that. It looks like the machines the diablos use. We know they have traveled on that rail line. If you are somehow working for them...”
“You have no idea!” snapped Hicks. “Just leave her be.”
“Easy, Hicks. Look, Sergeant...?”
“Rodriguez.”
“Sergeant Rodriguez, I’m Emmet Smith, this is Randy Hicks and Jovita Idar. The Martians captured us and put that thing on her. We’d take it off in a heartbeat if we could, but we can’t – no one can. We managed to get away when they took us into Mexico on a train this morning. We need to get somewhere to report to the authorities about that. You’re fighting the Martians too, right? Can you help us?”
“There were six of those walking machines,” said Rodriguez without answering. “We know how... effective they are. And yet you escaped.”
Emmet thought fast. “We waited until they left a gap, and we were lucky.”
“Hmm.” Rodriguez slung his rifle. “Can they find that thing from a distance?”
“We don’t think so. Otherwise they’d have tracked us down this morning.”
“Very well. This is more complicated than a sergeant’s pay will allow for. Can all of you ride?”
Emmet and Hicks looked at Idar. She said, “Well enough.”
“Then you will all come along with us. We have spare horses.”
“Look, it’d be simpler if we just kept on east until–”
“No. Whatever is going on here, it is a matter for the general to decide.” Rodriguez whistled; other men came over the hill crest leading a train of horses. Two had machine guns slung aboard. This was a scout troop, then? Assembled, there were sixteen men. At least the horses looked in prime condition... Emmet wondered aloud, “Which general is this far in the north?”
“General Villa.” The sergeant swung into his saddle and gestured for them to do the same.
May 1912, Cuernavaca, Mexico
Henri Gamelin took a long time to awaken. Once his eyes opened properly, the ceiling overhead attracted his attention with its crazy pattern of cracks, and he wondered at them for a while. He lay in a comfortable bed; everything was quiet. His breathing seemed normal, but his right side ached with every inhalation.
A scratching noise from the left, when he turned to look, proved to be a pale, roly-poly fellow scribbling in a notebook as he sat at a desk. When Henri cleared his throat, the man jerked upright. “Oh – hello, Mr. Gamelin! Glad to see you awake. Let me tell Mrs. King that you’re up.” He scrambled out of his chair and trotted from the room – a simple bedroom, pleasantly furnished, bright but with paint peeling from the window trim.
The man reappeared in moments with a glass of water, which he handed gently to Henri after helping him sit up. Henri drank the glass in one gulp and cleared his throat again. “What day is this?” He spoke in English as the man had.
“Tuesday, May 3rd. You’re at the Hotel Bella Vista – well, not the real one, that’s been destroyed by the Martians. Mrs. King set up her business here in this house, still in Cuernavaca. It’s not very big, but there’s not many customers now. Actually, I think you’re the first. Did you know President Diaz stayed here once when he was recovering his health, just like you? Well, not here, there. I met him there. I’m sure he remembers me to this day; we spoke about finance and politics, man to man; he’s very approachable. Oh, we haven’t been introduced – I’m Hubert Hall. I’m in finance and real estate, mostly.”
Henri tried to digest this and managed, “I am pleased to meet you. Where are my... companions?”
“The zapatistas? They all went back north to fight. Gallant men. Zapata’s an extraordinary fellow, isn’t he? I told the State Department in my most recent communique, he’s the one to watch, you’ll all see. By the way, who is Pham Binh? You were asking for him. Or her. Chinese?”
“Vietnamese. Someone... I once knew.” Henri’s fatigued state left him wide open to a rush of sadness; he pushed it away. What was done, was done.
“Listen, you seem like a man of the world. Can I interest you in a remarkable opportunity?”
Henri rubbed his eyes. “I don’t–”
“I call it the Liberating Army Co-operative Colony. I’ve arranged for a very large area of land – sixty-four thousand acres! – to be made available to my investors once the Martians are defeated and Zapata has won his revolution. And you can have a parcel of this verdant, valuable land for only 180,000 pesos! Payable in monthly installments – as a military man, you can divest part of your pay – I have connections with France. The money finances his revolution, and everyone wins! Now, you might well ask, what legal conturbations might arise? Yes, I see you’ve thought of that already! It’s quite simple, I have–”
Henri glanced away gratefully as a small but very upright woman eased a tray in through the doorway. “Hubert,” she said in an upper-class English accent, “thank you ever so much for watching over Mr. Gamelin. I believe we ought to leave him to eat his breakfast in peace.”
“Why, of course. Mr. Gamelin, may I present Mrs. Rosa King, owner and operator of this establishment. I am sure you feel as I do, that women carry civilization with them wherever they go.”
Mrs. King smiled. “Hubert is my best and only customer, and a great help. Dear fellow, perhaps you could assist Conception with drawing some more water?”
“Of course.” Hall bowed to Henri and Mrs. King in turn, then strode purposefully out.
“There’s a few fresh eggs from the chickens,” said Mrs. King, setting the tray on the bed. “I’ve taken the liberty of soft-boiling them...”
