Battlefield Mars Page 11

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” Trisna said, regarding her weapon with a troubled expression. “Take life, I mean.”

  Everett chuckled. “Alien life doesn’t hardly count, ma’am.”

  “I am Hindu. To us, all life counts. Even the life of those strange creatures.”

  “Fine. Then do nothing and let them kill you and your daughter.”

  “That was harsh,” Katla said.

  “No. He is right,” Trisna said. “I must decide. Which is more important? Behula? Or the lives of these beings?”

  They ‘saddled up,’ as Everett put it.

  Katla gently placed Piotr on blankets that Pasco had spread out, with a cushion for a pillow. Trisna eased Behula down next to him. The girl stirred, but neither woke up.

  “They look so peaceful,” Trisna said. “So precious.”

  Private Everett drove up a ramp and turned right onto Sagan Street. In the passenger seat, Private Pasco was running his fingers over the holo, moving symbols around.

  “No motion whatsoever anywhere within range.”

  “So far, so good.” Everett braked in front of a house module. Light glowed in windows covered by closed curtains. “We’ll check this one. Ladies, you’ll accompany us, if you please. Watch how we do it. Then you do the same when we split up.”

  Katla was impressed at how efficient the soldiers were. They approached the door from either side, their weapons to their shoulders. Pasco covered while Everett entered an override code. As the door opened, Everett quickly stepped back and raised his ICW. He nodded at Pasco, then poked his head in and looked both ways. Darting inside, he crouched. Pasco did likewise, facing the other way. They stayed like that a bit, then Everett said in an odd tone, “All clear, ladies. But brace yourselves.”

  There was a hole in the living room floor. Around it, in an almost dry pool of scarlet, lay the bodies and limbs of the family who lived there. But not their heads.

  “Well, damn,” Everett said. “We’re off to a good start.”

  Incredulous, Archard hovered above the rising swarm. They were a half kilometer below, ascending rapidly.

  The RAM distinguished fifty-six distinct targets, its holo crosshairs flashing from one to the next with lightning rapidity.

  Switching to telescopic, Archard scrutinized the flyers in minute detail. They were black, their eyes inset into a ridge at the front of their carapace. Instead of the usual eight legs, they had eight pairs of short wings, wings so stubby, it seemed impossible the creatures could fly. Yet they did, their wings vibrating at tremendous speed, similar to hummingbirds. Their forelimbs were folded close to their bodies, with spike-like protrusions at the end.

  Archard arced down, clenched the RAM’s fists, and amped his thrusters. He didn’t engage his armaments. He needed his missiles for after. These things, he would take on hand-to-hand.

  Air whistled past his helmet. He heard, too, the low-pitched buzzing of the creatures’ wings.

  A big one out in front rose to meet him.

  “Fine,” Archard growled, and slammed into it going full-bore. His fists caved its carapace as if it were putty. He smashed into another, and a third, and hardly felt the impacts.

  The rest converged.

  Archard punched and kicked and swatted, smashing the flyers right and left. That heady sense of raw power came over him again, stronger than before. He banked and pulverized several foes, spun and crushed another.

  They were all around him.

  Tilting his head and spreading his arms wide, Archard soared clear. Or tried to. They were on him in a black cloud of wings and spikes. He drove a fist into one, backhanded a second. Several tried to seize his legs but he kicked them loose.

  Spikes speared at his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his helmet.

  Suddenly he was in trouble. There were too many. Most of their blows glanced off his armor but more than a few dented it. All it would take was a single large rupture, and he was done for.

  Fists flailing, Archard fought in a fury. His decision to go hand-to-hand might not have been wise. He executed a spin-kick and cleared enough space to do what he probably should have done in the first place. He ignited the RAM’s flamethrower.

  Half a dozen flyers were incinerated. The rest scattered as if in a panic. They went a short way and swung around, staring. It was as if they had never encountered fire.

  Archard didn’t bother to wonder how that could be. He seized the initiative, his flamethrower roaring. Again the creatures scattered. Again they formed a ring

  around him.

