Species War: Battlefield Mars Book 3

  BATTLEFIELD MARS 3

  Species War

  David Robbins

  © 2017 by David Robbins

  DEATH AND DESTRUCTION!!

  From continent to continent and coast to coast, headlines screamed the incredible news.

  Earth at war with Mars! A real War of the Worlds! Earth governments unite against Martian threat! Military forces gear for other-worldly warfare!

  For the population of planet Earth, it was one bombshell after another. First came word that Mars was inhabited. Next, that contact had been made, and the Martians turned out to be hostile. Then, like cosmic wildfire, came word that two of Earth’s colonies had been overrun, one right after the other. New Meridian and Wellsville fell to creatures described as “intelligent crustaceans.”

  A single colony---the largest, Bradbury---was left, and the Martians could attack at any time. The outcome wasn’t in doubt. Bradbury’s meager military force wasn’t a match for a horde of rampaging Martians.

  Every effort was being made to save them. The United Nations Interplanetary Corps was rushing troops and equipment to Earth’s major launch centers; the Kennedy Space Center in Florida, the Baikonur Cosmodrome Spaceport in Kazakhstan, and the Vikram Sarabhai Space Centre in Thiruvananthapuram.

  Citizens all around the globe hung on the latest news. Mars was on the tip of every tongue. The war eclipsed everything. So much so, a special satellite channel was set up for ‘War of the Worlds’ updates and bulletins.

  Little was known about the Martians. They lived in underground cities and were apparently divided into castes based on size and color. They were also relentless. They showed no mercy. Nearly every last person in the other two colonies had been wiped out, usually by having their heads ripped off, and their arms and legs left next to their torsos. A bizarre ritual, it was claimed.

  Pundits were having a field day, with experts weighing in on every aspect. The exobiologists were unanimous in their opinion that the Martians were so different from humans as to be completely alien. As Dr. Helmet Schmidt put it, “We have no frame of reference, their species and ours. Communication might well be impossible. And if we can’t communicate, peace between our species and theirs will prove elusive.”

  The United Nations Interplanetary Corps agreed. Every military resource at Earth’s disposal was being thrown into the effort to save the third colony, including a new ultra-secret weapon that wouldn’t be unveiled until its deployment on Mars.

  As General Constantine Augusto declared as he reviewed the troops parading past to board the Avenger I, “The Martians have picked on the wrong people. They attacked without provocation. Hundreds of innocents were killed. Now we intend to return the favor. We will seek them out and destroy them wherever they live.”

  General Augusto smiled and pointed at one of the many bright banners flying above the spaceport walls. “That right there says it all.”

  DEATH AND DESTRUCTION!

  CONVERSION AND ASSIMILATION!

  They came from every corner of the planet---if oblate spheroids can be said to have corners---from north and south, from east and west, from every warren, every burrow, no matter how deep underground or how far afield.

  Awareness brought them, spread through their communal consciousness with the speed of a Birthworld dust wind.

  Creatures from another planet had come to theirs. Creatures from the nearest, from the planet they called Blueworld.

  That in itself was exciting. Even more so was the fact that these otherworlders could be brought into the Unity and experience the sublime bliss of enlightenment.

  So they came. The Hryghr and the Gryghr. The Eryghr and the Aryghr. All the castes, in numbers so huge, never had so many gathered together.

  They had made mistakes in their previous battles with the Blueworlders. Their leaders were wiser now, and this time, there wouldn’t be any.

  The Blueworlders were so different, so strange in terms of their biological organisms and their mental processes, that predicting their behavior had proven difficult.

  As just one example, the aliens preferred to dwell in giant eggs the color of a rare metal. Not under the ground, where any sentient with a shred of intelligence would live. Even more remarkable, inside the golden eggs, the aliens maintained an artificial environment similar to that on their home planet.

  None of that compared to the shock of discovering that the Blueworlders lacked a communal stream of consciousness. Fortunately, their grave deficiency could be corrected by assimilating them into the Unity.

  That the aliens had to die first was a trifling detail.

  So they came from all corners, every caste, every kind, and dug new tunnels and warrens so far under the remaining giant eggs that the two-legged aliens would never suspect. They came and they waited and their leaders analyzed and plotted and soon a new awareness spread.

  More Blueworlders were on the way.

  A great force of them.

  A force that brought with it the seeds of their death and rebirth.

  CONVERSION AND ASSIMILATION!

  1

  Captain Archard Rahn flew high into the Martian sky and hovered, the Robotic Armored Man-of-War in which he was encased responding superbly to his every movement.

  “Anything, Captain?” the voice of Colonel Vasin asked over the helmet’s commlink.

  “Give me a minute, sir,” Archard said. He activated the RAM’s sensors and performed a full spectrum sweep of the barren terrain. “Nothing,” he reported. “No sign of them, sir.”

  “Good. Return to Bradbury. We’ve received a communiqué from Earth that pertains to you. Vasin out.”

  Archard frowned. He hoped it didn’t have anything to do with the public relations campaign his superiors were forcing down his throat. Annoyed, he amped the battlesuit’s thrusters and banked toward the far-distant domes of the third colony. Thanks to the protective nanosheaths that covered the nigh-indestructible alloy of which they were constructed, they gleamed bright in the midday sun like gigantic golden eggs.

