“This constrains our operational flexibility. Perhaps we may abandon the transport unit entirely?”
Taldarnilis reflected that only a Threeborn would question orders in such a manner. Perhaps this is what Vantarsilas thinks of my own... initiative. “This last portion of compound 92-12 represents a whole cycle of energy. It is still our first priority to return it safely to the holdfast.”
“Understood, Expedition Leader.”
July 1912, Alice, Texas
The first light of false dawn picked out the hunkered shapes of tents and shacks, clumped on an isolated patch of open ground twenty miles south of Alice and IX Corps HQ. A motor car spluttered past, steering cautiously by the fan of light cast by its lanterns. For a moment, they picked out a frail, ungainly skeleton of wood and fabric squatting on its wheels, then it faded back into semidarkness.
Henri Gamelin walked toward the vague shape of the Curtiss biplane. The night was warm, although not as muggy as he remembered Vietnam. A dry and brittle heat, here. As a pilot had remarked, sometimes hot enough to melt and loosen the glue binding the wooden layers of a propeller.
He supposed that was one advantage of a ‘pusher’ aircraft like the Curtiss; if the prop flew apart, the crew would live a few moments longer before the crash...
“Good morning!” he called to the figure he glimpsed working underneath the lower of the two wings.
“Lieutenant Gamelin!” A Signals Corps captain, Robert Hines, twisted upright. “Can’t mistake that accent. Come to see us off? Tom’s fitting a fresh cell for the transmitter right now. Done there, Tom?”
“All hooked up, yeah.” A second figure joined them. There was just enough light for Henri to make out the lieutenant’s bars on his coveralls. “Say, Gamelin, is the 118th ready to move out? We can take off any time now. Still going to be swinging south as per plan?”
“Ah,” said Henri, “ah, there are changes. I will update Captain Hines as we fly.”
“What?”
“Colonel Estienne has instructed me that no one else is to use the transmitter. It is the property of the French Army, and is merely on loan. And I am trained in Morse code and semaphore.”
“Well, that’s...” The lieutenant spun on his heel, kicked at the dirt. “Goddammit!”
“Easy, Tom. There’ll be other chances.”
“Not to see a Martian base in Texas get flattened!” But the lieutenant dragged his gloves and hat free of his belt and thrust them at Henri. “Here. Gets cold at altitude, even in summer. Don’t you dare let him down.”
“I will not,” said Henri sincerely. “But we should take off immediately. The 118th is already on the move.”
Following Hines’ directions, he clambered awkwardly into the wooden seat at the very front of the aircraft. It resembled a folding picnic chair... and felt about as solid. Hines settled in behind him, fitting his shoulder harness that would steer the aircraft into turns. Even the two men’s careful movements made the entire aircraft wobble.
For his part, Henri had only a Morse key and a pair of heavy binoculars slung about his neck. It seemed like very little to take into the field against a Martian invader, but a pair of eyes in the right place had turned many a battle before.
Still, he could not help but compare the fragility of this aircraft with the armored bulk of the striking vehicles. The previous night, he’d conferred with Colonel Estienne at the 118th’s bivouac. Once separated from the American liaison officer – an abrasive, angry captain named Patton, who at least spoke fluent French – they had shared views. Estienne, jealous of glory, insisted that the scouting be a French matter. “It is an honorable fight, Gamelin, and we will conduct ourselves with proper action and elan. But be wary of those who have their own agendas in this. I do not trust these Americans – their Roosevelt is making himself president for life, and I have a sense that some of his generals may intend a coup d’etat. Or at least to go their own way. And the Mexicans! Have you heard General Huerta’s speeches? He may hardly pause to fight the Martians on his way to fight his rebel countrymen! We must stick to our own soldiering. Now, if only they would do so back home...”
He’d gone on to share disquieting rumors about the political situation in France – and the military outlook on it. Could the Republic truly be in danger from sheer dissatisfaction and anxiety?
