“None, Commander.”
Taldarnilis paused. “Clarify.”
“There is nothing which can be explained. One simply must perform it.”
“Very well. Continue to deploy defensively eastward, but risk as few machines as possible. Rely on the drones wherever feasible and expend them as needed.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Taldarnilis halted beside the propulsion vehicle and tapped at its viewport with a fine manipulator. After a short time, one of the prey-creatures emerged, propelled by a push from another’s upper limbs. While Taldarnilis did not possess Raqtinoctil’s familiarity with the goodprey, it did recognize the shape and coloration of this creature; it was indeed the correct one.
The other goodprey were armed and sometimes unpredictable; emerging from the fighting machine carried risk. Yet time was pressing. Taldarnilis scooped up the creature, strode barely half a telequel southward, and set it down again. The creature waited passively, its lower limbs folded on the ground, as Taldarnilis lowered its machine and unsealed the egress port. Squirming out of the machine’s confines – for the first time in tendays – it fought the world’s gravity with all the strength of its major limbs and lurched forward. Tentatively, it settled tendrils onto the creature’s rigid braincase, ignoring the peculiar obstacle of thousands of follicular spikes. The prey’s anatomy was bizarre... But there was indeed a consciousness of sorts. Fascinating.
Attempting to meld, as one would within the Race, gave no result. The other was a blur of impulses, urges, deep limbic drives that drowned out any rational thought processes. Some of them Taldarnilis had no concept to fit to. It mentally groped for alternatives to engage with the chaotic impulses it sensed; then it realized that cooperation was not the answer. The prey’s consciousness must be controlled and shaped into a coherent form instead. Taldarnilis carefully imposed structure, aligning the hot, clashing impulses to its own far colder thoughts – or to a small fraction of its own. To overwhelm and annihilate this tiny brain would be to lose a useful asset.
Once some semblance of structure was obtained, Taldarnilis impressed its wishes. All is ready. Go. Go quickly. Holdfast. Home.
July 1912, Martian Base near Hebbronville, Texas
“What’s it doing?” hissed Emmet.
Burham held his binoculars against the car’s planked walls where a gap offered vision. “It is touching the trusty with its appendages. It... appears to be interacting in some way.”
“That how they get orders?” said Hicks. All three men were peering out now. Idar seemed to prefer not to.
“It certainly isn’t killing him. They do that very quickly.” Burnham set down the binoculars and lifted his Winchester without glancing down.
“Burnham...”
“Four hundred yards, I make it.” The scout eased the rifle up to the opening, keeping all but the muzzle inside as he settled it and looked down the sights. “The first shot may not hit... but it’s almost helpless in the open, Mr. Smith. I believe I can score a hit before it can crawl back inside that machine.”
“And if that hit don’t drop it, it burns us all down,” snapped Hicks.
“It might turn the tide of this battle,” breathed Burnham. He stared, unblinking; his forefinger slipped inside the trigger guard.
“No,” said Emmet.
“I believe we spoke of my acting independently.”
“After we get these people out. Our lives are ours to risk – not theirs. Hold your fire, Burnham.”
After a moment, the scout lowered the rifle. “Very well. In any case, we have missed our opportunity. It is going back inside its tripod.”
The tripod rose and headed off eastward as they watched. After a few minutes, the lone man staggered back to the train. Emmet turned to the others. “Well, now. Might be we can set an ambush, if those trusties make their way back here... But that’d still tip our hand in time.”
“I need another canteen,” called out Idar.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Emmet dug one out of his pack and stepped over to where she was carefully administering water to a survivor. He handed it to her and studied the man. “Friend, can you walk?”
The man mumbled something. Jovita steadied his head and trickled water into his mouth. He wasn’t even strong enough to try to grab the canteen. Emmet snorted in frustration. “Damn it, they can’t walk ten yards!”
“Food and water will give them some strength in time,” said Burnham. “If we can protect them for a day, they may be able to walk out at night.”