Henri restrained his urge to snatch up the eggs and eat them whole, and instead tapped with a spoon at the shell. The air of unreality was overwhelming. “Er, that man... does he really...”
“Hubert is not a bad fellow, but I’m afraid most of his schemes are imaginary ones. He’s been with me here for six months. I think he just needs to feel a little more important in the world than he really is. We all have our ways of... adjusting... to what is happening in it.” She glanced about the shabby but clean room with a sad smile. “I still run my Bella Vista. My husband founded it; I took it over after his death; generals and revolutions have not dissuaded me. Why should some strange creatures do so?”
“Ah.” Henri finished the last egg in two bites. “So this... Co-operative Colony is a fantasy, then.”
“Oh, no. That one is quite real. He just doesn’t have many investors yet...” She laid a cool palm on his forehead. “You seem a great deal better today. They said you’d been hurt in some kind of battle in the city.”
“But that was only a scuffle!”
She took Hall’s former chair. “I’m afraid you were in quite serious condition. You’d collapsed on the way south from Mexico City, you were feverish – really, Mr. Gamelin, marching that distance with three broken ribs and a contused leg? You must take better care of yourself. Your fellows recognized the danger and brought you here. One man carried you up here as though you were a child.”
Henri chilled at the recollecti
on of that same man facing a monstrous killing machine, of flames and gunshots...
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Mrs. King, mistaking his reaction. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Mr. Gamelin.”
“Eh?” He brightened at once. “Of course not, madam! Not only am I a Frenchman, I am a Gascon. Size does not matter. It is elan that wins the day!”
May 1912, Coahuila Province, Mexico
General Francisco Villa leaned back in his camp chair. “Well. That is an interesting story.”
“It’s the truth, sir,” said Emmet Smith.
“Hm.” Villa was a solidly built man in his forties – much like the soldiers he commanded, who looked to be heads of households rather than youngsters – with a shrewd, weathered face. His uniform was the same as his men’s. “The difficulty is that I don’t believe it. No one has ever escaped from the Martians’ hands, and the only survivors that have been found were in much, much worse shape than you people. There is something that you are not telling me.”
Emmet considered what little he knew of the general. “Can you ask your men to give us privacy?”
Villa studied him a moment, then waved a hand. Sergeant Rodriguez and two of Villa’s aides got up from their positions seated on the ground and moved off. Emmet, Idar, and Hicks remained in their seats. Emmet did not mistake the courtesy of those chairs for cooperation... not yet.
“There are humans working with the Martians now. Probably have been for some time. These ones are a mix of Americans and Mexicans. Put simply, they do the Martians’ dirty work, and their own lives are spared. It’s an ugly thing, but it’s real.”
Villa considered this. “There have been wild rumors, but never anything credible... And do they wear those strange objects?”
“Some of them. Their leader, well, he took a fancy to Miss Idar and gave her one. We used that to help us escape.”
“So you say.”
“I know it looks bad. That’s why we don’t share it with people unless we have to. General, I sure can’t tell you what to do, but I would implore you not to give out this information.”
“You’re right about that part,” said Villa neutrally. “Mr. Smith, there is no state of hostilities between our countries, and while America has not seen fit to recognize President Madero as yet, that’s nothing I would blame you for. Normally I would treat you as guests. But your appearance in Nuevo Leon is suspicious, and you admit there are humans collaborating with Martians. Perhaps that object is gathering information right now.” He pointed at the pendant.
“You don’t look worried,” said Hicks.
“I have been fighting for Madero in this revolution for over two years now. Anywhere I go, there are always two escape routes... and if the Martians have grown complacent, perhaps we could show them a welcome they do not expect.”
“I worked for President Madero myself once,” ventured Emmet. “I’d be happy to talk to him about what we’ve seen. Mostly, though, I need to report back about what the Martians are doing in Texas.”
“And what is that?”
“Now just a minute...” began Hicks. Emmet waved him silent.
“That could be a fair exchange, General. We share what we know with you, and you get us back over the Grande so we can do our jobs.”
“This is not an exchange. It is an order.”
“With all due respect, General... I don’t take orders from you.” Emmet noted that Villa’s hand had begun to tremble. “Now, if you can contact my boss, the adjutant-general of Texas, and he says to do it... then yes. Or your President, as a token of friendship. Otherwise, if you won’t help us, we’ll walk back home on our own feet.”
“Do you think I won’t shoot you if I choose?” snapped Villa. “Impudent rinche snake... Madero is a week’s ride from here! I have no time for such an excursion!”
Emmet blinked. “Only a week? Isn’t he in Chihuahua City?”
“No! Sabinas.”
Along the rail line to Eagle Pass... interesting. And they’ll have a telephone line there as well... “General, I apologize for my tone. But this matter of human collaborators is important to relations between our countries, and it could really blow up if it gets out. Take us to see the President, and I’m certain he’ll know what to do.”
“Or I could bury the tale right here,” said Villa coldly.