“Alright, Gamelin, let’s go!” Hines called out orders to the pair of mechanics who’d joined them. Along with Tom, they shoved and wrestled the half-ton aircraft clear of the tents and swung it to line up with a dirt track stretching away to the west. The day continued to brighten. Henri noticed clouds of dust rising to the north; a great many vehicles were on the move, like some vast herd in Africa.
Then the engine blasted into life behind him and the whole contraption sped down the track, shaking and jouncing until it lurched up into flight. The ground fell away below him, creating a vast void of air that his rickety seat seemed to be hurtling through without any means of support, airstream tearing around him. The horizon rocked in irregular motion as Hines struggled to keep the aircraft going in some sort of straight direction; it opened up further by the minute as the ground continued to sink and lose detail – although occasionally the aircraft’s wings seemed to lose their grip and lurch it downward for a gut-clenching moment. Henri didn’t know whether to be terrified or exhilarated.
Instead, he wrestled his binoculars into place against the windstream and peered north. There were others out there who needed to know what he could see – possibly to survive. Long-shadowed vehicles came into his view, moving west; he panned left until he glimpsed the Martian perimeter fortification, even many miles distant. In perhaps twenty minutes, he’d be able to see inside it. Today, he had the eyes of an eagle!
Yes, definitely exhilarated.
July 1912, West of Martian Base, near Hebbronville
The towers loomed along the top of the high dirt wall like gallows, outlined darkly against the sunrise glow. Emmet could see four, which suggested eight or ten in total around the perimeter of the base. From Burnham’s terse description, any one could obliterate all four humans in an instant. The red pinpricks of the heavily-protected weapons at their tops traversed slowly, tirelessly, scanning the landscape like cyclops’ eyes.
There was no good way to move across open ground toward an industrial-sized weapon overlooking it. Walking upright would do as well as anything else; it was still too dark to risk running. The three men clustered closely about Miss Idar, rifles slung tightly to be as inconspicuous as possible. Emmet glanced over his shoulder, nodded to her; but she stared straight ahead, walking stiffly upright, scorning any instinctive crouch. He looked forward again, realizing wryly that he’d shifted as they walked to be between her and the nearest tower almost directly ahead. If it fired, that heat ray would burn through his body like a mosquito caught in a blowtorch, but some instincts were less easily controlled.
Hicks glanced nervously back toward the two Martian tripods they’d passed on their way, although they’d continued on what looked like patrol routes even after the humans had come close enough to see their own glowing markers. “Leave ’em,” said Emmet tightly. “They’d have gone after us by now if they were going to. Make for that gap to the left. Walk like... like you’re coming off a shift at a factory.” Their path was angling in to meet the rail line, which curved slightly at this point. He’d not had time to notice when they’d left, but the perimeter walls turned inward into a sort of corridor for a short distance, shielding the interior from view. They walked straight into it.
“No gate,” said Burnham. “No real control of access at all. It certainly doesn’t seem like a fortress.”
Hicks pointed with his chin without lifting a hand. “No need, with them two towers covering it all.”
“True, but they were not there when you were inside, I believe. Ah–” Burnham gestured. “We should not creep along the wall. Workers would not.”
“You’re right.” Emmet forced himself to st
ay well away from the heaped dirt and rocks that offered the illusion of cover. “But it’s getting lighter. Soon those trusties’ll be able to spot us.”
A few minutes’ walk brought them to within sight of the bulk of a locomotive at the head of a row of rail cars. In the distance beyond, moving metal shapes glinted in the first rays of sunrise, colossal, toiling at some work that raised a volcano plume of dust. “We’ve found our thirty giants all right... Trick is not to get stepped on. Stay close to this train.” They slunk along the south side of the locomotive past the tall iron wheels. Burnham reached a hand up, touched the metal of the boiler. “It’s warm,” he whispered. “The firebox is banked – they’re on short notice to leave.”