  Archard could take a hint. He switched to the Minigun and poured lead into their buzzing ranks, turning in a circle as he went.

  Flyers dropped in droves.

  Only a few were left when Archard’s helmet was struck a tremendous blow from behind, and the cavernous world around him went dark.

  43

  At the next house, it was the same. A family of six had been slaughtered, their remains neatly arranged in what Katla took to be some sort of ritual. A troubling insight in that it opened a Pandora’s box of possibilities. Katla realized she must think outside her own mental box, and not dismiss the creatures as animals.

  “Why do they take the heads?” Private Pasco said to no one in particular.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Private Everett said. “Maybe they like to eat brains.”

  Trisna had averted her eyes from the gore. “Please. Don’t make it worse by joking about it.”

  “Who’s joking?” Everett replied.

  “Let’s move on,” Katla said. “We should separate, as Archard wanted, to cover more ground.”

  “We’ll do one more together,” Everett overrode her. “To be sure you have it down.” He gave Trisna a troubled glance. “Are you up to this?”

  Trisna caught the look. “You need not worry about me.”

  The next building was an apartment complex for singles. Built to resemble an apartment on Earth, it was three-stories high. The lobby was small, and empty. Since anyone could come and go as they pleased, there was no need for a desk clerk. This was Mars, not an inner city rampant with crime on Earth.

  The first apartment, Everett and Pasco did their entry routine. The Spaniard poked his head in first and promptly jerked it out again, paling.

  “Dios, en el cielo!”

  Everett took a look, and swore. “Wait here, ladies,” he whispered. With a motion at Pasco, both darted inside.

  Trisna turned and gazed out the front doors in the direction of the tank.

  “Worried about your daughter?” Katla said.

  “Aren’t you, about your son?”

  “He’s not mine, but yes,” Katla said. “They’ll be all right. They’re safe in the tank. The soldiers were in a fight with a lot of Martians earlier today, and the Martians couldn’t get inside.”

  “Perhaps the Martians weren’t trying.”

  Katla was beginning to understand why Private Everett was so concerned about her.

  Just then the Kentuckian appeared in the doorway. “Ladies, you should come take a look. We’re up against something new.”

  Most of the living room floor was now a hole many times the size of previous entry points.

  “What could have made that?” Trisna said, aghast.

  “Maybe the small ones have a daddy,” Everett said.

  “You joke about everything.”

  Katla peered into the black pit. To her immense relief, nothing moved. Whatever made it was gone.

  “Let’s back out,” Everett said. “We don’t want to push our luck.”

  Private Pasco went to the lift. A light on the panel indicated it was on the second floor. He pressed the button to bring it down. “How do they know?”

  “Eh?” Everett said.

  “How do the Martians know which buildings people are in?”

  Everett shrugged. “Could be they’re digging into all of them.”

  “We should check.”

  “What difference does
it make?” Everett looked up. “What’s keeping that thing?”

  The second-floor indicator was still lit.

  “I’m just saying maybe they can sense us somehow,” Pasco said. “Even inside buildings.”

  “You ask me, you’re giving them more credit than…” Private Everett got no further.

  From above came a resounding crash, as if the building were about to collapse.

  Archard snapped to full consciousness. He had only been out a minute or so. The RAM, as it was designed to, had absorbed most of the blow. He spun, seeking the source, and was startled to discover that in the heat of combat he had inadvertently descended to within a stone’s-throw of a basalt bridge crowded with Martians.

  Closest loomed a specimen of the large blue variety. Nine meters long and five meters high, it possessed a carapace as broad as the tank, and a segmented tail. Its arms, if they could be called that, were as thick as the RAM’s.

  Even as Archard watched, its many-faceted eyes did something he didn’t know they could do. The stalks withdrew into small holes, nestling the eyes in protective niches.

  “Prepping for combat?” Archard guessed.