  Bradbury was the oldest of the three colonies. Situated in Isidis Planitia, an enormous basin, it was the pride of Mother Earth, the pinnacle of human technology, the greatest achievement in history.

  But for the life of him, Archard couldn’t understand why the colony was still standing.

  The Martians had overrun the other two with lightning rapidity. First New Meridian, the newest and the smallest. He and a handful of survivors had managed to escape and reach the second colony, Wellsville, only to learn, too late, that the Martians shadowed them the entire way. Within days, Wellsville fell.

  That was over a month ago. Yet there had been no sign of the Martians since then.

  Archard supposed he should be glad. Instead, it bothered him. By rights, based on past experience, the Martians should have shown up by now. He could think of only two possible reasons they hadn’t.

  First, on the initial trek from New Meridian to Wellsville, he and the others traveled overland, making it easy for the Martians to trail them. But when they escaped Wellsville, they did so in the Thunderbolt, a new aircraft designed especially for use on Mars. It could well be the Martians had simply lost track of them.

  The second possible reason had to do with the fact there were no extinct volcanoes or caves near Bradbury. Both were often entry points to the Martians’ underground civilization.

  In effect, it boiled down to luck. Or did it? A secret group of Earth’s leaders had known about the Martians all along. Perhaps they deliberately chose the Isidis Planitia site to reduce the risk of discovery.

  Archard put the issue from his mind and ran another spectrum sweep. Infrared, motion sensors, subsurface
sonar, all registered negative. He should be relieved but he wasn’t.

  Worry nagged at him constantly.

  Spreading the RAM’s huge arms, Archard swooped toward the nearest dome. When still a score of meters out, he slowed and lowered his legs down so that he landed almost as lightly as the proverbial feather. A remarkable feat, given that the battlesuit weighed over a ton. But then, he had spent more time in one than anyone alive. Not by choice. Out of necessity. Without the RAM, he’d never have survived the fall of the other to colonies.

  Thumping the ground with each stride, Archard approached an oversized airlock specifically built to allow vehicles---and military ordnance like the RAM---to go in and out.

  The outer door hissed open and Archard entered and closed it. He had to wait while the lock was pressurized, a tedious process that took several minutes but was critical. Should the atmospheres fail to pressurize, the resultant decompression would cause a devastating blast.

  Archard was pleasantly surprised to find Lieutenant Ulla Burroughs and Sergeant Thaddeus Kline waiting for him. Fellow survivors from Wellsville, he had come to regard them more as friends than subordinates. “Hey there,” he rumbled through his helmet mic. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  Lieutenant Burroughs and Sergeant Kline glanced at each other and then up at him.

  “Word has it you’re going to be called before the governor,” Burroughs said, her green eyes twinkling with amusement. She had dark hair and a lean build, and was as professional a soldier as Archard ever met.

  “Not again,” Archard said.

  “Afraid so, sir,” Sergeant Kline said. A husky career man, he had been rewarded with another stripe for his heroics at Wellsville. “Brace yourself.”

  2

  Archard no sooner climbed out of the battlesuit in the sublevel armory at U.N.I.C. HQ than a mousey aide from the governor’s office walked up and informed him Governor Blanchard wanted to see him right away.

  “I’m Miles Hermann, by the way. Personal aide to the governor, himself.”

  Archard mentioned that he’d like to take a shower first. The aide said there was no time; they had to leave right away. When Archard brought up that he’d like his friends to accompany him, the aide replied that his instructions were to escort Archard and only Archard.

  “We really must hurry,” Miles Hermann urged, and dropped a bombshell. “A special conference call has been set up with General Augusto and the secretary-general.”

  Sergeant Kline let out a low whistle.

  “You travel in rarified circles, sir,” Lieutenant Burroughs said, grinning.

  Archard reluctantly let himself be led to the elevator. As it rose to the ground floor, Miles Hermann prattled on about the impending war and how excited everyone was to see the Martians get their due.

  Archard listened with half an ear. He didn’t share in the enthusiasm. Twice now, he’d barely escaped the creatures with his life. The third time might be his unlucky charm.

  There was also the fact that, secretly, Archard no longer believed Earth had a de facto right to claim parts of Mars for its own---whether the Martians liked it or not.

  He was thinking that he would like more than anything to ditch Hermann and forget the conference call and go see the new love of his life, Katla Dkany, when the governor’s aide dropped another bombshell.

  “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to get to talk to you like this, you being such a hero and all.”

  “Hardly,” Archard said.

  “Don’t be modest, Captain,” Miles said. “All of Earth holds you in the highest esteem.”

  “For losing two colonies?”

  “Those were hardly your fault,” Miles said. “That you survived is a testament to the human spirit.”

  “Felt like luck to me,” Archard said.

  “Don’t be so modest, Captain,” Miles said. “Whether you are willing to admit it or not, your feat is quite remarkable.”

  “I wasn’t the only survivor,” Archard pointed out.