“I figured one or two injured, but... You take care of your cattle even if you don’t give a damn about ’em!” fumed Emmet.
“That’s another indication they mean to leave shortly. They’ve neglected their food supply. Ah...” Burnham glanced outward again. “I believe you can deal with any threat from the trusties, Mr. Smith. Since we have a few hours at least, I intend to scout at least part of this base.”
“Goin’ for some glory?” said Hicks sourly.
“If you like.”
“If you get spotted, it’ll alert them.”
Burnham quirked a smile. “I won’t be spotted.”
“Look, IX Corps is bound to take this base anyhow on their second go. They’ll find whatever’s here.”
“Possibly after it’s been wrecked by shelling. There could be something vital out there, something that... makes a difference. Something that’s needed.”
Jovita Idar placed a hand on his arm. “Mr. Burnham. Look at these people. You are needed here, we all are.”
Burnham’s eyes flicked around the misery of the cattle car. Haggard faces looked back at him. “I suppose so. There is glory, and then there is service. I shall stay.”
July 1912, Martian Base near Hebbronville, Texas
Ronald Gorman helped de Gama haltingly climb the locomotive’s metal steps. “You have done a great service, my friend. What does it instruct?”
“This one was different,” mumbled de Gama. “Another angel, a different light. Oh, to see all of them...”
“What does it instruct?” repeated Gorman patiently. The priest seemed even more shaken than usual by his contact with a Master.
“Home. Holdfast. Quickly, go. Go. All is ready.” de Gama settled onto a bench in the cab.
“And none too soon! That is artillery fire, and it is getting closer. Mendez! Stoke the firebox. We must leave as soon as steam is fully up.” The engineer shuffled to obey. “Now, do the Masters wish their food to be brought on this journey?”
“I do not know. Angels think of greater things. They have succeeded in winning their sustenance from the soil. The dark forces mean to overwhelm them, but their claws will close upon empty air instead.”
“Back to their fortress in Monterrey, then,” mused Gorman. “Well, I for one am not risking my neck outside to unhook a car when some stray shell lands. Spivey can remain back there, and they can rot. What else did you see that has you so perturbed, priest?”
“Glimpses of another’s glimpses. Palimpsests, erased and redrawn from mind to mind. Figures walking, weapons tracking. An angel’s sword lifted, saw the familiar, and was stayed. It is our queen, Gorman. She has come back, as I prophesied.”
Gorman digested this. “You are certain?”
“Yes.”
The certainty of a madman... Still. “If she has, she would have brought friends – just as I did returning to America. I will certainly not walk out into their guns... But I expect I know her reasoning. She is tired of her crown.”
“Abdication?”
“Precisely. We shall be well prepared.”
Chapter 18
July 1912, Laredo, Texas
Lang was trying to be in three places at once. It wasn’t working very well.
He’d supervised the dawn arrival and unloading of their supply train at the surviving railyard to the north of Laredo. Unlike other cities that the Martians had occupied for a length of time, they hadn’t troubled to loot any materials, and the only signs
of them that far out of the town were the queer triangular tracks of their patrol machines.
Then he’d caught a ride on one of the supply trucks back into town – or what was left of the town. Laredo’s buildings were generally low enough that they’d not collapsed into the streets after being gutted, and a few had survived more-or-less intact. The LRSC had established a command post in one, a burnt-out general store at the eastern verge. Lang figured he’d be of best use there, while Plainview took his one-rocket scout cars – Coyotes – further east. They at least had a better chance of hitting and running in the open.
At least there was plenty of light slanting in through the shattered windows and the portion of the roof that gaped open. The shop’s counters were intact, so they’d set up telephones and maps across them. Debris was piled into a corner – charred boards, glass, and bricks. A cash register lay skewed on top like a cherry on a sundae. Whatever works. But the line of sight through the windows didn’t show much past the opposite building. Lang sent four men with Private Jenkins to find the town’s fire hall and salvage a ladder so that he could access the roof.