  Gripping the edge of the bridge, the blue Martian demonstrated prodigious strength by ripping off a jagged section of basalt. Raising it aloft, the creature poised on the brink.

  Archard realized what had struck him the first time, He dropped a few meters just as the blue Martian threw the makeshift projectile, and the rock passed over his helmet.

  Archard could end the clash then and there. One missile or dart would do the job.

  Then the Martian did an astonishing thing; it gestured with its grippers, beckoning, as if challenging him to personal combat.

  Archard kicked in the RAM’S thrusters and struck like a battering ram. For the flyers and the smaller Martians, that would have been enough to crumple them in death. The blue creature was tougher. It was knocked back but its carapace didn’t rupture.

  Archard closed with the thing. He blocked a stab at his faceplate and retaliated with a powerful jab between the creature’s eyes. The blue Martian seized his wrist. He tried to pull away but the thing’s grip was a vise. He drove his free fist at the arm holding him, only to have his other wrist seized.

  Archard struggled to wrest loose. He’d almost succeeded when the Martian whipped its body around and slammed its segmented tail against the RAM’s legs. The battle suit was supposed to be virtually immovable when its boots were firmly planted, but to Archard’s dismay, his legs were swept out from under him and he crashed onto his back.

  Still holding his wrists, the creature sprang on top of the RAM.

  Archard bucked, or tried to. The RAM couldn’t quite imitate the movement. It rose a little off the basalt, but not enough to dislodge his attacker. The thing pinned his arms, its carapace pressed to his chest. Its eye-stalks slid out of their holes, bringing its eyes close to his faceplate. He could have breathed on them if he wasn’t wearing the helmet.

  The RAM’s motion sensors blared like klaxons. Scores of Martians were sweeping to the blue creature’s aid. En masse, they would bury the RAM, and render escape impossible.

  In desperation, Archard tried another tactic. Instead of bucking and pushing, he rolled, taking the blue Martian with him. The moment his back was off the basalt, he keyed a short burst from the thrusters. He thought it would break the creature’s grip. Instead, they both pitched over the side.

  44

  Certain the ceiling was about to collapse, Katla threw herself against a wall, an arm raised to shield her head.

  Trisna screamed and dropped to the floor.

  The crash faded and rumbling ensued. It lasted perhaps a minute, dwindling into silence.

  Katla started to straighten when a second crash boomed louder than the first.

  Private Everett threw an arm around Pasco and propelled them both away from the elevator tube. “Look out!” he hollered.

  The lift crashed down like a bomb. Glass that was supposed to be shatterproof, wasn’t. Shards flew every which way, and a piece as long as a scalpel struck the wall centimeters from Katla’s ear.

  Trisna cried out. Not from fear, but from the pain of a thin piece of glass slicing into her thigh. Grabbing her leg, she clenched her jaw and said something in Hindu.

  Private Everett recovered first. Springing erect, he helped Private Pasco to stand.

  “That was close, buddy.”

  “What could have caused that?” Paso said in bewilderment.

  “A cut cable, maybe.” Everett moved to Trisna. “Let us have a look at that.”

  The soldiers helped Trisna to sit up, and Katla examined the wound. It wasn’t life-threatening but, “She’ll need stitches. There’s a med-kit in the tank. I can extract it there.”

  Trisna exhaled loudly through her nose. “I’d rather the children didn’t see. Can’t you take the glass out now?”

  “Not without the med kit,” Katla insisted. “There’s no telling how badly you’ll bleed.”

  “Please. Behula has seen enough terrible things today.”

  “Ladies, this isn’t a debate,” Everett said. He was covering them. “We’ll do it in the tank like the doc wants, and that’s that.”

  “I’m not allowed to express my wishes?” Trisna said.

  “Express them all you want,” Everett said. “But we do what’s best for everybody, not just your kid.”

  “You are cruel,” Trisna said.

  “Don’t be angry,” Pasco said to her. “We’re only looking out for you.”