Voices sounded from the locomotive’s cab as they moved past; Spanish, tense but not alarmed. At least two in there. Unless they leaned out, they’d likely not spot the infiltrators... A coal tender was linked on the back of the cab. Next, a fancy first-class or private car; then an ordinary passenger one, all too familiar – they’d been confined in it. Hicks stumbled over a rail tie, stifled a curse; all of them were as tense as steel wire.
The following cars were low-slung hopper cars, filled with tons of that strange yellow aggregate. It had spilled around them in ten-foot splashes and coated the wheels and trucks; the Martians were probably in a hurry. “Come on,” said Emmet, and they broke into a jog, kicking up spurts of the stuff as they ran. There sure were a lot of cars. Seventeen, eighteen... He pulled up ten feet short of a boxcar.
No – a cattle car.
“This is where the prisoners are kept,” said Idar.
Emmet unslung the Winchester and nodded to the other two, who did the same. “No shooting unless you absolutely have to. We’ll watch this car for a spell, try to figure if there’s guards inside...”
“Tripod to the east,” said Burnham quietly. They looked over; one was approaching, carrying a metal bin that sifted yellow dust with each undulating step.
“Under the car.” They dropped to the ground, shed their packs hastily and scrunched between the wheel trucks. The tripod continued its slow, tireless motion until it passed by them and reached the hopper cars, then stopped. A tremendous rumble announced that it was dumping its load into one of the cars. After a few moments it reappeared, returning eastward.
The rumbling went on, and in a different tone. It seemed to be from the east now.
Idar glanced over to him from her crouch. “Was that...”
“Yeah. Artillery fire, or tank guns. Might just be probing...”
The machine that had just dumped a load of ore – or whatever that aggregate was – discarded the container like a man dropping his cigarette butt, and accelerated to a considerable speed. As they watched, others fanned out from different locations to join it. The skittering movement across half the visible landscape reminded Emmet of a disturbed anthill – and the distant gunfire continued. “Nope. There’s something big going on, all right.”
“IX Corps was about to stage a combined attack,” said Burnham.
“Now?” said Hicks. “They sit around for months, and now?”
“It is a useful distraction,” said Burnham. “We may be able to scout further now, without any fear of encountering...”
A faint breeze stirred the dry grass stalks between the rail ties as he spoke. The day was warming already. Idar gasped, “What is that smell?”
Emmet glanced over; his eyes had adjusted to the gloom under the cars, and he could see dark heaps under the cattle car. He recognized the smell right enough; human waste, and worse. The smaller piles must have accumulated as they dripped through the floorboards, but the larger shape showed a desiccated hand.
“God damn bastards,” said Hicks in a lilting tone. Closest one to the open, he wrenched himself out from under the car.
“Hicks! Wait!” Emmet squirmed into the open as well. Hicks was already rounding the car’s end. Emmet ran after him, braced for a gunshot. As he swung around the car, a man tumbled down the small iron steps. Hicks jumped after him, gripping his rifle by the barrel. He swung it in a high arc that connected with the man’s head and laid him out flat. Hicks continued to strike at the sprawled figure until a piece of wood flew loose; he threw aside the rifle with a curse, dropped to his knees, and began punching with a fist.
No one shouted at him to stop. After several more blows, Hicks staggered upright. He stooped and picked up the Winchester, shaking his head at the broken stock.
“Done?” said Emmet calmly.
“Yeah.” Hicks gulped air.
“Put him with his... work.” They each took an arm and dragged the corpse to where they could roll it under the car. “Now let’s see to these people.”
They kicked open the car door and entered behind pointed sidearms, but there was no guard waiting inside. The stench nearly doubled him over. Eleven people were ranged about the car. Some blinked in the doorway’s bright illumination; others lay inert in filthy straw. A long chain connected them all.
Emmet had seen poverty and squalor enough growing up, and a Ranger got to see worse; violence, abuse, or a drunk who’d strangled on his own vomit. This was much worse. He wasn’t even seeing any injuries. The traitors hadn’t bothered to abuse their captives. What would be the point? They were just... meat.