They returned in half an hour carrying a ladder, but looking pale. “Spiders must’ve got in there, sir,” blurted out one of the men. “When the Martians took the town. The firemen, they were all still in their coats, but they...”
“They’re dead,” said Jenkins. “Where d’you want the ladder, sir?”
“That corner.”
While the other men set it up, Jenkins spoke quietly to Lang. “Sir, maybe take him up top. I think he’s better off outside for a while.”
Lang beckoned the shaken man, clambered up the ladder, and stepped carefully onto the damaged flat roof. It did offer a decent view to the south and east over open, flat country, and Lang took some time to study the area through binoculars. He could see several Coyotes set up in their positions two miles east, and three groups of rocket trucks along the edge of town. There were a lot more further back west covering the routes toward the bridge. A fair bit of firepower, but once the rockets were gone, they’d have nothing...
When he climbed back down, he noticed Jenkins eating from an open tin can. “What are you doing?”
“I guess you’d call it scavenging, sir. Tinned peaches. Not bad.” Jenkins speared one with a hunting knife and offered it. “Try one?”
Lang was suddenly aware of his hunger. “I’ll pay the owner afterward – if we can still find him. Or this store.” He wolfed the peach and settled on the dirty floor as Jenkins hacked open another tin.
General Villa joined Lang an hour after sunup. “My men are ready. At least every rocket truck will have one or two machine guns and some infantry protecting it, if the enemy send in their pequeños diablos. And my men to the south have prepared the surprise I spoke to you about.”
“The explosive train? That could help. IX Corps is attacking the main base right now, so we can expect the Martians to try and push into here within a few hours.” He showed Villa the map. They’d be coming right at the bridge, but from which route? And he didn’t dare place rockets where they might land near it. The Martians could fight right up to the edge of their precious bridge without much risk of damaging it, but Lang’s weapons were far less precise. We’re like two desperadoes fistfighting over a bottle of nitroglycerin. And speaking of explosives...
“What do you think the Martians will do when we send out that train?”
Villa sighed. “You have been fighting them nearly as long as I have. We have used this trick once before. They are very intelligent – and a máquina loca is a memorable thing. They will see the threat quickly enough and destroy it. But where? If they destroy it somewhere outside of Laredo, it will delay them while they repair the tracks. If they have pushed into this town by that point, they might even fire on it as it crosses the bridge, and wreck that – but that is unlikely. Either way, it will do some damage. Now, the best outcome would be for it to collide with their southbound ore train, if it does not run out of steam first. That would be spectacular! But we cannot control that.”
“Well, General, Colonel Plainview thinks we just might, if the Martians do show up with that train.”
“Indeed. My men are ready too. If the Martians concentrate fire upon the máquina loca, we will all have a free hand. If they are busy fighting us, the loca may get through. Either way, we will make use of this distraction.”
“But I expect we won’t be the only ones.” Lang had noted men of the 3rd Volunteer Division trickling past in the street since daybreak. Without orders or announcements – certainly without his control – they still seemed to know something was about to happen, and they all seemed to be headed east.
Now, a rising grumble in the street heralded the grim bulk of a steam tank trundling past with the markings of the 608th Tank Battalion. Two other tanks followed closely after; infantry marched alongside. “General, do you know where those tanks are going?”
“Well, toward the enemy, I would say. Perhaps he can tell you more.” Villa pointed at the officer walking past the store’s windows. He turned in abruptly, heels crunching on debris.
“Oh, damn. That’s General Slater...”
Slater strode up. “Where’s Plainview?”
“He’s getting the last rockets loaded, sir. Just south of town.”
“Well, when is he attacking? We need to coordinate!”
“Attacking?” Lang stared at him. What have you got to attack with? Ten working tanks? “General, my orders are to hold here, at Laredo. We’re defending. Our best place to stop them is in the town itself. It’s true we’re deploying our scout cars to the east, but they’re only a skirmish line at best, to buy some time. Is the 608th going to push further east?”