  “You led them,” Miles said. “Across a thousand kilometers of rugged terrain, with those creatures nipping at your heels every step of the way. If that doesn’t deserve our respect, I don’t know what does.”

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” Archard said.

  The governor’s personal limo was waiting. The aide held the back door for Archard, slid in after him, and barked at the driver.

  Archard caught sight of his reflection in the tinted window. His crew-cut blond hair, his blue eyes, his square jaw. He glanced up, and there was his face again, plastered on a screencast of the latest news. Above his image, a caption read HERO! TROOPER! INSPIRATION TO US ALL!

  Archard groaned.

  “Are you all right, Captain?” Miles said. “What was that about?”

  “You really do have a hard time facing up to the fact that you’re a beacon of hope to the remaining colonists, don’t you?”

  “They’re making more of me than there is,” Archard said.

  “If you think this is bad, you should be on Earth. From what I understand, the entire planet is singing your praises.”

  Archard sighed. He was being used and he resented it. Yes, he’d survived the downfall of two colonies. But he would never have been put in danger---and all those colonists might still be alive---if the Powers-That-Be had been honest with everyone from the beginning. But no. Earth’s leaders had decided to keep the supremely important fact that Mars was inhabited from the general populace.

  “Don’t take it so hard,” Miles said, and chuckled. “There are worse fates than being the most famous person on two planets.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Look at the bright side,” Miles said. “You’re on the fast track to the top. In no time, you’ll be a major. In ten years or so, a general. Everyone on Earth will look up to you for as long as you live.”

  “Yeah,” Archard said. “All I have to do is make it off Mars alive.”

  3

  Each golden dome encompassed an area roughly equivalent to twenty city blocks. Dome One, the northernmost, contained the Administrative Center. Ten stories tall, it was the highest in Bradbury.

  To Archard, the elevator ride to the top floor was interminable. He wished he was back at U.N.I.C. headquarters, sharing an ale with Lieutenant Burroughs and Sergeant Kline in the break room. Or, better yet, with Katla Dkany, cozying up in her apartment at the Visitor Center.

  Miles Hermann was glued to the digital display. “Two more floors,” he announced. He smoothed his suit and touched the ring in his left ear.

  “Nervous?” Archard said.

  “You know how the governor is,” Miles said, and gave another of his little laughs.

  “No, I don’t,” Archard said. He had met with the man barely half a dozen times.

  “Governor Blanchard is a stickler for perfection,” Miles said. “Everything has to be just right.”

  “Does he get on your case much?” Archard asked.

  “Not if I do as I’m told.”

  The digital display chimed and the door opened.

  “Here we go,” Miles said.

  “Into the lion’s den.”

  “Huh?”

  The upper level consisted of a crystal crown as clear as glass, permitting a panoramic view of the entire colony as well as the other domes and the modular tunnels that linked them. Beyond, in all directions, spread the harsh Martian terrain.

  “Breathtaking, is it not?” Miles said.

  Archard was given scant time to appreciate the view.

  Colonel Vasin was striding toward him. His superior was balding but trim and fit for a man in his forties.

  Archard automatically saluted.

  “Captain Rahn,” Colonel Vasin said, returning the salute. “I trust you’re prepared for the responsibility about to be imposed on you.”

  “Sir?”

  “General Augusto wants to brief you personally,” Colonel Vasin said. “Along with the secretary-general. Commu
nications is putting through the conference call right now.” Vasin consulted the time display on his wrist. “In ten minutes, we’ll be good to go. In the meantime, come with me.”

  The governor’s staff worked in cubicles, the partitions composed of the same clear crystal. Anyone walking by could see in. The workers could stare out. Nearly each and every one caught sight of Archard, and pointed or whispered.

  Colonel Vasin led the way to the east side where they were afforded a sweeping vista of the sky. Not many people on Earth knew that at times the atmosphere on Mars was usually a vivid scarlet that made Archard think of the color of blood. Strangely, at sunset, the sky often turned blue. The exact opposite of Mother Earth.

  “Perfect timing,” Colonel Vasin said. “Here it comes.”

  Archard didn’t need to ask what he was referring to. A bright dot on the horizon told him, a pinpoint of silver that swiftly grew in size to become the only aerial vehicle the colony possessed, the aptly named Thunderbolt. Saucer-shaped, with a delta wing tail assembly, it had been built specifically for use on the Red Planet.

  “Lieutenant Wilder has been out on patrol,” Colonel Vasin revealed.

  “Has he seen any sign of the creatures, sir?” Archard was eager to learn.

  Vasin shook his head. “Negative. I sent word for him to return so the ship can be prepped for the special mission you’ve going to be assigned.”

  “Colonel, I don’t suppose you could give me more details?”

  “And spoil the general’s surprise?” Colonel Vasin snorted. “Not on your life. He wants to tell you himself.”

  “It’s good he wants me to be the last to know,” Archard said dryly.

  Colonel Vasin scowled. “Enough of that kind of talk, mister.” Facing Archard, he placed his hands on his hips. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you and now is as good a time as any.” He paused. “I find your attitude leaves something to be desired. From the day you arrived, you’ve acted as if you have a chip on your shoulder.”