Emmet shrugged. “There’ll be others. But I think we can negotiate with the President to keep it limited to those who need to know.”
“You are speaking very far above your station, sir. What are you? A couple of rinche on the wrong side of the border, and you –” he glared at Idar. “I have seen your kind before. One of those noble, well-connected families that cared nothing if a line moved on a map. Call a place Texas, or Mexico – you always do well. Where I came from, a man must work to prove himself! When I was starving, I turned bandit. When a judge sent me into the army instead of hanging me, I learned everything I could about fighting – and saw everything there is of corruption. To be an officer in that? I deserted instead, and took my revenge on the men who harmed my family, my town, my people. I lived by my wits until Madero’s men approached me to fight for him in the north. Not for loot or glory, but for a revolution! Where a man like me can serve a man like him. That is what Madero strives to make of Mexico. And you would negotiate with him?”
“Well, if he’s the man you say, he oughtn’t to hold our lowly style against us,” said Hicks.
“These renegados are scum,” said Idar. “But they have leaders too. If another faction, another movement forms around them, you will have new enemies, General. With all the power of the Martians, and all the cunning of humans. This must be stopped. We can aid you, but only if you listen. Will you?”
Villa stared at her, still furious, then rose to his feet. “Sergeant Rodriguez!”
May 1912, Veracruz, Mexico
“Gamelin! Get in here.” General Charles Mangin waved Henri into his office. He shut the door on the babble of clerks outside. “Sit down. I have read your report. You had quite a little holiday in Mexico City, didn’t you?”
“You might say that, General.” Henri winced as he eased into the chair. Certain movements still set his ribs on fire.
“Perhaps the Navy does know how to fight after all.” He thought he detected a grudging respect in Mangin’s manner. “You seem to think Zapata’s men do as well.”
“Yes, General. But with these new, small machines, the Martians are pressing them badly. They need our help.”
“The only thing worse than streetfighting in one’s own city, my boy...”
Henri nodded. “Is streetfighting in someone else’s.”
Mangin clasped his hands on his desk. “Gamelin, when one fights Martians, whatever you do, you lose a lot of men. This is understood by now. If a battle is won, well, at least they die for something. But to lose a lot of men taking a city block, then yielding it the next day, then taking it back the next... No. This corps was sent here on the understanding back home that we would not suffer large casualties. Grinding it up in Mexico City – for goals that have nothing to do with France’s objectives – is not supportable.”
“I would think the goal of defeating the Martians is also France’s.” Henri realized as he spoke that he’d not have dared to say that a month ago.
“Certainly – but not in someone else’s country!”
“We are sending men to the United States to fight them there.”
“That is different. The assault on the Martian base there is certain to succeed, and the Americans will take the brunt of the casualties... Gamelin, I do not blame you for admiring this Zapata. I too salute him. But to give him my men, well, that is a different thing. To put it bluntly, they are mine to spend, not his.”
“Well, what about heavier weapons, then? Or shells for their guns?”
“Tanks or artillery would be wasted on untrained men. Gamelin, your report is acknowledged, so if–”
“What about stovepipes?”
Mang
in blinked at the English word. “How did you hear about that rumor?”
“Colonel Angeles told me last month, sir. It is no rumor. The Americans have a sort of master rocketeer, Goddard, who created them. They would be ideal weapons in a city fight! And they require little training to use, merely courage.”
“But they are not ours to send to anyone.”
Henri thought quickly. “General, if you attach me to the Mexican expeditionary force, I can liaise with Colonel Angeles. I know he has contacts with American businessmen in El Paso – that is, in Texas. Provide us with funds, and we can buy the rockets from the Americans in Texas on behalf of Zapata’s force, and bring them in via Veracruz by ship.”
“Interesting,” mused Mangin, “but I doubt the Texans would give up a new and scarce weapon for any amount of money. That they have plenty of, eh?”
Merde. What did Felipe say about – Ah. “But they have no aircraft, General.”
“None? Really? But we are not going to ship them aircraft. We have none here!”
“We could send them the plans for, say, the Deperdussin monoplane instead. I believe they could manufacture engines and most of the components themselves; perhaps we sell them instruments. That ought to be worth a few hundred rockets, eh?”
“Plans for a military aircraft?” spluttered Mangin.
Henri shrugged. “It is already obsolete, is it not? But airworthy. It would never become a threat to France; by the time they are building them, we will have much better ones.”
“Gamelin, you make my head ache with your schemes. Very well, I’ll send you to America and let them deal with you. I suspect you will fit right in!”
May 1912, Sabinas, Northern Mexico
After five days of hard riding, Emmet Smith, his companions, and their Mexican escort pulled in to the small town of Sabinas on a stifling afternoon – a tiny cluster of buildings around a train station. The Mexican International Railroad ran from the central city of Torreon northeast to Piedras Negras, a town across the Rio Grande from Eagle Pass. During their approach, Emmet had observed a train puffing its way north, so presumably the Martians hadn’t interrupted this line. They were nearly home... if nothing went wrong.
The Texas Front: Salient Page 22