  “And we’ve jabbered enough,” Everett said. He stepped to the tube and peered up it. “Whatever caused this might still be up there. Pasco and me should go see.” He regarded Trisna. “Can you hold out a couple of minutes?”

  “You’re suddenly worried about me?” Trisna said.

  “How about it, Doc?” Everett said. “Will a little wait hurt her worse?”

  “She should be all right,” Katla said. “But hurry.”

  “You got it.”

  Everett patted Pasco on the shoulder and they ran to the stairwell.

  Katla became conscious of how vulnerable she and the other woman were there alone. “Let’s hope no Martians wander by.”

  “I wouldn’t blame them if they attacked us,” Trisna said.

  “That’s crazy talk.”

  Trisna shifted and grunted. “Look at this from their point of view. We’re the invaders, not them. Mars is their planet.”

  That’s no excuse, was on the tip of Katla’s tongue but she didn’t say it. Trisna was right. Were the situation reversed, the military would do everything in its power to wipe out every last Martian.

  “I tell you,” Trisna said, “if we survive this, Behula and I are going back to Earth.”

  Katla remembered Archard saying there were thousands of creatures deep under the volcano. An entire city, was how he’d put it. And that might just be the tip of the Martian iceberg. “We all might have to.”

  45

  Locked together, Archard and the blue Martian grappled fiercely. The RAM’s gyro alarm warned that the battle suit was tumbling out of control.

  Their titanic efforts spun them and flipped them, so that one moment Archard was on top, the next the blue Martian was above him.

  Archard rammed a knee against the creature’s abdomen, thinking it might be a weak spot, but its belly was protected by thick carapace. Archard pushed with all the RAM’s strength. The creature wouldn’t let go. It continued to apply pressure to the RAM’s wrists.

  A red light appeared. A new warning that the RAM was in danger of losing its airtight seal. The armor over both wrists had developed minute hairline fractures. If the Martian cracked them open, his internal atmosphere would be sucked out and he would die a horrible death.

  No living thing could be that strong. Yet his suit’s alarm proved otherwise.

  Archard needed to gain the upper hand, and quickly. He kicked in the thrusters again and righted himself.
Their descent slowed. Bending his hand down as far as it would go, Archard said, “Eat this!” and fired a dart into the thing’s face.

  At point-blank range, the razor-sharp flechettes tore through whatever vital organs its hulking body possessed.

  The blue Martian went rigid. Its eye stalks drooped, its tail curled. Those formidable grippers relaxed, and at last it released him. Gravity took over, and down it plummeted.

  Breathing heavily from his exertion, Archard watched until the creature was a blue speck far below. He would dearly love to follow it, to uncover the full extent of the Martians’ civilization, but there were people in New Meridian counting on him to make it back alive.

  By now every archway, bridge and thoroughfare overflowed with Martians. He swore he could feel hostility radiating from them like a palpable force.

  Staying well clear of the walkways and bridges, Archard rose. A check showed that the RAM’s structural integrity was intact, and all weapons systems were functional.

  Another of the unusual yellow Martians with a bowl-shaped head appeared on a crowded archway.

  Almost immediately a new sensation came over him, nausea so intense, he was almost sick. His consciousness flickered, as if something were trying to smother it. His arms and legs began to tingle.

  Instinctively, Archard knew the yellow Martian was to blame. He managed to raise his arm. “Nice try,” he said, and fired a missile. At the blast, scores of creatures spilled from the shattered archway, the yellow Martian among them.

  Deep in his mind, Archard imagined he heard an inhuman scream, but probably not.

  Archard got down to business. He spiraled upward, choosing targets, an edifice here, an avenue there. Missiles, darts, grenades, the ion cannons, magnetic bombs, the flame thrower, he used everything in the RAM’s arsenal. He blasted, he fried, he disintegrated. He killed and killed and killed some more.

  Rising above their city, he assessed the devastation. The RAM had proven itself. Towers and spires and cliff dwellings lay in rubble. Walkways and spans, destroyed. Dead Martians, and parts of Martians, were everywhere.