“This is inhuman,” rasped Idar. A couple of the captives shrank back from the figures standing over them; she moved forward instinctively, speaking gently but rapidly in Spanish and English.
“Oh, it’s human doing, all right. No Martians got in here... Burnham, keep an eye over Miss Idar, will you? Folks can panic.” He motioned to Hicks. “Let’s go get all our packs inside. Armed men’re scaring ’em right now.”
Outside, they drew clean air in lungfuls. Hicks was silent as they gathered all four packs and lugged them around the car’s corner. “Randy,” said Emmet carefully. “I don’t disagree with what you did... but next time, we may need a few alive. For information.”
“Will they hang, afterward?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Then I’m fine with that. I want to ask one of ’em how they... I’m fine with that.”
Emmet took a deep, pointless breath and they ducked back into the car, passing the packs inward. He rummaged through his own pack and produced the cold chisel and hammer they’d expected to need. He and Hicks got to work breaking the chain. Idar seized two of the many canteens they’d brought and pushed past them, ignoring the filth. “Those two first,” she said crisply. Triage, of course... Emmet worked steadily. In a few minutes they’d loosed and organized the five worst cases, easing them carefully into at least a cleaner space.
“There’s a tripod out there,” warned Burnham. He’d kept a lookout. Not a man easily distracted...
“Plenty of work in here,” said Emmet. He struck loose another darby and winced at the bloody sores under it edged by a tattered suit sleeve. He recognized Señor Targas’ face under a coating of dirt and worse. Emmet felt no petty validation of Targas’ foolishness. In this horror, he was just another human reduced to far less than that.
Targas’ eyes fluttered; he coughed and stirred, locked eyes with Emmet. “Please, get us out of here.”
Emmet gently detached a clawed hand from his arm. “Ah, we can’t do that yet. But we’ll stay with you. No one’s leaving until all of you are, once that thing out there moves off.” He repeated the last sentence in English for others’ benefit.
“There may be difficulty with that,” said Burnham from his post.
Emmet joined him and peered out through the gap. The Martian tripod was stalking closer, heading toward the locomotive.
Cycle 597,845.2, Minefast 31.01, South Texas
Taldarnilis paced its machine along the length of the transport vehicles, checking the quantity of 92-12 that had been loaded. Two of the vehicles still offered unused volume... but all processed compound had already been loaded. Another day’s output must be balanced against the risk of being overwhelmed by the comin
g assault. “Report, Group Three Leader.”
“Prey vehicles and projectile-throwers are converging from northeast through southeast directions. Confirmed as a full attack. Group Two has engaged and is pulling back. One machine lost.”
“Larger than the previous attack?”
“Additional numbers deploying to both south and north flanks. Estimated forty percent larger fighting capacity overall. With the individual prey screening the major fighting units, it is difficult to move drones close enough to confirm accurately.”
And we are half the mobile strength we were then... Taldarnilis made its decision. “We will proceed with the withdrawal from the minefast at once. Delay and disrupt the prey’s assault. Adjust the operational plan as necessary to deal with more powerful attacking units. Abandon the digging and catalyzing machines in place.” It was unlikely that the prey would learn anything useful from studying them, but to be certain, a few long bursts from the defense towers would see to it that there was nothing intact. The minefast constructor machines had already been transferred back to Holdfast 31.1. With the added strength of this assault, there was little time or effort to spare.
It shifted communication links. “Raqtinoctil, report to the prey transport. I require contact with the adjusted prey-creature.”
“Commander, my present location is sixteen telequel east of there. It will require–”
“Disregard.” Taldarnilis mentally acknowledged its own error. Raqtinoctil should have been stationed much closer to the task that only it performed. The stored memories of the Race that Taldarnilis carried contained very few errors, but the new environment of this world seemed to be a positive incubator for them... “I will perform the contact myself. Other than making physical contact tendril-to-calvarium, what information can you offer?”
The Texas Front: Salient Page 29