“Yeah. Them and a bunch of other units. It’s our own ground. It’s our own land. If there’s a chance now, we’re going to drive back the Martians as far east of the town as we can get, and not let one tripod set foot in it ever again. That’s all we can do, Captain. If somebody drops, someone else grabs the machinery, but nobody stops.”
“But it’s wide open out there. General Slater, you’ve got to order them to wait!”
Harlan Slater looked at him with empty eyes. “Captain, my family lived in Laredo. I don’t know how to order them to wait.” He turned and walked out of the command post, rejoining the stream of men marching east.
The scouts sighted oncoming tripods half an hour later, instead of the few hours’ grace that Lang had hoped for. The good aspect was that IX Corps was still hotly engaged with the base, so this must be only a detachment; the bad was that the LRSC wasn’t fully prepared, and the 3rd scattered well to the east of Laredo. General Villa summoned a horse and rode off to his own men’s command; a few minutes later, an LRSC scout spluttered into town in a civilian coupe to pass Plainview’s detailed report.
“A baker’s dozen of ’em coming straight in from the east,” said the scout. “Every Coyote we have is up front, and they already hit ’em once. I think we got four, maybe five, then they pulled back for a spell.”
Lang cursed; he’d hoped for more results from the surprise of the new weapon. At least half the guided rockets must have missed or not scored a fatal hit. The Martians had the rising sun behind them; that didn’t help. He’d known of that, but there wasn’t anything to be done. If Funston could move the sun’s path, he would.
“The colonel, he figures the Martians were expecting us to throw more rocket salvoes at ’em, so they stayed split up and kept moving around as they advanced. Didn’t stop the guided rockets. Anyway, we’re falling back to the second line of positions.”
“What?” Lang rounded on him. “Why’d you give up that ground if they weren’t coming on?”
“Don’t know, sir. I guess we was just following the plan.”
Which is changing by the minute... Lang looked at the useless telephones. With the LRSC vehicles shifting so quickly, there was no practical way to string wire any further forward even if he had time. “Alright. Dr
ive me back up to the firing line, wherever you think Colonel Plainview may be.”
They rattled out of town and emerged onto an open landscape. Pillars of black smoke rose up well to the east; a few moving vehicles raised dust clouds. Otherwise, the day was clear and warm. Once they’d traveled a mile, he had no difficulty sighting a half-dozen tripods approaching from the east, three or four miles distant.
The driver halted. “I think the colonel’s just up here. But there’s no road crossing over to that one.”
Lang eyed the mild slope rising to the south. “Never mind! Just get back to the command post in case Villa goes there. Tell him to wait for me!”
He hopped out of the car and set off. An attempt at the quarter-mile uphill run left him gasping and reduced to a limping trot. Come on, damn it. Staff officer living... although even as a line tanker, he’d not been much for running. But the LRSC car the scout had pointed out was still there, pulled back into low ground for reloading. The car was Two-Six; he recognized Cooter Stimson and Colonel Plainview. They were wrestling a guided four-inch rocket onto the Coyote’s launch rail. Lang managed to sprint the last few steps, jumped up, and lent a hand. The massive piece of ordnance wavered, steadied, and clunked onto the rail.
“Get it wired up!” yelled the colonel. He stepped up onto the car’s hood and glared around at the chaos of the battlefield. Lang joined him, having no idea what was needed to prepare the rocket. The hood’s paint was scorched and smoldering in places, windshield shattered. The cars weren’t meant for getting inside a mile range without terrain to take cover behind, for getting into this kind of slugging match.
Neither were human bodies. “Where’s your driver?” he asked.
“Heat ray brushed him.” Plainview pointed to the figure huddled a few feet away in a swale of ground. “He didn’t duck. Once we’ve fired the second round, we’ll get him to the 3rd’s aid station.”
“Why did you fall back, Colonel?”
The Texas Front: Salient Page 30